The Thin Line.

He cut another line. So thin, it was more burn than sweet. He adjusted his collar, itchy with sweat and straightened his black tie. The toilet stall was hot and stunk of piss.

‘I don’t want tae give them the wrang impression,’ he said to his older brother. ‘That I’m the kind aw bawbag that licks a toilet cistern. Cause who know whit kindaw germs yed get?’

His brother took the hint. Cut another line, thicker this time. ‘Yer problem,’ he said, was yeh ne er come up wae the goods.’

He wasn’t listening, just waiting. And it was worth the wait. More thunder and lighting. No more dumpy jumpy. They flew out the stalls. A fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly trap. And his brother’s eyes were so deep in his head, so spaced he wondered what he must look like, or if he was just being paranoid. The thrum from the base “Every Breath You Take,” worked its way through his feet and into his gums.

‘Da hated that shite,’ he said.

‘Whit?’ his older brother smirked in that annoying way It  might have been cute when he had dimples, but now he was just a baldy, fat fuck. ‘The police or The Police.’ He sniggered at his own joke. ‘Both.’  

One of his aunties came up and hugged Ross. Coral pink lips, she used to have nice tits, but still bathed herself in Chanel 5 perfume as if she was a young thing. She was sticky and touchy as a black bun. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said and squeezed his hand to include him in her funeral fest. ‘He was a legend.’ She gave them the up and down and a polite smile. ‘Nane aw yeh will ever be hauf the man he was. Excuse me,’ she said, smoothing her short skirt as if anyone was looking at her and pushing past them into the women’s loo. ‘I’m bursting.’

‘Old cow,’ his brother said. ‘Da was shagging her.’

The both chuckled without really laughing.   

They watched their mum doing the rounds. Glad-handing. She was across the room, handing out sausage rolls on paper plates. Cheese and onion on sticks. Her laughter a bright, practiced chime to put mourners at ease.

He’d seen her dab her eyes once during the humanist ceremony. A celebration of life. That was the kind of shite Da hated too. A funeral was a fucking funeral. But even then, it had been a flicker, a hanky pressed to the corner of her lashes as if it was expected of her. The way she rubbed the base of her finger. A pale space where her wedding ring had been and a weary softness on her face.

The DJ played a new track, something soft and melancholic. ‘Where Did You Go To My Lovely?’ The slow beat and melancholic cords sunk into the chatter and stilled the room.

They wandered over to the table where their half-sister was sitting straight backed and dry eyed. She was picking at a cold ham sandwich. The tang of vinegar and coleslaw turned his stomach. He took a quick swallow of lager to wash it away.

‘Tae Da,’ he said, holding up his pint.

‘Fuck off,’ said his half-sister. She definitely had her lips done. Probably her breasts too. ‘He was an auld bastard.’

His older brother swilled his lager around before drinking a mouthful. ‘He hud his good points.’

She gave up on the pretence of eating anything and let the salad drop onto her plate and pushed it to the middle of the table. ‘Name them.’

‘He hated Thatcher.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Anybody wae any sense hates Thatcher. Same as anybody wae any sense knows the moron’s moron Trump is so dumb, you almost feel sorry for the Americans that elected Foghorn Leghorn as President. But you’ve got tae feel sorry for her.’

‘Cause aw the dementia?’ My brother always liked to play the intellectual because he’d read a book.    

   ‘Nah, cause she was drunk for twenty years through a lack aw sleep. No sleeping makes you unfit tae drive. And it obviously made her a vile, vindictive Tory cunt. Jist like Da, apart fae the Tory part. And even that I’m no so sure about. He was a great believer in dictatorships. Just like the psychopathic narcissistic Trumpet’

‘Is Mum back on the Valium?’ he asked.

‘God know,’ replied his older brother.  

‘Whit does it matter?’ Her hands clamped around a warm gin and tonic and she picked up her phone. Conversation over.

Middle-aged men standing at the bar laughed a little too loudly. Their posture, a bit too look at me. He needed another line.

His brother rambled on. Trying to get the better of her. So he felt like slapping him or going back to licking the cistern, just to make sure. Something about a monk in an abbey. Must have been Buckfast Abbey. Questioning his young charge about what he’d learned and hoped to learn.

She looked up from her screen for an instant, because he’d attempted the accent of a young novitiate and clasped his hands in mock prayer. ‘We come to learn, good Father, so we are not ought to be like the wild beasts that know nothing but grass and water. Their heads forever stuck in their fucking phones.’  

‘Very fucking funny,’ she said, but did put her phone down flat on the table.

She offered a smile to Mum, who slid into the seat beside her and squeezed her shoulder.

‘How yeh bearing up?’ she asked.

‘Aye, good, Mum,’ my brother said.

‘Great,’ said my sister, clutching our mum’s hand.

She looked at me and I smiled. ‘Tae be honest Mum, I’m glad yeh murdered him.’