Sweet Home

by Wendy Erskine

  Kyle grabbed the bunch of dog daisies and shoved them into the man’s face, right into his mouth. He was making a choking sound and the flowers were falling apart but he still kept pushing.

  Who the fuck do you think you are? Kyle said, genuinely inquisitive. Like who?

  He didn’t tell Grace about the man and the flowers but he told her what had happened to the grave this time.

  Who’s responsible for doing that? she had asked.

  Don’t know, he said, but he knew it could be several different people, several different groups. Davy’s funeral had actually been on the TV, well the local news at six in the evening, but by the later news something else had replaced it. Afterwards they had sat in the bar with Davy’s three little children marauding around and the two practically identical ex-partners. But today the grave was fine and nobody had touched it. Kyle traced the golden lettering with his finger.

  Grace had said that they were going out for their dinner that night but he had not been enthusiastic. Well, we’re going, she had said, and that’s that.

  Why? he had asked.

  Just are. It’s bring your own, so if you want to, bring your own. It’s just new opened. I met the guy who runs it’s wife.

  Do we have to?

  Yes.

  Well, I got stuff to do. Tell me where it is and I’ll just meet you there.

  Kyle’s stuff. A diverse portfolio. He had heard somebody say that once and he had liked it so he used it. Things had been better though: money came in well enough most of the time, but it wasn’t always easy to maintain control. The taxi company, such as it was, did all right delivering the after-hours what have you, and then there was the shop and the mechanics that he had a main cut in. Most places were still paying up, as were the small dealers, but nothing felt secure. What was it? It was just—maybe it wasn’t any different from what it had ever been and it was just him. Davy going had been terrible. That coroner: heart attack brought on by steroid abuse, no way was Kyle having that. Why wasn’t everybody having heart attacks then if that was the case? Basically the enemy was everywhere and there wasn’t anybody left to trust except Grace who he did trust even though she probably disapproved of everything. Once, when there was a situation, she had been taken in for questioning for a day and a half and she had said nothing. In fact, one of them had said to him, you’re punching above with that one Kyle. There were Hungarians on the scene now, they smashed up one of the bars and they were making inroads into things. And your woman, lippy fuck, going on about community the other day, oh I know about community, should’ve firebombed the place. Might still. The sort of people that were coming up now, they weren’t the same. Boys were stupid, the ones who would have been part of it in the past now went to university, cleared out.

  But maybe it was just him. That was why he was going to try this place, against his better judgment. A flyer had come through the door about it but it was far enough away for very few people to recognise him. It was above a dry cleaners. He’d been past the other day to see what it looked like, the Class A Hypnotherapy. Just a staircase up and then some net curtains. Looked a dump, but if it worked it worked. Nothing else—and he had tried a lot of stuff—had made any difference.

  The waiting room was a small white cube and on the wall there were testimonials from people who had been successfully treated at Class A Hypnotherapy. There was some ponce who he had never heard of saying that Class A had cured him of his stage fright and that he was ready to do a summer season in Blackpool for the first time in years. Fella looked a fruit, him and his nerves. Fuck him and his nerves. And then there was some student who had written to say that her troubles had cleared up thanks to yeah yeah yeah. There was a candle oil burner and the place smelled of a plant and the music was like you’d get in a Chinese. Kyle lifted out the candle and burned along the edge of one of the brochures on the table, setting fire to an inch or so at a time, and then blowing it out. When he’d done around the whole brochure he blew out the candle.

  He heard voices, somebody coming out of the room and going down the stairs, and then a man appeared in the waiting room. Geoff, he said, extending his hand. Very pleased to meet you.

  Kyle stood up.

  And you are, he got a diary out of his pocket, you are—

  Marty, said Kyle.

  Well, Marty, please come on through.

  The Chinese music was still on the go in the other room and there was a beige sofa where Kyle was told to sit because there needed to be a consultation before any treatment could begin.

  We need to fill in a questionnaire, said Geoff. Your other name, Marty?

  Kyle thought for a minute. The only thing that came to mind was Pellow.

  Pellow, he said.

  Alright, said Geoff, as he filled the boxes. Marty Pellow. Address?

  Look no, said Kyle. Never mind my address. Are you gonna just get on with this?

  I do need your GP’s name, said Geoff with an apologetic smile. Who would your GP be now, Marty?

  Arches, he said.

  Right you are, said Geoff, writing in The Arches Medical Centre. So, he said, admin done, what brings you along to us today?

  Kyle shrugged. Just the usual.

  Geoff continued to look at him, his pen poised. Just what, Marty? How do you feel?

  Alright.

  You feel alright. What would alright be on a scale of 1 to 10?

  Jeez. Seven out of ten, Kyle said. Maybe an eight.

  Now that, said Geoff, is really quite good.

  Yeah, so? said Kyle.

  If most days you feel seven, maybe an eight, then why, Marty, have you come to see us?

  There’s only you here, yeah? asked Kyle. Why you keep saying us? Why you keep saying that when it’s only you?

  People come to us for all sorts of reasons, Geoff continued. Some want to give up smoking say, others have a specific fear, of flying perhaps, or maybe they feel nervous thinking about a particular event.

  Kyle’s face showed his opinion of these kinds of people.

  And then there are those who come to us because they experience high levels of anxiety, manifest quite possibly in panic attacks, sleeplessness, or obsessive-compulsive disorders—

  Alright, said Kyle, don’t be telling me any more about these people, I don’t care. Could we just get on with whatever it is you do like, you know, maybe now. If that’s convenient.

  Geoff indicated a chair over in the corner. You sure you want to continue, Marty? he said. There’s not a lot of point in continuing if you feel this isn’t for you. The will must be there.

  Well, he wasn’t expecting it to be a man swinging a watch on a chain and saying look into my eyes but this was just a chair with your man perched on the desk, but then the chair reclined, like a La-Z-Boy, but so far back it wasn’t a telly you were watching, it was the ceiling. There was a black spot on the ceiling. The man had gone out and come back with a blanket and a cushion that had been heated up.

  Kyle threw the cushion on the floor. I don’t think we’ll be needing that, mate. He kicked off the blanket. All this shit would you just make a start here?

  Geoff started to say the spiel. He was reading it off, you could tell, the way he was savouring every word. Something about a beach and the sun shining: yeah, he could imagine the beach, he could imagine a few hot birds in bikinis, okay well now they were starting to get off with each other. Well, that was pretty all right to think about, but Geoff said Focus really loud and then he was back to the room, listening to that voice of his going on about different parts of the body. That Chinese music was still on the go, the ribs and the black bean sauce, wee doll bringing over a sizzling dish, you spinning that revolving table. Mandarin City. Cueball ate the fortune cookie at the end, bit of paper and all. How the fuck was I meant to know, he said, give me yours and I’ll eat it as well. That was a while ago though, some laugh, that fella was long gone.

  Geoff was saying to think about contentment, when you felt in control, and Kyle is in the old fr
ont room where their dad is lying half on, half off the rug and the blood from his mouth is pooling on the floor. A couple of weeks before Davy had asked, you know the way I’m fourteen and you know the way you’re thirteen? You put us together do we equal a man of twenty-seven? Must have put it into their heads they could swing it—and they did because when the old fella hit Davy full on the face the two of them laid into him and there he was on the floor. Still dangerous because they couldn’t afford for him to get either one of them alone, but even that would only be for a certain period of time because they were getting stronger and his boozing was getting worse. Pathetic him lying there. Felt good to see the legs collapse from under him, pathetic the way he tried to appeal to them through the blood. Davy! And then, Kyle!

  Even their ma was pleased. She said oh what’s the world coming to, and all of that stuff, but she was happy and they knew it. She put a tea towel over his head. And that was what Kyle was thinking of, that was a good day.

  Try to take a snapshot of that contentment, focus on a detail of that scene if you can, said Geoff, are you focusing Marty, on something specific? (Yes: the blood on the floor way darker than you’d think.) Can you do that, Marty? That’s good. Good. You are going to hold that in your mind as a motif of happiness that you can refer to. You holding it in your mind?

  I am, said Kyle.

  And how are you feeling? asked Geoff.

  Okay.

  You’re feeling good? asked Geoff.

  Okay, said Kyle.

  Hold that image and know that you are the same person who can achieve that contentment again, whenever you want, Marty.

  But no, Kyle thought. No. Because Davy wasn’t here and that made everything not the same. What the fuck was he doing lying with a blanket round him on a chair above the dry cleaners listening to this pure shite, how bad had things got that this was what he was at?

  Right, that’s it. Over, that’s enough. Will you move this fucking—he tried to push himself out of the chair—this fucking—

  Geoff spoke calmly. The initial session can sometimes be a little underwhelming. Next time—

  There’ll be no next time, said Kyle. That’s it.

  Geoff took an invoice from a pad at the desk, calmly filled it in, and handed it to Kyle.

  You got to be having a laugh, he said. Eighty quid to lie back in a chair and listen to you reading a script off a page, well I do not think so. Here, he hoked around in the pocket of his jacket, that’ll do you, and he handed him a fiver. You are making easy money, pal, let me tell you with this fucking caper.

  Geoff watched from the window as Kyle got into his car, slammed the door shut.

  Kyle Starrs, he said aloud.

  The restaurant had had a refit since it had been the burger bar. There were now white tiles and pictures from local artists. Every table had a couple of tea lights and a posy in a jam jar. Grace was already there, sitting at the table. Kyle came in, clinking with bottles.

  Can I take those for you? the fella asked.

  Kyle lifted out two bottles of Moët, and a bottle of Courvoisier.

  One of those over in an ice bucket, he said. What? he said to Grace.

  Nothing.

  It’s bring your own, yeah?

  It’s bring your own.

  Well, then. What’s the issue?

  She sighed. Doesn’t matter.

  It’s bring your own and I’ve brought my own. Jesus Christ.

  The young man brought over the menus.

  I’m actually quite hungry, Grace said. Haven’t eaten anything all day.

  Well, order whatever you want. Here, what’s the hold-up with the drink? Kyle said. Oi! Mate! He pointed to the table. Drink?

  The fella came over, apologetic. It’s just that, we don’t have any ice buckets yet. We’re only open, I mean, we’re only just open so not everything’s quite right yet.

  Grace smiled at him. No problem, she said.

  Hick joint, said Kyle when the waiter had gone. Don’t think much of this place.

  Wise up, Kyle, Grace said. Just leave it for goodness sake.

  The fella came back with the champagne, glasses and an improvised ice bucket in the form of a vase. Oh, not for me, Grace said when, having filled Kyle’s, the waiter went to pour her a glass. I’m happy with this. She pointed to her tonic water.

  Right you are, he said.

  When the fella moved to the next table, Kyle poured Grace a glass of champagne. Cheers, he said.

  I don’t want any, Kyle. I said to you.

  God, a glass won’t kill you.

  I don’t want it.

  There was no enjoyment in drinking by yourself. That voice of hers killed him. Always calm. He once had said to her, you know who you remind me of? Clint Eastwood.

  That’s flattering, she said.

  I know it is, he had replied.

  But she could make you feel like nothing. She wasn’t impressed by much: a five star would mean as much as a two star. Jewellery she wasn’t into. Not interested in fancy places, well that was obvious when you took a look around here. They could have been in the town at somewhere where you got treated really well, where there were plenty of people about to see you out and about. He knew fine rightly that she knew about the various other women over the years, but she never made a scene. He wouldn’t have minded her being bothered, full-on furious, he wouldn’t have minded if she’d punched and slapped him. Even that one time when your woman that he had seen on and off for a few months came around to the house to make a row, she had just said, a friend of yours to see you, and gone out of the house. Did your woman ever regret that one, but Grace never mentioned it again other than to say, please try to avoid that kind of thing, Kyle, because I could do without it.

  The young fella was over asking them if they had decided what they wanted. Grace said she would have the pulled pork and Kyle said he wanted the steak. He hadn’t looked at the menu, but he wanted the steak.

  Well done, he said. I like it, you know, really well done.

  The fella went away and then came back. It’s just, he said, it’s just that the chef says that it’s a minute steak.

  So what? Kyle said.

  Minute steaks are meant to be cooked quickly. That’s what the chef says, he added carefully.

  No, said Kyle. Well cooked. End of.

  Grace leaned across the table. They’re only saying that if you want it well done, it’s likely to be tough because minute steaks need to be fried quick.

  Did we come out for a cookery lesson? Did we? Minute steak. What a load of shite.

  The woman appeared at the table. We’re sorry about the steak situation, she said. Maybe there’s something else on the menu that you would like to choose.

  No love, said Kyle. I’ve made my order, thank you very much.

  Were you busy today? Grace asked.

  Kyle shrugged. Just the usual. Was up at the grave, he said.

  Used to be small, that graveyard, said Grace. It’s eaten up most of that hill now. Everybody all together in that graveyard, she said.

  Yeah well, said Kyle. Death comes to us all. Grim Reaper.

  Does that steak come with sauce? Can’t remember, he said. I don’t want the sauce all over the top of it. I hate when they do that, slather the sauce all over the top of it.

  The young fella came over to top up Kyle’s glass of champagne.

  You celebrating something? he asked.

  No, said Kyle. That guy’s doing my head in, he said to Grace when he had gone.

  He’s just doing his job Kyle, she said.

  The steak, when it arrived, was a pathetic specimen, a shrivelled offering.

  Well you got what you asked for, said Grace. You can’t complain. So don’t complain.

  Kyle tried to cut it but it didn’t yield.

  Fucking shoe leather, he said. That’s gonna bounce off the walls.

  Try some of this, said Grace. It’s nice. We’ll share it and they can bring us another plate.

  So I’ve c
ome out for half a meal, he thought. I can’t even get a proper meal. That ponce, what had he said to think about, what did he tell me, and he thought, yes, it was his da lying half on half off the rug. Davy had wanted to wrap that electric flex around his neck, the one that he used to hit them, but he had said no just leave it, that was enough, enough for now. Sore being hit with that flex.

  ˜

  Grace

  The worst was the street-preaching when they stood in Cornmarket on a Saturday afternoon with two speakers, a microphone and a cardboard box full of tracts. If it rained they put the box in a black bin bag. On the rare occasion they went to places like Portadown or Lurgan and Grace didn’t mind this so much because there would be no chance of seeing anyone from school. It would be the usual: you’d be cold and you’d get people either shouting abuse or laughing at you, but at least no one would know who you were.

  There were things you could do to pass the time. You could count the paving stones for as far as they stretched into the distance; they started square and then, as they got further and further away, became wafers. You could hold your breath until you saw someone with a pink coat. Then you could hold your breath until you saw someone with a green coat. Then you could hold your breath until you saw someone in brown boots. You could do those same things in Cornmarket but you had no anonymity. Three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon there would be all the shrieking laughing crowd from school. Is that not your wee woman from our year? Your wee doll in that big coat? It is her. Feel wick for her. Shout something over but.

  Sometimes there would be competition from other groups: fire-eaters, choirs and, now and again, breakdancers who would bring a CD player and turn it up loud until the sound broke. Grace’s dad would turn up the preacher’s volume and his sound won out because it had an amp. It was a cosmic battle between good and evil right there in Cornmarket, transmogrified into a street sermon versus 2 Unlimited.

  An American evangelist had held an old-time crusade in a huge white tent on the O’Neill Road and the very first night he went Grace’s dad had some kind of epiphany. On the next evening Grace’s mum had one too. They started going to a mission hall that was opposite an old dairy and constructed out of corrugated iron. Women had to wear hats. There were some people who had apparently been very bad like Jimmy Baker who had given his testimony and told everyone about how he had found the Lord after being a gambler and a womaniser and a communist street fighter. Jimmy Baker seemed so nice, sucking his mints in the back row.