Mungo stood just beyond the bend in the road and watched them through the smirr. He picked at a patch of green paint that was clinging to the rusting fence. As he watched the laughing girls, he pushed the shard between his nail and nail bed, gritting his teeth as the paint flake cut into the soft skin.
The girls were huddled in the dry doorway. They were struggling against each other, two pushing inwards while the smallest one tried to hold them at bay. It looked like a fight but they were shrieking with glee and talking so loudly that women had gathered at their windows. Nicola easily reached over Ashley’s head and held her finger against the old close buzzer. The electric intercom shrieked. The sound carried down the narrow street, tweeeeeeee-eeeeeee, tweeeee-eeee-ee, tweeeeeeee-ee.
“Ah’m gonnae murder you,” Ashley hissed, but she was clearly delighted. She turned to run, but Nicola had hold of her anorak hood, so she threw her ringed fingers over her face, splayed wide enough to keep watching what was happening. “Ah’ll die of embarrassment.”
“Hallo. Is anybody there?” It was James’s voice, as friendly as it must have sounded to the masturbating men on the chatline.
The girls took turns to squeal into the intercom declarations of love for him and confessions of how Ashley was mad in the passion. Ashley tried to clamp her hands over her friends’ mouths, but they twisted free, and it was a battle she didn’t really want to win.
“If ye come out to the park, Ashley says she’ll let you dae whatever ye want to her.”
Ashley shrieked. “Oh. My. God. I cannae believe you jist telt him that.”
Mungo did not hear the rest of their nonsense. He was too busy watching the top floor window. Mr Jamieson had his hands in his trouser pockets. His back was arched in pride, he was rocking on his heels. He stood in his window and watched the foolish schoolgirls declare true love for his son. Mungo watched the smile pull at his top lip.
* * *
“Have you been chewing the telly remote again?” Jodie pounced on him as he came in the door. It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t wait for an answer. Most of the time he wasn’t aware he was doing it, but he liked to chew the grey remote. It fit perfectly inside his mouth, and he could push it all the way into the back and clench his molars down on to it until he felt calmer. The plastic squeaked satisfactorily, and it was strong enough that he could clamp down his hardest, till he was vibrating with the effort. Crushing the remote between his back teeth focused the current that ran through his body. He hadn’t chewed it in a while. But this afternoon, he had found a familiar comfort in it. Jodie pulled a sour face as she wiped it on her skirt.
There were six books laid out on the carpet: three fine art books, a dog-eared novel, a manual of Fair Isle knitting, and a book of traditional Scottish weaving. Each book was opened to a specific page and pinned down by something personal of Jodie’s. She had arranged them in a semicircle.
“What are they?” he asked sulkily.
Jodie blinked once, very slowly. “Those are books.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I’m going to read them.”
“But how?”
Jodie gave him one of those looks that tired women give to stupid boys; it was hard to tell if she felt sorry for him or sorrier for herself for having to suffer him. She looked worn out in her work uniform. Her ice cream costume was prim and old-fashioned with its raspberry piping and scalloped collar, but Mungo could see that it needed ironing and he resolved to wash it for her. Jodie still wore the kirby grips that held her paper hat in place, and as she drew them out, she used them to point at the books. “Actually, I got the books for you.”
“But how?”
“Stop saying that. For goodness’ sake. It’s why, not how. Why did I get them for you. Are you going to talk like a schemie wee bam your whole life?”
Mungo kicked his trainers off. “Didnae realize I was such an embarrassment to you.”
“Don’t you want to go somewhere in life, Mungo?” Jodie was out of patience. “Sakes. I got them because I need to talk to you.” She dropped heavily to the floor. Sitting in the semicircle, she pushed one of the books towards him like it was a Ouija board. It was a white-covered book with drawings of different-coloured boxes stacked one on top of the other: Ellsworth Kelly, The Museum of Modern Art. The cover was already yellowing, but when Mungo checked the inside flap, the library ticket showed it was the first time it had been checked out.
“I had to ask the Mitchell Library for their copy. I’ve been waiting on some of these for a few months.”
Mungo flicked through the book; page after page was covered in organized hatch marks or supremely controlled line drawings. Rectangles of fine lines that collided to make patterns and depth of tone from their layered repetition. It was very controlled. He found it calming. “Why are you doing this?”
Jodie sighed. She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out an official-looking letter. Handing it to him, she spoke in short, complete sentences, almost as though it would be better parsed out this way. “I’ve been accepted. Unconditionally. I start in September. I’m going to university.”
“Glasgow?”
“Yes. To study Biology.”
He lunged at her and crushed her with his body weight. Underneath him, he could feel her relax as though she had been stiff with tension. They lay against the settee and she returned his embrace. “That’s bloody amazing.” He chanted into her hair. “I knew it. I knew.”