TWENTY-FOUR. A TETHERED BALLOON
I
Bright corridors smelling of disinfectant were lined with paintings and collages by various years, proof of work done and time filled. High-pitched singing came from the far end of the corridor but the children behind the door, in Pete’s class, were very quiet. Paddy and the deputy head looked in through the window on the door. Four rows of tiny desks were pointing forward to Miss MacDonald, who was reading them a story. Pete sat in the very front row and Paddy watched him for a moment. He kept turning to his neighbor, a small girl with a patch over one lens of her pink glasses, then glancing at the teacher, remembering he wasn’t to talk.
“Maybe we should get him out of there before he gets into trouble.” Miss McGlaughlin, the deputy head, a stately woman with gray hair held in a butterfly clip, smiled.
She knocked once and opened the door. When the children saw it was her they stood up.
“Thank you, children,” said Miss McGlaughlin. “Good afternoon.”
They chorused, “Good afternoon, Miss McGlaughlin,” at her and she spoke quietly to Miss MacDonald, telling her Paddy’s lie, that Pete’s granny was gravely ill and he was to leave with his mum right now. Miss MacDonald looked skeptical and whispered back, “Is that your mum or Mr. Burns’s mum?”
Paddy could have slapped her. “My mum.”
“I see.” Miss MacDonald turned to Miss McGlaughlin, who looked a little startled that she was quizzing a mother about a potential death in the family. “It’s just that Miss Meehan was telling me Pete’s dad might come to the school and try to take him out.” She looked back at Paddy, stopping short of calling her a liar. “Because if he does come now, what should I tell him?”
Miss McGlaughlin watched her for an answer.
Paddy motioned to Pete to come to her. He stood up and walked over, self-conscious, looking around the adults as if he’d done something wrong. “Pete’s daddy will bring him to school tomorrow, if it’s appropriate. Where’s your coat, son?”
“Am I going to see my dad?”
“Where’s your coat kept?”
He could tell that she was defying the teachers and his eye took on a gleeful glint. “Cloakroom.”
“’Mon.” She took his hand, remembered her manners and turned back to the teacher. “Thank you, Miss MacDonald.”
She was in the corridor before the teachers could stop her, Pete giggly by her side.
He shouted down the corridor to the open classroom door. “Bye ya!”
II
It was typical of his flamboyant style: the giant black Merc dwarfed the small, new-build house he lived in with Sandra, the second, but almost certainly not the last, Mrs. George H. Burns.
The new estate was set on what had been a school sports ground. Making clever use of the small space, wavy roads led off around corners into shallow cul-de-sacs, calming traffic at the same time as giving the impression of not being absolutely tiny. None of the yellow-brick houses were exactly alike, but the differences were minimal and cosmetic, a garage to the left instead of the right, a small window on the stairwell, a window on a roof, just enough to give the impression of individuality without the architect having to go to the trouble of thinking of anything original. The cookie-cutter blandness made Paddy crave a ghetto.
Pete was delighted to have been whipped out of school. He liked going well enough, but it was his nature to enjoy unexpected turns of events: surprise days out, holidays changed at the last minute, onerous trips canceled leaving empty hours to be filled with something else. He clutched his backpack and looked out of the taxi window as if he’d never been here before.
“I’m staying here? For how long?”
“I don’t know, son, but that’s only if it’s OK with your daddy and even then it’ll be a couple of days at most.”
“My Ghost Train video’s here. Dad lets me watch it all the time. Will I still be going to Granny Trisha’s on Saturday though? Will I still get to play with BC on Saturday?”
The taxi pulled up outside the house. “That’s a long way off.”
“But, on Saturday, will I see BC?” He was excited, a little smile playing on his lips and his eyes wide and shining. “Will I, but?”
“Aye, ye will.”
His mouth sprang open in a grin and she threw her arms around him, kissing him all over his face until he got bored and pushed her away.
They paid the driver and got out of the taxi, walking the length of the short lawn, following the yellow slabs making up the path to the front door. Coming from an old West End flat to here made everything seem slightly too small: the doors narrow, the ceilings low, even the windows like miniature impressions of the real thing.
They rang the doorbell, and looked at the white plastic door. Pete traced his finger on the wood effect, finding the groove repeated note for note on the next panel.
“Is it from the same tree?”
“I think it’s plastic with a wood pattern on it.”
He squinted at it. “Plastic should look like plastic.”
“I think so too.”
Following a scuffle of feet in the hallway, Burns opened the door to them, dropped his shoulders, and then remembered himself. He gave Pete a big showbiz smile.
“Hiya, wee man,” he said as Pete clutched his leg, then lifted him up to give him a hug. “Why aren’t you in school?”
Pete hung on to his dad’s neck, squeezing tight before letting go and sliding to the ground. “Mum came and brung me out.”
“Brought you out,” corrected Paddy.
He ran off down the hall to what looked like the kitchen.
“Well.” Burns looked her up and down. “Now why would she do that?”
She looked like shit, she knew she did. Her black skirt was crumpled, her black silk shirt was missing a button at the bottom and she had big stupid orange trainers on. Burns had lost weight in the past few years; he was TV- thin now, so thin his head looked disproportionately big. Dub said he looked like a tethered balloon. Today Sandra had chosen a white T-shirt and white jeans for him, ironed so well they might have come straight from the packet. He had a tan too; they owned a sunbed. Paddy could imagine the house in the dwindling light of an evening, dark but for a tiny bedroom window glowing fluorescent blue.
In the kitchen Pete slid a video into a machine and she heard the opening strains of the Ghost Train theme.
Unexpectedly, Paddy covered her mouth with her hand, pressing the fingers hard into her cheeks, digging into the skin with her fingernails as tears welled up in her eyes. She turned away to the street to hide her face.
Burns watched her for a moment, hand idling on his hip. He leaned forward, took her wrist firmly, and pulled her into the house, out of sight of the neighbors.
The front room had two white leather settees and a glass coffee table in it. In the small picture window Sandra had arranged yellow tulips in an ugly crystal vase. Burns put Paddy on one settee and sat himself down in the neighbor, calmly watching her cry, reaching forward once to pet her knee.
She took the cigarettes out of her handbag and looked for permission. He nodded and she lit up, trembling, her lungs resistant to the deep breath.
