The Time Gene by L.E. Lacaille

Author:L.E. Lacaille [Lacaille, L.E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Louise Lacaille
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Mary Malone lay on the sofa, her face drowned in a gameshow. Two cartons of yellow gloop lay at her feet. Boiled sweet wrappers, a week’s worth of stained cups, and mouldering apple cores covered the coffee table. Her younger daughter strutted in, slammed the door and flung her bag on the floor. Mary jerked her head. “You’re early,” she croaked.

“God’s sake, do you never go out?” Roxanne whined. “Why are you readin’ that?” she growled. Mary frowned. What had she done now? She knew her daughter probably wanted her out of the way, so she could watch that dirty video the Darroch girl had lent her. But why the heck shouldn’t she read a paper? It was a rather interesting article. Stew McLally had published an article outlining his bid to purge Scotland of “elitist and discriminatory” private schools. He’d said at a council meeting that he would raze them all to the ground if he could get away with it. And Mary felt inclined to agree. Why should posh kids have what other kids couldn’t? All right for rich folks, wasn’t it? Like that Donachie woman, who’d had the gall to accuse her daughter of…please God no! It couldn’t be true…could it? Her eyes smarted. How different things could have been for their Dexter, if he’d had an opportunity like that. But just as Mary was engrossing herself in the article again, Roxanne snatched the paper away, and stamped it onto the remnants of her curry takeaway on the floor.

“Hey – I was readin’ that.”

As Roxy stormed off in the direction of her bedroom, Mary called out to her hoarsely: “Speakin’ o’ private schools, you havenae been bullyin’ that Donachie boy, have you?”

Roxy froze. “Course not.”

Relief flooded Mary’s face. At least, with all that had gone wrong, her Roxy was not part of the Jayjay mob. Dexter was the prodigal child, Roxy the faithful. Yet she cast dubious side glances at her daughter. Her breaths zigzagged into the air, rough and raspy. Their Roxy was an angel. So good, so compassionate. Yet Mary was wrestling with her courage; she swallowed a few times before calling Roxy back a second time.

“Did you hear the Darroch boy got out today?”

Roxy’s limbs twitched.

“Roxy?”

“No…no I didn’t.”

“You know…the Darroch girl’s brother? Liam, innit?”

“Oh, him? Don’t really know him.”

“Good,” Mary moralised. “Cos they’re not our sort, see. Darrochs’ve always been trouble, Roxy. Up to their eyeballs in shit. You don’t want to get mixed up wi’ those scum.”

Roxy nodded, her heart hammering. She ran upstairs, but Mary called her back a third time, a hint of steel glinting in her watery eyes.

“Margaret Little came tae see me this mornin’,” she said, frost cracking her dull stupour.

Roxy’s legs jarred, like she’d been hacking through thick ice.

“Told me her daughter’s scared half tae death o’ you,” Mary said, fear quaking through the steely façade. “I says: ‘why would anyone be scared o’ my Roxy? She’s the sweetest lamb.’ But Margaret swears blind you’ve been hurtin’ her girl; an’ wee Moraig’s scared stiff you’ll kill her.

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