The Mess We're In

by Annie Macmanus

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A book about finding home in a strange new place, and finding yourself when your life is a mess. The hotly anticipated second novel by the Sunday Times bestselling author of Mother Mother

I'm a Londoner now. I'm a voice in the noise. I'm ready.

It's the turn of the millennium and, landing in London with nothing but her CD collection and demo tape, Orla Quinn moves into a squalid Kilburn house with her best mate and a band called Shiva.

Orla wants to make music, but juggling two jobs and partying every night isn't helping. Back in Ireland her parents' marriage has crumbled, she's not speaking to her father, and her mother and sister are drinking too much.

While Orla's own dreams seem to be going nowhere, Shiva are on the brink of something big. But as the hype around the band intensifies, so does the hedonism, and relationships in the house are growing strained.

This is the story of a young woman thrashing through life, trying to find home in a strange new place. It's also a story about music: how it can break you down and build you back up again, and how to find your rhythm when all you hear is noise.

Praise for The Mess We're In:

'So vivid . . . What [Macmanus has] managed to do with London, and what London means to different generations of Irish people, is terrific, and deeply moving' RODDY DOYLE

'Totally captures the highs and lows, emotional and personal costs associated with those aspiring to be part of the tough world that is the music business' COSEY FANNI TUTTI

'Beautifully painted, well set up and realistic' SARA COX

'A dizzying tale of young adulthood and the glimmering freedom and not-so-good decisions that come with it.' CHLOE ASHBY

Praise for Mother Mother:

'A writer whose understanding and capturing of human nature comes as easily to her as breathing' CANDICE CARTY-WILLIAMS

'Tender, surprising, occasionally bleak, moving and delicate' IRISH TIMES

'A study of grief, addiction and what it means to be a mother' STYLIST

'Melancholy, beautifully unadorned prose' MAIL ON SUNDAY

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Ltd

Release date: May 11, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Praise for The Mess We’re In:

 

‘I really liked the book. I loved the pace of it, it belts along but never feels rushed. The writing is so vivid – I could almost feel Orla’s hangover, and everyone else’s too. [Macmanus has] created a great gang of characters, and a great variety too, all of them very human . . . All the music in the novel is cleverly and very successfully achieved. And London – what [she’s] managed to do with London, and what London means to different generations of Irish people – is terrific, and deeply moving.’

Roddy Doyle

 

‘I fell in love HARD with this book and the lead character became my friend who I got to travel back in time with. A funny, visceral coming of age story with the gorgeously written backdrop of Camden and the music scene in the noughties. If Annie’s DJ sets get you up on your feet lost in dancing, her writing gets you curled up in a cosy ball lost in reading.’

Aisling Bea

 

‘Just finished [The Mess We’re In] and I’m so sad it’s over. I could have read another sixty chapters about Orla’s life, Fahy’s pub and her family . . . A fantastic read’

Joanne McNally

 

‘I felt like I’d joined Orla on a mad twisted fairground ride, clinging on with her as she’s thrown about and has her ups and downs . . . Beautifully painted’

SARA COX

 

‘Perfectly evokes that heady mix of thrills and heartbreak we experience as young Irish newcomers trying to find our own London. I enjoyed it so so much.’

Graham Norton

 

‘A heady exploration of home, identity and belonging. Dark and funny, it’s a dizzying tale of young adulthood and the glimmering freedom and not-so-good decisions that come with it.’

Chloë Ashby

 

‘A warm and beautiful coming-of-age novel that made me nostalgic for an upbringing that wasn’t even mine. I will read anything Annie Macmanus writes.’

Annie Lord

 

‘The Mess We’re In is a dynamic novel, charting Orla Quinn’s move from Dublin to Kilburn. The story follows a group of friends as they come of age in a new and exciting London, filled with opportunity. But the shadows of lonely figures lurk on the High Road, and Macmanus deftly traces the Irish immigrant experience from intergenerational viewpoints. Awash with beautiful musical imagery, sharp dialogue, and colourful characters––this book searches for belonging, identity, camaraderie and new starts. A very moving read.’

Elaine Feeney

Chapter 1

Another Chance

A low, throbbing, faraway sound, pulsing at the edges of my consciousness. Slowly, the sound shifts, the throbs taking form, separating into the bumps of a bassline. It’s familiar; the way the notes climb up and fall back down again, and that sample at the top of the octave. I know this song. We’ve been playing it all night. It sounds dull now compared to before, all flat and clogged up somehow, but I recognise it, which means I’m back in my brain again.

I open my eyes slowly. I’m slumped against the radiator, my chin on my chest, my legs skew-whiff on the carpet in front of me. The room is a haze of smoke. Light streams in from the window behind, spotlighting Hamo, who is spreadeagled on the sofa, his mouth clamped shut and lopsided, as if he’s had a stroke in his sleep.

Olly is perched on the edge of a stained armchair, staring at the television, smiling to himself while his joint slowly burns out between his fingers. His hair has been shorn badly, a home clippers job, without any care taken around the ears. Earlier in the night, I thought he was beautiful. I told him his smile should win awards all over the world.

My fist is clenched around a small glass bottle. I loosen my grip so that it falls out of my fingers on to the carpet. I laughed at them when they started doing the poppers. I shouted TIMBER as they toppled over, one by one, like felled trees. I was sure the amyl nitrate wouldn’t work on me, some vague memory of a failed attempt in the past, so I made a big show of taking two lengthy sniffs from the bottle, one in each nostril. I’m grand, I said. Look at me. Not a bother.

Then it all went blank.

I pull myself up with the help of the radiator behind me and cough. The record spins on the deck in the corner. The coffee table is covered; overflowing ash trays, empty beer cans, half-­full glasses with cigarette butts floating in the liquid, like tiny dead bodies. A semicircle of space on the side nearest the sofa holds a row of messily chopped lines of cocaine. Hamo stirs and adjusts his legs.

– What time is it? I croak.

Hamo swallows as his eyebrows raise in suggestion. – You can sleep here.

I try to push out a smile. – Nah, I’m going today, remember? What time is it?

– It’s seven, says Olly, without taking his eyes off the telly.

I look down at the lines of coke on the coffee table. – One for the road?

Hamo blinks slowly and sticks out his hand, which is already clutching a rolled-­up five-­pound note. I take it and bend over, holding my top close to my chest so he can’t get a look at my cleavage.

– See yiz next time! I say, before they can remember that there will be no next time. Not in this place, anyway. Hamo leans over the table to snort a line as I leave the room.

Standing on the porch, I feel dizzy, as if I’ve just stepped off a boat. Deep breath, Orla. Up through the nose, out through the mouth. The street is silent, curtains still drawn. A black cat slinks through a gate across the way. I step down to ground level and set off towards my house.

It’s muggy already this morning; the clouds are smudges on smudges, charcoal on paper. The birds chitter-­chatter above me as I walk; warm melodious warblings that ring pleasurably in my ears. I feel fizzy. Adrenaline pumping through me. If I walk fast, I could be asleep by eight and get a few hours before I have to get up and pack the rest of my stuff. I follow the black railings around the perimeter of Montpellier Park and pull my Discman and headphones out of my bag.

Goldie – Timeless.

When the synth arrives at the start of the first song, it’s like snow falling: a blanket of calm in my head. Everything in my vision has more mystery and depth to it. I pull my shoulders back, stick my chin out into the damp morning air. I’m in a music video now, mouthing along to the words, roaming the poxy pastel streets of Cheltenham for the last time.

It takes fifteen minutes to reach the cluster of shops at the top of our road. There’s the wheelie bin sitting sentry outside our house, filled to the brim with bottles. Inside the front door, the hall smells of incense and allspice.

Neema is standing over the sink in the kitchen. She turns when I walk in. She has eyes like a fawn; big, brown, wet things that make her look permanently as if she’s about to break down in tears.

– Hiya, I say, pulling off my bag, and add, – Before you say anything, yes, I’m just getting in from Hamo’s.

– Aha, Neema says with a half-­smile. – Was it fun?

– Was it fun . . . I repeat, pretending to think really hard. – We did a load of MDMA, which was fun. The poppers were not a good idea.

She nods, knowing and wise, sage-­like, as the kettle clicks behind her. – Want a chai, darling? she says, doing her best Indian grandmother. She enunciates every letter of the word, ending in a pronounced ‘geh’ – darliingeh, the second syllable always half an octave higher than the first. I love it when she calls me darling. It’s a short song, a work of art. I nod.

– Please. What time’s your brother coming?

– He said two, but he’s always late. I’d say more like three . . . Orla. She jumps over to me and grabs me by the arms, leaning into me, her eyes bulging out of her face. – I’m excited.

Back in my room, I undress and stand in the tiny space of my bathroom to wipe away my make-­up. My head is thumping already. I pull on my pyjamas and sit down on the edge of my bed to take my first sip of tea. It’s warm and sweet and slightly spicy, and it evokes a powerful surge of loving feelings towards Neema. I want to write her a note and put it under her door:

Thank you for your tea. And your big non-­judgemental eyes. I love you.

By my feet, my cork board is balanced precariously on top of my packed bags, photos and flyers still tacked to it. My sister Anna grins out at me from one of the photos, wearing reindeer antlers on her head at The Phoenix in Dublin, a pint of cider in her hand. Beside her is the photo I love of Ma and Da before it all went wrong; they’re dancing together, locked in the embrace of a waltz at Cousin Niamh’s wedding. I took that photo. They were both playing up to the camera, Da singing along to the words, probably a Beatles song to get him looking so into it, Ma grinning, her face all flushed from red wine.

The faint choppy rhythms of Neema’s UK garage compilation start up from beyond the wall. I take the last slurp of my tea, climb into bed and push in my ear plugs.

I must think about nice things. Moses.

I’m glad I got to say a proper goodbye to him last night. The lights came on in the student union bar, exposing us in our sweat and drunkenness, and I pulled him into a hug and then held him by the shoulders with my hands, forcing him to look at me. I tried to tell him everything with my eyes; that I’ve fancied him for a full year, that I’d love if he would kiss me sometime, anytime, right now, even – but he just stood there smiling at me, that smile that makes my heart do a little jig in my chest, until I said, – Give us your number then.

Thank God he wanted to take mine too.

I get up to go to the toilet, and I can’t help but see my face in the mirror as I walk past. Big eager eyes on me. Pupils still enormous. I look like Gwen Stefani if she had a weight problem and a face like a potato. As if I have any sort of a chance with Moses.

Nice things, Orla.

Back in bed I close my eyes, and now I’m cross-­legged on the living room carpet at home, tucked in between my da’s legs as he plays his guitar and sings his evening recital. Ma and Anna are clattering around the kitchen, but in here it’s just me and him, warmed from the orange bars of the fire, and his light, easy baritone filling the room. He loved the sound of his own voice alright. And I loved the feeling of the songs washing over me; the pictures they formed in my head. The Don McLean song ‘Vincent’ was my favourite. I’d be rapt, my head whirling with imagery, as he sang of flaming flowers and starry nights and shadows on the hills. I never understood that the song was about Vincent Van Gogh when I was small; I just thought that it sounded like an apology, and I wished that someday I could be important enough that someone would want to say sorry to me in the way that my da said sorry to this Vincent man in the song.

When I became old enough for Da to teach me how to play the guitar, he used to rub the hardening skin on my fingertips, and say, – You’re a real player now, Lorley.

I rub the top of my fingers against my thumb now, under the blanket. The skin is smooth and soft. My callouses are long gone. I try to imagine his guitar in my arms, how the fretboard would feel as I push my fingers into the shape of a G and then an A minor, then a C and a D and then back to G again.

A car horn beeps suddenly outside my window, startling me, my eyes opening in the surprise of it, and I see myself. The absolute state of me.

I am a twenty-­one-­year-­old woman, strung out on MDMA and cocaine, lying in bed in broad daylight, pretending to play a guitar.

Neema’s door clumps shut. I listen to the crank and groan of the pipes as she starts up the shower down the hall. She’ll be in that baby blue bathrobe she wears, that drags on the floor behind her. There’ll be even more grooming than usual for the day that’s in it. I close my eyes to test out how tired I am. I need to sleep so that I can feel good for the journey. I need the fizz in my head to go flat.

God, please let me sleep.

I want to draw a line between yesterday and today. I never knew a year could drag as heavy as this year in Cheltenham has. It was like wading through water. But today; today is a new start. Today is my chance to start England all over again.

Chapter 2

Fallin’

I expected more drama on arrival into London. Some sort of cityscape. Some big, imposing emblem of Englishness. Apart from a small cluster of high-­rises looming in the distance, it’s mostly flat as we come off the motorway; grey, non-­descript buildings hump-­backing away from us on both sides. Thin cloud hanging low overhead. Or is it smog?

Neema is squashed up beside me in the cabin of the van, a packet of tobacco open on her lap, rolling a cigarette. She rummages in the compartment under the CD player to find a lighter; she lights the roll-­up, passes it to Kesh, and starts to make one for herself. It’s a warm, balmy afternoon, and the windows are down a few inches, allowing the air to swirl through the cab of the van, and the smoke from Kesh’s cigarette to swirl out. Kesh drives with two hands on the wheel, eyes darting between the road and his rear-­view mirror. There’s a quickness to his movements that echoes Neema’s, a kind of sprightliness. When I met him and the rest of the band back in April, he had his hair cut into a shaggy Mohawk, and kohl smudged around his eyes. I was excited because there was a review of his band, Shiva, in that week’s NME, where they had described him as ‘an Asian Jeff Buckley on amphetamines’. There’s no hint of his rock-­star status today, apart from the R.E.M. logo on the front of his T-­shirt.

– This is Acton, he says, pulling up at a set of traffic lights. – We’re not far from Ealing and Southall, which is South-­Asian central. I wanted to stay away from there, so we ended up in Irishtown instead. There’s loads of Irish pubs.

– Jesus, there’s no escape from the Irish, I say. – We’re like a virus.

– A friendly virus, Neema says, and points at two men crossing the road. – Oh, look. Brown people. Finally.

I grab her hand. She smiles and puts her other hand on top of mine briefly, before pulling away to tend to her cigarette. Kesh jolts the gearstick forwards, pushes his foot down on the accelerator. Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ album is on the CD player; Thom Yorke sings in maudlin tones over an acoustic guitar. As the van picks up speed, the song takes a turn into minor chords, all edge and menace. We drive past a petrol station, a pub, a park with a playground on the border by the road, children shrieking and shouting, two mothers leaning against the railings, staring vacantly into the throng.

– Neema, will you remind me to phone my ma when we get there, I say.

– Sure, she replies.

Kilburn High Road is long and shabby. We crawl along with the traffic, past big, old art deco buildings, betting shops and bars, a jeweller’s shop with a sign for Claddagh rings in the window. There’s a big fruit and vegetable stall on the corner, and as we turn right on to a long, tree-­lined street full of towering townhouses, Kesh says, – This is us.

– God, what a pretty street, I say.

– It’s a lot grimier up close, murmurs Kesh, his roll-­up hanging out of his mouth as he manoeuvres the van over a speed bump. The road runs down a hill and up again, to where the houses are smaller.

– There it is, says Neema, pointing at a grey pebble-­dash house, a black door with the number 74 on it. It stands out from the exposed red brick of the other houses up and down the street. The front porch is held up by white columns. A wiry shrub grows out from under a grey satellite dish on the roof.

Kesh parks the van and we drag our bags and dump them on the porch, then go back for more. When the porch is full of our stuff, Kesh unlocks the door, pushes it open and helps us carry everything into the hall, where the smell of weed is strong.

– Eeeeeeeey, the new arrivals. A voice comes from a room off the hall.

– Thanks for the help, guys, Kesh calls back, rolling his eyes at us and gesturing for us to follow him into a long, drab room.

Richie, the drummer in Shiva, unfolds himself from an armchair. He turns to us, scratching his head, which is shaved short. His lanky frame is counteracted with a baby face: full lips, dimples under the stubble, a small silver hoop in his left ear. After a slight pause, he walks over and reaches down to hug us both.

– Welcome to the mad house, he says, in his sing-­songy Liverpool accent, crunching the ‘h’ in house so it feels like a whole process, the utterance of that one word. He’s clearly stoned out of his box.

Frank, the bass player, pushes an overflowing ashtray out of the way to make room on the coffee table for his plate of chips, then stands up from the low sofa. His hair is a shoulder-­length triangle of thick corkscrew curls. His hug is firm and followed through with a fixing of green-­grey eyes on to mine and a small nod. He’s a good bit shorter than me. Two band members shorter, one taller. Thank God for Richie.

– I’ll show you to your room, Kesh says, picking up one of our bags in each hand and heading for the stairs. There’s a nervous energy to his steps, like he can’t afford the time to put the soles of his feet entirely on the ground, so he charges around on his tiptoes instead. We follow him up past the first floor landing and up another flight of stairs, to a tiny landing holding a single door. – This is you, he says, walking into the room and dumping the bags on the carpet. – I’ll go and get the rest of the stuff.

Neema and I stand in silence, breathing heavily from the climb. The back wall of the attic is full-­height, but the ceiling slopes down to knee-­height at the front of the house. There is a Velux window in the ceiling, already tilted open. The room is bare apart from two single beds that sit against each wall. It feels claustrophobic compared to the high-­ceilinged spaces in the rest of the house. I walk over to the Velux and stretch on my tiptoes to see out. Through a window across the road, a man stands over a hob, stirring something. I can hear the hum of traffic from the High Road. A low siren bleats in the distance.

– Here you go, says Kesh, puffing into the room with my cork board and a black sack of Neema’s shoes. – That’s the last of it.

– Thanks Kesh, Neema says.

– You coming down? Kesh asks.

– Yeah, Neema says. – We’ll unpack later.

Back in the living room, it’s hard not to stare. Dirty brown curtains fall off the curtain rings on the rail at the window. A small black-­and-­white photo of a band hangs in a frame above the sofa. I lean over for a closer look.

– That’s Black Sabbath, says Frank. – Classic photo. They’d just invented heavy metal there. Look at Ozzy.

I examine the photo. Ozzy sits second from the left in the line-­up: big angelic eyes, skin boyishly smooth in contrast to the others, who all sport heavy moustaches and long hair.

– He looks so innocent, I say.

– He is, says Richie. – That was before he lost it to drugs and started making shit albums.

Kesh walks in with two plates piled high with fat chips and puts them down on the coffee table in front of us. – We planned ahead, he declares, delighted with himself.

– Ah, thanks, Neema says. – I’ll go and get condiments. Is there some for you too, Kesh?

– Yeah, he says.

– I’ll get them. She walks out of the room, and Kesh flops down on the sofa next to Frank.

I feel the eyes of my new housemates rest on me.

– Is it okay up there? Kesh says, eventually.

– Oh, sure, yeah. We’ll be fine up there, I say too quickly, because I’m trying to distract myself from the hot feeling rising up from my neck into my face.

Frank stands up, talking over his shoulder as he walks across to the corner of the room. – We’re excited to have girl housemates. The last guy was a nightmare. Didn’t say a word.

– Well, you won’t have that problem with me. I can talk for Ireland, I say, and laugh. But my laugh is too loud and forced, and I swallow quickly and focus on Frank, who is lifting a white wooden door that was propped against the wall, and standing it in front of the window.

As he comes back to his chair, he looks at me and says, – The curtains don’t work, so we use the door instead.

I try to make my nod agreeable, and direct my eyes towards the television, where everyone else is looking now. Tony Blair is on the screen, shining his toothy grin at a clapping crowd. Kesh crosses his legs in his chair and starts to build a joint.

– Cheers, he says as Neema walks in and puts a plate of chips on the arm of his sofa.

She looks at the TV as she sits down beside me. – So it’s final?

– Yep, says Richie. – He’s in for another term

We all stare at the TV until Kesh asks, – What’s the plan for tonight?

Frank and Richie look at each other before Richie speaks up. – I said we’d meet Gwen at The Oxford Arms.

Kesh nods and says, – Do you two want to come?

Neema pauses, shaking an excess of salt over her chips, then looks at me and says, – Yes please.

 

Later that night, after several bottles of wine, a dessert of skunk spliffs and a frenzied dressing session in the loft, Neema and I walk up to the High Road with the boys to get the bus to Camden. I walk carefully, my senses on high alert from the skunk, seeing every shape and shadow, hearing every sound acutely. We stop at traffic lights and wait to cross the road, where a pub called The Bell Inn has its doors propped open to the street, slot machines blinking coloured light through the windows. There is noise from every direction. The fading light is tinged with pink, the air thick with fumes from the cars that snake up the road as far as I can see. At the bus stop, buses come and go, but ours isn’t here yet. Kesh stands at a remove from the rest of us, hands in the pockets of his baggy combats, eyes hidden behind wrap-­around sunglasses.

Richie air drums with his hands as he talks to Neema and me. – Buses are cheapest, then Tube.

– But Tube’s free if you jump the gate, says Frank with a smirk on his face. His hands are wedged into the back pockets of his jeans, which sit tight on his squat legs.

– How d’you jump the gate? I ask.

– It’s all about timing, Frank says. – You have to slip in behind someone, but you have to do it smoothly or you get noticed.

– I don’t think Frank has paid for one travel card since he’s lived in London, says Richie, and we all look at Frank, who shrugs his shoulders.

– One advantage of being short, I guess, he says. – Richie, you wouldn’t get away with it.

A group of boys rushes past us, chattering excitedly in a language I don’t recognise.

– Who’s the Gwen that we’re meeting? I say, to stop myself staring at t. . .