The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Read online

  Praise for

  ‘A dark, powerful tale of survival, morality and loyalty’

  Scotsman

  ‘Clever, entertaining and engaging’

  Robert Dunbar, Irish Times

  ‘The Bombs That Brought Us Together has all the warmth and humour of Mr Dog whilst also dealing with some pretty heavyweight issues, including immigration and cultural identity … Phenomenal’

  Sarah Crossan

  ‘In this novel Brian Conaghan shows us that he is an absolute master at creating believable, funny, brave and vulnerable young male characters’

  School Librarian

  ‘It’s incredibly powerful and thought-provoking on big issuessuch as nationalism, war and refugees, and poses somechallenging moral questions. It’s also brilliantly funnywith characters that you will really root for’

  Editor’s Choice, Bookseller

  Praise for

  ‘So surprising and charming it wouldbe hard not to feel uplifted’

  Observer

  ‘Energetic, confident and compassionate …

  He is one to watch’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ‘Beautifully observed and hilariously uncomfortable’

  Guardian

  ‘The book is funny, fascinating and perfectly realised’

  Irish Independent

  ‘Funny, poignant, rude, life-affirming’

  Bookseller

  ‘A very human story of relationships and loyalty’

  Irish Examiner

  By Brian Conaghan

  When Mr Dog Bites

  The Bombs That Brought Us Together

  By Brian Conaghan and Sarah Crossan

  We Come Apart

  Hey … this book is for you!

  Contents

  Seed’s Salon

  Danny Distant

  Pins and Needles

  Teacher Tries Her Best

  Positive Thinking

  In Arms

  #1 … incomplete

  Teens Exposed

  Ryan Gosling Goes to Bingo

  Teens Get Acquainted

  #2 … incomplete

  Junk Food Friday

  December

  Dumb and Dumber

  Sleep

  Dining Out

  Stars at Night

  #3 … complete

  Music

  Mum’s Present

  Sweet and Sour

  Mum Cradles Her Boys

  #4 … complete

  Cold Margherita

  #5 … incomplete

  Dan Does His Homework

  Alphabet Chat

  Skinheads

  Blowback

  Stubborn Stones

  Just Passing

  #6 … complete

  The Great Outdoors

  Bed and Breakfast Club

  Sleep Watcher

  #7 … incomplete

  Mother

  The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

  Slopes

  #8 … complete

  Jaggy Head Kiss

  The Residential

  Playing Charades

  Revelations

  #9 … complete

  Shoot ’Em Up

  The Exposer

  Cider and Black

  Booze and Upbeat Tunes

  The Last of the Normal Things

  Failed Poet

  The Night of

  #10 … complete

  Funeral

  Not Being Macbeth

  #11 … complete

  Candy Crush

  #12 … complete

  New Dreams

  Press Play

  About the Author

  Seed’s Salon

  Mum is dead.

  I find her propped up in her chair, hands resting gently against her lap. No rings, free from bling, just the way the little boy in me remembers. Her open eyes are like two sparkly saucers staring at the television; some chiselled-toothed guy is trying to punt an all-singing, all-dancing mop. £11.99 all in. Bargain.

  I cuff her face four, maybe five, times, until my slaps morph into strokes. Long, soft ones. Her skin feels like December. I think about mouth-to-mouth, but there’s no point. I stand tall and stare at her, my dead mother, as if she’s an art exhibit.

  Dead still.

  Still beautiful.

  I tighten my eyes, try to cry, then lean in, scroll her lids shut, kiss her wintery forehead and whisper, ‘Goodbye, Mum.’

  I’ve had that dream so many times, and it always ends the same way: me pecking her and whispering variations of goodbye. However, what made last night’s dream different was where she died: it’s rare she pops her clogs in the living room. Usually happens in her bedroom, in her own bed, surrounded by her own stuff. Because the bedroom is where Mum will go to live when she deteriorates. And she will deteriorate, because that’s what happens with MS – it creeps up and bites sufferers on the arse when they’re least expecting it.

  So you’re having zero symptoms?

  Life chugging along as normal, is it?

  What, you think you’ve defeated me? ME?

  Well, let’s just do something about that.

  BOOM!

  Here’s another attack for you.

  How’s that for a relapse?

  Now, get yourself back to Go.

  MS is a slow burner. Waxes, wanes, skips along. Sometimes I wish she had the big C instead; at least the big C can be found, fought and defeated. Let’s leave it at that.

  It’s Saturday. Last weekend of freedom before school restarts. Zero homework. But chores galore to do, as always.

  I try as best I can to pamper Mum:

  ‘Jesus, Bobby, I’m not a horse, be gentle.’

  ‘I am being gentle.’

  ‘Well, pretend I’m a baby then.’

  ‘Way too creepy.’

  ‘I pity the girl who gets you, Bobby Seed.’

  ‘Oh, really, is that right?’

  ‘Ouch! That’s sore.’

  ‘Sorry, brush slipped,’ I say, smacking her dome with it.

  Takes me generations to brush it. No joke. You could watch The Sound of Music during our session. I count the strokes, usually well over a hundred, until we’re both satisfied. No way Mum could do a hundred strokes herself. Ten knackers her. She does try but then looks as if she’s arrived somewhere on the back of a motorbike sans helmet.

  ‘I’m telling you, Mum, you could definitely get a job in a farmer’s field.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet or I’ll tell you where your real mother lives.’

  ‘Just sit still.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s Her Majesty’s Prison something or other.’

  Mum’s hair is like strands of silk. Still dark, still on the long side of short.

  Wet.

  Brush.

  Stroke.

  Sometimes she’ll lob the odd grenade into the mix by requesting a plait. No bother, Mum, do I look like Vidal Sassoon? I keep telling her I’m more your pull-back-and-ponytail type of hairdresser though. In her youth she had hair like a black pearl. Her words not mine.

  We find the action peaceful and therapeutic; allows for a physical contact that’s full of quality. Space to relax and reflect. Actually, balls to that. She needs me, she relies on me and, well … she’s my mother, isn’t she? I know I’m supposed to love her, but it takes no effort. I love her from sole to summit. Life’s not all darkness and thinking ill of the ill. We do laugh, honestly.

  ‘Do your hairdresser, Bobby,’ she asks.

  Shirt tucked tight. Hair back and parted. Mannerisms exaggerated. Voice effeminate. I assume my position behind her.

  ‘OMG! Your hair is total gorge, Anne.’

  ‘Think so
?’

  ‘Know how many of my customers would kill for locks like that?’

  ‘Many?’

  ‘Too bloody many.’

  Wet.

  Brush.

  Stroke.

  ‘Going out tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Few drinks with the girls just.’

  ‘Up to Memory Lane?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘I snogged the barman up there once. Like a washing machine on full spin so he was. Thought I was going to pass out with dizziness.’

  ‘Is he not married?’

  ‘Erm … he said nothing to me.’

  Wet.

  Brush.

  Stroke.

  ‘Going on any holidays, Anne?’

  ‘Magaluf with the girls just.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a pure riot over there.’

  ‘You been?’

  ‘Two summers in my early twenties.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Can’t tell you about it, they’ll lock me up.’

  ‘Sounds a hoot.’

  ‘Pure MEN-tal. Oh, don’t get me started.’

  Mum’s pretty good right now, but there’ve been loads of days when she’s too shattered to laugh, too sore to speak. Then my brushing feels tired and tragic. But even then I know I’ll miss these moments in Seed’s Salon. Give me misery over nothing any day.

  Danny Distant

  While looking after Mum is physically draining, it’s that little brother of mine who takes up tons of my emotional energy. Affectionately known as Danny or Dan by those close to him, i.e. Mum and me. To the cruel, he is Danny Distant; I’ll spare any vile anecdotes. There’s no official diagnosis for what Dan has – Mum didn’t want one. She didn’t want him branded like some swine awaiting slaughter. Danny is just different … idiosyncratic … distant. Not a crime. No need to pin a hefty life label on him, is there?

  Danny compressed:

  Three-year-old: no issues. Typical toddler.

  Six-year-old: hadn’t progressed beyond the world of the three-year-old. Eyebrows raised. Loads of furtive whispers.

  Ten-year-old: hovered in six land … Oh, Christ, that poor boy!

  And so on.

  You get the idea.

  Now fourteen, three years my junior, Danny teeters around the nine or ten mark. Sometimes older, sometimes younger. Depends on the day. But our Danny is made of greatness. I know it. Mum knows it. Think Bel knows it too.

  I’m not the only nominee for the Social Bravery Award. Bel sometimes helps out, especially with Danny; she’s my girl friend. Not girlfriend. She’s a friend who happens to inhabit a female body. We’re pals. Probably best pals. Although I think she’d like to move the goalposts on the whole pals act thingy.

  Evidence? OK, here’s the evidence: once upon a Friday (last week) we bought some nasty cider from the no ID required shop and bolted back to mine. We were thinking of starting a ritual called Drowning Our Sorrows Friday. This was to be our opening night; getting a bit tipsy and giddy would help take our minds off stuff. Bel has her own shit to contend with: cliché boozed-up father. He’s got her date of birth tattooed on his knuckles. I know, enough said.

  Anyway, cutting a dead long story short, we got cider-rattled and Bel tried to plank the lips on me. Then she threw out the L-bomb. I pretended to be drunker than I was, slapping her on the thigh and squealing: ‘Shut your trap, Bel. You’re totally pissed out your knickers.’

  Conveniently that little episode has been forgotten, not a word spoken about it since.

  Oh, what happened yesterday? I can’t remember a thing.

  Me neither.

  I’m never drinking again.

  Me neither.

  To be honest, I’m still spitting a bit as all that lips and love shit could’ve put a massive dent in our palship. And Bel’s the only real friend I have. Real gem.

  It helps that Danny trusts her and has no problems allowing Bel to enter his world. It’s a beautiful thing seeing both of them in action.

  ‘If anyone at school calls me Danny Distant again, I’m going to dynamite their balls,’ he says.

  ‘Do those people love you, Dan?’ Bel says.

  ‘No. Stupid.’

  ‘Do they even know what you’re good at?’

  ‘They don’t know shit from shampoo.’

  ‘But Bobby and me and your mum love you and we know you’re amazing at most things.’

  ‘I’m amazing at eating pizza.’

  ‘Exactly. I bet none of those guys at school are.’

  ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Dicks.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Arsehole punchers …’

  ‘Right,’ Bel says. ‘Get yourself off that couch and go get groomed online, or whatever boys your age do.’

  She has that ability to drag him back into life. I take comfort in seeing her play both mother and big sister. We’re both lucky to have her.

  Anyway, Drowning Our Sorrows Friday is a non-starter for a glut of reasons, but mainly because boozing is like gargling on your own vomit: Bel’s battling against becoming a chip off the old block, while I need to be my best Bobby Seed, you know, just in case.

  I guess you could say we’re just your archetypal damaged nuclear family. Although my brain tells me we’re about to become more nuclear.

  Pins and Needles

  It kicked off with the occasional pangs of pins and needles in her feet, before moving steadily to her legs. I was twelve. Tingles frequently began creeping up the right side of her body. This went on for months. Mum told no one. She only visited the doctor when those black spots started to skew her vision. That’s when she felt everything collapsing, she said.

  My memory is different though. I’m fourteen. We’re doing the big shop in Asda. For some reason Danny isn’t with us, can’t remember why. Maybe a school thing.

  Trolley’s bulging at the seams. Mum’s pushing. I’m looking for things to have, eat, want. I usually persuaded Mum to let me drink a Coke while walking around, putting the empty can through the checkout at the end. (Shhh, didn’t do this ever. I shelved it before we got there. Not exactly aggravated robbery, but still. Mum never found out.)

  ‘Can we have Pot Noodles for dinner, Mum?’

  ‘No chance. Broccoli and kale tonight.’

  ‘Don’t even know what that is,’ I said.

  ‘It’s brain food.’

  ‘Aw, really?’

  ‘Yup, and stacks of it is required since yours is so weak.’

  ‘Why can’t we have what other families have?’

  ‘Oh, stop being a teenager, Bobby, or I’ll abandon you in aisle six. Do something useful – reach up and get that cranberry juice for me.’

  I’m on tiptoes, hand in the sky, pure Superman pose, when I hear a deflating puff of air from behind. Mum’s slouched over the trolley.

  ‘Mum! What happened? … Mum, you OK?’ Didn’t know whether to drag her off the fruit and veg mountain or leave her be.

  ‘Help me up, Bobby.’

  She’s upright.

  ‘Just felt really dizzy there for a second.’

  ‘Here, drink this.’ I handed her the Coke I was saving. ‘Drink loads of it. Might help.’

  She sipped. I could tell it wasn’t going down well.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Better,’ she said.

  The colour returned to her cheeks, but her expression screamed defeat.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m good, Bobby. I’m better.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest,’ she said. I didn’t believe her. ‘Did you get that cranberry juice?’

  I launched my frame up again and scooped a carton off the shelf. Jammed it into the trolley.

  ‘Mum, can I get a Starbar?’ I imagined munching it, feeling the chocolate paint my mouth, knowing full well she’d say, ‘No chance.’ Mum thought apples were treats while chocolate bars were the devil’s diet. But I always asked. She always refused. Our
recurring joke.

  ‘You can have what you want, son,’ she said.

  ‘Mum, seriously, are you OK?’

  ‘Just tired, Bobby.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Maybe push the trolley. I don’t have the energy.’

  But the wheels made it easy to push, even with weight in it. I didn’t say that. It was clear she couldn’t shove it another yard. That trolley could’ve been overflowing with steam and she’d have been too weak for it.

  ‘Course I’ll push,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s get you a Starbar.’

  I no longer wanted one.

  I wanted my mum.

  I wanted her to take the piss out of me, embarrass me, put me in my place with the slice of a sentence. But that day I understood, a good two years after those pins and needles started nipping away, that I’d be getting a new mum, a totally different one. And my heart was broken. Torn to shreds in fucking Asda.

  Teacher Tries Her Best

  I can’t get back to sleep after another dead mother dream. I wait for the sun to smile. Thinking a thousand tiny thoughts:

  Should I have a fiddle?

  When reciting the alphabet, why do I say L-M-N-O-P really quickly?

  What’s another word for ‘thesaurus’?

  If I had a sealed envelope with my death date written inside, would I open it?

  Why us?

  First week back at school after summer and all I want is to rest my head on the desk. Turn my bag into a pillow. This double life of domestic god and diligent schoolboy sure rips strips off your strength.

  The teacher’s up front rabbiting on about something: white noise. Bel’s doodling and shaking her knee under the desk as if desperate for a pee. My head’s heavy, a swaying tree.

  I feel a dunt in the ribs. Sore. I guess I’d rather take a rib punch than a lip plant though.

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘That was painful.’

  ‘You were practically sleeping on me,’ Bel says.

  ‘Right, OK, but no need to –’

  ‘Do I look like the Premier fucking Inn?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ I say.

  ‘No wonder, listening to this shit.’ Bel nods towards the teacher.

  ‘What’s happening?’