Taking Flight (17 page)

‘Yes, well.' She doesn't sound impressed. ‘It's not me you need to apologise to. Look, I have to go.'

Two Rs in ‘sorry', Kelly
.

And I hear the car door slam.

Chapter 30

VICKY

Becca made friends first. She hunkered down beside me at the lockers and said, ‘Katie Maguire told Niamh what happened to Flight.'

I nodded. Concentrated on not crying. All week I'd only felt like I was half-here. The days had dragged and it was still only Thursday. ‘Should you not be in PE?' I asked. Becca hated getting into trouble.

‘I was at the school nurse. Period pains. You?'

‘Just couldn't face it.' It was the first time I'd ever mitched class.

‘Is he going to be OK?'

‘We don't know. He won't die or anything, it's not like that, but he … he might never be sound again.'

‘I don't really know what that means,' Becca admitted.

‘It means I might never be able to ride him again. He might be lame for life.'

‘Oh. But he won't die?'

I sighed. ‘His injury won't kill him. But if he … if he doesn't get better … Well, no one wants to keep a lame horse.'

Her round face was shocked. ‘You mean – you couldn't just keep him as a pet?'

‘I'd
want
to,' I reassured her. ‘Course I would. But it costs a lot to keep a big horse like Flight. If I wanted another one I
could
ride – well, Dad wouldn't pay for two.'

She grimaced. ‘But it hasn't happened yet? I mean, he might be OK?'

‘Might be. We won't know for ages – six months, maybe a year.'

‘Poor old Vicky.' She moved closer to me and gave me a hug with one arm. ‘Look, babes, I'm sorry we fell out.'

‘Me too. I wanted to text you when it happened but I just … I don't know … I didn't want you to think I was, like, emotionally blackmailing you into making friends.'

‘I wouldn't have thought that!'

‘Fliss would have.'

‘Not when she hears what's happened. Was Rory good?'

I gave a dry little laugh. ‘He dumped me.'

‘He
what
?' Her eyes widened.

Tears pricked the back of my own eyes. ‘Dumped me. He said … said…'

Becca tightened her arm round me. ‘How could he dump you just when you needed him?'

‘It wasn't like that. I don't blame him. Neither will you when I tell you what I did.'

‘What
you
did?'

So I told her. She was the first person I'd told. I knew Mum and Fiona both guessed I'd said something to Declan but I was too ashamed to tell them, especially after the way Rory reacted. Cam, though she'd been
brilliant with Flight and texted me all the time to tell me how he was, was kind of distant, as if she guessed there was more to it than I was telling. But Becca and Fliss had already told me what they thought of my attitude to Declan. Becca could say told you so if she wanted. I was too miserable to care.

But she didn't. She kept her arm round me and made comforting noises, and when I'd blurted out the whole story she gave me two tissues and said, ‘Poor old Vic. I bet you'd give anything not to have said it.'

‘Course I would! I … I can't forgive him, Becs,' I admitted. ‘Not after what he did. I'm mean, I'm
sorry
and I know it was partly my fault and I feel so
guilty
but every time I think about Flight lying in the road like that …' I couldn't go on.

‘I know.' She squeezed my arm. ‘I don't think anyone could expect you to forgive him just yet. But you will some day.'

‘I won't.'

‘You will. And Vic? You
really
need to talk to your mum about this Brian.'

The bell made us both jump. ‘Chemistry,' said Becca with a groan. ‘Can't mitch that. You okay to come or shall I bring you to the nurse? I'm sure she'd let you lie down for an hour. You look awful.'

I was tempted for a moment. ‘No, it's okay. But Becs, will you talk to Fliss for me? Tell her – you know, everything.'

‘Course I will. And look, let's meet in Starbucks after school?'

‘The three of us? OK.'

* * *

Fliss slid into the bench beside me and Becca and set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a Diet Coke. She wasn't as easy to make friends with as Becca. Becca was all hugs and warmth and forgiveness but Fliss was tougher. Oh, she'd make friends properly and mean it, but she wouldn't let you just forget about what she'd fallen out with you about in the first place.

‘I wonder how
he
feels about it,' she said. ‘He must feel worse than you.' It was more or less what Fiona had said.

‘It's not his horse, though,' I said. ‘I bet he
is
sorry – how could you not be? – but he just ran away, couldn't even stay and face me.'

‘D'you blame him, though?
I
wouldn't be able to face you if I'd wrecked your horse,' said Fliss. ‘Remember when I broke your phone in Year Nine?'

‘Fliss! You can hardly compare them!' said Becca before I could reply.

‘But the principle's the same,' insisted Fliss. ‘You were really nasty about that, Vic – no, I'm not casting up, honestly. I just mean you're very …' She thought for a moment, like she really wanted to get the right word. ‘Possessive, I suppose. That's what I meant when I said about you being so jealous and that. You know the way you are with your dad having the new baby and that. And being so mean about Declan. And now your mum and this Brian.'

I stirred my hot chocolate with the wooden stick thing. I knew Fliss wasn't saying all this just to be nasty but it was hard to listen to.

‘I don't
like
my mum having boyfriends, you know,' she went on. ‘I know I always make a joke of it but I used to wish my mum was like yours, that she stayed in and
focused on me all the time. But I suppose they deserve a life too.'

‘Yeah.' Becca joined in. ‘I used to be really jealous of you and your mum too, Vic. Like, whatever you do, your mum thinks you're great. OK, so she's a bit annoyed with you at the minute, but you know what I mean. I'm never going to be good enough for my mum – if I get As she wants A stars; if I come second in a test, why wasn't it first? I feel like I'll never be clever enough, thin enough, pretty enough –'

‘Becs!'

She waved away my sympathy. ‘No, this isn't about me; I just wanted to remind you, you're pretty lucky.'

It was what Mum was always trying to tell me. And Rory, saying I was a bit of a princess.

Fliss rubbed my arm and made me smile at her. ‘Vic, babes, don't get all sulky. You're
our
friend. If your friends can't tell you the truth, who can?'

‘I know.' My voice was very small. ‘I just feel like I've
lost
everything. Flight and Rory and –'

‘You haven't lost us.'

‘I could have, though.'

‘But Vicky, you need to ask your mum about Brian,' said Fliss. ‘You can't just keep putting it off. I bet you're being all huffy with her and she doesn't even know why.'

‘OK.' I ran my finger round the inside of my mug to cream off the froth. ‘I'll ask her tonight.'

* * *

I stared at the receipt. Carphone Warehouse. £39.99. Mum hadn't got herself a new phone, had she? No, she'd said she'd wait for my old one which I was going to give
her after Christmas when I got my iPhone from Dad. So what was this all about? She hadn't forgotten about Dad's present and got me a phone herself, had she? I hoped not – not a forty quid one!

Mum came into the kitchen. ‘Vicky? What are you doing? I asked you to get me my purse, not analyse the contents of my bag!'

I held out the receipt. ‘It was just – I hoped you hadn't got me a phone. Because dad's getting me an iPhone. Remember?'

She took the receipt off me and sighed. ‘Don't worry. I know you wouldn't thank me for it. It was a Christmas present.'

‘Oh. Who for?' Then I knew. ‘Mum! How could you?'

She sat down opposite me at the table. ‘I got it a while ago. I wasn't sure what to do with it; it seemed a bit mean not to give it to him.'

Despite all my good intentions and the pep talk from Fliss and Becca I couldn't help my eyes flooding with tears at the injustice. ‘It was a bit
mean
for him to nearly kill my horse!'

‘I know.' She rolled the receipt up in her hands and started playing with it. ‘Look, I don't know if I did the right thing. It just seemed … petty or something not to.'

‘You mean…?' Gradually I took in what she was trying to tell me. ‘You
gave
it to him? You've
seen
him?'

Mum pinched the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache. ‘This afternoon.'

‘Did he say anything?' I didn't know why I was asking. Like anything he said could make a difference now.

‘He said sorry. I didn't make it easy for him, you know, Vic. I think he realises how serious it is. He seemed to think Flight was dead.'

I shuddered. ‘Well, if he was so worried why didn't he get in touch?'

‘I asked that.'

‘And Mum, he
doesn't
know how serious it is! Flight may never be sound. We don't have a full team for Saturday. That driver's suing Dad because his car's a write-off.' Tears burned my cheeks. Again.

‘I told him he'd have to apologise to you.'

‘Well, he needn't waste his breath.'

‘Do you really mean that?'

‘I don't know!' I sobbed. ‘I'm just … it's all so mixed up.'

She stroked my hair. ‘Vicky – I think he's pretty cut up about it. I mean, if that makes you feel any better. He hasn't told his mum – I suppose he's scared of worrying her, you know she's a bit fragile – and I got the impression he was bottling it all up. At least you aren't doing that.'

I tried to laugh and gave a big snottery gulp. ‘That's true.' Then I thought of the things I
was
bottling up. I wasn't ready to tell her what I'd said to him. But the other thing… ‘Mum,' I said, looking her in the eye. ‘Why did you tell him about Brian? And not me?'

For a second the disbelief on her face made me think she was going to say, ‘Brian? What on earth are you talking about? There is no Brian.' But she didn't. She just looked puzzled. Maybe a bit guilty.

‘
I
didn't tell him about Brian,' she said slowly. ‘I told Theresa. I suppose she must have told him. It wasn't a secret.'

‘It was from
me
!'

‘Oh Vicky, I'm sorry. I was waiting for the right moment. And then with the accident – it just seemed too much for you to cope with.'

‘But you told
her
!'

‘Do you not tell Fliss and Becca things you don't tell me?'

‘Yeah, but –'

‘It's the same thing. Well, partly it was to have something to talk about. Theresa can be pretty hard work. But it was more…' She sighed. ‘No, you're right, I should have told you. But it was only a date at first. I didn't know if it was going to lead to anything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it for no reason.'

‘Mum! Even having a date is a big deal for you.'

She gave a dry sort of laugh. ‘You know, Vic, you've had it easy. Dad left me for Fiona. He's still with her
and
you like her. I've never had a boyfriend since your dad. Not even a date, until now. You've never had to deal with any of that. How many boyfriends has Fliss's mum had?'

‘But at least Fliss's mum
tells
her!'

Mum just tore on as if I hadn't spoken. ‘And I've lost count of the men Theresa's had. Some of them, from what your gran used to tell me, pretty unpleasant. But I have
always
put you first.' She was starting to sound quite fierce. ‘And you know what, Vic? I'm lonely. I'm fed up being on my own every weekend. I'm only thirty-six, for God's sake. And I'd like to meet somebody while I still can.'

‘So, what about this Brian, then?'

‘He's a lecturer. I met him at the Open Libraries Festival. He was doing a talk on Seamus Heaney. We got chatting. He's forty-two. Divorced.'

My voice scrambled in my throat. ‘Has he got kids?'

‘No.'

‘I suppose that's something.'

‘Oh Vic!' She laughed. ‘We've only been out a few times. I'm not about to move in with him.'

‘I should hope not!'

‘I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. And I'm
really
sorry you found out from Declan. That must have been hard.'

‘It's OK.' I didn't want to go too far down this road.

‘So, can we just relax and have a lovely Christmas, like we always do?'

‘Yes.' I gave her a quick hug. ‘Do I ever get to meet him?'

She smiled. ‘Let's take it a day at a time. But if we're still seeing each other in the New Year, then yes, of course.'

‘Mum, it's Christmas next week; course you'll still be seeing him in the New Year! You need to be more positive!'

‘And
you
start being a bit more positive about Flight, OK? Remember what your gran used to say – if you visualise something, you could make it happen. You just visualise jumping Flight over those big fences that scare me.'

I thought of Flight standing at the back of his stable, resting his bandaged leg, eyes dull with pain and boredom. ‘I'll try,' I promised.

Chapter 31

DECLAN

I lean over the sofa to hug Mum and drop the wee box into her lap. ‘Merry Christmas, Mum.'

She looks at the necklace and smiles up at me. ‘Och, son, that's lovely. Here – put it on for me.' She holds her hair away from her neck while I fasten the chain. It's an angel – silver with a tiny gold halo. Well, maybe not real gold – it was £15.99 in Argos.

‘It's a guardian angel,' I tell her. Then I think this sounds dead gay. ‘I mean, you know, like a good luck thing.'

She pulls it away from her neck to look at it. ‘It's gorgeous.'

She's trying so hard. She's cooked a proper Christmas dinner and everything. She went to the Spar herself to get the stuff. Yesterday she even went over to give Mrs Mulholland a Christmas card and stayed for ages talking to Mairéad.

I'm trying hard too. Colette made me feel so crap the other day.
Don't be so pathetic. She's imagining far worse
.
So no more wandering the streets. No more drinking. I stay in and watch her and try to act normal. Oh, it's all still there – the road, the car, the blood – but sometimes for a few minutes at a time, I can forget about it. In the mornings, for the first few seconds, it's like it never happened. But it always comes back.

Mum's present is an iPod. ‘I know that's what all you young fellows want,' she says. I don't think she knows you need a computer to use it. ‘Don't forget Colette's,' she says, handing me a rectangular package.

It's a mobile. Nothing flashy, but it's slim and black with a camera. She must have remembered that I didn't have one. She must have bought it Before.

‘I'll do the dishes, Mum. You stay here and watch TV.' Doing the dishes is a good excuse to get away. Even if it's only as far as the kitchen.

Mum's been cleaning like a demon on and off since she got home but now the kitchen looks like someone's made a feast for twenty, not a dinner for two. Colette did proper cooking like this every night, but her kitchen never looked like this. Neither did Gran's when she used to do Christmas dinner for the three of us. This is a dead mean thought so to make up for it I give everything a really good scrub and put all the dishes away. Usually I just let them drip. The tin she did the chicken in – where does that go? I remember seeing it in the top cupboard. This is the cupboard I never used to be able to reach, but when Colette and I were cleaning in here and she got me wiping out the cupboards I noticed I could. God! Why does
everything
make me think about Colette?

I lift the tin and slide it in. Right to the back. It hits something hard and clinks. I stand on tiptoes and try to move the other dish out of the way.

Only it isn't a dish. It's a bottle of vodka.

I stand back down normally and breathe out slowly. It can't be. It must have been there before. But Colette and I cleaned out that cupboard.

Well then, it's just … Maybe she just likes to know it's there. Doesn't mean she's been at it.

But it's half empty.

I stack the other dishes away. Wipe the surfaces. Put the leftovers in the fridge.

Not thinking about the bottle of vodka totally wins out over not thinking about Flight.

‘Declan? Have you fallen asleep in there? What about a wee cup of tea?' She sounds so normal. She's
been
so normal. Well, not normal for her. But normal like a normal person.

Still not thinking, I put the kettle on and find the teapot. Milk. Mugs. I bring the tea in and she smiles.

‘Thanks, son. We've had a lovely Christmas, haven't we?'

‘Um. Yeah.' How can I say anything? She hasn't been drunk. I always know. And it's Christmas. I sit on the arm of the sofa and look at
EastEnders
. ‘You're bang out of order!' yells Phil Mitchell. I hate Phil Mitchell. He looks like Barry.

Then I hear my own voice, louder than Phil's. ‘Mum? Why's there a bottle of vodka in the cupboard?'

She takes a sip of tea but under the silver angel a red stain creeps up her neck. ‘A bottle of vodka?'

‘Don't tell me it was from before. I know it wasn't. And don't say you haven't been drinking it. I'm not stupid, Mum.'

‘Declan, have you seen me drunk since I got home?'

I shake my head. Try to drink my tea but it's too hot.

‘Look, I have a wee glass now and again. That's all. It's just a wee treat. It's no big deal.' She tries to reach her hand out to me, but I move away, spilling the tea on the sofa arm. ‘Watch what you're doing!'

‘Thought you were off it?' My voice sounds sulky. Childish.

‘I
am
. For God's sake, Declan. Look, I know I was overdoing things a bit before. But it's all sorted now. I can take it or leave it.'

‘But you were meant to have stopped.'

‘Does Colette never take a wee drink?'

‘Mum, that's different!'

‘Why?'

Because Colette's not an alcoholic. But I don't say it.

‘Am I the one who came in legless last week?'

‘That's not fair!'

‘Oh, but it's fair for you to lecture me?'

I sigh. I'm not going to win. She twists everything. But maybe she's right. If she's only having a glass every now and then. That's just – what do you call it? – moderate drinking.

But my mum's not a moderate drinker.

* * *

Mum sets the phone back in its holder. ‘Well,' she says, ‘
she's
happy, all right. Spending New Year's Eve with this Brian. Must be serious.'

‘Oh, right.'

Mum sighs. ‘OK for her, isn't it?'

‘Well,' I shrug, ‘she's been on her own for ages.' I still can't think about Colette without my face smarting at the memory of that day before Christmas. ‘It's not me you
need to apologise to.' I've even thought about it. But I can't
imagine
phoning Vicky. Well, I can imagine it. It always ends with her slamming the phone down. I've even thought about writing it. But she'd think – and Colette'd think – that I was chickening out of a proper apology. And they'd be right.

And Cam. I wish I could apologise to Cam.

‘Maybe it's time I went out and met someone nice,' says Mum. ‘What d'you think?' She smiles at herself in the hall mirror and rubs her tongue over her teeth. Then she frowns at me. ‘Any word of you getting off your arse and getting yourself a life?'

‘Mum!' I've stayed in every day since I found the bottle. Stayed in until my head throbbed with being indoors. Stayed in to make sure
she
was OK. It's been so boring I even started doing a bit of revision for my mocks. Not that there's any point now. ‘You used to nag me to stay in and stop running the streets.'

‘Well, there's a happy medium, son. You're sixteen. You shouldn't be sitting in with your mother.'

God, she makes me sound like a sad bastard.

‘And, you know,' she goes on, sort of proudly, ‘it's not like you need to keep an eye on me. I haven't been near that bottle since Christmas.'

That's true. I keep trying not to go and look in the cupboard but I can't stop myself. And the level hasn't changed. I thought she might have filled it up with water but I tried it – well, I got as far as sniffing it but the smell brought back my birthday and made me gag so I reckon it was vodka, all right. So maybe she's right – she can take it or leave it now. Sometimes I think I've caught the brightness in her eyes, the slight redness of her cheeks that means she's been at it – but I could be wrong.

‘Ah, go on son. Away out and see your friends.'

‘I'm not leaving you on your own on New Year's Eve.' No need to tell her I don't seem to have any friends.

‘Well, I might head over to Mairéad's for an hour. Sure, she doesn't get out much with those wee twins.'

‘Oh. OK then.' For the first time I notice she's wearing her good leather trousers and she's got make-up on.

I've hardly been out the door for ages and the raw air catches at my throat. It's like breathing for the first time in days. The footpaths are starting to freeze and they're flashing light/dark in all the flickering lights. Tirconnell Parade is still lit up like Las Vegas. I stuff my hands deeper in my pockets and trudge on. There's nowhere I want to go. I nod alright to Chris Reilly, Kevin Walsh and a couple of girls from the year below. The girls are sliding on the icy footpaths, half-falling and grabbing at the boys and laughing. I wonder where Seaneen is.

I head on past the chippie, the offie, the sweet shop, and cut down through the waste ground beside them to the main road. There's a row of cars outside the chapel even though it's not Sunday. Gran used to drag me to Mass all the time. Haven't been in the chapel since her funeral. Gran was a great one for Confession. Every Saturday when I was wee I had to wait for her in the pew and not move or fidget. If I was good she took me to the Cosy Café on the way home for jam doughnuts. One time she wouldn't take me because I got my toy car out and ran it down the aisle. The Cosy Café's boarded up now.

I wonder what it'd be like to go to some priest and say you'd nearly killed a horse. I wonder what he'd give you – a few Hail Marys, maybe. How could that make you feel any different? Gran always used to say she felt great
after Confession. She used to stay in the wee box thing for ages, but she can't have had many sins.

Past the chapel there's the new flats. Well, people call them new but they've been there a few years now. I can't help glancing up at Barry the Bastard's window and my stomach clenches when I see the light.

I think about going to the park, but I had enough of the park on my birthday.

My new phone tells me it's only ten o'clock. Sod the bloody New Year. It'll be the same as every other year. I get to Fat Frankie's just before he shuts and get a chip. Haven't had proper chips for ages – not since that time with Rory after the show. Rory telling me I should work with horses. I bet he and Vicky aren't walking through some shithole estate eating chips on New Year's Eve.

Walking past Seaneen's house I have to step on to the road because of the big silver Jeep mounting the footpath in front of me. A drug dealer's car. Then the registration jumps out at me – BAZ 67. Quick glimpse of fat bristly neck. I bend over my chips so he can't see me, and the sharp vinegary smell nearly knocks me out. A blast of music and laughing comes through the open door of the house. If I hadn't told Seaneen to piss off, would I have been invited? Then I catch on. Seaneen's house is Mairéad's house.
That's
where Mum's seeing in the New Year. Not sitting with a cup of tea and Jools Holland on the TV. At a party. A party with drink. A party with Barry McCann.

I wrap the chips into a parcel and go straight through our house to the back yard to put them in the wheelie bin.

It's not even a surprise to see the three vodka bottles wedged down between plastic bags and the chicken car-cass
from Christmas day. They're not even wrapped up. It's the cheap import stuff. The stuff she gets off Barry.

And when a Flight-haunted sleep finally takes me, it's no surprise to be dragged up out of it by the giggling and shouting and key-scraping of Mum getting in. This time, she is legless.

And she's not alone.