“What did you say?”
Samara took a steadying breath. “I said get out. We don’t need to talk about anything.”
“We don’t need to talk about anything?” said her mother. “After your little stunt, no, make that two stunts, today? That scene you caused in the shop, Sam, Christ! I’ll never be able to show my face in there ever again after that shit. And what about your sister? Did you for a moment think of the repercussions if any of her friends had seen your behaviour? It would be all around the school come Monday. Oh, did you hear that Kelly’s psycho sister had a breakdown in a bookshop…”
“Oh get real,” spat Samara. “Didn’t you think how it would affect me the way you came barging into the pub like that?”
“Your father is furious.”
Samara slammed the pencil onto the desk. “Yeah, I see. So furious he can’t pull himself away from the football.”
Her mother inhaled, long and slow, her nostrils flaring.
Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? This wasn’t about the bookshop, this was about the mould they wanted her to fit, be the person best suited to their simple dynamic. Everything had to be normal. Her family had a set trajectory, a prescribed altitude and direction that allowed no deviance. All her mother’s talk of getting out of her room, living life, meeting people… Her mother should’ve been over the moon finding her in the pub, drinking with boys. But this wasn’t done under her terms.
“Your father will be up here soon, so you’d better have a damn good reason for what you pulled today.”
“You know, I think I could’ve pulled, if you and Kelly hadn’t come storming in when you did.”
“Nice, Sam, real nice. Now I get it.” Her mother laughed and waved her hand at the grotesque creatures leering at her from the posters and drawings covering the walls. “I get all of this. I don’t know what we did to make you hate us so much. Your father and I work very hard to provide for you girls—”
Samara crashed her fist on the desk, toppling the stack of horror novels. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You have this fucked up vision of the perfect family, and I don’t fit into it on purpose just to piss you off? God…I just…I just can’t…”
“This isn’t normal,” her mother screamed. “A girl your age shouldn’t be obsessed with all this rubbish!”
Samara grimaced, too far gone to stop now. “All because I don’t like pink coats.”
“This is a waste of time,” fumed her mother, finally turning back towards the door. “I don’t know what I can do with you anymore.”
“I had a few drinks!” wailed Samara. “Just a few drinks!”
“And where did you get the money, eh? You were begging me for a few quid this morning.”
“Lily.”
“Oh. Lily.” Her mother approached the open bedroom door. “Gavin! Get up here!”
Samara swallowed and started to busy herself. Her mother could rant and rave all day, but her father seemed to store all his attention for these rare, concentrated moments. Samara could go days without exchanging a word with him, but with a whiff of trouble he’d hunt her like a shark on a blood trail. His discipline was usually fierce and blunt, resistant to explanation or innocence.
His own footsteps boomed up the stairs. They all had their distinct rhythms on the creaking wooden steps.
Samara turned on her VCR and television just to give her hands something to do, anything to quit their trembling. She started to rewind Outside 2: The Return of Woe back to the beginning. No doubt ninety minutes with her favourite demon take her mind off the wreck of a day.
The shape of her father filled the door. “She apologised yet?”
Her mother crossed her arms. “Far from it. Proud of the whole thing.”
“Apologise to your mother!”
Samara looked up from the desk, meeting his eyes. While the girls had enjoyed their day out shopping, he’d been down the pub with a few other cabbies, watching the afternoon match and throwing a few notes on the horses. He’d done the usual Saturday routine and been home in time for his feeding before lying on the sofa to watch the news and Match of the Day. She could smell the beer radiating from his pores from the other side of the room.
Yet a few pounds for a new book was out of the question; a few drinks a cardinal sin.
“No,” she said. “This is bullshit!”
“Okay,” said her father, heading over to her bookcase in loping strides. “Like that, is it? You’re right, Brenda. Something’s going on here. We’ve ignored it for too long.” At the bookcase, he ran his finger across the vertical titles on the spine, just as Samara had done herself in the bookshop earlier. She doubted he was searching for a particular title, unless he sought a copy of The Satanic Bible. Oh, wouldn’t that just confirm everything?
“What are you doing?” she pressed.
He ignored her and continued his slow survey of the books.
Samara noticed it wasn’t the novels that held his interest, but the tight gaps in between. He prised books apart, eying each opened space.
“Dad! They’re my books. What are you doing?”
“It’s here somewhere,” he said, either to himself or her mother. “Stu said his son had some and could stash them on the shelves like this. Found it between two computer game boxes.”
“Just tell him, Samara,” pressed her mother.
“Tell him what?” she wailed. “That you wouldn’t lend me money for a book? That I didn’t want a stupid pink coat? That you came into the pub and embarrassed the fuck out of me?”
Her father turned with the speed of a striking cobra, his open hand raised.
Samara stared at his palm. It shook, barely held in check.
“Don’t you ever, ever, speak to your mother like that,” her father snarled. “You hear me?”
Samara shut her mouth and quickly nodded, gazing up at him. He hadn’t hit her since she’d been a kid.
“Now,” he continued, his hand closing into a fist with his forefinger out. He aimed it at her face. “I want to know what it is, and who you got it off.”
Samara remained locked in his stare, heart kicking up once more. “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do!” snapped her mother. “Don’t lie to us!” Next to her stone-like husband, she resembled a yapping dog. “You don’t just start acting like this, Samara.”
“For the last time,” rumbled her father’s low voice, “because I’ll turn this room upside down if you don’t tell me: what is it, and who did you get it from?”
Samara blinked, the words finally sinking in.
“Drugs? You think I’m on drugs?” She threw her head back with a relieved bark of laughter. “Oh my god! You think I’m on drugs? I wanted money for a book. A book! And Lily bought me a few drinks. I got a bit tipsy with some lads and suddenly I’m a junkie?”
Her father reached down, grabbing her by the forearm.
Samara winced and rather than fight the pull, allowed herself to be escorted from her seat at the desk. He gently pushed Samara to her mother, who gripped her by the shoulders, should she try and escape the inquisition.
“In here,” said her father, reaching for the desk drawer. “Let’s have a little look, shall we?”
Samara flinched in her mother’s hold. “Going through my room? Come on, Dad!”
He slid the drawer open, peering into the mess and poking through the contents.