Mo-Maw curled her legs under herself and sat on her flash trainers. She asked the man questions as though she were a daytime telly host, knowing full well that men liked it best when they talked about themselves. Mungo smirked. Anybody could see she wasn’t listening to the answers, but she kept the man talking and drank more than her fair share.
With the stifling heat of the room Mungo wished she would fall asleep; then he could take the old man by the elbow and lead him to the door, thank him for coming, and hand him the dregs of the carryout. It was getting late, he would need to go soon, leave his mother and take his place beside his brother. It would not be possible to get out of it. Not this time.
He had spent the afternoon brewing up excuses. Mungo thought about blaming it on Mo-Maw’s return, explaining that Mr Donnelly from the top floor was trying to get his brogues under their table. Hamish hated Mr Donnelly, but it would not be enough to get Mungo excused; Hamish would burn James alive as easily as he set fire to the stolen Capri.
Mo-Maw had dipped her eyes a couple of times in the heat, her permed head lolling on her chin, but each time Mr Donnelly would light a cigarette and hand it to her with a nudge. The nicotine would pull her back towards the living and she would start a wearisome story about caravans and snack bars. Mungo drew an interminable spiral. It seemed her happiest memories were all housed on wheels, temporary, and without foundations.
The pair of them smiled at something in the far distance and bobbed drunkenly on the sofa like they were adrift on their own small boat. Mungo thought how it wouldn’t be long now until he could put her to bed. Then he could throw the windows wide to the fresh air, clean the ash off the carpet, and head out into the night. Mo-Maw paused in mid-ramble and drew luxuriously on her cigarette; the ash was a long finger that threatened to burn a hole in her tan leggings. She closed her eyes.
Mr Donnelly reached inside his thick blazer and pulled out a thin wallet. He rifled through some notes and stopped at a small blue five; he considered the determination on Mungo’s face before pulling out something bigger, browner. The sound of money made Mo-Maw’s eyes flutter open, and she seemed surprised to find a cigarette clamped between her lips. Mungo and Mo-Maw stared at the bank note like it had said something. “Why don’t ye away and take yersel to the pictures, eh?”
Mo-Maw made a delighted face, like she was watching Mungo unwrap a lovely Christmas gift. “Would you look at that. What do you say, then?” Her manners suddenly remembered. It was a funny thing, to be in such a sorry state but still mindful of the social graces of others.
Mungo looked at the note and thought about all the things he could buy. What he wanted more than anything was a bus ticket with James. A ticket to somewhere far away, where he could be himself and James would be safe. He didn’t want to take the money, but he found himself leaning forward. “Thank you, Mister Donnelly.”
The man’s eyes narrowed again. The note made a crisp, clean sound as it passed between their hands. Mungo sat for a minute until the man turned to him and said, “Well then?” He took a draw on his dout. “Away ye go tae the pictures.” The adults stared at Mungo expectantly. Mo-Maw nodded once, deliberately and slowly.
Mungo tidied his sketches away. He folded the banknote again and again and again, and as he did a new feeling settled over him, a self-loathing that he was a boy who had sold his own mother. He stood up and extended his hand towards the widower. “Right, I’ll see you out.”
“Whut?” The man’s little black eyes took an age to focus.
“I’m going to the pictures, so I’ll see you out. You can’t stay here, alone, with my maw.”
Mo-Maw and the widower looked at one another. Mr Donnelly cycled through several expressions; swinging from confusion, to suspecting he was the butt of some sick joke, to settling on a look that said he thought he had been conned. “Maureen?”
“Mungo, ye cannae talk to Mr Donnelly like that. This is my house.”
Mungo was too tired to laugh. He reached over the coffee table and took the man by the elbow. Mr Donnelly squirmed like a child resisting bath time. Mo-Maw slapped Mungo’s hand. She sat forward and made to stand up, but Mungo pressed her back into her settee. He thumbed over his shoulder. “Mr Donnelly, do you really want me to go get our Hamish?”
The man looked to Mo-Maw for support, but she was loose-jawed. Mungo took the man by the elbow again and hoisted him to his feet. With his other hand he snatched up as much of the man’s possessions as he could manage. Mungo escorted him to the front door, and as he left the man blinking in the bright close he slipped a can of lager into one hand, and his hat into the other.
When he went back into the living room, Mo-Maw had her arms folded like a huffy toddler. She was scowling at the darkening sky. Mungo dropped into the armchair and began to lace up his trainers.
“Ah don’t know who the fuck you think you are!” she spat.
“Aye? Me neither.”
She had been gearing up for a fight but this disarmed her. Mungo pulled his cagoule over his head. They sat in silence for a moment before he said, “You’re my maw. You’re my only maw. I just want guid things for you.”
Her tongue was clamped between her teeth as she poured the dregs from several glasses into her own. “And there’s not a single fuckin’ thing on the telly.” Mo-Maw moved in slow motion. Her concentration betrayed how drunk she was. “Anyway, yer a liar. Ye’re just like they other two. Ye only want me happy so I can make your life easier. Ye only care about what ah can do for you. And ah’m sick of it.”
* * *