The Death of Bees: A Novel

by Lisa O'Donnell

  “I don’t know a fucking thing about the honeybees, so stop asking,” I say.

  She stopped then, hasn’t mentioned the bees since, not one word, but I know she still thinks about them.

  Nelly

  My father, a loathsome, malignant type of a fellow, sat me on his lap in the nighttime. Said he loved me.

  Later I find him spent, stagnant, unclean, crumpled on an unmade bed. I find my pillow by his head and good golly Marnie had pushed it over his face.

  And a good ruddy riddance to you, Eugene Doyle.

  Marnie

  I love my friends. What is real to them is real to me. We don’t care what people think either and we’ve been holding hands since our primary school teacher told us it was the safest way to cross the road. We’ve been hanging together “that” long and there’s nothing we don’t know about each other, maybe there’s a few things, but mostly we tell each other everything.

  Susie lives with her granny. Her mum’s in a loony bin. Susie’s going to be an actress one day, she’s brilliant at acting. Goes to the drama club with all the squares, not deliberately of course, she got caught smoking in the cloakroom before Christmas and instead of getting detention she was sent to drama club once a week for a month, now Susie’s in the school play, Oliver Twist. She’s Nancy, has tons of songs to sing. Kimbo and I said we’d help with costumes and stuff, but only so we can hear Susie sing. It’s a pretty cool musical.

  Miss Fraser (failed actress in vintage clothing) wants Susie to go to drama school. She’s already spoken to Susie’s granny about it, but her granny wasn’t having any of it.

  “Actress, that’ll be fucking right,” she says. “You’re cutting folks’ hair. It’s a job for life, hen.”

  “S’not up to you!” Susie told her.

  Her granny slapped her for that. “Don’t you contradict me. Fucking madam,” she says.

  Susie was fuming for days, says her granny can go fuck herself, not to her face obviously, just to show us how serious she is about acting. She’s even stopped smoking, only does it when she’s drunk, says it’s bad for the voice; so is coffee, apparently.

  Izzy told me one time Susie’s mum was a nympho. Would fuck a stick in the ground. It’s a shame for Susie; her mum left when Susie was really small. Truth is Susie hardly remembers her, but loves her like she’s in the next room. Sometimes Susie gets scared she’ll end up in a loony bin too, like it runs in the family or something, and gets really depressed about it, but with all the support she’s getting from her mates and from the drama teacher you can see the confidence in her growing by the day and she’s starting to seriously think about life beyond Maryhill and a life away from her mad granny, who shoplifts by the way.

  Kimbo’s totally different from Susie. Everyone’s scared of her ’cause she’s bipolar, she got diagnosed last year. Her parents, dope-smoking fiends, didn’t want her taking medication, if you can believe it, and insisted on therapy to help her handle her emotions, but when she threw a chair through the window of the school common room it became necessary. She’s put on a lot of weight recently, nasty side effect of the antipsychotics she’s taking, but apart from that they’re working really well, although this one time she did go off them. She said she was feeling better and stopped taking them, but you can’t do that, turns you into a psycho if you do that. She wasn’t hospitalized or anything but she couldn’t leave the house for a month. Susie and I prefer medicated Kimbo, everyone does, she’s like Santa when she’s doped, and always laughing and giving you stuff. I feel bad she’s fat ’cause it’s not like she’s tall enough to carry it and of course she’s totally deluded about it and wears clothes that are way too small for her. Before Xmas she got a belly button ring and it took the guy three stabs to make the hole, but she still doesn’t get it and it’s not like her parents are going to say anything, they worship her. Kimbo’s maybe one of the few teenagers on the planet who actually likes her mum and dad. I don’t blame her. Greg and Kate are brilliant; always knock before entering and when Kimbo tells them to “fuck off” then that’s exactly what they do. If you go to Kimbo’s around dinnertime her mum always makes you eat with them. It’s usually McDonald’s. Greg and Kate love McDonald’s, although there was this one time I went round and they were having macaroni and cheese with tomatoes on top. Kate made it for Greg’s birthday, he’s mad for it apparently. She put a flag in the middle of it. He likes flags. I’d visit them every day if I could, but they live in the penthouse and I’m scared of the elevator. Also they like to walk around butt naked and sit with their bare arses on sofas and kitchen chairs. It’s like Kimbo doesn’t even notice anymore. Anyway that’s how I know Kimbo and Susie. We lived in the same block. We were on the third floor, Susie on the first, and Kimbo was on the top.

  When Susie and I moved from the blocks Kimbo transferred to the same school as us, that’s how close we are. Izzy hated it in the towers and was glad to be rehoused. They moved us to Maryhill on Hazelhurst Road, newest housing estate on the block. I can still remember the smell when we got here, paint and putty, but I don’t go round Kimbo’s anymore. It’s dangerous and not because of the refugees they’ve housed there but because of the wee radges who don’t like the refugees there. Glaswegians are very territorial, even in a shit hole like Sighthill. It never occurs to them the accents around them belong to doctors and nurses, teachers and lawyers, educated people forced out of nice homes in beautiful lands only to be stored in tower blocks in the northeast of Glasgow. I mean seriously. Imagine losing everything you are and everyone you know, to have survived rape, starvation, and homelessness, to have escaped death at the hands of genocidal maniacs only to end up in a moldy housing estate. Now we have immigrants with university degrees and doctorates prostituting themselves, selling drugs and doing whatever they must to survive the hell we call asylum. I suppose the real heroes are the ones who come here and endure the food stamps, the local abuse, the secondhand clothing, and the poor housing, not to mention the mountains of paperwork needed to be acknowledged in a country that doesn’t even know your language; but the others, the ones who turn to crime to survive, who form gangs to protect themselves from the daft arseholes who battered them senseless when they first came here, they fight a new enemy and with the same stealth that drove them from their countries in the first place.

  There’s this one guy called Vlado, a big man who drives a BMW 5 series and when I say big, I’m talking six foot four inches of the guy. He’s not a main man, obviously; he works for someone with no connection to Vlado should the shit hit the fan. Kimbo’s mum totally fancies him. Called him salty. He apparently comes to the block sometimes to hang with Kate’s friend Sarah and not often, but enough to make Kate jealous. Kate said Vlado used to be a teacher. Now he’s a supplier to fuckwits like Mick the ice cream vendor, who is supposed to receive and sell. Once he sells he gets a cut, then Vlado gets a cut and the rest goes to whoever Vlado works for. Kate said Vlado lost two daughters and a wife in the war. She says they might be alive somewhere, but he’s too afraid to find them and he’s scared they might have been taken to one of the rape camps, but then Kate says a lot of things, she likes to gossip basically and in my experience she rarely gets her facts right.

  Anyway about six months ago the elevator at Kimbo’s place broke down with me inside. I was stuck for over an hour waiting for someone to fix the thing and I’m not good in enclosed spaces. I totally freaked out and when the doors finally opened, Kimbo’s mum had to give me a joint to calm me down, her dad has MS. I stayed with them for a couple of days after that, stoned mostly and when it was time to go I walked down twenty flights of stairs, but when I walked out the door I tripped over my feet and cut my knee. I immediately pulled it to my mouth and sucked on the broken skin, but it was still nipping and then someone says, “You okay, sweetheart?” It’s a kind voice, like Italian, but not Italian, that’s when I see it’s Vlado. He gives me his hand and pulls me to my feet. I dust myself down, fix my top, and give my bra a lift. I s
tart gushing then.

  “God, I’m such an arse. So embarrassed. Sorry. You’re Vlado, right?” I give him my best smile, a little wave. “I’m Marnie.” He says nothing for a moment, just stares at me, I can see his face darken then and he gives me the once-over. Head to toe. You know, the way men do. Except he’s not looking at me like that. He’s looking at something else and it makes me feel nervous and self-conscious, like he doesn’t quite approve of me and it makes me fidget. I can feel myself redden, especially when he lets a whole minute pass.

  “Go home to your mother,” he whispers.

  He’s disappointed and I can hear it. Then he says, “And get a Band-Aid for that knee,” and then he walks away. His words sting for obvious reasons, but more than that, there was a kind of derision in his voice, a little laughter.

  When I turn to the glass door I see a translucent self staring back at me. I quickly scan my appearance and search frantically for whatever it was that might have offended him, the black pumps, my ripped leggings, the graze on my knee, the pink letterman jacket I borrowed from Susie. I curse myself for not wearing heels, but I was walking down twenty flights of stairs, I would have broken my neck in any other shoes. I wonder if it’s because I’m not wearing any makeup or any lipstick and I feel embarrassed then. I always try to look my best and on the one day I don’t I crash into someone like Vlado. I haven’t been round much since then. It’s a shame really because you should see Kimbo’s view, especially at night, the whole of Glasgow lights up like a Christmas tree, you could forget where you are with a view like that and if it wasn’t for the constant echo of sirens and screaming in the stairwells, you probably would.

  Lennie

  I’ve been watching them for days now. Digging. Gardening. Hulking years of waste from the bottom of their scabby garden. A broken toilet bowl and a few traffic cones, a smashed-up TV and a rusted bicycle, a child’s buggy and a ton of bin liners and full of crap no doubt. They’re eager little beavers all right, they filled the stolen shopping trolley to the brim and afterward they planted lavender. French I think. It’s a funny little plant lavender but it won’t take, not in this weather, although I was impressed to see they planted it well and kept it in the pots, spread a little mulch and then covered it with plastic. I don’t know how they moved the earth, it must have been ice solid. They’re cleaning house it seems, there’s laundry waving from the line and dirty water thrown from buckets, there’s a lot of bleach and a lot of industrious noise, but no music. The youngest hasn’t played in weeks now and I love to hear her play. Quite the talent.

  Bobby hardly noticed of course, the noises I mean, not so much as a paltry bark. He’s a little under the weather these days. I took him to the vet last week, he said he had mange. They gave him a bath and some antibiotics, an anesthetic for the pain but the poor thing can barely stand up. He sleeps all day. And the stink on him. He’d wake the dead. I’m starting to worry he might die. The vet says his sores are very bad and in some cases septicemia sets in. He said I’ve to feed him fish oil and rice.

  I should have left him where I found him really. A little white stray. He’s like a terrier and was shivering in the alleyway next to the bins, looking for a bite to eat. Such a small thing and so frightened. Your heart bled for him. I suppose there was no harm in taking him in, it just seems he’s always ailing. The vet said to change his food. He says he probably has an allergy. I might do that. It wouldn’t hurt to splash out a little I suppose; I’ve grown quite fond of him now. I couldn’t bear it if he died.

  I saw the girls using the infamous trolley and ridding themselves of years of filth, it made me think of last Christmas, the father pushing the mother like a baby in a pram. He was singing, remember? At the top of his voice. It was two in the morning. Flower of Scotland. Take the High Road. The Northern Lights. Songs he had no right to. Songs about heroes and warriors, songs about rebellion, about places he’d never been. The wife was clutching at a traffic cone, each of her legs hanging limp over the side of the cart. I thought she was dead at first, but then she lifts her head and leads it to a cigarette. That’s when she saw me staring at them and made the usual stink about having a faggot for a neighbor. They threw some cans and a bag, her bag, the contents bouncing off the concrete. She tried to stand up, didn’t she, and fell out headfirst. That’s when the plumber who can’t fix sinks showed up, he gave her a towel and that ugly wife of his was furious and yelling in the background, “Don’t be getting involved, Tommy.” Eventually the ambulance arrives with the police in tow, the plumber gives a statement and Mr. Eugene Doyle is taken away (to the cells most likely). The mother didn’t get home till Boxing Day and with a big bandage on her head. I can’t imagine what those girls did that Christmas. I can’t imagine what they’re doing this Christmas. I haven’t seen much of the idiot parents, or heard for that matter. I should be grateful for the silence, but I’m not, it’s all very unsettling tell the truth. Very unsettling.

  Marnie

  Christmas was awful. We found gifts from Izzy and Gene hidden in the broom cupboard. We were looking for the disinfectant to clean what was left of Gene off the floor. I got a stolen iPod. Nelly got a Harry Potter DVD. We also got jewelry. Gold cross for me and matching earrings for Nelly. They probably thought we could share them. I felt bad then, the crosses were nice but it felt like an RIP from the grave. There was a bracelet in there for Izzy from Gene, a gold charm bracelet, but I took the Xmas tag off and told Nelly it was from me. She was all over it, liked the charms.

  We had some food in the freezer. A chicken stir-fry and a few oven fries. A totally pathetic excuse for an Xmas dinner but we didn’t want to go out. We were suddenly scared of everything outside the house and so we ate what we had, mostly in silence and with our food on our laps, watching the telly. Nelly was sullen. At one point I turned the radio on but she freaked out and snapped it off. She’s not really into music at the moment. She won’t play, and sits still. I suppose it reminds her of Izzy, who liked to sing except she couldn’t, it didn’t stop her from screaming her lungs out though, especially when she was hammered, she’d crank the volume to nuisance level and the neighbors would lose their minds and call the police sometimes. I suppose if Nelly’s reminded of Izzy, she’ll probably start thinking about Gene and that’s the last thing she needs or what I need. I’m sure she didn’t mean to kill him, but it’s done now and there’s no point in dwelling. She has to move on. We both do.

  We’ve so much at stake right now and I can’t go into Foster Care, not again, it isn’t safe and who knows what would happen to Nelly, they’d probably put her in some sort of nuthouse with her being so weird. God, I hate Foster Care, you have to share rooms with girls who nick your fags and steal your clothes. The meals are good though, but I hardly saw Nelly. They always had her in rooms with bricks and puzzles. She didn’t say a word the whole time and kept doing that hedgehog thing, curling up into a ball and screaming. She was only nine, I was eleven. Izzy had run away with the Estonian guy from Milton Keynes and Gene was missing in action. Kimbo’s mum offered to take us in, but the social worker said there wasn’t enough room in her house. It was Nelly’s fault we were there at all. She kept peeing her pants at school and so the Social turned up to find out why. I suppose she didn’t grass, but when she acts out like that people get suspicious and next thing some guy and his clipboard’s knocking at your door.

  We got some chocolate for Christmas from Kimbo, that cheered Nelly up. She ate the whole box while I smoked about twenty fags. Then we watched Only Fools and Horses for the ten millionth time.

  God bless Hooky Street.

  Nelly

  Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon
Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Silent Night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly Peace. Sleep in Heavenly Peace.