#ylamdd

She studies him. He’s in a white cotton t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He’s wearing his glasses with the thick black frames. His shirt is thin from multiple washes and a fraction too small for him; it clings to the frame of his shoulders. Agonising. ‘Criminal how fit you are,’ she complains. ‘Couldn’t have gotten even a bit fat or wrinkly?’ ‘Got fat for a bit. Thyroid thing.’  ‘Nah,’ she shakes her head. ‘You had nice tits then. Better than mine.’ 

When she answers the phone, it’s with a glib, ‘Pretty boy.’  ‘Don’t play with me, Noel,’ he snaps.

It’s three weeks later when Donny finally asks.  They’re walking with Buttons in his garden at Highgate as she sniffs around, happy to be back in familiar territory.  What happened? Donovan wants to know. With you and Mum. 

‘She works in yer office!’ Noelle cries, gesticulating wildly, already fuming on Debbie’s behalf. ‘Runs yer office, don’t she? Yer a bunch of thick cunts, you are —’

‘Where’s your boy?’ he asks without preamble when she answers.  ‘Sleepin’. It’s 7.30 in the morning.’  ‘Right. I’m at your gate.’

The world is so fixated on them being siblings, that they often forget they’re siblings. For all the media likes to fixate on their differences (much exaggerated in the telling), there’s no one more similar to each of them than the other.  For instance, they’re both menaces. Contrary to public belief, Noel’s worse.