I ignore his show of overtly rebellious conduct and finish brushing my teeth, swilling my mouth out with coloured mouthwash, which vaguely burns my gums.
The thought of having a shower and getting ready like a responsible human being feels momentarily daunting. So instead, I pull on woolly socks and shove my feet into thick, wool-lined winter boots.
I go downstairs to grab my dark-blue bomber jacket and King’s lead from the hallway cupboard. King practically throws up with excitement. Or at least that’s what it seems like. I appreciate his enthusiasm, I really do. It’s the only thing keeping me on my feet.
It’s just me and King in the house. Mum went out yesterday afternoon and hasn’t come back yet. That’s not unusual. It’s highly likely she won’t be home until tonight, if then. I don’t start worrying about her until she’s been gone more than two weeks. There have been multiple occasions when I’ve had to track her down through a series of mind-numbing phone calls with her “friends.” It’s annoying, but in the end, I always find out what bathtub she fell into or what floor she passed out on.
There was one notable instance when her latest group of friends actually called me to say my mum had broken into someone’s conservatory and refused to leave without talking to me first. What a morning that had been. It was a good thing the person whose conservatory she broke into was so understanding and didn’t call the police. Mum’s had enough trouble with them as it is.
Every time I have to go on the hunt for her, I always end up having to half drag, half blackmail her out of wherever she is and cajole her into coming back home so she can properly sleep it all off.
I don’t mind doing it. It’s just a pain. She’s a pain. But I don’t get angry at her all that much anymore.
I used to. When I was teenager, I thought I hated her. Really hated her, I mean. But then she almost gave herself alcohol poisoning and ended up in hospital. After that, I stopped being quite so angry and felt relieved if she was just being a general pain rather than doing herself real harm.
It’s not that I’m okay with how she is, because that would be insane. But I’ve accepted there’s nothing I can do about it, which is freeing in its own way. She is who she is, and the only person who can stop her is herself, and that’s not happening anytime soon.
Checking that I have my door keys and phone just in case Mum does, by some will of Lucifer or Jesus, decide to call, I take King out for his morning walk.
King ping-pongs across the pavement as we do our usual morning route through the somewhat-grotty streets of uptown Danger City. There’s a small park near our house that is dog friendly. We head towards it, with King bouncing around, happier than any person could ever hope to be, and me huddling inside my jacket, chilly as all hell. I should have put a coat and scarf on. Maybe one day, when I’m some kind of real grown up, I’ll stop pretending weather doesn’t exist and that I don’t have to plan my outfits according to it.
There isn’t anyone else in the park when we get there. That’s not too unusual for this time in the morning. Most people either come out much earlier because they have work, or they come out later if they’re stay-at-home parents. Retired, elderly people with pets tend to like coming out early as well, even though they don’t have anywhere they urgently need to be.
Going for walks this early reminds me of my aunt Anabelle. She’s the very definition of an early bird.
When I was growing up, I used to spend a lot of time at my aunt’s house. She’s my mother’s sister, and ironically, she’s the director of FISA. That didn’t stop her from sending agents after my father, though. Loyalty to the agency apparently trumped any allegiance she might have felt towards her sister.
My mother never forgave Anabelle for going after my father. They haven’t spoken in years.
My own relationship with Anabelle is quite different. She was the one who made me think I could do something that mattered and encouraged me to join FISA.
To be fair, I didn’t need much convincing.
FISA’s largest base is in Danger City, the same city I’ve lived in my entire life, so at least I didn’t need to worry about moving away from Mum to join the agency.
When I was fourteen, I ran off to Anabelle’s by myself, with the high hopes of living with her.
Anabelle told me I could stay with her for as long as I wanted. I’m not sure if she meant that, but at the time I thought she did, which was all that mattered to me then.
I got to stay for a week before my mother showed up, startlingly sober and more furious than I’d ever seen her. She took Anabelle to another room, and they had a heated argument where I only heard the volume and intensity, not what was said.
Mum grabbed me on her way out and pretty much dragged me to the car, shoving me into it. She must have been more upset than I thought because she rarely got that aggressive with me when she wasn’t drunk. I learnt to avoid her during those times. Not because I was scared of her, like I was in the beginning, but because I genuinely didn’t want to deal with the aggro of it all.
On the way home from Anabelle’s, Mum forbade me from seeing my aunt without Mum’s express permission. I remember hating her so much in that moment it felt like a physical thing, bleeding out of me in vile sprays of red and rage. It seemed impossible to me she wouldn’t be able to feel it too.
I probably would have ignored Mum’s order to stay away from Anabelle if Mum hadn’t almost accidentally killed herself a few weeks later. I felt partly responsible for it, and the thought of triggering anything similar kept me from reaching out to Anabelle for years.
Anabelle allowed my silence, not pushing me one way or another. I don’t know if I should be upset with her for not doing more, for not taking me home with her and keeping me there. I sway back and forth on that.
When I let King off his lead, he very promptly goes full-on, unfettered kraken. He darts away in some random direction to do what dogs do when they’re released from their owners in an open space. He goes bloody mad, is what I’m getting at. Freedom does odd things to everyone, I guess, even posh dogs. Maybe especially to posh dogs.
If there were other dogs here, then King would stalk them and find a safe spot from which to stare at them. He really is a cat at heart. The problem is, when cats do that, they look menacing. When King does it, he just looks like the other dog is holding someone he loves hostage, and he’s waiting with the police for a ransom demand to be dropped off in the park. It’s very disconcerting. I’ve had owners look at me suspiciously, like he’s acting under my orders or something. Like I’ve commanded my dog to be as creepy as possible.
I mean, I might do that. If I felt it was required. But not for unofficial reasons.
I let King bound himself to fitful bliss for about an hour. At one point, he brings me a sodden, moss-infested twig. It makes me wish I’d worn my gloves. If I have gloves. I’m sure I do. Somewhere. They’re probably in a drawer masquerading as socks. They’ll be found one day by future archaeologists.
In an effort not to disappoint an overjoyed corgi, I throw the twig for him again and again until the inevitable happens. Fetch is a game King forgets how to play half of the time. He’ll let me throw something and then gaze after it as if I’ve just done a very bizarre, maybe even rude, thing. Then he’ll stare up at me as if to say,I come to you in good faith with an offering of great meaning, and you just throw it away? How dare you, sir.
