In Loco Parentis (14 page)

“Oops,” she says like it makes everything all right. “He brought me in his lorry. Let me lie in the bed while he drove.”

“Didn't want you getting cold now, did we love?”

I think about making more headlines in the paper for tomorrow's edition.

Feel like the happiness that should be here has been sucked out by a vacuum cleaner then replaced by another black hole.

Time to assert my position. My possession.

I go over to Emma, wait for her to take the cigarette from her mouth and kiss her full on the lips. She tastes of tobacco and wine.

“Missed you,” I tell her.

“Missed you too,” she says, all Blanche Dubois.

Gary's still smiling. Maybe he's picking up on some scent or other, some signal that I can't read.

“You going far?” I ask him.

“All the way,” he laughs.  Ha bloody ha. “Not really. Centre of town.”

“What time are you due?”

“Five minutes ago.” Doesn't look like he cares too much, just keeps on staring at Emma. I wish he'd let his tongue hang out the way it's probably dying to. Quick uppercut and he'd be speaking funny the rest of his life.

“So you'd better get going.”

Emma goes over and puts her arm around him. “Let the poor guy finish his tea at least.”

I shut up then. Let them get to know each other a bit better. Go into the bedroom and put on some Chet Baker.

like a rash

Emma Fox. Runs as hot and cold as a shower in a cheap hotel.

Soon as the door closes on Gary, she jumps on me. All over me like a rash. Arms round my neck, thighs around my waist gripping me like she'll never let go and kissing me like a woodpecker going at a tree.

Everything else disappears from my mind – Wolf, Gary, murder, Don and Jenny all melt away so it's like they don't exist.

I put my tongue on hers. Feel the tickles right down in my balls. Let the smell of her hair and skin invade me and use my fingers to playfully tease her buttocks.

We don't even make it to the bedroom.

I'm inside her. Shallow, shallow, deep. Shallow, shallow, deep, like a mantra.

There's girls I've known too heavy to take like this. Too difficult to keep across my hips. Not Emma though. She's like a part of me, moving at my direction.

Faster now, the mantra's gone. Shallow, deep, hard or soft, God knows.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she wails. It's the first time she's let out her delight with me. “Fuck, Honey, I love you. I fucking love you.”

I spill myself inside her, semen pumping like I'm putting out fire.

It's only as I let her down that I wonder if I'm the Honey she had in mind.

breaking bad

“I'm leaving him,” Emma tells me as we lay together on the bed.

Half asleep, I pick up the words and wonder if they're real.

“He's a pig and I hate him.” She sits up. Puts her weight onto her elbows. Looks at me like she's trying to figure a puzzle. “Just like you wanted.”

My need for sleep is bigger than any other just now. I reach out, put my hand gently round the back of her neck and pull her to my chest, hoping it'll keep her quiet.

“You still want me to leave him, don't you darling?” It's like she's daring me.

“Of course.” A feeling of unease creeps under the duvet, wraps me up in its tentacles. “I do.”

She kisses my neck, gets up and starts to dress.

“Call me a cab,” she says, jiggling into her skirt.

“You're a cab,” I say, and reach over for the phone.

the therapist's chair

The big hand on the clock touches the three.

Fifteen minutes and I haven't said a word.

Nor has Dr India.

He's looking at me, waiting, but I can't bring myself to look back. Instead I stare at the carpet, a Paisley swirl of cream on red that should have been burned twenty years ago.

“One of my kids got hurt.”

“You have kids?” He looks about as interested as a vegetarian presented with rare steak.

“My kids at school.”

“Does this kid have a name?”

“Don.” It feels like a conversation. I sit up and pay attention to myself. “Beaten, I think.”

“And how does it make you feel?” There he goes again.

“Helpless,” I say, remembering how it had been before I sorted out his life.

“Yet you feel the need to try and do something.”

I wonder if we have one of those patient-client privilege relationships. Decide it's better not to ask. “Yes.”

“It sounds like you care.” He sounds surprised.

“I care.”

“You need to save them all.”

I think about it. “Yes.” I need to save them all.

I don't know why, but it's as if he's hit me. I let myself fall back into the chair. Wonder where he got such a comfortable piece of furniture.

Maybe I drift away. It's like I'm asleep. Things start moving around me. I try to focus in to see what they are.

“I can see my parents,” I say. “Kind of. Like foetuses floating around me. Trying to get close. Smiling.” Mum moves her little flippers and passes my face. Dad stays in the same spot like a humming bird. “I think they need my help.”

I start to come round. How ridiculous I must sound. Wonder if it was a flashback. Mike's always telling me about his.

Dr India moves closer. It's like he's sizing up his prey. There's a shine in his eyes I've not seen before. If I'm not mistaken, it's curiosity.

“Your parents are infants needing help, but it's you who needs nurturing, Joe. You who need to feel their love and admiration.”

“Uh?” It's not the intelligent question I have in my mind.

“Who's looking after you, Joe? Who takes care of you when things go wrong?”

I don't want to answer. Try to think of something else. But I know.

The sobs come out of my mouth like ectoplasm. I hear my noise, feel dribbles from my eyes and nose. Want to be somewhere else. Back home. Five years old and safe from everything outside the garden fence.

Dr India's lips move. Rise at the corners. Form a brief smile before he falls back into his chair like he's just finished a hearty meal.

December

drunk as a skunk

I
t's Jenny who makes me feel safe.

When the bride and groom did the ‘I do' thing, she'd held my hand like we were the ones at the altar, rolled my thumb-ring for the rest of the ceremony and made sure she was in line to catch the bouquet at the church door.

Ignoring the ‘no confetti' signs, we threw stuff into the air – paper, rice, glitter and little silver horse-shoes.

Last time I was at the Tickled Trout I must have been 18. Split my trousers doing the Can-Can and spent the rest of the evening either sitting down or crossing my legs. Swore at the time I was never coming back.

Never say never.

Jenny looks great. I like her new bob, all Louise Brooks. If it were the 1920s she might have been a film star instead of a weather girl.

Something else about her's different too. I wish I could put my finger on it.

Before coming, we had a long chat on the phone. She couldn't keep on waiting for me, she said. Needed a something at the weekend or she was moving on. It's not what she wants, but she's ready to leave me behind.

It didn't feel good and when we met at the ceremony she kissed me as if I have spikes on my skin.

“Dance?” she asks.

“Course.” She pulls me up and steadies me. Mostly the music's been crap. Now we're into the slowies to end the evening.

Cousin June has left with her new husband and it's only the bums that are left.

Auntie Mary and Uncle George look like they're intent on getting their money's worth. They've paid for a disco till midnight and midnight it'll be. They lean in on each other to make sure they don't fall. George is fumbling with the zip at the side of Mary's dress, but he gets nowhere because he's drunk as a skunk and because Mary swats his hand away every time he gets close.

Some blokes who weren't even at the wedding are propping up the bar and trying to chat up the barmaid and there are a couple of young couples snogging in the corners.

The DJ, Warren'Peace, looks pleased with his selection. ‘Baby It's You.' First decent song he's played all night.

“Sha la la la la la,” Jenny sings softly into my ear, her lips tickling my lobe. “Did you think about what I said?”

I've managed to avoid the subject all evening. Managed to avoid talking to Jenny alone for pretty much the whole day.

I need a cigarette and remember that I've left them all on the table.

“I meant it, Joe. Every word.”

“I know.” I mouth words, but don't say them.

She looks at me like she's waiting for something. Hopeful like our old dog at the dinner table.

Not that she's a dog. Christ no. It's that Louise Brooks thing again. Like sex and sensibility all rolled into one.

The idea I've been striving to find all week comes to me in a flash. I'm carrying it out before I even have time to enjoy it.

Behind her back, her dress open all the way, I stroke her vertebrae with one hand and pull off my thumb ring with the other.

I let her go.

There's panic in her eyes as I step away.

Without her I lose balance, feel I'm going to fall. I correct myself just in time and wonder if she's noticed.

I reach out and take her hand, pull it towards me and slip my ring onto the finger that looks most likely to be the right one for an engagement ring.

Her fingers stretch wide. Next to the huge ball of glass she was already wearing, my ring looks dull.

“Sha la la la la la,” she mouths and puts her hands to her face. She kisses the ring and jumps up and down like it's the lottery she's just won, then throws her arms around my neck as if she's never letting go.

It feels great.

She's happy, so am I.

Somewhere rattling in the back of my mind there's a thought that something's not right. Like I'm in another dream and there's a twist around the corner.

Soon as I close my eyes I remember. Just about now, Emma's telling Roger they're all done. That they're selling the house. That it's time they tidied up their lives.

Mental note - phone Emma tomorrow before it's all too fucking late.

morning breath

Hangover city.

Eyes won't open. A desert somewhere in my mouth. Head aching and body screaming out without making a sound.

A soothing stroke moves across my forehead. I try to remember.

One big effort and my eye-lids rise.

Jenny's sitting up at the head of the bed smiling.

Her knees are pulled up to her chest, the pink stripes of her pyjama top finishing at the top of her thigh.

She looks at her hand. Stretches out her fingers and looks at the ring.

“It's miles too big, you know.”

“Didn't know your size.”

“I love it all the same.”

It all comes back to me. Like a flood. Like Noah's flood.

“Today,” she announces, “is the happiest day of my life.”

How I can get things so right and so wrong at the same time, it's impossible to tell.

“You won't regret this, Joe.” She kisses me, her mouth sweet against my morning breath. “Promise.”

Yet something tells me I might be made to regret it for a very long time to come.

the girl with the apples

The Freemason's Arms. Lunchtime.

I take my usual place in the booths out the back, well trained by now in seeking cover.

An old couple lunch across from me, the man speaking gently all the while as he spoons food into the lady's mouth. After every feed, she purses her lips and moves them slowly like a tortoise eating lettuce. When she stops, the man wipes her with a serviette and strokes the side of her head. The wisps of grey are not enough to cover her scalp - seen more hair on a toilet brush. Nevertheless, he looks at her like she's the most fabulous looking lady in the world. Treats her like a princess. Doesn't lose his patience even when she spits it out.

I wonder if anyone would do that for me.

Emma breaks my thoughts, throwing down the bag from her shoulder and her lips onto mine. My stomach does a somersault.

I do my best to smile. Feel the strain in my cheeks.

“I deserve a drink,” she says as she removes her jacket and puts it on the back of her chair. “Something to celebrate.”

Something inside me drops. “What'll it be?”

“There is only one drink for celebration.”

I walk over to the bar and return with a drink and an empty wallet.

“One glass of champagne.” I put it on the table. Feel like telling her not to spill a drop.

“Lucky we're in Hampstead, huh, otherwise you'd have been paying for a bottle.”

If there's a smile on my face, it's thin as that old lady's hair.

I look over. The old dear's leaning forward and staring at the table. Her man reads her the news, slowly and quietly so I can't hear any of the words.

“Cheers.” Emma holds out her glass and I'm careful not to hit too hard.

“Cheers.” I sip my over-priced orange juice. “So what are we celebrating?” as if I didn't know.

“I told him. Everything. About us, about me, about the children.” She's talking fast and bubbly like a stream. “And he understands. The estate-agent will be round tomorrow and it should be on the market next week. Two weeks at the most.”

Instead of saying anything, I kiss her. When she stops, I kiss her again.

As our lips work away, I think of a tortoise eating lettuce and then try and find some words to use.

She pulls away. “So how do you like them apples?” she asks.

I hug her close. Hold her tight so she can't see my face. Look over as the old man helps his love to stand and decide the woman I'm holding would never do that for me. She'd be off before you could say Parkinson's. Like them apples? All of a sudden, I think I'm allergic. Have a sudden craving for bananas.