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Dec. 30th, 2008 01:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cocking_aboutTitle: Untitled (Aka: The Music Fic) 3/ (?) WIP
Author: Pip
Pairing: Billy/Dom, but mostly Billy
Rating: G (unless it needs PG for one or two swear words)
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, never met 'em, this is all lies.
Feedback: Yes please. Pretty please. I'm desperate for it on this one.
Archive: Not without permission.
A/N: Please note, this is a WIP. Has not had the final workover it sorely needs, but has been lovingly encouraged along the way by the marvellous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elmathelas. All mistakes are most definitely mine. The fic clocks in at 45,300 words all told (so far).
Chapter One, Chapter Two
First posted Jan, 2007
The next day was almost a total blank for Billy. It was filled with more people, stupid bloody people who wouldn’t leave them alone, who kept coming and being nice and kind and sympathetic and helping immensely and Billy wished they’d piss off and leave him alone, but he would never dream of saying such a thing aloud. The day was filled with tea and food he couldn’t eat and phone calls to and from America and funeral arrangements and pouring rain he watched through the window. And it was filled with keeping an eye on Margaret who was at least weeping a bit less today although she was almost always needing to touch someone, reaching out to hold a hand or even just hang on to a jumper, whether it was their Gran or their uncle or Billy, and by the end of the day Billy didn’t know if he could take it anymore, he didn’t want anyone touching him anymore, if he had to endure one more hug or kiss on the forehead or even one more firm heartfelt handshake, if one more person tried to touch him he was going to tell them to just bloody well bugger off and then he was going to go outside and walk in the teeming rain until it got dark and he could go home to a house empty of all these people, and then Margaret crept up and held onto his jumper and then touched his hand and he sighed and put his arm around her shoulders. That night they slept in their mum’s bed again.
The funeral was several days later to allow time for the people coming from America to arrive, and if Billy were feeling anything yet, which he wasn’t, it would probably have been pity that the only times they came home were to bury their family, and then he wondered if they thought of it as coming home anymore. The day of the funeral was cloudy, and chilly, but there was no sign of rain as Billy and Margaret, dressed in good dark clothes, walked from the house and climbed into the car. There had been a viewing period in the funeral home, but neither had gone because their Gran didn’t think Margaret should go and Billy didn’t feel the need. He’d already seen her dead, and he’d already kissed her goodbye for himself and for Margaret, and he’d told Margaret that at some point, that their mum had gotten a goodbye kiss and she’d wept terribly with some odd mixture of relief and anger and pain that Billy didn’t understand because he couldn’t feel. The car took them to the kirk, the same kirk that had seen their father’s funeral service, and as they walked in Billy thought maybe he might not ever come here again, and they took their seats in the front pew with Gran and their uncle, and Billy was a little surprised but at the same time not at all surprised at how full the kirk was with people come to say goodbye to his mum, and he looked at the stained glass window throughout the service while he listened, and he filed everything he heard away for later inspection because he knew he would want to know what lovely things people said about his mum but he couldn’t look at them now, not today, only the rest of today to get through and then maybe, maybe he could start to feel again, when he wasn’t going to be surrounded by strangers. The only thing Billy closed his ears to was the music. He didn’t hear a word anyone sang, he didn’t hear a note that came from the old organ, he just shut it off and refused to hear, refused to admit it was there, he stared at the baptismal font to the side and wondered how the minister held a wriggling, crying baby, because he rather thought they all cried, didn’t they, and he wondered how the minister held that difficult bundle with one hand while wetting its head with the holy water, and what made the water holy, he wondered, was it just praying, because if so couldn’t anyone make holy water? And then the hymns were over and Margaret held his hand, rubbing the back of it with the palm of her other hand, and he was proud of her for sitting straight and tall and dry-eyed, and he even gave her a little, tiny little smile, and she didn’t smile back but she did squeeze his hand before returning her eyes to the front, and Billy looked up at the stained glass window again.
After the service was over Billy walked outside, holding Margaret’s hand, and she held her Gran’s with her other hand, and they walked outside with everyone else while the pallbearers, including their uncle, brought out the casket that Billy knew contained his mum. He couldn’t quite picture her in it, but he didn’t suppose that mattered, and they stood around the open grave that had been lined all around with fake grass to hide the fresh soil and Billy thought that was possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever seen because how could fake grass change the fact that they were there to bury someone deep in the ground under all that dirt piled up over there under more fake grass, and so he just ignored it and looked at the flowers they’d brought out and draped over the casket and he was glad they were white because he wasn’t sure but he thought his mum had especially liked white flowers, and his eyes shied away from looking at his dad’s name on the headstone and then the minister was speaking again and Billy didn’t really want to hold on to what he said, so he tuned the man out and just stayed quiet and empty and cold.
The next thing Billy knew the casket was being lowered into the deep hole and impassively he watched it go down until it rested on the bottom and then the ropes were withdrawn and his Gran was stepping forward, taking Margaret with her, and Billy followed on her other side, and he and Margaret copied their Gran as she stooped to pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in the grave where it landed on the lid of the casket with a startlingly loud clatter and Billy had a moment’s irrational thought that they shouldn’t do that in case they woke her up but then he was swiftly shutting that thought down and tossing his own handful and wondering why they did that, anyway, it didn’t make sense to throw a handful of dirt, what did that accomplish? Then it was over and people were drifting away, talking quietly and coming over to his Gran and his uncle and he and Margaret to offer their condolences and Billy took a deep breath and started shaking hands again and saying thank you very much for coming over and over and over and he heard people whispering, saying poor Margaret, poor Billy, no parents, whatever will they do, look how brave they are, look at Billy being so polite and strong and not a tear to be seen they’re such good children never a speck of trouble this year’s been so hard on them and Billy suddenly just walked away, turned away from the person speaking to him and walked away and went to the car and climbed in, closing the car door after him. He sat on the floor of the car where he couldn’t be seen and he felt nothing, but at least it was quiet and he was alone, and he patiently waited to go home.
That night Margaret told their Gran to take their mum’s bed, it was bigger and more comfortable than her own, which was where their Gran had been sleeping while Margaret and Billy shared the larger bed, and Billy agreed, wanting their Gran to sleep well because she was looking tired and sad after the funeral and he knew Margaret was desperately afraid of losing Gran too. So he went back to his own bedroom that night and crawled into bed alone for the first time since his mum had died and it was partly a relief and partly very lonely, and so he wouldn’t lay there thinking in the darkness he got his torch and grabbed the thick heavy volume of the collected works of Shakespeare that his dad had given him, and he read some of Much Ado About Nothing, one of his favourite comedies and someday he would play Benedick because it was such a good character, so funny and kind and rude and confused and bold. He read some of his favourite parts and it didn’t make him laugh but he hadn’t expected it to, he just thought he’d perhaps better not read one of the tragedies, and he read until his eyelids were very heavy and then he carefully put the book on the floor, switched off his torch, and went to sleep.
Billy woke sharply from a vivid dream in the middle of the night, sitting up abruptly in bed as he started shouting at the top of his lungs, not able to stop because suddenly he was feeling again and his uncle had been right it hurt so much, so much, and he couldn’t help shouting wordlessly, nearly screaming because his emptiness was being filled up and he was filling up with pain and anger and his heart felt like it was breaking and then he realized it felt like it because it was. Then his Gran came running in, her bathrobe only half-on over her long, old-fashioned nightgown and she took Billy’s rigid body into her arms and rocked him and tried to shush him but then Margaret came flying in anyway and she launched herself onto Billy’s bed and hugged his back underneath Gran’s arms and said his name over and over, weeping Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy while he shouted out his sobs, his entire body shaking with every one and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop because he was still filling up with grief and anguish and it wasn’t ending, it wasn’t slowing, he just kept shouting and crying out and nearly screaming in his agony and he could only feel inside now, it overwhelmed everything else--
"Billy, please don't," Dom begged, his own heart breaking at the dry empty eyes in front of him, lost in a memory that Dom couldn't share no matter how much Billy told him of it. "Don't, love--"
--he couldn’t feel anything but the pain cutting him to threads inside and he couldn’t feel his Gran’s arms holding him so tightly and he couldn’t feel Margaret’s wet face against his back and he wanted his mum so badly he thought he would choke with it and then he was sobbing so hard he was choking with it and his Gran let him go to put her cool hands on his face, to hold his face and stroke his wet cheeks, his sweaty forehead, and she spoke to him in a low voice, calming and soothing and although Billy couldn’t hear it at first, it started to slowly have an effect and he stopped choking and just sobbed and sobbed. Margaret curled around him like she wanted to share in his anguish and somehow that helped and his sobs slowly eased into loud weeping.
He wept for a very long time, so long and so hard that finally he had to push his Gran away and unwrap Margaret from around his stomach and run to the bathroom and be sick into the toilet, and he couldn’t stop crying even while he threw up and he was glad, if it could be called that, relieved, anyway, that neither of them tried to come to him in the bathroom as he was sick once more, and then he knew that part of it was over and he reached up to flush the toilet and he tremblingly climbed to his feet and splashed the clammy sweat off his face under the tap and rinsed his mouth out and put some toothpaste on his tongue and swished that around to get rid of the horrid taste of grief that lingered. He opened the door and staggered straight into his Gran’s arms and she led him back to his room and settled him back in his bed and sat with him for an hour while he quietly, very quietly, cried for his mum, and Margaret fell asleep with her arm across his chest. His Gran was going to wake her, take her back to her own room, but with a ragged, barely audible whisper Billy asked if she could stay, please could she stay, just for tonight, and his Gran had put her hand briefly on his cheek and then stood to pull a blanket over Margaret and then leaned down and kissed Billy’s forehead and even though she was strict and reserved, Billy had discovered the last few days just how deeply their Gran loved them and he whispered that he loved her and she shushed him and said sleep now, dear, and after running her hand briefly over his hair she left them, making sure the door was left slightly ajar so she would hear them if they called.
The next day Billy’s Gran let him stay in bed for the entire morning, knowing he felt exhausted and sore and slightly ill and not up to facing the day just yet. Margaret left him mostly alone, just sticking her head in once in a while to reassure herself he was okay, and to bring him tea and toast. But in the afternoon he had to get up, to get dressed and go downstairs and visit, because his dad’s relatives from America were stopping by before heading to the airport to fly home, and he dreaded it because he was feeling now and he was feeling an awful lot and it was very uncomfortable because it squeezed his heart and he was afraid any kind gesture or warm hug would squeeze it even further until he started crying again and Billy hating crying in front of other people, he always had and he always would. It was difficult, and Billy wound up getting a little teary, a little sniffly in front of them, which embarrassed him, but they were nice and talked to him about Detroit and told him they’d like it if he and Margaret could come visit them all sometime and he told them how he’d told his dad if he ever made it there he wanted to be shown all the nightclubs his dad had sung in, and they smiled and said there weren’t many of them left, not after thirty years, but they might be able to find one or two, and they’d like that very much. Then Billy hesitantly asked them to thank everyone who had sent letters after his dad died, that his mum had treasured them, and he felt Margaret’s eyes on him because she hadn’t heard about the letters and so he didn’t mention the money, but he did say their help had meant a lot to her and to Billy and to Margaret, and they understood and nodded and left it at that. Finally they had to leave, and they went with hugs and kisses and some tears, not only on Billy and Margaret’s part, and promised they would think about Billy and Margaret often and they would keep in touch, because Boyds were Boyds and Billy nodded and said ‘Confido’, I trust, and he received a big kiss on the forehead for that, and then the door was closing behind them and the house was silent again. Billy slumped on the sofa, worn out, aching in body and soul and not knowing what to do with himself.
After a few minutes Margaret came in with a cup of tea for him, and he took it and mumbled his thanks, and she sat down beside him, her feet tucked up on the sofa. She leaned her head against his shoulder and asked what letters, Billy? And Billy didn’t really want to talk about it, didn’t want to be reminded yet again of losing his dad and losing his mum, he just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a long, long time, not until this hard knot of anger and fear and sorrow in his chest stopped choking him. But he told her about the letters anyway, about how so many people had written to their mum to let her know they were thinking about her, and about Billy and Margaret too, and Margaret asked if he’d seen them and he said no, Mum hadn’t shown them to him, she thought they were still too young, and they still missed Dad too much, and he guessed she thought the letters would make them too sad. And Margaret said oh, and then she said yeah, they probably would, and then she asked what did he think was going to happen to them now? And although she tried to be matter-of-fact, she sounded so frightened, so small and lost and scared that even though it was probably the very last thing in the world he wanted to do the day after his mum’s funeral, even though he thought he’d probably rather jab a meat fork into his leg than do this right now, he said they would be together no matter what, but why didn’t they go ask Gran? So they went to the kitchen where their Gran was reading some papers, and Billy stayed back, he leaned against the counter while Margaret sat at the table with her Gran, and Margaret asked her Gran what was going to happen now? And their Gran looked at her, looked over at Billy, and sighed, and put the papers down, and folded her hands on top of them. She said there were still many things to be worked out, still many matters that had to be discussed with the lawyers and such, but they would be living with her now, their mum had made her their legal guardian. And while they didn’t have much choice in that matter, they did in another, and Billy wondered who she meant by ‘they’, and if she felt she didn’t have much choice either, and he wondered if she wanted a choice, wondered if there was a choice for her to make. And then he remembered her kindness, her gentleness the night before when he’d started feeling again, and he felt bad for being so unfair, even as he really wished he knew the answer. And then their Gran continued, and said that because they weren’t of legal age yet, the house had been left to her, but she knew their mum would have wanted them to have the choice. So she wanted them to think for a few days, because nothing was going to happen fast, she wanted them to think about where they wanted to live, if they wanted her to move in here with them and stay in the house they’d grown up in, or would they rather sell it and live at her house and not in the house where they’d lived with their mum and dad? Margaret opened her mouth, started to speak, but her Gran said no, shush, she mustn’t answer right away, she must think about it, really think about whether she wanted to stay in the house where her mum died, and at such plain speaking Margaret’s eyes filled, but she nodded, understanding now what her Gran really meant. Billy watched them, and he knew with a sense of despair that he didn’t even want to examine what he thought because it didn’t matter, he would do whatever Margaret wanted because he wouldn’t have the heart to go against her in this, and he wished he could leave this room, go up to his bedroom and curl up under the covers where the air was warm and stale and he could let the grief that still filled him up and left no room for anything else, let it leak out slowly because he was afraid of being empty again, but he didn’t want to be full of this thick sadness either so he thought maybe if it leaked out slowly something better would trickle in to replace it.
Suddenly Billy had to do it, had to leave, and he automatically muttered excuse me because his Gran was a big one for the manners, even bigger than his mum had been, and how long before it stopped being a horrible, awful shock to use the past tense when referring to his mum? He trudged up the stairs to his room and closed the door and climbed back into his bed and curled on his side facing the wall with the blanket over his head and he decided to try it, to try letting his desolation leak out slowly, and he let the tears he’d been holding back for an hour seep out, drip sideways across his face, soak into his pillow, but apparently he had more sadness in him than he thought because so far it hadn’t drained enough to let anything else in. A little desperately he wondered how long this was going to last, he understood everybody was sad when they lost their mum, he’d known kids at school who’d lost a parent and they’d been quiet and withdrawn for a long time, but he didn’t know how long he could feel this bad, didn’t know how long he could hurt this much and not go mad, not lose his bloody mind and just snap one day, just start shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs, and living where he did and going to school where he did, he knew some choice ones, ones that would make his Gran wash his mouth out with soap. How long before this hideous choking pain drove him right round the bend?
A little while later there was a knock at Billy’s bedroom door and he kept quiet, thinking it was probably Margaret come to check on him again and bring him another cup of too-sweet tea and he knew it was just keeping her busy, it made her feel better to look after him, which was such a girl thing really, but he didn’t want to come out from under his blanket yet and he didn’t know if she’d understand that and he couldn’t explain, so he kept quiet, pretending he was asleep. But then his door opened and it was his Gran quietly asking if she could please come in, and somehow it was different with his Gran, he had to answer her, and he wasn’t sure why, but he thought perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she didn’t need him the way Margaret needed him so much right now and she wasn’t going to take more of him away like Margaret did, not that she could help it, poor thing, she was hurting every bit as much as he was, and maybe more in a way, because weren’t girls supposed to be closer to their mums than boys? And Billy had been awfully close to his mum, so it scared him a little how much Margaret must be hurting and he thought he needed to help her, to comfort her, but at this very moment that was too far beyond him, he didn’t at this second have it in him, not at all. He belatedly realized his Gran was still standing at the door, so he mumbled come in, and she quietly closed the door and walked over to the bed, and after a moment she sat on the edge. Billy wriggled closer to the wall to make more room, and his Gran shifted back to a more comfortable position and then she sat still and didn’t say anything, and Billy started to get a little uncomfortable, because what was she doing that she was just sitting there, why did she come into his room if she didn’t want to talk to him, why wouldn’t she just go away and let him cry in peace? Then he felt a hand on top of the blanket, over his shoulder, it just rested on his shoulder, not squeezing, not petting, just sitting there so he could feel its warmth and its weight and he realized she knew, or at least, she had an idea of how he felt and she was waiting for him to be ready to speak and he wasn’t quite, not yet, but he didn’t feel uncomfortable with the silence anymore and he tried to sniffle back his tears quietly until he could speak without them bursting through. After a few minutes he asked where Margaret was, and his Gran said she was watching TV. After another moment she asked him if he wanted to come out from under the blanket, and he said not really, actually, and he heard a little smile in her voice as she said all right then and suddenly he was asking her how long it would last.
He hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t meant to show how badly he hurt, he was trying to be grown-up and strong but it was hard, so hard, and his Gran quietly asked how long what would last, like she thought she knew what he meant but wanted to be sure before answering, and he said how long would it hurt this bad, really ache, when would he just get to being sad and not feeling like he couldn’t draw a breath for the awful weight sitting in his chest, and she sadly said his name, and then she didn’t say anything else for a minute, and then she said it would take a little time. It was different for every person, how long they suffered, and Billy had loved his mum very much and so he was suffering very much and Billy said, almost angrily, that he hadn’t felt like this when his dad died, and he’d loved him very much too, and she calmly said of course he had, but he’d had a chance to say goodbye to his dad, hadn’t he? He’d had time to say goodbye and get used to the idea of a world without his dad, and when his dad died, he’d had his mum to share his grief with, to lessen it by sharing, but it wasn’t a complete shock, his heart and his mind had known it was coming, and he had been at least partially prepared. There was no preparing for something like this, she said, and she sounded quiet and sad and like maybe she was suffering pretty badly too, and Billy turned around under the covers and pressed his head against her knee to tell her he was sorry she hurt too, but he couldn’t have done it if he wasn’t hidden under the blanket, and as it was he couldn’t say the words. But his Gran just put her hand back on the blanket, this time on his head and said she couldn’t say when, but it wouldn’t last forever, Billy, it probably wouldn’t even last that long before the sharpness of it went away, and when she said sharpness Billy knew for sure she understood and felt it too. She said he just had to try and ride out the storm, because there would be an end to it, and Billy said he didn’t want to go back to school, and he wasn’t sure how that was connected, only that it was, and his Gran simply said no, he needn't just yet. There was silence again, and then Billy said to ask Margaret where she wanted to live, and that’s where it would be, and his Gran surprised him by saying don’t do that, Billy, and he was confused and asked don’t do what? His Gran said don’t put a decision like that on Margaret’s shoulders alone, it wasn’t fair to her or to him, she might be fifteen, but she was a very young fifteen, and he needed to be part of the choice too, and if he wanted he could tell her where he wanted to live right now, without Margaret around, and if Margaret said the opposite then they could figure out what to do, but where did he really want to live? And without any hesitation Billy said here, and then he said but if--and his Gran said leave the ifs for another day. Then she lifted her hand from his head and stood, and asked could he come out from under the covers yet? And when Billy said no, not just yet, she said all right then, but he was to come down for dinner when she called. Billy made a face even though she couldn’t see it and said he wasn’t hungry and she said fine, then he could at least sit and talk to Margaret and herself while they ate, and he was to come down for dinner when she called, and Billy knew she meant business and even though he didn’t want to leave his little cocoon, neither did he want to upset her, not today, so he finally agreed.
Dom took Billy's hand and pulled him up from the sofa. "Time for a break," he said gently, and led the way into the kitchen.
"I'm all right, Dom--"
"I know you are. But it's time for a break. What would you like for lunch, love?"
Billy looked out the window. "Anything."
"How about alphabet soup?" Dom asked, smiling. "First one to spell out 'Dom loves Billy' wins."
Billy dropped his head, chuckling. "Git. Are there bonus points for spelling out 'Billy shags Dom'?"
"Hell, yes."
"Alphabet soup it is, then."
Dom gave him a kiss. "Why'n't you check the post? Maybe walk down and fetch a newspaper? I'll have it ready by the time you get back."
Billy leaned his forehead against Dom's for a moment, murmured, "Aye. Thanks," and then silently left. He returned ten minutes later, dropping the paper and the post on the hall table on his way past to the kitchen.
Dom finished pouring their soup into bowls and set out the plate of buttered toast. "Sit down. Eat."
Dom only had 'D m l es Bil y' and Billy only had 'B lly sh s D m' when Billy started talking again, his fingers tearing his toast into pieces.
That evening they sat and watched TV, Billy’s Gran sitting in his dad’s old chair by the lamp by the window so that no matter when she sat there she would have light enough for her knitting. Billy watched her hands as much as he watched the television, because he couldn’t have said what the program was even about, so little was his interest. He watched his Gran’s hands flash, watched a finger wrap wool around the needle faster than lightning, and it was hypnotic, really, there was such a steady, even rhythm to the movements, to the clicking of the needles, and he wondered briefly why a rhythm wasn’t inspiring music in his head, and then he realized that when he went empty when his mum died, he went empty, everything had left him including his music, and when he finally filled again he filled with so much pain and grief and anger there was no room left for music. And that startled him so much, because he had never in his life been without his music, it stunned him so much that he got up and walked up the stairs to his bedroom and opened his guitar case and he stood there and looked at his beautiful guitar and that’s when he knew it was really, truly gone, because he had no desire at all to pick up his guitar, he had no desire to sing, and his music had died with his mum. He stood there and looked at the guitar she’d given him to expand his music, thought of all the times she’d told him never stop singing, and he started to tear apart inside that he was breaking his promise to her, to his dad, but then he thought no--no, because she couldn’t have known, couldn’t have known she would die and his music would die with her and that there would be nothing left, she wouldn’t expect him to sing and play when the music God had given him had been taken back.
He didn’t know how he felt about that, really. He was vaguely sad it was gone, but it sort of faded compared to the pain he felt over losing his mum, and he wondered if, as the sharpness lessened like his Gran had said it would, if losing his music would hurt more. He hoped not. He really didn’t want to hurt anymore, thank you very much, and with that message to God, the universe, and anyone or anything that might be listening, Billy went back downstairs and sat on the sofa in a bit of a daze, feeling like maybe he wasn’t even himself anymore, maybe he had been his music, and now that it was gone William Boyd was...nothing. And he stared unseeing at the TV for the rest of the night.
The next few days all followed a similar pattern. They rose, all three of them, a little later in the morning than they otherwise might have, Gran made them porridge for breakfast, they ate, and while Gran read the newspaper, Billy and Margaret were allowed to watch a little TV. But when Gran was done her paper, the TV went off and they had to do something productive, and Billy knew it was partially to distract them, hoping that if they got caught up in a book, they could leave it all behind for a bit, and he didn’t know about Margaret, maybe it worked for her because she always had been a big reader so she must find something in her books, but it didn’t work for Billy; not even the Shakespeare could tempt him to leave it all behind. So he usually ended up reading for a bit and then just looking out the window, wishing he could go out for a bit, but not really wanting to move. One of Margaret’s school chums dropped off some homework for her so she wouldn’t get too far behind, and she dove into it, buried herself into it, and Billy was thinking of asking his Gran why she didn’t send Margaret back to school when she so wanted to be working on her lessons, until twenty minutes later she threw down her pencil and burst into tears, and Billy decided maybe he’d leave that up to his Gran, then, because he really didn’t quite understand why a little maths problem, even if it was hated algebra, would make her cry so very hard.
Every day after the reading and the homework, their Gran would make Billy and Margaret some lunch, something fresh along with reheated leftovers of the casseroles brought by the neighbours. After a week of them, even though they were different, most of them, Billy was so sick of casseroles he thought he’d never ever eat another casserole again, and when he saw his Gran’s fork hesitate ever so slightly on its way to her mouth, Billy almost, almost smiled at seeing she felt the same, and he quietly finished eating. Every day after lunch, Billy and Margaret did the washing up and made Gran a cup of tea, and the second day after the funeral she suggested they go outside for a while as it wasn’t, at that moment, raining, but they both politely refused and retreated to their bedrooms. The fourth day after she gave them a purpose, asking if they would please take some letters to the post office for her while she did the hoovering, and she gave them a stack of letters and two pounds for postage and as she turned away added there would probably be enough change left for a packet of chips to share, if they wanted to walk ‘round to the chippy. Margaret perked up a little bit, and even Billy looked forward to some chips, and they set off willingly enough on her errand.
Neither of them spoke much on the first part of their walk, just trying to adapt to being out in public again, but they soon relaxed and started to talk a bit and Margaret asked Billy when they were going to go back to school, and he wondered why she always asked him these questions instead of Gran because he didn’t know, did he, but he knew she was afraid Gran might say tomorrow, and the idea scared her to pieces. So he told her not yet, she wouldn’t send them back just yet, not until they were ready, so Margaret shouldn’t worry about it right now, and Margaret looked down at her feet as they walked and said it was hard not to worry, and didn’t he find it hard not to worry an awful lot? And Billy said yeah, it was hard, but he tried not to because what good would it do, and what was she worrying about, anyway? Did she want to tell him? And Margaret was quiet for a bit and then she said sort of...everything. She was worried Gran might die too, she was worried about Billy, about where they were going to live, about going back to school, about things that--and Billy stopped her there, both her rushed speech and her feet, by halting and turning her to face him, and he looked her right in the eye and said Gran was healthy as an ox, and she bloody well knew that, and it’s not like they didn’t know if they would even have somewhere to live, they were just choosing between two houses, and he said it firmly even though he knew there was more to it than that, it was not just choosing between two houses, it was choosing between a house and home, and Margaret got so emotionally attached to things he wasn’t sure how she was going to ever make her choice. And then he said don’t worry about going back to school until she was actually going, numptie, and why on earth was she worried about him? Margaret just looked at him for a minute, looked at him really hard, hard enough to actually make him uncomfortable, and he’d certainly never been looked at by his sister like that before, and he said what a little more shortly than he’d intended, and she put her fists on her hips and told him to sing something for her. Sing one of their dad’s songs. And Billy’s stomach dropped away, and his chest clenched, his whole insides seemed to be sliding around, and he said no and turned away, started walking away, and Margaret skipped to catch up with him and planted herself in his path, stopping him as effectively as he’d stopped her, and demanded why not? Why hadn’t she heard him sing, not even hum, since their mum died, when after their dad died he wouldn’t shut up with it, and he ought to be singing, why wasn’t he singing? And Billy’s fingers curled into fists and suddenly the sharp sadness that had been inside him was pushed aside and joined by a redhot rage, anger beyond anything he’d ever felt before and this wasn’t the kind of anger that would fade quickly like it always had before and Margaret saw the change in him, and she looked a little frightened, but she bravely, softly asked why, Billy? And Billy was so furious he couldn’t even shout, he ground out because it’s gone, Mar, it’s just...fucking...gone. And Margaret blinked because she’d never heard her little brother say the f-word before, and she asked what’s gone, Billy, and he snarled his music, the music God gave him was gone, He took it back, and he couldn’t sing and he couldn’t play and his music died with their mum, all right, and there’s the post office and here’s the money and he’d be home later, and before Margaret could protest he spun on his heel and strode away, his rage making his steps quick and long. Margaret shouted after him, and if she had come running after him, even in his fury Billy would have stopped, but she didn't, and Billy knew she'd give him some time and she’d finish their task.
"Billy?" Dom murmured after several long moments of silence. He reached over and took Billy's tightly clenched fist and stroked it until it opened slightly and he could slip his fingers in and caress Billy's palm. "I've never seen you that angry. It doesn't happen often to you, does it?"
Billy let out a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. "No. No, it doesn't."
"What did you do with all that rage? How did you manage it, Bills?"
"I walked."
Billy walked and he walked and walking wasn’t doing anything to let out the wrath that boiled inside him and he started to run. He ran for miles and his lungs were strong and he was used to running when he played footie but he wasn’t used to running flat out for this long and by the time he reached a park and ran halfway through it he had to slow, he had to stop, he had to lay down on the cool damp grass, gasping for breath, and a woman looked concerned as she approached him, paused to ask if he was all right, and Billy, Billy who had never shouted in anger at a stranger in his entire life, very rarely ever shouted at anyone at all, Billy yelled leave me alone, and the affronted woman marched away muttering. Billy lay gasping, and if he hadn’t been so full of anger he would have cried, but as it was the redhot rage dried up the tears before they reached his eyes and what made it all worse was he didn’t even know why he was so painfully furious, didn’t know who or what to direct it at, it just roiled inside him like...like...he didn’t even know what. He thought of the picture of Niagara Falls he’d seen in a textbook at school, tried to imagine a whirlpool at the bottom of Niagara Falls, thought his fury roiled like that whirlpool must, and then he wondered if maybe it was more like a tornado, and he wondered if tornados could be said to roil or if they were really more just spinning and he panted in frustration when distracting himself with imaginings and what ifs and hows and whys didn’t work, when he remained just as angry as he’d been before, and he finally thought maybe he was mad at God for taking his music back, and that’s why his rage was so huge, because it was directed at God, so it would have to be big, wouldn’t it? Billy pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, elbows pointed up to the sky, and in his mind he screamed at God, and it wasn’t even coherent, and even as it filled his head he knew it was childish, but he had to roar his rage even if it was only in his head and he thought why, why did He have to take his dad and God why his mum and then his music, almost the only thing he had left except for Margaret because Gran wasn’t his, he loved her but she wasn’t his and why did He have to take almost everyone he loved and why why why his music he wanted it back please God he needed his music. Suddenly a tiny little corner of his angry mind said and why did Mum leave him, why did she go, and he was horrified by that thought, almost enough for it to push his fury away, but not quite, now he was just furious and horrified that he could be angry with his mum, he knew she hadn’t wanted to leave them, he knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt, so how could he possibly be angry with her?
And in later years, when Billy was older and articles were written about him in newspapers and magazines and online, and people who read his mum died of a heart attack, when those people speculated his mum had really died of a broken heart, he would get very angry, not quite a rage, because by the time he was an adult he had more control over it, but he would get very, very cross that people would think she wouldn’t love her children enough to live for them, that people underestimated that badly how much she had loved her son and her daughter. He knew if her heart hadn’t been weak, which no one knew until too late, and Billy sometimes wondered if it was the medical examiner who had talked to him at the table in the little kitchen that day, if he was the one who discovered her weak heart, if the work and the long hours, and yes, the sadness, if they hadn’t stressed her poor weak heart Billy knew she would have after a while been happy again, that they would have been joyful together again.
Billy sat up, his self-disgust and rage fuelling each other, and he began the long walk home, because a wee tiny part of his brain was urging him to get home because he’d been gone a long time and Margaret was probably getting worried, and if she started going spare their Gran would ask her what was wrong. He didn’t want Margaret to tell her, didn’t want his Gran asking him about his music because Billy didn’t think he could take any more anger and if he had to talk about it, he’d only get more furious and he didn’t know if he could take any more, he really thought he was nearing his limit, and the soul-searing pain he’d been in before was nothing compared to soul-searing pain and burning rage twisting and twining together inside him, and if he kept thinking about it he was going to frighten himself. So instead of thinking about it any longer, Billy counted the spikes on the wrought iron fence he was walking beside, and they were close together so he had to count fast because he wasn’t exactly dawdling, and none of his emotions eased but at least his brain was occupied for a brief time, and when the wrought iron fence ended he counted bricks in the brick wall and when that ended he counted leaves scattered on the walkway, and when there weren’t many of those because really there weren’t that many trees in the scheme, he counted his own steps to his front door, and it got him home without bellowing at the top of his lungs like a wounded animal.
When Billy entered the house, his Gran stepped out from the kitchen and looked at him closely, and Billy was about to snap something but all she said was just in time for dinner, Billy, and she went back into the kitchen. Billy stalked in and dropped into his chair with a kick at the table leg and he saw Margaret flinch ever so slightly but he didn’t care right now, he couldn’t care right now, and his Gran laid a plate in front of him and another in front of Margaret and then she sat down with her own, and she and Margaret began eating but Billy just stared at his plate. He felt Margaret’s eyes flicking back and forth between him and their Gran and he was just about to say something biting when his Gran calmly said, eat, Billy, she made it that afternoon, and Billy knew she was telling him it wasn’t another casserole, she’d noticed he was sick of them, and he grudgingly picked up his fork and ate a bit, but there was so little room in his stomach because it was full of all-consuming rage and he just picked at his plate, with a bite here and there, and finally his Gran sighed and said go up to your room, William, and she may have meant it as punishment, he didn’t know, but to him it was just a release and he shoved back from the table without a word and ran upstairs and slammed the door to his room, throwing himself on his bed, but his fury wouldn’t let him stay still and he ended up standing in front of his window, elbow on the sill, kicking at the bookshelves beside him with the ball of his foot.
Half an hour later there was a knock at his door, and Billy ignored it, not caring if he got in trouble, and he still stood at his window staring out over the back alley kicking his bookcase and he’d switched feet but he’d been kicking so long they were both a little sore but it was nothing compared to the fury inside him so he kept kicking and ignored the second knock on his door. When the door opened anyway, he gritted his teeth and said go away, and his Gran said she would in a moment, and he didn’t turn but he heard her close the door behind her and sit on the edge of his bed, and then she asked Billy was he angry with her or Margaret? And Billy snapped no, spat out why, was he in trouble for being angry, and she calmly said no, but if he continued to speak to her like that he would be in trouble, and he expected her to ask why he was angry but she caught him off-guard by saying his music wasn’t gone forever, it would be back, and Billy spun around, his face red and his eyes blazing and he angrily said Margaret should learn to keep her mouth shut! And his Gran just looked at him and said don’t be daft, William, he knew very well Margaret was just concerned about him, and did he really think she hadn’t noticed anyway? And Billy’s mouth opened, and then clamped shut again and he turned back to the window, and his Gran said again, it wasn’t gone forever, and despite his intention not to say a word, not to talk about it because he’d only get more angry, despite that he whirled again and shouted yes it is, it’s gone, there’s nothing left, God took his music back, and his Gran was shaking her grey head and saying no, Billy, God does not take back what He gives freely and in such abundance. His music wasn’t gone, it was just...and despite not wanting to talk about it Billy waited, furious and anxious at the same time, to hear what she would say, to see if there was any possible way she would be able to give him a little hope, even a tiny little spark of hope that he wouldn’t be bereft of his music for the rest of his life, and impatiently he said what? His music was just what? And his Gran looked at him, frowning, and he added please--please, Gran, and her face softened just a little, and she quietly said perhaps it would help to think of his music as being in mourning too, Billy, it would never entirely forsake him, he had too much music inside of him for it to ever be limited or shut off or contained or destroyed, it would always, always find its way out, but maybe his music had been hurt when he had been hurt, and it was just going to take time and patience and care for it to heal, just like it was going to take time and patience and care for Billy to heal. Billy stared at her, and he felt himself shaking, and he was still full of that unfamiliar redhot rage that had possessed him that afternoon, and yet he found himself quietly, almost desperately asking if he could please go outside for a bit, and his Gran looked at her watch and said be home by eight, Billy, and he was rushing past her, then paused at the door and without turning asked Gran? And when his Gran said yes, Billy, he asked promise? And his Gran said yes, Billy, she promised. And then he was gone, speed fuelled by his anger.
The next day Billy’s rage began to fade, and it took quite a while, longer than he liked because every time he thought he was getting rid of it something would happen to frustrate him, even something quite small like not being able to get the top off a jar, his fury would flare up again and he would grit his teeth and try not to snap at Margaret who was being awfully patient with him, really, and he’d have to be sure to make it up to her, but finally by the end of the evening, when he was actually quite exhausted from his running the day before and being tense and rigid and angry, finally it seemed to let him go, its grip on him slackened, and while he still had seemingly endless sharp, painful sadness inside him for his mum, and while there was still no sign whatsoever of his music returning, his Gran had indeed succeeded in sparking a tiny flame of hope that maybe it someday would. Margaret, sitting on the sofa beside him, looked over at him and saw his head leaning back tiredly, saw his red eyes half closed, and she whispered she hoped he wasn’t angry anymore when she reached over and took his hand, and when he didn’t pull away but gave her hand a squeeze, she brought it over to hold his hand with both of hers, and gently rub the back. Billy closed his eyes and felt overwhelmingly tired and sad and lucky he had such a good sister. He scrunched down on the sofa, lifted his feet up on the seat cushion, and laid down, and for the first time, although certainly not the last, but for the first time in his life he laid his head in his big sister’s lap and let her stroke his hair, let her fuss over him, and he murmured thanks, squirt, and he looked up at her and they shared a tiny, sad little smile, but Billy thought it was probably the first time they’d both smiled since their mum had died, and Billy looked as their Gran walked quickly from the room, but then he was closing his eyes again and Margaret was playing with his hair, and Billy fell asleep curled up by his sister’s side.
The next day Billy went with Margaret to the chippy to buy two packets of chips, since she hadn’t stopped for them the day Billy’s rage had begun, and they took the packets home and shared them out with their Gran too. Their Gran hadn’t known they were going to do that and she was pleased and the three of them sat at the kitchen table with the ketchup between them and talked about nothing and it was unimportant but comforting all the same. Suddenly Margaret, looking down at her chips, said she wanted to live here, she’d thought about it a lot, and she wanted to stay home, and then she looked up at Billy and asked him what he wanted, and he nodded and said he wanted to stay here too, and they both looked at their Gran and Billy asked if that was all right with her and she said of course it was, that was why it had been an option in the first place, and Billy and Margaret looked at each other and smiled a little with relief, one thing off their minds, off their backs, one thing certain when not much else was.
Chapter Four
Author: Pip
Pairing: Billy/Dom, but mostly Billy
Rating: G (unless it needs PG for one or two swear words)
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, never met 'em, this is all lies.
Feedback: Yes please. Pretty please. I'm desperate for it on this one.
Archive: Not without permission.
A/N: Please note, this is a WIP. Has not had the final workover it sorely needs, but has been lovingly encouraged along the way by the marvellous
elmathelas. All mistakes are most definitely mine. The fic clocks in at 45,300 words all told (so far).Chapter One, Chapter Two
First posted Jan, 2007
The next day was almost a total blank for Billy. It was filled with more people, stupid bloody people who wouldn’t leave them alone, who kept coming and being nice and kind and sympathetic and helping immensely and Billy wished they’d piss off and leave him alone, but he would never dream of saying such a thing aloud. The day was filled with tea and food he couldn’t eat and phone calls to and from America and funeral arrangements and pouring rain he watched through the window. And it was filled with keeping an eye on Margaret who was at least weeping a bit less today although she was almost always needing to touch someone, reaching out to hold a hand or even just hang on to a jumper, whether it was their Gran or their uncle or Billy, and by the end of the day Billy didn’t know if he could take it anymore, he didn’t want anyone touching him anymore, if he had to endure one more hug or kiss on the forehead or even one more firm heartfelt handshake, if one more person tried to touch him he was going to tell them to just bloody well bugger off and then he was going to go outside and walk in the teeming rain until it got dark and he could go home to a house empty of all these people, and then Margaret crept up and held onto his jumper and then touched his hand and he sighed and put his arm around her shoulders. That night they slept in their mum’s bed again.
The funeral was several days later to allow time for the people coming from America to arrive, and if Billy were feeling anything yet, which he wasn’t, it would probably have been pity that the only times they came home were to bury their family, and then he wondered if they thought of it as coming home anymore. The day of the funeral was cloudy, and chilly, but there was no sign of rain as Billy and Margaret, dressed in good dark clothes, walked from the house and climbed into the car. There had been a viewing period in the funeral home, but neither had gone because their Gran didn’t think Margaret should go and Billy didn’t feel the need. He’d already seen her dead, and he’d already kissed her goodbye for himself and for Margaret, and he’d told Margaret that at some point, that their mum had gotten a goodbye kiss and she’d wept terribly with some odd mixture of relief and anger and pain that Billy didn’t understand because he couldn’t feel. The car took them to the kirk, the same kirk that had seen their father’s funeral service, and as they walked in Billy thought maybe he might not ever come here again, and they took their seats in the front pew with Gran and their uncle, and Billy was a little surprised but at the same time not at all surprised at how full the kirk was with people come to say goodbye to his mum, and he looked at the stained glass window throughout the service while he listened, and he filed everything he heard away for later inspection because he knew he would want to know what lovely things people said about his mum but he couldn’t look at them now, not today, only the rest of today to get through and then maybe, maybe he could start to feel again, when he wasn’t going to be surrounded by strangers. The only thing Billy closed his ears to was the music. He didn’t hear a word anyone sang, he didn’t hear a note that came from the old organ, he just shut it off and refused to hear, refused to admit it was there, he stared at the baptismal font to the side and wondered how the minister held a wriggling, crying baby, because he rather thought they all cried, didn’t they, and he wondered how the minister held that difficult bundle with one hand while wetting its head with the holy water, and what made the water holy, he wondered, was it just praying, because if so couldn’t anyone make holy water? And then the hymns were over and Margaret held his hand, rubbing the back of it with the palm of her other hand, and he was proud of her for sitting straight and tall and dry-eyed, and he even gave her a little, tiny little smile, and she didn’t smile back but she did squeeze his hand before returning her eyes to the front, and Billy looked up at the stained glass window again.
After the service was over Billy walked outside, holding Margaret’s hand, and she held her Gran’s with her other hand, and they walked outside with everyone else while the pallbearers, including their uncle, brought out the casket that Billy knew contained his mum. He couldn’t quite picture her in it, but he didn’t suppose that mattered, and they stood around the open grave that had been lined all around with fake grass to hide the fresh soil and Billy thought that was possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever seen because how could fake grass change the fact that they were there to bury someone deep in the ground under all that dirt piled up over there under more fake grass, and so he just ignored it and looked at the flowers they’d brought out and draped over the casket and he was glad they were white because he wasn’t sure but he thought his mum had especially liked white flowers, and his eyes shied away from looking at his dad’s name on the headstone and then the minister was speaking again and Billy didn’t really want to hold on to what he said, so he tuned the man out and just stayed quiet and empty and cold.
The next thing Billy knew the casket was being lowered into the deep hole and impassively he watched it go down until it rested on the bottom and then the ropes were withdrawn and his Gran was stepping forward, taking Margaret with her, and Billy followed on her other side, and he and Margaret copied their Gran as she stooped to pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in the grave where it landed on the lid of the casket with a startlingly loud clatter and Billy had a moment’s irrational thought that they shouldn’t do that in case they woke her up but then he was swiftly shutting that thought down and tossing his own handful and wondering why they did that, anyway, it didn’t make sense to throw a handful of dirt, what did that accomplish? Then it was over and people were drifting away, talking quietly and coming over to his Gran and his uncle and he and Margaret to offer their condolences and Billy took a deep breath and started shaking hands again and saying thank you very much for coming over and over and over and he heard people whispering, saying poor Margaret, poor Billy, no parents, whatever will they do, look how brave they are, look at Billy being so polite and strong and not a tear to be seen they’re such good children never a speck of trouble this year’s been so hard on them and Billy suddenly just walked away, turned away from the person speaking to him and walked away and went to the car and climbed in, closing the car door after him. He sat on the floor of the car where he couldn’t be seen and he felt nothing, but at least it was quiet and he was alone, and he patiently waited to go home.
That night Margaret told their Gran to take their mum’s bed, it was bigger and more comfortable than her own, which was where their Gran had been sleeping while Margaret and Billy shared the larger bed, and Billy agreed, wanting their Gran to sleep well because she was looking tired and sad after the funeral and he knew Margaret was desperately afraid of losing Gran too. So he went back to his own bedroom that night and crawled into bed alone for the first time since his mum had died and it was partly a relief and partly very lonely, and so he wouldn’t lay there thinking in the darkness he got his torch and grabbed the thick heavy volume of the collected works of Shakespeare that his dad had given him, and he read some of Much Ado About Nothing, one of his favourite comedies and someday he would play Benedick because it was such a good character, so funny and kind and rude and confused and bold. He read some of his favourite parts and it didn’t make him laugh but he hadn’t expected it to, he just thought he’d perhaps better not read one of the tragedies, and he read until his eyelids were very heavy and then he carefully put the book on the floor, switched off his torch, and went to sleep.
Billy woke sharply from a vivid dream in the middle of the night, sitting up abruptly in bed as he started shouting at the top of his lungs, not able to stop because suddenly he was feeling again and his uncle had been right it hurt so much, so much, and he couldn’t help shouting wordlessly, nearly screaming because his emptiness was being filled up and he was filling up with pain and anger and his heart felt like it was breaking and then he realized it felt like it because it was. Then his Gran came running in, her bathrobe only half-on over her long, old-fashioned nightgown and she took Billy’s rigid body into her arms and rocked him and tried to shush him but then Margaret came flying in anyway and she launched herself onto Billy’s bed and hugged his back underneath Gran’s arms and said his name over and over, weeping Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy while he shouted out his sobs, his entire body shaking with every one and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop because he was still filling up with grief and anguish and it wasn’t ending, it wasn’t slowing, he just kept shouting and crying out and nearly screaming in his agony and he could only feel inside now, it overwhelmed everything else--
"Billy, please don't," Dom begged, his own heart breaking at the dry empty eyes in front of him, lost in a memory that Dom couldn't share no matter how much Billy told him of it. "Don't, love--"
--he couldn’t feel anything but the pain cutting him to threads inside and he couldn’t feel his Gran’s arms holding him so tightly and he couldn’t feel Margaret’s wet face against his back and he wanted his mum so badly he thought he would choke with it and then he was sobbing so hard he was choking with it and his Gran let him go to put her cool hands on his face, to hold his face and stroke his wet cheeks, his sweaty forehead, and she spoke to him in a low voice, calming and soothing and although Billy couldn’t hear it at first, it started to slowly have an effect and he stopped choking and just sobbed and sobbed. Margaret curled around him like she wanted to share in his anguish and somehow that helped and his sobs slowly eased into loud weeping.
He wept for a very long time, so long and so hard that finally he had to push his Gran away and unwrap Margaret from around his stomach and run to the bathroom and be sick into the toilet, and he couldn’t stop crying even while he threw up and he was glad, if it could be called that, relieved, anyway, that neither of them tried to come to him in the bathroom as he was sick once more, and then he knew that part of it was over and he reached up to flush the toilet and he tremblingly climbed to his feet and splashed the clammy sweat off his face under the tap and rinsed his mouth out and put some toothpaste on his tongue and swished that around to get rid of the horrid taste of grief that lingered. He opened the door and staggered straight into his Gran’s arms and she led him back to his room and settled him back in his bed and sat with him for an hour while he quietly, very quietly, cried for his mum, and Margaret fell asleep with her arm across his chest. His Gran was going to wake her, take her back to her own room, but with a ragged, barely audible whisper Billy asked if she could stay, please could she stay, just for tonight, and his Gran had put her hand briefly on his cheek and then stood to pull a blanket over Margaret and then leaned down and kissed Billy’s forehead and even though she was strict and reserved, Billy had discovered the last few days just how deeply their Gran loved them and he whispered that he loved her and she shushed him and said sleep now, dear, and after running her hand briefly over his hair she left them, making sure the door was left slightly ajar so she would hear them if they called.
The next day Billy’s Gran let him stay in bed for the entire morning, knowing he felt exhausted and sore and slightly ill and not up to facing the day just yet. Margaret left him mostly alone, just sticking her head in once in a while to reassure herself he was okay, and to bring him tea and toast. But in the afternoon he had to get up, to get dressed and go downstairs and visit, because his dad’s relatives from America were stopping by before heading to the airport to fly home, and he dreaded it because he was feeling now and he was feeling an awful lot and it was very uncomfortable because it squeezed his heart and he was afraid any kind gesture or warm hug would squeeze it even further until he started crying again and Billy hating crying in front of other people, he always had and he always would. It was difficult, and Billy wound up getting a little teary, a little sniffly in front of them, which embarrassed him, but they were nice and talked to him about Detroit and told him they’d like it if he and Margaret could come visit them all sometime and he told them how he’d told his dad if he ever made it there he wanted to be shown all the nightclubs his dad had sung in, and they smiled and said there weren’t many of them left, not after thirty years, but they might be able to find one or two, and they’d like that very much. Then Billy hesitantly asked them to thank everyone who had sent letters after his dad died, that his mum had treasured them, and he felt Margaret’s eyes on him because she hadn’t heard about the letters and so he didn’t mention the money, but he did say their help had meant a lot to her and to Billy and to Margaret, and they understood and nodded and left it at that. Finally they had to leave, and they went with hugs and kisses and some tears, not only on Billy and Margaret’s part, and promised they would think about Billy and Margaret often and they would keep in touch, because Boyds were Boyds and Billy nodded and said ‘Confido’, I trust, and he received a big kiss on the forehead for that, and then the door was closing behind them and the house was silent again. Billy slumped on the sofa, worn out, aching in body and soul and not knowing what to do with himself.
After a few minutes Margaret came in with a cup of tea for him, and he took it and mumbled his thanks, and she sat down beside him, her feet tucked up on the sofa. She leaned her head against his shoulder and asked what letters, Billy? And Billy didn’t really want to talk about it, didn’t want to be reminded yet again of losing his dad and losing his mum, he just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a long, long time, not until this hard knot of anger and fear and sorrow in his chest stopped choking him. But he told her about the letters anyway, about how so many people had written to their mum to let her know they were thinking about her, and about Billy and Margaret too, and Margaret asked if he’d seen them and he said no, Mum hadn’t shown them to him, she thought they were still too young, and they still missed Dad too much, and he guessed she thought the letters would make them too sad. And Margaret said oh, and then she said yeah, they probably would, and then she asked what did he think was going to happen to them now? And although she tried to be matter-of-fact, she sounded so frightened, so small and lost and scared that even though it was probably the very last thing in the world he wanted to do the day after his mum’s funeral, even though he thought he’d probably rather jab a meat fork into his leg than do this right now, he said they would be together no matter what, but why didn’t they go ask Gran? So they went to the kitchen where their Gran was reading some papers, and Billy stayed back, he leaned against the counter while Margaret sat at the table with her Gran, and Margaret asked her Gran what was going to happen now? And their Gran looked at her, looked over at Billy, and sighed, and put the papers down, and folded her hands on top of them. She said there were still many things to be worked out, still many matters that had to be discussed with the lawyers and such, but they would be living with her now, their mum had made her their legal guardian. And while they didn’t have much choice in that matter, they did in another, and Billy wondered who she meant by ‘they’, and if she felt she didn’t have much choice either, and he wondered if she wanted a choice, wondered if there was a choice for her to make. And then he remembered her kindness, her gentleness the night before when he’d started feeling again, and he felt bad for being so unfair, even as he really wished he knew the answer. And then their Gran continued, and said that because they weren’t of legal age yet, the house had been left to her, but she knew their mum would have wanted them to have the choice. So she wanted them to think for a few days, because nothing was going to happen fast, she wanted them to think about where they wanted to live, if they wanted her to move in here with them and stay in the house they’d grown up in, or would they rather sell it and live at her house and not in the house where they’d lived with their mum and dad? Margaret opened her mouth, started to speak, but her Gran said no, shush, she mustn’t answer right away, she must think about it, really think about whether she wanted to stay in the house where her mum died, and at such plain speaking Margaret’s eyes filled, but she nodded, understanding now what her Gran really meant. Billy watched them, and he knew with a sense of despair that he didn’t even want to examine what he thought because it didn’t matter, he would do whatever Margaret wanted because he wouldn’t have the heart to go against her in this, and he wished he could leave this room, go up to his bedroom and curl up under the covers where the air was warm and stale and he could let the grief that still filled him up and left no room for anything else, let it leak out slowly because he was afraid of being empty again, but he didn’t want to be full of this thick sadness either so he thought maybe if it leaked out slowly something better would trickle in to replace it.
Suddenly Billy had to do it, had to leave, and he automatically muttered excuse me because his Gran was a big one for the manners, even bigger than his mum had been, and how long before it stopped being a horrible, awful shock to use the past tense when referring to his mum? He trudged up the stairs to his room and closed the door and climbed back into his bed and curled on his side facing the wall with the blanket over his head and he decided to try it, to try letting his desolation leak out slowly, and he let the tears he’d been holding back for an hour seep out, drip sideways across his face, soak into his pillow, but apparently he had more sadness in him than he thought because so far it hadn’t drained enough to let anything else in. A little desperately he wondered how long this was going to last, he understood everybody was sad when they lost their mum, he’d known kids at school who’d lost a parent and they’d been quiet and withdrawn for a long time, but he didn’t know how long he could feel this bad, didn’t know how long he could hurt this much and not go mad, not lose his bloody mind and just snap one day, just start shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs, and living where he did and going to school where he did, he knew some choice ones, ones that would make his Gran wash his mouth out with soap. How long before this hideous choking pain drove him right round the bend?
A little while later there was a knock at Billy’s bedroom door and he kept quiet, thinking it was probably Margaret come to check on him again and bring him another cup of too-sweet tea and he knew it was just keeping her busy, it made her feel better to look after him, which was such a girl thing really, but he didn’t want to come out from under his blanket yet and he didn’t know if she’d understand that and he couldn’t explain, so he kept quiet, pretending he was asleep. But then his door opened and it was his Gran quietly asking if she could please come in, and somehow it was different with his Gran, he had to answer her, and he wasn’t sure why, but he thought perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she didn’t need him the way Margaret needed him so much right now and she wasn’t going to take more of him away like Margaret did, not that she could help it, poor thing, she was hurting every bit as much as he was, and maybe more in a way, because weren’t girls supposed to be closer to their mums than boys? And Billy had been awfully close to his mum, so it scared him a little how much Margaret must be hurting and he thought he needed to help her, to comfort her, but at this very moment that was too far beyond him, he didn’t at this second have it in him, not at all. He belatedly realized his Gran was still standing at the door, so he mumbled come in, and she quietly closed the door and walked over to the bed, and after a moment she sat on the edge. Billy wriggled closer to the wall to make more room, and his Gran shifted back to a more comfortable position and then she sat still and didn’t say anything, and Billy started to get a little uncomfortable, because what was she doing that she was just sitting there, why did she come into his room if she didn’t want to talk to him, why wouldn’t she just go away and let him cry in peace? Then he felt a hand on top of the blanket, over his shoulder, it just rested on his shoulder, not squeezing, not petting, just sitting there so he could feel its warmth and its weight and he realized she knew, or at least, she had an idea of how he felt and she was waiting for him to be ready to speak and he wasn’t quite, not yet, but he didn’t feel uncomfortable with the silence anymore and he tried to sniffle back his tears quietly until he could speak without them bursting through. After a few minutes he asked where Margaret was, and his Gran said she was watching TV. After another moment she asked him if he wanted to come out from under the blanket, and he said not really, actually, and he heard a little smile in her voice as she said all right then and suddenly he was asking her how long it would last.
He hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t meant to show how badly he hurt, he was trying to be grown-up and strong but it was hard, so hard, and his Gran quietly asked how long what would last, like she thought she knew what he meant but wanted to be sure before answering, and he said how long would it hurt this bad, really ache, when would he just get to being sad and not feeling like he couldn’t draw a breath for the awful weight sitting in his chest, and she sadly said his name, and then she didn’t say anything else for a minute, and then she said it would take a little time. It was different for every person, how long they suffered, and Billy had loved his mum very much and so he was suffering very much and Billy said, almost angrily, that he hadn’t felt like this when his dad died, and he’d loved him very much too, and she calmly said of course he had, but he’d had a chance to say goodbye to his dad, hadn’t he? He’d had time to say goodbye and get used to the idea of a world without his dad, and when his dad died, he’d had his mum to share his grief with, to lessen it by sharing, but it wasn’t a complete shock, his heart and his mind had known it was coming, and he had been at least partially prepared. There was no preparing for something like this, she said, and she sounded quiet and sad and like maybe she was suffering pretty badly too, and Billy turned around under the covers and pressed his head against her knee to tell her he was sorry she hurt too, but he couldn’t have done it if he wasn’t hidden under the blanket, and as it was he couldn’t say the words. But his Gran just put her hand back on the blanket, this time on his head and said she couldn’t say when, but it wouldn’t last forever, Billy, it probably wouldn’t even last that long before the sharpness of it went away, and when she said sharpness Billy knew for sure she understood and felt it too. She said he just had to try and ride out the storm, because there would be an end to it, and Billy said he didn’t want to go back to school, and he wasn’t sure how that was connected, only that it was, and his Gran simply said no, he needn't just yet. There was silence again, and then Billy said to ask Margaret where she wanted to live, and that’s where it would be, and his Gran surprised him by saying don’t do that, Billy, and he was confused and asked don’t do what? His Gran said don’t put a decision like that on Margaret’s shoulders alone, it wasn’t fair to her or to him, she might be fifteen, but she was a very young fifteen, and he needed to be part of the choice too, and if he wanted he could tell her where he wanted to live right now, without Margaret around, and if Margaret said the opposite then they could figure out what to do, but where did he really want to live? And without any hesitation Billy said here, and then he said but if--and his Gran said leave the ifs for another day. Then she lifted her hand from his head and stood, and asked could he come out from under the covers yet? And when Billy said no, not just yet, she said all right then, but he was to come down for dinner when she called. Billy made a face even though she couldn’t see it and said he wasn’t hungry and she said fine, then he could at least sit and talk to Margaret and herself while they ate, and he was to come down for dinner when she called, and Billy knew she meant business and even though he didn’t want to leave his little cocoon, neither did he want to upset her, not today, so he finally agreed.
Dom took Billy's hand and pulled him up from the sofa. "Time for a break," he said gently, and led the way into the kitchen.
"I'm all right, Dom--"
"I know you are. But it's time for a break. What would you like for lunch, love?"
Billy looked out the window. "Anything."
"How about alphabet soup?" Dom asked, smiling. "First one to spell out 'Dom loves Billy' wins."
Billy dropped his head, chuckling. "Git. Are there bonus points for spelling out 'Billy shags Dom'?"
"Hell, yes."
"Alphabet soup it is, then."
Dom gave him a kiss. "Why'n't you check the post? Maybe walk down and fetch a newspaper? I'll have it ready by the time you get back."
Billy leaned his forehead against Dom's for a moment, murmured, "Aye. Thanks," and then silently left. He returned ten minutes later, dropping the paper and the post on the hall table on his way past to the kitchen.
Dom finished pouring their soup into bowls and set out the plate of buttered toast. "Sit down. Eat."
Dom only had 'D m l es Bil y' and Billy only had 'B lly sh s D m' when Billy started talking again, his fingers tearing his toast into pieces.
That evening they sat and watched TV, Billy’s Gran sitting in his dad’s old chair by the lamp by the window so that no matter when she sat there she would have light enough for her knitting. Billy watched her hands as much as he watched the television, because he couldn’t have said what the program was even about, so little was his interest. He watched his Gran’s hands flash, watched a finger wrap wool around the needle faster than lightning, and it was hypnotic, really, there was such a steady, even rhythm to the movements, to the clicking of the needles, and he wondered briefly why a rhythm wasn’t inspiring music in his head, and then he realized that when he went empty when his mum died, he went empty, everything had left him including his music, and when he finally filled again he filled with so much pain and grief and anger there was no room left for music. And that startled him so much, because he had never in his life been without his music, it stunned him so much that he got up and walked up the stairs to his bedroom and opened his guitar case and he stood there and looked at his beautiful guitar and that’s when he knew it was really, truly gone, because he had no desire at all to pick up his guitar, he had no desire to sing, and his music had died with his mum. He stood there and looked at the guitar she’d given him to expand his music, thought of all the times she’d told him never stop singing, and he started to tear apart inside that he was breaking his promise to her, to his dad, but then he thought no--no, because she couldn’t have known, couldn’t have known she would die and his music would die with her and that there would be nothing left, she wouldn’t expect him to sing and play when the music God had given him had been taken back.
He didn’t know how he felt about that, really. He was vaguely sad it was gone, but it sort of faded compared to the pain he felt over losing his mum, and he wondered if, as the sharpness lessened like his Gran had said it would, if losing his music would hurt more. He hoped not. He really didn’t want to hurt anymore, thank you very much, and with that message to God, the universe, and anyone or anything that might be listening, Billy went back downstairs and sat on the sofa in a bit of a daze, feeling like maybe he wasn’t even himself anymore, maybe he had been his music, and now that it was gone William Boyd was...nothing. And he stared unseeing at the TV for the rest of the night.
The next few days all followed a similar pattern. They rose, all three of them, a little later in the morning than they otherwise might have, Gran made them porridge for breakfast, they ate, and while Gran read the newspaper, Billy and Margaret were allowed to watch a little TV. But when Gran was done her paper, the TV went off and they had to do something productive, and Billy knew it was partially to distract them, hoping that if they got caught up in a book, they could leave it all behind for a bit, and he didn’t know about Margaret, maybe it worked for her because she always had been a big reader so she must find something in her books, but it didn’t work for Billy; not even the Shakespeare could tempt him to leave it all behind. So he usually ended up reading for a bit and then just looking out the window, wishing he could go out for a bit, but not really wanting to move. One of Margaret’s school chums dropped off some homework for her so she wouldn’t get too far behind, and she dove into it, buried herself into it, and Billy was thinking of asking his Gran why she didn’t send Margaret back to school when she so wanted to be working on her lessons, until twenty minutes later she threw down her pencil and burst into tears, and Billy decided maybe he’d leave that up to his Gran, then, because he really didn’t quite understand why a little maths problem, even if it was hated algebra, would make her cry so very hard.
Every day after the reading and the homework, their Gran would make Billy and Margaret some lunch, something fresh along with reheated leftovers of the casseroles brought by the neighbours. After a week of them, even though they were different, most of them, Billy was so sick of casseroles he thought he’d never ever eat another casserole again, and when he saw his Gran’s fork hesitate ever so slightly on its way to her mouth, Billy almost, almost smiled at seeing she felt the same, and he quietly finished eating. Every day after lunch, Billy and Margaret did the washing up and made Gran a cup of tea, and the second day after the funeral she suggested they go outside for a while as it wasn’t, at that moment, raining, but they both politely refused and retreated to their bedrooms. The fourth day after she gave them a purpose, asking if they would please take some letters to the post office for her while she did the hoovering, and she gave them a stack of letters and two pounds for postage and as she turned away added there would probably be enough change left for a packet of chips to share, if they wanted to walk ‘round to the chippy. Margaret perked up a little bit, and even Billy looked forward to some chips, and they set off willingly enough on her errand.
Neither of them spoke much on the first part of their walk, just trying to adapt to being out in public again, but they soon relaxed and started to talk a bit and Margaret asked Billy when they were going to go back to school, and he wondered why she always asked him these questions instead of Gran because he didn’t know, did he, but he knew she was afraid Gran might say tomorrow, and the idea scared her to pieces. So he told her not yet, she wouldn’t send them back just yet, not until they were ready, so Margaret shouldn’t worry about it right now, and Margaret looked down at her feet as they walked and said it was hard not to worry, and didn’t he find it hard not to worry an awful lot? And Billy said yeah, it was hard, but he tried not to because what good would it do, and what was she worrying about, anyway? Did she want to tell him? And Margaret was quiet for a bit and then she said sort of...everything. She was worried Gran might die too, she was worried about Billy, about where they were going to live, about going back to school, about things that--and Billy stopped her there, both her rushed speech and her feet, by halting and turning her to face him, and he looked her right in the eye and said Gran was healthy as an ox, and she bloody well knew that, and it’s not like they didn’t know if they would even have somewhere to live, they were just choosing between two houses, and he said it firmly even though he knew there was more to it than that, it was not just choosing between two houses, it was choosing between a house and home, and Margaret got so emotionally attached to things he wasn’t sure how she was going to ever make her choice. And then he said don’t worry about going back to school until she was actually going, numptie, and why on earth was she worried about him? Margaret just looked at him for a minute, looked at him really hard, hard enough to actually make him uncomfortable, and he’d certainly never been looked at by his sister like that before, and he said what a little more shortly than he’d intended, and she put her fists on her hips and told him to sing something for her. Sing one of their dad’s songs. And Billy’s stomach dropped away, and his chest clenched, his whole insides seemed to be sliding around, and he said no and turned away, started walking away, and Margaret skipped to catch up with him and planted herself in his path, stopping him as effectively as he’d stopped her, and demanded why not? Why hadn’t she heard him sing, not even hum, since their mum died, when after their dad died he wouldn’t shut up with it, and he ought to be singing, why wasn’t he singing? And Billy’s fingers curled into fists and suddenly the sharp sadness that had been inside him was pushed aside and joined by a redhot rage, anger beyond anything he’d ever felt before and this wasn’t the kind of anger that would fade quickly like it always had before and Margaret saw the change in him, and she looked a little frightened, but she bravely, softly asked why, Billy? And Billy was so furious he couldn’t even shout, he ground out because it’s gone, Mar, it’s just...fucking...gone. And Margaret blinked because she’d never heard her little brother say the f-word before, and she asked what’s gone, Billy, and he snarled his music, the music God gave him was gone, He took it back, and he couldn’t sing and he couldn’t play and his music died with their mum, all right, and there’s the post office and here’s the money and he’d be home later, and before Margaret could protest he spun on his heel and strode away, his rage making his steps quick and long. Margaret shouted after him, and if she had come running after him, even in his fury Billy would have stopped, but she didn't, and Billy knew she'd give him some time and she’d finish their task.
"Billy?" Dom murmured after several long moments of silence. He reached over and took Billy's tightly clenched fist and stroked it until it opened slightly and he could slip his fingers in and caress Billy's palm. "I've never seen you that angry. It doesn't happen often to you, does it?"
Billy let out a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. "No. No, it doesn't."
"What did you do with all that rage? How did you manage it, Bills?"
"I walked."
Billy walked and he walked and walking wasn’t doing anything to let out the wrath that boiled inside him and he started to run. He ran for miles and his lungs were strong and he was used to running when he played footie but he wasn’t used to running flat out for this long and by the time he reached a park and ran halfway through it he had to slow, he had to stop, he had to lay down on the cool damp grass, gasping for breath, and a woman looked concerned as she approached him, paused to ask if he was all right, and Billy, Billy who had never shouted in anger at a stranger in his entire life, very rarely ever shouted at anyone at all, Billy yelled leave me alone, and the affronted woman marched away muttering. Billy lay gasping, and if he hadn’t been so full of anger he would have cried, but as it was the redhot rage dried up the tears before they reached his eyes and what made it all worse was he didn’t even know why he was so painfully furious, didn’t know who or what to direct it at, it just roiled inside him like...like...he didn’t even know what. He thought of the picture of Niagara Falls he’d seen in a textbook at school, tried to imagine a whirlpool at the bottom of Niagara Falls, thought his fury roiled like that whirlpool must, and then he wondered if maybe it was more like a tornado, and he wondered if tornados could be said to roil or if they were really more just spinning and he panted in frustration when distracting himself with imaginings and what ifs and hows and whys didn’t work, when he remained just as angry as he’d been before, and he finally thought maybe he was mad at God for taking his music back, and that’s why his rage was so huge, because it was directed at God, so it would have to be big, wouldn’t it? Billy pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, elbows pointed up to the sky, and in his mind he screamed at God, and it wasn’t even coherent, and even as it filled his head he knew it was childish, but he had to roar his rage even if it was only in his head and he thought why, why did He have to take his dad and God why his mum and then his music, almost the only thing he had left except for Margaret because Gran wasn’t his, he loved her but she wasn’t his and why did He have to take almost everyone he loved and why why why his music he wanted it back please God he needed his music. Suddenly a tiny little corner of his angry mind said and why did Mum leave him, why did she go, and he was horrified by that thought, almost enough for it to push his fury away, but not quite, now he was just furious and horrified that he could be angry with his mum, he knew she hadn’t wanted to leave them, he knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt, so how could he possibly be angry with her?
And in later years, when Billy was older and articles were written about him in newspapers and magazines and online, and people who read his mum died of a heart attack, when those people speculated his mum had really died of a broken heart, he would get very angry, not quite a rage, because by the time he was an adult he had more control over it, but he would get very, very cross that people would think she wouldn’t love her children enough to live for them, that people underestimated that badly how much she had loved her son and her daughter. He knew if her heart hadn’t been weak, which no one knew until too late, and Billy sometimes wondered if it was the medical examiner who had talked to him at the table in the little kitchen that day, if he was the one who discovered her weak heart, if the work and the long hours, and yes, the sadness, if they hadn’t stressed her poor weak heart Billy knew she would have after a while been happy again, that they would have been joyful together again.
Billy sat up, his self-disgust and rage fuelling each other, and he began the long walk home, because a wee tiny part of his brain was urging him to get home because he’d been gone a long time and Margaret was probably getting worried, and if she started going spare their Gran would ask her what was wrong. He didn’t want Margaret to tell her, didn’t want his Gran asking him about his music because Billy didn’t think he could take any more anger and if he had to talk about it, he’d only get more furious and he didn’t know if he could take any more, he really thought he was nearing his limit, and the soul-searing pain he’d been in before was nothing compared to soul-searing pain and burning rage twisting and twining together inside him, and if he kept thinking about it he was going to frighten himself. So instead of thinking about it any longer, Billy counted the spikes on the wrought iron fence he was walking beside, and they were close together so he had to count fast because he wasn’t exactly dawdling, and none of his emotions eased but at least his brain was occupied for a brief time, and when the wrought iron fence ended he counted bricks in the brick wall and when that ended he counted leaves scattered on the walkway, and when there weren’t many of those because really there weren’t that many trees in the scheme, he counted his own steps to his front door, and it got him home without bellowing at the top of his lungs like a wounded animal.
When Billy entered the house, his Gran stepped out from the kitchen and looked at him closely, and Billy was about to snap something but all she said was just in time for dinner, Billy, and she went back into the kitchen. Billy stalked in and dropped into his chair with a kick at the table leg and he saw Margaret flinch ever so slightly but he didn’t care right now, he couldn’t care right now, and his Gran laid a plate in front of him and another in front of Margaret and then she sat down with her own, and she and Margaret began eating but Billy just stared at his plate. He felt Margaret’s eyes flicking back and forth between him and their Gran and he was just about to say something biting when his Gran calmly said, eat, Billy, she made it that afternoon, and Billy knew she was telling him it wasn’t another casserole, she’d noticed he was sick of them, and he grudgingly picked up his fork and ate a bit, but there was so little room in his stomach because it was full of all-consuming rage and he just picked at his plate, with a bite here and there, and finally his Gran sighed and said go up to your room, William, and she may have meant it as punishment, he didn’t know, but to him it was just a release and he shoved back from the table without a word and ran upstairs and slammed the door to his room, throwing himself on his bed, but his fury wouldn’t let him stay still and he ended up standing in front of his window, elbow on the sill, kicking at the bookshelves beside him with the ball of his foot.
Half an hour later there was a knock at his door, and Billy ignored it, not caring if he got in trouble, and he still stood at his window staring out over the back alley kicking his bookcase and he’d switched feet but he’d been kicking so long they were both a little sore but it was nothing compared to the fury inside him so he kept kicking and ignored the second knock on his door. When the door opened anyway, he gritted his teeth and said go away, and his Gran said she would in a moment, and he didn’t turn but he heard her close the door behind her and sit on the edge of his bed, and then she asked Billy was he angry with her or Margaret? And Billy snapped no, spat out why, was he in trouble for being angry, and she calmly said no, but if he continued to speak to her like that he would be in trouble, and he expected her to ask why he was angry but she caught him off-guard by saying his music wasn’t gone forever, it would be back, and Billy spun around, his face red and his eyes blazing and he angrily said Margaret should learn to keep her mouth shut! And his Gran just looked at him and said don’t be daft, William, he knew very well Margaret was just concerned about him, and did he really think she hadn’t noticed anyway? And Billy’s mouth opened, and then clamped shut again and he turned back to the window, and his Gran said again, it wasn’t gone forever, and despite his intention not to say a word, not to talk about it because he’d only get more angry, despite that he whirled again and shouted yes it is, it’s gone, there’s nothing left, God took his music back, and his Gran was shaking her grey head and saying no, Billy, God does not take back what He gives freely and in such abundance. His music wasn’t gone, it was just...and despite not wanting to talk about it Billy waited, furious and anxious at the same time, to hear what she would say, to see if there was any possible way she would be able to give him a little hope, even a tiny little spark of hope that he wouldn’t be bereft of his music for the rest of his life, and impatiently he said what? His music was just what? And his Gran looked at him, frowning, and he added please--please, Gran, and her face softened just a little, and she quietly said perhaps it would help to think of his music as being in mourning too, Billy, it would never entirely forsake him, he had too much music inside of him for it to ever be limited or shut off or contained or destroyed, it would always, always find its way out, but maybe his music had been hurt when he had been hurt, and it was just going to take time and patience and care for it to heal, just like it was going to take time and patience and care for Billy to heal. Billy stared at her, and he felt himself shaking, and he was still full of that unfamiliar redhot rage that had possessed him that afternoon, and yet he found himself quietly, almost desperately asking if he could please go outside for a bit, and his Gran looked at her watch and said be home by eight, Billy, and he was rushing past her, then paused at the door and without turning asked Gran? And when his Gran said yes, Billy, he asked promise? And his Gran said yes, Billy, she promised. And then he was gone, speed fuelled by his anger.
The next day Billy’s rage began to fade, and it took quite a while, longer than he liked because every time he thought he was getting rid of it something would happen to frustrate him, even something quite small like not being able to get the top off a jar, his fury would flare up again and he would grit his teeth and try not to snap at Margaret who was being awfully patient with him, really, and he’d have to be sure to make it up to her, but finally by the end of the evening, when he was actually quite exhausted from his running the day before and being tense and rigid and angry, finally it seemed to let him go, its grip on him slackened, and while he still had seemingly endless sharp, painful sadness inside him for his mum, and while there was still no sign whatsoever of his music returning, his Gran had indeed succeeded in sparking a tiny flame of hope that maybe it someday would. Margaret, sitting on the sofa beside him, looked over at him and saw his head leaning back tiredly, saw his red eyes half closed, and she whispered she hoped he wasn’t angry anymore when she reached over and took his hand, and when he didn’t pull away but gave her hand a squeeze, she brought it over to hold his hand with both of hers, and gently rub the back. Billy closed his eyes and felt overwhelmingly tired and sad and lucky he had such a good sister. He scrunched down on the sofa, lifted his feet up on the seat cushion, and laid down, and for the first time, although certainly not the last, but for the first time in his life he laid his head in his big sister’s lap and let her stroke his hair, let her fuss over him, and he murmured thanks, squirt, and he looked up at her and they shared a tiny, sad little smile, but Billy thought it was probably the first time they’d both smiled since their mum had died, and Billy looked as their Gran walked quickly from the room, but then he was closing his eyes again and Margaret was playing with his hair, and Billy fell asleep curled up by his sister’s side.
The next day Billy went with Margaret to the chippy to buy two packets of chips, since she hadn’t stopped for them the day Billy’s rage had begun, and they took the packets home and shared them out with their Gran too. Their Gran hadn’t known they were going to do that and she was pleased and the three of them sat at the kitchen table with the ketchup between them and talked about nothing and it was unimportant but comforting all the same. Suddenly Margaret, looking down at her chips, said she wanted to live here, she’d thought about it a lot, and she wanted to stay home, and then she looked up at Billy and asked him what he wanted, and he nodded and said he wanted to stay here too, and they both looked at their Gran and Billy asked if that was all right with her and she said of course it was, that was why it had been an option in the first place, and Billy and Margaret looked at each other and smiled a little with relief, one thing off their minds, off their backs, one thing certain when not much else was.
Chapter Four
