11

       The smell of the ink

      I knocked on his door. Hip hop coming out but quietly. Knocked again.

      I SAID YEAH!

      I pushed open the door, went in, smiled. He was lying on the floor drawing, a cigarette next to him in an Indian metal ashtray someone from school gave him. I clocked some King Size Rizlas on the shelf above the bed, the end of the packet torn.

      Your clothes, I said.

      Thanks, he said. He didn’t look up. I heard the scratch of a Rotring. For a minute I stood looking at the back of his head, his biceps in his blue t-shirt, the looseness of his jeans under the waist, the instep of one foot in a stripy sock.

      He cocked his head, wondered silently why I was still there. All right? he offered.

      I bent down and kissed the warm whorl at the crown of his head. An absent-minded big hand came out, patted my calf, carried on drawing a line of buildings – some tall, some with spires, pointed roofs.

      Do you want me to close the door, I asked like an idiot.

      He nodded, didn’t look up. Thanks, Mum.

      When I gave birth and saw Jason was a boy, I cried. I knew if I had a girl she’d hate me.

      I remember when he was about three there was something I wouldn’t let him do. I forget what. He stood in the middle of the room and screamed,

      I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

      You’d think I’d have been upset, but I wasn’t. I felt like swinging him into the air and spanking him and shouting, I hate you more! A thrill went through me. I saw myself doing it.

      I should have hugged him, but I left the room and had a fag and thought about what a horrible little world it is. When I came back he’d fallen over, or hit his head. He was crying, and I cuddled him. I felt sorry for him, for both of us.

      He stopped crying. He was holding on to my top with one fist and he leaned away and stared at me, all weary, like an old person. As though he was saying, Oh, I get it, this is what it’s like? This is it? We looked at each other.

      One of the worst things I did was when he was old enough to have a key and come home from school on his own. I was back to doing full days. He must have been ten or eleven. We’d had an argument all weekend, about these football boots he wanted, which Ronaldo wore. They were gold and cost a fortune. I told him he already had perfectly functional boots and he became furious and said he needed them.

      I got back and he was sitting in the middle of the lounge tearing something. It looked like there was grey water all over the floor. The ripped-up sports sections. He must have been at it for an hour.

      He looked up at me, distracted, like he’d gone into another place, though he must have been angry when he started.

      I said, Jason, what have you done?

      I imagined screaming, What have you done? What the fuck have you done? You stupid boy! I’m going to kill you!

      I stood on the edge of the sea of newsprint. Then I said very quietly, One of these days I’m going to leave. I’ll just go. You’ll get back and I won’t be here. And I won’t ever come back.

      He looked at me with his mouth open. As though he’d suspected I was mad but couldn’t believe it.

      I sat down, closed my eyes and said I was sorry, and I’d never do that. He said, It’s all right, Mum, but I think he meant, Don’t cry, you’re only crying for yourself. I remember that with my mother, her hitting me and then crying.

      I sat down in the paper.

      What are you doing? he said.

      I’m tired, I said. And I was, I realised. I lay down.

      Mum!

      Close the door, I said.

      I lay there while it got dark, maybe for an hour. I thought about my grandpa and how he’d say I was having a reaction. I remembered sleeping between them, him and Nan, in their bed. In the night if I tried to get close to Grandpa he’d turn away. But I’d cuddle up to Nan’s back and a big arm would come over me and pat my bum. I’d be warm. I’d hear next door’s dog or a dog in the street howl and I’d think that’s the sound of loneliness. I’ll always remember that sound I’d think. After a while of lying there and crying I thought about how old I was now – thirty years old. I’m thirty years old, I thought, with my cheek in newsprint. It smelled cheap, the ink. I wondered if I’d have black smears on my face, or half a word. From an ad. SALE, but backwards. I was cold, and hungry, and it was dark. I needed a wee. I got up, turned on the light, picked up the paper, made us fish fingers and chips, and went to the corner shop for ice cream. I gave Jason a hug before and told him I did love him. He let me hug him and said he knew.

      While I was on my way to the shop I had a smoke. I felt done in, like I’d been crying for days. I thought to myself something I often thought at that time when anything went wrong, whatever it was, and then when it stopped, at least for a bit: Well, that passed the time. And then I’d laugh, really laugh, because no one else would have understood.