M Word Read online

  ‘Maggie!’

  I sense myself being angry with Mum. Probably thoughts of her watching soaps like a complete saddo night after night. Spending chunks of our food money on cheap wine and fags. Any wonder she’s in a fug?

  ‘Sorry for breaking that,’ I go.

  ‘It’s fine – just clean it up.’

  What a night, like a ride without a seat belt.

  I manage to snaffle one of the shards of glass without Mum snaring me.

  *

  I feel that other stuff happening. It’s a real slow-burner, sneaking up and kind of occupying my body. First comes the little voice in my head, then it’s the tingling sensation. As if my skin’s starving for me to do it, pure salivating for its dinner.

  God, I so badly want to do it. It’s a proper need.

  I’m all nerves and excitement. Give me something. I’ll use anything. Smashed bottle. Sharp tooth. Snapped chopstick. Crushed can. Any one of them could do a job on me. But what gets top billing is this shard of glass glistening in my hand. It’s time. And I’m aware of how much of a fucking eejit I’m being. I am. It takes all my willpower to do it. Takes a superhuman effort not to.

  Here’s what I do:

  I pull Larry, my cuddly toy, to my chest. Stroke my cheek against his. Kiss his tiny lamb nose. Lift his floppy ear and whisper:

  Mum’s completely losing the plot by the way.

  Moya’s like, Could be that menopause, Mags.

  I’m like, Menopause?

  You know, when they lose all the feeling in their fanny and stuff?

  Think so?

  I’d say so.

  I’m like, God, hope I don’t get that.

  She’s like, We’re women. It’s a cert.

  Shit!

  Do you not know anything, Mags?

  I take Larry, my secret, and put him in that crucifix position like she did that time. His little marble eyes and threaded grin calm me. I lie beside him. Her. Shard of glass resting in my palm.

  Mum might be feeling rubbish but I think I’m going completely fruit-loop. I plant my head on top of Larry’s belly, laying it there for about fifteen minutes solid. I don’t cry. I feel her hugging me back. Is that a tear on my cheek? SHIT STICK!

  Maggie? Moya goes.

  What? I go.

  Remember that last film we watched at the cinema?

  The dying girl one?

  Yeah.

  Was rubbish.

  I know, but remember she made that list for herself?

  The bucket list? I go.

  Maybe your mum could do her own list.

  She’s not dying, Moya.

  No, I know, but …

  But what?

  I feel it rising; someone’s switched on my internal blood kettle. Moya knows the signs. Her face relaxes. Leans away.

  Maybe there’s something your mum’s always wanted to do but hasn’t had the opportunity. Something that would make her happy?

  If I were a dog, my tail would be pointed skywards, gnashers on show, snarling. I pick Larry up, stare him/her out.

  Like, what sort of things are you thinking? I go.

  Well, she …

  What, get her nipples pierced?

  Her eyes sparkle.

  Something like that, she goes.

  Think Mum’s too old for the whole make-a-wish shit, Moya, don’t you?

  You’re never too old to wish.

  Maybe Moya’s got a point. Maybe I could just ask Mum if there’s anything she’d like to do in life; something that wouldn’t cost money, which narrows it down a bit. What costs nothing? Sauntering around shop windows? People-watching in town? Yeah, make a wish, Mum.

  I’m not asking my mum if she wants to pierce her nipples, OK?

  OK.

  So, get that image out of your head.

  What image?

  I mean it, Moya, don’t even think about it or I’ll kick the shit out of you.

  OK, unthinked, she goes.

  I hear her inhaling breath. But …

  Don’t!

  No, hear me out, Mags.

  I’m waiting, I go.

  She clears her throat.

  Maybe she just needs to find someone.

  What?

  Like a man friend or … she goes.

  I don’t speak, mainly cos if I do it’ll be a spew of swear words. And not the good ones either.

  I let her dig deeper. Maybe she needs to get herself a ride.

  From a boyfriend?

  Oh, you’re good.

  So, you want me to find her a boyfriend? That what you’re saying?

  Is that so bad?

  If Moya wasn’t … you know … I’d swear she’s been conspiring with Anna about the need to get my mum back on the man horse again. In more ways than one.

  And where will I find this boyfriend, Moya?

  You could look on …

  Shall I check my arse to see if one’s hiding up there?

  It’s just a thought, Mags, she goes.

  Just a thought?

  Yeah, that’s all.

  I fall back on the pillow.

  Just a thought, I say over and over in my head.

  Just a thought.

  And I find myself thinking about it too.

  One Minute

  ‘Do you know what catharsis is, my lovely?’ Anna goes.

  As always when she uses her intellectual words I glare at her: Speak English, woman, or I’m making a beeline for the exit.

  ‘No idea,’ I go.

  ‘Catharsis is like a purification of …’

  ‘Honestly, Anna, if you don’t start speaking the Queen’s, I’m done for the day.’

  ‘OK, let’s put it another way, shall we?’

  ‘No we about it. You put it another way.’

  ‘You know what emotions are, Maggie?’

  ‘Is that a question or a duh moment?’

  ‘It’s a rhetorical question …’

  I shake my head and talk to the floor: ‘What’s with these whopping words?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that the emotions we harness have to be released sometimes,’ she goes.

  ‘So we don’t bottle them?’ I go, deciding to play the game. ‘I know this already.’

  ‘I know you know it, but many of us have difficulties ridding ourselves of our negative emotions.’

  I sit very still and very straight. No rocking. No hair flicking. Or pouting.

  ‘There are techniques that we can use, Maggie.’

  ‘Bet there are.’

  ‘To help understand deep-rooted emotions.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to rid myself of them – ever thought of that?’

  ‘I firmly believe that specific emotions need to be flushed out, my love.’

  What is she, a healing plumber?

  ‘And that will help me?’ I go.

  ‘I’d hazard a yes.’

  ‘Oh, you’d hazard a yes, would you?’

  ‘People tend to feel better after a good emotional flushing.’

  ‘And that’s the meaning of that word you said?’

  ‘Catharsis?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Purging of the emotions. Letting them escape from your soul, body and mind.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  I slump further into the chair as well as my sanity.

  ‘It came from the Greek playwright—’

  ‘Stop!’ I go, putting my hand up. ‘Useless info.’

  ‘On the contrary, Maggie, talking is a terrific starting point.’

  ‘Talking about what, anything?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Please!’

  Anna draws in air, not like normal people would; she makes a massive deal about letting oxygen envelop her very being. Eyes closed. Looper.

  ‘Dealing with a traumatic event is difficult enough for adults to contend with, Maggie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know – not an adult, yet.’

  ‘But with the developing adolescent –’ she flat-palms her hand at me – ‘it could be a real emotional hindrance.’

  ‘I’m fine, Anna.’

  ‘On the outside, my darling. The exterior. What I’m interested in are the goings-on in here.’ Anna pounds her left boob.

  ‘Blood and guts. That’s what’s in here,’ I go, clobbering my own boob.

  She stands up, extends her arms like she’s about to hug the world, rummages through her bookcase, pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. I yank it begrudgingly cos I know what’s coming.

  ‘I want you to do something for me, sweetie.’

  She seems to think that playing these textbook mind games makes her all cutting edge and relevant; that she’s breaking new psycho-healing ground or something. Newsflash: she’s not.

  Example One: Brain Teaser

  A man carries his son into the hospital because his son has been terribly injured. The surgeon walks in and says, ‘Sorry, but I cannot operate on this boy … he is my son.’ Explain why this happened, Maggie?

  My answer: Who gives a shit? I’d let the boy die.

  Example Two: Word Association

  I say egg. You say, for example, omelette. I say sky. You say, for example, clouds. OK? Let’s start. I … say … I say … Dracula.

  My answer: Pure sex pest.

  Secretly I enjoy Anna’s games; it’s a break from rummaging through my own grief.

  She hands me a pen.

  ‘What’s this for?’ I go.

  ‘We’re going to do a little experiment called spontaneous writing.’

  ‘You mean, I’m going to be doing it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Magic.’

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetheart.’

  ‘Crack on.’

  ‘I
am going to time you for one minute and all you have to do is write whatever comes into your head.’

  ‘Like a story?’

  ‘Don’t think about it in terms of telling a narrative story, just write.’

  ‘Like any old crap?’

  ‘Just write.’

  ‘Just write?’

  ‘Don’t worry about spelling and punctuation.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘The exercise is simply to pop down anything that comes to mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will all become apparent.’

  I twiddle the pen between my fingers. Anna pulls her watch up to her face, all dramatic as if anyone cares.

  ‘OK, my lovely. You have one minute starting from … starting from … now. Go.’

  I gawk at her.

  ‘Write,’ she goes, egging me on as if I’m her daughter on the first day of school. ‘Go, on.’

  I put pen to paper.

  This is as useful as tits on a fish. as if I didnt have enough on my plate without this analysing the state of my mind shit. Mums having problems. I might have to find her someone to love. will that help her? who knows. Still trying to deal with being me, and dealing with stuff. mums lonely. Im lonely. feel like Im orphaned from society. don’t need any of this.

  Pause

  Pause

  Pause

  Thinking

  Thinking

  Thinking

  Sometimes I smell you and I can’t fuckin go on. Can’t fuckin move. The sting is still fuckin raw. And you get to feel nothing. What the fuck do you feel? I want to know. I want you to tell me. I want to stop this ANNA.

  I put the pen down.

  ‘Finished, sweetie?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Anna cups her hands. I fold the paper up and place it into her paw.

  ‘I don’t know what that was, Anna,’ I go.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry yourself about this, Maggie, love. It’s just for my files.’

  ‘You’re not going to read it?’

  ‘Oh, I will. Once you’ve gone, I’ll make some tea and have a read.’

  Grief counselling? Money for old knickers if you ask me.

  Rage

  I’m late home. Been sitting in the library pretending to study. I know, me in a library – bonkers, isn’t it? A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

  Kitchen’s full of cigarette clouds. She doesn’t even bother her hole going to the door now. She’s at the table. Legs crossed, facing out. Eyes on the invisible prize.

  Nothing on to boil. Or fry. Or bake. Or toast. She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t care less that she’s a pure joy-stealer.

  I literally walk in and walk out again.

  Slam the door, hoping the noise will reset her brain to know I still exist.

  Anger

  I was early going to school. Said we’d start studying together (or pretend to) and arranged to meet in the school library. I know, us in a library – nuts, isn’t it? Girls have to do what girls have to do.

  Library was quiet that morning. Some nerds and the Muslim crowd. I sat at a table, waiting. Legs crossed, facing the door. Eyes on the prize.

  Nothing in art. Or history. Or French. Or home economics. For three days she didn’t appear. Couldn’t care less that her exams were in four months.

  Thought she could literally walk in, sit her exams and walk out again.

  I knew some guy had something to do with it.

  Always some guy. She didn’t give a toss; that was Moya.

  But this time I wanted to slam her head into a door and reset her brain.

  Band

  (Before notes plucked, chords strummed or lyrics belted)

  I’m having a pissed-off-with-the-world day; zero desire to see any of them. Nor to be in some rank band. But here we all are, sitting in one of the art school’s empty studio rooms. I’m no singer. I’m not one of these people. They’re fresh-faced and wholesome; what am I even doing here?

  I need this.

  Oh, just shut up and get on with it, Mags.

  Rap it, you.

  ‘Me first,’ Alfie goes, as if he’s waiting to see Santa.

  ‘Inventing band names,’ Davis goes. ‘I love this shit.’

  Who says ‘I love this shit’ around here? Mean, does he live in Netflix? But, know what? I do like the way he says it.

  ‘Erm, yeah, I love this shit too,’ I go.

  Who even am I?

  What a lick arse you are, Maggie Yates.

  ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got, Alfie?’ Plum goes.

  ‘OK, ready?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Plum says. ‘We are.’

  ‘Right, I think we should call ourselves the Headers.’ Alfie grins and nods his dome as if he’s just cured cancer.

  ‘Like headers in football?’ Davis goes.

  ‘No, like headcases, nutters, mentalists,’ Alfie goes. ‘You know what I mean, Maggie, don’t you?’

  ‘No, why would I? Speak for yourself,’ I go.

  Davis laughs. I made him laugh. And with the flash of his teeth, a chemical thing happens within me.

  ‘Don’t get it,’ Plum goes.

  ‘Nothing to get,’ Davis goes.

  ‘I’m not sure I like it,’ Plum adds.

  ‘OK, vote.’ I go. ‘All in favour of the Headers, raise hands.’

  No flaccid fingers point skywards, apart from Alfie’s. He takes his boot to the balls with good grace.

  Who cares what we’re going to call ourselves? Not as if we’re going to be Oasis. The-something bollocks has drifted far from my mind. Who can I blame? Probably Mum, yeah; all that woe-is-me guff is doing my nut in.

  Davis has a ‘belter of a band name’, keeps asking if I want a clue. Totally flirting with me.

  I’m in the humour for nothing. My stomach’s acting like it’s been minced; the skin on my legs stings whenever they rub together. Why did I walk? Walking is good for clearing the headwebs, isn’t it? A bit of Maggie time. Basically, I feel like shit and look even worse. No way could Davis ever fancy this.

  Davis, all eager-beaver, sits rigid on his chair; I’m intrigued to see what brilliance will ooze from his mind.

  ‘I think we should call ourselves the Damp,’ he goes.

  ‘The Damp?’ I go.

  ‘The Damp?’ Alfie says.

  ‘The Damp,’ Plum whispers to herself.

  ‘The Damp,’ Davis goes again.

  ‘The Damp?’ I go again.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ he states, flashing me his eyes.

  ‘Get what?’ I go.

  ‘Don’t you guys get it?’ he says to Alfie and Plum.

  They don’t.

  No one gets it.

  ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘the Damp is the initials of our names. D for Davis, A for Alfie, M for Maggie and P for—’

  ‘Yeah, Davis,’ I go. ‘It’s an acronym. We get it.’

  ‘Oh, I really like acronyms,’ Plum adds.

  Jesus, Plum lives on the edge. She’d better watch out in case this love of acronyms leads to a love of crack.

  ‘An acronym! Totally like that,’ Alfie blurts, clearly no idea what an acronym is.

  ‘What do you think, Maggie?’ Davis asks.

  ‘I don’t love it, but I don’t hate it either,’ I go, which is true.

  ‘OK, show of hands for the Damp?’ Alfie belts.

  Davis’s and Alfie’s hands shoot up, stiff as death. I follow, but mine is crooked at the elbow so it’s more half-hearted. ‘Giving it a maybe. See what the options are before committing myself,’ I go.

  ‘What’ve you got, Plum?’ Davis goes.

  ‘The Flaps,’ she rips out without pause or hesitation.

  WHAT?

  THE FLAPS?

  Wait, Miss Prim Pants didn’t just say that, did she? NO EFFING WAY!

  I snort.

  ‘The what?’ I go, for verification.

  ‘The Flaps,’ she rips again.

  Verified.

  I want to wrap my arms around her.

  ‘Love it – you’re hilarious, Plum,’ I go.

  There’s only one other person I’ve called hilarious. She’d be disgusted at me, I know she would. Betrayal pangs dim the glow in my face. Now’s not the time for M-word thoughts, Maggie.

  Davis and Alfie snigger behind their hands.

  ‘That not a bit rude, Plum?’ Davis asks.

  ‘Bet your arse it’s rude,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘Come on, we can’t call ourselves the Flaps,’ Davis adds.

  ‘My mum’ll kill me if I’m drumming in the Flaps,’ Alfie states.

  ‘Well, I really like it – way to go, Plum,’ I go, holding out my hand for that high five. Plum spreads hers out, gives me a tiny wave instead.