The Red Bag
By Fionnuala Meehan
Listen to a reading of this story by the author:
You hug the yellow door, your forehead brushing its edge.
‘Thanks for coming.’ Your voice is low.
The dim bulb in the hall throws little light on your face, but I can see your puffed eyelids.
I don’t like your house; too many traps. Gleaming brass handles I might smudge, clear plastic runner I might trip over, perfect cushions I might ruffle, Ainsley vases I might topple, glossy tiles my filthy shoes might spoil, velvet wallpaper my damp jacket might blemish. Your mother has said it all to me, not about the cushions though, but I’ve seen her watching.
‘You ok?’
Your nod doesn’t convince me.
I follow you to the garish green kitchen. You flick the switch without even looking, a reflex movement of your arm—the glare of the fluorescent tube splutters into action.
I watch you fill the kettle and set it on the boil, then turn to the dark autumn evening that presses against the window. I know that really, you’re assessing your reflection. The switch flicks when the water is ready, bringing you back to the room.
Three dunks in my mug are enough. You know my palate. You add the underspent teabag to your own, brewing a liquid as dark as mine is pale. Taking a packet of custard creams from the biscuit tin, you put two on the table and nod at the chair. I pull it out, pushing the seat pad against the backrest, careful not to crease it. I sit. You circle your spoon long after the milk has married with the tea.
‘Do your parents like each other?’ you say eventually.
‘Depends on what you mean by like.’ The hot ceramic burns my lips, making me slurp.
‘Do they, you know, talk to each other?’
‘Just because you talk to someone doesn’t mean you like them.’ I place my mug back on the table. I’ll wait for it to cool.
‘I know that.’
‘Do you mean do my parents love each other?’
‘Yeah.’ You bite your lip. ‘I suppose.’
‘No. They don’t.’
Your eyes widen, a new fibre threading our connection, solidifying our friendship.
‘I thought I was the only one,’ you say.
I shake my head.
‘Wanna fag?’
‘Don’t have any.’
‘Dad left some under the shed.’
‘He’s so cool,’ I say, shoving both biscuits in my mouth and looping my thumb and forefinger around the mug handle.
In the back garden, you emerge from the darkness with a raggy pack of Rothmans, and we sit on the low wall, elbows touching. You light up. I light mine from yours, sparing the matches. Orange embers glow in the darkness and tobacco crackles as we inhale deeply, hold it for a bit and exhale a long lazy smoke trail, relishing the ritual of the first drag.
‘My parents hate each other,’ you say. ‘She gave Dad a black eye on Friday.’
I swallow hard, pushing the horror back inside. ‘What happened?’
You work a loose thread on your jumper. ‘She was belting me with the sweeping brush.’
My throat is dry. I peel my tongue from the textured dome of my mouth. ‘Did you hit her back?’
‘You don’t hit back.’ You look at me with raised eyebrows, your eyes questioning my grasp of your reality. ‘He tried to stop her, but she got him square in the eye.’
‘Why did she hit you?’ I cough the words out.
‘Didn’t clean the house properly. Wasn’t even dirty,’ you say. ‘Told me I’m the laziest bitch she could ever’ve been cursed with.’ You round the tip of your cigarette to a peak against the wall and look at me. ‘What’s the story with your parents?’
‘Should never have married.’ I surprise myself. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. ‘She keeps a chair under the bedroom door handle.’
‘That’s fucked up.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mine hate each other, obviously,’ you say, dragging the embers in a circle on the path. ‘I’m supposed to be in my room, you know. She locked me in earlier and went to her sister in Tipp. Hopefully she’ll stay the night.’
‘She can’t do that.’
You shrug. ‘Dad’s away so she can do what she wants.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘She left the key in the door,’ you say. ‘I dropped it onto a bit of paper and slid it under.’
I turn to look at you. A vein in your temple throbs.
‘I need you to lock me in before you go.’
‘I can’t do that.’
You grab my sleeve, pinching me. I know you don’t mean to. Your gaze penetrates deeper than comfortable, making me blink hard.
‘You have to or she’ll kill me and then you’ll be responsible for my death.’
‘Okay,’ I say, pulling away and rubbing my arm. ‘But it’s fucked up.’
I stub my cigarette on the path and fan the black ash with the sole of my shoe. You do the same. I take the butts and throw them at an angle over the back wall into the wasteland behind, careful they don’t land directly behind your garden in case she goes looking. I follow you back inside.
‘Fancy a real drink?’ You say, bolting the back door. A twinkle ignites your eyes.
‘You have to ask?’ I shake my head, feigning disappointment.
In the sitting room, you slide the drawer from the drinks cabinet and hand it to me. ‘She thinks she’s clever, keeping this locked.’
I place the drawer on the floor, careful not to disturb the contents.
‘She knows exactly where everything should be,’ you say, reaching in and gripping the lip of the Smirnoff bottle on the glass shelf. Unscrewing the cap, you put it to your lips and take a slug. Your mouth forms a misshapen rectangle at the burn, making me laugh. You hand the bottle to me. I swallow a mouthful and try not to wince while you drop the needle on the record player and turn the volume up.
We shout the lyrics, mumbling the parts we don’t know. ‘Scary monsters, super creeps—’
You drink, I drink.
We sing, ‘Keep me running, ru-nning scared—’ Loudly.
You drink, I drink.
You start to cry. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Who’s leaving?’
‘Me and Dad, we’re moving out.’
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Dunno, but we can’t stay here anymore.’ You put your arms around me. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Promise me you won’t breathe a word. She can’t find out before we go.’
We jump to the music. Your outspread arms make contact with a bust on the mantel and it smashes on the hearth. We freeze, stare at it, stare at each other. Laughter tumbles from us.
‘Oh Mozart, don’t you like Bowie?’ I say. ‘Fuck, she’s going to murder you.’
‘I’m too drunk to care. She doesn’t even like music.’ With one sweep of your left arm, Mozart’s mantle buddies join him in smithereens on the hearth. ‘She only has them to impress people, pretend she’s educated, like. Everyone thinks she’s lovely.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I know.’ You fall onto me in a bear hug. ‘She’s horrible to you.’
We collapse on the floor.
‘She wears a girdle,’ you say. ‘Who does she think’d be looking at her?’
We’re on our backs now, kicking our feet and holding our stomachs.
‘A-and her knickers,’ you say, trying to get the words out between guffaws, ‘go up to her neck.’
‘Sexy lady.’ I dab my eyes with the cuff of my jumper. ‘Saves her buying scarves, eh?’
‘I spat in her gin last night, a nice gobby one.’
We roll on the floor, holding our sides, knees to our chests, til our breath runs out. Lying on the mustard and brown vomit-patterned carpet, we stare at the ceiling, at the five-candled chandelier that’s far too grand for a house in this estate.
‘I need you to do something else for me,’ you say, sitting up and propping yourself against the couch. Your right hand grabs my right hand, your left hand takes my right elbow and you pull me up. Your mouth is straight and your eyes are searching mine, so I know this is serious.
‘Anything,’ I say.
‘Can you take some of my stuff? I don’t know when we’re going, but I need to get some things out without her noticing.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
You come to a wobbly stand. ‘Be right back.’
I get up and stumble to the kitchen to get the dustpan and brush. I can’t find them so go back to the sitting room and start sweeping with my sleeves, slicing my hand on a jagged edge. It bleeds and you come floundering into the room when you hear my cry, leave, and come back with a wad of toilet paper. I press firmly until the flow eases. You grab the brush and pan and sweep the band of musicians into a plastic bag, double bag it and tie a knot. I’ll take it with me. The leftover porcelain dust goes under the mat. I wipe my blood from the marble with the heel of my hand.
Back in the kitchen, I replenish the vodka bottle with water, which is hard because I can’t hold it steady under the tap, and there’s a lot of vodka missing. I impress myself by putting the bottle back on the glass shelf without knocking anything and carefully replace the drawer, which is really hard because I’m seeing double of everything. I wash the mugs and lick the biscuit crumbs off the table.
You come back downstairs with a bulging red backpack, a Monchichi hand with an upright thumb peeks out of the top zip. You put it by the front door. ‘Don’t forget it, okay?’
I don’t need to reply.
Trundling up the stairs, we sit on your bed for a while chatting, flicking through a copy of Just Seventeen your dad bought for you. It’s cold so we get under the floral eiderdown and chat some more. The room starts to sway. I run to the bathroom and vomit in the sink, letting the tap wash away the evidence. A cold wave engulfs my head and a sickly pallor returns my gaze in the bathroom mirror, and I see you, sniggering behind me.
‘Feel better?’
I nod, wiping my mouth in my jumper. ‘Better go.’
‘Lightweight,’ you tease.
‘I love you,’ I say, pressing my body to yours and wrapping my arms around your shoulders. ‘But not in that way.’
‘Not in that way.’ You smile and push me away. ‘Now get out of here.’
I lock your bedroom door and push my forehead into it. ‘Are you sure —’
You swear you’ll be okay.
‘See you in school tomorrow so.’
Stumbling downstairs, I pick up your red bag and the rubbish, wishing I could take a marker to her posh wallpaper and cut up her curtains and slash her cushions and empty the bin on her kitchen floor.
I pull the front door behind me with a force I know will make the walls shudder. Yellow. A dishonest representation of what lies behind.
Outside, the air is crisp and I feel strangely sober. I swing your bag over my back and start my twenty-minute walk home, dumping Mozart and his pals in a neighbour’s front garden along the way. When I pause to look back at your house, I see your shape behind the net curtains, lonely, angry, scared, but you’ll never admit to anyone, not even to me.
Fionnuala Meehan is a passionate writer who draws inspiration from the world around her, crafting characters from the simplicity of everyday life and weaving stories grounded in the subtleties of human nature. She completed her M.Phil in Creative Writing at Trinity College Dublin in 2024 and lives in Co Wicklow.