LORD LOSS
Lord Loss sows all the sorrows of the worldLord Loss seeds the grief-starched trees
In the centre of the web, lowly Lord Loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyesFanged snakes his soul lineCurled inside like textured sinBloody, curdled sheets for skin
In the centre of the web, vile Lord Loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, Lord Loss crawlsDispensing pain, despising allShuns friends, nurtures foesRavages hope, breeds woeDrinks moons, devours sunsTwirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the centre of the web, lush Lord Loss is all thatâs left
âDouble history on a Wednesday afternoonâtotal nightmare! A few minutes ago, I would have said I couldnât imagine anything worse. But when thereâs a knock at the door, and it opens, and I spot my mum outside, I realiseâlife can always get worse.
When a parent turns up at school, unexpected, it means one of two things. Either somebody close to you has been seriously injured or died, or youâre in trouble.
My immediate reactionâplease donât let anybody be dead! I think of Dad, Gret, uncles, aunts, cousins. It could be any of them. Alive and kicking this morning. Now stiff and cold, tongue sticking out, a slab of dead meat just waiting to be buried. I remember Granâs funeral. The open coffin. Her shining flesh, having to kiss her forehead, the pain, the tears. Please donât let anyone be dead! Please! Please! Please! Ple â
Then I see Mumâs face, white with rage, and I know sheâs here to punish, not comfort.
I groan, roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, âBring on the corpses!â
âThe headâs office. Me, Mum and Mr Donnellan. Mumâs ranting and raving about cigarettes. Iâve been seen smoking behind the bike shed (the oldest cliché in the book!). She wants to know if the headâs aware of this, of what the pupils in his school are getting up to.
I feel a bit sorry for Mr Donnellan. He has to sit there, looking like a schoolboy himself, shuffling his feet and saying he didnât know this was going on and heâll launch an investigation and put a quick end to it. Liar! Of course he knew. Every school has a smoking area. Thatâs life. Teachers donât approve, but they turn a blind eye most of the time. Certain kids smokeâfact. Safer to have them smoking at school than sneaking off the grounds during breaks and at lunch.
Mum knows that too. She must! She was young once, like sheâs always reminding me. Kids were no different in Mumâs time. If she stopped for a minute and thought back, sheâd see what a bloody embarrassment sheâs being. I wouldnât mind her having a go at me at home, but you donât march into school and start laying down the law in the headmasterâs office. Sheâs out of orderâbig time.
But itâs not like I can tell her, is it? I canât pipe up with, âOi! Mother! Youâre disgracing us both, so shut yer trap!â
I smirk at the thought, and of course thatâs when Mum pauses for the briefest of moments and catches me. âWhat are you grinning at?â she roars, and then sheâs off againâIâm smoking myself into an early grave, the schoolâs responsible, what sort of a freak show is Mr Donnellan running, la-di-la-di-la-di-bloody-la!
BAWring!
âHer rant at schoolâs nothing compared to the one I get at home. Screaming at the top of her lungs, blue bloody murder. Sheâs going to send me off to boarding schoolâno, military school! See how I like that, having to get up at dawn each morning and do a hundred press-ups before breakfast. How does that sound?
âIs breakfast a fry-up or some cereally, yoghurty crap?â is my response, and I know the second itâs out of my mouth that itâs the wrong thing to say. This isnât the time for the famed Grubbs Grady brand of cutting-edge humour.
Cue the enraged Mum fireworks. Who do I think I am? Do I know how much they spend on me? What if I get kicked out of school? Then the clincher, the one mums all over the world love pulling out of the hatââJust wait till your father gets home!â