Rejected by Lost Property; it seemed like the ultimate insult.
And Aunt Janice never did remember any more about whatever Rory had hidden in his later work.
Mum sipped her coffee. I tore the Danish to bits, imagining it was Lewis's flesh. Or Verity's underclothes — I was a little confused at the time.
Well, let them get married. The earlier the better; it would end in tears. Let them rush into it, let them repent at leisure. They weren't right for each other and maybe a marriage would last a shorter time than a more informal, less intense liaison; brief and bitter, both of them on proximity fuses with things coming rapidly to a crunch, rather than something more drawn out, where they might spend long periods apart and so forget how much they hated being together, and enjoy the fleeting, passionate moments of reunion…
I fumed and bittered away while my mother finished her coffee and made concerned remarks about how thin and pale I was looking. I ate another Danish; mother told me everybody else was fine, back home.
"Come back, Prentice," she said, putting one hand out across the table to me. Her brown eyes looked hurt. "This weekend, come back and stay with us. Your father misses you terribly. He's too proud to —»
"I can't," I said, pulling my hand away from hers, shaking my head. "I need to work this weekend. Got a lot to do. Finals coming up."
"Prentice," my mother whispered. I was looking down at my plate, licking my finger and picking off the last few crumbs, transferring them to my mouth. I could tell mum was leaning forward, trying to get me to meet her eyes, but I just frowned, and with my moistened finger-tip cleared my plate. "Prentice; please. For me, if not for your dad."
I looked up at her for a moment. I blinked quickly. "Maybe," I said. "I don't know. Let me think about it."
"Prentice," my mother said quietly, "say you will."
"All right," I said, not looking at her. I knew I was lying but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I couldn't send her away thinking I could be so heartless and horrible, but I also knew that I wasn't going to go home that weekend; I'd find an excuse. It wasn't that this dispute between my dad and me about whether there was a God or not really meant anything any more, but rather the fact of the history of the dispute — the reality of its course, not the substance of the original disagreement — was what prevented me from ending it. It was less that I was too proud, more that I was too embarrassed.
"You promise?" mother said, a slight stitching of her brows as she sat back in the ladder-backed seat the only indication that she might not entirely believe me.
"I promise," I nodded. I felt, wretchedly, that I was such a moral coward, such a sickening liar, that making a promise I knew I had no intention whatever of keeping was hardly any worse than what I had already done. "I promise," I repeated, blinking again, and set my mouth in a firm, determined way. Let there be no way out of it; let me really make this promise. I was so disgusted with myself that wanted to make myself suffer even more when I did — as I knew I would — break my word. I nodded fiercely and smiled bravely, utterly insincerely, at my mother. "I really do promise. Really."
We said goodbye outside, in the street. I told her the flat was in too disgusting a state for her to come and visit. She hoisted her umbrella to ward off the light drizzle that had started to fall, gave me a couple of twenty-pound notes, said she'd look forward to seeing me on Friday, kissed my cheek, then went off to do her shopping.
I had dressed as well as I could that morning, in more or less the same stuff I'd worn for Grandma Margot's funeral. Minus the lost Mobius scarf, of course. I turned up the collar of my fake biker's jacket and walked off.
I gave the money to a thankfully dumb-struck fiddle-player on Sauchiehall Street and walked away feeling like some sort of martyred saint. As I walked, this mood was gradually but smoothly replaced by one of utmost depression, while my body — as though jealous of all the obsessive regard my emotions were receiving — came up with its own demands for attention, evidenced by an unsteady, fluid shifting in my guts, and a cold sweat on my brow.
I felt fainter and fainter and worse and worse and more and more nauseous, unsure whether it was the bitterness of sibling-thwarted love, or just too much starch and refined sugar. It felt like my stomach had decided to take a sabbatical; all that food was just sitting there, unprocessed, locked in, slopping around and making me feel horrible.
After a while I stopped telling myself I wasn't going to be sick, and — resigned to the fact that I was going to have to throw up at some point — kept telling myself instead that I'd manage to hold it in until I was back in the flat, and so do it in private, rather than into the gutter in front of people.
Eventually I threw up into a litter bin attached to a crowded bus shelter on St George's Road.
I was still gagging up the last few dregs when somebody punched me on the cheek, sending the other side of my head banging against the metal wall of the shelter. I spun round and sat down on the pavement, a ringing noise in my head.
A tramp dressed in tattered, shiny trousers and a couple of greasy-looking, buttonless coats bent down, looking at me. He smelled of last year's sweat. He gestured angrily up at the litter bin. "Ye wee basturt; there might a been somethin good in there!" He shook his head in obvious disgust and stalked off, muttering.
I got to my feet, supporting myself on the side of the shelter. A wee grey woman wearing a headscarf peered out at me from the end of the bus queue. "You all right, sonny?" she said.
"Aye," I said, grimacing. "Missus," I added, because it seemed appropriate. I nodded at the bin. "Sorry about that; my stomach's on strike and my food's coming out in sympathy."
She smiled uncomprehendingly at me, looking round. "Here's ma bus son; you look after yoursel, okay?"
I felt the side of my head where it had hit the bus shelter; a bruise was forming and my eye felt sore. The wee woman got on her bus and went away.
"Oh, Prentice!" Ash said, more in despair than with disgust. "You're kidding." She looked at me in the candle-light. I was past caring about feeling guilt and shame and everything was collapsing anyway, so I just looked straight back at her, resigned, and after a while I shook my head. Then I picked up a bit of naan bread and mopped up my curry sauce.
The naan bread was big; we'd both stuffed ourselves with it during the meal but it was still big. When it had arrived it had needed a separate table just to accommodate it; luckily the restaurant wasn't busy. "Not so much a naan bread, more a toasted duvet, I'd said. Ash had laughed.
During the course of the meal we'd reduced the blighter to the porportions of a couple of pillows, not to mention disposing of portions of chicken kalija and fish pakora to start, followed by garlic chilli chicken, lamb passanda, a single portion of pulao rice, and side dishes of Bombay potato and sag panir to accompany.
Two dry sherries and a couple of bottles of Nuit St Georges had washed it all down and now we were onto the coffee and brandy. It was Ashley Watt's treat, of course; I still couldn't afford to eat out unless it was in the street and out of a paper poke. Ash was passing through Glasgow and staying with us on her way to a new job down in London.
It was mid-summer, and unseasonably warm for Glasgow; Ash wore a long, rough silk shirt, and leggings. A light cotton jacket hung over the back of her chair. I was still wearing out the regulation Docs and the thick black jeans. I had borrowed one of Norris's big paramilitary-style fawn shirts to wear as a jacket over my anti Poll Tax T-shirt. I'd left it to the end of the meal before I said anything about being arrested.