My weekend consisted mainly of killing.
Dale’s mandatory Call of Duty marathon was only made bearable by the serene haze produced by codeine and paracetamol, plus the constant stream of tea and snacks he brought me.
But by Sunday afternoon I’d had enough. Putting down my metaphorical foot by pretending I had a migraine, which I’d timed for the start of a Marple I hadn’t yet seen.
He did turn off the PlayStation, but he also insisted I needed to lie down in dark quietness, meaning I never got to watch the Marple after all. But that wasn’t the worst thing. That came once I’d settled in bed with the lights out.
He appeared, a silhouette in the doorway. ‘I’ve got something for your foot – some arnica. It’s great for bruising.’ Before I could object, he’d walked in. The light folded away as the door closed. I could feel him sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’ll bring it out quicker.’ He pulled the duvet aside and took hold of my ankle.
I reached up to put the lamp on.
‘No, don’t do that. It’s not good for your head.’
I slid back down.
‘I wasn’t told to put anything on it, though, Dale.’
‘Just relax and close your eyes. It really works. Mum used it on us all the time as kids when we fell over.’
I did close my eyes, but I wasn’t relaxed at all. I heard the ointment spurt from the tube. His cold, gel-coated hands slowly caressed my foot.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Sore. It’s sore to touch, Dale . . . I think it’s best if you leave it.’
‘But it’ll help all the—’
‘Please.’
He stopped. Nothing happened for some time. Black silence, broken eventually by the sound of the top being screwed back on.
‘Thank you, though.’
‘Sure . . . I’ll leave you be,’ he said, and left.
An hour later I woke with a genuine headache.
Groggy, I pushed myself up and switched on the lamp. I was desperate for the loo, so forced myself out of bed and took hold of the crutches resting against the wall. On standing, I allowed my foot to take a little weight, like you told me to. Thank goodness the swelling had reduced and it no longer felt impossible.
On my way back, hearing the familiar shooting and explosions coming from Dale’s room, I shuffled over there and knocked. No answer. Presuming he couldn’t hear, I opened the door.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘How’s the head?’ He didn’t look at me. His top teeth bit down on his bottom lip as he straightened his arms, and pressed, pressed, pressed.
‘It’s still there . . . I fell asleep.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘Oh . . . Oh right. What are you having for dinner?’ An explosion made me jump.
‘Had it.’
‘Oh . . . Is there anything I could have?’
‘Not really.’
‘Right. Well, I guess I’ll order a pizza, then, or something.’
‘OK.’
I pulled the door to, then stopped halfway and said, ‘You know, I think the arnica’s really helped. Thank you.’
He paused the game, turned to me. ‘Actually . . . I think I may have a pizza left in the freezer. You go back to bed and I’ll bring it in to you.’
Once in my room, I took more painkillers, smoked a cigarette and turned on the TV. Flicked through the wasteland of shite. An old Nigella, a soft-focus shot of her sucking her finger free of kumquat jam. A penguin documentary that prompted an emergency channel change because of the impending death of a chick. People already humiliated by having the bailiffs round enduring further humiliation by having it filmed. Flick, flick, flick.
Then my heart was stabbed.
Though near the end, I instantly recognized it: Brief Encounter.
I was fifteen.
Mum had begged me to bunk off school to keep her company. Insisted we stayed in our nightwear, had a pyjama party. Me in my faded Winnie the Pooh nightie. Her in an old dressing gown adorned with a mismatched belt and fag-burnt lapel. She flitted to and from the kitchen, carrying a variety of bowls and plates filled with crisps, biscuits and lumps of cheese. Each time she left, I watched the small section of matted hair on the back of her head. With each entrance, her breath smelt stronger and stronger of vermouth.
‘Brief Encounter’s on, Connie. Please, Connie . . . watch it with me. I won’t enjoy it without you.’
Reading its summary in the TV guide she’d thrust in front of me, I didn’t fancy it at all, despite its five stars. But I humoured her and watched.
As always, she felt compelled to commentate. Telling me how the film reminded her of a married woman she once knew called Norma who met a man at Knutsford Service Station every Sunday while she was on the way to visit her mother. Norma was rumbled when her neighbour filled up with petrol at precisely the wrong moment. The boring story made me want to watch it even less. I fixed my vision directly on the TV. Engaging with her was lethal, or else the chattering would never stop.
She kicked off her slippers, lay on the sofa. I was on the floor at her feet. These were our usual positions. I could have used the armchair, but it was Dad’s, so I never did. No one did. It remained pristine as the sofa grew threadbare.
Ten minutes into the film, her speech became more sporadic, less lucid, and finally there was silence as she passed out.
To begin with, I thought Brief Encounter was so terrible it was hilarious. The way they talked, the corny expressions. But soon my giggles switched to a blank face, watching intently while mindlessly wolfing crisps and cheese. I hung on every word. Every tiny, tragic moment.
You know that last scene when they’re saying their goodbyes in the buffet? Knowing they wouldn’t see each other again. When he tells her how desperately he loves her?
And she replies with doe-eyed despair that she wants to die.
I turned to my mother, snoring, drunk, alone. Her delicate wrist touching the arm of the empty chair beside her. And for that moment I understood.
‘It’s a bit burnt around the edges.’ Dale had entered carrying in a tray, upon which I could see was a pizza, a glass of Coke and the glistening foil of a Tunnock’s Teacake. After placing the drink on the side cabinet and laying the tray on my duvet, he perched on the bed next to me.
‘Thank you. I like burnt, you know that.’ I carefully knocked off the ash from my fag and pinched the end, saving it for later.
‘What are you watching?’ he said.
‘I wasn’t . . . I was just . . .’ I turned off the TV and lifted a slice of pizza to my mouth, conscious of him hovering over me.
‘I’ll pop a bit more of this on, then, if it’s helping.’ He removed the tube of arnica from his pocket.
‘Oh . . . thank you, but you can leave it on the side – I’ll do it. You don’t want to be touching my horrible foot.’
‘No, it’s OK. You eat your pizza.’
I told myself it was fine. That he wouldn’t take long. That he was only trying to help. While massaging my skin, he talked about Call of Duty and a film he wanted me to watch. I feigned interest. Swallowed the dough with difficulty. Wanting every aspect of what was happening to be over. Then it was, because once again you saved me.
‘Who’s that ringing at this time?’ he said.