Free How to Be Bad by David Bowker Page A

else?”
    â€œHis clutter. He was always an untidy bastard, but at least he used to keep his mess in his own room. Now it fills the house. I hate him. The way he shrieks when he can’t get the lid off a jar of marmalade. The sight of his bristles in the sink when he’s trimmed his beard. The way he eats, like a monkey cramming food into its mouth before a bigger monkey can take it off him. Ugh.” She shuddered. “He disgusts me.”
    â€œHave you finished?” I said.
    â€œI haven’t even started. He’s mean, he’s selfish, he’s rude to strangers. He’s a bully and a coward. He has to sleep with a night-light like a fucking baby. His politics stink. He claims to be left-wing, but he thinks women in the third world should be forcibly sterilized to keep down the population.”
    â€œMaybe he’s left-wing like Lenin,” I said.
    â€œAnd he’s pretentious. One week he thinks he’s a historian, then he’s a sailor. Last I heard, he was a poet. Although I’ve yet to see a single line the fat cunt has written.” She kicked a parked car as she passed it. “And his driving? Christ almighty. He drives like a drag racer but without the skill. I used to dread going on vacation as a child. He risked my life every time he got behind the wheel. We were always getting pulled over by the police because he was speeding on the wrong side of the road. He thinks the point of driving is to get away from the car behind him and to overtake the car in front.”
    â€œThe guy is a hundred percent knob-cheese,” I admitted, “but he is your father. There must be something about him you like.”
    â€œI like his heart condition.”
    â€œJesus, Caro.”
    â€œYeah, well. Congestive heart failure. It’s incurable. The doctor gave him two years to live, but that was four years ago. I pray and I pray, but he just doesn’t seem to get any worse. Now he’s got his lady friend to make sure he takes his pills.”
    â€œOne question. If he’s so awful, why are you asking him for money?”
    â€œWhat else has he ever given me?”
    *   *   *
    A FTER THEIR daughter left home, Caro’s parents moved from Sheen Common Drive to a larger house near Richmond Park. Caro claimed it was worth six million. It was certainly big enough. There were stone lions on the gateposts, and the house had a terrible name. It was called Seaworthy, and in the back garden was a huge yacht. Gordon fancied himself as a mariner, although he had never successfully controlled a dinghy, let alone a yacht. Now he was too sick and old to even try, but selling the boat would have been an admission of his own decrepitude, so he simply left it to rot.
    We passed across the porch, and Caro rang the bell. The sound echoed through the house beyond, giving a clear idea of its cavernous dimensions. We heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a coarse-faced middle-aged woman with a blonde rinse and the demeanor of an embittered barmaid. She was wearing extremely high heels like a drag queen. “Oh, it’s you, Caroline,” she said without enthusiasm. “I do wish you’d warn us when you’re coming.”
    â€œI thought it’d be a nice surprise for you.” Caro gave the woman a lethal smile. “This is Mark, by the way.”
    â€œYou’ve got so many men on the go I lose track.” With this, the coarse woman walked away, leaving the door to swing on its hinges. I’m no snob, but this struck me as extraordinary behavior for a common servant. “It’s your daughter!” she bellowed, and flounced off down the plum-carpeted hall.
    â€œWho’s that?” I said.
    â€œThat’s Eileen,” said Caro. “The wicked stepmother.”
    Caro’s father was upstairs in his malodorous study, using a magnifying glass to peer at the small print in a book. A