but since it'd been with him all this time he'd come to take much of her behaviour as normal. But this wasn't normal.
All the plans and schemes and silly ideas she'd had. He had liked to think of her as vaguely eccentric, perhaps even extravagantly eccentric, but it was more than that. Worse than that. And now, what about this reaction? How could she possibly be enthusiastic about him killing Wullie? Killing anybody? What mother could be so welcoming about her son committing such an act?
What was he doing here and what advice could he possibly get from her that would be of any use? Christ, he'd been a fool. He'd been a fool to tell her what he'd been thinking in the first place, and he was a fool to come here tonight with a bloody corpse in the boot of his car.
'Accidentally. With a pair of scissors,' he mumbled, wondering why he was bothering to tell her.
She tutted loudly, displeased at the lack of drama in the description.
'Was there a lot of blood?'
'Aye,' he mumbled. 'A lot of blood.'
He stared at the floor. He had no business here. There were no great answers to his problems to be found in the home of his insane mother. He was going to have to solve them himself.
'What have you done with the corpse?' she asked, the glint returning to the eye. He didn't notice, so much attention was he giving to the carpet. His heart had sunk. He was scared.
'It's downstairs, in the boot of the car. Wrapped in several large plastic bin liners.'
'Crike! Bring it up then. I'll make soup!'
Barney looked up, aghast. 'Mother!'
She smiled, had the decency to look slightly embarrassed, but he knew it was feigned. They cast a quick glance at the television as the presenter produced a bag of thick, lumpy green liquid, but Cemolina was too intrigued with Barney's predicament to raise the sound. Barney turned away from the TV with a look of disgust. Cemolina came with him, her finger momentarily twitching over the volume button.
'Well, what are you going to do with it then?'
He let his head hang low, enveloped, as he was, with dejection. 'I don't know, Mum, I really don't know.'
She stared at him; he stared at the ground, there being very little else for him to say. He had to leave and get on with things, but when he got outside there was a body which he was going to have to dispose of and he had no idea how he was going to do it.
Slowly he dragged himself out of his seat and stood up.
'Look, Mum, I really ought to be going. I shouldn't have come here and brought you into this. It's my problem to solve...'
'Now, none of your nonsense,' she chided, 'you sit right back down and we'll talk this through, all right? I'm your mother and I'm here to help.'
He paused at her words, grudgingly lowered himself back into his seat, his reluctance to get help from his mother fighting his desperate need for help from anywhere.
'Now, tell me everything that happened and we'll see what we can do.'
Barney stared at her. What options did he have? He hardly had any friends with whom he could share the story. Wondered if he could go to the Samaritans; didn't think they had a murder line. So maybe it would do him some good to tell his mother, even if there was nothing she could do to help him. And all the while, something at the back of his mind was hoping that she would advise him to go to the police and get it over with. It wasn't a decision he could possibly make for himself, but he knew it'd be the right thing to do.
He laid the story out for her, trying not to miss anything out. For almost all of it she sat quietly taking it in, except for pitching in to suggest that he really ought to have killed Charlie Johnstone when he'd had the chance. When he was finished he was distraught and rested his head back against the seat, trying to stop the tears spilling over onto his face. His hands were shaking and now that he had related it all and confronted the full awfulness of his situation, he was close to panic.
He opened his eyes to Cemolina bending
All the plans and schemes and silly ideas she'd had. He had liked to think of her as vaguely eccentric, perhaps even extravagantly eccentric, but it was more than that. Worse than that. And now, what about this reaction? How could she possibly be enthusiastic about him killing Wullie? Killing anybody? What mother could be so welcoming about her son committing such an act?
What was he doing here and what advice could he possibly get from her that would be of any use? Christ, he'd been a fool. He'd been a fool to tell her what he'd been thinking in the first place, and he was a fool to come here tonight with a bloody corpse in the boot of his car.
'Accidentally. With a pair of scissors,' he mumbled, wondering why he was bothering to tell her.
She tutted loudly, displeased at the lack of drama in the description.
'Was there a lot of blood?'
'Aye,' he mumbled. 'A lot of blood.'
He stared at the floor. He had no business here. There were no great answers to his problems to be found in the home of his insane mother. He was going to have to solve them himself.
'What have you done with the corpse?' she asked, the glint returning to the eye. He didn't notice, so much attention was he giving to the carpet. His heart had sunk. He was scared.
'It's downstairs, in the boot of the car. Wrapped in several large plastic bin liners.'
'Crike! Bring it up then. I'll make soup!'
Barney looked up, aghast. 'Mother!'
She smiled, had the decency to look slightly embarrassed, but he knew it was feigned. They cast a quick glance at the television as the presenter produced a bag of thick, lumpy green liquid, but Cemolina was too intrigued with Barney's predicament to raise the sound. Barney turned away from the TV with a look of disgust. Cemolina came with him, her finger momentarily twitching over the volume button.
'Well, what are you going to do with it then?'
He let his head hang low, enveloped, as he was, with dejection. 'I don't know, Mum, I really don't know.'
She stared at him; he stared at the ground, there being very little else for him to say. He had to leave and get on with things, but when he got outside there was a body which he was going to have to dispose of and he had no idea how he was going to do it.
Slowly he dragged himself out of his seat and stood up.
'Look, Mum, I really ought to be going. I shouldn't have come here and brought you into this. It's my problem to solve...'
'Now, none of your nonsense,' she chided, 'you sit right back down and we'll talk this through, all right? I'm your mother and I'm here to help.'
He paused at her words, grudgingly lowered himself back into his seat, his reluctance to get help from his mother fighting his desperate need for help from anywhere.
'Now, tell me everything that happened and we'll see what we can do.'
Barney stared at her. What options did he have? He hardly had any friends with whom he could share the story. Wondered if he could go to the Samaritans; didn't think they had a murder line. So maybe it would do him some good to tell his mother, even if there was nothing she could do to help him. And all the while, something at the back of his mind was hoping that she would advise him to go to the police and get it over with. It wasn't a decision he could possibly make for himself, but he knew it'd be the right thing to do.
He laid the story out for her, trying not to miss anything out. For almost all of it she sat quietly taking it in, except for pitching in to suggest that he really ought to have killed Charlie Johnstone when he'd had the chance. When he was finished he was distraught and rested his head back against the seat, trying to stop the tears spilling over onto his face. His hands were shaking and now that he had related it all and confronted the full awfulness of his situation, he was close to panic.
He opened his eyes to Cemolina bending
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