Page 95 of On Circus Lane

“Was he supposed to grab your cock?” Arlo enquires. Jack nudges him, and Arlo spreads his hands. “What? Maybe it’s some sort of social convention I’m not aware of yet.”

“I think you’re fully aware of all cock conventions,” my sister says, pouring herself more wine with a great deal of concentration.

“Not this one, andthatis a crime,” Arlo proclaims dramatically.

Jack laughs. He always seems lighter around my brother.

Baz, our resident rocker, snorts in his sleep. He’s staying with us while Dad writes him songs for his next album. He passed out around the tenth bottle of wine and the main course, and hasbeen snoring face down on the table with a party hat stuck to his ear ever since. We all pause, but then he goes back to snoring.

My dad comes into the room, followed by my mum who’s carrying the Christmas pudding on a plate. Dad’s long grey hair has been pulled back in a ponytail, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his many tattoos. When I was little, I used to like to outline them with a biro.

“What’s up?” he asks, moving slowly. His pupils are huge, so he’s obviously just smoked a joint with my mum. We could hear the giggles from the conservatory that scandalised my rather conservative great aunt. She arrived yesterday to spend Christmas and New Year with us, which came as a bit of a surprise because no one had invited her. My dad just laughed and welcomed her in.

“Bee,” Sal says, rolling her eyes. “And how he shook Tom’s hand when really he should have been shaking his penis.”

“I never saidthat,” I say crossly, and she smirks at me.

My dad takes the pudding from my mum and sets it down as carefully as the crown jewels. “I like the sound of this boy.”

“Why?” I ask cautiously. It’s bound to be for some odd reason.

“He has manners. He slept with my boy but still managed to be civil the next day.”

My mum snorts, and Arlo and Jack burst into laughter. They got stuck into the eggnog before dinner and are well-oiled now. It’s lethal stuff. I remember my dad offering it to the vicar once, who’d called around for a donation. He left wearing a party hat, blowing one of Sal’s rave whistles, and minus any money.

“More eggnog?” Arlo offers our great-aunt Clara, his smile wicked and lopsided, and his face full of his usual charm.

She sniffs and moves her glass away, but Arlo’s so pissed he carries on pouring.

I look around the table, but no one else seems bothered, so I keep my mouth shut.

My dad grabs his lighter from his pocket. “Ready?” he asks, and we all nod, watching as he sets the lighter to the pudding.

“We wish you a Merry Christmas.Shiiiit,” he mutters as the pudding goes up like something fromBackdraft. “Fucker,” he breathes. He looks at my mum. “I think I put too much brandy on it, Shel.”

She wrinkles her nose. “At least we can turn the heating off now.”

“This family is completely barmy,” Clara hisses, pushing back her chair as the flames climb higher. The pudding is burning happily now.

My dad looks around. “Do we have a fire extinguisher?”

“I’m not eating it if you spray that on it,” my sister proclaims, rummaging in the wine rack for another bottle. “It’ll taste disgusting.”

“Ask not, and you shall receive,” Arlo intones, and he and Jack break into more giggles.

I look around at my family affectionately. They’re either pissed or stoned or both. Then, I reach forward and pour water over the burning dessert. There’s a crackle, a smell of burnt currants, and the pudding winks out. We all stare at the sodden mess.

“Cheese and crackers it is, then,” my dad says cheerily, banging into the doorframe as he walks back into the kitchen.

Arlo gazes at me meditatively, which is never a good thing. “Maybe you should talk to him,” he announces, his voice slurring around the edges.

“Who? Tom’s young man?” Clara asks warily.

“Yes.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Tom isfartoo drunk to court anyone.”

Arlo wrinkles his nose. “But that’s where the real poetry can come in. Byron was drunk for most of his life.”

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