‘That’s blackmail, and you always told me blackmail would send me to hell.’
‘I told you a lot of things.’
I pop a yellow wine gum into my mouth, then another. She gives me a little shake.
‘I promise you, I was helping a mate. Who happened to be female. She needed a lift.’
‘A lift? In that bloody big car you won?’ My ma tuts, as if that bloody big car is a prostitute who shows up to Sunday mass with her skirt tucked into her knickers.
‘Kind of,’ is all I can think to reply.
‘I told you that car would bring you nothing but bad luck. Remember the lottery winners?’
I nod. ‘I remember. I do listen to what you say. Hold on. Why are you saying that? Why are you presuming the car brought me bad luck?’
‘’Cause of the look in your eyes, the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
‘I think that’s got something to do with you being here in the ozzy.’
My ma releases a weak raspy laugh.
‘Jim. I know you got a fright, me falling. But I know you better than anyone. Something else has happened to you, son. You seem different.’
I just long for some colour to appear in her cheeks, a little more volume to escape from her lips, any hint of recovery going in a good, sharp direction. She’s almost seventy-five, which isn’t that old in this day and age, but she’s fragile. My hand’s in hers again, and I run my index finger over the veins and knuckles, her paper-thin skin delicate, precious. I’m scared. I’m downright lost. But my ma won’t put up with anything soppy. She never allows a sentimental moment to last longer than a flicker.
‘I think you should see her again,’ she says, pulling her hand away from mine.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games with me, soft lad. You know who.’
‘Get some rest, Mam.’
Disappointment washes over me when she doesn’t argue back. She closes her eyes and falls deeper into her pillows. I sit back in the plastic armchair, watching her chest move up and down.
Once my ma is sound asleep, I leave the hospital and call Griffo.
‘Where are you, mate?’ I ask.
‘Home, lad. Where are you?’
‘On me way back from the ozzy. Griffo, I need to drop your dad’s minibus off.’
‘Sound. Now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sound.’
‘And then I’ll need a lift back to mine. Is that okay, mate?’
‘Sound as a pound.’
Mrs Wong isn’t too pleased to see me when Griffo drops me off. She stands behind the deep fat fryer, two customers awaiting their food, and huffs enough to set the place alight. Her antisocial kids are sitting on the stairs playing Uno and don’t say hello or bother to move out of the way to let me past. When I find my front door ajar, I understand why Mrs Wong is so pissed off with me. Her kids must’ve tried to get into my flat to watch Netflix, but they were too late. The living room is already occupied. With Helen.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask her.
‘Nice to see you, too, Jimbo.’
Her maroon Doc Martens are off and her stockinged feet are resting on my tile-and-teak coffee table, a mug of instant coffee in her hands and a huge woolly jumper keeping her warm, some B-list romcom on the telly. Anyone would think she lives here.
And for a moment, I like it.
Coming home to nobody is tiresome. After a long day in the toll booth or a heavy night in the Pacific Arms, or even after a weekly shop in the Asda, getting home is always a great feeling. But once I shut the front door, take off my trainers, whack the kettle on, life can be unbearably lonely. My paperbacks are sacred, my love of films a God-send.
‘Hels, I’ve had a fucked-up few days—’
‘Jimbo, stop. You don’t need to explain.’ She places her coffee on the table, spilling a little over the rim, and stands up. ‘I just wanted to say sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not. I was drunk, I didn’t mean to be such a pain.’
‘Sit down, will you? You’re making the room look untidy.’
Helen allows herself to smile and sits back down, taking her coffee and curling her feet beneath her. I wonder if Snowy has popped the question yet. She’s not wearing a ring. She rests her head against the leather settee and closes her eyes, sighing.