Born Free Page 4

  ‘If John’s there tonight you can see if she’s said anything to him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The place we’re babysitting. Isn’t he pals with the wifie?’

  ‘What’re you trying to say, Jo? She just works for him. What d’you mean?’

  Ooh, touchy. Maybe the wifie’s been X2ing John as well.

  ‘… look Jo, you better not say anything, dinnae mention it. I’m regretting telling you,’ she says, dead serious.

  ‘I’m hardly gonna say anything. I think it’s fab. You should run away with him, and take me.’

  This seems to calm her down and we’re pally again by the time the bus comes. I’ve never been to Broomhouse before. It’s supposedly dead schemie. We go past Saughton Park and Stenhouse and they look not too bad, then it changes and there’s these horrid, ugly flats with toaty wee windows the size of cat flaps. It seems completely deserted, as if Red Indians have already been through and massacred everyone. We spend about 20 minutes looking for the right door. Hardly any of the flats have numbers on them. What a dump.

  When we eventually find it, the wifie, Jeanette answers, wearing so much make-up she looks like a transvestite. The combined smell of cheap perfume, hairspray and shite is so strong it almost chokes me. A black mongrel puppy yaps round our feet as we walk up the hall. Newspaper covers the floor. In the living room, the shite smell is even stronger as there’s only cigarette smoke to disguise it. Again, the carpet is covered in Daily Records.

  ‘Mind yer feet. That wee bastard’s shat everywhere. You’ve no sooner cleaned one up and phoomph, he lets go another. See if yi can keep a coupla clear bits fir me tae walk on when ah git back.’

  Euch, it’s revolting. There’s wee baby shites dotted everywhere, it’s like Wardlaw.

  Jeanette leads us through to the bathroom to meet Emma, the lassie we’re babysitting. I’m expecting a wee toddler. My jaw drops open when I first see her. I’ve no idea what age she might be, about 16 maybe older, but she’s got wee boobs and this big hairy fanny. I can’t take my eyes off it. Her head looks a bit twisted, like she’s maybe handicapped or something, but when she says hello it sounds pretty normal.

  ‘I’ll just get her nightie on,’ says Jeanette, shoogling the lassie inside a huge towel. ‘Help yersells tae juice.’

  I welcome the chance for a breather. Going through to the kitchen, I open the fridge. Rosie’s behind me. It’s all Kwik-Save cheap rubbish.

  ‘Be all right, eh? A tenner and money for a taxi?’

  Big deal. I can make more than that without leaving the house.

  ‘Did you know, y’know, that Emma was like that?’

  She stares at me blankly.

  ‘Aye, so what?’

  ‘Och, you know, I’m no being funny, like, but she’s got pubes and everything. She’s a woman.’

  ‘No in her head, she’s no, she’s just wee in her head. She’s nice, honest, really funny. She just comes out wi stuff.’

  I feel like a real bitch for mentioning it. We’re stuck here now anyway. Pointing at the cheap juice in the fridge, I pull a face.

  ‘God, you’re such a snob, Jo.’

  The puppy craps on a photo of Posh Spice as we go through to the living room with our drinks. And I thought our house was bad.

  There’s a jobbie-brown PVC settee and two black PVC armchairs. I sit on a cushion since cheap plastic plays havoc with my sweaty bottom. The house is so filthy, I’m scared I might catch something. No wonder the lassie’s not well.

  Jeanette brings Emma through, twitching round the room, quick as a mouse, pulling photos off the mantelpiece, books out of cupboards, ornaments, keys, throwing them all in the middle of the newspapery floor.

  ‘She get’s awfie excited with new folk. She’ll be wanting to show you stuff aw night. Just watch what she puts in her gob,’ Jeanette drawls, skooshing more hairspray on the metallically-solid-looking bird’s nest on her head. It briefly disguises the smell of shit. Rosie kneels on the floor and starts looking through a photo album with Emma. Spying a clear patch of newspaper, I get down beside them. Emma turns the pages violently, pointing at photos, saying ‘good, good, BAD, good, good, BAD, BAD, BAD.’ Jeanette looks down at us, ‘She’s ay been perceptive aboot the guys in ma life. She susses them oot months before me. Do ah listen taer though? A buckin should.’ Bending over, she gives Emma a squeeze.

  ‘OK love, dinnae tire the girls oot too much. Bed by ten.’ And suddenly we’re alone with this strange girl/woman in her nightie.

  We’re straight through to the kitchen looking for scran. Oh dear, they have the saddest cupboards I’ve ever rummaged – all dried herbs, bottles of sauce, and packet sauce mixes, you know, things only good for putting on other things.

  ‘God, Emma, does your mum no buy real food? Biscuits? Custard mix, eh?’ Emma goes scampering off, and returns with a box of ginger cream chocolates. I don’t know if I like ginger but I take one anyway. Euch, it’s disgusting. Like the foosty sweeties they sell in Poundstretcher. Not wanting to upset Emma, I force it down. But then she starts offering me loads, all excited ’cause she thinks she’s making me happy. Sick as I feel, I’m worried how she’ll react if I refuse. I’m on my tenth when Rosie finally manages to distract her by taking a bleeping Tamagotchi through to the living room. Emma wrestles it off her and sits in front of the TV with the cyberpet right up at her face, showering it, overfeeding it, letting it crap. It’s a shame. She’d be a really nice-looking lassie if she wasn’t like that.

  ‘If her head’s younger than her body, will it still get older, ken?’

  Rosie understands, miraculously. ‘Aye, I suppose it must do.’

  ‘So when she’s 40, she’ll only really be 30? And in about ten years, she’ll be like we are now.’

  ‘Nah, ah dinnae think so. Ah actually dinnae ken what’s wrong with her. I think she was OK when she was wee.’

  We both stare at Emma, then at the clock. Only ten minutes have passed. The telly’s shite as well. I’m going to be fighting her for the Tamagotchi in a minute.

  ‘Pity about the video. We coulda watched it here.’

  ‘You’re just sex-starved.’

  Emma’s over, flapping around, ‘Video… video… watch a video?’ Dragging Rosie over to the TV, she starts pulling tapes out a drawer – all rubbish Disney, Spice Girls, kids’ stuff. Eventually she sticks one in the machine and an American film comes on, really bad sound, like one from the 70s. Giggling away, she hits the fast-forward button. Cadillacs speed up streets, crowds rush by like ants, people flash from one side of the screen to another. Then she stops it. There’s a blonde woman, about Mum’s age, with pigtails, and a lollipop in her mouth. A creepy man in a hat asks her if she likes to suck things. I’m hooked. Emma’s killing herself laughing. Rosie knows she should tell her to put it off but doesn’t. The puppy is biting at the curtains but we just ignore it. When the man in the hat finally brings his willie out, Rosie and me both do big gasps. The expression ‘babies arm’ finally makes sense. He tells the woman to shut her eyes, and puts it in her mouth. I’m glad I’m not sitting on the PVC chair as my bum’s practically swimming. God, I wish I was on my own.

  When he eventually does it all over the woman’s tits, I pretend it’s John and me. Rosie nudges me out of it, looking absolutely stunned. I wonder how she, of all people, could be shocked, then notice Emma, sitting at the side of the telly, grinning away, legs spread, hand jigging away on her bare hairy fanny. It’s horrible, I don’t know what to do. We just sit and watch, till the dog, excited by the movement of her arm, starts sniffing around and Rosie has to intervene before things get out of control. She switches the video off while she’s there, rotten cow. Emma’s still trying to get her hand back between her legs, she’s not finished yet. God, she just doesn’t care. Rosie picks up a piggy bank and shakes it above her head to distract her.

  ‘If I give you this you’ve got to promise to stop that.’

  Emma’s immediately on the verge of tears, so
she hands it over. Emptying it onto the newspaper, she sorts the coins into colours – dirty silver, dirty bronze, shiny silver, shiny bronze. Then she separates the big coins from the wee ones. She grabs my arm, wanting to show me, but when I get down beside her I can smell her fanny really strongly. She tries to give me money but I tell her I have enough. I could help myself, she wouldn’t be any the wiser, but I couldn’t steal from her. That would just be bad.

  Rosie comes over from the sideboard, pointing at an alarm clock in her hand.

  ‘Come on, Emma. Your mum’ll be angry if you don’t go to bed when she told you.’

  I expect her to have a screaming fit, but instead, she comes over, kisses my forehead, then kisses Rosie’s and goes off to her room, no fuss, no struggle. When we check, half an hour later, she’s out for the count. Disappointingly, Rosie had put the clock forward two hours, to get her off to her bed early so we’ve still got ages to go. It’s not so bad once we’ve got the video back on, found a bottle of Martini, and started plotting tactics for tomorrow night, though. Rosie is definitely on for the Barracuda.

  By the time Jeanette comes back, well after midnight, we’ve both crashed out on the settee. She doesn’t go mad though, just checks on Emma, gives us a tenner and apologises for being late. Although we’re both knackered, we walk home to save money for tomorrow. It’s going to be brilliant.

  Dad’s sitting with a face on, when I get in.

  ‘Jo, pet, why didn’t you phone? Just phone and say where you are, please.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you everything. I don’t ask you what you do.’

  He tries to grab my hand but I pull away.

  ‘I’m going to bed. I’m back now, so what does it matter?’

  I go to change my fanny pad, then slam myself into my room. Why does he try to make me feel guilty all the time? What’s the point in phoning anyway? I could get murdered waiting on a phone box. I wait till I hear him going to bed, before finally X2ing about the man in the hat in the video. As I fall asleep I think about all the X2ing I’ve done, heard about, or seen other people doing today. It just seems odd that I should encounter so much of it in one day. It must mean something. It must be a sign.

  Chapter Six

  VIC

  ANGE IS DOING pig impressions by the time I go through to bed. Stripping to my boxer shorts, I get under the duvet. It’s humid. I lie with my back to her, about a foot apart. We used to like a cuddle but she’s generally snoring by the time I get through these days and the vibration keeps me awake. This is about the loudest I’ve heard her. I grapple on the bedside table for my industrial-issue ear plugs. They are black with the ear-wax and blood of excessive usage. Although they muffle the sound slightly, it’s still there, too irregular to get used to. Jesus, I just want to unwind. I have all my best thoughts as my mind’s losing consciousness. It’s not quite the same with that bloody awful din.

  As I nudge the tickly bit at her side, her body seems to levitate off the bed.

  ‘Uh, what the fuck?’

  I kiss her shoulder. ‘You were just snoring a wee bit, love.’

  ‘I was not. I wasn’t even sleeping.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘If it was that bad, I’d have woken myself up.’

  I’ve not even worked out a response when the noise starts up again. It’s terrible. I cough loudly to wake her without seeming like it was deliberate. She comes to, but only manages a groan before going limp again. This time, though, she’s just breathing heavily. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to will myself to sleep. I’m there, I’m almost sodding there when there’s a long, loud snort and she’s away again. Climbing out of bed, I retrieve my pillows. She wakes up.

  ‘It’s OK … I’ll go through … it’s my turn,’ she says drowsily but, as usual, stays put. I get the spare quilt from the cupboard and go back through to the living room. Hello, sofa, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again. Burst springs jab me in the ribs, but the silence is glorious.

  I wake at seven, in a sweaty, cosy ball. When I try to move my head, I get a sharp pain in my neck and my right arm is dead where I’ve been lying on it. How can I work the hours I do and still end up sleeping on the settee like some dosser? I keep getting blasts of doggy breath and think Jan must be sitting next to me. As it happens, its my own halitosis rebounding off the duvet and hitting me in the face. When did I last see a dentist?

  I stand up, stretch and stroke my sore bits, determined to think positive or the day’ll just go downhill from here on in. I’ll get Ronnie round tonight, have a few beers, then get off to bed before Ange gets back. Sprawl myself across the bloody thing and pretend to be in a coma.

  Putting the duvet back in the cupboard, I stick the kettle on and go for a wash and shave, strictly above the shoulders. Not much point in washing the rest of me when nobody’s going to be looking anyway.

  Jake’s up and buzzing around by seven-thirty. He agrees to let me make him some breakfast. I sip my coffee and he sooks a carton of Ribena as I carefully brown an egg round the edges, the way he likes it.

  ‘Have you spoken to Mum about Fifa 98 yet?’

  ‘Ocht, Jake, you know what she’s like.’

  ‘Aaaw,’ he groans, as I slide a plate with his breakfast, oozing with ketchup, across to him. He devours it in such mammoth mouthfuls that I take the opportunity to speak to him uninterrupted.

  ‘I’m taking Granda to the match tomorrow. I’ll pay you in if you fancy it.’

  ‘What match?’ he mumbles through the bread.

  ‘Hearts/Celtic. It should be a good game. Hearts could go two points ahead.’

  ‘Against Celtic? Hardly. I’d like them to beat the Fenian bastards, mind you.’

  ‘Jake, please dinnae talk like that. I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Mmm, couldn’t we go to Ibrox instead? See a proper game.’

  Why do I bother? ‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just go with Granda.’

  He grabs his schoolbag. ‘Nah, I’ll go. Is it all seated now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Aye, OK then.’

  I give him the thumbs-up and expect him to leave but he stands there, looking at me in an oh-so-familiar way.

  ‘Da-ad?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You couldnae give me three pound for my computer magazine, could you?’

  ‘I got you it the other day.’

  ‘Nah, there’s hundreds of them now. This one’s got a CD with loads of free games on it. Go on. Since Resident Evil 2 didn’t work, eh? Since you’ve not asked Mum yet?’

  I dig three pound coins out my pocket. He swipes them from me and makes for the door. I grab his schoolbag.

  ‘DA-AD! Stop being so childish. What is it?’

  I let go and laugh. ‘It’s just Ronnie’s coming round the night if you fancied joining us. I’ll maybe even let you have a wee shandy.’

  ‘What for? What are you on about?’

  ‘I dunno, you’re growing up, I thought you might like a wee bit adult male company.’

  With an offended ‘Get a grip, Dad’, he’s gone. We were together for 12 minutes though. It’s a start. And it only cost me three pounds.

  Getting the kettle on again for Angie, I stick a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. I hear Joni coming out her room, coughing, and go into the hall to confirm the remarkable fact that she’s managed to get up of her own accord. She thumbs through the post, hands it to me and actually gives me a smile. I want to thank her or give her a tenner or something in the hope she might make a habit out of it. Who knows what time she’ll crawl back tonight though. Please make it before her mother.

  Angie is already up when I take her breakfast through. She appears to have emptied the entire contents of our wardrobe onto the bed.

  ‘Still going out tonight, then?’

  She looks at me suspiciously. ‘Yeah, why? Do you have a problem with that?’

  Why does she have to be so bloody aggressive all the time?

 
‘No, not at all. If you want to chase other men, that’s fine by me. I’ll just stay in and tidy the kitchen or something.’

  She smiles. ‘I’d have to run pretty fast with a body like mine, Vic.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear. All women are attractive to men after about five pints. You’ll score for sure.’

  Biting into the toast, she turns her attention back to the clothes on the bed. I couldn’t hazard a guess at the last time we had sex. I’ve not even managed a stiffie since I started taking these pills. I’m not even sure that I miss it that much. It’s one less pressure. I’ve never felt I was very good at it anyway. I’m all foreplay and no fiveplay. When you come as quickly as I do, you don’t really have an option. Women pretend they like all that but they don’t. They just want shagged for hours on end.

  I do the breakfast dishes and square up in the living room for Ronnie coming round. When Ange reappears, she looks so well-groomed I hardly recognise her. It’s like an artist’s impression of what she’d look like if she wasn’t such a slob. I feel a little pang of jealousy but don’t tell her about it. Nothing’ll happen anyway. She hates her body too much to subject anyone else to it. She pops an ancient lipstick into her handbag and I give her a lift to work. She seems in a good mood. I’m pleased. It makes a bloody change.

  Chapter Seven

  JAKE

  AS I WALK to school, past the swing park, I see smoke coming out the side of the chute. Jason’s under there, firing himself up with his first fag of the day and a tin of Red Bull.

  ‘Here, I brought your bastard game. Can I play it round yours the night? Dad’s pal’s coming round, so he’ll be getting aw his shitey auld singles out. Ah cannae stand it.’

  Jason takes the CD out the box and checks it.

  ‘I cannae see how it widnae load. Has your dad got a crappy Amstrad or what?’

  He should know, he used our computer plenty before he got his.