‘So what’s this about your dad then?’ says Mal.
‘Oh, he died of cancer when I was six.’
‘Ah man, really?’
‘Yeah, that’s kind of why I did it, because I knew he wouldn’t want to push it too far.’
‘Ah, mate,’ says Kelvin, frowning, ‘that’s well low.’
‘What?’
‘It’s well sick, using your dad like that.’
‘Is it?’
‘No, it’s not, man, it’s genius,’ says Mal, compacting the mix, and rolling the loaded skin back and forth in his fingertips.
‘Ah no, not my style,’ says Kelvin, crouching down in the doorway and eyeing the joint with increasing nervousness.
‘The dad thing makes you untouchable. And, you know, it’s a shitty thing to happen to anyone, so if you can make it work for you, I think that’s a smart thing to do. It’s not like you haven’t earned it, is it?’
Mal dabs a piece of cardboard from the fag packet into the skin as a roach.
‘So what about you then?’ Kelvin asks Mal. ‘What made your dad and mum come down here?’
‘The old man got reassigned to a new parish.’
‘Your old man’s a vicar?’ says Kelvin.
Mal doesn’t answer, but pulls a sarcastic face, like the question is beneath contempt.
‘Wow, that must be really interesting,’ says Kelvin.
‘Yeah? Why’s that then?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Kelvin, a little unsettled. ‘All the confessions he’ll get to hear or whatever.’
‘Sounds like you already know all there is to know about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Confessions is just Catholics, I think,’ I say, quietly.
‘Oh. Is that different from …’ He peters out.
‘So have you moved around a lot then?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, following the old man’s mission,’ says Mal, moodily. He looks up at me. ‘Do you want to swap dads?’
I meet his gaze briefly.
This is Mal all over. He’s not afraid to go there.
I laugh ruefully. ‘No, you’re all right.’
‘And now from the glorious north down to this shithole,’ he says, stretching and yawning.
‘Do you miss being up there, then?’ says Kelvin.
Just when I think he couldn’t ask a dumber question.
I’m definitely a bit pissed.
‘I’ll miss the parties,’ says Mal.
‘What did you get for your GCSEs?’ asks Kelvin.
‘Eleven A’s.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Yep.’
‘Eleven?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Kelvin looks at me with moronic enthusiasm. ‘I only got one A, and I only did ten GCSEs.’
Mal shrugs, making his leather jacket creak. ‘It’s not hard to get all A’s if all you want to do is get all A’s … Just learn how they want you to learn, predict how they’re going to ask the questions. It’s no big secret, is it? But I’m like, fuck it. Not interested. Don’t want no tests no more.’
‘But you’re doing your A levels.’
‘No tests no more.’
‘Are you going to quit then?’
‘I haven’t decided. I was thinking about getting a place in town maybe, get out of here. Start up a few things. I’ve got some ideas.’
Mal runs the paper along his tongue-tip and seals it shut. Mal, master joiner. Never too tight. Meticulous mix.
He draws out his Zippo from his jeans pocket.
Flick, flick and flame.
‘Right, now, who wants this?’
He passes it to Kelvin, who pauses just long enough to look uncomfortable before taking it at fingertips’ length. He begins to suck on the end. A bit of smoke in his mouth, quickly blown out.
‘No, man, come on, stop fucking about,’ says Mal.
‘What?’
‘You’re not doing it right.’ He lifts the joint back off him. ‘Now,’ he says, invoking his most imperious Mr Miller impression, ‘if you remember your diaphragm, which is this membrane at the bottom of your chest here—’ he jabs Kelvin in the chest ‘—you need to pull down on it to draw the smoke—’ he takes a deep toke, holds, and exhales ‘—into your lungs and out. Into your lungs and out.’
Poor Kelvin. It’s so obvious he’s never done this before. I watch carefully as Mal shows him how it’s done. I’ve only smoked a couple of Laura’s fags, but I think I’ll get away with it.
Everything we do is glacially slow.
Seriously, I’m not sitting on this beanbag any more. I’m properly flat on the floor, and my head is planted where I’d been sitting. I can hear all the little beans inside tumbling over each other: delicately, impossibly light.
I look over at Mal and squint. Blink a bit to see if I can make more sense of it, somehow.
Kelvin’s standing again, looking down on us from the doorway.
‘Listen,’ says Kelvin, ‘I’m going to go, all right? I’ve got—’
‘You not want any of this?’ says Mal, holding up the second joint.
‘Nah, thanks, man, I’ve got my own at home, I’m going to go and — got stuff to do.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you coming?’
‘No. I don’t want to,’ I say. ‘I feel too nice here.’
This is so nice. I’m exquisitely comfortable.
‘I’m never going to move again,’ says Mal. ‘I just want to be sucked into the sofa.’
He starts giggling goofily, and I start retching laughs.
We sit there with the TV turned off for another lovely long age. It doesn’t matter. It’s an impossible distance away.
‘Well, I’m going to go, I think,’ says Kelvin. I look over at the doorway, and he’s still there. I thought he’d gone ages ago.
No one’s going to try and talk him into staying. No one should have to talk anyone round to anything.
It’s getting to the point with Kelvin where — I don’t know — I just don’t say anything in case it makes him talk more. I don’t want talk, just want to say sssshhhh. But that seems to make him anxious, which makes him jabber.
‘I’ll see you around,’ says Kelvin.
‘Bye, Kelv.’
Three’s a bad, bad number for friends. The two gang up on the one, it’s always the way. Two’s company, three’s a political situation. Just make sure you’re one of the two.
It’s good he’s gone.
I feel a bit bad, but it’s good for everyone.
‘Knock, knock,’ says Sheila, knock-knocking on my door frame. ‘How are we doing? Oh, that’s much better, your breathing sounds a lot easier now, doesn’t it? Come on, let’s get that mask off you, so we can see how you do without it.’
She prises the mask from me, and I stretch my clammy face, run my fingers over my cheeks to feel for mask marks.
‘There we go. I’ll leave it here for you, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll get Dr Sood to come in and have a look at you in the morning, see if there’s anything else we can do to make it a bit easier for you.’
‘OK.’
She unclips my chart from the end of the bed, draws a biro out of her white-piped pocket, and begins to gnaw unsanitarily on the lid. ‘What are we going to do with you, eh?’
‘I don’t know. Listen, Sheila — can you make it so that I don’t get any more visitors? I don’t — I don’t want to see anyone.’
She looks up at me, over the top of the clipboard.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about then?’
‘What?’
‘Well, when one of my people gets into a lather about a simple little trip round the garden, I like to try and get a handle on why that might possibly be.’
She peers at me intently with her bottomless black irises.
‘Just — good old family baggage.’
‘Was that your brother then?’