Half Plus Seven by Dan Tyte Page A

my bones out of bed and try to revitalise myself with a cigarette in the shower (there was a knack to it, trust me), before heading off to massage the truth for money. Oh no, today brought a different walk through the valley of the shadow of death: a visit to my mother’s house. Well, not strictly just my mother’s house. My mother and Barry’s house. Their little shag-pile-carpeted, feature-fireplaced, trinket-strewn love nest. You’d think I had other affairs to attend to on my day off; correspondence to catch up on, petunias to prune, a sedan to wash, wax and polish, or a church hall bring-and-buy sale to co-ordinate. Well, I’m afraid all that was going to have to wait. It was their third wedding anniversary (denoted by leather, I dread to think of what they bought each other) and I had to go and bathe in their second-marriage smugness. I had to. There was no getting out of it. Was there? Could I not concoct an excuse? An embarrassing ailment that called for careful quarantining? No, I said I would go. I’d been a disappointment enough. I said I’d go.
    My mother and Barry lived in an anodyne, soulless suburb. It was the kind of place social climbers moved to be away from the foreigns and the traffic and the late night noise and the drugs, but all they were left with when they got there were shit CD collections and each other. It was the home of pooper-scoopers and swinger’s parties, right-wing newspapers and patio heaters. It was everything they thought they’d ever wanted, all those years ago in the dark, damp rooms of their distant youth. This was progress. This was each generation doing better than the last. Evolution needed a revolution or we were all going to be watching a Blu-ray in surround sound or at a cheese and wine party when the computers finally took over or the aliens came to fuck us up, whichever comes first.
    â€˜How’s that lovely couple you live with, love?’ said my mum, flicking the bangs of her too-young hairstyle behind her ear.
    â€˜They’re good, Mum, really great,’ I lied.
    â€˜Must be a bit queer living with a couple mustn’t it, Bill?’ said Barry. Fat-faced, receding hairline, no soul, spawn of Satan, Barry.
    â€˜Well, I lived with my mum and dad and they were a couple, Barry.’
    â€˜Don’t be smart, son,’ said my mum. I bit my lip. ‘I wish you could find something like that.’
    â€˜I do most nights, Mum.’
    â€˜Oh, Bill.’
    Barry bounced off his stool and strutted around the kitchen island to the ice dispenser in the fridge door, like a cockerel with rickets and a paunch. He wore black jeans, far too tight for his figure or age, and a black vest which revealed formerly muscular, currently flabby, hairy arms. Colour was provided through peroxide flecked liberally throughout his gravity and fashion-defying spiked haircut. His bouffant had been eroded on both sides by the wash of an existence in the lowest common denominator ‘entertainment’ industry, leaving a sad spit of hair on the top of his head.
    â€˜Do you want some nibbles, love? We’ve got some of that hummus in. Barry can’t get enough of it. He’s got such an exotic palate.’
    â€˜I’m okay, thanks, mum. I wouldn’t want to spoil the roast.’
    Vasco de Gama would turn in his watery grave if he saw my mum’s cupboards. Their shelves stocked not a sniff of a spice or a hint of a herb. My mum was a somewhat simple but effective cook, steeped in the tradition of stodge. Barry had designs on a higher station but, as with everything he tried, his voyage to the vanguard of cutting-edge cuisine came to a halt about 10 years before the present day. Hummus? How retro. We wouldn’t have fed that to the Morgan & Schwarz dog.
    â€˜Okay, love. We can go into the posh room if you like, seeing as how it’s a special occasion and all.’
    â€˜Of course, Mum. Did your card come in the