The day before the funeral we’re in the living room. Danny’s playing Candy Crush Saga while I consider where we should place Mum’s ashes, wondering if the mantelpiece is too precarious or morose. It might be a bit awkward for visitors. Hi, come in, say hello to Mum. Biscuit?
The house is dark and gloomy, feels as if it’s in mourning too. The place is spotless though. Gleaming kitchen and full fridge. Danny even did some hoovering.
When the bell rings, I’m busy focusing on the mantelpiece, visualising our ornamental Mum plonked on top. Danny’s concentration is intense. The door chimes again. I take a breath and climb to my feet.
‘I’ll get it, Dan,’ I say.
‘Who is it?’
‘Why don’t you go up to your room?’
‘I want to stay here.’
‘What’s up with your room?’
‘Nothing. I just want to be here with you, Bobby.’
I stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head.
‘Right, stay here then,’ I say. ‘I’ll make whoever it is vamoose.’
‘Think they know what’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Who knows.’
The bell tolls once more.
Danny labours to his feet.
‘If they keep ringing like that they’re going to break it. Who d’you think it is, Bobby?’
I don’t reply. But I think I know.
At the door my heart performs GBH on my chest. I put one hand on the wall to steady myself, willing oxygen into my system. Place the other clammy hand on the door handle. For some reason my fist is clenched. I open the door.
It’s not him.
I’m wrong.
Beautifully wrong.
I didn’t hear any vintage vroom, so why did I think it would be him in the first place? Paranoia. Obsession.
A dishevelled-looking Bel stands on the step. A sight for puffy eyes. I want to pull her to me, cry into her neck, tell her everything. But I stand in the doorway all nonchalant and dickish.
‘Bel!’ The next bit should have been, It’s so good to see you, but she’d have thrown that phrase at my crotch. ‘What are –’
‘I’m so sorry, Bobby. I’m so, so sorry.’ And she pounces on me. Her grip is so tight her arms attempt to squeeze fresh blood from my veins.
‘It’s fine, Bel. We’re fine.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Bobby,’ she sobs.
‘Hey, don’t cry or I’ll take a photo and post it on Instagram.’
She slaps the back of my head.
‘Dick!’
She wipes her eyes. Her cheeks streak with tears and mascara lines: reminds me of a distressed clown.
‘She was peaceful,’ I tell her.
‘Is Danny OK? How is he?’
‘You know Dan, give him a piece of technology and he’s as happy as a best man in a brothel.’
‘We’re still talking about your mum passing away here, aren’t we?’
‘Dan’s in there,’ I say, standing aside so she can enter. She remains rooted.
‘I’m also sorry for being such a Kardashian lately,’ she says.
‘We’ve all had our moments, Bel.’
‘I get overprotective at times, or maybe I’m just not a big fan of people with flashy modes of transport and sacks of confidence.’
‘Lou, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, your instincts might have been spot on there.’
‘Something happen?’
‘Tell you another time.’
‘Right.’
‘Come in,’ I say, but still she’s rooted.
‘I wanted to see you before tomorrow to do the face-to-face thing and apologise in person. So, here I am!’ I let her ramble. ‘But feel free to jump in at any time or I’ll go on about how much you mean to me and how I don’t want to fuck up what’s going to be a lifelong friendship, which, let’s be honest, fills us both with a fear beyond any we’ve ever known.’
I say nothing, just so happy to see her.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Seed?’
‘It’s good to see you, Bel,’ I say. ‘Please, will you come in?’
‘I can’t stay,’ she says, pushing past, which means she could be here for hours.
When we enter the living room Danny runs my way, cowers timidly behind my back. As if it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on Bel.
‘Why are you here, Bel?’ he says.
‘Hey, Dan,’ Bel says. ‘I just came to see how my favourite guys were doing.’
Bel gives me the eyes. I shake my head and mouth, ‘It’s just Mum.’
‘It’s OK, Dan, she came to speak to me about something.’
‘What something?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘You said “something”.’
‘I meant “nothing”.’
‘Wow! This is actually like being in an episode of Horrid Henry,’ Bel says. Danny sniggers. ‘OK, I know when I’m not wanted, Danny Seed. I’m out of here.’
And just as quickly as she entered, she makes to leave. I don’t stop her.
‘Bel, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Danny says. ‘It’s just that Bobby didn’t tell me you were coming.’
‘No sweat, I need to head anyway, promised the old man I’d boil him some rusty nails for dinner. My work’s done here.’
‘Rusty nails for dinner,’ Danny imitates.
‘I’ll text you later, Bel,’ I say. ‘We can organise something for this Friday. Noodles maybe?’
‘Is that junk enough?’ she asks.
‘Chinese then?’
‘Can’t wait.’
We frisbee a smile.
‘After tomorrow I’ll show you this new game I found online, Bel,’ Danny says. ‘It’s stonking.’
‘This day just gets better and better,’ she says.
‘See you later,’ Dan says.
‘Laters, Brothers Seed.’
*
A week after the funeral I return to Poztive. I feel like a virgin all over again: everyone’s eyes cut through me, staring and sussing. Heads twist, faces fix on floors. All the gang back together; all the gang except our lead singer. I knew he wouldn’t be here. He hasn’t got that amount of gall. That’s not to say I hadn’t thought about seeing him again. I’d played out several scenarios:
1.
Me: Lou!
Lou: Nice to see you, Bobby.
2.
Me: Lou!
Lou: Bobby, about that time, let me explain.
Me: No need, honestly.
Lou: Kiss me.
3.
Lou: Bobby!
Me: What the fuck are you doing here, Lou? (SMACK!)
4.
Lou: Bobby!
Me: Lou, about that time, let me explain.
Lou: No need, honestly.
Me: Kiss me. (SMACK!)
The Poztive crescent is getting smaller.
‘Hey, Bobby,’ Roddy says. ‘It’s so good of you to join us. Great to see you, really is. We didn’t expect …’
‘Good to be here,’ I say.
‘I just want to say on behalf of the group –’
‘I received your cards. Thanks,’ I say, looking around me. ‘Appreciate it.’
‘We want you to know we’re here for you, Bobby,’ Roddy says. Everyone nods in agreement. ‘If ever you want or need to talk about –’
‘I’m good at the moment, Roddy, but thanks.’
‘OK,’ he says.
‘I’m just here for the karaoke anyway,’ I say, and everyone laughs … and keeps laughing. Even Cal, who never laughs, laughs.
What I can’t tell them is that I’m faking stoicism; my gentle, warm expression is false. My mind’s addicted to thoughts of Mum. I can’t tell them how much I miss even those godawful final days. I miss reading to her, snipping her hair, running the shower over her head and following the soap trickle down her back. I can’t think of anything I don’t miss. I never think, Thank fuck I don’t have to do that any more. It’s surprised me how much I actually grieve for the struggle: all those energy-sapping days and nights. But fundamentally it comes down to one thing: I simply miss my mum. I’d wager she isn’t pining for those humiliation and dependency times. Not a chance she’d crave a return to the days when son number one wiped her down while son number two lived in abject terror at the thought of losing her. Mum’s better now; she’s healed, and me and Danny are satisfied about that. But, hell’s fire, how I miss it all.
‘You’re welcome any time,’ Roddy says. ‘Right, I’ll give you guys a five-minute chill thrill and then we can get started.’
I’d kind of forgotten how bizarre and brilliant Roddy is. I park next to Harriet, who throws me a cosy grin.
‘Good to see you, Bobby,’ she says.
‘You too,’ I say. ‘Like the T-shirt.’ She looks down at her attire, awkwardly straightens herself out a bit.
‘Yeah, well, not everyone’s cuppa, but I like them,’ she says.
‘No, I quite like Jesus and Mary Chain myself.’
‘You know these guys?’
‘Just a bit,’ I say. ‘Mum was a huge fan.’
In that beat I whip out a giant grey cloud and kill the conviviality. But I don’t mean to. Harriet’s face falls.
‘I’m so sorry, Bobby. I am,’ she says.
‘Don’t be, Harriet. Time to look forward, eh?’
‘You coping with everything?’
‘As best I can. Just adjusting to new routines, isn’t it?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Getting into a different flow, different patterns of life.’
‘Yeah.’
One day she’ll be standing in my shoes, they all will, obviously without lugging this secret boulder around, but they’ll certainly know what sorrow in the sack of the stomach feels like. Empathy, indeed.
Where is he?
I’m dying to ask the question, I am.
Where?
‘Well, I never thought I’d say this,’ Harriet adds. ‘But this place might be good for you.’
‘What, here?’
‘Yes, here. Why not?’
I scan the crescent. Cal and Tom are in deep chat: Tom looks confused. Erin and Clare are phone fawning: they’re blossoming into each other, striking up lasting friendship. Roddy is trying to set up a type of noticeboard: he’s whistling. It all seems oddly familiar and comforting.
WHERE IS HE?
‘But you’ve always hated it,’ I say.
Harriet leans into me.
‘Can I tell you something, Bobby?’
‘Sure.’
‘I only pretend to hate it,’ she whispers.
‘That’s OK. I won’t tell a soul,’ I whisper in return. ‘It’s nice to see everyone again, actually.’
‘Really?’ She screws up her face, grins.
Probably best just to spit it out, Bobby.
‘But where’s –’
‘Hey, did you hear about Lou?’ she says.
‘No. Something happen?’
‘We don’t really know. He blew in one night and spouted something about leaving.’
‘He didn’t like the meetings, I don’t think,’ I say.
‘No, not the meetings – he was leaving.’
‘Like, leaving leaving?’
‘Exactly.’
‘To where?’
‘America, I think.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yeah, just walked in, blabbered something about how he didn’t belong here and that he was going back to America. Then he left.’ Harriet shrugs her shoulders. ‘Best place for him, if you ask me. He was fucking bonkers that one.’
I don’t disagree or ask any other questions. Don’t want my feelings to be known. I’m grateful there’ll be no explanation or confrontation. Gratitude tinged with sadness. Just a tiny tinge.
‘Yeah, probably best place for him,’ I say.
‘Pin the tail on the donkey!’ Roddy howls. ‘Who’s heard of that before?’ Zero hands go up. ‘Right, this is a variation of that …’
Choral groans.
It’s good to be back.