Liz Nugent - Lying in Wait

Helen’s school was one of the fee-paying ones a little closer to town, but she lived near our school. I had overheard stories about her from other boys in my class. I felt a kinship because the bullies in my class seemed to have as much contempt for her as they did for me.

I heard her before I saw her. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked. I turned. Her green uniform skirt, made of some hairy fabric, was worn to baldness in places and the hem had come down on one side. I could see the inside of her collar was threadbare at the neck.

‘Laurence. Fitzsimons.’

‘Ah yeah, I’ve heard of you. Why do they call you the Hippo? You look normal to me.’

I warmed to her immediately. ‘I am normal. They just don’t like me.’

‘Well, who gives a fuck what they like? Do you live on Brennanstown Road? I’ve seen you around.’

I lived in Avalon, a large detached house with a well-kept garden at the end of the road, but I wasn’t sure if I should tell her. She didn’t seem to mind whether I responded to her questions or not. We ambled companionably onwards. When we passed Trisha’s Café, she suggested that I buy her a Coke. I hesitated.

‘OK then, I’ll buy you one,’ she said as she pushed the glass door open. It would have been rude not to follow her. Unfortunately, the bullies were already there, sitting near the counter.

‘Oink, oink!’ one of them shouted in our direction.

‘Fucking eejits,’ said Helen, ‘ignore them.’

We very rarely had bad language in Avalon, but now, in the same five minutes, I’d heard fuck and fucking. From a girl. I used bad language too sometimes, but never out loud.

Helen strolled coolly to the counter and returned with two Cokes.

I shoved two 10p pieces towards her to pay for them.

‘You don’t have to. Just because I paid, it doesn’t mean you have to ask me out.’

Ask her out?

‘I want to pay. It’s fair.’

‘Fine,’ she said. There was a lull in conversation as we sucked our Cokes through thin straws. And then she said, ‘You’d be quite good-looking if you weren’t fat.’

It was not news to me that I was fat. My mother said it was puppy fat and that I’d shed it soon enough, but I was seventeen. My father said I ate too much. My scales said fifteen stone. I hadn’t always been big, but over the last year, since I’d moved schools, my eating habits had gone completely out of control. The more nervous and miserable I was, the hungrier I felt. I love food, and mostly the fattening stuff. But this was the first time that a non-parent had said I was fat without a look of disgust.

‘Your hair’s nice,’ I said, to return the compliment. She looked very pleased.

‘I love food too, I probably eat more than you,’ she said. Helen obviously had no idea just how much food I could put away.

‘If you could give me about three stone, we’d both be perfect.’

Helen and I met a few times in the weeks after. We took it in turns to buy the Cokes. Then one day Helen said, ‘Do you want to come to my house tomorrow night?’

‘For what?’

‘To visit me? To kick off the weekend?’ she said, as if it was completely normal to be invited to girls’ houses. ‘My mum has made this amazing cake that’s going to get thrown out if it’s not eaten.’

We had only known each other a few weeks, but already she knew which buttons to push. An arrangement was made for after school, an address written down on the inside cover of my jotter.

At home that evening, I tried to be casual and breezy. ‘I won’t be in for dinner tomorrow, I’m going to the cinema with some of the lads,’ I lied, as casually as I could. I focused on my copybook with fierce concentration. My dad perked up: he was delighted.

‘Well, isn’t that great now, great altogether. Going out with pals, eh? What are you going to see? There’s a new Star Wars one, isn’t there?’

We had been to see Star Wars together as a family. Dad and I had enjoyed it, but Mum had put her hands over her ears during the explosions, jumping at every clash of a light sabre. After that, she swore she was never going to the cinema again.

‘ Herbie Goes Bananas ,’ I said confidently, trying to ignore the crimson creep from my collar.

‘I see,’ said my father, slightly deflated and puzzled. ‘Well, that’ll be good, won’t it, going out with friends?’ He looked meaningfully at my mother, pleased no doubt that I finally had friends, but she was concentrating on cutting me a slice of cheesecake. I tried to nudge her hand a little to make the slice bigger, and she did so with a sigh and shake of her head.

‘I’ll take that one,’ said my dad. ‘Give the boy a smaller bit.’ Nothing got past him.

‘Just be home by midnight.’

‘Midnight?! But we don’t even know who these people—’

‘No more about it, Lydia.’ Dad closed the subject.

Midnight. Janey Mackers, I was amazed. I’d never had a curfew before. I hadn’t needed one, but midnight seemed generous. Thanks, Dad. But now I had to go through with the date with Helen. I was pretty sure it was an actual date. In less than twenty-four hours. I was partly looking forward to it and partly terrified.

Preparing for a first date was tricky. I knew this from the cover of Jackie magazine in the newsagent’s. There were ten steps to it, apparently. I could guess two of them: fresh breath and flowers.

After some thought, I decided that, while there might be ten steps for a girl, there could only be two for a boy. I was on top of the fresh breath. After we left Trisha’s, I had bought myself a new toothbrush and some Euthymol toothpaste, even though it practically took the mouth off me. I figured that if it was that painful, it must be more effective.

Flowers. It was November. There were, however, some nice pink and white carnations blooming in my father’s greenhouse that I raided late that night while my parents watched the Nine O’Clock News . I wrapped the stalks in some tinfoil and put them gently on top of my schoolbooks in my satchel.

On that fateful Friday, my father gave me £2 after breakfast and told me to enjoy myself. Money was a huge issue in our house at that time. Dad’s accountant, Bloody Paddy Carey (it was the only bad language I ever heard my father use), had absconded with our money a year previously. Dad was furious about it. We weren’t allowed to tell anyone. The accountant had been a close friend, or so my father thought. Carey had several high-profile clients who had been badly burned, and the story had been all over the media. So far, my father’s name had not been mentioned publicly. He was extremely stressed about this; he was mortified that Bloody Paddy Carey had made a fool of him, and that he might not be able to keep my mother in the style to which she was accustomed. We had had a full year of shouting and slamming doors, and endless talk of tightening our belts. So to get £2 out of my dad without even having to ask was most unexpected. I thought that maybe I could buy shop flowers now, but since I already had some, it would be a waste. I wasn’t sure what I should spend the money on.

By the time the final bell rang in school, I was almost sick with anticipation. Even the idea of an alternative to the usual Friday night ritual – homework, dinner, watch Bonanza and The Dukes of Hazzard on television by myself, then the Nine O’Clock News and a chat show with Mum, a snack and then bed – was exhilarating. Dad usually went for dinner and drinks with colleagues on a Friday. Mum didn’t like socializing and was always at home. But this morning, Dad had made rather a big deal of the fact that, since I was going out, he would spend the evening at home with my mother. The significance of this only became clear much later, after the policeman’s knock on the door. For me, at the time, it meant that I could not back out of my arrangement with Helen. It would require too much explanation, and I couldn’t bear to see my father’s disappointment.