WINNER OF THE 2025 SLOAN PRIZE
Catherine Hodge is a fourth-year student studying English and Scottish Literature. Primarily focused on Scottish gothic writing of the nineteenth century, she plans on moving to Aberdeen to study an MLitt in Literatures, Environments and Places. She enjoys writing prose (as opposed to poetry which is a nuisance to construct) and hopes to one day publish a novel. You can find her on Instagram @catherinehodge (https://www.instagram.com/catherinehodge).
‘I am so grateful to receive this award and am very excited to see Glaswegian writing be recognised! Writing Afters was my slightly silly attempt at suggesting not all Scottish Literature comes from a place of great trauma or anguish. We (just like everyone else) sometimes find ourselves in strangely decorated and dusty flats with stranger and dustier companions.’
Afters
The toilets in this flat are weird. Wan massive mirror coverin the wall where the sink is, I can see everyhin when I piss. No quite wit ye want when yer covered in mascara n curry sauce. I’ll need tae leave the bathroom soon, back tae the livin room wae the Wee Guy an Aimee-Something and Maybe-Martha an Isla (Birthday Girl). I can still hear the music fae the bathroom. Weren’t bathrooms meant tae be some sort o sanctuary fae the world? A place a lassie can sit and piss in peace? No in this flat, apparently.
Ma granny didnae listen tae this shite. I could hear her the now, pure moaning like she did wae Mum, complainin the sound made her brain rattle aroon her heid.
She wis a complex wumman, ma granny- always dressed immaculately. Her hair wis always done pure nice, she never got it done like Mary or Helen fae doon the road, aw dried and set like it wid break your haun if you rapped it. Naw, Granny had straight black hair and it wis as long as her back wis. That wis another hing aboot Granny- she was pure tall, ‘aw legs’ Mum would say when she came back fae visiting her.
Lookin back, Granny looked like she’d fit in here, despite her age. She was only sixty five when she died (all Glaswegian wummen died before seventy you see), but I always thought she looked forty. An the room is spinnin enough for me to no really know how auld anywan is in this scadgy flat.
The music is mibbe a bit too loud, come tae hink aboot it. I’m no too sure how I got here anyway, jist did as I wis telt. Isla (she’s definitely called Isla, no doubt about it, she’s saved in ma phone n all) telt me it wis her birthday, so I needed tae take the day aff work, so I did that. She also telt me we were goin somewhere pure nice, so I needed to get a new dress, so I did that and all. I wanted tae go hame aboot a hauf hour ago, but it’s Isla’s birthday, she’s the Birthday Girl. Isla’s pal (Aimee-Something) reminded me of this, so I stayed put until we aw went to the kebab shop.
Now I’m sat in the toilet o this weird flat. Soon (but no too soon) I’ll stumble back intae the living room, and sit between Isla’s pal who I cannae mind the name of (she’s a nice lassie, dressed in a wee Oh Polly dress, heels, tan and nice curled hair… Marianne maybe? Martha? Summit wae an M definitely, I’ll call her Maybe-Martha) and this Wee Guy. ‘Wee guy’ is all I can call him, he’s jist wan of those ‘wee guys’ you see everywhere isn’t he? Got a tracksuit on (I swore Isla telt me to dress nice, how come he got intae the place wae a tracksuit on?) and a pair of trainers he’s dead happy aboot. He keeps pushing ma feet wae them and then smilin up at me, like I’m playing footsie under the table in primary school again.
Maybe-Martha asked me tae pass her the bottle of vodka. I dunno how she’s still drinking, the room hasnae stoped spinning since I sat doon, an she’s drank mare than me. But I dae as I’m telt an pass her the bottle. There’s a crackle when she twists the lid aff, I shudder tae hink how long that bottle’s been sat there, waiting fir Maybe-Martha tae open n drink it’s mystery contents. Hopefully it’s vodka. But fae the look o the Wee Guy an his pals, none o them are too sure. I’m sure they wid stop her if it wis really bad though (I’ve always had a healthy trust o strange men I meet at an afters).
Granny wouldnae like a single hing aboot this place. The wallpapers peelin aff the walls, there’s dust (I checked) all o’er the mantelpiece of the fireplace that’s covered in empty cans of Tennents an’ bottles of Mad Dog. But I cannae help but hink aboot her. She hasnae been dead ages, but she’s no been living for a while. Her hoose was beautiful, I mind that aboot her, nothing like this actual shitehole we’re in for afters. I wanted tae patch the afters, but Islas other pal (this wan is definitely called Aimee, but I cannae mind her second name, she’s Aimee Something) telt me I needed to come, I wid ruin it aw if I didnae, so I did as I wis telt.
I’m so glad I got to this toilet. I didnae know if I’d make it, truth be telt. Fuck I needed tae piss. I never realise these hings til the last possible moment when I’ve been drinking. To cope wae the weekday night oot, the heels, the uncomfortable dress and the fake tan I swear tae God I’m havin an allergic reaction to, I’ve drank a bottle of wine, four sensible double shots of tequila and a cocktail. Nice stuff. I’ve just needed tae piss every twenty minutes like I’m pregnant again (wis I pregnant afore? Or wis that wan o those mental dreams lassies say they have?) and I’ve also been pesterin the Wee Guy for a fag. ‘If ye have a fag I can bump I’ll let you dae mare then kick ma feet’ I said afore I stumbled up fae ma seat and intae the hall in search of the bathroom. It wis mare of a slur if I’m being honest wae masel. That’s quite easy tae dae when yer drunk, no so easy when yer sober.
God, if Granny could see me now. Her granddaughter, pure stumblin aboot this manky flat looking fir the bathroom I hink has went oan a walk. I wis meant tae be different and aw that chatter, no meant tae be like Mum who couldnae heed a word o advice Granny ever gave her. Trouble is that Grannys advice was piss poor. ‘Dinae dae yer washin efter dinner Irene’ I hear masel mutter (slur). She loved that wan, especially later when Mum wis daen everywans washin. It drove her up the wall.
Granny didnae ever make much sense. Didnae matter when yer that pretty. She wid say the same aboot me sometimes, when she was feeling especially generous. ‘Yer the image o me and yer mammy, Darlin.’
‘No ma daddy?’ I liked tae tease her, see how far I could push bringing up Dad. ‘Naw. No a bit of you looks like Fraser.’ She wisnae hauf wrang, didnae mean I didnae see ma sisters wae their wee heids o blonde curls and blue eyes and fancy I had that instead o ma limp, long black hair that never sat proper.
I stoped in the hall when I caught masel in a mirror that’s no been hung yet. Jesus Christ. Is that really wit I look like? Mascara everywhere but ma lashes, a stain fae the chips (curry sauce n cheese, of course) is showing through oan the dress. No ma finest. But hey, the Wee Guy still wants to play footsie wae me. Small wins. Anyways, I made it tae the bathroom, it’s back fae its walk.
God I want tae phone ma Granny. No fir any of her stupit advice, or tae hear her voice or any o the hings the grief councillor said I wid want back when she died, Mum decided to be fancy aboot Granny’s death. It wis aw a bit strange if you ask me, she wis an auld wummen who smoked a pack o fags a day (an’ only ate chips n beans). I want tae phone ma Granny and show her where I am. Make her listen tae the shite music pumpin in fae the living room, infecting the rest o the flat. I want to show her the mascara oan ma cheeks, mibbe I’d smear some oan ma fingers and show her oan a face time call (she couldnae operate her phone for the life o her, but this is ma drunken fantasy thank you very much). Mibbe I’d tell her ‘look Granny, I jist did as I wis telt this week, took time aff work and all fir this!’ I’d have a big dopey smile oan ma face, act like I’m having the time o ma life (dunno if you can tell, that wid be a lie.) I’d make sure tae show her the Wee Guy in the living room, mibbe I’d have ma baby wae him, and mibbe it wid be the making o him. Most likely it wouldnae. Most likely he wid be a shit dad to ma baby and leave me and- well fuck now I’m gettin angry aboot ma imaginary baby wae the guy who jist wants tae show aff his trainers tae me. Anyway.
I’ve left the bathroom. All gid hings must come tae an end. The wall ma haun is oan fir balance is shaky, must be badly made. There’s no wallpaper oan these walls, jist that weird crackly popcorn hing they loved tae put on ceilings in the sixties. How the fuck has that ended up on the wall? Aimee Something n Isla (Birthday Girl- I must mind it’s her special day n all) are callin ma name, it must be time tae go. Aye, it is. Aimee-Something’s fastening Maybe-Martha’s shoes tae her ankles. ‘How is she meant to walk hame in those?’ It’s ma voice that rings oot, Aimee-Something laughs. It’s funny. Aw o this is funny. The Wee Guy n his pals are moaning aboot us leavin, cause we’re such great company (wink). He’s taken his trainers aff an all – mibbe he thought we were beyond footsie wae shoes oan, mibbe he wisnae wantin tae show me his trainers (shame, they were nice as far as trainers go).
The air ootside the flat is cauld. Icy. It’s wonderful. I’ll miss the Wee Guy I hink. He wisnae attractive per se (I love the word attractive, the roll o the r is sexy), bit I dunno, mibbe there was summit in his nice blue eyes. I bet his Mum telt him they were nice when he wis a boy. Maybe-Martha is whiteying. Classic Maybe-Martha. Apparently. Isla’s rolling her eyes, ‘she does this aw the time’ I laugh, of course Maybe-Martha does this aw the time. I pretend I’ve been at every gaff n night oot they aw have been. ‘We’ll get a taxi’ Isla announces, pure confident pullin oot her phone (if we cannae get a taxi, she’ll ring her dad who’ll pretend he isnae worried he’s pullin up ootside a dodgy flat tae pick up his daughter n aw her pals). I hink o ma granny whilst the debate goes oan aboot pick up n drop aff points. She wid hate this. She wid really actually detest everyhin aboot this night.
