Alice and the Fly (16 page)

When your father returned he went straight to his counter. I didn’t ask about Phil and he didn’t tell me. Without the radio all I could hear was the banging of his cleaver, the laughter of the Vultures out the front in the shop.

I tried my best to finish my cleaning early so I could leave before the Vultures’ congregation in the coat cupboard, but transporting those turkeys put me behind all day. At 16:55 I still had a stack of chicken trays to clean. And chicken trays are the worst – all that baked-on fat. I have to boil the kettle and leave it to soak with detergent and T-Rex Bleach and even then (even through my rubber gloves) I still grate the skin from my fingertips. 17:00 came and went and the Vultures fixed their hair and set off into the cold and I was still scrubbing at chicken trays.

By the time I went out the front for my money it was 17:27. Your father was alone at the counter, sorting through piles of £20 notes. I picked up my envelope and headed for the door.

‘You going to leave without saying merry Christmas?’ your father asked.

He kept his head down, counting.

‘Merry Christmas.’ I tried the door. It was locked.

‘You’ll never guess what happened to my car last week.’

He slid a rubber band round a wad of twenties. I tried to say, ‘What?’ but all that came out was an unrecognisable grunt.

‘Some son of a bitch smashed my tail light. Can you believe it?’

Your father looked up. He smiled. He stepped round the counter and crossed the shop towards me. His trousers were still speckled with Phil’s blood.

He stopped beside me, at the door. He stared down at me for a few seconds. The keys hung there on their chain on his belt but he didn’t reach for them. Instead he leant forwards, took his large hand from his pocket and placed it on my head.

‘I see things,’ he said. ‘You know?’

The tail of a dragon tattoo was curling out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. I tried to nod but he kept tight hold of my skull.

‘I know you know what I’m talking about. I saw you. You know I saw you. From now on you keep away from her. OK?’

I swallowed. I was about to say, ‘OK,’ when he nodded my head with his hand.

‘She’s very special. Too special for you. OK?’

Nod.

‘I know you have your problems, but Ken gave you the job here to try to help you. To normalise you. Not so you could go sniffing round your boss’s daughter. She is out of bounds. Otherwise you become my problem. OK?’

Nod.

‘I find out you’ve been near her again, that’s it. There is no second warning.’

He kept hold of my head a few seconds longer. I thought maybe he was going to pop it, like a watermelon, but the pressure eased and he let me go. I glanced over at the selection of turkeys, hanging in the window. The clock behind the counter said 17:30. Your father turned to it and grinned.

‘Your mam’ll be worried about you,’ he said. ‘Best run on home, eh?’

He patted me on the shoulder.

‘You’re all right really, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘We’re all right?’

I nodded on my own this time. My neck ached from his grip. He told me I was all right a few more times as he unhooked the keys from his belt. He unlocked the door and held it open. I stepped out into the darkness.

‘Oh, and kid …?’ he said.

I turned back. He took out his wallet and removed a £20 note. He held it out to me.

‘Merry Christmas.’

I swallowed.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

I took the £20 note and scrunched it in my pocket. I hurried away. I kept expecting him to call out again but he didn’t. As I turned from the square I heard the bolt of the door.

When I reached Green Avenue I turned back one last time. I could still see his shape in the window, his head amongst the raw hanging turkeys.

Today started like today starts every year, with the creak of the door and the click of the light switch and Mum’s grinning face: ‘It’s Christmas!’ She sat a glass of orange juice on my bedside table and told me I’d best come downstairs: ‘Santa’s been!’ With that she was gone, off to wake the others.

I went down to the lounge. My father was there, perched on the edge of the couch. He too was clutching a glass of orange juice. He was wearing the Ted Baker ensemble Mum bought him last year: light brown trousers, green V-neck sweater. He smelt of aftershave. Mum buys us new clothes and aftershave every Christmas but my father always makes the mistake of getting dressed and applying his aftershave before we open our presents, then has to get rewashed and redressed afterwards. In the centre of the carpet was an enormous pile of presents, neatly wrapped in white paper. Usually we store presents at the foot of the Christmas tree but this year the foot of the Christmas tree is nailed to the lounge ceiling. I took a moment deciding whether to sit beside my father on the couch, before Mum appeared behind me.

‘Don’t you want to sit on the floor?’ she said. ‘With the presents?’

I told her I couldn’t sit on the floor. I had to always sit on a couch, with my feet up. Because of
Them
. Remember?

‘Fine. That’s fine. Sit, sit. Make yourself comfortable.’

My father slid up to make room for me. Mum lingered for a few seconds, watching as I lifted my feet to sit cross-legged.

‘Just please be careful.’

Mum disappeared upstairs then, to try to wake Sarah again. I took a sip of orange. My father chewed the inside of his cheek. Mum mumbled from Sarah’s room. The mumbling faded for a few seconds then started up again. Then Sarah screamed, ‘Just fuck off and leave me alone,’ and Mum retreated back downstairs. She stopped and smiled in the doorway before taking a seat between me and my father. The upside-down Christmas tree hung between us like a giant twinkling drill about to bore into the centre of the carpet. My father took a sip of his orange juice and from the bubbles I realised that his wasn’t actually orange juice at all, but Buck’s fizz, which is like orange juice only fizzed with champagne. I’m not allowed Buck’s fizz because of my medication. I don’t mind so much because I tried a sip once and Buck’s fizz is disgusting.

Eventually Sarah limped down to the lounge and we were able to start unwrapping presents. Mum goes a little overboard at Christmas so everyone had several presents to unwrap. My main present was a DVD player. Mum said she knew I liked watching films and it was about time I caught up with the twenty-first century. I don’t actually own any DVDs, but I didn’t mention this to Mum because it was still a very thoughtful gift. My other presents were the usual: aftershave, trousers, a grey Armani jumper. I folded the jumper and trousers and placed them on the floor beside me and Mum knelt and refolded them, smiling and muttering something indistinguishable. Mum had bought my father a new aftershave/trousers/jumper set too and he moaned, ‘I’ll have to go and get changed now,’ in a fake-angry sort of way. He’d bought Mum chocolates and some new cleaning fluids for the couch. Apparently they were very expensive.

I handed out my presents. I’d tried my best to find lounge-colour-scheme-matching wrapping paper but the best I could manage was white with a scattered array of
Winnie-the-Pooh
characters. It didn’t seem to matter: Mum tore the paper to shreds before it even had a chance to register. I’d bought her a box set of Elvis Presley CDs and as soon as she saw his black and white grin she gasped and told everyone to stop unwrapping while she put some music on. My father was next to open his present – a bottle of Scotch and a poster of Marilyn Monroe. I told him Marilyn Monroe was the Pamela Anderson of her day. He nodded and chewed the inside of his cheek. One Christmas my father chewed his cheek so much he bled, spotting his new Ralph Lauren shirt with red stains. Mum used to say he’d one day chew a hole right through and end up with two mouths, but Mum never says that any more.

Sarah was the last to open presents. She had to be coaxed a little by Mum, who was rubbing her arm and whispering, ‘Come on, your turn, love.’ Sarah’s been practising extra hard these past few weeks. Since the allegations against Cullman the Christmas Dance Fantastical’s been delayed and so now Sarah has to keep practising right through till the twenty-eighth. Sarah placed her Buck’s fizz on the floor and slowly peeled back the paper of her main gift: a crate of Hi-Wizz Vitamin Energy Shake. She nodded (a crate of Hi-Wizz Vitamin Energy Shake was what she’d asked for). She also received the usual makeup and pyjamas and perfume. What Sarah really wants is breast enhancement surgery but Mum says she’s not allowed to until she’s at least in her twenties. Apparently Mum was in her twenties when she first got her breasts enhanced. Sarah says that’s not fair because there are girls in school (e.g. Lucy Marlowe) who’ve had the op., but Mum’s word is final. I bought Sarah
Singin’ in the Rain
because there’s lots of great dancing in it. Sarah muttered that she didn’t know we were buying each other presents this year.

By the time we’d finished it was getting light. Sarah disappeared upstairs to bed, my father to his study, Mum to the kitchen to prepare Christmas dinner. I sat on the dining-room window seat and watched her rubbing oil onto the turkey carcass. Occasionally my father ventured out of his study for some nuts or a mince pie. He opened the bottle of Scotch I’d bought him. Mum gave him a glance of The Eyebrow but my father just smiled and said, ‘It’s Christmas, you can start early at Christmas,’ rummaging through the cupboard for a glass. He poured. He asked Mum if she wanted him to drive. She didn’t reply.

‘If you want me to drive I won’t drink,’ he said.

Mum washed her hands. She lifted a bowl of stuffing from the fridge and tipped it onto the chopping board. She shook her head.

‘OK.’ My father knocked back the drink, poured another and disappeared back into his study.

Once dinner was in the oven we left for Golden Pines. Mum drove. It was starting to rain. I thought Mum might have brought her Elvis CD to listen to on the way but she didn’t and we listened to the rain instead.

Halfway down the Social De-cline my father got bored of listening to the rain and switched on the radio. Sarah’s dance song was playing. Apparently it’s called ‘Screemin Boi’ by someone called Miss X. According to the radio it’s the Christmas number one. It thudded from the speakers the whole way out to the Pitt but Sarah didn’t once try and dance. She just watched the passing cars, the rain on the windows.

Mum exited the carriageway by the industrial estate, taking the back roads through the Pitt. Mum always takes the back roads through the Pitt because it means she doesn’t have to pass Kirk Lane or Ahmed’s Boutique or the church or any of those old places. By the time we pulled into Golden Pines the rain was heavy. My father asked if Mum had her umbrella.

She shook her head.

‘Guess we’ll just have to run for it, then.’

The reception was empty. Mum stood for a while by the desk, staring at the ‘Ring For Attention’ bell. My father and Sarah sat on the couch. I stood beside Mum, counting the drips from my coat soaking into the carpet. The phone behind reception started to ring. It rang six times and stopped. Then it rang again. The receptionist stepped out. It was a different receptionist to the one at Nan’s birthday. This one’s badge said ‘Evon’.

Evon led us past the TV room. The other old ladies were all together, slumped in various mismatched armchairs. A few were alone but most had family members gathered around them. Mum asked why Nan wasn’t in the TV room. Evon said it hadn’t been one of Nan’s good days.

Nan was in bed. There was a nurse kneeling at her side, guiding her arm into a beige dressing gown. Nan’s whole room was beige. There were beige curtains and beige walls. They’d tried to decorate it for Christmas, an assortment of tinsel-scraps and paper snowflake streamers hung round her window frame, but these only emphasised the beigeness. There was a small fibre-optic tree on the bedside table. Mum watched the pulse of its glow. She didn’t look at Nan.

The nurse turned to us and said she was just getting Nan ‘all cosy’. I recognised the nurse from last time. She was wearing a badge that said ‘Jade’ but I didn’t recognise the name Jade so maybe it was a different nurse or maybe I just didn’t read her name badge last time or maybe I’ve just forgotten the name Jade since then. It was a while back. Jade tied Nan’s dressing gown in a double knot. She pressed her jaw closed. ‘Don’t want to go catching any flies,’ she said.

There was a tray on Nan’s knee and on the tray was a plate and on the plate was a Christmas dinner and on the Christmas dinner was a layer of gravy, long since congealed. Jade said it seemed Nan wasn’t hungry. I’m not sure if Jade doesn’t know about Nan’s not eating, or was just being polite in not mentioning it. She lifted the tray from Nan’s lap. The gravy wobbled like jelly. She wished us a merry Christmas and stepped out into the hall.

Mum sat on the chair beside Nan. She reached out and held her hand for a second, then held her own hands together on her lap. There were several tubes draped over the headboard, connecting Nan’s arm to a hooked-up bag of clear liquid in the corner. Sarah sat at the end of the bed, next to the bump of Nan’s toes. My father stepped over to stare out of the window. The rain hissed out in the car park, drumming the roofs of the cars.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Mum said.

Nan stared straight ahead. Her face was more skeleton-like than ever. It still had that thin layer of ultra-fine, white hair I could never stop staring at as a child. The tray had left a rectangle of flattened duvet on her lap. A metallic tap-tap-tap came from the corner as Sarah began to nod along to her earphones.

‘We brought you some cake.’ Mum took a wad of silver foil out of her bag and placed it on Nan’s dressing table. She peeled it open to reveal a slice of Christmas cake.

Nan didn’t acknowledge the cake. She was staring at the cross above the door. That’s what she does when we visit – stares at the cross above the door. My father used to say it’s because she’s cross. He used to say, ‘She’s cross, that’s what she’s trying to tell us. She’s cross.’ He doesn’t say that any more. He just stares out of the window. He stares out of the window and Nan stares at the cross and Mum stares at her hands and Sarah stares at her iPod and I don’t know where to stare. Usually I stare at Nan’s feet, the bump they make in the bed sheets. Today her big toe was sticking out from under the blanket. Her toenail was longer than I’ve ever seen it. Whose job is it to cut her toenails? Jade’s? Evon’s?