Page 32

Twenty-two

Joah

“Jo.” Me mum’s grinnin’ at me as she swings open the front door to the house me an’ Richie grew up in. We bought her a place last year, we did. In Chorlton, proper nice. She wouldn’t go, though. Stubborn as a mule, me mum. That’s where I get it from.

Mum’s cheeks are rosy like always—she grabs me by both sides of me face—beamin’, she is.

She pulls me in, plants a kiss on each cheek. “Missed you.”

I step inside, givin’ her a hug. She pulls back, lookin’ at me like I’ve just offended her.

“This new girlfriend of yours not feedin’ you?”

“She’s a supermodel,” I say, givin’ her a look. “She’s not fuckin’ feedin’ herself.”

Mum smacks me on the arm. “Not in my house with that language.”

“There goes his whole vocabulary,” Richie pipes up from the settee, loungin’ about like he owns the place.

I flip him off. He flips me off back.

Mum sinks into her favourite armchair, lookin’ at the pair of us all soft-like.

“My boys are back,” she says, all proud.

I roll me eyes at her, and she nods towards the kitchen.

“Dinner’s on. Your favourite,” she says, lookin’ all proud of herself.

I can’t help smilin’ at her. “Smelt it the second I walked in the door.”

Lancashire hotpot.

She nods, dead chuffed. “Got enough to feed an army. Presume I’ll be—” She cuts her eyes to Rich. “Loxy comin’?”

He nods.

“And the boys?” She glances between us. “Last I saw Fry, he looked a bit—well—are you not payin’ him?”

“Mum,” Richie groans, throwin’ his head back.

“Alright—” She lifts her hands, all innocent-like. “None of me business.”

I give her a look. “He’s paid, Mum. Just got one of those—what d’you call it? Fast—”

“—Metabolisms,” she finishes with a nod. “Well. Lucky him.”

Rich snickers. She’s always been funny, our mum.

She points upstairs. “Got some fan mail in your bedroom—” She pauses, thinkin’. “Boxes, actually.”

I screw me face up. “How’d you get ’em?”

“Cos you told Mick Sloane to throw ’em away, Joah!”

I roll me eyes at her.

“—and I thought to meself, ah, well, we can’t be havin’ that. So I told him to send it here, an’ that when you come home— if you ever come home”—master with the guilt, me mum…—“that I’d make you go through it.”

I stand up, dander over to her.

“Gonna make me, are ya?” Kiss the top of her head. “You and whose army?”

Then she reaches down and takes her slipper off her foot, giving me the eye.

I duck quick as she swings at me, laughin’ as I dart upstairs to me room. Can hear her and Rich chucklin’ behind me.

“I wish you’d stay here—” she calls after me. “But I understand that you’re a big shot now, too tall for his single bed.”

Told ya. Fuckin’ masterful.

“—I’ve been too tall for that bed since I was sixteen,” I call back.

Mum’s the best bird in the fuckin’ world, ain’t she? Like, sorry Ys—fucking close second—but there’s no one who’s met my mum who don’t love her.

’Cept one.

Me old man. He was a piece of shit, but. I’ve said that before. I s’pose proper grammar’d have me say, “My old man is a piece of shit,” cos he ain’t kicked the can yet or nothin’. But he’s not around, so what does it matter?

That’s not a bad thing—it’s a fuckin’ miracle, I reckon.

Cos he weren’t just a piece of shit. He was proper bad news.

Used to smack me mum about.

It weren’t just the one time. It was all the time, wasn’t it?

You’d hear him come through the door, already half-cut, kickin’ off about some shit—work, money, her.

Didn’t matter. Any excuse would do. Me an’ Richie, we learned early how to get in the way, take the brunt of it so she wouldn’t have to.

Didn’t always work, but. He’d get his digs in anyway if he couldn’t get his hands on her, call her all sorts of names like it was sport.

Richie’d take the hits. Back then he was bigger, shoulders an’ all.

Me, I wasn’t much good for takin’ it, so I got good at givin’ it back.

Knew how to make him pause, at least. A kick to the shin, smack with somethin’ heavy if I could grab it fast enough.

Didn’t care how manky it was—rather him mad at me than her.

But that last time—the last time we saw him—that was the worst of it.

He comes home pissed, screamin’ blue murder cos he’s lost some quid on summat stupid.

Walks in, smashes the photo on the mantel—our family photo, the only decent one we ever had.

Glass everywhere, bits of the frame hittin’ the floor.

Mum tried to calm him down, like she always did, but he grabs her arm, twists it till she’s cryin’.

Proper cryin’, not just holdin’ it in like usual.

It was out of its socket, we’d find out in the end.

Richie stepped in, like he always did. Shoved him back, told him to leave her alone. But he goes and gets himself thrown into the table—hit his head, went down hard.

And I’m stood there, watchin’ it happen, and somethin’ in me just snapped. I grabbed the fire poker, didn’t even think about it, just swung it at his back. Me dad staggered but he don’t stop, does he? Just turned on me instead.

Next thing I know, I’m up against the wall, his hand ’round my neck, liftin’ me like I’m nothin’. I couldn’t breathe, like—couldn’t even move. I thought, This is it . This is how it fucking ends.

But then—I dunno—Richie was up again, tackled him from the side, knocked him down. We were both on him then, throwin’ punches, kickin’, whatever it took. He staggered out the door, swearin’ he’d come back, but he never did.

Mum was on the floor with me after, holdin’ me like I was a kid again—s’pose I was, kind of—? About thirteen, I reckon I was. I remember her cryin’ into my hair, and all I could say over an’ over, was, “Don’t let him come back.”

We left that night. Took everythin’ we could carry, and I fuckin’ couldn’t carry shit. I was shaking’ like a leaf that night, wasn’t I? Whatever we could fit into me mum’s shitty old Ford Escort mk2.

Still see it, y’know? Every now and then. The way his face looked, the way Richie looked after it too. Broke somethin’ in both of us like. We got through it, though, didn’t we? Dunno if we came out whole, but.

Ain’t told Ys all that.

Ain’t really told anyone, to be fair.

Don’t think it’s anyone’s business, like—

I know it’s shit. It’s why I don’t like comin’ home, though. Reminds me of him. Of before, when I was some shit-kickin’ kid who couldn’t look after himself or his mum, needed Richie to fuckin’ bail me out.

Hate that. Hate that Richie had to save me. Hate that he took the brunt of it too—took my punches like. Makes me feel like I owe him. Don’t wanna owe owt to no bugger, know what I mean?

Bit of that’s why I didn’t want Ys to come. Didn’t want her seein’ where I came from, gettin’ clues about me life I don’t want her knowin’. Don’t want her knowin’ any of this shite. Wouldn’t want her thinkin’ there’s any kind of weakness in me, y’know what I mean?

And if we’re bein’ honest, reckon I think about her too much. Like, it’s a bit fuckin’ pathetic, innit? She’s kind of all I think about, like—Know it ain’t her fault—well, it is, but it isn’t.

Just wanted a minute to meself, y’know? Not a crime, that. Still feel a bit shit ’bout it though, don’t I? Dunno why. Don’t wanna talk about it.

I sigh, sit meself down on the bed, and start goin’ through the post—fuckin’ loads of it, isn’t there—? Last thing I wanna do, but I don’t want that fuckin’ slipper, do I?

Most of it’s sound. Bit mental that people care this much, eh? Like, can’t grumble about it, can I—? Mental, but.

Some of it’s proper weird, though. Makes me think of Ys and what happened, and then I start feelin’ fuckin’ sick and stressed, so I stop.

Lay back on me old bed, starin’ up at the ceilin’—how’d I ever fit this thing?

—don’t remember it being this small, do I?

But it is. Funny thing about growin’, innit.

Don’t really know till after you’re done that you were.

And I’m not tryna have a mither, but it ain’t dead soft either. Feels like home, but—know what I mean? Just summat about it.

Dunno how long I stay there for.

It’s Richie saying “Oi,” as he knocks on the door, two quick taps, that pulls me out of me head.

“Look who’s here,” he says.

I sit up fast—can’t believe my fuckin’ luck that she’s come anyway, even though I told her not to. Don’t even care that she ignored what I said—I’m just fuckin’ glad she’s here.

I’m up on my feet, ready to hug her, but it’s not Ysolde standin’ in me doorway.

I look at Richie quick as a whip. What’s he playin’ at?

“Hey, Jo,” she says, smirkin’, givin’ me that look she always does—sizin’ me up.

I breathe in through my nose, steadyin’ meself. “Hey, Pip.”

Fuck.