Free My Life as a Man by Frederic Lindsay

again. I gathered her idea was that
we should check if anything was wrong.
    I still had my key and unfortunately he hadn’t changed the lock. Maybe he was saving that for when he went off on holiday, in case I came back and held a trash party for a few hundred
guests.
    In the hall it was so quiet I could hear Mrs Morton behind me panting softly as if she’d been running. Listening to her, it came clear in my mind how bad an idea it had been to borrow Mr
Bernard’s wife. Never mind the mystery man who had phoned her, Mr Morton frightened me. It was a bit late to realise that, but as I said I’m a slow thinker.
    ‘Who’s there?’ Any higher and I’d have been squeaking like a bat.
    Nothing happened for all of half a minute and then the phone rang.
    I reached out and picked it up without thinking. I’d lived there long enough, I didn’t have to look. The Hairy Bastard had put it in. I knew where we kept the phone.
    ‘Alec?’ I said.
    But it wasn’t him.
    A woman’s voice asked, ‘Is that Harry Glass?’
    Fighting down an instinct to deny it, I grunted.
    ‘This is Theresa. You took Mr Bernard’s car key off my desk. It was you, wasn’t it?’ I didn’t answer. When she got tired of waiting, she asked, ‘Are you still
there?’ I cleared my throat. ‘You hadn’t any right to do that. I got into terrible trouble.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I said.
    There was a pause. Mrs Morton was in front of me, trying to catch my eye. I looked away.
    The voice in my ear said, ‘I’m sorry, too.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I shouldn’t have given him your name and address. I’ve been worrying about it all morning. But Mr Bernard wasn’t there and he didn’t want to speak to Mr Norman. So
I got out your form and told him, but I shouldn’t have.’
    ‘I don’t understand. Who was it?’
    ‘A friend of Mr Bernard’s – that’s all he said. “It’s about the boy who took the car,” he said. “I’m a friend of Bernard’s.”
’
    ‘You gave him my name and—’
    ‘I knew it was wrong. Giving away company information, I’m trained not to do that.’ Her voice was thin and apologetic. I could hardly fit it to the arrogant girl behind the
reception desk at the factory.
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘That’s the thing, it was over the phone. I don’t understand how I could have been bullied by a voice on the phone. That’s why I had to tell you. Just in case he . . .
I’ve never done anything like that before. I am sorry.’
    Behind Mrs Morton, the door of the front room was opening stealthily, an inch at a time. Nothing happened for all of half a minute and then a face came round the edge of the door. The first
thing I saw was orange hair, a spike at a time, and then half of a wee pale face with eyes like raisins pissed into a snow bank.
    At this point, Mrs Morton, registering something was wrong, turned round. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Harry’s sister.’
    It was kind of disgusting to realise the Hairy Bastard’s new true love was about sixteen. But before I could ask her if she’d a home to go to, or was it so bad even cohabiting with a
monkey was preferable, she took an unexpected initiative by calling me a cunt.
    This took me aback. I was reminded of a guy at school who’d passed a crowd of Celtic supporters chanting, ‘We are thu pee-pul,’ and thought, not in anything but honest surprise
– he being a follower of the late King Billy of Orange: No, you’ve got that wrong, we are. Which took me back to wee Spiky Head – the cunt of the first part, as it
were.
    ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ I said, and at the response in my ear put the phone down.
    ‘Aye, but I know you. You’re Harry Glass.’
    ‘Well, you’ve got that right.’
    ‘It’s because of you he’s in hospital.’
    ‘Who? Alec? Alec’s in hospital?’
    ‘Smashed up he is.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ And in a funny way I was; I’ve always had a soft spot for animals. ‘Did he get run over?’
    ‘He got a