Rooms are sorted – the three girls are sharing, Roddy’s flying solo, Tom and Cal are in their own brain clash and I’m with Lou in the attic.
Then off we plod for a walk around the grounds of the country estate, to ‘breathe in some of Scotland’s finest air,’ as Roddy puts it.
Can’t really call what we’re doing ‘walking’; instead we shuffle along like an uncooperative flock of sheep cowering from the biting drizzle. The vibrant mood of the van has vanished.
‘Country estate’ gives it an undeserving grandeur; the gaff is a decrepit kip, makes the Colosseum look positively futuristic. Inside and out the place is crumbling in front of our eyes; everything creaks and smells of damp cats. In our attic room only the brave would sit their arse on the toilet or place a naked foot in the shower. The furniture in the musty grand rooms downstairs is archaic, while the grounds we lumber around are sodden and unkempt. No one, apart from Roddy, obviously, has brought appropriate footwear. What happened to escaping our troubles in luxurious surroundings?
We all huddle together pretending to be in collective misery. Naturally Lou, not a word mincer, is the first to vocalise his thoughts.
‘This place is a shit heap, Rod.’
‘It’s pure rotten,’ Harriet says.
‘I agree, it’s somewhat tired,’ Cal says.
‘It’s perfect,’ Roddy says.
‘Perfect?’ Harriet adds.
‘It’s peaceful,’ Roddy says.
‘You kiddin’ me? Jeffrey Dahmer would turn his nose up at this place,’ Lou says.
‘Jeffery who?’ Harriet asks.
‘Think he’s America’s answer to Fred West,’ I say. ‘Right, Lou?’
‘You got it, Bobby,’ Lou says.
‘Who the fuck’s Fred West?’ Harriet asks.
‘A serial killer,’ I tell her.
‘Wasn’t there that doctor dude as well?’ Lou adds.
‘Oh, yeah, Harold Shipman,’ Harriet says. ‘Proper evil bonkers he was.’
‘Unlike the others?’ I say.
‘Who are these people? I seriously don’t have a clue,’ Tom tells everyone. Clare and Erin are taking in the scenery.
Our huddle gets tighter. To be heard you have to shout over the laughter. Is this camaraderie in action?
‘All these people are serial killers, Tom,’ I say.
‘Why are we all talking about serial killers?’ Tom asks.
‘Beats me,’ I say.
‘Because this place has the look of a serial killer’s retirement home,’ Lou says. ‘Nobody knows who’s gonna be knockin’ on their door tonight.’
‘Yeah, I’d bolt it shut if I were you,’ I say.
‘No chance. They’d go for one of them first.’ Tom nods at the girls. ‘Saying that, maybe they’d give Clare a wide berth.’ Clare aims a kick and Tom jerks away. Sniggers. But she manages an impressive hook to his shoulder. Hefty laughter.
‘Maybe there’s a serial killer among us now,’ Harriet states.
‘Shit, secret’s out,’ Lou says. ‘Was it in my eyes?’
‘I didn’t want to say, mate,’ she says.
‘I forgot my toolkit,’ Lou adds. ‘So you’re all safe for the weekend … at least.’
Even Roddy guffaws.
‘Can we stop this serial killer crap?’ Clare says. ‘I’m absolutely Baltic.’
‘Me too,’ Erin says.
‘Positively sub-zero,’ Cal says.
Roddy crashes his hands together. ‘Right, everyone back inside. Relax for an hour or so and then we’ll call out for pizza and watch a movie. How does that sound?’
‘Can you even get pizza around here?’ Harriet asks.
‘We’re not in outer Siberia, Harriet,’ Roddy says.
‘Feels like it,’ Tom says.
‘Watchin’ a movie? What happened to “breathin’ in Scotland’s finest air”, Rod?’ Lou says.
‘Bugger that, I’m freezing.’ Roddy starts running full pelt back to the house. As needy little children we follow our leader. We’re delighted to be exactly where we are.
Freezing.
But free.
*
A few inches more and we’d have been rattling our heads off the v-shaped attic roof. A rickety three-drawer unit separates our single beds; we’re afraid to use the drawers in case the thing crumbles under the weight of a few pairs of boxers. The wardrobe next to the door looks like the oldest dry-rot survivor known to man: a grimy relic standing to attention, stalking us as we sleep, waiting for an opportune moment to pounce.
‘I ain’t puttin’ my stuff near that thing,’ Lou says.
I wholeheartedly agree. We decide to live out of our bags.
The mattresses are springy and concaved. No need to battle it out for the best bed. Both shit. I lie on mine, stick my hands behind my head and watch Lou potter about. Mainly he opens and closes doors, scans the sloping ceiling for the tenth time, murmurs lots and tuts to himself. His grumpiness doesn’t bother me – if anything I find it amusing. Lying there with my eyes on him feels good: good not to be at anyone’s beck and call. Choreless.
‘Think I’ll take a shower before the evenin’ entertainment begins,’ Lou says. ‘Then, before we head down …’ He produces one of the joints from his top pocket.
‘Are you sure you want to do that, Lou?’ I say.
‘Don’t pussy out on me, dude. Just a quick de-escalator.’
‘No, I mean about the shower. It’s vile.’ I smile.
‘I’ll keep my socks on,’ Lou says, unfastening his belt. He then begins unbuttoning his shirt. The house’s tang attacks my mouth. I consider licking my lips, but I don’t. I just can’t, can I? My conscience screams: Stay on his eyes! Stay on his eyes! Eye contact at ALL times! At ALL times!
‘Yeah, fresh shirt needed for me, I think.’ I hop off my bed, under the pretence of rummaging through my bag, and crouch down with my back to Lou. I breathe once more.
‘Wish me luck,’ he says.
‘Good luck,’ I say from my hunkered position. ‘You’re not going to smoke that thing in the shower, Lou? Are you?’ I say, slowly turning my head.
‘Sometimes I worry about you, Bobby. I really do,’ he says. ‘OK, here goes.’
When the shower next door starts, my heart resumes its normal rhythm. There’s a bead of sweat on my brow. Aware that the clock’s ticking, I quickly pull the shirt around my shoulders, fire a generous spray of deodorant under my pits and leap back on to the bed.
Between the water stopping and Lou’s return can’t be more than fifty seconds. He exits the bathroom wearing only his towel. I jump off the bed again, fiddling with my shoes this time.
‘Fuck me sideways,’ he moans. ‘That was like bein’ water-boarded in a pig’s trough.’
‘Not to be recommended then?’ I say, still with my back to him, undoing and retying my laces.
‘Unless you’re the kind of person who’d enjoy a weekend in Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge, I wouldn’t recommend it.’
My body shakes with giggles.
When I hear the sound of Lou’s legs entering his jeans and the chime of his belt buckling, I stand to face him.
‘Cool shirt, dude,’ he says.
He’s bare-chested.
On his eyes!
‘Thought I’d spruce up before we went downstairs.’
Lou takes a step closer.
Eyes!
‘I need to get me one of them checky shirts.’ He places his hand on my breast pocket. DON’T look at the eyes! DON’T! ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘Glad you like it,’ I say, casual and unconcerned. ‘I’m bursting for a piss.’ It’s the only thing that springs to mind; it gives me the opportunity to escape for a few minutes before re-entering a new man.
When I get back from my bogus pee, Lou’s fully dressed and standing with his head popping out of one of the attic windows.
‘Here,’ he says, holding out the joint. ‘Want some?’
‘Not sure, to be honest.’
‘Come on, two hits and you’ll be good to go.’ Lou obviously sees the stress on my face. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to blast the whole thing myself. I’m not that dumb.’
‘Don’t want to be mangled in front of the others,’ I say.
‘Tell me, Bobby, what can two drags do?’
‘To me, a lot.’
‘It’ll make whatever Rod has planned for us more bearable, think of it that way.’
‘Two puffs,’ I say. ‘And nothing more.’
‘Two’s plenty, my friend.’ He offers me the joint.
I take it from his hand and bring it to my lips as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, suck it deep into my lungs, praying I won’t cough.
‘Here, blow it out of the window.’ Lou opens it a little further for me. ‘Good smoke, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. But, honestly, I wouldn’t have known the difference between the good, the shit or the ugly. ‘So, are you missing home then?’ I think the joint’s giving me a certain freedom to ask what I want. Confidence to do what I’d normally not do.
‘Jesus, we’ve only been here, like, ten minutes.’
‘I know, but still.’
‘What’s to miss, dude?’
‘Well, your mum or dad for a start. The routine. I don’t know. It just feels a bit weird that we’re here, in this place. Don’t you think?’ I say.
‘Do I miss my dad?’ Lou makes a noise. I can’t decide whether it’s a snide giggle or an affectionate snort.
‘You and your dad don’t get on well?’
‘He lives in the States. We don’t see each other. We don’t talk. Nothin’ to miss. Nothin’ to get on about.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Why the fuck should you be sorry?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe because you sound bitter, or angry at him.’
‘Me? Bitter? Fuck, no!’ Lou stretches out his hand. ‘Hey, you gonna pass that thing or not?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I fire it into my mouth for a final naughty puff. ‘Here.’
Lou takes three drags in rapid succession. He holds the smoke in his mouth, lets his cheeks inflate. I have a strong urge to pop one of his puffed-out cheeks, but before I can lift a finger he’s blown the smoke out the window.
‘And, anyway, he’s the one who should be sorry.’ Lou’s voice is high-pitched and crackly.
‘Who should?’
‘My old man.’
‘Sorry? Him? Why? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Don’t matter.’ Lou tips his head out the window; his hair sways in the wind. He momentarily closes his eyes. ‘That’s just the way it is.’
‘I shouldn’t have pried.’
He brings his head back in from the elements.
‘You’re OK, aren’t you, Bobby?’ Lou’s stare is intense.
‘Well …’ I can’t seem to get the words out. I think I might have blushed.
‘I mean, you’re decent. You care about shit, don’t you? You’re what girls would call a nice guy.’ He does that inverted commas thing around the phrase ‘nice guy’. ‘Actually, you’re much better than that – you’d be a “really nice guy” or a “super nice guy”.’
‘You as well,’ I say.
‘I ain’t no nice guy. I’m an asshole. I know it and so do the others.’ He nods his head towards downstairs. ‘I’m not like you, Bobby.’
‘Maybe that’s what having a sick mother does for you,’ I say. ‘Can leave you angry and bitter.’
We share a knowing look. I shouldn’t have prodded; a smirk comes over Lou’s face.
‘Havin’ a sick mom has nothin’ to do with it. No, havin’ a sick mom just makes you obligin’ and guilty. Essentially you become a slave to them, but a slave who loves their master nonetheless.’
‘I don’t feel like that.’
‘I’m payin’ you a fuckin’ compliment, shit-brain. Don’t let your mom take the credit for everything, OK?’ he says, ruffling my hair with his open palm. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to stand up and be counted. Be an individual.’
A compliment, what’s that? I don’t get compliments. I could stand at this window all night blowing smoke into the ether and listen to Lou’s words until the birds chirp. I’d listen to him wax on about all the stuff I’m good at, how he sees me. Actually, how does he see me? Know what? I don’t like the notion that I’m anyone’s slave. Not true. And no one is my master either. No one.
‘OK.’ I push his hand away.
I’ve had a total of four puffs of the joint. I’d say Lou has had about eight or nine. His eyes drift and look longingly into the cold Borders night.
‘When Mom got sick, the old man ran off back to the States. Couldn’t handle it, could he?’ Lou’s focus is firmly on the goings-on outside the window. He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. ‘I mean, what kind of asshole does that, Bobby? What sort of person abandons his responsibilities? What weak sack of shit would do that?’
I don’t have answers to these questions. If indeed they are questions.
The joint is starting to embrace me warmly, flooding my brain with that weird time sensory distortion thing.
‘Mom and me didn’t need him anyway,’ Lou says.
‘Is that why you never talk about your mum when we’re in the group meetings?’ I ask. ‘Because it brings back memories of your dad?’
He scratches his neck, fingerstyles his damp hair.
‘Maybe. Something like that. Who knows?’
‘I’ve never really heard you talking about your mum.’
Lou gives me the same intense stare as before. Harder this time.
‘Which is perfectly OK as well, you know,’ I add hastily. ‘I mean, not everyone’s comfortable with that type of stuff. I mean, I don’t really talk about my mum in the meetings either. Just … to you.’
‘There’s not much to talk about, Bobby. Know what I mean?’ he says.
‘Yeah … of course … I mean … I get it … I totally understand,’ I say, not really knowing or understanding what he means.
‘Course you do. Everyone “understands” everythin’ here, don’t they?’ And out come the inverted commas again.
‘What’s wrong with your mum, Lou?’ I’d never have asked such an intrusive question if it hadn’t been for my intrusive-questions-filtering-system being demolished by the hash. ‘What I mean is … what’s her illness?’
‘Fuck it! Who cares, Bobby, eh? We’re here to forget that shit, aren’t we?’ he spits. ‘That’s what this weekend is all about: forgettin’ shit. That’s what Rod says, and I’m with him.’
Lou sucks the final embers out of the joint – so much for not blasting the whole thing – then flicks the butt high into the night sky.
‘You’re right, we should forget things at home,’ I reply, which I’m more than happy to do.
‘Best we head down, in case Rod comes lookin’ for us,’ Lou says, making his way to the door.
‘OK.’
He scoots before I can close the window.
As soon as I see the others, paranoia and fear kicks in. Roddy chucks some pizza menus on a table and asks us to choose. There’s no way I can concentrate on pizza toppings, no way.
‘Get me anything, as long as there’s no pineapple on it,’ I announce.
‘Anything?’ Roddy says.
‘Anything.’
Whatever combination arrives won’t bother me. I’m so painfully famished that I’d scoff a tramp’s dog if it were plated up. I’m grateful the room we’re in isn’t too bright. I neither want to be seen nor heard.
Three threadbare velvet sofas and a large television square off the room. I flop myself in the corner of one of the sofas. Lou sits alongside Harriet and Tom. For the first half hour I’ve no idea who I’m sitting next to. Definitely Erin or Clare, the smell can’t be anyone else: that unmistakable fresh make-up and perfume fusion screams woman. Reminds me of Bel, and further back, Mum.
I’m conscious that I’m not contributing anything to the goings-on. I sit in silence while waves of guilt envelop me. Could be the hash. I think of Mum’s wish. I visualise it happening. Actually fucking visualise it: I’m on top, pinning her down with my knees and compressing her throat with my thumbs. I think of Lou and my invasive questions. My act of aggression towards Bel. That’s what guilt does: it judges the word ‘sorry’ to be meaningless. I take out my phone.
Hi dollface. Place is a shitstorm! Ud luv it! Miss U. SOZ AGAIN!!!!!
Seems as if we’ve been waiting days for those pizzas to arrive. My pangs of hunger are torturous, I’m feeling strapped in by starvation, a bit like being stuck in the middle seat on a long-haul flight.
During the wait, Roddy suggests a game of charades. Of course he does! Boys versus the girls and Roddy. Needless to say, the boys’ team is severely hampered by a couple of useless stoned space eejits. We’re in no fit state to do our best Modern Family, Breaking Bad or La La Land mimes. My sole contribution is to clarify whether the person’s mime is a film, song, television programme, book or play. Lou’s input is to gawp keenly at whatever’s in front of him. Totally absorbed. In that moment, this game of charades is more important to Lou than, say, the Middle East peace talks.
His gaping mouth and savage stare put Cal and Tom off their stride. I think he might have muttered ‘Friends’ at one point, but I’m not one hundred per cent sure. How we get away with it I’ll never know.
When the pizzas arrive it’s like zoo time. I don’t inspect any of the slices before I put them into my mouth. ‘Put’ makes it sound mannerly, more like shove, thrust, drive, hoover … Take your pick.
‘Fuck’s sake, talk about Man v. Food,’ Harriet says, looking directly at me in disgust and referencing one of Tom’s mimes.
‘Right, guys, we have a choice of a couple of movies.’ Roddy holds up two DVD cases.
‘What are they?’ Erin asks.
‘This one’s called The Babadook,’ Roddy says. ‘And this is Whiplash.’
‘No, not heard of them,’ Tom says. ‘Are these arty-farty films, Roddy?’
‘Is that that film about a drummer?’ Clare asks.
‘It is indeed,’ Roddy says.
‘Is this some kind of punishment, Roddy?’ Harriet says. ‘Who wants to watch some film about some twat battering the shit out of a set of drums?’
‘What’s that other one about?’ Erin asks.
‘The Babadook,’ Roddy says, holding it aloft, ‘is about an imaginary monster.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Cal says.
‘No way. I’ll be shitting it,’ Harriet says.
I don’t challenge the decision, even though I really want to see Whiplash. But it’s done.
We’re settling down to a good old-fashioned horror flick in our dark and isolated house, where I’m sleeping in the attic next to some stoned guy who might or might not have anger issues. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for one, somebody (a girl) could snuggle up to Lou on the sofa and we’d be three in the attic. I try not to think about that prospect.
If anyone was going to have the hots for Lou I’d have placed all my chips on Harriet. That could be my lazy assumption about girls who wear music T-shirts: how they lean towards those rough-edged guys, or those with that tortured-artist aura about them. You know, borderline arseholes. Not that Lou is an arsehole, far from it, but I can see how others might view him that way.
Fact is, I’m wrong about Harriet. How? Well, the film’s barely begun when I spy her and Tom mauling each other’s face on the opposite sofa. Huge part of me is relieved Tom is not Lou. Huge part is jealous because I too want to be desired like that. Not by Harriet because, just … you know.
I conjure an image of being next to Lou on the sofa, me edging closer to him, a sudden craving for our bodies to vie for breathing space. Why can’t I? Why can’t I just hoosh myself over to him a notch? I’m fed up with always being the guy who’s never desired. Mr Everybody’s Friend. Bel doesn’t count because … well … because Bel’s female.
Long story very short. Not long after the film kicks in Harriet was in such a state of terror that Tom offered her an arm of protection. That protection developed into a cosy snuggle, before quickly morphing into an affectionate hug, which then turned into little pecks on Harriet’s head; from there it wasn’t long before they were getting down to some serious lip-on-lip tongue-twisting action. Fortunately, Roddy’s conked out, as has everyone else. Except Lou and me. The wide-eyed boys.
‘I’m goin’ to bed, dude,’ he says to me. ‘Fucked if I’m sittin’ here with a big gooseberry suit on. No way. Not my scene. Time to crash.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I might just stay and watch the end of the film though.’
‘Whatever, dude. I’m outta here.’
‘Night then,’ I say.
‘Yeah, night … and that.’
He boosts, leaving a slew of young carers in his wake. Some horny, most knackered. And one (me) confused as hell as to whether I have deeper feelings for him. And, if so, why him? He’s tough to read and makes me awkward when I’m around him.