Closet Writer
If a dick could speak, it would sound like ma stepda, Danny. In ma Roget’s Thesaurus, Danny’s face is a synonym fir ugly, moron, lickspittle and mooncalf cos that’s where ah stuck the pictures ae him ah cut oot his photo album. Oor fragile relationship continues tae deteriorate by light speed, especially after his precious photos went missing; ah’m now at the stage where ah’m having vivid sexual dreams aboot being at his funeral.
Ma writing’s between me and a well-buried folder oan ma laptop labelled, Danny’s Farmyard Porn. The fact ma writing’s a secret makes ma activities seem suspicious, and ma character easy tae assassinate. ‘She’s no normal,’ ah hear Danny say. Danny’s an authority oan normality like Ted Bundy’s an authority oan self-control.
‘So you’ve said umpteen times,’ my mother, Paula, says, ‘Ah’ve tried tae break the safe and find oot whit she’s up tae.’
The foundation of any relationship is trust; respect is no automatic.
‘Whit if she’s goat a gun?’
‘It’s Scotland,’ Paula says, ‘Where the hell’s she getting a gun fae?’
‘Keep your voice doon…did you notice she types a lot? She cannae be, you know… if she’s typing a lot. That’s two haun typing she’s daein.’ The level of political discourse in this tenement dive is desperate. ‘Maybe she’s gay.’
‘Don’t say that.’ The honesty ae ma homophobic mother makes me wish ah wis gay just tae cripple their worldview.
‘She’s fifteen, Paula.’ Am sixteen as of two days ago. The bastards forgot ma birthday. Again. ‘She’s never had any boyfriends. Aw she does is sit in that room.’
Wance they invade ma private space again, they’ll know the horrible truth. The sheets of A4 at the toap ae ma bin will give their peanuts something tae ponder. Ah’ve smeared ma intergalactic parricide story wae Marmite; Danny hates Marmite, but he won’t be able tae resist the lure. Thanks tae a strategically placed camera all reactions will be filmed fir posterity.
Ah took the liberty of transcribing the video fir ye:
Danny: Whit the fuck? Paula! Paula! Hurry up!
Paula: Whit is it? Did ye find drugs?
Danny: Worse!
Paula: Is that shite?
Danny: Worse. It’s Marmite.
Paula: Marmite? Ah though you hated Marmite.
Danny: It’s no mine, is it?
Paula: Awright…settle doon. Whit ma reading here? Private Space: A Fantasy. Whit this?
Danny: Your daughter wrote that…It’s some story aboot a lassie killing her parents.
Paula: Whit’s she writing that fir?
Danny: How should ah know?
Danny’s incredulity is a good point tae finish. Now ah wait fir the inevitable confrontation; microwave meals take longer than this.
‘Whit’s this?’ Paula asks wae Danny standing by her right love handle. How ah wish they would just get divorced or get abducted by deaf aliens; find me a monkey’s paw, eh?
‘It looks like an invasion ae privacy…A violation ae ma private space.’
‘Private space?’ Danny says. His face is contorted, red, bloated. Ah want tae stick a pin it tae see if it’ll burst. ‘You’re fifteen. You don’t hiv private space! We pey fir this flat.’
Don’t try tae impress me, Danny. You’re pissing intae a hurricane.
‘Ah read the root of Jeffrey Dahmer’s killing wis that he had tae share a room wae his brothers, then his parents. He said a lack of private space made him dream aboot murder and controlling his environment. Then he killed seventeen victims…That we know aboot.’
Don’t bother googling that; it isnae exactly gospel. It’s crucial tae improvise when you’re under interrogation.
‘How can you no be normal, eh?’ Danny says, ‘Whit’s aw this writing fir?’
‘Ah want tae be a writer.’
‘A writer?’ Paula sneers.
Aye, a writer ya mad harridan. They both burst out laughing as if they’ve finally caught their reflections in a mirror. Aye aye. Laugh it up, dickheads. This is just mair character-building fir me.
‘She hinks she’s Harry Potter!’ Danny says, gasping fir air.
‘He’s a fictional wizard. A character.’
‘So are you, darlin. So are you.’
Fuck it. Rejection and humiliation only make a bastard like me mair determined. Ma revenge will be ma success. Failing that, ah’ll Lizzie Borden the fuckers.
© John Tinney 2019
