The clumsier of the women would tut and say, “Naw son, no you. Him! He’s bonny.”
Mungo always hated that. He didn’t like anyone staring at him. He knew when they got home Hamish would batter him, stuff him between the bed frame and the skirting board, and then just stand on him till he was bored.
Jodie let go of her brother’s face. “When you feel the need to pick at yourself you should just sit on your hands.”
“C’mon. They make fun of me enough. Can you see me sitting on my hands when my face spazzes out? No fucking way.” Mungo bent forward and lifted his sister off her feet. He wore her like a backpack and carried her, giggling, through to the narrow kitchenette. He dropped her in front of the electric cooker. “Feed me, woman.”
Jodie extended two fingers and jabbed upwards into his ribs. “That shite doesn’t suit you. So don’t try it. Haaah-ha.”
Jodie Hamilton had a nervous tic of her own, although she would never admit to it. It could pass as an affectation, or perhaps girlish nerves, but after certain sentences she would pepper the air with a sputtering, snorting laughter. Haaah-ha. It was unexpected. It was odd. It burst forth with a wheeze and died with a chitter. She tried to chew the end off of it, as though her laughter had a tail she could catch in her teeth. When Mungo started his blinking, it elicited sympathy. When Jodie started her laughing, people told her to get a grip on herself.
Mungo knew she was powerless to it; it happened at the worst times, and he saw how it embarrassed his sister. But Mo-Maw said she did it for attention. Haaah-ha-ha. She could startle women in quiet post offices. She could make gangs of neds step away from her. Mungo thought it was brilliant, much better than his fidgeting, scratching face, which always made people come closer to get a better look. But Jodie’s tic was pure magic. It pushed people away.
Mungo loved to watch her deliver bad news.
One morning she had found Shingles, Mrs Campbell’s scabby tabby, dead inside the bin sheds, all stiff and covered in maggots. She had wrapped the dead cat in her school jumper and chapped on Mrs Campbell’s door. There were tears on both of their faces as they looked down at the poor, lifeless beast. Mrs Campbell was stroking the bald spot between his mushroom-coloured ears as Jodie was dripping great gobs of tearful snot on to her shirt. “I’m dead sorry, Missus Campbell,” she choked. “I could tell he wisnae right even in the dark there. I think he must have gotten into the rat poison. There was a stinking pool of sick next to his wee face. Haaah-ha-ha.” Jodie couldn’t help laughing, even at the worst moments.
Hamish never got himself a tic. When Mo-Maw would rub Mungo’s back to try and calm his anxiety, Mungo watched his brother scowl, and he wondered if Hamish felt a bit left out. He rarely got any special attention from Mo-Maw. Maybe he should get a really unusual tic, like that one that made you fanny around with the electric cooker knob a million times. Mungo could imagine Hamish flicking at the big light switch while the rest of them were trying to eat their dinner. If he had one, his tic would certainly be the biggest nuisance. Or maybe it could be the one that Mungo had seen on the telly. The one where the boy from the Borders screamed the dirtiest things when people least expected it. Fuckcuntfannybaws when he was in the church, Getitupyeyahairypussy in the doctor’s office. That tic seemed gallus and violent, perfect for Hamish.
Jodie undid the school tie around Mungo’s forehead. She studied the uncertain weather crossing his face. “What’s going on in that hamster brain of yours?”
“Do you really think Mo-Maw might come home any minute?”
“I don’t know, Mungo. I asked the vet, but he wouldn’t let me put a collar on her.”
“You could be nicer to h—”
“He wouldn’t let me spay her either.” Jodie took two thick slices of white bread from the bread bin, smeared them with margarine, and dusted them with white sugar. She folded a sandwich and handed it to Mungo. “Maybe you could go see Hamish and ask if he’s heard from her. Anyhows, she needs to get her poxy arse back here soon. The council will pap us on the street if she doesn’t.”
“They will?”
“Well, technically you’ll go into a home for waifs and strays and I’ll be put out on the streets. But you get the gist.” Jodie filled two mugs with tap water. “Still think she’s the best mammy ever?”
They spent the afternoon finishing their homework. Jodie did her own quickly and then she helped Mungo with his. He was drawing a diagram of a bee and had mislabelled the thorax and the abdomen. In frustration, she tore the jotter from him and did it herself while she watched the evening news. She had taken the same class only twelve months earlier. She drew it perfectly and barely glanced down at the page.