Cl
Screaming. Alan threw off the quilt. Was a Saturday lie-in so much to ask for? They were all there, in the living room, the four of them, so close to the telly they looked like they’d fallen out of the cartoon they were watching.
‘Turn that down, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, and went to the bathroom.
She was right behind him. ‘There’s no need to talk to them like that,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of telling you. Do you want your coffee now?’
He splashed water on his face.
‘Hand us that towel,’ he said.
The screaming started again. He stuck his head under the tap, the towel slung over the side of the bath. He combed his hair and dried it. A haircut, that was what he needed, he had great tufts growing out the side of his neck. He looked more closely. Grey at the temples. Not much, but it was there.
His coffee was on the table. He took a couple of slugs and made for the door. The telly was still blaring, the kids still yelling, punching each other.
‘Get syrup for the baby!’ she shouted at his back. ‘I think he’s coming down with something!’
He pulled his bike out of the tangle of metal in the shed. The baby. You weren’t allowed to call it anything except ‘the baby’ until the priest had done the trick with the oil and the water. Bullshit. He’d put up with it with the first four, but he was fucked if he was going to go through it again with this one. He’d already called it Alan in front of her. She hadn’t said anything. Not yet.
He turned left into a one way street. Going against the flow. Living dangerously for thirty seconds. The street was extremely narrow, and got even narrower where a bus had been parked across from a tractor. A car was approaching – it flashed its lights at him and stopped. He thought he recognised it, but didn’t dare assume. He saw the boy first, in the front passenger seat, in his tracksuit. Then he saw her, her hands on the steering wheel, waiting patiently for him to get out of the way. It took him a second to realise that it was, actually, her. Her hair was longer, and she’d dyed it jet black. But that smile she shot him as he drew level with her window. She had something on her lips, too, they were shining, inviting. He waited for the window to roll down. He was going to speak, but the car started moving.
He knew where she was going.
‘A bit more,’ said Alan. ‘Do the back again with the number 1.’
‘Come on,’ said George. ‘That’s the third time I thought I’d finished. There’s folk waiting.’
Alan was all too aware of the folk waiting; he could see them in the mirror. He recognised some of them. He was stalling, biding his time until each face was buried in a magazine. The clipper buzzed, but there was nothing left to trim. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, and caught George’s eye. George cocked his head slightly. Alan winked. George laid the clipper on the counter and, in one deft movement, removed three little packets from the box next to the combs.
They were in Alan’s pocket before anyone noticed.
Her car was under the tree in the car park, where she always left it. He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Anticipation. The smell hit him when he pulled the door open. The smell and the heat. Warm chlorine. Mushroom soup. She had said it reminded her of something else, it smelled like man milk, that’s what she’d said. He climbed the stairs to the spectators’ gallery, the echo of children shouting getting louder. And there she was. On her own. She didn’t smile when she saw him.
A whistle, then a splash as someone dived into the pool.
‘This is a coincidence,’ she said. ‘I don’t think.’
‘It’s been a while,’ he said, and sat next to her. His leg touched hers. It was deliberate. He liked the way she filled her jeans, he always had, as if her thighs were going to come bursting through the denim.
She moved away.
‘You’re mad,’ she said.
There was a shout from the pool. A boy waved.
‘Is that David?’ said Alan.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Don’t say his name.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I forgot about the rules.’
‘What rules?’ she said. ‘That game’s over. Did you forget that, too?’
‘He’s getting big,’ he said.
She turned to him. Those big green eyes. This was money in the bank. ‘I see you’ve stopped bringing your lot,’ she said.
Alan yawned. He wasn’t tired. His eyes were stinging. It was from the chlorine, the caretaker still hadn’t learned the formula, the tosser. ‘Bit difficult,’ he said. ‘Too much overtime. I can’t complain, though. The money’s good.’
‘You could have brought them today,’ she said. ‘You’ve obviously got the day off.’ She turned away. He thought he heard her mutter something, but let it go. Her thighs, and what about those leather boots she was wearing, the ones that she wore rolled half way down her calves, with the heels. She turned to him again. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.
He smiled at her.
‘Do you like my hair?’ he said. ‘Look, it’s like sandpaper at the back. Touch it. Tell me you like it.’
She didn’t touch it, but he could see that she liked it. She liked it a lot. He could see that. He leaned back in the seat and stretched his legs. The little packets pressed into his thigh. An investment for the future. But it was now he was thinking about. He looked round the gallery. It was completely empty.
‘Come on,’ he said, and put his hand on her.
The lock on the cubicle door was broken. It hardly mattered. God she was good at this. Just the right amount of teasing. Her tongue, then her hand, then her lips, then back to her hand. She knew what he liked. She knew what she liked, too. His hands were in her hair, so much longer than he remembered, pulling it, tugging it, showing her when he wanted it harder, deeper, the sounds slipping and shimmying…
‘Mum?!’
They froze.
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
‘You’re joking,’ he said.
She looked up at him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That’ll do you.’
He pushed her against the wall. She tried to stand up, but it was difficult, the cubicle was tiny. He felt the zip of her anorak scrape against him. Then they were face to face. Almost. Even though she was on her feet he was still looking down on her.
‘We’ve got unfinished business here,’ he said.
‘Do it yourself,’ she said. She tried to open the door, but he slapped his hand on it.
‘Mum?!’
‘Just a minute, David!’ she shouted. ‘Please let me out,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘He’s waiting.’
Alan stood back. She seemed to hesitate, then flushed the toilet. She brushed past him. He rearranged himself. He heard voices. There was a man’s voice, too.
He watched the three of them leave the gallery. Her husband looked younger. Fitter. His hair was in a pony tail. Jet black. He was carrying the boy’s bag.
Mayhem back at the flat. They were fighting about Star Channel or Alter. Dora the Explorer or Winx. He went to the bathroom.
She was right behind him.
‘Where is it?’ she said.
‘Do you like my haircut?’ he said.
‘Aye, it’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’ Her hand was open in front of her, as if she was expecting something.
‘Where’s what?’ he said. He didn’t like the way his voice echoed off the tiles. He was thinking about George, and how the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.
‘The syrup!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot. The baby’s burning up.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said. He would have moved past her, he would have gone to the chemist’s, but she blocked his path. Her hand gripped his chin and she stared into his eyes.
He saw himself in the mirror.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said. ‘Are you coming down with…’
He watched her nose crinkle.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
He couldn’t be doing with this.
‘That smell,’ she said. ‘Have you…have you been at the swimming pool?’
‘Get out the way!’
‘You have!’ she said. ‘I can smell it off you!’
The kids had stopped fighting. Someone was crying. This was better than cartoons.
He glared at her. He hated her.
‘I work my fingers to the bone all week!’ he shouted.
‘I told you what would happen if you went back there!’ she screamed. ‘You bastard!’
He slammed the front door behind him. He would walk. Fuck the bike. It would take longer on foot. Medicine for the baby. It was only a temperature, for Christ’s sake, and wee Alan was a fighter, just like his dad. He stopped at a litter bin and got rid of the evidence. He knew what was incriminating and what wasn’t. Red eyes and the smell of chlorine proved nothing. It wasn’t something that would stand up in court.
Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, Scotland. His work has appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the ‘The‘. His first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. He lives in Greece. Visit Andrew at his website: Wee Fictions.
