In Loco Parentis (22 page)

“Christ, Wolf.” My foot stamps on the tile before I can stop it, like I'm having a tantrum. Maybe I'll take that to Dr India for the next session.

Wolf bursts into laughter. Sprays fish eggs over my coat. And there's a knock at the door.

I do nothing. Can't. Leave the fish eggs where they are while Wolf steps through. “I'll take care of it,” he says.

I hope it's Mike, arriving at the speed of light. My mind's just working out that it's impossible when I hear Wolf's say, “Come on in.”

A woman speaks back, not that I can make out what she says.

I relax.

There's a huge bang.

I stop relaxing.

When I get there, there's this woman pinned to the wall, a bottle of wine and a red, stiletto shoe on the carpet.

The woman's legs kick out like she's doing ballet exercises. Wolf has his fingers wrapped round her neck.

“Leave it,” I say to him, calm like I'm just watching a movie.

Nothing happens except more of the same. Maybe her face turns a deeper shade of purple, it's difficult to tell.

“Are you nuts?” It seems like a reasonable question under the circumstances. He doesn't answer and I take it as a yes.

I put my hands on his shoulders and pull like mad. It's no good. He's far too strong.

The woman looks at me. I think her eyes are pleading. I try to communicate back. Raise my brows in a ‘what do you want me to do?' kind of way and then it's like her lights go out.

She stops with the ballet steps, Wolf opens his grip and she slides down the wall like she's been in a cartoon brawl.

Wolf looks down at his hands like they don't belong to him. He stares at one, then the other. His scars are pink and shiny.

I stretch out to pat him. Comfort him or something, even though I need him out of my life as soon as it can be done.

He lashes out at the wall.

Punches once, twice and then lets out a flurry. He's good as well, hitting out like a heavyweight boxer.

It's not long before he's leaving blood there, like some kind of fresco in red.

“Stop,” I shout. “You'll ruin your hand.” It doesn't seem to matter. “Think about the DNA.”

Why they're the magic words, I have no idea.

He turns to look at me, comes forward arms out like Frankenstein's monster. Takes me in his arms and squeezes the breath from my lungs. “It's all black, Joe. Everything's black.” This time I agree with him.

old flames

Mike's like a blizzard. A fog. No way to see what he's thinking. I'm just waiting for orders.

“Strip ‘em.”

It was bad enough carrying them up to the bedroom. “Christ, Mike...”

“Now.”

I don't see it straight away, him putting candles all round the room, the plastic bags he's got his feet tied into making crinkling sounds like a waterfall.

Figure I should start with the easy one. The one I don't know.

She's not so bad looking for an old one. Best thing I can do is imagine I'm seducing her. I roll down her tights and pull them from her feet. They smell a bit like vinegar. Athlete's foot? Don't let it put me off though. I pull the jumper over her head and throw it onto the tights. Next comes the blouse. The bra I take my time on. Always been a breast man. Dr India thinks that's why I smoke. Orally fixated I think he called it. I'm dying for a fag. Would do practically anything for one. Kill, even. But Mike says not and he's in charge.

Her bra's pretty cool. Frilly round the top and giving her a nice cleavage. I take it off better than I ever manage with a real-live girl, watch her boobs flop down to her stomach. Feel a tingle in my crotch.

Skirt and pants are easy.

“Throw the clothes round the room. Save the jumper and put it on the stairs.”

Mike's lighting the candles. Gives the place a peaceful feel, like a mausoleum. Warms things up, too.

I do the job and set to Carol. For some reason I hold my breath, like it's going to make it easier.

There was a time when I wondered what she'd look like naked. Gave me something to do in staff meetings.

Now I'm going to find out, I don't care either way. Too busy watching Mike put the naked woman on the bed and setting out wine glasses. The duvet's one of those real luxury ones. Real feather. Marks and Spencer's I'd wager.

Soon as I finish, Mike picks Carol up and takes her over. Curls the two women together like they're sister's cuddling away their fears.

Half way though removing Phil's clothes, I have to stop. I stand up. Take deep breaths. Think about what's coming next. Remember the line from Sylvia Plath and turkey necks.

A spoonful of vom comes into my mouth and not the nice kind either. It's all bitter. Bloody foul. I think about spitting and then the DNA word's back in my head. I swallow instead.

At least there are no lumps.

I leave Phil where he is, bulging eyes and overhanging belly just having to wait for attention.

Go to the top of the stairs. Look down for Wolf. Can' t miss him. He's the one in the corner with his arms round his head.

I don't bother to ask. It's me that has to do the deed.

Mike's off somewhere.

I go to unclip Phil's belt, something telling me I'm not the first man to have a go at that.

And then I'm laughing. Right out loud.

Mickey Mouse pants. Who'd have thought?

Gives me the momentum to pull them down. I do it real fast and don't look at him at first, but then curiosity gets the better of me.

He's smaller than me.

It's all I need to know.

Mike's back. Throws a condom onto the floor and picks up Phil with a fireman's lift. Adds him to the pile and the penny's finally dropped.

“A threesome,” I say.

This time he doesn't need to tell me what to do with the clothes. I spread them around like they've been ripped off by two ravenous women. Rip at one of the buttons on the shirt for good measure.

He's good, Mike. Have to hand it to him.

After that it's all in the detail.

Candles downstairs. Table set for dinner. A load of ready meals and frozen bits and pieces thrown into the oven.

“We're going out the front, got it?” Mike looks me in the eyes without blinking.

I nod.

Looks over at Wolf, standing and shaking next to me.

Wolf does nothing.

Mike's hand flies. Catches Wolf on the cheek with an almighty crack.

“Got it?” he asks again.

“Got it,” Wolf says, and I think he really has.

“Keep your hoods up and your heads down. I'll be right behind. Turn right out the door, walk with purpose but no running, take the first right and then the first left. There's a Beetle half way down. Yellow. Can't miss it. That's our ticket out.”

“Got it,” Wolf says, sharp as flint.

I just nod.

The pair of us stand ready at the door.

Mike sets light to something upstairs, then down in the kitchen.

“Now,” he says, and we open the door and turn right. Just like he said.

Doomsday

This must be Doomsday. The lift's down again at the tube. By the time I get up, my lungs feel ready to pack in. I can feel them shrinking. To the size of prunes.

Course I'm trying not to puff and blow.

And I wish I hadn't worn my big funeral coat. I keep wiping the sweat from my face, but the beads just keep coming, my upper lip like a field in the morning dew.

Soon as I'm on the street, I pull out a fag and light it. The hot smoke fills the prunes in no time, sends a rush to my brain so quickly I think I'm going to fall. It's a sweet moment.

I get bumped three times as commuters hurry by, hordes of kids in shirts and ties heading for the private schools.

Fuck them.

Looks like an oil slick's been spread across the sky. Like some depressed giant's been finger painting.

Maybe it was God.

Maybe it's my time.

Time he struck me down.

Any god in their right mind would clean the world of scum like me with one sweep of an invisible broom.

And nothing happens.

I pull up the black velvet of my collar, step out from under the overhang. The heavens open, throwing down drops of rain the size of pearls.

I get God's message.

And head for school.

morgue

The staff room's like a morgue. Teachers quietly crying, huddled together and clasping tissues to their mouths.

“What's going?” I ask. My mock surprise sounds pretty damned good.

Nobody else seems impressed. I remember I'm still the gooseberry on the bush.

“Come on. Someone. You'd think somebody's died.”

Mildred lets out a sound like an animal fresh caught in a trap. Stands up, her face crumpling, the blotches fiery red and the tissue staying at her lips. She heads for the door. On the way, she reaches over. Puts her hand on my chest and pushes. Hard. Knocks me over the back of the cupboard, a few clipboards falling to the floor.

She cries and stomps up the stairs.

“Carol and Phil,” Sue pipes up. “They've died.”

My mouth opens as if I'm hearing the news for the first time. I hold on to the cupboard as if my knees are about to give way.

“God, I'm sorry.”

Sue thinks I'm talking to her. Lets a smile appear for a moment, then it disappears.

breaking news

I tell the class, their mouths open in unison. They look at me like I can give them something more. Something safe to cling to.

Alexi breaks the silence. “So we won't get music today?”

“No,” I say, “but I'll tell you what, I'll get a guitar and sing some songs.”

It's like I've just told them the Spice Girls are on their way. A collective suck up of the air and a burst of chat tells me it's going to be all right.

“So will we have music next week?” Alexi asks.

“We'll have to wait and see,” I say and wonder if by then my sins will be forgiven.

lunch

Soon as the lunch bell rings, I'm off. Down the path, under the willow and past the smoking room.

Through the window and the cigarette smog I see Alistair's leaning on the photocopier. Looks older than he did the day before. Might be something to do with the police turning up here again.

Moira Scott's talking to him. When Alistair looks at me, her eyes track his and we're connected. It's only a moment, but there's something she's letting me know. That she wants to see me, perhaps, or that she's coming. Like she knows.

I don't look away. Only lose eye-contact when I pass the last of the windows.

Soon as I'm clear, I run, feet splashing on the ground, water seeping into my shoes.

A Town Called Malice

The Jam are blasting through the speakers at the Mason's when I walk in.

Another rainy day, another empty pub, another wave of nausea.

Saw The Jam when I was a kid. Black suits, thin ties and lots of sweat, the bass vibrating through my clothes and bones. A night to remember.

The barman, putting money into the jukebox. Sees me enter and nods to the back.

What I see is her teeth, shining at me like runway lights as they point in my direction.

Call it instinct or sixth sense, my insides do cartwheels and let me know that it's now or never. Finish it quick to be kind.

I'm tempted to ask for whisky. Maybe with a drop of water or some ice. Let my eyes flick across the optics to see what they've got. I wouldn't even be able to pronounce the names of them.

“Orange juice,” I say. “Pint.”

“She's been here half an hour,” the barman says. He's a good looking lad. The way his shirt's pressed and gleaming, I reckon he lives with his mum. “Told me there's big news.”

While he fills the glass, I imagine her flirting with this guy, keeping him interested in that way she does. “Any idea what it is?”

“Nah mate.” He keeps his voice low as the music's stopped. Holds his hands out in front of his stomach when he puts the drink on the beer-mat in front of me. It's either his impression of a sagging pair of breasts or a pregnant woman.

Him standing there like that makes me want to run. Leave the pub and head north. Out of London and along the motorway till I'm home and safe, falling into Jenny's arms.

It's like I'm finally awake. Like I finally know how wrong it is to be shagging Emma. I don't even want to go over, but my feet turn on the automatic pilot and step towards her and keep going until they arrive at her table.

“Hi,” she says and stands up to give me a hug.

I want to stop my arms and lips from moving.

Helpless, I feel them gather her in, kiss her lips and sit.

“You're gorgeous, you know.” I wish she wouldn't be nice. Not today. Not the way it has to be.

“It's in the eye of the beholder,” I tell her, then pull my arms from sodden sleeves. I have the smell of rodents about me and the feeling I'm about to watch my life flush down the toilet.

She takes my hands. They become numb at her touch.

“Busy day?”

“Christmas stuff, you know.”

“I heard the police were back.”

“There's been bad news.” It's not often I really have her attention when we're dressed, but she leans in and makes an ‘mmm' sound. “It can wait. Barman over there reckons you've got something to tell me.”

“Uhu.”

“So?”

She smiles and wipes water from my face.

One in six is what I'm thinking. The chance of a woman conceiving during sex at the right time. One in six. Like the roll of a die.

“I went to Seven Oaks to see my parents,” she opens. One in six. Probability's on my side. “Dad and I had a chat. I told him, Joe. All about us.”

It seems, all of a sudden, that having a baby might be less of a disaster. At least such things can be undone. Telling her dad, now that steps it all up another gear.