— Is Lara in? I ask him.
Dr Grant looks through me. This man loathes himself and the world in equal measures. He just nods at the stairs and I go up. I wonder if he can see the sticky wet patch on my bum.
I knock and go right in to her bedroom. Lara’s sitting up on the bed reading her magazine and a purple-and-black eye looks out from over the top as she lowers it. — I can’t go into Dunfermline today, she says.
— What happened?
— What do you think? she challenges, and then adds cheerfully, — My bastard went psycho on me. I told him it was over. We argued. He wanted, you know, one last time.
I think about that scumbag Klepto, and how far evil trash like that would actually go. — Oh my God! Did he, you know—
— It wasn’t rape, far from it, she says, now smirking. — I was quite turned on at the idea. More than him when it came down to it. She shakes her head contemptuously. — He couldn’t perform. I was a little too scathing, and well, he didn’t take it so good. She now stifles a sniffle, seeming flooded by a rush of angry despair.
— Oh love, I cry and I open my arms and take her in them.
— You’re sweet, she says as she breaks off our hug and looks miserably at me. — It’s my own fault. I should have known better. He’s bad news. So is his friend. You just think, I don’t know…
I’m almost going to tell her about that horrible Klepto, and I can’t help but finish the sentence: — That you can change them?
Lara laughs loudly at me. — Fuck, no. I’m not that stupid, Ms Cahill, she snorts, as I realise that I’ll never confide anything of importance to her, ever again. — You just think that they might be a little grateful to spend time with somebody who has an IQ and who doesn’t want to be pregnant. I was wrong. Now this fucking bruise won’t go down for Hawick. I’ll look like some schemie crack whore from Glenrothes!
— It isn’t so bad, I tell her, getting out my make-up bag. — Let’s see what we can do.
21.
JASON’S MUM
THE AULD GIRL’S gittin gey meaty: especially roond the airms. She’s still goat that stiff blonde hair piled up and lacquered in place n thon foundation thickly caked in layers oan her coupon. She’s an awfay short-erse though; ah take thon vertically challenged gene offay her n it’s a persistent but disturbin thought that ah wis ripped oot ay her gash ower a quarter ay a century ago. — What the hell huv ye done tae yir airm?
— It’s jist bruising, ah explain, n tell her the story about perr Kravy.
She listens in open-moothed silence, eyes bulging oot like she’s done a strong line ay coke. — Are ye happy, son? she keeps askin ays. — N ah’m no meanin just aboot perr Allister; ah mean apart fae that. Are ye happy in general?
— Aye, too right, Ma, ah tell hur. Then she gies ays that look and goes, — But ur ye really happy?
When ah say nowt, she does as she eywis does n blames ma faither. — That man spreads misery like ah spread butter on toast when ah dae the breakfasts here. Wanted a Marxist state which wis bad enough, but eh wanted everybody else tae bring it intae being. He wouldnae git oaf his erse though, no Alan King. It was aw ah could dae tae get him up in time for the bus for the picket line.
— How’s this new yin treatin ye then? ah ask hur, even though eh’s no that new now; its been fifteen year, longer thin she wis wi the auld boy. But ah still cannae even bear tae say the wee cunt’s name. Ah like the fact that even though eh’s bigger than me, every hoor prefixes his name wi the term ‘wee’. Ah mean, ah git called ‘wee man’ sometimes, but naebody gies ays that ‘Wee Jason’ treatment. Ah call it r-e-s-p-e-c-t, ya hoor.
Muh ma looks balefully at ays. Ah suppose yon Bambi moment wis the high-water mark ay wur relationship n yin that wir eywis baith subconsciously strivin but failin tae recreate oan oor very occasional meetings. — Look, Jason, ah’m no sayin that Wee Arnie’s perfect; ah mean, whae is, n what relationship is? But he’s been here fir me when ah needed um, n she sortay looks doon at her missin tit, no thit ah kin mind ay which yin they loped oaf, n they baith look the same wi that big rid jumper ower thum. Suckled oan they hoors ah wis; in a bizarre wey it makes ays gled thit ah goat ma share before they surgeons did thir deed.
— Listen, Ma, ah need a wee favour.
— Thoat that’s how ye might be here, she says tartly, gaun tae her handbag.
The alarm bells tell ays it’s time fir Alan Wells meets Davie Hulme in Fife Centrale, as a wee sprint tae yon moral high groond is called fir. — Naw, it’s no that, ah goes. — Ah need tae borrow yin ay they big pots fae yir kitchen.
She looks a bit relieved, then guilty, then perplexed. — Yir no plannin oan cookin soup, ur ye? Mind the last disaster whin ye tried tae cook soup? Still, ye wir jist a wee thing then, she goes wistfully. Then she looks up at ays wi interest. — No nestin ur ye? Nae sign ay a girlfriend?
Thinkin ay thon wee Jenni, whae left early this morning eftir ‘steyin the night’, ah goes, — Well, thir is a wee romance, fledglin ah stress, but, fledglin.
— When dae ah git tae meet her?
— Soon, if ye lend ays a pot, ah tell her. Aye, wee Jenni went right oot fir the coont last night. Apart fae thon wank wi the cum splatterin across the tight buttocks ay thon stretch black troosers, ah wis the perfect gentleman. Went back oot like a light masel eftir that yin. Heaven through a haze that smoky rid thit it might huv been the other place, ya hoor sor.
So wir doon in yon big kitchen n ah gits a hud ay this big cracker ay a pot thit’s hinging up oan the waw, ideal fir ma needs. Ah pits it ower ma heid n it fair rattles.
— Git yir heid oot ay thair, laddie, it’s fir food!
— Sorry, jist messin aboot, ah tells her in echo, then pills it oaf.
— What ye wantin wi a big stockpot like that? You openin a soup kitchen fir aw the deadbeats back in Cooden?
How soon they forget. A wee bit ay the sophisticated life in Dunfermline, n thir soon throwin thir loat in wi the bourgeoisie. This toon got airs n graces whin they opened that Costa Coffee. Ah kin jist hear her and the Wee Shite now — thon Wee Spermin Rhino — wi thir M&S cairryer bags under thir airms, makin a pit stoap before loadin up yon hatchback. Aye, thon stage whisper, ‘Make mine a large mocca!’ Ah’m no risin tae nae fuckin bait here, but. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell ye nae porkies.
She rolls her eyes and lights up a fag and takes a big drag oan it. — What ur you up tae, laddie?
— Nowt dodgy, n you shouldnae be smokin thaim, no eftir yir cancer.
She shivers at ma use ay the word. — It wis tit Big C, no lung Big C.
— But it’s no gaunny help.
She shakes her heid. — Ah reckon ah’ve hud aw the Big C ah’m gaunny git. The breast thing wis ma ain fault, gaun oan aboot gittin they implants aw the time.
— But ye nivir actually goat nae implants, did ye?
— Naw, but ah thoat aboot it, she looks skywards, — n it wis His wey ah mindin ays thit ah’d been thinkin aboot frivolous empty things. For that ah gie thanks.
The Wee Shite got her intae God-botherin years ago. — Mair likely it’s his wey ay mindin ye that ye bide in Fife, ah tells her, grabbin the pot.
She gies ays a sour pout at that yin, n nods tae the pot. — Well, jist you mind n bring it back!