Apples by Richard Milward

OCD.
    ‘Can you pass us a mint, love?’ my mum asked. I had to shut the tin a couple of times or else she’d choke on it. Mum was always chewing mints since she was chaining Mayfairs so much, and slowly the smoking had contorted her face into a mountain-face. Maybe that’s why my dad was going mad all the time – his wife was getting quite horrible, but at least he had someone to love. I didn’t have that reassurance yet that I wouldn’t be dying alone in some Easterside flat, and it was scary. That night at the Grove mixed me up – I couldn’t see myself with any of the girls in there, and at school I wasn’t exactly Casanova neither. It didn’t make a difference – that evening over fish-finger sarnies my parents decided to suspend my pocket money, which was only five pound but still though.

    ‘Just going to the toilet,’ I said, getting up. I had to slam the bathroom door four times, and I’m surprised they didn’t shout at me or follow me up. The having to shut things all the time was starting to grate on me – everything to me seemed like a Pandora’s Box, as if leaving something slightly ajar would launch a thousand scares and nightmares into the big bad world. I was always paranoid. I sighed on the toilet seat, and I felt like an absolute daft cunt. Just to avoid my parents for a bit, I sat looking at the circles on the wallpaper and wondered if to spite them I should wank all over the place. I hated them. Firework night was the worst, about a month down the line, staying in watching Corrie while all the bangs went off outside. It must’ve been a Friday because Dad was at the Beechwood Easterside, and sitting in with my mum was soul-destroying. I had to sit with my head down while she puff-puffed, though in the corner of your eye you could catch odd sparky colour outside and shit yourself at all the booms.
    ‘Ooh, did you hear that one,’ was all she could say. Of course you did – it was blitzkrieg, and I wanted to be out there. Mum was a lot more amiable than my dad, but she was dead boring and she always went along with whatever he said. How are your kids meant to go anywhere in life if you just ground them all the time? All I could do was sit around staring at walls, fantasising about bonfires and Catherine wheels and sparkles. Funnily enough Burny hadn’t invited me out since we went down the Grove, but there was the Christmas disco on its way and I figured we’d hook up for that. In the past I never bothered with the discos and suchlike, too scared about dancing or fighting or being embarrassing but I saw it as a good excuse for them to let me out again.

    ‘That was a loud one,’ Mum said, these red stars dropping round the rooftops. There was a bonfire down Saltersgill field, and I had in my head all the fun going on underneath the light show. And in contrast the sheer hell staring at the Rover’s Return on telly. It was the nearest I’d been to a pint of lager since for ever. Dad had started keeping his bedroom in strict order, so now there was no chance finding a bottle of booze or porno mag or anything – it was just wall-to-wall boredom. Mum worked at Greggs in the Village and she often brought home pastries and whatnot, but sitting in stuffing your face was pretty miserable too. I crunched into a chicken bake, wallowing in pain and eating it so slowly on purpose.
    ‘God I nearly had a heart attack!’ the stupid cow said. I didn’t speak. We watched a really beautiful one – it was gold and exploded into five bits, and those bits exploded into five bits, and so did those bits. I tried to make a wish, and it had something to do with girls and discos and stuff like that. I carried on the stubborn act for the rest of November.

Chapter Nine
     

Doggy
     
     

Eve
     
    When Natasha had her hen night I wore the mauve dress and the appropriate shoes, these little purple fellows with the fake Jimmy Choo logo. We pushed through the peeling doors of the Social, then strode to the