‘Fucking hell,’ he shouted. ‘Big Country! Big fucking Country! Do we fuck sound like Big Country.’
‘I know,’ said Connor. ‘I didn’t want to mention that. Some folk have no clue, do they? Obviously this twat has never heard a decent record in his life, so it’s hardly worth getting het up about.’
‘Hey,’ said Hannah, ‘that Scotsman piece is in today. Look at us all arsing around on the beach. You look great, Con, with your black eye and wonky nose. Mind, you look a lot better in this photo than you do at the moment.’
‘Thanks, love,’ he said, noticing the thaw in her voice. ‘Give it here.’
He read through the article. It was the main feature on the page under a large windswept band picture.
‘It says here I’m pretentious… egotistical… ranting… and…’ his finger ran along the lines as he spoke, ‘… passionately confused. Not a bad haul.’
Kate took the paper from him and read it. ‘At least they’ve left all your swearing in, that’s something I suppose. What d’you think, Paul?’
She passed the paper to him and he glanced at it briefly.
‘You didn’t say anything racist, did you?’ he asked Connor.
‘Only about the English, probably.’
‘Well, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ He started up the engine and pulled his seatbelt on. ‘Any chance we can get moving to your folks’ place? I’m starving.’
The van pulled away from the forecourt with a squeal of tyres and they were heading for the family showdown.
They hadn’t made it past the hallway and it’d already started. Jean Alexander was a trim, short figure at fifty-four and she wore a tight white blouse with several buttons undone exposing a pale, freckled breastbone, along with skintight jeans and thin-heeled boots. She’d already mentioned Kate’s hair (split ends, needed conditioning), lack of make-up (‘Just to bring out your eyes, dear’) and clothes (apparently black wasn’t the camouflage some people thought it was). Then she noticed Connor’s face, held up her hands and shrieked.
‘My baby,’ she wailed, with just the tiniest hint of the Highlands left in her accent. ‘What have they done to you?’ She went to put her hands on his cheeks but Connor flinched away.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said in a heavy voice, yet with the beginnings of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s nothing. Just a little argument with a fan.’
‘Some fan!’ Jean squealed. ‘Have you had it seen to? Come on, let’s clean it up.’ She tried to hold Connor’s hand but he pulled away.
‘Leave it, Mum,’ he said. ‘Stop fucking fussing.’
‘I see your language hasn’t improved,’ said Jean. ‘But you really must have those cuts seen to. Come on.’ She tried again to take his hand but he slipped her grasp.
‘Honestly, Mum, forget about it. It’s just a bit bruised.’
‘Hey,’ said Kate, ‘weren’t you in the middle of having your usual go at me, anyway?’
‘No, dear,’ said Jean, distracted away from Connor. ‘I was just trying to help you look your best. It’s important to look your best.’
‘Tell that to the Elephant Man over there,’ said Kate, laughing. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’ll be pottering about somewhere, probably, you know your father. Try the study, he’s mostly in there these days.’ She turned back to Connor. ‘My baby, look at the state of you. How did this happen?’
‘I told you, a disagreement with a punter,’ said Connor. ‘Now can we at least get in the fucking door. And how about offering us a drink? Some host you are.’
Hannah, Danny and Paul remained tight-lipped. They’d seen this performance a handful of times before, and it didn’t pay to get involved. Only now did Jean seem to spot them.
‘Hannah, darling, come in,’ she said, ushering the three of them to follow Kate and Connor, who had already walked through to the kitchen. ‘It’s Paul, isn’t it? And Danny?’
‘Mrs Alexander,’ said Danny, making to shake her hand and getting a kiss on each cheek.
‘Fuck that, Danny,’ she said. ‘I’m not a grandmother yet. And I never will be at this rate. Call me Jean, everybody does. Go on through, I’m just in the middle of getting dinner ready, but I’m sure there’ll be something to keep everyone going until then.’ She called up the stairs, ‘Alan! The kids are here. Stop faffing and come down. Wait till you see Connor’s face!’
She hurried through to the kitchen where Connor was already handing out beers from a case on the floor.
‘You’ve found the beer,’ said Jean. ‘Good, good. Would anyone prefer wine? There’s plenty in the rack through in the pantry or I’ve got a bottle of Merlot open here if anyone wants.’ She took several mouthfuls from a large glass and waved the half-empty bottle at them.
‘We’re fine with these, Mum,’ said Kate.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t drink lager, Katherine,’ said Jean. ‘You know how it affects the stomach. You’ll have a beer belly in no time, if you haven’t already under all those baggy clothes. No wonder you never seem to have a boyfriend.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Kate, glancing at Danny.
‘I’m just saying,’ said Jean.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Kate. ‘Any psychology student can see you’re just projecting your own faded youth and a lifetime of disappointment on to the shoulders of your only daughter.’
‘Yes, very clever, dear,’ said Jean. ‘You’re not the only one who went to university, you know. Or watches The OC, which seems to be the same thing these days. And I’m not doing any such thing, I’m just looking out for my children. A mother is allowed to do such things, you know.’
‘And while we’re at it, your pathetic golden boy act with Connor is wearing pretty thin,’ said Kate. ‘I got a degree, a decent job, a flat and I’m paying off my student debts, and all I get is abuse about drinking beer. Con bombed out of uni after two minutes and has done nothing but get loaded for years and borrow money he’ll never pay back…’
‘Hey,’ said Connor.
‘… and what does he get? The fucking prodigal son treatment. I’m surprised we’re not having fatted calf for dinner.’
‘If you’re quite finished,’ said Jean, stirring a large pot of chilli while pouring herself more Merlot. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help out around here and show everyone to their rooms.’
‘Fine,’ said Kate, picking up her bag.
‘And track down your father while you’re up there, dear. I think he’s going a bit deaf.’
‘Maybe he chooses not to hear you, Mum. Christ knows, I would.’
Kate headed out the door with Hannah, Danny and Paul traipsing silently behind. Connor opened a second beer from the crate.
‘I wish you wouldn’t have such a go at Kate all the time. She’s got a point, she does get the shit end of the stick.’
‘Connor, you’re such a sensitive boy, but you know how mothers and daughters are. That’s all it is. We’re too much alike, that’s the problem.’
‘I don’t think so, somehow,’ said Connor. ‘And never, ever say that to Kate, or at least make sure there’s nothing throwable in the vicinity if you do.’
‘You’re both so young,’ said Jean. ‘You’ll understand when you’re older and you’ve got kids of your own. Whenever that’s going to happen.’
‘Jesus,’ said Connor, laughing. ‘Do you know what a cliché you are?’
‘Why, of course, dear,’ said Jean, swigging more wine. ‘But what a delightful cliché I am, don’t you think? Now come here and give your mum an Oedipal cuddle.’
Connor just stood looking at her and drinking his beer.
The Alexanders lived in a gently sprawling, beaten-up four-bedroom house that had skulked in unkempt gardens for a hundred years. They’d come into a small inheritance courtesy of Jean’s grandmother and bought the place just before the twins were born. They hadn’t done much to it since, except the odd bit of painting here and there to cover up garish, swirly wallpaper. The house overlooked the Kept
ie Pond – a man-made, sludge-filled former boating pond with a small island full of nesting ducks, swans and wiry bushes. Behind the pond sat a fake medieval castle known as the Water Tower, built around the same time as their house, which had originally been used to store the town’s water supply. When Connor and Kate were at primary school the Water Tower was where the older kids went to sniff glue, drink cider and fumble around in each other’s pants.
A soft, feathery snow fell, coating the landscape in an early Christmas sheen. In the light from the street lamps the snow looked a pale, leathery yellow colour, like jaundiced skin. Connor sat on a broken bench in the front garden smoking a joint with Danny. Hannah and Kate were upstairs and Paul had been roped into helping in the kitchen, where a well-sauced Jean was flirting heavily. Connor and Danny took turns at a bottle of Merlot, swapping it for the joint.
‘I used to fall in that pond every winter,’ said Connor. ‘When it iced over we used to be down there like a shot, daring each other on to the surface, or breaking up the edges and doing chicken runs across the pieces. Sometimes we’d play this game, Sieg Heil, where a bunch of us stomped across the ice in a row, like stormtroopers, gradually getting faster and faster. As you stamp harder and faster the ice behind the line gets weak and bends, so if you fall behind too much you disappear through the weakened surface. You’d think we’d fucking learn. But every year when it got cold we’d be back down, breaking up the edges and falling in. It’s only about four feet deep, and half of that is stinking mud, so there’s not much danger of drowning. Mum used to send me round the back of the house and hose the shit off before I could go inside. Surprised I never caught hypothermia. Sometimes I wonder how none of us ever got killed, the way we played back then. It was like we were testing how far we could push it, you know?’
Danny took a toke from the joint and swapped it back for the bottle.
‘Everyone does that when they’re nippers,’ he said. ‘It’s all that rites of passage guff. If we were Aborigines, we’d be off into the bush to wander about for a month eating witchetty grubs. Instead we piss about near lakes, railway lines, harbour walls, electricity pylons and shit like that, just trying to get the kind of kicks our ancestors used to get hunting bears or whatever.’
Connor laughed and handed back the wine bottle. They were silent for a while. They could hear Jean laughing inside and the radio playing something classical and soothing.
‘Your mum’s pretty friendly,’ said Danny after a while.
‘That’s her game,’ said Connor. ‘She’s always loved sticking it in folks’ faces, especially when she’s had a few, which is pretty often.’ They were quiet again for a moment. ‘Must be where I get it from. Do you think you can inherit being an alkie?’
‘Nah, I don’t go in for all that genetic crap,’ said Danny. ‘Seems to me you make up your own personality as you go along. There’s no use blaming genetics for being fat or stupid, so I’ve no excuse. You’ve just got to get on with things.’
‘Is that some sort of life philosophy?’ said Connor, raising an eyebrow.
‘Could be,’ said Danny. ‘I don’t think too much about it, Con, that’s your job as the tortured artist. I just sit at the back, drinking and smoking and playing drums. While also looking out for the rest of you hapless buffoons.’
‘I meant to say, thanks for jumping in for me yesterday at the gig.’
‘No problem.’
They swapped the joint and the bottle.
‘Shit,’ said Connor. ‘I just remembered, I knew there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Last night, you dirty dog, I heard you.’
‘What?’
‘I heard you shagging through the bathroom wall. You jammy bastard. Who the hell was it? I couldn’t remember you chatting to any of the girls at the party later on.’
Danny looked uncomfortable. ‘It wasn’t me, Con.’
‘But I heard you,’ Connor laughed. ‘It was definitely you.’
‘Which room?’
‘The one next to the bathroom.’
‘I was across the hall, mate, sorry.’
‘But I recognised your voice.’
‘Remember Dave and Sean are both Belfast boys, must’ve been one of them.’
‘Shit, I could’ve sworn it was you.’
‘Were you steaming, by any chance?’
‘Of course, but I was sure it was your voice.’
‘Don’t you think I’d own up if it was me? I don’t exactly get much action, so if I was shagging you’d be the first to know about it.’
‘I suppose.’ Connor punched Danny’s arm gently. ‘Maybe you’ll get some before the tour’s over, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ said Danny, finishing the last of the wine, as Connor ground the dead roach into the gravel with his toe.
‘Food’s up!’ came a high-pitched voice from inside the house, followed by laughter then the clatter of a pan lid hitting the floor.
‘Let’s face the music,’ said Connor.
Danny let out a deep breath as he watched Connor head in, then looked out across the road. The snow had stopped and the pond surface looked like a waxy, black mole on the snowy skin of the land. He shook his head as he got up and headed inside for dinner.
Seven places were set around a scuffed beechwood kitchen table, candlelight throwing shadows on to pine-panelled walls. Jean was talking and gesticulating, making sure she was centre of attention. She sat at the top of the table and motioned to Danny as he came in.
‘Sit here, Danny, next to me,’ she said, waving theatrically at the chair next to her. ‘I want all the handsome young boys next to me, and I’ve already positioned young Paul here on my left.’
‘Hey, what am I?’ said Connor.
‘Please, dear,’ said Jean. ‘We’re not that incestuous yet, are we? Sit down and tuck in, everyone.’
Connor and Danny sat down in front of plates of steaming chilli and rice. Hannah and Kate came in a minute later followed by Alan Alexander, a quiet, serious-looking man in his fifties with trim white hair like a Roman emperor and small, oblong glasses perched on the end of his nose.
‘Hello, Connor,’ he said carefully, as if peering under a stone at the slaters beneath.
‘Hey, Dad,’ said Connor. He turned to Hannah and Kate. ‘And what have you ladies been up to? Talking about me behind my back?’
‘Get over yourself,’ said Kate.
She took a seat next to him and Hannah moved round the table to sit opposite, with Alan sliding into place at the opposite end from Jean.
‘What have you been up to, Alan?’ said Jean. ‘Honestly.’
‘Just working upstairs, dear,’ he said, almost whispering. ‘Then chatting to the girls for a bit.’
‘I might have known. A pretty girl like Hannah in the house and you’re straight in there.’
Everyone pretended to ignore this except Kate.
‘Actually, Mum, at least Dad had the fucking decency to ask how I was getting on. You know, how my job’s going, life in general, stuff like that? Instead of just harping on at me the minute I’m in the door about my lack of fucking lip gloss.’
‘Let’s just eat,’ said Alan. ‘Kate, I’m sure your mother wasn’t having a go.’
‘Why do you always defend the old lush?’ said Kate.
‘I beg your pardon,’ shouted Jean. ‘How dare you call me a lush, you prissy little madam.’
‘Mum, just shut up, eh?’ said Connor.
‘That shows you know nothing about me at all,’ said Kate. ‘At least I flirt with men my own age, not boys twenty years younger than me.’
‘Look!’ Connor was standing up, wobbling. ‘Can we all just shut the fuck up and eat!’
There was silence. Danny, Paul and Hannah picked up their cutlery and started on the food. Connor couldn’t touch his. He tried a couple of mouthfuls but the speed had ruined his appetite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. Or the last time he hadn’t had a headache. His jaw was throbbing in time to
a jabbing pain across his forehead. He downed the glass of wine in front of him as polite small talk stuttered up around the table, mainly between Hannah and his folks. Connor couldn’t fathom why Hannah got on well with Alan and Jean. Maybe it was just easier to talk to other people’s parents than your own.
He looked across at her now and was pleased to find he still thought she was fucking sexy. What wasn’t to fancy? She was wearing a tight, chocolate blouse displaying a perky cleavage, a short fawn skirt and knee-length boots. Her red hair framed her soft, smiling features perfectly. If only he hadn’t been taking so much amphetamine, he could’ve had a hard-on right now under the table. As it was, his body felt like a limp, washed-out bag of bones – beaten, bruised and asexual. He really had to cut down some of his drink and drug intake. At least he was thinking about it, that was a good sign, wasn’t it? The first step of twelve, or whatever it was. In the time it’d taken him to think this he’d necked another glass of wine and the speed bag in his pocket felt tingly hot against his thigh. He couldn’t concentrate because the pain in his jaw had spread to his ears, and a roaring sound drowned out the conversation around the table. He could see lips moving but couldn’t make out anything.
He got up and went to the bathroom. Raking through a mirrored cabinet full of pill bottles, he was amazed at how many medicines you could accumulate simply by getting older. There were pills for all sorts of conditions he’d never heard of. He examined each label in turn, emptying half the pills out of each bottle into his pocket. If they weren’t painkillers, he thought, they’d be something similar, so what was the difference? Four bottles he just emptied completely – Vicodin, Valium, Prozac and something with a long name that ended in barbiturate. He’d heard of them, that was enough. He took a Valium and a Prozac, figuring that they’d even each other out but leave him more chilled, and headed back to the kitchen where, after the solitude of the bathroom, it seemed like everyone was shouting through loudhailers at each other.
The Ossians Page 10
