himself that this was what he'd wanted, that he had planned to kill Wullie anyway, but deep down he knew there was no way that he'd have been able to do it, had not fate forced his hand. And now he prepared to turn to his mother. Forty-six years old and still the same solution to his problems as he had had forty-four years previously when he'd broken a toy or spilled tomato ketchup on his bib.
He was still contemplating the fickle hand he'd been dealt when he walked into his mother's house. He called out to announce his arrival, a shout which was, as usual, greeted by silence. He could hear the television playing in the sitting room and imagined she would be engrossed in some dreadful quiz show.
He opened the door, immediately started coughing as the great wall of cigarette smoke swept into his lungs. It was always the same on days when she'd been sitting watching television all day and it was only very rarely that she ever opened a window; in itself something that was only ever likely to happen between the end of June and the beginning of September.
He walked into the room, extravagantly waving his arms in front of him, still coughing loudly.
'For God's sake, I wish you'd open a blooming window in this place if you're going to smoke so much, Mother,' and he walked between her and the television to pull back the curtains and let in some fresh air. Cemolina scowled at him but she was more concerned with the television and Give Us Your Body Fluids .
He stood by the window breathing deeply, as much for show as clean air, before moving back into the room when he realised that she was paying him no attention. He slumped down into a seat, leant forward, rested his forearms on his knees, looked keenly at his mother. He stared at her for a while, hoping she would notice him. However, her attention was undivided. This show was her favourite. Finally, he felt bound to speak.
'Mum, I've got to talk to you. I'm in trouble.'
She didn't answer for a while, then eventually lifted a dismissive hand, waving it in his direction.
'Shh! Not when they're trying to guess whose fluids these are. Who d'you think? This bloke says Alfred Hitchcock, but I thought they looked more like Robert Altman's. What about you?' She turned, gave him a brief look.
Barney faced the realisation that all the women in his life were more interested in television than they were in him.
'Mum, I need to talk. I'm in trouble. Real trouble.' He hesitated, but he had her attention at last. 'I've killed Wullie.'
Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. The expression held on her face for a few seconds and he definitely knew he had her complete attention when she lowered the volume of the television. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a glint in her eye, a smile forming upon her lips.
'Wullie! You've killed Wullie did you say?'
'Aye, aye I did. Christ, mum, I'm in real trouble. Real trouble,' and he ran his hands through his hair and looked at her with desperation. Comfort me, his face said, I need it.
'Jings! Well done, I didn't think you had it in you.'
'What?' he said. Despite the night before, it wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting.
'Well, you wanted to, didn't you? You said you wanted to kill him. I'm proud of you.' She paused, reflected. 'Although, d'you not think it would have been better if you'd taken care of the papist first? Can't stand they bastards, so I can't. Bastards the lot of them.'
He looked upon her with wonder. How could she take it so lightly?
'Well, then, how did you do it? What was the instrument of his destruction? And don't tell me it was poison or I'll be right upset, so I will.'
When the scales fell from his eyes, they did so quickly and dramatically, cascading and tumbling away in a frantic rush. He looked upon his mother in a new light. She was mad. Of course she was. Completely mad. Perhaps it was senility but if he thought about it, he was sure he could think of examples of her madness throughout the years. She'd always been insane
He was still contemplating the fickle hand he'd been dealt when he walked into his mother's house. He called out to announce his arrival, a shout which was, as usual, greeted by silence. He could hear the television playing in the sitting room and imagined she would be engrossed in some dreadful quiz show.
He opened the door, immediately started coughing as the great wall of cigarette smoke swept into his lungs. It was always the same on days when she'd been sitting watching television all day and it was only very rarely that she ever opened a window; in itself something that was only ever likely to happen between the end of June and the beginning of September.
He walked into the room, extravagantly waving his arms in front of him, still coughing loudly.
'For God's sake, I wish you'd open a blooming window in this place if you're going to smoke so much, Mother,' and he walked between her and the television to pull back the curtains and let in some fresh air. Cemolina scowled at him but she was more concerned with the television and Give Us Your Body Fluids .
He stood by the window breathing deeply, as much for show as clean air, before moving back into the room when he realised that she was paying him no attention. He slumped down into a seat, leant forward, rested his forearms on his knees, looked keenly at his mother. He stared at her for a while, hoping she would notice him. However, her attention was undivided. This show was her favourite. Finally, he felt bound to speak.
'Mum, I've got to talk to you. I'm in trouble.'
She didn't answer for a while, then eventually lifted a dismissive hand, waving it in his direction.
'Shh! Not when they're trying to guess whose fluids these are. Who d'you think? This bloke says Alfred Hitchcock, but I thought they looked more like Robert Altman's. What about you?' She turned, gave him a brief look.
Barney faced the realisation that all the women in his life were more interested in television than they were in him.
'Mum, I need to talk. I'm in trouble. Real trouble.' He hesitated, but he had her attention at last. 'I've killed Wullie.'
Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. The expression held on her face for a few seconds and he definitely knew he had her complete attention when she lowered the volume of the television. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a glint in her eye, a smile forming upon her lips.
'Wullie! You've killed Wullie did you say?'
'Aye, aye I did. Christ, mum, I'm in real trouble. Real trouble,' and he ran his hands through his hair and looked at her with desperation. Comfort me, his face said, I need it.
'Jings! Well done, I didn't think you had it in you.'
'What?' he said. Despite the night before, it wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting.
'Well, you wanted to, didn't you? You said you wanted to kill him. I'm proud of you.' She paused, reflected. 'Although, d'you not think it would have been better if you'd taken care of the papist first? Can't stand they bastards, so I can't. Bastards the lot of them.'
He looked upon her with wonder. How could she take it so lightly?
'Well, then, how did you do it? What was the instrument of his destruction? And don't tell me it was poison or I'll be right upset, so I will.'
When the scales fell from his eyes, they did so quickly and dramatically, cascading and tumbling away in a frantic rush. He looked upon his mother in a new light. She was mad. Of course she was. Completely mad. Perhaps it was senility but if he thought about it, he was sure he could think of examples of her madness throughout the years. She'd always been insane
Similar Books
