Demo (2 page)

I take my Coke and my book and my crisps and my M&Ms out my rucksack and stuff them in the stretchy net pocket on the back of the seat in front and I stick my rucksack down at my feet.

Here, gie me that, Danny says, and he lifts it up on the rack for us, gets his own book out his polybag and plonks hissel back down. I plug my earphones in and switch on the White Stripes.

I wake up when somebody at the back a the bus shouts, Florence… at fuckin last! It's gettin dark and I'm achin all over. I look out the window, but I can't see much; just lights streakin past and a faint reflection of the seats at the other side. And my own face starin back at me with really big eyes. Like a slow loris. I'm burstin for a pee too; the toilet at the back of the bus has been disgustin since Newcastle.

Danny, I says. Danny. I poke my elbow in his side. Danny, we're here I think. Somebody up the back said it. Just now.

Danny sits up and blinks. What? Where are we?

We're here. Florence, I says.

Oh, yeah. So we are. He peers out the window.

Hey, Clare, there the Duomo, he says. And he's pointin to this huge church we're passin that looks like it's all white marble with coloured patterns and a big round red tower. Magic, I think, can we just get to a toilet afore I pee myself? I've been bitin my lip tryin to hold it in, so my coldsore's burst again. I can taste the blood.

When we eventually get off the bus and start walkin, my rucksack feels like twice as heavy as it did before we left Glasgow; the straps are pure cuttin into my shoulders. We leave Julian talkin to a bunch a guys outside the bus station, but Danny says he's stayin at the same B&B as us. Great! Just what I need.

The
pensione
Danny calls the place, but it says B&B on the door. The first thing I do when we get there is run to the toilet. It's all white tiles with a shower and a – whatdyoucall they things? A bidet. And it's pure Baltic too. My da wasny kiddin. The water's cold when I wash my hands and my teeth are chitterin. I look in the mirror above the basin. My face looks as if it's shrank. And my coldsore has went fae the corner of my mouth halfway across my top lip. There's this big red scab on it too. At least I'm no goin out clubbin this Saturday.

By the time I've came out, Danny's tryin out his Italian on the couple that owns the B&B. I've no got a scooby what they're sayin but they're smilin and they seem quite friendly. The woman looks at me and says,
Fa freddo.
And she rubs her hands thegether and shivers, so she must be feelin the cold too. I put my hands in under my oxters and nod at her and smile. She must've thought I've understood what she says, cause she comes out with a pure torrent of Italian. I looks at Danny but he's no got a clue either. I wish I'd've took Italian instead of Spanish at school. The man says somethin to the woman and she shrugs. She looks totally Italian – like they old women in the Olivio adverts. The guy turns to Danny. He's
black and thin with a wee face, and he seems to be always smilin. He starts to speak dead slow in English.

We hope you OK here. Breakfast eight o'clock. Dining room downstairs. On ground floor. Beside reception. And they both smile and go out the room.

I'm like, Phew, and I fling myself on one a the beds. It's totally hard and doesny bounce and it's got a white duvet on top. In fact the whole place is white and more or less bare except for a picture of Our Lady on wan wall. Nay TV. Cheaper end a the market, Danny had said, but we're no goin for a luxury weekend; we're there to demonstrate, show Bush and Blair the error of their ways. Oh aye, I think, like they're really gonny be waitin with baited breath tay hear what Danny Kilkenny has to say! But I keep quiet. Danny can seem so old sometimes. When he's givin it, The Means of Production and Globalization and The Changing Economy, he sounds just like my da.

Well, whatdye think? Danny says. He's grinnin all ower his face and he looks dead chuffed with hissel.

I goes, It's brilliant. Great. I sit up on the bed and plant my feet on the floor. A kinda marble it looks like. Or no really marble but just as hard and cold. Kinda black and grey with a few orangey flecks. And there's a black border round the edge. It's like… pure Italian, I says.

Yeah, he says. Great, intit? Right, I'm just gonny text Ma and let her know we're here. Then it's out to see the sights of
la bella città.

Good, I says, cause I'm starvin; wearin away tay a shadow. I'm holdin out the band of my jeans when the door goes and Julian walks in. Afore anybody even answers. He's taen his scrunchy off and his dreads are movin around all over his head.

Mmm, he says, a navel piercing. Well, you are full of
surprises, young Clare. I try to pull down my top but it's too short. I look over at Danny but he's in the middle of texting my ma. Tell me, he says, and his eyes are lookin right through me, Is any other part of your body pierced? And he flicks my belly button stud. I've got like a pure riddy by this time. I can smell his hair too, the cigarette smoke and the other sweet kinda smell. Waccy baccy I bet it is, and patchouli.

Hey, Jules – Danny's lookin over now – leave her alane, she's just a wean.

No I'm no, I says.

No, I bet you're not, Julian says. I feel as if his eyes can see right inside me.

She's strictly off limits, Jules; I promised my da I'd look efter her.

Stop talking about me like… like I'm no here, I says to Danny. And Julian gives a wee laugh. I can feel my face burnin; I must have even more of a riddy.

Well, if Comrade Kilkenny's decreed that his peach of a daughter's not to be tampered with, who am I to stage a coup? Wouldn't want to end up in a gulag now, would I? He's smiling at me when he says this, so I smile too, a wee smile so I don't split my coldsore again. Danny isny smilin but. He looks pissed off.

He's no a Stalinist, my da, so keep your fuckin insinuations to yoursel.

Hey, man, only joking, Julian says, and he holds his hands up and jiggles his dreads. Come on, let's go eat. Some of the other guys are meeting up in the trattoria round the corner … ah – Giovanni's, I think it's called.

Danny's like, Aye, right. Still in a bad mood. Julian's lookin at Danny, then he winks at me and taps the side a his nose with his finger. I put my big coat on and kid on I don't see him.

*

There's loads a people in the restaurant. I know some of the faces from the bus but there's a lot I don't know. Danny and Julian seem to know like… everybody and Danny's in a good mood again, huggin the lassies and clappin the guys on the back. It's funny, he's no the way he is at hame, Danny. There's candles in red glass holders on the red and white checked tablecloths and all the faces are glowin.

… This is Clare, Danny's
wee
sister, Julian's sayin to a lassie. Clare, meet my very good friend and
compañera,
Laetitia. Titty to those lucky enough to be admitted into a degree of intimacy with her.

I'm thinking, Titty! What a name!

Hi, she says, and she switches her roll-up into her left hand and holds out this wee white hand to me. She's got short black hair and big dark brown eyes and she's like… dead cool. No
cool
cool. But just… cool. Do come and join us, she says. She must come fae near Julian, cause she speaks the exact same way. She kinda like does ballet dancer hands at the empty chairs and Julian sits down beside her. I look around for Danny. He's sittin at a crowded table across the other side talkin to the guy next to him, givin it, Kyoto Agreement, fuckin American Isolationism, arms wavin, hand choppin down on the table – the full works.

The waiter's goin round takin orders. I sit down next to Julian, take my arms out my coat and let it fall over the back of the seat. Julian goes, Here, let the waiter hang that up for you. And he starts to pull it out from under me.

No you're alright, I says, I'll keep it in case I get cold. And I pull it round me a bit so it hides my belly. The fur round the hood tickles my back on the bare bit between my top and my jeans.

OK, Eskimo Nell, he says and he's got this kind of look in his eyes like he's laughin at me. I wish Danny was sittin next to us.

The waiter's reached us now and he's standin with his notebook and pencil and he says something to us in Italian. Le — Le — Titty or whatever her name is says, I'll have the
fettuccine al pesto Genovese, per favore.
The waiter writes on his wee pad and says,
Sì, signora.

Julian turns to me: What about you, Clare?

I'm like dead flustered. I've no even saw the menu yet. I – I… I'm just gonny say I'll have a pizza when Julian says, We'll have the
spaghetti vongole.
That alright for you, Clare? And a carafe of house red,
un litro di vino rosso della casa, per favore. Sì, signore,
the waiter says. I just smile up at him and say, Thanks.

Grazie. Grazie,
my dear, Julian says. It sounds like graahtsee-ay. He does a conjuror's move with his hand. Twice. I canny be bothered to tell him I know the Italian for thank you; it's dead like the Spanish. When in Rome, he says…

Julian, don't patronize the girl, Titty says. She takes a draw on her fag and blows the smoke up over the heads of the two guys at the other side of the table. Her neck's dead white and smooth. She looks like she should be smokin thin black cigarettes out a cigarette holder instead of roll-ups, and wearin a long string a pearls with a knot in to swing in her other hand. And a shimmery silver dress with fringes. Like somebody out an old, old film. But she's wearin a black jumper with like holes in it and there's a green camouflage jacket and a brown scarf over the back a her chair.

I look round the room. Some folk at the side nearest the counter are finished eatin already. They look a lot older – my da's age mibby, some even older. They're all talkin fast and wavin their hands about. One woman's dead loud. She says,
Mais il n'est pas
VRAI! And I'm like, I know what that means! Cause I did French for two years at school. It's not true, she's sayin. Then a wee old guy gets up and taps the side a his wine
glass and starts to speak. I canny make out much of what he's sayin, but the folk at his table are all listenin and clappin every now and again. He looks a dead nice wee old man. Then he starts to sing:

Debout les damnés de la terre,

Debout les forcçats de la faim.

La raison tonne en son crateére,

C'est l'éruption de la fin…

And I'm nearly joinin in cause my da learnt me that song when I was ten:
… Du passé faisons table rase, Foules esclaves, debout, debout. Le monde va changer de base…

Julian turns to Whatserface and says, Fucking French fucking communists! And I'm like dead shocked! My da's a communist. Then he stands up and shouts out, What did your lot do to us in the Spanish Civil War, eh? Shot us, didn't you, eh? Didn't you? Fucking wankers!

Julian, sit down and shut the fuck up, Whatsername says, dead low, and she pulls at his sleeve. He sits down. His face is white. Terribly sorry, old girl, he says, don't know what got into me.

My da's a communist, I says. He wouldny hurt naybody.

The folk at the French table haveny noticed anythin and the wee guy's still singin in a quavery voice. I look over at Danny, but he's stuffin forkfuls of pasta in his mouth and talkin to the guy beside him.

Sorry, Clare, Julian says, I wasn't talking about your father, of course. It's just the old enmities. Trots and Tankies. He turns right round and looks at me and smiles.

I look right back. I don't smile. I keep lookin right in his eyes.

Well, I thought we were all supposed to be marchin
thegether themorrow for like
World Peace,
I says. And anyhow, they're having mair fun at that table, if you ask me. I keep starin at him. He looks surprised.

The waiter comes up then with a tray of plates and a funny-shaped bottle fulla red wine.
Fettuccine pesto, signora?
he says to Titsy.
Grazie,
she says. And he sets hers down in front of her. She's got nay tits anyhow, as far as I can see.
Due spaghetti vongole?

Here and here, Julian says, and he points to me and hissel.
Grazie.
I'm lookin at my plate. There's spaghetti and a sorta pinkish sauce over it, some onions and… like these wee kinda grey seashells. The waiter flicks his cloth over his arm and goes back to the kitchen.

So she has opinions, the young Clare, Julian says. I like a woman who knows her own mind.

Leave her alone, Boobsy says. Clare, pay him no heed. Eat up. And she like leans across Julian, pours some wine into my glass and flashes me a really nice smile. That's a nasty coldsore you've got there; I've just the thing for it in my bag. I'll find it for you when you've finished eating.
Buon appetito.

I look at my plate again and my stomach turns over. I'm starvin but, so I'll have to eat some of it. I poke about in the spaghetti and try and wind it round my fork without touchin any of the shell things. I put a wee bit in my mouth. It's no as bad as I thought. A bit fishy but no too bad. I eat some more. I'm managin to keep away fae the shells pretty good considerin, and then suddenly there's this like… thing in my mouth. It's rubbery and kinda squashy and it's pure bowfin. I think I'm gonny be sick. I hold my napkin up to my face and put the thing out with my tongue. Julian's watchin me and he's got that wee smile on his face again.

Vongole
not to your taste? he says. You don't know what you're missing. I sling him a deafie. I reach for a piece of bread
out the basket in the middle of the table and spread it with butter. It tastes that good I want to cry.

Me, I love every kind of shellfish, he says. So does Laetitia, don't you?

Laetitia, Laetitia, that was it! I'm no gonny forget it this time.