Billy and Girl (3 page)

‘Hello, Mom,’ Girl says loudly to the middle-aged woman staring at her from behind the door. What a fucking hideous sight.

Dirty pastel-pink fake-fur slippers. Summer dress patterned with faded rosebuds and threadbare red robins. Plump arms covered in a peppermint-green cardigan, most of the buttons missing. Band of gold on the finger of left hand. A fucking thick band of gold. The woman shoves her hands into the pockets of her cardigan and gasps when the fabric crackles, sending little electric shocks into her fingertips. Her mouth is open wide, gaping. Girl observes that Mom’s teeth are white and straight. Well looked after. Landscaped. Cleansed by a hygienist. Filled with white porcelain. Bleached and filed.

‘Who does your teeth, Mom?’ Girl drops her menthol cigarette on the doorstep and stubs it out with the toe of her silver loafer. The woman just stares. She starts shaking her head, very slowly from side to side, her hand rummaging for something in her pocket. A piece of tissue stained with pink lipstick. She brings it to her lips as if to catch something in her mouth, something unpleasant she has chewed and wants to spit out.

‘Billy is quite well but not all that well, thank you, and I am as you see me.’

‘Don’t shout.’ The woman can’t quite bring herself to plead, but her eyes are scanning the neighbours’ windows, sealed off from the busy highway with cream-coloured lace.
Girl opens her mouth wide like she’s going to scream the house down.

‘I won’t scream, Mom. I promise. Why would I do a thing like that?’

Something flickers in the woman’s B-movie eyes. Jeeezus. Girl keeps her face blank as she can, but it’s really hard. You’d have to be a serious cultist to appreciate this Mom. It’s like she’s beginning to come to life, some sort of life, a dazed Nembutal life. She’s definitely breathing, that’s for sure. Got an appetite too. A little chocolate biscuit in her pocket. She’s even got a smell. Cologne. Foul swabs of sweetness coming from Mom. Druggy sweetness, dirty fake-fur sweetness, tissues stained with spit and melting chocolate. Little pearls in her ears. Oh God. She’s wringing her hands. Lips trembling.

Girl stares into the bronze dolphin doorknob. ‘Just driving down this way to do a bit of shopping, Mom. Thought I’d call in.’

‘I have no recall,’ the woman says slowly, a slight West Country twang to her dopey voice.

‘Where do you shop then, Mom?’

‘FreezerWorld.’

‘Really. How interesting. And what do you buy there?’

‘Herrings. For my husband.’

‘But what do you buy for yourself, Mom?’

The woman scratches her forehead absent-mindedly. Her cheeks are lightly dusted with powder. Sweet. Mom’s gone. Even though she is standing there breathing, she is gone.

‘I like profiteroles,’ she says eventually.

‘Profiteroles!
Dangerous
things to eat, aren’t they, Mom? Bite into it and all that
cream
ooozes out, gets stuck in your nostrils and you can’t breathe, can you, Mom?’

The woman’s pleading eyes. Little beads of sweat gathering in the corners of her faint moustache.

‘Do you have a message for Billy?’

This takes some time to go in. Worm its way into Mom. Layers and layers of Mom. Almost there.

‘It’s his wedding anniversary, is it?’ Mom looks proud of herself.

‘Yeah? Billy’s fifteen, Mom. Do me a favour and call me a minicab.’

The woman suddenly looks more alert. It’s as if she can relate to this request. She nods and shuffles off in her pink fake-fur slippers, deeper and deeper into the thick pile carpets.

A white Mercedes parked nearby has its engine running. Not running, purring. A big white beast licked clean and shiny. Waiting for Girl. Actually waiting for her. Like he’s been there all along, expecting her. An albino lion, muscled and gorgeous. The driver quick as a flash springs out of the Merc and holds the door open for her. ‘Good morning, madam,’ he says, as if they’ve known each other for years. He can just make out bits of his female passenger in the front mirror. First her peroxide hair. Then her cheekbones. Then her mouth.

‘Where do you want to go, madam?’

‘FreezerWorld.’

Girl makes two fists with her hands and thumps them into her eyes. The driver pretends not to notice the tears trickling between her fingers.

‘We want to make your world a better world. That’s why I’m going to tell a secret to everyone in FreezerWorld today. For those of you who like coffee we have a special offer on instant
cappuccino
. Buy any two items from the DIY section and you get a jar free! Yes, Cherie. Enjoy the taste of the continent in your own home.’

FreezerWorld. Open from 8 am to 8 pm every day. Painted a
dirty blood colour outside, but inside it’s cleaner than a hospital. A man’s voice announces bargains of the moment through invisible speakers. Customers carry Plant of the Month out to their cars, a wispy coconut plant. Struggling with it through the parking lots, making room in the boot, loading up their FreezerWorld goods.

Girl prowls the aisles. A desert of lino and weird light. She’s a hunter. Looking for Mom. So many of ’em – moms. Shopping in Arctica. A frozen world. Girl needs a harpoon and an icepick. She needs to wear the skins and furs of the animals that lie packaged in the industrial freezers. And more. Beasts not eaten in England. Sealskins, polar bears and white Arctic fox furs. She needs working dogs for the hunt. Huskies. Crystals of ice caught in their paws. Odours of blood and fear. Weathering the storm without a compass. Looking for Mom. Big fucking girlprints through the snow.

But she’s lost heart today. Not dressed for Frozen World. Not interested. Except for the girl in FreezerWorld overalls packing frozen peas into the industrial fridges. The way she holds the packets. Pressing the palms of her hands flat on each one of ’em. Cooling her hands as if her fingertips are on fire. Complete concentration. A man is walking up to her. Watching her. He’s got a bit of power, that’s for sure. FreezerWorld prestige. The manager. Yep. Little plastic badge on his red blazer tells the eager shopping public that he is ‘Mr Tens’.

‘Hello, Louise,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to work a little faster than that.’

Mr Tens is a kind man. Not scolding Louise. Telling her a fact. Louise. Girl just can’t bear to hear that name, though she knows lots of girls are called it. Mr Tens says something strange. Girl can’t be sure she’s even heard it right. Something like, it’s not your hands that are hot, it’s in your head, Louise. And
Louise is nodding her silky head, her lips moving, sound coming out. ‘I’m as stupid as a blonde can get,’ she replies, working faster now.

FreezerWorld. Deep-freeze pain. Frozen World. Pain tics in ice blocks. Dolour. The frozen tumour twilight. Louise and FreezerWorld. Girl and FreezerWorld. An autopsy waiting to be interpreted. Call in the anaesthesiologists, biofeedback technicians, occupational therapists, neurophysiologists, dieticians, pain peripheralists and pain centralists. Girl and Louise. Both know something useless.

Knowledge that won’t even buy them a week’s shop. They know that childhood is a primitive culture. Soothing words can relieve pain and harsh words can kill you even though you’re still alive, drinking Fanta, watching breakfast TV, saving up for a kitten in the pet-shop window.

Louise turns her back on Girl. Talking to Mr Tens. But she wants Girl to hear what she says. Girl feels it with her girl intuition, snarled in the whole Louise thing, her secret name, knowing with terror that one day she’s going to have to give up Girl and own up to Louise. Louise is asking her supervisor something. Important stuff. ‘I start on the tills this Saturday, don’t I?’

Mr Tens is nodding. Looks proud of her. ‘Yes, you are, Louise. We’re going to start you on Express. Customers with just a few items in their baskets. See how you go and then we’ll have a think about where to put you next.’

Louise stares at him blankly. Nods and looks down at the packet of frozen peas in her small hands. Like a saint. Saint Louise of the Frozen Peas. Stupid as a blonde can get. Louise is just girlmeat. FrozenWorld girlmeat. No wonder Mr Tens feels like a celebrity.

Cruising the aisles. Checking out the panic population in FreezerWorld. Girl feels safe here. She can mingle with complete strangers at any time of the day and not feel afraid. It’s as if the Voice broadcasting FreezerWorld news can read her thoughts because suddenly, in the middle of announcing a discount on mixed nuts and raisins, the Voice goes on a little detour.

‘In winter when it gets dark early and certain neighbourhoods are out of bounds at 4 pm, FreezerWorld is well lit and warm. You are all here because you care. You want to feed your families. To nourish your wee ones. To indulge those you love. To treat yourself. Or even to stock up for a party. Cheers, everyone! Have a safe journey home.’

A frozen warm world. Girl can gaze at anything she likes, for as long as she likes, without having to explain herself. If FreezerWorld was a suburb, Girl would move there. She makes her way to the DIY section and reaches for an aerosol of red spray paint, thinking about stopping for a McChicken burger on the way home and checking out the mothers who eat there with their kids. Seems to take hours to walk back to the tills. FreezerWorld is a big world. She’s not going to stand in a long queue for one bloody item. Where’s the Express Mr Tens was talking about? Girl takes a white envelope from her jacket pocket, feels to check how thick it is and then rips it open.

Jeeezuz. Not much cash this week. A note in Grand-Dad’s shaky biro scrawl tucked inside: ‘I’ll make it up to you next week. The two thirty didn’t come home. Love Grand-Dad. PS Has Billy got a girlfriend yet?’

Of course Billy hasn’t got a girlfriend. Spends all his time reading pain books. Billy doesn’t want girlfriends, he wants patients to practise on. Girl sometimes obliges if her brother makes her a banana Nesquik. Lies on the settee and says the
first thing that comes into her head. ‘Smoking causes fatal diseases.’ ‘Diesel.’ ‘Wonderbra.’ Her brother asks her to join up her words into sentences, sitting where she can’t see him, sieving through Girl material. He’s working on Raj too. Except Raj refuses to lie down on the settee even though Billy has explained the ethics of his practice. Raj prefers to talk over a pint at the Pickled Newt and Billy, who doesn’t really like pints, prefers halves, takes tiny sips, his mouth stuffed with peanuts so as not to give away his thoughts. That’s his special technique. Peanut blankness. Raj loves it when Billy does peanut blankness. Specially as Billy, being fifteen, is not supposed to be in the pub anyway. Raj has to hide him in the darkest corner, away from the action, sit him down with his back to the publican while he orders the drinks. He never tells Billy that the halves are really lemonade shandy.

Jeeezus. Even Express takes a year. Girl suddenly recognises the Voice. It’s that man who was talking to Louise. Mr Tens. Thanks, Mr Tens. Don’t get too carried away with mackerel in mustard sauce newsflash reverie. Stick to what you can do best, i.e. raise retard stock on the FreezerWorld floor. Girl finally pays for her aerosol with Grand-Dad cash and calls up a minicab on Raj’s mobile. He lent it to her for trimming his hair.

While she waits for the cab to arrive, dreading the moment she claps eyes on it, always disappointed and hurt about the minicab wrecks she’s forced to ride about town in, she prowls around the car park shaking her aerosol. Just what she wants. A wall that thousands of shoppers have to pass by in order to enter FreezerWorld. Girl knows exactly what she’s going write with her red paint. She can do it with her eyes shut.

MOM CALL HOME. GIRL X.

Billy

Girl wears her famous tears like jewels. Like glass blown from grief. Each tear takes approximately five seconds to form in the corner of her eye. You’ve got be careful when you ask Girl what she feels. Here goes.

Say what you feel, Girl?
Say what you feel
You Nescafé slut
You cruel baby wolf
Say what you feel.

‘I did a Mom check.’

‘And?’

‘Hopeless. She just stared at me and said, “I got no recall.”’

‘Well, maybe she was Mom, then?’

‘Naaaaaa. She’s someone’s Mom, but not ours. She called me a Mercedes cab paid for on her account.’

‘Did she look like our mom?’

‘We don’t know what our mother looks like, now do we? But she didn’t sound like her.’

‘Did you tell her about me?’

‘Of course I did, Billy. I always do. I said Billy is well but not that well.’

‘Next time you do a Mom check, tell her I’m sick and dying.’

‘She wouldn’t be interested,’ Girl snarls. ‘No one’s interested in a loser.’

‘Mothers are supposed to be interested when their children are sick and dying, for God’s sake!’

‘The worst thing,’ Girl says incredulously, ‘was that she was wearing a pair of cute slippers.’

‘Cute?’

‘Little pink furry things, really dirty. Like the fur on a gonk.’

‘A gonk. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’

‘She was like us, Billy. She had no recall.’

‘Then it
was
her!’

‘No, it was not! I know just as well as you what Mom’s like and
that
was
not
her. Just fuck off, you creep. Go away! Get out of my sight! Stab your self!
Go away
! Die with the gonks!’