6
‘Christian! Christiannnnnnn!’ Elsie’s voice echoed around the three-bedroom semi. ‘What’s a gal gotta do to get some fried chicken around here?’
Elsie was lying in the living room, the only place big enough to house her reinforced bed. The air smelled of toffee-flavoured popcorn, one of many snacks within reach. There was movement on the bed as two sausages – one black, one ginger – shifted off her feet. Felix exposed his teeth in a yawn, his pink tongue curling as he exhaled the stink of burped Whiskas. He turned his yellow eyes upon her, his paws working the duvet before settling in contentment by her side.
Toni, her ginger feline, rolled onto her back and emitted a soft hungry mew. As for the rest of her brood … Gregory and Officer Dibble were out on the hunt while Boo Boo and T.C. were curled up in a basket on the floor next to her bed. Elsie wriggled her toes as pins and needles spiked. Her circulation was abysmal these days.
‘Christian?’ she called again. No answer. ‘Fine.’ She muttered beneath her breath. ‘You know what happens when you ignore your mom.’ Leaning to one side, she flicked off the switch to the BT broadband. The response was instant.
‘Ah, Mom!’ Her son’s anguished voice rang out from upstairs. ‘I was almost finished with my game!’ Throwing open his bedroom door, he came down the stairs.
Elsie floundered as she tried to launch herself into an upright position. ‘You know the rules. Don’t ignore your momma. Or do you want to lose another hour?’ The Wi-Fi was her only tug on the leash when he stepped outside the boundaries or ignored her calls for help. God knows she had no physical way of controlling him. Red-faced and sweating, she tried to raise her 400lb frame. ‘Pillow,’ she gasped, grabbing for the handle dangling from above the bed.
Sulking, Christian wedged the pillow behind her back. She caught his disapproving glare but chose to ignore it. A waft of stale sweat and dried urine rose and Elsie watched as he turned his head away. She knew what he was thinking. Sometimes, Elsie wished he’d come out and say it: that her illness was self-inflicted, and she had nobody to blame but herself. Watching her son, she felt the bitter edge of her own self-disgust.
Her gaze followed her son as he dragged his feet to the American-style fridge-freezer, the door jingling with bottles as he opened it wide. Her bed was next to the living-room windows, but if she craned her neck, she could see into the kitchen, her favourite room in the house.
‘Here puss, puss,’ Christian called, filling up a cat bowl with milk. A chorus of miaows ensued as her felines joined him in the kitchen and lapped at the bowl.
Elsie watched him bend to stroke each of them in turn. He was a good boy, really. He just needed to be kept in line. She observed him grab the bucket of KFC, one of two he had brought home for her last night. What shewantedand what sheneededwere two entirely different things. The bucket of chicken would serve as breakfast before he went to work. Opening the freezer door, he grabbed a packet of frozen éclairs, enough to keep her going until he made it home for lunch.
‘About time,’ she said, grabbing the food from his outstretched hands. ‘Now remember what I said. And no swearing. I didn’t raise you to have a potty mouth.’
‘I didn’t swear.’ Christian wiped his hands on the back of his trousers.
‘Bull spit,’ she replied, before sinking her teeth into a chicken wing. ‘You were just about to. And where’s my chocolate milk?’
‘I’m getting it.’ Christian’s head hung low as he turned back to the kitchen. ‘I’m twenty-five, Mom,’ he mumbled. ‘Stop treating me like a kid.’ Elsie frowned as she watched him walk the worn path from the bed to the fridge.
‘Who licked the red from your ice lolly? You’re in a right ol’ stinky mood today,’ she said, as he returned with a two-litre carton of chocolate milk. Glasses were just a formality. It saved on the washing up when she consumed things directly from the pack. She did her bit for the environment.
‘Sorry,’ he sighed, his shoulders slumped. ‘I’m whacked. I’ve been putting in some long hours in the office, then there’s all the housework …’
‘You act like a kid, you get treated like one,’ Elsie said, before he changed the subject and started guilt-tripping her for not helping out.You eat like a pig and you look like one.Her father’s taunt reared its head, one of many in his repertoire. They slipped into her mind at the oddest of moments, a reminder that she could never truly escape. His bones may be dust and dirt, but the taunts lived on. Grabbing a slice of kitchen roll, she wiped away the chicken grease that was sliding down her chin.
She watched Christian cast his eyes over the Kit-Cat novelty clock, its eyes flicking left to right as it relayed the time. The clock was one of many ornaments she had imported from the States.
‘I’m gonna be late for work,’ he said, picking up some empty crisp packets from the floor.
‘Have you emptied the litter trays?’
Christian exhaled a weary sigh. ‘No time. I’ll do it when I get home.’
‘You said that yesterday,’ Elsie tutted. ‘Have you fed the cats? Milk ain’t enough to keep them going all day.’ She would do it herself, but her back hurt like the dickens. The painkillers the doctor prescribed weren’t cutting it anymore.
Christian retreated into the kitchen, and the rattle of dried cat food hit the metal trays.
‘Don’t forget to drop my books off at the library,’ Elsie called, over the cacophony of miaows. Ripping off a chunk of chicken flesh, she made short work of her food. ‘And honey, bring home some decent books this time. Glorified immorality is not my idea of a fun read.’ She shooed Felix away as he jumped up on the bed. He knew better than to beg for scraps.
Christian’s expression softened as he returned. ‘It’s a crime thriller, Mom, I thought you’d like it.’
Elsie raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t read books by male authors. Too much profanity and sexual content.’ She caught her son wincing as she threw the chicken bone into the bucket. ‘Besides …’ she continued, reaching for a book from the pile at the end of the bed. ‘This one isforeign.’ She spoke the word with disgust.
‘It’s Scandi crime,’ Christian took the grease-stained book from her grip. ‘It’s all the rage.’
‘More like scanty,’ Elsie replied. ‘Given how many times they took their clothes off.’ As the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, Elsie was no stranger to vocalising her discontent. ‘Get me a nice Mary Cleveland. Her writing’s like a warm buttered biscuit, just melts off the page.’
‘I’ll try.’ Christian gathered the stack of books.
