‘That is all we know. All we know. She sounds like a right scallywag. Did she die?’
Christ. What was the point? ‘Never mind. Have another drink, darling. Before they come back.’ It didn’t really matter. The gun wasn’t responsible for Henry’s death and the police would soon know this for sure (possibly they already did?), taking her and Ivy out of the equation. Hopefully.
‘I need a piss,’ said Bart.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! I think I know if I need a piss or not, Betts!’
They were so disarming, these moments. It was like Bart was forever drowning in murky water, his head going under, only sometimes he’d rise spluttering to the surface, bursting out like a salmon in a blaze of fierce sunlight – no, that was a terrible metaphor. No wonder she’d been passed over for all the important literary prizes. No wonder that critic had referred to her as a dumbed-down Iris Murdoch. A blaze of fierce sunlight! You had to laugh.
‘Come with me then,’ she said, taking his hand.
He obediently followed, his hand cool and smooth, and she guided him towards the en suite. He looked down into the porcelain, anxious, like a child called on to answer a difficult mathematical question. She undid his belt and his button, her stiff fingers grappling metal and fabric. His trousers dropped to the floor, followed by his undershorts. ‘Sit,’ she said. He just stared at her. ‘Sit, you idiot.’
‘You mean – on there?’
‘Yes. Sit down. For the love of God.’
See, this was why she’d put him in this home in the first place. Every single little thing was a bloody struggle. Every single thing. It was also why she’d insisted on going to a home herself – she didn’t want Ivy to ever have to go through the same frustrations, to carry the same burden. It was a sad business that she couldn’t live in the same facility as her husband of seventy years but honestly, this place was full of dribbling lunatics and there was sometimes shit on the carpets.
He sat down. His penis lay over the peach-coloured seat.
‘Pop it in,’ she said, gesturing at it. ‘Go on, pop it in. Or else you’ll go all over the floor.’
He stared at her.
‘Meow. Put your cock inside the bowl.’
‘Oh,’ he said, laughing, and complied.
‘I thought you’d understand that.’
Grinning, he started to urinate, his knees pressed together like a small boy.
She pulled a tissue out of her cardigan sleeve and wiped away the snot from his upper lip. ‘There,’ she said softly. ‘All better now.’
‘All better now,’ he repeated.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Susan Armstrong and the team at C&W and Suzie Dooré and the Borough lot for being fuckin’ fantastic.
About the Author
CRYSTAL JEANS has had two previous novels published by Welsh women’s independent Honno Press. Her first, The Vegetarian Tigers of Paradise, was shortlisted for the Polari Prize and is currently in development for film. The second, Light Switches are my Kryptonite, won Wales Book of the Year in the English language. Crystal lives in Pontypridd with her young daughter and partner.
ALSO BY CRYSTAL JEANS
The Vegetarian Tigers of Paradise
Light Switches are my Kryptonite
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Copyright
The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Crystal Jeans 2021
Crystal Jeans asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design and illustration by Andrew Davis
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008365875
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2021 ISBN: 9780008365882
Version: 2021-02-09