“What’s the matter with you?”
I looked up, alarmed to see Laura standing in my doorway. I hadn’t heard her come home. Mum and Dad were out choosing new kitchen flooring, and Laura had been gone for at least a week. These days, we never knew quite where she was or when she’d be back, but it seemed she’d chosen this late Saturday afternoon to make an unexpected reappearance.
“Nothing’s the matter,” I mumbled miserably, “just close the door.”
But Laura, of course, could only ever do the opposite of what I asked her and instead took a step inside my room. She’d recently died her hair jet black and taken to wearing too much eye make-up. I wasn’t sure if her pallor was part of the gothic look or just down to late nights and malnutrition.
“Doesn’t look like nothing’s the matter,” she said, eyeing me with what I took for a modicum of concern.
I shook my head forlornly. I wasn’t up for Laura’s insults. I felt sick to my core and strangely shivery, like I was coming down with something. All I could see was my life spinning out of control and I couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t pull it back.
“Just go away,” I groaned.
Laura tutted. “All right, suit yourself.”
But watching Laura leave, I felt more scared than ever. I couldn’t do this, let alone do it without the support of my family.
“She’s pregnant,” I blurted out.
My sister turned and looked at me stupidly.
I tried to think of something to add, but what else was there to say? That was it. That was all there was to it. There were no grey areas with pregnancy – you either were or your weren’t. And she was.
God, she really was.
My stomach twisted, and my heart began to race all over again.
And then I added the most important point of all. Because pregnancy didn’t have to change everything, not these days. It didn’t have to turn your life upside down, unless…
“And she’s keeping it. She’s already decided. She’s two months already.”
I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it was like I was reading a script written for someone else.
I stared at my feet, noting how the toes of my socks had become threadbare to the point of transparency. It occurred to me that I’d need to let Mum know so she could buy me some more. But soon I was going to be a… a what? A dad? A father? Those words bore no relation to me. Nor did they relate to someone whose mum still bought his socks.
I wanted my sister to say something, do something, to make it better.
“Fuck,” said Laura, a hint of amusement in her voice, and when I looked up at her, she was grinning. “So the golden boy has screwed up. BIG time! Wow. So you’re not so smart you can figure out how to use contraception, then?”
And then she laughed. She actually laughed.
“Mum and Dad are gonna kill you!”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Just get out.”
She held her hands up as if she was about to apologise, but she was still grinning as if all her dreams had come true.
“Just get out!” I yelled, jumping up from the bed. She bolted out of the door and I slammed it hard behind her.
I remember the guy who answered the door to the flat had red-rimmed eyes and dishevelled hair. For a moment I wondered if I had the right place.
“Get your mate out of my flat,” he said as way of greeting, without bothering to step aside.
I pushed my way past him. It was two in the morning and I was tired and angry from being dragged from my bed. Although not half as angry as my sister had been when I’d begged her to drive over and babysit my sleeping son for half an hour.
“For God’s sake, just let them kick him out on the street then if that’s what they want to do,” she’d snapped. “It will teach him a lesson!”
But I didn’t want that, and from the fact she drove over, I assumed she didn’t really want that either.
Inside, the flat was smoky and smelled of fried food. Sections of wallpaper were missing, and the carpet was dirty. Cardboard boxes littered the hallway, spilling out identical pairs of designer trainers.
I stuck my head inside the first two rooms – a small, messy kitchen and a chaotic-looking bedroom. A girl was sitting on the double bed, her head in her hands, illuminated only by the glow of a bedside lamp. She looked up at me, ashen and sad. I vaguely recognised her from around town. She stuck her leg out and kicked the door shut in my face.
“Lounge!” shouted the red-eyed doorman, as if I knew where that was.
“Jay,” a voice said behind me. I turned and with some relief saw Tizzo coming out of the bathroom, zipping up his flies. “Thanks for coming, mate,” he said, guiding me into the lounge. “I can’t shift him and my brother wants him out his flat pronto. I didn’t want to just chuck him out like this, but I wasn’t going to have much choice.”
In the dim lounge, Michael was sprawled on the sofa. The table in front of him was littered with beer cans, bottles and ashtrays. A black bin liner sat on the floor nearby, showing that some kind of tidy-up operation had taken place before my arrival. I wondered what they had been so keen to throw away or get out of sight. It clearly wasn’t the mess itself they were bothered about.
“Michael, get up,” I demanded, giving his leg a kick with slightly more force than I’d
