[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Was this brat ever going to learn? ‘Watch your mouth, Missy.Don’t make me get up out of this chair.’I laughed.A sarcastic bark.‘Get up out of the chair?You? Don’t make me laugh.’Franco tried for a disbelieving chuckle, what came out was a strangled gasp.He was cracking.‘I’m warning you now, Missy!’‘You’re warning me? You’d be better off warning a tortoise, that’s about the only thing you could catch.’Franco threw his belly forward, the shift in balance tumbling him from the chair.I made no attempt to escape.Why would I? This was the whole point.My stepfather punched me on the shoulder.A vicious dead-arm, with the middle knuckle pointed.I cried with pain.I wasn’t acting.‘I used to play soccer you know,’ pouted Franco, still wounded by the tortoise comment.‘That’s where I got the name.Francooo, they used to shout every time I scored.And that was plenty of times, I can tell you.’I wiped my eyes with the ragged sleeve of my school cardigan.Keep talking, fat boy.My plan was almost complete.Just one more incident to film.It was Franco’s custom to drink himself into a stupor on the weekend.He felt he deserved it after drinking himself into a stupor all week.By midnight on Sunday, World War Three under the armchair wouldn’t wake him.So I waited on the landing until his snores echoed up the stairs, then I sneaked down the stairway, crab-fashion, feet wedged between the banisters.I needn’t have worried about stealth.Franco was dead to the world.He had changed into his drinking underwear, and was snoring up at least a force seven.I plucked a smouldering cigarette butt from between his fingers before it roused him, destroying all my plans.The TV was still on.Some shoot ‘em up movie.Franco’s favourite, but not enough to keep him awake.This was the tricky part.If I turned off the television now, Franco would wake up, for sure.I doubted he could sleep at all without the comforting blare from the idiot box.But I had a plan.The old television was still in the corner, half-buried under burger cartons and fag boxes.I dragged it across the lino, plugging it into the double adapter.Now all I had to do was switch the aerial around and we were in business.There was a moment of hiss, then mono sound erupted from the old set.Franco never stirred.I quickly unplugged the new set and wheeled it out the back door.Luckily the whole rig was on castors, so rolling it down to the shed was no problem.The camera was already set up.Now all I needed was the sledgehammer.I remember squatting on the window ledge waiting for Franco to wake up.Giggles were spiralling in my throat, like caged hamsters.Hysteria I suppose, and fear.Franco waking up was a slow process.It could go on for hours.First he might surface for a scratch, or maybe a quick shuffle to the bathroom, then he could sink into a stupor for another forty winks.I had turned off all the radiators to quicken up the performance.At nine o’ clock, his eyelids fluttered.A meaty hand patted the armchair for his cigarettes.Having located the box, he twisted one into the corner of his mouth and lit it with his lighter.All with his eyes closed.He scraped his tongue along his top teeth and grimaced.The remains of last night’s beer and fast food.A drink was called for.Franco pulled his eyelids apart with the heels of his hands.Bloody lightning bolts shot through the whites.He was in a bad way.I knew how this was going.Soon he would descend into a murderous sulk, blaming the world for his self-inflicted hangover.Then he paused.Something was wrong.Out of place.He took inventory.He was in his chair.Smoking his cigarette.Watching his.Franco leapt from the armchair.Oh my God! Shock and disbelief rippled down his face.What was happening? His TV! Gone!I shot a close-up of his mug, praying for tears.I would not be disappointed.Franco fell to his knees in front of the old television.There was a tape onthe video.Play me, the note said.With shaky fingers, Franco rumbled the cassette into the VHS.After a moment’s hiss, two objects came into focus.One was me, the other was the TV.‘Nooo.’The word leaked from between Franco’s lips, like the last spurt of air from a balloon.I couldn’t hear my voice from outside the window, but I knew what I was saying.‘My dear stepdaddy.Because you paid for this TV with my ring, I think it legally belongs to me.So, legally, I can do whatever I like with it.I could sit down and watch “Glenroe”.Or I could go to work on it with this!’My television image pulled a tool from out of shot.It was a long-handled sledgehammer.Franco stuffed eight fingers in his mouth.Pantomime terror.‘No, you little brat.No!’Even if I did feel a moment of mercy then, the me on the television didn’t.She laid into that TV with the gusto of a one-woman wrecking crew.She got really carried away, forgot all about the camera.It was a bit embarrassing really.Franco flinched with every blow.‘Stop.Please, stop.I’ll give you anything.’He was pawing the screen now, tears dribbling down his nose.It was pathetic.The man had barely shed a tear at my mother’s funeral.And here he was, destroyed by the death of a television.By the end, Franco was flat on the floor, hands over his ears to shut out the destruction.The television was little more than a box of glass and sparks.And I had every glorious moment on tape.Needless to say, I kept well out of the way for the rest of the day.I can only imagine how Franco made it through until the meeting.Maybe that’s what kept him going, the thought of a night out with the lads.When I arrived at the NPFA AGM, he was every inch his public self, except for a slightly haunted cast about the eyes.The boys were set up in the lounge of the Crescent Bar, with the big screen all ready for the race video.I counted to three and burst in the double doors.Franco’s first impulse was to lunge, but he couldn’t.Not with adoption papers in the works.You could buy another television.Houses were a bit harder to come by.‘What is it, Meg?’ he said through clenched teeth.‘You should be in bed.It’s a school night.’‘I have your tape, Uncle Franco,’ I said, staring him straight in the eye.‘You forgot it.’Franco blinked.‘What tape?’‘The Dover Pigeon Grand Prix.For after the meeting.’Franco checked his bag.The tape wasn’t there.How could it be, seeing as I had buried it at the bottom of our bin.He took the cassette tentatively, as though it might explode.‘Thanks, girl,’ he muttered.‘Off home with you now.’I pulled a sulky face.‘Aw.Can’t I watch? Pigeon racing is so cool.’Flattery will get you anywhere.‘Ah, let the girl stay, Franco.Be a treat for her.’‘One night out, Chairman.It won’t kill her.’What could my stepfather do? He couldn’t be ungracious in front of hispeers, yet he suspected a trap.‘OK, Meg,’ he said at last.‘But we’ll have a little talk about this later.’A perfectly innocent statement.To all ears but mine.I knew what Franco meant by ‘a little talk’.So they put on the tape.I watched, spellbound, as it slid into the recorder, whirring gently into its groove [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]