Bang Bang You're Dead (Hole In Your Head)

Today's entry comes courtesy of a clear head. No hangover! I managed to get through the entire evening without feeling gay and frisky. One day at a time. I'm sure both my wallet and my liver will begin to warm towards me once again.

I knew what was coming last night as soon as I had one toe over the threshold. Lukas sat in the kitchen, poking a chopstick down his cast. He turned to greet me with eyes that expressed his instant wariness - like Ripley when she knows (a) she's pooped somewhere where she ain't no business pooping and (b) she's cornered and is about to spend a couple of hours carving deep paw-prints into the snow. Lukas gave me a friendly 'Hi dad' then recalled something urgent he needed to attend to in his bedroom.

I had time to remove my coat, scarf and shoes before Andrew was upon me. I'd heard him stomp purposefully down the stairs, then actually felt the heat of him as he came into the kitchen. Never has the phrase "incandescent with rage" been more appropriate.

As he stood in front of me, his whole body quivering, his fingernails gouging crescents into his palms, his damp eyes searing me with hatred, the only thing I wanted to do was hug him. Even though I was the one who'd placed him in this current emotional state. I'm sure anyone else would have felt exactly the same.

I had nothing to say, so I said nothing. I just awaited the barrage.

On the rare occasions I am angry, I get the vocabulary log-jam in my throat. The words - some of them oddly spoonerised - start off from my vocal chords in the correct order but they all then stack up in my throat, climb over each other like piggies trying to get to momma piggy's teats, and end up sprouting from my lips largely as decipherable nonsense. It's something that Andrew has inherited, so what follows is a translation.

What makes you feel, he began, his voice finding sibilants where they'd no proper place, that you can decide who my friends are? I began a reply but was snapped off. No - he continued - what make you feel you even have the right to decide who my friends are?

I told him that I don't. This was not an answer he was expected, and it shoved a STOP sign right in front of his train of thought. His gaze wavered for a second.

I can't decide who your friends are, I explained, but I can decide what kind of relationships you have with them.

Andrew's thin chest rose and fell at too quick a pace as he thought about this. What - he said finally - is the difference?

So I said - you may think you're an adult Andrew, but you're not. You're fifteen, and until October I remain responsible for much of your life. It's my role to make decisions for you that I know or I'd hope you'd make if you were in my shoes. You're not to have any relationship with David beyond what is appropriate for someone of your age and what is appropriate for someone in his position. Jesus Andrew - you could ruin a man's life here. Surely you're not that selfish? You know how people talk around here. Do you not understand how evil and malicious some people can be? Never under-estimate anybody. You provide the fuel, then they provide the heat and the oxygen and whoosh. It doesn't take much, trust me. There's already something going around and somehow I can't see either of you getting out of this unblemished. I don't want to live with that responsibility and I think neither would you.

Wow. Not like me at all to be so verbose under pressure. But then I'd had a lot of times to think about things as I always knew what I was coming home to, including my own mistakes in this.

Andrew's chest: Rise, fall, rise, fall. And I could see his t-shirt quivering with every adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat.

It was only a friendship, he said. He was only someone to talk to.

And someone to lie to, I told him. If you just wanted to talk to him, then why try to manipulate his feelings towards you? Why tell him you're struggling with your GCSE? Why tell him I'm always drunk and lashing out at you? It's all well telling me you just needed an understanding ear, but why and try elicit sympathy from him? Try telling me your agenda was perfectly honest and all above aboard and I won't believe you. You were after something Andrew, and I'm not seeing you use someone else to get whatever it is you want.

Andrew remained silent, but I saw his face change. He knew he'd been found out, and I think it'd surprised him that he'd been found out so easily.

I said if you need someone to talk to, and genuinely do, then that person - I hope - could be me. I know you currently hate me, and the fact you're willing to portray me as a violent pi$$-head hasn't exactly done me wonders, but I'm always here for you. I'm trying my best.

Andrew said: I don't hate you. Then he left the room.

So I opened the fridge, tugged out a Bud, ripped it open, and glugged it in one. No I didn't, but I might have done if they'd been any in there. Instead I patiently made myself a cup of coffee, then cooked me and Lukas breakfast-for-dinner.

For the rest of the evening it was definitely a case of Lukas to the rescue. We played Call of Duty 4 on the PS2 for two solid hours together, both getting shot and bombed and grenaded and knifed and having our brains blown through our @rses far more than we could manage to shoot or bomb or grenade or knife or blow our online foes' brains through their @rses. Despite the obvious hindrance of his cast Lukas still managed to out-kill me by a twenty-to-one ratio. I think I one stage I grazed the shoulder a terrorist with a Frisbee.

I went to bed in a snugly mood, and fell asleep to Radio 4.