Life's Too Long

Justice Will Come, Though She Be Slow

Dad, can I have another chocolate? Emma asked as she pushed her index finger deeper into her arse-crack in an attempt to remove the Christmas tree needle that’d managed to work its way down there in the four minutes she’d been staring at the box of chocolates and building up the courage to ask for another one.

Eat the lot, said Dad, but hang yourself upside down afterwards so all the fat goes to the top half of your body. You’re fat and skinny at the same time, you look like a bowling pin.

A classic English mistake that Mum makes every year, said Daniel, opting for a Norway Spruce instead of a Fraser Fir. The Fraser Fir has a cleaner scent and far superior needle retention.

You’re a maggot, Dad said to Daniel, who replied by looking at his Dad - already partially consumed by his armchair and all but wanking the bottle of whiskey he held between his legs - with that at least once a day expression that he’ll likely kill him one day, and that the desire to do so has been dialed-in for all the years of his fifteen he can remember.

Who’s Fraser Fir? asked Emma, who, at just six years old, wasn’t aware there is more than one tree that counts as a Christmas tree.

Sorry to confuse you, Emma. Fraser Fir and Norway Spruce are different species of conifers, each belonging to its own genus and commonly used as Christmas trees.

I’m very, very confused, Daniel.

Hey Emma, guess what?

Yes! Yes! Please do it, please do it!

Do what? I don’t know what you are talking about. What do you want me to do?

Please, Daniel, I love it so much when you do it! said Emma, who was physically shaking with mad anticipation.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweet-pea.

Oh please, I know what you’re going to do when you say, ‘Guess what?’

I really don’t know what you’re talking about.

Oh, that’s not fair. I love it so much, said Emma as she carefully removed the gold foil wrapper from a chocolate so as not to tear it.

Hey Emma, guess what?

Oh, Daniel! Please, Daniel, I’ll love you forever and ever, I promise.

Emma, Emma, bo-bemma, Banana-fana fo-femma, Fee-fi-mo-memma, Emma! And with that, Emma went into a kind of pleasure seizure, the almost hysterical happiness girls of her age often experience when it all goes right and they get their small yet massive needs met.

I love it I love it I love it, she said, running in ever decreasing circles in the front room until she was spinning on the spot. After dealing with the lack of balance that such enthusiastic spinning does cause, she looked at Daniel with so much glee that it threatened to make the whole world cry.

Hey Daniel, guess what?

I don’t know, Emma. What?

Danny, bo-banny… no, hang on… Daniel-bonaniel, no, wait, Daniel banana-baniel… Oh! Why can’t I do it? I love it sooooooooooooooo much! Why can’t I, hang on, Daniel bananial, oh!

You’ll get there, one day. Now eat your chocolate.

I only want the gold foil, really, do you want the chocolate, Daniel?

How about we share it? Like a Christmas chocolate share? Daniel suggested.

Yes! Who gets the first bite?

We could cut it, like a really small Christmas cake. Do you want to do that?

Like teeny-weeny triangles? Asked Emma.

You realise Christmas doesn’t mean anything? It’s pricks like you two that keep the corporations taxing people to death, said Dad, having another wallop of whiskey, farting, shifting his arse slightly, as if there may have been some follow-through, and making a show of definitely looking out of the window to further distance himself from that which he has never been able to get close to.

Hey Emma, you run upstairs and get one of those tiny tables from your doll’s house, I’ll go grab a knife, and we can cut it on the table.

Carefully, as if it meant the world to her, Emma placed the square of gold foil, that she’d made look like gold leaf by gently rubbing it with the soft pad of her fingertip, on top of a stack of Sunday supplements, before even more gently putting the chocolate into the centre of the foil, then running upstairs.

Whodyofinkyoolookinat?

Literally no-one.

Keep pushing… little boy, and I’ll show you no-one!

Wow. [Inhale/Exhale] Could you have meant less? Daniel muttered to himself as he walked to the kitchen to get a knife.

I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Emma screamed as she came tumbling down the stairs with her teeny-weeny doll’s house table.

‘Ooh, I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’ A fucking doll’s house table. Well done. It’s your mother’s side, you’re weak! More whiskey, more looking out of the window.

Hey Emma, why don’t you put that gold foil on the table? Like a real gold tablecloth. It would be like a table fit for a king!

And a queen, Daniel. A king and a queen, like you and me.

Hey Emma, guess what?

Please! Please! Oh, please do it, it is Christmas.

Do what? I don’t know what you’re talking about?

Your so mean, but I love you. I’d love you more if you did it, though.

Done what?

Oh! You know what, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!

Emma, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yes you do! Emma, Emma, bemma, fanabana… oh, why can’t I do it?

Get that foil on the table, and we’ll cut and divide the smallest Christmas cake ever!

Emma put the doll house table on top of a biscuit tin, and with the attention and delicate touch of a brain surgeon, she covered the top of the table with the gold foil, making sure there were equal parts hanging over each of the four edges of the table.

Give it to me, said Daniel, who took a small screwdriver to the surplus foil hanging over the edges, and carefully made them look like material, well, not really, but enough to convince Emma.

WOW! said Emma. WOW! she said again. She held it up and looked underneath, she turned it ninety degrees, and then ninety more. It’s amazing. You’re so clever, Daniel, it’s the most beautiful teeny-weeny table I’ve ever seen.

Fucking pricks. No spawn of mine would be so pathetic. Your mum probably fucked the milkman, or anyone who would have her.

Emma didn’t know where to look, what to say, or how to deal with the hideous feelings that washed over her, like they had so many other times in similar circumstances.

What’s ‘fucked’? asked Emma.

HAAA HAA HAA. You wanna tell her, Danny Boy? About fucking? ‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes the, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain side, the summer's gone, and all the roses falling, it's you, it's you must go and I must bide.’

Is that fucking?

Dad put his hand on the arm of the chair, and with some effort and a fair amount of theatre, pushed himself up, before leaning towards Emma. ‘For you will bend and tell me that you love me, and I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!’ - extending his bottle holding, nicotine stained black compost-like build-up under nails and touched the side of her n’er been so touched face before.

Look at that tincy-wincy table! said Danny to break the fear that held his sister in the stasis of compound trauma. It’s the most beautiful little table I’ve ever seen, she said.

It’s teeny-weeny, although you could also call it tincy-wincy as well. But not teeny-wincy, and not tincy-weeny either, because that’s how you get all confused. It is very beautiful, though, you’ve made it look lovely.

That’s the spirit, and Emma’s eyes were once again wide and bright as Daniel made everything right, like he had so many other times in similar circumstances.

I love you, Daniel.

And I love you too, sweet-pea, never forget that.

I promise, Daniel, I will never forget that.

Right, let’s cut this cake.

Right, let’s be a pair of fucking pansies. You’re meant to be a man, for fuck sake.

The door at the bottom of the stairs slowly creaked open, and a woman who looked twice her age, sucking hard on a cigarette, the hand holding said cigarette shaking, limped into the front room, bringing a swollen, blackened eye and a multi-split lip with her.

Happy Christmas, Mum! says Emma, who hasn’t taken her eyes off her little golden table and little Christmas cake, we’re cutting a Christmas cake, Mum! Do you want a slice?

Are you OK? Asks Daniel, (INHALE/EXHALE/INHALE EXHALE)

Daniel helps his Mum sit down, taking her weight. Stands up straight and turns to face his Dad. Stand up you piece of shit. STAND UP!

Calm yer boots, boy.

STAND UP!

Emma, open the door a little bit sweetheart, let the smoke out, yeah.

OK, Mum, then do you want some of the teeny-weeny Christmas cake? What happened to your face?

OK, I’ll play your little game, boy. I’ll stand up, - he stands up - and now you play the big man. Daniel swings a punch right into the side of his Dad’s head, which knocks him back a bit, but it’s barely a tickle, as the previously somewhat deflated, pissed, little man that sat consumed by his armchair and whiskey is actually quite the unit.

Listen to me, boy. Your time will undoubtedly come, the worm will have turned and you’ll get your moment in the family sun. But not for a few years yet. You’re not made of the right stuff. I tried my best with you, but you’re still a pussy. I blame your mother, I mean look at it, He puts his arm around Daniel. I kind of respect you for trying, but that was a woman’s punch, and trust me, I know, ha! He pulls Daniel’s head hard to the side of his. Daniel feels warm blood from the side of his dad’s face as his dad grinds their heads together. It starts gently, almost like something - charged with hope, desire, love, the lack of them all - has changed, but Daniel realises he’s but a prop in a man alone’s world. And as the selfish tears, the snot and the snivels self-pity join the party, Daniel tries to pull away.

You ain’t going anywhere, boy. Don’t you love your old man? He takes a couple of steps forward, dragging Daniel with him. He reaches out a hand to Mum who flinches as he removes the cigarette from her mouth, performs a kind of boozer smoking flourish, turning it over several times between his fingers, and puts it in his mouth.

Want some? says Dad, forcing the bottle of whiskey into Daniel’s lips and slamming it into his teeth. Daniel tries to turn his face away, but Dad increases the pressure that’s holding their heads together like conjoined oedipal twins. No worries, more for me. Then, he lifts his chin so he’s looking straight at the asbestos-riddled and combed ‘flowers in a basket,’ artexed ceiling, and pours the remaining whiskey straight into his throat, dropping the empty bottle as his arm falls down to his side.

Daniel feels the fear that follows him around, the fear that consumes him when he’s at school, the fear he feels when he has a nightmare, the fear he feels when doing anything, the fear his dad has made of him. And as his Dad releases the grip on his head a bit, and he hears the latch on the gate, everything falls into place. Mum has never asked to open the door to let the smoke out. Never. The smoke from the one hundred and twenty cigarettes his parents smoke between them every day just hangs there. Still. Silent. Ready to explode at any time, for any reason. Someone’s coming up the garden path. She’s finally had enough. She’s made the phone call. He remembers - he’s never forgotten, at least - when uncle Terry said, If ever you want that piece of shit ironed out, like properly binned, just let me know, it’ll be a pleasure. You got that, just call me. It’s OK Terry. But it wasn’t. It never was,

You’re heart’s beating, Danny boy. Are you scared of your old man? You ain’t scared of your old man, are you. What’s this damn world coming to!

But Danny waits for Terry to push the door open, stroll up to Dad and Break. His. Fucking. Skull. In. Two.

Hello Sheila? It’s Alice, I just wanted to bring a little something for Emma.

Emma, sweetheart, go and say hello to Alice, she’s got you something. Don’t let her in, though. Tell her we’ll pop down later. And with that, Emma made her way to the door, knowing not to open it wide, as they never did in this house with no… In. This. House.

Emma took the gift from Alice as Alice tried to peek around Emma and into the house. Emma made her excuses, thanked Alice, and closed the door, the room immediately seeming to change air pressure, suffocating. Surviving. There’s no place like hypoxia.

Dad fell back deep into his armchair and then deep into the land of nod. Daniel looked at his Mum as she tapped another cigarette from the box. She smiled slightly at Daniel, knowing, like Dad, that his time would indeed come, and he’d smash the living shit out of his dad. Today was just not that day.

Right, said Emma, placing down the little golden table and a chocolate she’d cut into three triangles.

That’s beautiful, did you make that? Me and Daniel made it. It’s our Christmas cake. But wait for Daniel to sit down so we can all eat it together.

Daniel squeezed himself in between dad’s armchair and Emma, who put her arm on his shoulder. You can eat them now, said Emma, and with that, Mum, Daniel, and Emma picked up a chocolate triangle each and ate them.

Hey Daniel. Guess what?

What?

Daniel, Daniel, bo-baniel, Banana-fana fo-faniel, Fee-fi-mo-maniel, Daniel!

The end.

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