M Word, page 8
The couch was about two steps away and easier to flop on to. But who am I to ask stupid why questions? I get her to a position where she’s bent double against the arm of the chair. God, I couldn’t have loved her more. My heart’s practically exploding for this woman. My heroine. Shit she’s had to put up with in her life: me and my nonsense, a wanker father, a string of arsehole men – and all with little complaint. How can she be anything other than my heroine? Mean, look at me, I throw tantrum grenades if she dares to enter my bloody room. Come on! Time to grow, Maggie.
But what’s going on in her head? Do we have similar conkers? Hope not, for her sake.
I sleeve-wipe her face; streaks of mascara stain my clothes, again. In the old days it would’ve been:
‘I can never get that stuff out in the wash. Why don’t you just use the wipes I bought for you? Jesus, Maggie!’
Then I’d have screamed something at her.
And she’d have screamed something at me.
Then I’d have screamed louder.
And she’d have stared harder.
Then I’d have chucked something, stormed to my room and plugged myself into my music.
No more shit, Maggie.
No.
More.
Shit.
‘Want to go and sit on the back step?’ I go. ‘Have a fag, maybe?’
‘I do actually.’
I help her. Even light her cigarette. There’s another ten minutes shaved off her life! How good am I?
She leans her head on the door frame, gazes into the back garden.
‘You should have a jumper in case you get cold,’ I go.
No answer, just puffs death into her lungs, staring ahead. Pure rabbit eyes. I watch her for maybe twenty seconds without a hint of a blink from either of us. Her shoulders tense. I reach down and flick some ash off her arm.
‘Thanks, darling,’ she whispers. Mum never calls me darling. Don’t know if I enjoy hearing it or not; makes me nervous.
‘Why don’t you sit with me for a bit, Maggie?’ she goes.
God!
We aren’t exactly your let’s-smoke-at-the-back-step-like-we’re-in-the-Gilmore Girls mother–daughter combo. Even back when I was curled up in my own foetal, the day after Moya, she let me get on with it, as if I were carrying some sort of virus. Can’t blame her for not wanting to catch what I had.
I squeeze beside her on the step, get myself comfortable and swat stray smoke away from my face. She slides into me. I’m sure she feels my boobs pressing her. Mad weird. A few bodily adjustments sees her relaxed and snug. I try not to let the fags annoy me, but it’s utter rank-attack. Takes some amount of willpower to sit here with her. We don’t speak. Just sit, her inhaling, me watching. I blow gently, just enough to push the smoke into the wind. Mum coughs, then stops. Stubs out her fag. I listen as her breathing becomes smooth and regular. Everything is calm. I think of that Smiths song ‘Asleep’. I actually sing the first few lines into her ear. A Smiths lullaby. My lips press against her head and I hold them there for ages. We have a moment, we do. So what.
When there’s nothing left to sing, I heave myself up from the step.
Back in my room, I’ve written a text. It’s ready to go:
hey hun, mums terrible 2nite, feelin like shit. so am I. miss you. Wish u were here. Vom!
But I don’t send it. Cos there’s no one to send it to, is there? I don’t think there’s a network that would reach where she is.
My mind skips all over the place, sees her lying there: all those tears, those inner scars. Agony drenching her. She needs to pack in the fags; they’re not helping. Her teeth are the colour of piss-stained knickers and her breath’s like your granny’s ashtray. Mean, what man is going to want a bit of that? She’d better watch out or she’ll wake up one morning looking like a care home resident.
I’m thinking Elliott Smith’s tune ‘King’s Crossing’ is the best fit for this shebang. Press play, plug in and off you glide. Pain? What’s pain? Pain is just weakness leaving my body. That’s a good thing, right?
I wrap a clump around my index finger, maybe five times, then wrench it from side to side. No give. I twist more; tug slowly in order to prolong the agony. Still doesn’t come out. The girl online did it easily. I copy the process, then think, Fuck it, I’ll just yank it as hard as I can, see what happens. And that’s what I do. Spiral. Tug. Yank. Out. Doddle. Like ripping Velcro strips apart.
I glare at the dark mound of hair in my hand and feel nothing. I finger-tip the patch where I heaved it from. Not totally gushing blood, but it’s bloody enough. Stings a bit; reminds me of a tattoo sting. I close my eyes, put ‘King’s Crossing’ on repeat mode.
Lose count of how many times it plays or how long I doze for, but when I open my eyes I know instinctively what I’ve done. Course I do; the tuft of hair is moist in my hand. My hairless scalp pulses and throbs. I don’t feel guilty or stupid or any of that other crap; just wanted to know what Mum felt like when she lobbed that chair around our living room. When anger and pain collide. Different kettles of fish and all that, I know, but that’s the shit that goes through my head sometimes. Anything to banish that foetal image of her.
Easier than I expected. It was sore, but not eye-watering. A good sore. That’s the point, isn’t it?
I can cover up my patch, make sure I choose a section no one (obviously I mean Davis) can see. I’m not a complete daft arse, you know.
Spontaneous
‘And how are you doing, my princess?’ Anna goes. Hands resting on her crotch.
Princess? Me? Has Anna ever seen pink sparkly threads hanging from these bones? I champion evil witches and wicked stepmothers. I ain’t no princess.
‘I’m fine, Anna. Plodding on.’
‘You’re a trooper, love. You really are.’ She takes her hands off her thighs and plonks them on top of mine. As if some muggy hands could eradicate everything. She pure stares at me like some hopeless MILF in a nightclub. I don’t blink. No way I’m losing this stare-off.
I win!
She lifts her hands from mine.
‘And how are you fitting in with your new educational surroundings?’
Just speak like normal people speak for once, will you?
‘It’s good. I like it.’
‘Going on to further education is a big step, a big upheaval for anyone, sweetie. You have to be careful you don’t allow it to get on top of you.’
Is that not the whole point of college life? So things can get on top of you?
Wink! Wink!
‘I’ll be careful, Anna. Brownie’s honour. Think I’ll be all right.’
Seriously, why wouldn’t I be?
‘You know, with the progress we’ve made, our time here is almost complete, Maggie. The health board only gives us so many sessions.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I try not to sound dead excited.
‘However, I can apply for more time if you’d like?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I go, knowing there’s no danger of me wanting more time.
Meetings with Anna are designed to stop me from regressing into blaming and shaming myself; learning to deal with grief in a positive way. Good luck with that one. Sometimes I want to snatch her by the scarf and beg her to varnish this conker brain of mine, hammer out its deformity. Anna says wanting to take on the world is a normal grief stage; if someone pays me a compliment I’ll hack them with my tongue.
She might think these sessions have helped overcome my demons. They haven’t even scratched the surface. Mean, if I took my clobber off she’d soon know what level of success we’re talking about, or what a complete balls-up she’s made. Sweetie.
‘How’s Mum?’
The question is like a twang in the gut. Forces me to sit back. I look away. Bite a dangling nail on my pinky. This is on the tip of my tongue:
‘Oh, you know, Anna. Mum’s A1. She’s licking her despair off the carpet most nights and smoking her lungs black, while I’ve taken to cutting my limbs and ripping my own hair out for the craic, and, do you know what? I’m strangely enjoying it. But apart from that, Mum’s on top of the world.’
‘Same. Total pain,’ I go.
‘And what is her job status?’ Anna fans her palms out in stop-motion. ‘Oh, don’t answer that. We’re here to discuss you, not other things. You hold on to that answer. You hold on to your thoughts about your mum, unless you want to talk about them, that is?’
‘I don’t mind talking about Mum.’
‘Well, just take your time, sweetie.’
‘She has good and bad days.’
‘I’d say she has. Being out of work is debilitating.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s life, isn’t it?’ I go.
‘Such a terrible thing for anyone to experience.’
I’m on the verge of blabbing to Anna about Mum’s tears and thousand-yard-stare stuff; moaning about having to be a skivvy, big-mouthing it all to her, but, actually, what I need is to eject myself from this conversation.
‘I did another one of those writing exercises, Anna.’ And there you have it. Ejected.
‘The spontaneous writing exercise?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ She clasps her hands together. I’m like, OK, OK, don’t piss yourself, woman. ‘That’s progress, Maggie. And how did you find it?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honesty is why we’re here, sweetie.’
‘Completely useless.’
She looks at my hair. Not sure if she clocks any bareness. I pretend to restyle it a bit. Her eyes lose their flutter; her lips tense. She’s definitely clocked it. Tilts her body towards me.
‘Maggie?’ she goes, pure serious.
‘What?’
‘Were you feeling stressed when you wrote it?’
‘My whole life is stressful, Anna,’ I go. ‘It doesn’t just creep up on me – I wake with it.’
Her eyes flash to my head again. As sure as this town is one big shithole she knows.
‘So, are you going to show me this writing piece?’ she goes.
I rummage through my bag, pull out my notebook.
‘It’s just crap ramblings,’ I go.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s deeper than that.’
She extends her hand.
‘Honestly, it’s pure garbage.’
‘There’s always good that can be extracted from these things.’
She’s desperate to feast her eyes on it. This … spontaneous writing. Spontaneous writing that took me ages to do, over two days. Spontaneous writing that’s really lyrics for the Damp’s first ever original song. This is me pouring it out. Miss Creative Energy. I show it cos I know she won’t tell me it’s a pile of piss. Who doesn’t need an ego boost? At worst, she’ll think I’m a total zoomer.
‘You better not laugh, Anna,’ I go, handing her my untitled song.
‘You should know me better than that, honey.’
She skims.
She reads.
Her eyes widen, her head tilts and, at one stage, she gnaws at her bottom lip. Actually, I don’t care if she hates it; totally down with that. What band wants old people liking their creative ramblings?
Anna rests the notebook on her knees, thumb-flicks her hair. Shuffles her eyes between me and the words.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I go.
‘“Girl, I’m coming to join you …”’
‘NO! Don’t read it out.’
‘Oh, Maggie,’ she goes. ‘I really don’t know what to say.’
‘So don’t say anything.’
And she doesn’t.
Box
Davis’s idea: fake email address.
My invention: donna.m77@eirmail.com.
While he’s making actual study notes, I come up with the response to Box No. 0904.
Hi, inside man, this might be your lucky day! I like nothing more than a good old mill around hospitals as well. Best of all, I’m brilliant at guessing the illnesses of outpatients. 95% success rate to date. Maybe we could mill together and I could show you the ropes? Don’t worry, I’m not employed in education any more. Phew! donna.m77@eirmail.co.uk
I hold the letter in my hand, examine and re-examine. Wonder if I’m doing the right thing by Mum. Her knickers will definitely explode when she finds out; she’ll be seething. I hand it to Davis.
While he reads, I delve into my bag and see Larry’s little mush mingling among my books and eight tampons. He’s my other art school chum. No one will clock him, so who cares? Always feel better seeing him.
I visit her. Picture her. Smile at her.
Moya, you there?
I’m here, Mags.
For how long?
As long as you need me.
I miss you.
Stop that shit. Stop it now. Hear me?
OK, stopped.
Right, what is it? she goes.
Do you think that bit about milling around together sounds slutty?
Sounds as though she’d be up for a laugh.
My idea of slutty and Moya’s were way different. Probably why I always thought she’d find herself up the duff years before me … cos she was too busy being up for a laugh and then … oops, someone’s spud gun’s gone off.
Mum hasn’t exactly been up for much laughter these days, I tell her.
All the reason we have to get the chick back in the thick.
We?
She cared.
Mum always had a smile for Moya. She liked her, but thought she was trouble. And, God, trouble loved Moya. Not half. Total girl of firsts: fags, booze, sex, hash, hard booze, loads of sex, more fags. Made me look like a convent dweller. I’m wired differently, I suppose.
‘Davis,’ I go, after he’s read it twice. ‘I’m not sure about the “I could show you the ropes” bit. Mean, it’s a belter of a euphemism, but do you think we should cut it?’
‘It sounds great. If I was the guy receiving that I’d be chucking folk out of the way to email back.’
‘You think?’
‘He’d be bonkers not to reply.’
‘OK, let’s do it then,’ I go. ‘You post it.’
He leaves me to my studies and shoots out to the postbox. Box numbers. What are those anyway? Who uses them? Why didn’t he just leave an email address like everyone else? Box numbers suggest weirdo beyond belief. Freaks and Dark Web pervs.
It’s always the same: after doing something you’re unsure about, like angry tweeting, sending an emotional WhatsApp message or posting a bloody letter under someone else’s name – mean, who sends letters now anyway? – you instantly wish to rewind and take it all back. You want to pick that computer or phone up and smash it against the nearest wall. As Davis runs down the street, I wish I could claw the letter back, that I could somehow squeeze inside the postbox and shred it, chuck a burning flame in its mouth.
Saying that, Mum deserves some romcom in her life.
I should be thinking positives about playing Cupid’s daughter, like how cool this guy’s going to be, how he’ll think Mum’s a total babe, how he’ll spoil the bejesus out of her. But no, not me. I’m thinking that I’ve just booked my mother into the Josef Fritzl Hotel for a wicked weekend of tickle and torture. Maggie Yates, the Einstein of crap ideas. And that numpty, Davis, isn’t far behind. He’s got a cute run though.
Coffee
First thing I do is get on the blower to Davis.
‘Davis?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to get round here fast.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘The box number guy only emailed, that’s what. Here now, or else. I need help.’
‘Or else what?’ he goes, sort of laughing.
‘Or else nothing, just get your arse round here.’
I click the phone off.
Actually, the first thing I do is turn to Larry, who’s lying under the covers pretending to snooze.
He’s replied, I go, tugging at his leg.
I throw him up in the air. Moya! I murmur.
What?
The guy replied.
What guy?
I throttle Larry, squish his neck in one hand. His eyes don’t bulge.
OUCH! What the … ? Moya goes.
Mum’s guy replied.
No fucking way, seriously?
Seriously.
Better not be a douche, she goes.
She’s started sleeping beside me again. I know, utter red neck. Kind of glad Mum mooches from bedroom to bog to living room and back again; don’t ever want her earwigging into our confabs.
Hi Donna (I presume it’s Donna?),
Thanks for your letter. It made me laugh out loud. Honestly, it did. I’d be delighted for you to show me the ropes as we mill around some hospitals together! But before we do that, would you like to meet for a coffee sometime? Somewhere in town perhaps? Date, place and time I shall leave to your discretion and convenience. I’m flexible.
Speak soon (hopefully),
Ian
My heart’s racing. First time Davis has been in my gaff, my room. God, I hope he doesn’t think he’s here to mattress-test. Hopefully Mum’ll be hypnotised to Judge Rinder and won’t even notice he’s here.
We read the email about twenty times.
‘What do you think?’ I ask him.
‘Don’t know. What do you think?’ he goes.
‘Doesn’t sound like he’s a fridge full of heads or anything, does it?’
‘Erm …’ Davis reads the email again. ‘No … he seems normal … maybe even funny. Doubt he’s got kidnapping on his mind.’
‘What about his name?’ I go.
‘Ian?’
‘Lame as shit, isn’t it?’
‘Better than Sebastian or Trevor.’
‘Screams boring to me.’
‘It’s not that bad, mean, I wouldn’t call any of my kids Ian, but maybe your mum’ll like it.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Shit, that’s when it really hits me: how am I going to tell her? I can see this question coming in waves, gnawing at my mind. Mum’ll be OK about it, cock-a-hoop that I’m helping her back on the horse, won’t she?
‘Well?’ he goes.
‘Well what?’
‘What are you going to say to this Ian dude?’
But what’s going on in her head? Do we have similar conkers? Hope not, for her sake.
I sleeve-wipe her face; streaks of mascara stain my clothes, again. In the old days it would’ve been:
‘I can never get that stuff out in the wash. Why don’t you just use the wipes I bought for you? Jesus, Maggie!’
Then I’d have screamed something at her.
And she’d have screamed something at me.
Then I’d have screamed louder.
And she’d have stared harder.
Then I’d have chucked something, stormed to my room and plugged myself into my music.
No more shit, Maggie.
No.
More.
Shit.
‘Want to go and sit on the back step?’ I go. ‘Have a fag, maybe?’
‘I do actually.’
I help her. Even light her cigarette. There’s another ten minutes shaved off her life! How good am I?
She leans her head on the door frame, gazes into the back garden.
‘You should have a jumper in case you get cold,’ I go.
No answer, just puffs death into her lungs, staring ahead. Pure rabbit eyes. I watch her for maybe twenty seconds without a hint of a blink from either of us. Her shoulders tense. I reach down and flick some ash off her arm.
‘Thanks, darling,’ she whispers. Mum never calls me darling. Don’t know if I enjoy hearing it or not; makes me nervous.
‘Why don’t you sit with me for a bit, Maggie?’ she goes.
God!
We aren’t exactly your let’s-smoke-at-the-back-step-like-we’re-in-the-Gilmore Girls mother–daughter combo. Even back when I was curled up in my own foetal, the day after Moya, she let me get on with it, as if I were carrying some sort of virus. Can’t blame her for not wanting to catch what I had.
I squeeze beside her on the step, get myself comfortable and swat stray smoke away from my face. She slides into me. I’m sure she feels my boobs pressing her. Mad weird. A few bodily adjustments sees her relaxed and snug. I try not to let the fags annoy me, but it’s utter rank-attack. Takes some amount of willpower to sit here with her. We don’t speak. Just sit, her inhaling, me watching. I blow gently, just enough to push the smoke into the wind. Mum coughs, then stops. Stubs out her fag. I listen as her breathing becomes smooth and regular. Everything is calm. I think of that Smiths song ‘Asleep’. I actually sing the first few lines into her ear. A Smiths lullaby. My lips press against her head and I hold them there for ages. We have a moment, we do. So what.
When there’s nothing left to sing, I heave myself up from the step.
Back in my room, I’ve written a text. It’s ready to go:
hey hun, mums terrible 2nite, feelin like shit. so am I. miss you. Wish u were here. Vom!
But I don’t send it. Cos there’s no one to send it to, is there? I don’t think there’s a network that would reach where she is.
My mind skips all over the place, sees her lying there: all those tears, those inner scars. Agony drenching her. She needs to pack in the fags; they’re not helping. Her teeth are the colour of piss-stained knickers and her breath’s like your granny’s ashtray. Mean, what man is going to want a bit of that? She’d better watch out or she’ll wake up one morning looking like a care home resident.
I’m thinking Elliott Smith’s tune ‘King’s Crossing’ is the best fit for this shebang. Press play, plug in and off you glide. Pain? What’s pain? Pain is just weakness leaving my body. That’s a good thing, right?
I wrap a clump around my index finger, maybe five times, then wrench it from side to side. No give. I twist more; tug slowly in order to prolong the agony. Still doesn’t come out. The girl online did it easily. I copy the process, then think, Fuck it, I’ll just yank it as hard as I can, see what happens. And that’s what I do. Spiral. Tug. Yank. Out. Doddle. Like ripping Velcro strips apart.
I glare at the dark mound of hair in my hand and feel nothing. I finger-tip the patch where I heaved it from. Not totally gushing blood, but it’s bloody enough. Stings a bit; reminds me of a tattoo sting. I close my eyes, put ‘King’s Crossing’ on repeat mode.
Lose count of how many times it plays or how long I doze for, but when I open my eyes I know instinctively what I’ve done. Course I do; the tuft of hair is moist in my hand. My hairless scalp pulses and throbs. I don’t feel guilty or stupid or any of that other crap; just wanted to know what Mum felt like when she lobbed that chair around our living room. When anger and pain collide. Different kettles of fish and all that, I know, but that’s the shit that goes through my head sometimes. Anything to banish that foetal image of her.
Easier than I expected. It was sore, but not eye-watering. A good sore. That’s the point, isn’t it?
I can cover up my patch, make sure I choose a section no one (obviously I mean Davis) can see. I’m not a complete daft arse, you know.
Spontaneous
‘And how are you doing, my princess?’ Anna goes. Hands resting on her crotch.
Princess? Me? Has Anna ever seen pink sparkly threads hanging from these bones? I champion evil witches and wicked stepmothers. I ain’t no princess.
‘I’m fine, Anna. Plodding on.’
‘You’re a trooper, love. You really are.’ She takes her hands off her thighs and plonks them on top of mine. As if some muggy hands could eradicate everything. She pure stares at me like some hopeless MILF in a nightclub. I don’t blink. No way I’m losing this stare-off.
I win!
She lifts her hands from mine.
‘And how are you fitting in with your new educational surroundings?’
Just speak like normal people speak for once, will you?
‘It’s good. I like it.’
‘Going on to further education is a big step, a big upheaval for anyone, sweetie. You have to be careful you don’t allow it to get on top of you.’
Is that not the whole point of college life? So things can get on top of you?
Wink! Wink!
‘I’ll be careful, Anna. Brownie’s honour. Think I’ll be all right.’
Seriously, why wouldn’t I be?
‘You know, with the progress we’ve made, our time here is almost complete, Maggie. The health board only gives us so many sessions.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I try not to sound dead excited.
‘However, I can apply for more time if you’d like?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I go, knowing there’s no danger of me wanting more time.
Meetings with Anna are designed to stop me from regressing into blaming and shaming myself; learning to deal with grief in a positive way. Good luck with that one. Sometimes I want to snatch her by the scarf and beg her to varnish this conker brain of mine, hammer out its deformity. Anna says wanting to take on the world is a normal grief stage; if someone pays me a compliment I’ll hack them with my tongue.
She might think these sessions have helped overcome my demons. They haven’t even scratched the surface. Mean, if I took my clobber off she’d soon know what level of success we’re talking about, or what a complete balls-up she’s made. Sweetie.
‘How’s Mum?’
The question is like a twang in the gut. Forces me to sit back. I look away. Bite a dangling nail on my pinky. This is on the tip of my tongue:
‘Oh, you know, Anna. Mum’s A1. She’s licking her despair off the carpet most nights and smoking her lungs black, while I’ve taken to cutting my limbs and ripping my own hair out for the craic, and, do you know what? I’m strangely enjoying it. But apart from that, Mum’s on top of the world.’
‘Same. Total pain,’ I go.
‘And what is her job status?’ Anna fans her palms out in stop-motion. ‘Oh, don’t answer that. We’re here to discuss you, not other things. You hold on to that answer. You hold on to your thoughts about your mum, unless you want to talk about them, that is?’
‘I don’t mind talking about Mum.’
‘Well, just take your time, sweetie.’
‘She has good and bad days.’
‘I’d say she has. Being out of work is debilitating.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s life, isn’t it?’ I go.
‘Such a terrible thing for anyone to experience.’
I’m on the verge of blabbing to Anna about Mum’s tears and thousand-yard-stare stuff; moaning about having to be a skivvy, big-mouthing it all to her, but, actually, what I need is to eject myself from this conversation.
‘I did another one of those writing exercises, Anna.’ And there you have it. Ejected.
‘The spontaneous writing exercise?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ She clasps her hands together. I’m like, OK, OK, don’t piss yourself, woman. ‘That’s progress, Maggie. And how did you find it?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honesty is why we’re here, sweetie.’
‘Completely useless.’
She looks at my hair. Not sure if she clocks any bareness. I pretend to restyle it a bit. Her eyes lose their flutter; her lips tense. She’s definitely clocked it. Tilts her body towards me.
‘Maggie?’ she goes, pure serious.
‘What?’
‘Were you feeling stressed when you wrote it?’
‘My whole life is stressful, Anna,’ I go. ‘It doesn’t just creep up on me – I wake with it.’
Her eyes flash to my head again. As sure as this town is one big shithole she knows.
‘So, are you going to show me this writing piece?’ she goes.
I rummage through my bag, pull out my notebook.
‘It’s just crap ramblings,’ I go.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s deeper than that.’
She extends her hand.
‘Honestly, it’s pure garbage.’
‘There’s always good that can be extracted from these things.’
She’s desperate to feast her eyes on it. This … spontaneous writing. Spontaneous writing that took me ages to do, over two days. Spontaneous writing that’s really lyrics for the Damp’s first ever original song. This is me pouring it out. Miss Creative Energy. I show it cos I know she won’t tell me it’s a pile of piss. Who doesn’t need an ego boost? At worst, she’ll think I’m a total zoomer.
‘You better not laugh, Anna,’ I go, handing her my untitled song.
‘You should know me better than that, honey.’
She skims.
She reads.
Her eyes widen, her head tilts and, at one stage, she gnaws at her bottom lip. Actually, I don’t care if she hates it; totally down with that. What band wants old people liking their creative ramblings?
Anna rests the notebook on her knees, thumb-flicks her hair. Shuffles her eyes between me and the words.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I go.
‘“Girl, I’m coming to join you …”’
‘NO! Don’t read it out.’
‘Oh, Maggie,’ she goes. ‘I really don’t know what to say.’
‘So don’t say anything.’
And she doesn’t.
Box
Davis’s idea: fake email address.
My invention: donna.m77@eirmail.com.
While he’s making actual study notes, I come up with the response to Box No. 0904.
Hi, inside man, this might be your lucky day! I like nothing more than a good old mill around hospitals as well. Best of all, I’m brilliant at guessing the illnesses of outpatients. 95% success rate to date. Maybe we could mill together and I could show you the ropes? Don’t worry, I’m not employed in education any more. Phew! donna.m77@eirmail.co.uk
I hold the letter in my hand, examine and re-examine. Wonder if I’m doing the right thing by Mum. Her knickers will definitely explode when she finds out; she’ll be seething. I hand it to Davis.
While he reads, I delve into my bag and see Larry’s little mush mingling among my books and eight tampons. He’s my other art school chum. No one will clock him, so who cares? Always feel better seeing him.
I visit her. Picture her. Smile at her.
Moya, you there?
I’m here, Mags.
For how long?
As long as you need me.
I miss you.
Stop that shit. Stop it now. Hear me?
OK, stopped.
Right, what is it? she goes.
Do you think that bit about milling around together sounds slutty?
Sounds as though she’d be up for a laugh.
My idea of slutty and Moya’s were way different. Probably why I always thought she’d find herself up the duff years before me … cos she was too busy being up for a laugh and then … oops, someone’s spud gun’s gone off.
Mum hasn’t exactly been up for much laughter these days, I tell her.
All the reason we have to get the chick back in the thick.
We?
She cared.
Mum always had a smile for Moya. She liked her, but thought she was trouble. And, God, trouble loved Moya. Not half. Total girl of firsts: fags, booze, sex, hash, hard booze, loads of sex, more fags. Made me look like a convent dweller. I’m wired differently, I suppose.
‘Davis,’ I go, after he’s read it twice. ‘I’m not sure about the “I could show you the ropes” bit. Mean, it’s a belter of a euphemism, but do you think we should cut it?’
‘It sounds great. If I was the guy receiving that I’d be chucking folk out of the way to email back.’
‘You think?’
‘He’d be bonkers not to reply.’
‘OK, let’s do it then,’ I go. ‘You post it.’
He leaves me to my studies and shoots out to the postbox. Box numbers. What are those anyway? Who uses them? Why didn’t he just leave an email address like everyone else? Box numbers suggest weirdo beyond belief. Freaks and Dark Web pervs.
It’s always the same: after doing something you’re unsure about, like angry tweeting, sending an emotional WhatsApp message or posting a bloody letter under someone else’s name – mean, who sends letters now anyway? – you instantly wish to rewind and take it all back. You want to pick that computer or phone up and smash it against the nearest wall. As Davis runs down the street, I wish I could claw the letter back, that I could somehow squeeze inside the postbox and shred it, chuck a burning flame in its mouth.
Saying that, Mum deserves some romcom in her life.
I should be thinking positives about playing Cupid’s daughter, like how cool this guy’s going to be, how he’ll think Mum’s a total babe, how he’ll spoil the bejesus out of her. But no, not me. I’m thinking that I’ve just booked my mother into the Josef Fritzl Hotel for a wicked weekend of tickle and torture. Maggie Yates, the Einstein of crap ideas. And that numpty, Davis, isn’t far behind. He’s got a cute run though.
Coffee
First thing I do is get on the blower to Davis.
‘Davis?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to get round here fast.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘The box number guy only emailed, that’s what. Here now, or else. I need help.’
‘Or else what?’ he goes, sort of laughing.
‘Or else nothing, just get your arse round here.’
I click the phone off.
Actually, the first thing I do is turn to Larry, who’s lying under the covers pretending to snooze.
He’s replied, I go, tugging at his leg.
I throw him up in the air. Moya! I murmur.
What?
The guy replied.
What guy?
I throttle Larry, squish his neck in one hand. His eyes don’t bulge.
OUCH! What the … ? Moya goes.
Mum’s guy replied.
No fucking way, seriously?
Seriously.
Better not be a douche, she goes.
She’s started sleeping beside me again. I know, utter red neck. Kind of glad Mum mooches from bedroom to bog to living room and back again; don’t ever want her earwigging into our confabs.
Hi Donna (I presume it’s Donna?),
Thanks for your letter. It made me laugh out loud. Honestly, it did. I’d be delighted for you to show me the ropes as we mill around some hospitals together! But before we do that, would you like to meet for a coffee sometime? Somewhere in town perhaps? Date, place and time I shall leave to your discretion and convenience. I’m flexible.
Speak soon (hopefully),
Ian
My heart’s racing. First time Davis has been in my gaff, my room. God, I hope he doesn’t think he’s here to mattress-test. Hopefully Mum’ll be hypnotised to Judge Rinder and won’t even notice he’s here.
We read the email about twenty times.
‘What do you think?’ I ask him.
‘Don’t know. What do you think?’ he goes.
‘Doesn’t sound like he’s a fridge full of heads or anything, does it?’
‘Erm …’ Davis reads the email again. ‘No … he seems normal … maybe even funny. Doubt he’s got kidnapping on his mind.’
‘What about his name?’ I go.
‘Ian?’
‘Lame as shit, isn’t it?’
‘Better than Sebastian or Trevor.’
‘Screams boring to me.’
‘It’s not that bad, mean, I wouldn’t call any of my kids Ian, but maybe your mum’ll like it.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Shit, that’s when it really hits me: how am I going to tell her? I can see this question coming in waves, gnawing at my mind. Mum’ll be OK about it, cock-a-hoop that I’m helping her back on the horse, won’t she?
‘Well?’ he goes.
‘Well what?’
‘What are you going to say to this Ian dude?’
