Georgina Anderson was screaming at her son: "Richard, where the Hell
have you been? You're almost two hours late! I was just about to phone the police; we've all been worried sick
about you."
Yeah, right - sod that. Nice fantasy, but
it was a very long time since Rich's mum or brother - or even Tamara, the ageing tabby - had paid much attention to Richard's
whereabouts, or shown the slightest interest in anything connected with him.
Rich frowned, as he turned his key in the lock - and, as
usual, opened it to the silent indifference of an empty house.
Empty, in more ways than one, since his mother had got into
all those Feng Sui "minimalistic" trends, which she and her poxy work mates were always going on about. It was a load
of crap, as far as Rich was concerned. He'd much rather live in a poky, junk-filled, three-bedroom council house, and
share a bedroom with two younger brothers like John did, than live in a bloody "show-home".
It had been okay, when Steve had been around more, as opposed
to almost always staying overnight with his mates - that or his "birds". Richard's older brother had used to look out
for him, when Mum was "too busy".
Richard went straight up to his room, and shoved the latest
"Now" album into his CD player, turning up the volume almost as loud as it would go. He skipped a couple of dance tracks,
for which he wasn't in the mood. Then he came to a really puke-inducing ballad; that was worse than the dance
stuff. He gave up on the CD, and contemplated changing it for - well, something more like Metallica or Iron Maiden.
The stuff he liked listening to when he was really pissed off with life.
Was he pissed off with life, then? Rich wasn't
sure. He liked to give the impression to John and co. that he didn't do self-pity, resentment, or any of that
shit. But everyone did it, didn't they? Everyone felt sorry for themselves, and that they really couldn't
be arsed with anyone or anything - at least some of the time.
It was okay to feel like that, as long as you contained
it. That was where his old man had gone wrong. Timothy Anderson had flipped because he hadn't been able to contain
his - "depression"? That was what Mum had called it, although Steve had said "schizophrenia".
Yeah, well, Rich definitely wasn't a "schizo". He
didn't hear "voices" or have paranoid delusions.
And he wasn't exactly depressed, either.
But it worried him, because Steve did have that dodgy period,
a couple of years back - not exactly a breakdown, but not far off it. And their mum had talked about "it"
- whatever "it" was - being "hereditary".
Richard put it out of his mind, for the time being.
He decided to text John, and see if he fancied hanging out for a while.
He considered texting Julie as well, but thought better
of it.
Forget her, Rich. She's not worth worrying about.
Could he help it if he was still worried?
He got a text back from John. The miserable git
only reckoned that he was too busy with that bird of his.
Richard switched off his mobile, in disgust.
It was a straightforward choice: Metallica or Iron Maiden?
Easier than "chips or Julie".
Well, actually, no, because Richard wasn't really all that
keen on chips. I mean, they were okay, with plenty of salt and vinegar, and a little ketchup...
Richard tried to visualise Julie Bishop, covered from head
to toe in salt and vinegar, and Heinz Tomato Ketchup.
No contest.
