Mother got in very late the other night. She had this freak Nirab, leader of the big shot Christian sect, with her.
- Just away to the little girls' room, - went mother, me cringing.
Nirab came over and plonked himself down on the arm of the chair I was sitting in.
- Yer ma's hot stuff, - he went.
- Don't be getting any ideas. Anyway, I thought you were a man of God? Didn't think you lot went in for sins of the flesh?
- We've all our temptations and shortfalls, Danny. Especially us ones that're drawn to the divine...ha! That's a good one isn't it? I think I'll use it on yer mother, hey? What do you think...'Mildred...years I have sought the Divine, but I'm never closer to it that when I am by your side.'...What you think, Danny? - He went, licking his chops.
- I think you better get out before I tell my mother the sort of man you really are!
- Don't be darft! Your mother knows the sort of man I am. She wouldn't be after me if she didn't.
- I know your sort...Jim Jones, Charley Manson, Jesus...fuckin do a few parlour tricks and say yer the Son Of Man and you get to snake any girl that crosses yer path!
I was getting red in the face.
Mother reentered the room.
- What you yelling at Nirab for, Danny? - Whimpered mother.
- He's a fuckin pervert, - I went.
- I know. And ain't it grand?! He's sexually very adventurous!
- You ever seen a woman squirt before, Danny? - Went Nirab, his rheumy right eye red and glinting.
- Yeah, master of it, - I went.
- Yer ma doesn't leave much to be desired you know, in the bedroom. See that tattoo she got on her ankle.
- Oh yes this lovely dolphin on my ankle, - went mother cooing. - That fucking witch Sam Cameron stole that one on me.
- Well I have a theory, - went Nirab rubbing his chin, faux academical like. - I have a theory that women with tattoos take it up the hole...
I got up and went to the front door.
- Mother, I'm going. I got what I came here to get and I'm leaving.
- Thought ye'd like to join us? - went Nirab.
- Fuck off, Jonestown!
At this mother threw her head back and laughed like a loon. - Go get the lube and the shitewipe, woman, - went Nirab, loud enough for me to hear.
On the way down mother's drive I keyed Nirab's car and broke a windscreen wiper off.
I prayed that on his way home, driving up the motorway, it would start pouring and having no wipers to clear his window to see where he was going and nowhere to stop he'd plough headfirst into the back of an articulated lorry at not an inconsiderable speed and die instantly.
I sat listening to records at home and dropped the last of the acid I'd creamed off the Jewish Hippies.
I reflected on mother's infatuation with Nirab, putting this one on to colour my surmisings: