Family ties bind.
In the Gutter, they tend to stumble and bumble.
In the Gutter, they tend to stumble and bumble.
Sheila, Take a Bow by Paul D. Brazill
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She’s lost the plot again. It’s the third time this week. Sheila
should never have come off her meds in the first place and now she’s just bounced
straight back onto the cider. In fact, she’s bouncing around my front room at
the moment, smashing into the telly, and knocking over the ornaments. As she waves a bottle of White Lightning cider around, I fear for the glass coffee table. I
really do.
She’s wearing a polka-dot swimsuit and pink sunglasses with
heart-shaped lenses. She keeps saying she’s Lolita and though she may have the
body of an emaciated twelve-year-old, Sheila is knocking on sixty.
She falls onto the black leather sofa. ‘Why not, eh?’ she says. ‘Why the fuck not?’
In less than a minute, she’s sound asleep, snoring like a
chainsaw.
There used to be an annoying BBC comedy show on the telly in
the seventies called Some Mothers Do
Have Em. Well, some sons have mothers like Sheila, too.
I’m cleaning up the room when I hear the ice cream van’s
chiming of ‘That’s Amore.’
I freeze. It’s just after midnight and I know it can only be
Alberto. I put a checked blanket over
Sheila and wait for the knock at the door. It doesn’t come. Instead, it’s
kicked off its hinges.
The Monolith storms through the door first donning the usual: a long
leather coat, shaved head, and wrap-around shades. Behind him is Alberto Amerigo, a tiny little
man with dyed black hair and a pencil moustache. He wears a shiny white linen jacket
with a pink carnation in the lapel. He looks like a spiv but he used to be a
barber, then an ice-cream man, and now a loan shark.
Alberto looks around the trashed room. ‘Magnifico, bonny lad,’ he says with a smirk. ‘You’ve been
redecorating, I see.’
I shrug.
He clocks Sheila’s snoring form. ‘Your mother back for a bit?’
I nod. ‘For my sins.’
Alberto smirks.
‘Families, eh?’ says Alberto. ‘They’re a bind, at times. Which
conveniently brings us to the dosh you ripped off from my Alessio.’
I shuffle my feet, feeling the urge to run. When it’s a choice
between fight or flight, I do a runner every time. Especially with The Monolith
in the room.
‘I didn’t rip him off. I beat him fair and square,’ I croak.
Alberto nods and The Monolith punches me in the guts.
‘Playing snooker with a half-drunk kid who is also colour blind
is not fair and square as I see it, ’says Alberto.
I see Alberto has a point. As well as a pair of knuckle
dusters that he gives to The Monolith.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I say. ‘Really.’
‘I know you will, bonny lad. And then some. But I’m guessing you don’t have the dosh at
hand?’
‘Naw, sorry. Greyhounds.’
I shrug. Alberto nods and The Monolith hits me again.
‘As I thought. So I have a plan. A way you can pay back me and
my nephew. And maybe earn something yourself.’
‘Is it risky?’ I say.
‘Yes, bonny lad. Very,’ Alberto says.
He and The Monolith look at each other and start laughing.
Which is when Sheila wakes up. She throws off the blanket and staggers off the sofa, legs wobbling.
Which is when Sheila wakes up. She throws off the blanket and staggers off the sofa, legs wobbling.
‘Friggin hell. It’s The Walking Dead,’ The Monolith says.
He turns and grins at me as Sheila smashes the cider bottle over his head. Then, she head-butts Alberto and jabs the broken bottle into The Monolith’s throat before slashing it across Alberto’s face.
