Inappropriate: Three Short Stories

Linton’s thumb drummed his man-bag. ‘Think it over,’ he said and the corner of his mouth turned down.

  Now they had something, hickie or not. They had more than they could ever have dreamed of. Mrs. Man-bag could not rewrite her assignment. The Gay’s Missus could not even lay pen to paper. I missed a week of Film Ed lectures. I went to student services but didn’t knock. I submitted my assignment at the eleventh hour and then met Kieran at the Clovelly Arms the following Friday. I sought out his cerulean eyes for assurance.

  I sampled my shandy within Headliner’s Springsteen cover. I decided to submit to the mood. Too soon the reality would hit me; I would have to pay off my student loan and get a job in Colby. I didn’t want to mind. Perhaps the next shandy would help me not to. That’s when I spotted Mr. Linton in the crowd. Vi was yelling something in my ear that rhymed with bad-dad, or sad-fad. Headliner had finished its first half and the jukebox cut in with a ballad. I knew at that moment he was looking for me. I hoped it was about my assignment and nothing else. That bloody assignment again. Why did he have to care?

  Stewed Tea pegged me. My shandy glass trembled. I should have spoken to student services but it was too late. In the clamour, he mouthed my name. And in a flicker, he vanished. Beer-soaked hair and tranced-out faces flickered around me. And a second later, the melee propelled Mr. Linton’s man-bag into the air. Damon’s face came to my notice, severed by a boozy simper. The crowd parted to permit a view of Mr. Linton sprawled on the floor, Damon’s mate, Stevie sitting on his head.

  Kieran came out of nowhere to perform his usual heroics. He pushed Stevie off and helped Mr. Linton to his feet via the armpits. A bangle-wristed hand proffered the man-bag. Laughter rippled throughout the room.

  I pushed into the crowd and escaped through the back door. I realised I still had my shandy but the alcohol proved insufficient. Kieran’s Cadillac was thankfully unlocked and I let myself in. Ten minutes later, Kieran found me. With a bemused expression, he got into the car, asked if I was all right and drove me to the Pegasus. Instead of going in to see the film, he remained in the car. The sidelight brought out the startling translucency of his eyes. His face grew sober. ‘Andrea, I’ve been thinking.’ Behind him, a harvest moon nosed through the trees. ‘I don’t wanna be giving you stupid hickies anymore. In fact, I think my hickie days are over.’

  The Pegasus sign flickered in front of us.

  ‘I think it’s time I grew up and got serious.’

  For once, his expression grew still, a rare moment for Kieran. I wanted to hear him say it. I had waited so long.

  A catcall severed the moment.

  ‘Kieran! Hey, Kieran!’

  I glanced round to see Damon and Stevie capering near the McDonald’s sign. Stevie’s satchel-bag shot into the air. Damon stumbled onto his backside as the satchel spun skywards. The two figures morphed into one as each tried to catch it. At plummet’s end, the satchel crashed against the bins. ‘You bloody sod!’ Damon cried, ‘me makeup bag is in there!’

  A snort exploded through Kieran’s nostrils. His eyes alighted upon mine complicit. ‘Oops a daisy, Susan,’ he uttered and he submitted to a string of helpless hicks. He keeled over. To Damon and Stevie, Kieran’s Cadillac would appear to quiver beneath the moonlight. Of course, I laughed. What else could I do? I laughed along with him like I often did when watching slapstick moments on celluloid, like when Kitty’s bra had been used as a catapult in the G-String Goes Forth.

  I opened the door to let myself out. ‘I just need the loo, Kieran,’ I explained still laughing, but Kieran had yet to collect himself.

  From a quagmire of self-loathing, I floundered for an iota of decency. I would do right by Mr. Linton. I would apologise on behalf of those wankers by the bins. I would read the screenplay and rewrite my assignment. I would wish Mr. Linton well before he returns to Oakham and then my conscience would be clear to hear Kieran’s words of commitment. The weight of my thoughts caused my feet to stumble ahead.

  Mr. Linton’s Honda nestled within a mass of scrubbed-up bangers. Set apart, Mr. Linton’s temporary abode abutted the campus halls of residence. Mustard lights winked in the gloom but not his. I cast my eyes over the main block and noticed the Film Ed strip-light buzzing – a formal place to redeem myself. The place was deserted, the foyer silent. I found him as expected at the edge of the lecture theatre emptying his desk with a clatter. His movements lacked purpose, a task for its own sake. He flopped into his chair and pulled out another drawer before apathy took him. His eyes lifted to see a sheepish mature student clutching her satchel by the door. Blood matted his temple. Before thinking, I said, ‘you should get that seen to.’

  Mr. Linton swept his wrist across his fore-hair and the residue caused him to frown. A breathy utterance escaped him. ‘Why are you here, Ms. Tallis?’ he asked pushing his books into his bag.

  His solemn tone pained me. ‘Just to say I’m sorry for what happened earlier.’ Pressure surged into my throat. ‘And…er sorry for wasting your time. I’m not worth it. Colby’s full of factories and I was an idiot to take a year out to study theatre. It was just a fantasy that’s cost me a student loan and a year out of my life. And I don’t think I would provide the sort of company you are seeking once I get my certificate. I’m not that interesting really. So what if I cried at Robocop?’

  There. I’ve said it.

  His tea-coloured eyes brushed against mine as he clasped his bag shut. ‘Andrea, my contract here technically doesn’t end till next week and I will be expecting you and your rewritten assignment next Tuesday.’

  I couldn’t believe these words after my admission. ‘But Mr. Linton…’

  He coughed. ‘Yes, Andrea.’

  My hands grew clammy as the words I really wanted to say all year pushed into my head. ‘It’s just…’

  His eyes narrowed into that dreaded scrutiny and my lips moved despite my better judgment. ‘And there it is, Mr. Linton, the way you look at me.’ My pulse surged. ‘I bungee jump the Forth Bridge every time you do that. I feel seasick when you walk into the room and I want to run a mile. Instead my legs turn to stone and my tongue gets twisted and…I feel an idiot.’

  Silence fell heavily over the theatre and I realised I had blurred my vision behind lowered eyelids. A table leg rasped across the floor. I glanced up to see Mr. Linton had shifted from the chair but the hinge of the table had snagged the hem of his shirt. The table pulled behind him. His knowing look fell apart but his eyes remained on mine. I knit my lip and remembered my nail scissors in my bag. ‘I…I’ll…er cut you free, Mr. Linton.’

  I could have told him to lose his man-bag but he wouldn’t be Mr. Linton without it.

  Outside

  CERAMIC SPLINTERED against slab. Tommy and Zane chuckled behind the hedgerow, their rakes idling around the pile of dead leaves.

  My stupid lopsided grin froze on my face when Elaine looked at me. White heat flashed against my ribcage at that look. I would have preferred anger, scorn, but what she dished out was far worse. Christ, it was just a stupid garden gnome.

  But her look told me this wasn’t the point. The point was, her kid Fin had painted it for her at kindergarten. Her hazel eyes darkened with hurt and disappointment. She turned her back on me before ushering her three-year-old kid into the house. The hedge behind me continued to quiver as their rakes clicked, just the way mine had done so moments before connecting with the naff wretch perched on the rockery like it was going for a shit. It seemed funny at the time. Tommy and Zane continued to laugh. I laughed with them, and hoped her lawn would swallow me whole.

  What was wrong with me? I never cared about the stuff I did, not when I pawned off Wal Carter’s wedding ring belonging to his dead wife; not when I broke into the Gables old folks’ home and lifted the cash out of the safe. The emotional consequences of what I did never crossed my mind. My seven-year-old ears had bristled to my dad’s gravelly declaration he never wanted to see me again. My cokehead mam couldn’t cope and stuck me in a kids’ home.

/>   I hold no grudges I was probably better off in a system that allowed no emotional bonds: no lies, no betrayals. I told myself my misdemeanours were justified. I was just taking back something owed or kicking out, whatever excuse suited me, but feared each deed fostered a deep rot.

  Zane flourished his rake like a demented cavalier. ‘Get a fuckin’ move on, Deke,’ he mocked our manager, Ed then somehow hooked the seam of my hood to pull it over my head.

  ‘Fuck it, Zane,’ I barked.

  Zane’s donkey-laugh didn’t want to stop. Zane loved hysteria; it was the closest thing he could get to a high since coming clean during community service. He checked his non-existent watch. ‘Time to fuck off, ladies. Tommy’s promised me a pint.’

  Tommy’s dopey face emerged from behind the hedge. ‘What?’

  Elaine’s look continued to sting. ‘I’ll...er catch you up.’

  Tommy’s thick tone cut through. ‘What’s that you say about a pint?’

  But Zane’s pinched-up eyes continued to latch onto mine. ‘Whatchya hanging back for? Got somethin’ planned?’

  I knew better than to engage with an ex-crackhead when I’d almost done my stint in C service, so I merely shook my head and sauntered off. My soles crunched over the cornstubbs of Spink’s fallow field that abutted the back gardens. I was a freakish