Scratch by Danny Gillan Page B

placetogowhenhewantedtobealone room.
    My parents lived in a small, two bedroom terrace in Muirend , and neither of them had attempted to hide the fact that they were looking forward to the extra space. I hadn’t been insulted or hurt by this; they were only being practical. Plus, at the time I was at least as eager to go as they were to see me leave.
    ‘It would be nice if you went up and gave him a hand.’ She was never one for making her hints too oblique, my mum.
    ‘Of course, yes. No bother.’ I headed up the stairs.
    As I reached the top landing I could hear grunts, groans and bugger s emanating from behind the closed door of my old room.
    ‘Dad?’ I pushed the door open, eager to help, and heard a thud.
    ‘ Aah ! For Christ’s ...’
    I put my head round the door to see my dad rubbing the top of his scalp, which I had just banjoed with that very same door.
    ‘Shit, sorry. Do you need a hand?’
    ‘I need an ambulance with you around, and watch your language in front of your mother!’
    ‘Eh, okay.’ I didn’t bother pointing out Mum was downstairs and well out of earshot.
    ‘Don’t stand there like a loon, grab an end.’
    I hurried to the far end of the computer desk, which he had been manipulating towards the door when I brained him. ‘Got it,’ I said, gripping under the lip of the desktop.
    ‘Don’t lift it from the top; it’s too ... oh for Christ’s sake , Jim!’
    My end of the beech desktop rose easily when I pulled up. Unfortunately the rest of the desk remained on the floor. ‘Shit!’ I crouched and tried to line up the wooden dowels and those weird Ikea screw things back into their holes.
    ‘It’ll sit back in no bother, it’ll be fine,’ I said.
    ‘Leave it!’ My dad all but pushed me out of the way as he bent down to survey the damage. ‘Needs some wood glue.’ He left the room without another word and I heard him thump down the stairs. A couple of seconds later I heard the back door slam as he headed for the shed.
    ‘ Leave it, I need a bloody ambulance, mind your bloody language in front of your mum, don’t lift it from the top, loon! ’ I’m not sure what voice I was doing – something high-pitched and sarcastic – but it felt good even if didn’t sound anything like my dad. ‘Maybe if you’d spent more than a tenner on the desk it wouldn’t fall apart.’ I had stopped the bad impersonation and was just talking to myself now, but that felt good too. ‘And Mum’s down the bloody fucking stairs, isn’t she? She can’t fucking hear a bloody fucking thing, can she fucking now? Fuck prick fuck prick fuck prick, see? She can’t hear me! Daft old ba —’
    ‘Jim?’
    I nearly shat myself. I turned to see my mum standing in the doorway. ‘Eh ... hiya .’ I felt like I had serious sunburn on my entire head.
    ‘Are you all right?’
      ‘Eh, I’m fine, yeah, sorry. I broke the desk. And hit dad on the head. With the door. Quite hard, I think.’
    Mum nodded a few times. ‘You can be, yes.’
    ‘Did you, eh, hear ...?’
    She nodded again. Now it felt like sunstroke. ‘So,’ she began, choosing her words carefully. ‘You’ve been here less than ten minutes and you’re already so angry at your dad that you’re standing up here swearing away to yourself like an ASBO’d eight year-old, and the reason you’re angry is that you broke his desk and gave him a head injury. Have I got that right?’
    I’ve always hated logic. Spock was a smug bastard if you ask me. I tried a smile. The puppy dog look stopped working on my mum when I was about three.
    She shook her head; slowly, this time. ‘Welcome home, Jim.’
    ***
    I managed to stay out of my dad’s way until dinner time. His computer now sat atop its desk in the corner of the already cramped dining room. I tried to avoid its accusing stare as my mum brought out our food.
    ‘Thanks, Mum, looks great.’
    ‘It looks like chicken and oven chips, but thank you.’ She smiled as she sat down.
    ‘Cheers,