Before the Fire Page 2

  ‘An hour?’ His dad tugged his shirt down over his stomach. ‘I’ve taken the afternoon off.’

  ‘Got to go to Mac’s. Sort stuff.’ Stick fixed his gaze on the thick cream carpet, the neatly paired shoes lined up along the hall.

  ‘I was thinking we’d go for lunch. There’s a tapas place in town – get you in practice.’ Stick’s dad gave a little laugh. ‘Have a glass of vino, even.’ He paused. ‘I’ll not be seeing you for a while, will I? I thought it would be nice.’

  ‘We’ve got stuff to sort out, for tomorrow.’

  His dad rubbed at the side of his nose. ‘Well, you’d better come in then. I think there’s a pizza in the freezer. Do you want pizza?’

  Stick shrugged and stepped inside. The house had its usual weird smell, like a mix of air freshener and paint.

  ‘Drink?’ his dad asked.

  Stick followed him past the crowd of family photographs into the kitchen. Stainless-steel surfaces, glossy red doors, slate floor. Twice the size of his mum’s. Three times the size. His dad opened the bulky silver fridge.

  ‘Orange, apple and mango, or pineapple?’

  ‘Got any Coke?’

  His dad shook his head. ‘Banned substance, mate.’

  ‘Orange then.’

  Stick stood and watched his dad fuss about, pouring the juice into two thin glasses, then pulling things out of the freezer, puffs of cold air escaping around him.

  ‘Goat’s cheese and sun-blushed tomatoes?’ He held up a pizza box. ‘Whatever that is. Or, hang on.’ He took out another. ‘Pepperoni, that’s more like it.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Two hundred degrees, twelve minutes.’ His dad peered at the box as he read – mouth slightly open, eyes scrunched. He looked like a dickhead. Stick jigged his foot against the floor and stared at the girls’ drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets shaped like strawberries and bananas.

  His dad shut the oven and shoved the pizza box into a plastic container by the back door. He turned to Stick. ‘Jen was hoping to see you.’

  Jen. Call-me-mum Jen. Who smiled even when she was saying she was angry. Who thought it was best for everyone to keep their voices down and act like adults, even when they were kids. Who sent Stick’s mum a bunch of flowers every birthday – expensive flowers, with fancy wrapping and ribbon – that would sit in the ugly vase next to the TV for weeks, refusing to die.

  ‘The girls too. They’re at swimming after school, till five or so. Jen’s picking them up.’ He eyeballed Stick. ‘You couldn’t be around then?’

  ‘Got to get to Mac’s.’ Stick stared at the huge kitchen clock so he didn’t have to meet his dad’s gaze. It was one o’clock. ‘Like two, two thirty?’ He glanced at his dad, who didn’t look like he was buying it. ‘We’ve got to check the ferry times,’ Stick said. ‘And there’s a party tonight. Like a goodbye thing.’ He caught a frown cross his dad’s face. ‘It’s just mates,’ he said and then wished he hadn’t; he didn’t need to make excuses.

  ‘I thought it’d be good for us all to be together. As a family. Before you go.’

  A couple of years ago – he must have been about fifteen – Stick had been sent to anger management classes at school. They were run by a woman with gym-toned arms, green eyes and a posh voice, and he’d sat at the back with a hard-on most of the time. He remembered her now, the way her tongue brushed her lips when she spoke. Take a breath, Kieran. Don’t react straight away. Stop and think.

  ‘We’re not a family,’ he said. Like a grenade. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how to lob a couple of words and wait for the explosion – a wumpf of flame and smoke and dust.

  His dad’s face hardened. ‘You don’t make it easy, Kieran.’

  You can make a choice, the anger management woman had said. You can choose to manage things differently.

  Stick picked up the nearest thing to hand – a cheese grater shaped like a hedgehog, with a blue plastic handle to stop idiots from grating themselves.

  ‘I’m not trying to cramp your style, but you are my son, and the girls are your sisters,’ his dad said.

  Half-sisters. Stick ran his finger lightly over the grater’s sharp-edged holes.

  ‘And Jen—’

  ‘Is not my mum.’

  His dad turned away sharply, opened the oven and stared at the half-cooked pizza. Stick listened to the whirr of the fan.

  ‘I don’t know why you have to make things so difficult.’ His dad closed the door and turned around, his cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

  Stick pressed his forefinger against the grater. If he moved it up or down it would slice the skin.

  ‘Is this about your mother?’

  Stick stared at one of Bea’s pictures on the fridge door – two figures with fat yellow bodies, thin blue arms and legs, and massive orange hands. He could hear himself breathing.

  ‘Kieran, I tried. I did.’

  Stick thought about her, leaning over the TV, trying to reach the plug socket without knocking over the piles of DVDs. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Whatever. Just don’t expect me to cosy up to your new family in your fancy new house with your fancy fucking pizzas.’

  His dad coughed and then wiped at his lips. He had a fat mouth, while Stick had his mum’s thin lips, the top one almost non-existent. ‘It’s not so new any more,’ he said.

  Stick slammed the cheese grater down onto the metal worktop. It made a satisfyingly loud noise. He wanted to pick it up and slam it down again. And again. And again.

  ‘She still calls it Sophie’s room,’ he said, without meaning to.

  His dad lifted his arms out from his sides like he was thinking about hugging Stick, and then let them fall. Stick looked at his dad’s feet – red socks with a patch of turquoise over the toes. He heard him take a breath as if to say something, but then the oven timer started beeping and he turned away from Stick and took the pizza – bubbling cheese and oily circles of pepperoni – out of the oven.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Stick said, once they were in the dining room, sitting opposite each other on the overstuffed leather chairs. He saw his dad’s jaw tense and waited for him to have a go, but instead he just shrugged and helped himself to a slice of pizza. Stick listened to him chew, swallow, swallow again, kept his eyes fixed on the framed photo on the far wall – his dad, Jen, Bea and Rosie lying on their fronts, grinning, against a white studio background.

  ‘So, tomorrow,’ his dad said. ‘The big trip. Are you taking the toll roads?’

  Stick shrugged.

  ‘It’s a lot quicker.’ His dad lifted another slice of pizza, pulling the strings of cheese to separate them. It smelt good. Stick licked his lips but kept his hands under the table.

  ‘A friend of mine ties a rubber band onto the steering wheel,’ his dad said. ‘To remind himself to stay on the right. You could try that.’

  Him and Mac in the shitty Ford Fiesta, windows down, music on, engine roaring. Stick watched his dad eating and had to stop himself from laughing out loud. He was out of there.

  ‘And when you get back?’ his dad said. ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do?’

  Stick wriggled his shoulders, like he was trying to escape from a too-tight jacket. ‘We talked about this.’

  His dad picked up his knife and fork and then put them down again. ‘No,’ he said, the way he did when he was angry but pretending not to be. ‘We said we were going to talk about it.’

  ‘I said I’d think about it when I got back,’ Stick said. Which was never, or not for years anyway, not until he had money in the bank, a proper tan, a beautiful girl on his arm – maybe a kid even. He’d come back and they’d see they couldn’t boss him around any more.

  ‘It’ll be over before you know it, Kieran.’

  ‘Stop trying to make everything shit.’

  His dad sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I don’t want my son on benefits.’

  ‘I’m not going to be on fucking benefits.’ Stick saw his dad’s eyes na
rrow. ‘I’m seventeen. I’m going to Spain.’

  His dad held up both palms. ‘OK. When you’re home, then? We’ll talk about it when you’re home?’

  ‘Fine.’

  His dad sat back in his chair. ‘I think this trip will be good for you.’ He smiled; Stick didn’t smile back. ‘I think it’ll help you get some perspective.’ Stick could see bits of pizza dough in between his teeth when he spoke.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Kieran. Heading off on an adventure. Not everyone has the guts to do that.’

  Stick ran his forefinger around his empty plate.

  ‘Just make sure you take good care of yourself,’ his dad said. ‘Keep your phone charged. Don’t get involved with any drugs or what have you.’ He coughed and then blushed. ‘Use a condom.’

  Stick rolled his eyes.

  ‘You know we’re here if you need us. Jen and me. You just have to call.’

  ‘I’m not twelve.’

  ‘The world’s not always an easy place, Kieran. People aren’t always—’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  3

  Back home, Stick showered, swapped his trackies for jeans, his T-shirt for the blue shirt; rubbed wax into his palms and then over his hair, flattening it close to his scalp. He fed Babs; left a note for his mum: Cat fed. Don’t wait up. Love you; took a half-bottle of vodka from the bottom of his wardrobe, and went over to Mac’s.

  ‘Boobs!’ Mac shouted, standing in the doorway of his flat, a coconut in each hand. ‘Am I a fucking genius or am I actually a fucking genius?’ He was wearing electric-blue shorts with a white drawstring, his calves fat and pink above white sports socks.

  ‘You’re a fucking knobhead,’ Stick laughed. He touched his fist against Mac’s and followed him inside. ‘Hi, Mrs McKinley.’ He nodded to Mac’s ma, who sat on the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand, her phone in the other.

  ‘Kieran. Looking smart. How are you? All packed?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Your man here’s got some dressing-up plans for you both tonight.’

  Stick narrowed his eyes at Mac.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re going to love it, seriously,’ Mac said.

  Mrs McKinley tipped back her head and laughed. She had nice teeth. Stick thought about telling her so, but didn’t.

  ‘I’ve been teaching Ma Bubble Breaker,’ Mac said.

  She held up her phone. ‘I’m better at that than the helicopter one.’

  ‘Got to keep her occupied while we’re living it up in Spain,’ Mac said.

  Maybe Mrs McKinley could be mates with his mum. Stick tried to picture them sitting together on the black sofa, his mum’s feet on the hot-pink rug, drinking a cup of tea, a fag in one hand.

  ‘You all right, man?’ Mac asked, beckoning Stick towards the kitchen.

  Stick shrugged, took the half-bottle of vodka out of his back pocket and waggled it at Mac.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Mac cracked the top and took a long swig. Stick did the same and felt the sting down his throat and across his chest. Mac’s kitchen was about as big as the one at Stick’s, except Mac’s had a hatch in the wall so you could look through into the living room where Mrs McKinley was still frowning at her phone.

  ‘You packed then?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Ma did it.’

  Stick raised his eyebrows, and Mac snorted. ‘You never think more than five minutes ahead, Iain,’ he said, mimicking his ma; then, in his own voice, ‘There’s like first-aid kits and I don’t even know what in there.’ He took another drink, placed both coconuts on the draining board and took a knife out of the drawer. ‘Do you know birds sunbathe topless in Spain?’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘It’s, like, compulsory.’

  Stick reached around Mac and took one of the coconuts, threw it up and caught it, rough and dry against his palm. ‘Your ma’s all right then,’ he said. ‘About you going?’

  Mac started moving his knife across the remaining coconut. ‘Yours kicking off?’

  ‘She’s back doing that thing with the plugs.’

  Mac pulled a face. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Seriously, she’ll be fine. You worry too much, man.’

  Stick looked through the hatch at Mac’s ma. The sun was directly on her, lighting up the edges of her hair – the same pale blonde as Mac’s. He took a swig of vodka. ‘And my dad’s on my case, like it’s any of his fucking business what I do with my life. “You’ve got to have a plan, Kieran. You’re nearly eighteen, you need to think about the future.” Mac, you can’t cut it like that.’

  ‘Well, how the fuck else do they get them in half? Come on, I need a drum roll.’

  Stick tapped his fingers on the top of the fridge.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Mac raised his voice. ‘You are about to witness something never seen before.’ He took the second coconut from Stick and laid it next to the first on the draining board, then lifted the knife in both hands, the handle level with his eyes. ‘I will create not one but two sets of beautiful squeezable titties from these ugly, brown, hairy fruit.’

  ‘Nut.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a nut, and I’m not wearing them if that’s your big plan.’

  Mac screwed up his forehead until his pale eyebrows almost met and brought the knife down hard. A coconut ricocheted away and the blade clashed against the draining board.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ He held out the knife towards Stick. ‘Shitty tools.’

  Stick laughed. ‘You going to pull Lainey then?’

  Mac grinned. ‘If she’s lucky.’

  ‘If you’re lucky.’

  ‘I’m a catch, man.’ Mac retrieved the coconut and went back to his sawing, his whole body wobbling with the effort of it.

  ‘You’re a chubber,’ Stick said.

  Mac grabbed his stomach with both hands. ‘The ladies love it! Plus I am going to look hot once I’ve sorted these fuckers out.’

  Stick drank vodka and listened to the scratch scratch scratch of the blade.

  ‘He’s all right, your dad,’ Mac said. ‘Least he tries.’

  Stick put the bottle down and started opening and closing the cupboard doors. ‘You need something heavy,’ he said, pulling out a bowl that looked like it was made from stone, or concrete. Weighed a ton. ‘You need to whack it with something heavy.’

  Mac stepped out of the way. ‘Don’t wreck anything.’

  Stick held the bowl in both hands and brought it down with a thud on one of the coconuts. The whole kitchen shook.

  ‘Iain?’ Mrs McKinley shouted through.

  Mac pulled a face. ‘It’s under control,’ he shouted back.

  Stick slammed the bowl down again. Everything in the cupboards rattled. The coconut rocked, but stayed whole.

  ‘Do you remember he bought you that stuffed rabbit and we torched it?’ Mac said, and chuckled.

  Stick bashed the coconut again and this time he felt it give a little. ‘I was twelve. Who buys a twelve-year-old a stuffed rabbit?’ The two of them standing by the canal, Stick’s breath high and fast. The smell of burning plastic. The eyes refused to melt, so Mac found a stone and smashed them into tiny orange and black pieces. They’d thrown what was left into the water, watched it float for a second, and then sink, until all they could see was a dark shape like a shadow, down in the green-grey water. Later, when Stick was in bed, he’d remembered the plastic fur singeing and melting, and had to curl himself into a tight ball to stop himself feeling sick.

  ‘It stank,’ Stick said.

  ‘Yeah, and you started guilt-tripping halfway through and tried to put it out.’

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘Did too.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s a dick anyway.’ Stick brought the bowl down again and this time the coconut cracked properly. When he held it up, a thin line of water dribbled down his arm.

  ‘Fucker’s bleeding,’ Mac said and laughed.

  Stick b
ashed at it again, until it split – the curved insides wet and white and perfect.

  ‘Do you reckon the doctor could do something?’ Stick said.

  Mac took the coconut halves and held them against his chest. ‘An enlargement?’ he asked, laughing.

  ‘About my mum and the plugs. Do you think it’s like a medical thing?’

  Mac lowered his hands and shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ They were silent for a moment and then Mac said, ‘Don’t think about it, man. Not tonight. Come on, I’ve got shirts, flip-flops, sunglasses. I’ve got a fucking blow-up parrot.’

  He danced out of the kitchen and Stick followed him, down the dark, narrow corridor to his bedroom, with its long window looking out over the estate towards the jagged buildings of the city centre.

  Stick took a turquoise shirt patterned with huge yellow-petalled, red-tongued flowers from the crowded bed. ‘Where did you get all this shit?’

  ‘Man’s got contacts.’ Mac tapped the side of his nose.

  Stick picked up a string of blue plastic flowers. ‘Is anyone else even dressing up?’

  ‘Course.’

  Stick walked to the window, still holding the flowers. Everything looked smaller from up here: the scrappy bit of grass at the back of the block; the flag hanging off the side of the Queen’s; the moss-stained roofs of all the houses that looked the same as Stick’s – the McCauleys’, the Sweeneys’, the Stevens’s. But the sky looked bigger, bright blue and dotted with white clouds. Sophie used to spend ages staring at clouds then prod him in the arm and shout – an elephant, look, an elephant! Or a cat, or a mouse, or a tiger. They were always animals. He could never see them when she pointed – there, that’s the trunk, the tail, its ears, oh, but it’s gone. Stick rested his forehead against Mac’s window and examined one cloud after another, but they just looked like blobs.

  ‘You want green or red?’ Mac was holding up a pair of shorts in each hand.

  ‘I don’t wear shorts.’

  ‘We’re going to Spain. It’ll be boiling.’

  Stick glared at him until Mac rolled his eyes and threw Stick a skirt made out of strips of creased beige plastic. ‘Put that on over your jeans then.’

  Stick threw it back. ‘You’re gay, you know that.’