The last thing I wanted was tae go oot the night after work. Alexander wis aw funny the day, probably because I’ve no been seeing him, outside the office, as much as he wants. Sometime I catch him watchin me, lookin out from his wee room aw sad-eyed and hopeful, like a dug wi a leash in its mooth. Ah like him but it’s too much right now, and that’s pittin it mildly. Toon’s cauld and mingin: thaire’s been a thaw, n the melting snow and ice has left the city like a giant ashtray ay fag ends, grit and dug shit. I even thought I’d gie it a miss going up tae see Mum the night, but Dad’s left a message on the answerphone, telling me to come up tae the hospital right away, saying he’d telt Mhairi and Calum tae get there n aw. I didnae like his tone. I get changed quick, all jumpy with nerves and head oot.
When I get tae the ward my mum looks like she’s sinking intae her bed. Wi her bandages she’s like her ain mummified remains, like she should be in an Egyptian tomb. I’m about tae speak when it hits me in stark horror: this isnae my ma. I realise I’m in the wrong room, and I numbly trot one down, where my mother looks almost exactly the same as the poor cow next door. It’s as if she’s leaking intae the mattress, like a deflating balloon. My dad’s by her side, his thin shoulders shaking, like he’s fighting tae control his breathing. He’s pale and his pencil moustache has been almost shaved off on one side, like he’s made a real mess of trimming it. I nod to him, and bend over Mum. Her eyes, dead and glassy, like my old teddy bear’s, stare vacantly up the ceiling. What’s left of her is pumped so full of morphine I doubt she even registers me as I bend tae kiss her papery cheek, smelling her fetid breath. She’s rotting away from the inside.
The ward sister comes in and puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder. — She’s going now, Derrick, she says softly.
He locks his hands roond my mother’s scraggy claw, and he’s pleading, — No … no … Susan … no … no little Susie … no ma little Susie … it wisnae supposed tae be like this …
I’m minding how he used tae sometimes sing that song, ‘Wake Up Little Susie, tae her, usually when he brought her breakfast in bed oan a Sunday. I’m doon beside her, saying tae her, — I love you, Mum, over and over again, tae this sack ay skin, bone and tumour, wrapped in bandages across the chest the surgeon’s made flat; hoping and praying for a God I’ve never really thought much about tae suddenly enter those wounds.
My dad rests his heid on her stomach, and I run my fingers through his still thick, spiky black hair, but wi some silver strands in it that look like ghosts, walking among the living. — It’s okay, Daddy, I say stupidly, — it’s okay. I realise I huvnae called him that since I was about ten.
Somewhere in all this, Mum convulses mildly, then stops breathing. I didn’t see her last breath, and I’m glad. We wait there in silence for a bit, my dad making groaning noises, like a small, wounded animal, me feeling guilt at the awful swathes of relief that cascade over me. It wasn’t Mum any more, she could barely recognise us on the drugs they were giving her. Now she’s gone and nothing can hurt her. But no tae see her again, ever, that’s just way too much tae get ma heid roond.
I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve just watched my mother die.
My wee brother, Calum, and wee sister, Mhairi, come in, both of them destroyed. They’ve got that condemning stare, like they think I’ve stolen something, as Dad rises, himself looking like a man pulling his body oot ay a grave, and hugs both me and Mhairi. After he goes over to Calum and tries tae dae the same to him, but Cal pushes him away and looks tae the bed. — Is that it then, he asks, — is that Ma away?
— She’s at peace now, she didnae suffer … she didnae suffer … my dad keeps repeating.
My brother is shaking his heid, as if to say, ‘She had cancer for four years, a double mastectomy and loads of chemotherapy, of course she fuckin well suffered.’
I’m gripping the cold metal bars at the foot ay the bed. Looking at the oxygen outlet in the wall. The plastic jug on the locker. The two stupid Christmas cards on the shelf by the windae. Focusing on anything but that corpse. I’m thinking about my mum’s morphine stash that I took fae the hoose and is in the bedside table back at mine. For a rainy day. Fucked if they’re getting that back, the hospitals; they owe us that, at least.
I take Mhairi ootside for a fag. — We shouldnae be daein this, I tell her, — no after Ma.
— It’ll happen tae us anyway, Mhairi says, silent tears ruining her eye make-up, faced scrunched in misery. — Tits cut oaf n dyin like that, like a freak! What’s the point?
— You dunno that’ll happen tae you!
— It gits handed doon!
— Ye dinnae ken that! C’mere you, ya dough heid, n ah wrap my arms aroond her. — We’ve got tae look eftir these boys in thaire, you n me, right? That’s what Mum would want. Ye ken how fuckin useless they are. Seen Dad’s tache? Christ almighty! She laughs in a painful explosion, then screws her face up n greets again. Ah kin smell the Coco Chanel on her, that stuff that went missin before ah moved oot, the fuckin wee thief, but it’s no exactly the time tae say anything.
Cal and Dad come oot, but I want tae leave them now, tae go n see Alexander or mibbe go tae Johnny’s and get sorted oot. Some hash or even a wee bit ay skag; anything tae take the edge off aw this crap. We stand ootside for ages, chattin aboot Ma, then I flag doon a cab and get them intae it, but I’m no getting in masel. Dad winds doon the windae. — Ye no comin back wi us the night? he plaintively asks.
He’s in such pain that I nearly change ma mind, but naw, it isnae gaunny happen. — No, I’m gaunny go hame tae bed n come roond early the morn’s mornin, tae try n take care ay aw the paperwork n stuff. Register the death n that.
Alexander or Johnny … cock or skag …
My dad’s arms are stretching oot the cab, his hands are locked on mine. — Yir a good girl, Alison … he says, and starts tae sob. I’ve never seen him greet before. Mhairi comforts him and Calum turns away intae the windae tae be somewhere else.
— Goodnight … I hear masel weakly say as his hand slides, wet n fishlike, oot ay mine, and the cab moves off. I watch it rolling away, n suddenly want it tae stop.
Instead I turn n walk down towards Tollcross.
Cock or skag …
When I get up tae Johnny’s I sees Matty, filthy and feral, lurkin outside the building. I come up behind him. — What’s up?
He vernear sheds a skin, the wee snake that he is. — Eh … Ali … eh … nowt … just gaun up tae see Johnny.
— Moan then, I tell him, pointing tae the wrecked intercom n the open stair door, — nae need tae hing aboot!
— Right, he goes, aw cagey, and we go up the stairs. Then Matty makes us stand in front ay the eye spyhole, as he rings the bell. — Cunt, they’ll no let us in, he says, in a low whisper.
— Well, I’m no your Trojan Hoarse, I tell um, really annoyed, as Raymie opens the door. He’s wearin a T-shirt wi I Was Born Under a Wandering Star oan it, but put on in that crappy home-made lettering, blue rounded plastic script against white.