Red, Deep Red

The first time I met Miss Marsha Black I didn’t even look up. She was just another face, in the sea of young, eager faces in the bookstore that day. I was bored. My agent had practically dragged me there kicking and screaming to do the signing. My hand ached from writing “Show some teeth, Love Charlie Washington” on about a million copies of Bitten: Revival. And my ears should have been fucking bleeding from listening to the kids queuing up to get their copy signed. “I’m your biggest fan”, “you’re such an inspiration”, blah blah blah. The more I heard these pubescent drama queens profess their undying love for Lex, the hero of the books, the more I hated myself for dreaming him up. I’m a good a writer. Or I was once. When I wasn’t much older than the girls in the store, I couldn’t wait to write, couldn’t wait to lose myself on paper. And honestly, Bitten was only a bit of fun. I showed it to my agent as a joke, but she just snapped it up, if you’ll pardon the pun. It was on the shelves within half a year, and there I was, six years, eight books down the line, and I couldn’t even remember how I’d got there. Ten years ago, being surrounded by swarms of nubile young women would have been my dream. It’s all I ever wanted. But now, I wasn’t so sure. These fans, these kids, had cost me a lot. The incident with the seventeen year old at the press release had cost me my marriage, my home, everything. I only see Mikey on Saturdays now. Sarah won’t come any more. The girl at the press release was in her home room.

Anyway, when Marsha Black came giggling and panting into my life I hardly batted an eyelid. She said something like “you’re my idol…I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you”, some shit like that. I waved it away and scribbled the line on the cover.

A week after that I was sifting through the sample of fan mail I was given each Monday morning. Out of the hundreds of thousands of letters and pictures and even draft novels and screenplays I was sent, I answered ten a week. Giving back to the fans, I’d say to my assistant, with a smirk. She was a stupid girl, a graduate of English Literature. I kept her around for her big blue eyes, her tight ass and the fact that she hung on every word I said. I flicked through the pages. There was a naked picture of some emo kid, covered in generic tattoos and piercings. A few angsty, apathetic poems. And then a couple of letters. One from a woman in prison who told me her daughter loved my books, and she planned to get out of the joint in time to take little Christy to see the movie adaptation of Bitten: Kiss of Death. I finally settled on a letter on purple paper. The colour stood out, and the pages were scented with some kind of sugary perfume. It reminded me of my daughter’s room. I started to read:

Dear Charlie,

Meeting you last week was the defining moment in my young life. I’m not stupid; I know you won’t remember me, but I just want you to know, you are the greatest artist of your time, and you’re wasting yourself on this vampire shit. I can see through the clichés and teen gore, and I can see something so much more in you. I hope one day you’re brave enough to see it in yourself. I hope we can meet again someday. You’re something special.

All my love,

Marsha Louise Black

P.S My number is 555-43-12-66 if you ever want to talk. Call my crazy, but you look like you could use a friend.

I couldn’t believe it. This girl was the same age as my daughter. And there she was, looking straight through me. I had never heard a girl talk like that, so blunt and honest. Most kids that age try to sound smarter, and come across dumb, or try to sound dumb because they think it’s sexy. Here was a girl that quite clearly didn’t give a shit. I knew the name, I remembered signing it but for the life of me I couldn’t picture her face. Something told me she had red hair. Not red like the stupid little goth girls with hair dye stains down their neck, real red, deep, flowing auburn falling down her back like leaves. I strained my mind, desperate to remember more. I stopped as I felt myself getting turned on. I shook my head and poured a drink. She’s a kid Charlie, just a kid. You can’t go through all that again. And with that I pushed her from my mind, and forced myself to put her letter at the bottom of the pile.

The first time I called her it was a Sunday night. Me and Laura, my ex-wife, had had a huge fight the day before. I showed up at Sarah’s school on Friday afternoon, trying to make her talk to me. I thought enough time had passed that she might as least be able to be civil. I am her father. She refused to talk to me and I followed her to her car. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend; a gangly, muscly teenager, and when I grabbed her arm to make her look at me, he got aggressive. He pushed me back and told me to get the hell away. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. I punched the kid right in the face, shattered his jaw. Mikey didn’t even come over that Saturday, and Laura told me to stay away from her family. It was strange to hear her talk about her family, hers, as if it was separate from mine. On the Sunday night I was alone in my office. The little assistant, Kate, lingered about the doorway at the end of the day, as she was used to being asked to stay behind for a while, to talk about her “her future in the business”. She seemed to think that the best way to get ahead in the business was to sleep with the talent, and who was I to correct her? But that night, I was in no mood for her adoring words and her trembling fingers. Normally, that kind of innocence, or at least a façade of innocence would have drove me crazy. But I sent her home early, and finished the bottle. And another. I was so wasted I couldn’t even cross the room to turn on the lights. I staggered to the big gas fire behind my chair and turned it on, and collapsed in front on the mantle. I looked around the office, at the pictures of my children, of me and Laura on our honeymoon in Hawaii, of my first Booker prize giving. My mind travelled to the piece of shit I had written to win the award, and how I had milked the fucker for another two awards and a contract for at least five movies. I reached for the bottle, getting to my knees and crawling to my desk again, my hand searching in the dark for the glass. As I groped through the documents on my desk, my mind arrived at Marsha Black. I had cleared out my desk of all the old receipts and failed efforts in the past few days, but I had kept her letter. I wasn’t sure why, perhaps just for written proof that someone, no matter how insignificant and anonymous, someone believed in me. Whatever the reason, I scanned the desk, looking for the letter. I found it under a copy of Bitten: Revival. I smelled the paper before I saw it, and spent a few minutes breathing in the sweet scent. I wondered if that red hair smelled like this. I read again, and again, and my eyes lingered on the number at the bottom, and the nonchalant post script. Call me crazy, but you look like you could use a friend. It was true. There was nothing wrong with it I decided, with just wanting a friend. I hauled myself onto the chair and dialled. Glancing at the time, I wondered if she’d be in bed; it was a school night. The thought made me feel sick. I was about to put the phone down when a voice answered.

“Hello?” She didn’t sound as young as I’d feared. Her voice was husky and serious.

“Uh, hi, um…this Marsha? Marsha Black?”

“Marsha, yeah. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh, you probably won’t believe me, but this is Charlie Washington. We met at Little Oaks Bookstore a few weeks ago and you wrote me with your number? Uh, I hope this is okay.” Images of caller ID and parental protection flashed through my mind.

“Oh! Um, yeah, yes, of course it’s okay. I didn’t think in a million years you’d call. I’m so, so glad you did. I, uh…what’s up, I guess?” Her grown up manner faltered for a second in shock. I liked it, it made her seem slightly more accessible. I was used to girls reacting like this, I knew how to handle them, or so I thought.

“Not much, babe”, I said, turning on the old Charlie Washington charm. The whisky helped me along. “Just a little lonely tonight, I guess. Your letter was really sweet. Seem pretty smart. How old are you anyways?”

“How old do you think I am?” I wasn’t prepared for that. Shake it off, Charlie boy.

“Shit, I, uh…like, twenty?”

“Do you think I’m twenty? Or do you hope I am because it’s better than eighteen?” I was speechless. I made a sort of strangled noise through the phone, and was saved when she started to laugh.

“I’m fucking with you, Charlie. And you flatter me, I’m twenty three.” I exhaled. This one had me by the balls. No one screwed with Charlie. I felt completely at her mercy, and I liked it. And hey, twenty three. Twenty two years wasn’t so bad. At least she could get service in a bar.

“Twenty three, huh? So you at school, or?”

And that was it. We just hit it off. I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone like that since I met Laura in college. We talked about her classes, about my kids, just everything. And she understood, she did. I explained how I fell into this teen horror bullshit by accident, and she didn’t fake any sympathy, or try to give any explanation. She just listened, and although she didn’t say much, I could tell she got it. I fell asleep on the phone to her that night, and when I woke up I couldn’t wait to text her. She was exactly what I needed. A self- esteem boost without the sugar coating. We kept up the texting for about three weeks, and spoke on the phone a couple more times. Each conversation just got better. She didn’t just want to pry into my life, I wouldn’t be just locker room gossip. She wanted to know me, and I wanted to know her too. It wasn’t long before I decided I want to meet her again. I couldn’t believe as I got to know this incredible young woman that I’d seen her before, I’d heard the voice that was quickly becoming my lullaby right in front of me, and I couldn’t remember.

I wrestled with my conscience over whether we should meet again for weeks. My agent was on my back again; apparently I had a gig working on the screenplay for the second Bitten movie. I’d been on the last one, and couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less. I needed a break, a vacation from all the bullshit and the acclaim that I didn’t think I deserved. I decided, fuck it. I took the plunge and texted her asking to meet me. I felt so foolish, the way I agonised over writing the few lines. After what seemed like hours, I finally settled on: Do u wanna meet up sum tym? Coffee or sumthin? She didn’t reply for twenty five minutes, and I felt sick waiting. The strangest thing was, I enjoyed it. I liked how she made me feel, giddy and wrong like this. I hadn’t felt like that with anyone before; as far as I was concerned, I always had the upper hand when it came to the ladies. But not now, Marsha had shaken me up big time. It made no sense to me that I could feel like this about someone when I couldn’t even picture her face. My cell buzzed; the reply was: Time and place? I grinned, wiping the sweat from my upper lip. We agreed to meet the following Friday night at some little bookstore café, and I could hardly wait for the next tedious week to pass by.

The week went in just as quickly as I’d hoped; a monotonous blur of signing papers and sitting in on dull casting sessions. I tried to honestly appraise the willing young “actresses” who read for myself, the casting director and the producers, but I couldn’t think of anyone but her. I tried to picture Marsha reading lines for me, but nothing that I had inspired did her justice. She was too smart, too different from the vapid girls in my imagination, and, up until recently, in my real life as well. I could never have wrote a Marsha. I was so nervous on the Thursday night I went out to a few strip bars and got very drunk indeed. I woke up at my office, drowsy and weak but vaguely excited for the coming evening. When night time finally came, I headed to the coffee place thirty minutes early, and chose a table that gave me a perfect view of the doorway. My cell phone sat in front of me constantly, and I deleted about a thousand texts asking where she was before I could send them. I ordered a cappuccino, then changed my mind and asked for a regular black coffee. Marsha seemed real, she wouldn’t want to come meet some frothy, pretentious artist. I knew I was over-thinking everything, and checking the time too much. The doors stayed closed until half past seven; exactly the time we had arranged to meet. I stood up, then sat down again. Fucking hell, Charlie, cool it. But in the end I was disappointed; it was some middle aged guy walking in the door, some chubby, boring old man, not the girl of my dreams. I dropped my eyes again, and tried to ignore the growing suspicions that the great player had been played, and she had set me up to make a fool of myself. I was just swallowing the dregs of my coffee when I realised that the man who had walked in was sitting across from me.

“Jesus! Hey, uh, can I help you with something?” I was annoyed that he had interrupted me, and perturbed that I’d barely notice him.

“Well now, I don’t know. You are Mr. Charles John Washington of 311 Hunter’s Way, Portland, Maine?” He spoke with a lazy Southern accent; like an overweight Mark Twain. His whole body seemed to be sweating, beads of moisture gathered on every inch of exposed skin. He wore a black suit, and blue shirt, with what looked like spaghetti sauce stained into the fabric. I leaned back from the smell of BO and potato chips that poured from him.

“Look if you’re one of the guys from the movie, I really don’t have time for this, buddy. It’s my night off, talk to Lisa, I’ve taken a few days off.” I began to stand but he put a greasy hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, now I think you have time for me, sir. Forgive me, my name is Cyrus Halloway, and I am a detective with Portland PD. I’d like to talk to you about a Miss Marsha Louise Black.”

The next eight hours were the longest of my life. Longer than when Laura went into labour with Mikey and there were complications. And longer than the trial last year for drink driving. Both of those occasions had ended well, but this didn’t seem to go away. They kept me up all night, reading my own speech back to me, like another casting session. I didn’t know my phone had been tapped. Apparently after my relations with a minor, it had been a necessity, apparently my lawyer had explained all the conditions to me at the time. The officers read the damning conversations to me, the worst being the ones of a more adult nature. It had been harmless phone sex at the time, I never dreamed it could be used as evidence against me. They wouldn’t tell me what had happened until the next afternoon. My lawyer was there, and he didn’t look at me the whole time. Marsha Black had been killed, they told me, the night before. She had been stabbed thirteen times in her bedroom. The sweaty detective told me, with some relish, that she had also been raped before the murder, and that the results of the DNA tests had shown that my finger prints were on some items in her room , specifically a book entitled Bitten: The Revival. I laughed then, explaining the situation. Noone laughed back. They asked me to explain then, how my semen had been found on the victim’s body and on her sheets. I had no answer for that. My lawyer stepped in, demanding to speak with me before I answered any more of their questions.

“Charlie, I’ve known you since college, and you’re one of my oldest friends, but how the hell did you get into this? Didn’t we talk about this, about getting involved with fans? I’m going to ask you once, and you damn sure better be straight with me. Do you have anything to do with this?”

My mouth opened and closed; the truth was I didn’t even know. I didn’t know myself. The week had flown by, and I could honestly say I didn’t remember anything about it. They showed me pictures when they came back in, pictures of her body. They were disgusting. Once again I thought of my ridiculous books, and was shocked at how much I didn’t understand about death and murder when I penned the pale faced little boys nibbling on the necks of their girlfriends. She was naked in the bed, and her neck with black with blood. Her eyes were blank and stared up at me, accusing me. And I was right about the hair. It was dark red, and lay on the white sheets behind her head, soaked in the blood from her wounds. And suddenly, I remembered her. I remembered the sensation of running my fingers through that hair. I remembered washing blood from my hands. I started sobbing, and they suspended the interview. I was charged with first degree homicide. My trial is next week. Strangely enough, Laura, Sarah and Mikey are all coming to see me.

Mother's Love

Shut the door. Look at the clock, midnight. Twelve hour shifts are murder, but it’s money. Through to the kitchen, empty tin foil trays on the counter; Gary must’ve phoned in a Chinese. Can’t blame him, I know we can’t afford it the now but after Thursday night I know none of us can be bothered with anything. Phoning in for that shift was so tempting but I knew I’d regret it on pay day. Water over a teabag and collapse at the kitchen table, face in my hands. Pregnant. How could she be so stupid? Did we teach her nothing? Where did I go wrong, god, I’m her mother. I’m supposed to protect her. Gary’s heartbroken. Our baby. She’s got standard grades in two months. How’s she going to cope? She’s so smart as well. She wants to keep it. How’s she going to keep it? She’s only fifteen, she can’t even get a job yet. She doesn’t want to stay in school. She knows me and her dad would do anything for her, I’d give up work and raise the wean myself if I thought we could cope on just Gary’s wages. A job’s so hard to come by the now, I couldn’t give it up. I love my family, but I love my job, and I need them both to survive. Fifteen and pregnant. And to that wee prick. Gary wants to report him to the police, he’s seventeen so it’s child abuse. But Emma says she’ll leave with him, if we report him, and then we won’t ever see her or the baby. She says she loves him, stupid wee lassie. He doesn’t want her, or the baby. Just Gary put the fear of God in him. That won’t last long, he’ll be gone long before the wean’s born. And she’ll be left with a wee baby that she can’t support. Can’t imagine her getting rid, but I wish she would. Well, naw I don’t, but I do. She couldn’t cope if she got rid of it but it’s no fair on her. She’ll no cope if she tries to keep it. I had to raise David by myself, and Gary was around when Emma was just toddling. Kids today. Kids having kids. I couldn’t have done any of it, the kids, the fights, the money if I didn’t have Gary. He’s been a Godsend. Didn’t have to stay, no many men would take on a woman with two weans to a junkie bastard who was out the door when the money dried up. Twelve years married this October. No been easy. They sisters of his sticking their neb in every two seconds. But he’s been more of a father to them kids than anyone would have expected. His heart’s roasted with this. He was the one greetin’ when we found out. Me screaming and shouting, but he was the one that cried. Worse than anything else, him crying like that. ‘Cause she’s still just the baby, we can’t see her as anything else. Still see the wee lassie running about the garden in her wee nurse’s outfit, dragging her Mr. Blobby doll about. She’s still just a wee girl. Christ, she’ll be a mother in seven months. I’ll be a granny. David’s just turned eighteen, he’ll be an uncle. Mental.

Emma’s sonogram. She’s been crying. She says lassies at school have been talking about her. She starting to show a bit. I’ve told her to stop wearing they daft wee skirts, they make it look worse. She won’t listen. She says he thinks she still looks good. How would he know, he hasn’t seen her in a month. They’ve been fighting. Hear her crying at night. He’ll only talk to her on that msn now, Gary tried to forbid them seeing each other for about a week, but she ended up sneaking out so much there was no point. She’s allowed to see him now and he doesn’t want to. Can’t win. She’s so sad these days. None of her pals talk to her anymore. There’s so much stuff she can’t do, and she needs to be so careful. Ah they’re wee lassies, and wee lassies can be so vicious. They can’t be bothered with having to take care. They’re fifteen, all they want to do is drink poof juice and winch boys. Can only hope that they stop at winching, and they learn something from what’s happened to Emma. A whole life changed in one fell swoop. A strong heart beat, the doc tells us. Do we want to know the sex? Emma does. It’s a wee girl. There’s a break from worrying for both of us. A daughter, a grand daughter. She holds my hand.

Emma’s birthday party. Waste of time, waste of money. We told her not to as well, she’s hardly spoke to any of her mates for the past few months. He’s back on the scene, playing the loving daddy. Flush all of a sudden, we all know why. Drug raids all over Bellsmyre last week, and he just disappeared. Emma won’t hear it. He’s told her he’s got a job but he can’t tell her what it is ‘cause it’s on a temporary basis and he doesn’t want to get her hopes up. Bullshit, and she’s just lapping it up. Last thing I wanted for her was to end up in the same boat as I was. History repeating itself. He’s hung about longer than we all thought, but if he’s here for the long haul she’ll have a hard few years ahead. Hope she’s prepared for the police at her door looking for him at all hours of the morning, waking up the wean and pulling the house apart looking for his stash. God love her, but they’ll no be showing up here. She’s my daughter but I’m no having anything to with him, or the crowd he’s in with. Bad news. But don’t want to lose Emma so. Feel heart sorry for Emma. Crying in the corner ‘cause no one showed up but me, Gary, David, him, and her granny. DJ and everything, big fuck off buffet, all going in the bin. She won’t let anyone near, just wants him. Never felt so useless. Sent a letter to the council saying she was getting kicked out, signed off as homeless. Getting a wee two bedroom terrace in Park Mains. That was her present for her sixteenth. What’s going on? Emma’s screaming?! He’s shouting, what’s wrong, what’s up, chill out, what’s wrong? I could throttle him. There’s a damp spot in her dress. I told her no to wear that dress. Skimpy wee thing, looks awful on. Her waters have broke.

Can’t stop greetin’ . I’d do it for her if I could. I’d’ve done all of this for her if I could’ve saved her it. Doc says there’s some complications. Cord’s wrapped around the baby’s neck. Emma’s been taken away, they’re doing a C-section. He’s scarpered, told us he’d follow us up to the hospital in his motor. That’ll be it then, he won’t show up until she’s getting her benefits.

Her name is Layla Skye. Trust Emma to pick a name like that. She’s perfect. She looks just like Emma, but with David’s eyes. None of him, thank God.

She was kept in an incubator overnight. She had trouble breathing. Emma sobbed all night, she told me it was her fault because she’d been smoking when she was pregnant. Wasn’t even annoyed, I’d have a cheek anyway. I told her it wasn’t her fault, that Layla would be fine and these things just happen sometimes. He didn’t show up until the morning. He was out his face, the nurses made him leave. Emma didn’t know he was there, we didn’t tell her. We knew she’d make us let him stay and Gary wasn’t having that. Emma fell asleep on my lap for the first time in about ten years. First time I felt like her mother since she got pregnant. She’s asleep now. Layla’s in her wee crib at the bottom of the bed. Gary’s had to go to work. Poor man’s been up for nearly thirty hours, then straight onto night shift. Emma’s saying she hasn’t heard from him at all. She says Layla’s getting our last name, and that it’s all over between them, but she’s said that I don’t know how many times. I’d love to believe her. She’s too young for all this. Seeing Layla was a wake up call for her. She says she loves that scumbag, but I don’t think she’s ever loved anything or anyone as much as wee Layla. Mother’s love. Nothing like it. Just hope it’s enough. 

Notice

      Colleen pours out three bowls of cornflakes and sets them on the table. She leaves a jug of cold milk on the counter, adding a shot to her coffee. Alice is always late, Darren is probably thinking of a good lie to get out of school. Gary should be home in ten minutes; he called from the car. He should have been home hours ago. There’s a man shooting at cars on the free-way. Colleen watches the news coverage on the new television on the kitchen table; a Christmas present from the kids. She squints at the line of cars, looking for the family Volvo. The gunman fires another three shots into a red Honda. The woman had opened her door. Perhaps she recognised him. Perhaps she thought she could talk to him. Colleen sips her coffee and watches the woman slide from the driver’s seat to concrete. She takes a step towards the screen; yes, there is a small boy sleeping in the back seat. Children can sleep through anything. She wonders if Darren has sneaked back to bed yet.

      Gary’s home. He shivers through the back door, shivers out of his dripping raincoat. She doesn’t speak; points to the milk jug. She doesn’t look up from the screen.

      “I’ll be gone by the time you get back. I just need to pack a few things.”

      “Alright.”

      “Col, is there no way we can...?” He shoves the spoon into his mouth.

      “No goodbyes, Gary. Kids aren’t gone yet. He chews the cereal. Any other day, he’d complain about a cold breakfast. His eyes flick from the TV set to her face. She drains the mug and leaves the kitchen, calling the children as she goes. They shout excuses from their rooms. She doesn’t wait to hear them. She mutters something about finishing getting ready. The gunman drops to his knees, surrounded by armed police. Gary starts to cry quietly.

      The train is crowded, buzzing with concern about loved ones caught in the morning traffic. Colleen did not see how the drama ended. She drove the children to their bus, leaving him in the kitchen. He had started to watch a sports programme. The kids waved goodbye, keeping up the pretence They were all pretending today. She is marking papers quickly on her briefcase. Jill Tyler is failing, again. She can barely muster sympathy for the girl, even though she now understands what it feels like to have a broken family. She writes a half hearted note in the margin to Jill, urging the girl to come and see her to discuss her problems. She hopes that no such visit will take place. She does not know how to pity any more. The train shudders into her station, but she does not get up. She lets the doors open and shut, sinking back into her seat. An elderly couple board the train. She thinks about giving up her seat, and decides against it. She hasn’t the strength to stand, nor even to move her now discarded briefcase from the seat next to her. She watches the crooked old man offer an arm to his plump wife, both swaying and slipping in the moving carriage. The woman falls to the linoleum floor at a sharp turn. Colleen looks away, staring out at the graffiti’d neighbourhood.

      She rides the circuit twice before descending at the stop got on at. She makes for the car, and stops at a news stand for a pack of cigarettes. Gary had made her quit when Darren was born. There had been the odd drag here and there, at parties and funerals. He knew that. She lit the first cigarette and drew feverishly. It was gone within a few minutes. The nicotine made her head spin, and she gripped the side of the Volvo. After a moment’s faithful deliberation, she decided to get into the car, and lit another, dangling her arm out the window. The first and last time Gary had seen her do this, he had lashed out. After all, it was a company car. Colleen decided that after everything, she didn’t give a shit. She thought of Brooks, his boss, doing his weekly inspection of the cars, and pictured his shiny face screwing up at the smell of stale smoke. Gary could get fired for that. Good.

      She wonders where they go from here. She has heard about things like this, the awful soap opera stories her friends tell her, where the loving husband has been playing away. The stories always seemed ridiculous to her; she wondered whether the girls from work had actually elaborated their sad divorce stories to make themselves feel better, make themselves seem like the victim. She figures it makes sense; it is quite pathetic to admit that he just left, he just lost interest. Nothing like a bit of adultery to spice up the court hearing. Colleen pitied these women, but from an elevated view point. She didn't like to think she looked down on them, but she did. Poor, sad little women. Well, they can't all be Gary. Not like my Gary. Now what? She turns the key in the ignition and starts off, heading for the bridge.

      It is too quiet, she thinks. She turns on the radio, quickly turning off the broadcast about the highway shootings. She settles on some eighties track. Gary always hated the music in the eighties; he says rock died in '79. Colleen finds it comforting. It reminds her of being pregnant for the first time, and everything being new and exciting. It reminds her of beginnings. She had never associated Pat Benetar with things coming to an end until now. The little screen above the radio tells her it is 12.46pm. Darren will have cut class by now. Alice will probably be at some meeting; yearbook, pep, prom committee, cheerleading. She was always Little Miss School Spirit. She gets that from Gary, the easy popularity. Colleen was never like that. She was never a slacker or a burnout, just never noticeable. She wasn't anything really. It always puzzled her that Gary chose her. She figures he just liked the way she idolised him; her high school crush on him had lasted twenty four years now. She is stuck in traffic. There are policeman in yellow vests directing diverted traffic at the other side of bridge. The nonsense from this morning must be the reason for the hold up. Colleen lights another fag, almost smiling at her boldness. Almost smiling. Horns and shouts fill the air on the bridge. She wants to yell at them, tell them to stop being so rude. Do you mind? I'm trying to think! She says it quietly, they way she always says her comebacks when Gary is on her case; loud enough to make her feel better, quiet enough that he can't hear her.

      She decides to make him notice, make them all notice. Sorry folks, she thinks as she put her foot to the floor, swerving to the left. Sorry folks, your commute is about to get even longer. She crashes through the rails, and starts to go down, down. She has another drag, closing her eyes. She smiles. Think your boss will notice, Gary? Notice this asshole. Notice me.

Karen McKay

      Karen McKay was born in the backseat of her mother’s minivan, three months premature. Doctors said that Karen’s survival was a medical marvel, and it really was a shame that her mother hadn’t made it. No one knew who the father was, so Karen was taken in by her aunt, who had a one year old of her own. They went to school the same year, and were in the same class. The boy was slow, and the other kids made fun of him. Karen spent her days and nights defending him and learning to dance. She went to New York one fall, to audition for Juilliard. She fell down two flights of stairs on the subway en route to her audition, fracturing her collarbone and shattering her pelvis. Juliard wrote to her; they would be unable to reschedule her audition.

      Karen spent six weeks in hospital and went home to Maine, where she took night classes in Spanish and worked on a checkout at Target. One day, on a late shift at work, Karen was called into Steve, the area manager’s office. He told her that he knew she’d been stealing cleaning products, and he had it on tape. He said he would get rid of the tape if she sucked his dick, and she did. She did that night and most Tuesday nights thereafter. After about two months, he took her on a real date. After six, he proposed.

They were married in Spring, and Karen stopped working on the floor and moved to the back office. She didn’t like it there. The checkout girls all said that Steve and the other managers like to make the little reception girls stay on late. Karen took a requisition form to Steve’s office and caught him fucking Leann Germanotti on the desk. She filed for divorce and he got everything. Karen stopped working at Target altogether. It was either leave quietly or the video footage would be turned in to the authorities, Steve said.

Karen’s aunt called. Her big cousin had been hit by a car on the way to the swimming pool. Karen went to stay in Portland with her aunt. They planned Karen’s 40^th birthday party in the local Masonic hall. Most people had somewhere else to be that night. Steve had a business dinner he just couldn’t get out of.

       Two weeks later, Karen took an overdose in her aunt’s bathroom. At her funeral, Steve read a poem, and said that Karen McKay was the only woman he’d ever loved.

God's Waiting Room

      I could’ve killed Eileen. I straightened my tie and glanced in the mirror. There was an old man looking back at me; tired, surly and too bloody old to be going on, what? A date, she called it. These wee nurses and their patter. When Eileen suggested it, I told her that I was a happily widowed, eighty-four year old man, and as for dates, all I knew about them was Dr. Shaw told me to eat them more because they got my bowels moving. And now, I was going on one of them. Well, seen as my last experience with dates had seen my holed up in the cludgey for three feckin’ hours, you can imagine I considered my night with a Mrs. Celia McLeish with dread and a dodgy stomach.

      I was in my room, shuffling from the bed to the wardrobe and back. I hadn’t a bloody clue what I was doing. I bent over as far as Shaw’s plastic pelvis would allow to tie my old wingtips. Did they still dress like this? Last time I took a lassie out it was Maggie, God rest her, and that was over fifty years ago. I took her to the dancing, and I put a fag out on her dress by accident. She called me an eedjit, and I asked her to marry me two weeks later. I wiped away a smiling tear as I took up my stick. I was just leaving the room when I clocked the bottle of Old Spice that Kevin, our oldest, had bought me last Christmas. I lifted the bottle and gave my throat a good spray. Smelled like pish but at least it covered the smell of dust and sweat on my old suit. I looked in the mirror again, and pictured Maggie, spinning around the dance hall, with my cigarette hole in her best dress, and my ring on her finger.

      It was a twenty minute bus journey to the community centre, twenty minutes listening to the “hoodies” as the papers called them, necking tonic wine and listening to some garbage on they fancy ear phones or eye phones or something. I wished more than ever that it was fifty years ago, so I could give these wee thugs a good kick up the arse. I rode the number fifteen all the way to the town centre, and it was raining buckets when I got off. Thank Christ it was only a two minute walk to the centre. I went through to the café, and saw a sign that said “Seniors Hour”. Aw, for God’s sake, I thought to myself, sitting down at one of the wee silver tables. I looked around at all the old fogies, and chuckled. Really, this was like being back at the dancing; these old buggers had obviously never left. I sighed and looked up, when I caught some women’s eye. She was plump and smiling, perhaps about mid-fifties. Something in the blue eyes reminded me of our daughter, Lorraine. She walked straight towards me, nodding and smiling. I unconsciously slid my tongue to my denture, praying it wouldn’t fly out at her, as it was one to do. I didn’t even notice her blue council overall until she got to the table.

      “A wee cup of tea for ye, pet”, she said, patting my hand. “Meeting anybody nice?” I was bloody mortified. Stupid old bastard, the lassie’s half your age. She walked away, chatting with the others. I wiped my face with a hanky from my pocket, and took a few sips of my tea. Quick check of the time; it was twenty past six. Sure, I was early but I still felt a bit narked that she wasn’t here yet. I decided to get a better look at the competition, as it were. There was a good mix of men and women; I even recognised one or two faces from school. There was John O’Brian’s big brother, Jimmy. Wee John had passed six months previous. I was there, in the back pew, nodding and frowning with the rest, even though your man had been a cheating, tight fisted old chancer. And there, at the other end of the room was Evelyn Murphy, wittering and gossiping just like she did when we were weans. I blushed when she caught my eye, thinking of the night I winched her in the close on Halloween 1963. Maggie was pregnant with Kevin, and she was asleep up the stairs. I wasn’t guilty; after all I’d told Maggie the next week, and she gave me a good clout with the frying pan. Bloody sausages everywhere, too. I glanced back to Jimmy O’Brian; he put down a domino piece and took a good draw of his oxygen mask. Then back to Evelyn; her face scrunched up as she straightened out the tubes of her urine bag. Suffering Christ, I thought. Bloody God’s waiting room, this. A look at the watch; quarter to seven. Muttering a few choice words, I reached for my stick. Ah, she can chase herself if she thinks I’m waiting any longer, I thought, buttoning my coat. Just as I’d managed to get to my feet, the automatic doors swung open. I watched the new arrival make her way into the room, and stifled a laugh as I did. My mind travelled back to a weekend just after Maggie had died, and I’d been invited to Lorraine and what’s-his-face’s. The wean was watching the telly on the Saturday night. I could remember Dr. Who from when it first came out, but the new fangled robots and sets were all new to me.

      “What’s this, son?” I asked the wean.

      “Dr. Who, Granda.”

      “And who are they wee men?”

      “Daleks, Granda. They’re the baddies.”

      Well, my right hand to God, this wee woman heading straight towards me must have been some relation to the Daleks. She couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, but you wouldn’t know it because she was on one of those mobility scooters. She came zooming in, perched on the scooter like an old crow, never looking where she was going. I wondered if she could even see with those milk bottles she had hanging off the end of her beak. My concerns for her eyesight were confirmed as I took in her clothes. It was all very conservative, wee yellow twinset and pearls, the lot. Until I got to the shoes. They were orange, and I mean orange, and they were made of some kind of plastic or rubber. And there were holes the size of ten pence pieces all over them. I looked from the shoes, to the rainy street out the window, and to the feet again, Daft as a brush, I thought to myself.

      Here we go, I thought. I forced my face into a smile as she pulled up to the table. With what looked like some effort, she raised her head and peered at me through the mad specs. She opened her shrivelled gub to show a mouth full of uneven, black teeth. It looked like a graveyard. Oh aye, she’ll fit right in here, I thought with a smirk.

      “McAndrew? Joseph McAndrew?” She didn’t talk, she screamed. I picked up the familiar sound of a whistling hearing aid; by Christ, it was like background music in here. Deaf as a post and daft as a brush. Eileen would get an earful for this.

      “Call me Joe, Celia”, I said, offering my hand.

      “Ahem, I prefer Mrs. O’Reilly if you don’t mind. Give a lady a wee hand then”. She grabbed my hand with a leathery claw, and started to propel herself off of her Grannymobile. She lifted one leg off the scooter, grabbing a cane as she went. She shoogled about, waving her orange-clad, plasticky foot around, trying to get her bearings. Her canary skirt rode up her leg, flashing a pair of very attractive hold-ups. I rolled my eyes and set her on her feet.

      “Much obliged, Joseph”, she wheezed, her skirt still round her gusset. She swung her cane about like a witch’s broom.

      “Easy, hen”, I said, trying to lower the cane, but too late. She knocked the luke-warm tea around my crotch. Ah Jesus, Mary and Joseph, for Christ sake. I let her hand go and looked at the spreading stain on my good brown suit.

      “Oh dear, have we had a wee accident pet?” I closed my eyes and turned. The woman who had brought my tea was there with a damp cloth in her hand, tutting and appraising my crotch with a sympathetic and disgusted look on her face. She started dabbing my trousers, shaking her head.

      “Happens all the time pet, it’s just the age. Nothing to be ashamed of, happens to us all, just can’t control it when we grow older. Now, if you need to go again, the toilets are just outside to the left of the doors. Give me a wee shout if you need a wee hand”. I shook my head frantically, trying to explain, but she was already away again. I glared at Mrs. O’Reilly, who pursed her lips and didn’t look at me, clearly horrified.

      “Really, Joseph, control yourself”, she muttered. I bit my lip and cleared my throat. Wasn’t even going to bother telling the blind old bat that it was her fault. Another wee council lassie brought us more tea. She glanced at my crotch and sniggered.

      “Alright, Weary Willy?” she cackled, laughing at her own joke as she went. I put my head in my hands and sighed. To think, I’d gave up a night of Morecambe and Wise on BBC and a fresh twenty pack of Berkeley for this. I shook my head and tried to smile again.

      “So, Cel-eh, Mrs. O’Reilly, tell me a bit about yourself”, I managed. Did I regret that. Off she went, at a rate of noughts, telling me about her dear Leonard, rest in peace, her nine grand children, her osteoporosis, her irritable bowel syndrome; the whole shebang. I tried, many times, to chip in, or agree, or change the subject, but I might as well have just left. God knows, she could barely see or hear me, what with the X-ray specs and the bloody gramophone attached to her ear. Finally, she stopped; it was a wonder she didn’t need a shot of O’Brian’s oxygen mask after that rant. She necked her tea, dripping onto her jacket, and onto those shoes. I couldn’t help myself.

      “What kinda shoes are they, then?” I asked, watching the tea sink through the holey shoes, straight to her feet. She paused, then haughtily told me:

      “They’re called Crocs. Good for the corns, you know, let’s the air at them”. Oh, bloody lovely, I thought. A right lady, this one. She picked up her cane again, struggling to her feet. No again, battle stations, I thought, lifting the tea out of her firing line. I raised my hand to brace her back if she should fall. She straightened her knees, and as she did, she broke wind. A great big fart, right in my face. And I would have my mouth wide open. I cleared my throat loudly. She spun around, nearly toppling over.

      “Oh, pardon me, Mr. McAndrew, I do apologise. Very unlike me you know. It’s these dates I’m on”. I burst out laughing then. I tried to smother it; the poor woman went bright red and startled to hobble away from me. I just couldn’t stop. I laughed until the tears ran, and my ribs hurt, and my teeth slipped out onto the floor. I laughed until a sharp pain shot through my arm, and I couldn’t catch my break. I laughed until everything went black.

      I opened my eyes and I was in a smoky, dimly lit room. Celia O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen, but Jimmy O’Brian was there. I blinked my eyes rapidly. The oxygen mask was gone, his bright red hair was thick and curly. And there, to his right, was Wee John, alive and well, chatting up the lassies and laughing away. Evelyn Murphy winked at me from the mirrors, touching up her red lippy. I reached for my walking stick, but I couldn’t see it. My outstretched fingers were no longer wrinkly; the skin was tight and not quite as yellowed with the fags. I felt strength in my legs that I’d long forgotten, and I jumped to my feet with ease. And then, finally, I saw her. She was twirling around in the middle of the floor, smiling and laughing. Her curly blonde hair fell over hair shoulders, and she stretched out her hand and called my name. I pushed past the couples, and took her hand. She kissed my fingers, and my palm, and then my lips, still smiling.

      “You’ve been smoking, Joe”, she said, placing my hand on her waist, and taking my other hand in her left. She kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear: “Well, try not ruin my dress this time, boyo.”

Hi there.

Well, hello. I made a half-hearted attempt at the old blogging malarky a few months back, but I figured I'd give it another shot. So here goes...

My name's Clare, and I'm from a dismal little corner of the globe called Dumbarton. Much like any small town, it's another "land that time forgot", where everyone knows everyone so privacy is never an option. It's also polluted with all the bigotries and stereotypes that are the unfortunate by-products of a town populated by cynics and fishwives. There are a few exceptions to this rule, a very select few, and they are my close friends and family. They are wonderful.

What else? I am on the verge of graduating from the University of Glasgow. (eep!) I will have an MA Literary Studies which is a fancy was of saying I wandered around the arts faculty for four years, trying different courses on for size with no real idea of what I wanted to do.

All I've ever really wanted to do is write, and NO, I'm not currently writing a Twilight fanfic or documenting my sexual exploits. To be honest, what really interests me is people. No gimmicks, no exaggerations, and no ridiculously good-looking vampire-witch-fairy-werewolf children. Just average folks, trying to understand each other, trying to understand themselves. Pretty much everything I write is based on a friend or family member, or even just an interesting looking person I happened to spy in Costa one morning. I obsess over anything I find fascinating. Where is she from? What did that smile mean? What is he doing today? These questions fill my head, and I'm usually working out possible answers until long after they've left the shop.

SO. My reason for writing this blog. Well, obviously, I plan on shamelessly plugging my work, but that's a given. But I mainly just want to hear your stories. I want to know what makes you more mad than anything in the world; I want to know what you dream about. And above all, I want to fascinate you. You sure fascinate me.

Never over, never out.

cb_x