just gave up.
In the beginning what I felt for James was a purely maternal sort of affection, he was a year my junior but it didn't feel that way and once we finally accepted we were in love, he told me everything. He described how once, at home, when he was dying to pee, he pushed the bathroom door open without knocking. He said he was rushed by the combined smells of burning plastic and forest-green Radox. He saw his mum in her short white nightdress (the one she always wore, smudged with age), just sitting there with her knickers on her knees, behind a veil of steam that came from the rushing tap. She was smoking crack. He waited for her to scream at him for having invaded her space, but she didn't. She just sat there with her glazed eyes barely open, looking at him with a sad smile on her face.
'Claws se hucking door,' she said.
I had never known anyone who used crack so I asked James not to spare any of the details which he didn't particularly like since it was his mother I was asking him about. But I reminded him of all the times he had pressed me about my parents, so he told me everything he could remember. He was frightened, seeing his mother reduced like that, her face blank, her far-off eyes. He looked at the bubbles formed like a pyramid beneath the tap, took slow exaggerated breaths and did as she asked: he backed up and closed the bathroom door. He told me that for a moment he felt as though he had betrayed her in some way. After that James was unsettled and felt the need to talk so he went in and sat with his brothers, Number 1 and Number 2, while they played on their PlayStation console, a racing game where two imperishable sports cars, yellow and silver, smashed through a deserted city at night. James had little time for video games; he had tried but he just didn't understand them. Neither of his brothers spoke to him until halfway through an account his brother Number 2 gave of a 'battery operation' he and his friend, Imperial Wiz, had performed on the same girl, Tameka Brown. She was a little whore who'd sleep with anyone, anywhere for twenty English pounds. Number 1 and Number 2 must have seen James's frown as he tried to imagine what a battery operation was.
'Is a battery operation when more than two guys take turns on one woman and it goes on and on like a Duracell?'
'You make it sound disgusting,' said Number 2.
'It kind of is disgusting,' said James.
'What do you know about it? Furthermore, get out,' said 2.
1 and 2 raised their voices together. 'Get out,' they said.
Before we met, that was the only way James learned about sexual matters – from the advice he gleaned from his brothers. He once asked his brother Number 3 how he would know when he met the right girl.
'Remember when we bought paint for the front room and you chose the colour?' 3 said. 'Remember when we got home and we all started painting and you got into a panic and made us stop because you said the colour didn't feel right? It's the same with girls. When you kiss her, somehow you'll get to know how she feels, right or wrong.'
A pillow hit James's face so hard it almost knocked him over. 'Get out.'
James didn't often cry, except when he got frustrated. He was frustrated that day when his brothers threw him out. Everything in his home felt unsafe. His eyes itched and tears blurred his vision. He felt an ache in his chest but it had faded by the time he reached the front door. He remained still, alone, and felt he wanted to die. He could hear the distant tick, tap and gush of the central heating system. He stared at their front door. He said he wanted to open it and go outside and never come back. But when he unlocked the bolts and opened the door the air outside was calm. Everything out there was unknown and that made James feel vulnerable because, he said, outside there was nowhere for him to go.
James's father died years ago. He'd had a girlfriend at the time, a white woman from Essex, called Pat, someone he'd been seeing
In the beginning what I felt for James was a purely maternal sort of affection, he was a year my junior but it didn't feel that way and once we finally accepted we were in love, he told me everything. He described how once, at home, when he was dying to pee, he pushed the bathroom door open without knocking. He said he was rushed by the combined smells of burning plastic and forest-green Radox. He saw his mum in her short white nightdress (the one she always wore, smudged with age), just sitting there with her knickers on her knees, behind a veil of steam that came from the rushing tap. She was smoking crack. He waited for her to scream at him for having invaded her space, but she didn't. She just sat there with her glazed eyes barely open, looking at him with a sad smile on her face.
'Claws se hucking door,' she said.
I had never known anyone who used crack so I asked James not to spare any of the details which he didn't particularly like since it was his mother I was asking him about. But I reminded him of all the times he had pressed me about my parents, so he told me everything he could remember. He was frightened, seeing his mother reduced like that, her face blank, her far-off eyes. He looked at the bubbles formed like a pyramid beneath the tap, took slow exaggerated breaths and did as she asked: he backed up and closed the bathroom door. He told me that for a moment he felt as though he had betrayed her in some way. After that James was unsettled and felt the need to talk so he went in and sat with his brothers, Number 1 and Number 2, while they played on their PlayStation console, a racing game where two imperishable sports cars, yellow and silver, smashed through a deserted city at night. James had little time for video games; he had tried but he just didn't understand them. Neither of his brothers spoke to him until halfway through an account his brother Number 2 gave of a 'battery operation' he and his friend, Imperial Wiz, had performed on the same girl, Tameka Brown. She was a little whore who'd sleep with anyone, anywhere for twenty English pounds. Number 1 and Number 2 must have seen James's frown as he tried to imagine what a battery operation was.
'Is a battery operation when more than two guys take turns on one woman and it goes on and on like a Duracell?'
'You make it sound disgusting,' said Number 2.
'It kind of is disgusting,' said James.
'What do you know about it? Furthermore, get out,' said 2.
1 and 2 raised their voices together. 'Get out,' they said.
Before we met, that was the only way James learned about sexual matters – from the advice he gleaned from his brothers. He once asked his brother Number 3 how he would know when he met the right girl.
'Remember when we bought paint for the front room and you chose the colour?' 3 said. 'Remember when we got home and we all started painting and you got into a panic and made us stop because you said the colour didn't feel right? It's the same with girls. When you kiss her, somehow you'll get to know how she feels, right or wrong.'
A pillow hit James's face so hard it almost knocked him over. 'Get out.'
James didn't often cry, except when he got frustrated. He was frustrated that day when his brothers threw him out. Everything in his home felt unsafe. His eyes itched and tears blurred his vision. He felt an ache in his chest but it had faded by the time he reached the front door. He remained still, alone, and felt he wanted to die. He could hear the distant tick, tap and gush of the central heating system. He stared at their front door. He said he wanted to open it and go outside and never come back. But when he unlocked the bolts and opened the door the air outside was calm. Everything out there was unknown and that made James feel vulnerable because, he said, outside there was nowhere for him to go.
James's father died years ago. He'd had a girlfriend at the time, a white woman from Essex, called Pat, someone he'd been seeing
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