 Sugar
Iain Bahlaj
And isn’t it ironic, Alanis Morrisette is singing. Since Mike
gave her the album it’s all Shirley plays. She’s more into old school
happy-hardcore/rez stuff – Ultra Sonic, TTF, QFX – but this album has something
different, something personal, something she loves. It’s almost drowned out by the
bass sounds from next door, so Shirley turns it up and returns to what she’s been
doing. Her reflection’s all haggard and weird, twisted and witch-like. She remembers
herself as being a lot better looking than that. At school, she wasn't one of the fat/ugly
girls who had to hand out sex favours to get/keep a boy interested; she only did it
because she wanted to. Right now, her fingers running over her blotchy cheeks and onto her
blackhead-plagued nose, it’s like somebody else’s memory.
She’ll have to work on it. Some foundation,
mascara, lipstick . . . she can look back to her best for tonight.
In the next moment – with the way her head is
turned and the patchwork wall behind her – her thin cheekbones, pale lips, and misty
green eyes will make a sad, tragic sort-of, image.
But Shirley never sees it. Her head is tilted, as if
to amplify the sounds she’s hearing; a new sound has crept in under the singing and
over the bass from next door.
It’s her son, Lee, screaming.
A love story:
Lee’s dad is the same man Shirley lost her
virginity to. She was fourteen, and pissed on vodka and coke at a party in Glenrothes.
When she regained consciousness he was on top of her. His name was Russell.
Eight years and thirty-odd men later, they met up at
the Alpha, went home together. Shirley got pregnant, refused to have an abortion –
she wasn’t going to kill it, it wasn’t its fault. Russell played dad for
a few months, moved into the Chinatown house with her, and then left to go with some tart
from Glenrothes who was built like a house-end.
The guy was a prick anyway. Good riddance.
He doesn’t want to see Lee, and if he did, it
wouldn’t matter, because he wouldn’t be allowed to.
Lee sticks his hand out. There’s a patch of
virgin skin littered with grit.
‘WHAT HAPPIND?’ She has to shout to make
herself heard. When Lee gets going it’s like a foghorn or siren. His words come in
spurts.
‘It-wis-Reni.’'
‘RENI DONE WHAT?’
‘Ih-pushed-mi-n.’
‘N WHAT?’
‘N-ah-fell-n.’
‘YOU’RE BIGGER THAN RENI, WHY DID YI NO PUSH
UM BACK?’
‘Bit-ih‘
He breaks into a fresh crying fit, rubbing the front
of his dungarees. His mouth’s open, snotters are hanging from his nose. Like Russell,
Lee isn’t the best-looking. Like Russell he’s a sap, like Russell he can also
look evil at times, his eyes narrowing to slits when he grins that grin.
‘SHUT UP OR AH’LL GIE YI SOMEHIN TI GREET
ABOOT.’
Still, he goes on: ‘WAAARRRGGGGGHHHH.’
‘SHUT YIR PUS, NOW.’
‘WAAARRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH.’
When he cries like this she wants to make it worse.
Like she says, give him something to really cry about.
She walks across the kitchen towards him, noticing him
flinch, and shoves her hand down inside his dungarees, grabs hold of his nipple
–he’s chubby like his dad– and twists.
The screams rise in volume; Shirley leaves him and
goes back to the bathroom.
Karen arrives at the back of four, still in her school uniform. She’s Shirley’s
brother’s daughter, but there’s no real family resemblance. That might be more
to do with Karen’s puppy fat. Shirley’s a rake.
They have a close relationship. Karen’s a pretty
intelligent, level-headed girl – she reads, big books too, Stephen King. She’s
still a virgin. She comes over every night and sits with the odd fag or joint, telling her
auntie about all the gossip: who shagged who, who fought who. They both laugh about it.
But Shirley worries . . . she’s been a story, Karen hasn’t.
‘What time is it yi’re gaun oot again?’
Karen asks. She’s at the kitchen table, fag in hand, copy of More! in front of
her.
‘The table’s booked fir half-six.’
‘It the Vic?’
‘Aye.’
‘How many times’ll that be yis’ve went
oot?’
‘Fourth, fifth.’
Shirley’s been in the shower, so she’s in an
old housecoat and has her hair back. She combs it hard, forcing out the tangles.
‘R yi gonnae shag um the night?’
The word ‘shag’ never sounds right coming
out of Karen’s mouth, to Shirley anyway. If Karen noticed she wouldn’t say it so
much.
Shirley shrugs; ‘Ah dunno, do ah!’
‘Well, it’s up ti you. Ah bet yi he wants
ti.’
‘How di you ken?’
‘Well,’ – Karen jerks her ear towards
her shoulder – ‘ih’s male fir a start.’
‘Nah, he’s different.’
‘What? Ih’s no male?’
‘Nah, ih’s . . . Ah dunno. Ih’s no evin
tried anyhin yit. Nuhin.’
‘N dis that worry yi, like?’
‘Mibbe ihs wife left um or cheated oan um or
somehin n ih’s findin trouble trustin women again.’
‘Ih wis nivir mairried . . . bit ih’s hid
girlfriends. Wan ih thum wis in your dad’s year it the school.’
‘Well mibbe ih’s . . .’
‘Mibbe ih’s what?’
‘Yi ken.’
‘Gay! Nah, ih’s no gay . . . his voice is
deep n that, ih’s nuhin like that. Thir’s just somehin aboot um.’
‘Ih’s quite rich yi said, ih? What is it ih
dis?’
‘Jist business stuff,’ Shirley says;
she’s totally ignorant of his working life.
‘What age is ih again?’
‘Ih’s no that auld.’
‘N ih’s no braw.’
‘Nut. Ih’s jist . . . ah dunno. Ah mean, ah
kin mind ay um fae the After-School Club n that. Ah always liked
um n that. Ah always thought ih looked like a cartoon character,
yi ken?’
Karen’s laughing.
Shirley’s ready. She looks good. She’s wearing a tight black top and black
trousers and shoes. An office girl on a staff night out.
‘Yi look great, really,’ Karen says. She has
Lee sitting on her knee, his back arched so that his head’s against Karen’s
chin.
‘Really?’
‘Aye, totally.’
‘When did he come in?’
‘Jist ten minutes ago. Ih wis showin mi ihs sair
hand.’
‘You calmed doon noo?’ Shirley asks her son.
‘You calmed doon noo? Yi finally cheered up?’
Lee stares back.
‘Tell yi, ah think ihs goat that behavioural hing
or somehin,’ Shirley tells Karen. ‘The wiy ih goes aff . . . Ah seen a programme
aboot it, n it wis jist like what ah hiv wi him.’ She turns her attention back to
Lee. ‘That’s yir mum away noo, son! Yi gonnae gie yir mum a kiss!’
She leans forward for a kiss. Lee grimaces, struggles.
She grabs hold of him and smooches his left cheek.
‘That’s mingin,’ Lee says. He rubs his
mouth with the palms of his hands.
‘Anywiy, ah’m away.’
‘Yi gittin the bus doon, like?’
‘Nah, jist walkin. Em, yi ir takin Lee up tae yir
mum n dad’s ih?’
‘Aye, ma dad’s comin doon fir um it
half-nine.’
‘Well mind n lock the door, ih? Stick the key
under the slab.’
‘Dinnae shag um too hard,’ Karen shouts as
Shirley leaves. Shirley cringes.
Mike waits in the bar with a pint of Special, catching his reflection. He can strike a
pose at home, in the mirror. He can suck in his cheeks, or tilt his head to one side.
Sometimes that can give the illusion of cheekbones. But, catching himself unaware . . .
then he knows how ugly he is.
He’s a fat man, a balding fat man, with a
moustache. When you look at him you wonder if he was ever young. It seems more likely that
Mikes hatch from eggs in some fucked-up farm.
A man who looks like Mike has no business going out
with a girl who looks like Shirley. Mike knows that. He first met her at the After-School
Club – years back, Mike, using the KHS gym, took charge of fourteen-to
eighteen-year-old boys after school, refereeing football games, teaching a bit of boxing,
basketball. After a while girls would come to watch – Shirley one of them. She was
around fourteen, and already well on the way to being beautiful.
When he met her in the pub four weeks ago those looks
had faded, been roughed up a bit, but the basic bone structure was still there.
And now she’s here. She sees him sitting at the
bar and walks over, her white denim jacket open, her slim figure wrapped in black. Another
man might consider it sexy.
When he asks her what she’d like to drink his
hands are shaking.
They both have melon starters. Mike has steak and chips, Shirley goes for chicken with
white wine sauce. Mike can’t eat a dessert, through nerves. Shirley has a banana
boat.
They talk about the After-School Club.
‘Dean, mind ih him? Dark hair, skinny, looked a
wee bit like Jimmy Nail.’
‘Aye ah mind ay him,’ Mike says, pissed off,
angry at the memory of Dean. ‘A trouble-makin cunt.’
‘Well, ih’ll no be makin trouble noo.
Ih’s deid.’
‘Aye? How, what happ’nd like?’
‘Killed ihsel.’
Mike raises his eyebrows. There’s silence.
‘So, how’s Lee?’
They’ve met once or twice, Mike and Lee. Mike
gave him an Action Man. He’d bought if off Billy, a smackhead shoplifter, and the
same guy who’d sold him the Alanis Morrisette album. He didn’t tell Shirley
that, not that he thought it would bother her if she knew. It wouldn’t, he just . . .
didn’t tell her.
‘Oh, ih’s awright. Jist playin wi ihs pals n
that, watchin ihs teletubbies. Yi ever watched thaim? They’re freaky, like. La-la,
Dipsy. Wan ih thum’s goat a handbag, n it’s a boy!’
‘The hings thi watch, ih . . .’
‘Aye. Thi’re no is guid is the programmes we
hid.’
Shirley’s thinking of Lee. Mixed in with Russell,
she can see a lot of herself in him. She loves him so much; sometimes she wants to throw
him against a wall.
‘Well, ah’m a bit aulder thin you,’
Mike reminds her.
‘Aye? What were the programmes you hid
like?’
Mike thinks back, then shrugs.
‘Awright.’
Shirley has a few more bottles of Hooch, Mike a few more Specials, they wonder (Mike
wonders, hopes) whether to go to Caesar’s or Jack’s; they decide against it
– it’s a Thursday, student night.
‘Yi intae gittin a taxi up tae ma bit?’
Shirley says.
‘What aboot the babysitter?’
‘What, Karen? Shi’s it ma
brither’s.’
Mike takes a deep breath and exhales.
‘Aye, ah suppose so.’
‘You smoke dope, ih?’ says Shirley.
‘Me, aye.’
‘Yi wantin ti skin up while ah’m makin the
tea.’
Mike looks around the living room: drug paraphernalia:
bongs, skins, loose tobacco, a plastic Coke bottle cut in half.
‘Ah cannae skin up.’
‘Well, yi wantin a pipe?’
‘Aye, goan then.’
Shirley finds the pipe, the dope, and has hers first.
A deep inhalation, then a few seconds of holding it in, then a confident, easy exhalation.
Mike’s the opposite. He burns his lips, poisons
his lungs, goes into a coughing fit, and has to have a drink of water.
‘Fuckin Christ,’ he says, staring at the
pipe. ‘Ah think this hing’s fucked . . .’
Mike’s on the chair, he sat there on purpose. There’s a two-seater couch –
worn green leather, the chairs aren’t leather or green, they’re grey – and
Mike’s willing Shirley to sit down on that.
She doesn’t. The telly’s on when she comes
through, something about Take That’s last single.
‘They’re fuckin fannies, ih?’ Mike
says.
He’s hoping it’ll be a comment she hears as
she passes, on the way to the couch. He’s forgotten about the tea, which she has to
stop to hand to him.
Then, unexpectedly – for Mike – she lowers
herself onto her knees, at the side of the chair, so that she’s facing Mike, and then
turns to face the telly.
‘Ah always liked thaim.’
‘Did yi?’
‘Aye.’
There’s silence. Onscreen, teenyboppers are
bubbling in the streets. Shirley reaches up and touches Mike’s hair; Mike flinches
like Lee flinches. She keeps touching, running her fingers through it.
Mike softly takes a hold of her hand and turns to look
at her. His piggy eyes, his bushy moustache – they’d be amusing if they
weren’t so serious and solemn.
‘Ah’ve goat somehin ah want ti tell
yi,’ he says. ‘It’s aboot . . . us n that.’
The atmosphere is heavier. Mike feels it against his
chest.
‘What aboot us?’
‘Well, it’s no jist aboot us. It’s
aboot . . . sex.’
Shirley grins, can’t help it.
‘What aboot it?’
A pause, then:
‘Di you think it’s serious, ti you?’
‘What di yi mean?’
‘Ah mean, could you go oot wi somebody, live wi
thum, withoot it.’
‘Withoot shaggin?’
‘Aye.’
She laughs, out of nerves. Mike starts touching her
hair. She’s drunk, so everything’s a bit hazy.
Mike thinks it’s better to blurt it out: ‘Ah
really like you, Shirley, and ah’d like us ti keep seein each ither. Bit the thing
is, ah’ve goat somehin wrang wi mi. Ah’m impotent, yi see. Ah cannae hae
sex.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye.’
Shirley’s confused, trying to take it all in. She
likes the feel of his fingers in her hair, though, she likes that.
‘So, the hing is, ah’d like us ti keep seein
each ither. Ti be like boyfriend n girlfriend – ah ken this is weird – n
that, n ah’ll help wi Lee, ah’m guid wi bairns, you ken that – this is
weird, like – bit jist that wan hing. We dinnae dae that wan hing.’
Shirley’s pretending to think, waiting for the
right moment to talk.
‘Ah mean,’ Mike improvises, ‘if yi
wantit, really wantit, ti go wi somebiddy else, then ah’d lit yi, ‘s long is it
wis just fir that wan hing. N is long is yi didnae rub it in ma face. If yi really wantit
. . .’
‘Aye,’ Shirley says, finally. She’s
nodding. ‘Aye. N ah dinnae think ah’ll need that.’
‘What?’ Mike asks.
‘Gaun wi somebiddy else.’
Mike smiles, and ruffles her hair.
‘Hiy! It took mi ages ti git the tangles oot ih
this!’ Shirley tells him, running her own hands through it.
A moment of panic for Mike, he’s forgot to ask
-
‘Wan hing ah want yi ti dae, though, is
promise yi’ll nivir tell anybody.’
Another pause, something like that should never be
replied to straight away.
‘Aye, ah promise. Ah’ll no tell
anybody.’
A few more words and the whole moment’s finished
with, but it hangs around. It needs something to ease it along, something to change the
atmosphere.
Shirley offers to show Mike how to take spats, and
that’s just what it needs. It lifts, they go through to the kitchen, where Mike,
holding his breath at the wrong time, blows his straight off the knife.
Mike is okay about cuddling women; non-sexual, no feelings of revulsion there, it’s
fine, so long as he doesn’t think of wombs, gall bladders – Mike often wonders
why women are so specific about a sore belly, a pain in ma gall bladder; makes him
sick – ovaries and all the other stuff slithering around in there . . .
And everything’s gone better than feared, so
he’s happy and contented. At two a.m. he ends up lying on the couch, watching the
telly, with Shirley lying on top of him. He has his hand wrapped around her neck and can
smell her smoky breath fighting with his Aramis and her perfume. The Cable’s back
working, and they’re watching MTV. Mike’s mumbling his opinion on a pop star,
how he’d like to knock seven bells of shit out of the guy.
Shirley’s laughing, contented. Occasionally
there’s been boyfriends long-term enough to enjoy moments like these; occasionally.
A minute later they’re both slipping away into
sleep. |
Iain Bahlaj lives in Fife, Scotland. His short stories have
appeared in Front & Centre, Fife Fringe, Chapman and The Macallan Shorts 3 and 5. His
novel Tilt was published in 2003 (Pulp Books, London). The short story
"Sugar" is a prequel to Tilt. Iain currently works as a night-shift
shelf-stacker, while working on a football screenplay in his free time. e-mail: