Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  The way that Brendan had fallen into the hole, his wrist and hand were in the air, as if to contest a point, raise a question. A full batch of cement covered Brendan’s body, but not his questioning hand. Brian mixed another batch to cover the grey hand that rose from the grave, assertive, blaming.

  As the second batch of cement was poured in, George slipped into the Portakabin and came out with Brian’s half-smoked pack of Silk Cut in his hand.

  They stood, side by side, smoking a cigarette, silent over the grave, then let the butts fall into the slowly hardening cement.

  ‘What happens now?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said George. ‘I’ll say we warned you and left. My father went for a pint and I went home and we never heard from him again. Who’ll be sorry?’

  Brian’s eyes were round, all the whites showing.

  ‘The important thing is to say nothing. My brothers might come after you for the debt, but this…’ George kicked a quarter brick over the grave. ‘This didn’t happen.’

  George drove the Jaguar into town where he parked on the Shettleston Road, not far from the Portland Arms where his father drank. He dropped the keys down a drain and then returned home, where his mother was making stovies.

  The pot of boiling potatoes had made the kitchen windows steam up, and so George opened one as he ate. A breeze came into the kitchen and the frill of the tablecloth fluttered. His mother was smoking Woodbines by the fire, watching him.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘Was there trouble?’ she said, wincing at him, holding the smoke in her lungs.

  ‘There was none. It was just warnings.’

  ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’

  ‘No, he went for a drink.’

  His mother looked back at the fire.

  George took another mouthful, but something flew at his head and he ducked, stabbing himself in the mouth with his fork. It was a sparrow. It darted around the kitchen, quick as a grenade, panicked, hitting off the mince pot and the stone sink before it found its way back to the window.

  ‘Quick, George, help it.’

  George threw open a second window, but the bird did not see it – could not determine glass from open window and continued to batter itself against the panes. With his large hands George tried to clasp it, but the bird only threw itself harder against the glass in panic, its small wings and beak now weapons of self-harm.

  ‘Here, George, use this,’ said his mother, handing him a tea towel.

  George stood with the towel in two hands, as if waiting to receive a baby from its bath. He walked towards the window and tried to catch the bird, but it only became more fearful and agitated. It flew a loop of the kitchen and then straight into the glass before falling dead on the floor.

  It was smaller than a mouse. He held it, still warm in his hands, flecks of its blood marking the white tea towel.

  ‘The poor mite,’ said his mother. ‘The stupid wee thing.’

  ‘Not so stupid,’ said George. ‘Birds aren’t used to being in kitchens.’

  The page was covered in untidy letters, blue pen on ivory hotel paper. The bairn slumped into him and he pulled the travelling rug over her.

  ‘Are you sleepy?’

  She was too tired to respond. The eyelid over one eye was closed, the other half open, watching him. The letters that he had written lay on his lap, a testament of what he could have become. Before he had been able to write his name he had killed a man: cracked his own father’s skull. Now he was twenty-six years old and trying to make a fresh start. The layers of his life were compacted already, as sand and silt turns into rock. He couldn’t see clearly how to turn the violence, hurt and corruption into love and truth. He wasn’t sure he would be allowed. With her small, warm, soft body next to his he felt guilty, red-handed. For a moment in the warm twilight of the caravan, he wondered if this was as far as he could go. He wondered if the dream would be for ever out of reach.

  Freedom at what cost? He remembered the coconut-cracking sound of his father’s head splitting to the cricket bat that George wielded. He had felt no remorse. He had felt only relief that Brendan did not rise up, as George had fully expected, and whack the bat back in his face, as he had smashed the wine bottle over Richard’s cheek. Brendan had been everything that George hated and he had killed him. The act was a horror but it had filled him with secret pride, confidence. Brendan had thought that George was soft and George knew that his father was right, in that he did not possess the callousness that his father and brothers wore like aftershave. But everyone in Glasgow had feared Brendan McLaughlin, and George had killed him and got away with it.

  The McLaughlins were used to people disappearing and never being found. They had caused several people to go missing, never to be found. But the truth was that when Brendan McLaughlin went missing, nobody asked. No one complained that he had failed to return from the pub. No one questioned the fact that his car was parked on Shettleston Road for over a week before it was either stolen or towed. Even his family hoped someone had killed him. The missing persons report was filed and after that the only people to enquire after Brendan were the Inland Revenue.

  Cuddled down, ready for sleep, Moll began to cry. Her tears were silent. George lay down on the pillow next to her, watching her with his eyebrows raised.

  ‘What’s the matter, baby girl?’

  ‘I’m just sad.’

  ‘Why are you sad?’

  ‘I want to see my mum.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She nodded and sniffed, and another tear left her eye and splashed on to the pillow.

  Almost all of George’s childhood had been spent crying in bed at night, and now seeing Moll cry pained him.

  ‘Don’t cry, button,’ he said, pulling her into him.

  ‘I’m trying not to,’ she sniffed. ‘When do you think I can go back? When will it be time?’

  ‘Once we find the place we’re going, I promise then I’ll let you go back.’

  ‘I just miss her and I miss my other daddy.’

  ‘I know,’ said George, pulling her tight. ‘But I’m so glad that I got to meet you properly. Aren’t you? This is like winning the jackpot for me.’

  Moll said nothing but turned her face up to his. He looked down on her mushroom skin, long eyelashes and violet eyes, one cast away from him. Her hand was lying across his chest and he took it in his, as if preparing to waltz.

  ‘Come close, button, cuddle down and listen to me.’

  The van was warm and George tugged the travelling rug over her and gently pulled her into his arms. He ran his fingers through her hair as he began to sing. He sang the same song that he had sung to her at Bernie’s:

  And I love you so,

  the people ask me how …

  ‘And I love you so,’ he sang.

  The weight of her increased as she dropped off. When she was sound asleep – wet lips and rough breaths in her nose – George lifted her off him and on to the bed, where she lay sprawled until he tucked her in, settling her arms and legs under the travelling rug.

  ‘God bless you and God bless me,’ he whispered as he kissed her forehead.

  Outside, the air was sharp, threaded with exhaust fumes yet austere and fragrant from the ash trees that stretched out towards the moss and wasteland that was the beginnings of wherever-they-were near Bath. George tapped a cigarette against the packet and then lit up, inhaling and enjoying the rush of it.

  He bit down on the cigarette as he focused into the distance, then took it sharply from his mouth, exhaling. He narrowed his eyes as he stared into the darkness. The car in the lay-by was still there and George was sure he saw a person behind the wheel, staring. He took another drag, wincing as smoke got in his eyes, then exhaled and looked away. He was getting paranoid, and he knew it.

  29

  Margaret Holloway

  Thursday 26 December, 2013

  It was Boxing Day and Ben had left just aft
er breakfast to drive up to Rugby to bring her father back for lunch. She had made a roast, which she sliced and returned to the oven. Ben had called from the road to say that the M1 was clear and he was making good progress.

  Most of the snow had melted and outside, on their small lawn, a snowman was folding in on himself, eroded by warm rain that bored holes into his body. His carrot nose was limp and his black pebble smile lopsided, but still grinning in decay.

  The house was a mess: new toys marooned on the couch and needles from the Christmas tree scattered over the carpet. Eliot was kneeling in the middle of the floor with the controls to the Xbox in his hands, his eyes wide and unblinking, seeming possessed. Margaret rushed around the house, frowning as she vacuumed and polished the furniture. She prepared the vegetables and took the cheese out of the fridge. When everything was ready, she went upstairs to shower and stood under the jet, trying to calm herself and wash the dark thoughts from her mind. Ben had asked her to go back and see the doctor and she had agreed to do so after the holidays.

  She dressed and blow-dried her hair and then sat staring at herself in the mirror, thinking how sad and tired she looked. Her neck was still sore from the crash, which the doctor had said was mild whiplash, although part of her believed it was the tension afterwards that had caused it. She lined her upper lids with thick liquid eyeliner, lacquered her lashes and put lipstick on. She pressed her lips together as she stood looking out of the window, watching for Ben’s car.

  There was no sign and so she turned away and opened the door to the spare bedroom, where once again she removed the box from under the bed and lifted the lid. Each time she would kneel on the floor as she examined its contents, and each time she could look at only one or two items before she had had enough.

  This time she lifted out a notebook and opened the first page. It was her mother’s diary for 1986. Margaret placed the book on the bed and sat up to read it. Tucked into the fold were photographs of her when she was a child, unsmiling, looking warily at the camera.

  A month has gone by and still she has not spoken a word. The doctor said that there are no physical signs of injury, but that molestation cannot be ruled out. Even writing that word hurts me. I hate to think what might have happened to her. The psychologist suggested I keep a diary, for my own mental health as well as to keep a record of her progress, but I am still not sure of the purpose of this. What is the point of writing about it? What does this change?

  I have not yet sent her back to school. I am trying my best to teach her at home. She hears and understands. She completes her exercises as instructed and almost everything is correct. She does what she is told immediately, without question, but slowly, without any kind of enthusiasm.

  Yet she will not speak to me, nor will she smile, even when her father tries to tease and tickle her as he would in the past. She seems happy to be back and stays near me, cuddling into me for comfort if I sit still for any length of time, but it feels as if I have been returned half a child, half of my daughter. I don’t know where the rest of her has gone. She was such a happy little girl, quick and bright and energetic, but now it is as if part of her has died, or been stolen; as if she is a changeling.

  John is beside himself. He had almost not slept since she was taken, organising search party after search party, even though we were unofficially told to prepare for her body to be found. Now he seems destroyed, convinced that her innocence has been taken. He blames himself, tells me how he should have protected her. I feel the same. I think I should never have let her out of my sight. She is my only child and I should have taken more care.

  Today, at lunch, I tried to fool her – asked her if she wanted toasted cheese or a boiled egg sandwich. She shrugged, as always, but this time I persisted. I told her that she would get nothing until she told me which she preferred. She looked so sad but didn’t say a word, and finally got up and left the room. I was incensed. I caught her in the hall and shook her, and she went rigid with fear in my arms. Then I broke down. I held her and cried but she remained passive, allowing me to hold her but not putting her arms around me. She is still so little, but it was as if she realised that I was asking for comfort from her and despised me for it. I begged her to talk to me, to tell me what had happened to her, but she only held out her forefinger to catch my tears.

  I told John, expecting him to understand, but he only blamed me.

  I feel ashamed and desperate. I wonder if our family is now broken, if it will ever be the same again. If only she could tell us what happened to her. Our daughter is returned, but will she ever be with us again?

  There was the sound of the front door opening and the children calling for their grandfather. Margaret closed the diary, returned it to the box and pushed it back under the bed. She took a deep breath, braced herself and then went downstairs.

  Her father looked thin and grey, but his face lit up when he saw her. She stood on the bottom step as she hugged him, curling her hands around his shoulder blades.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said, looking into his face and thinking that his eyes were sad. For so long, she had thought it had been her mother’s death that had caused the spores of sorrow to settle on him, but now she considered her mother’s diary: destroyed was the word her mother had used to describe her father.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, leaning back and frowning at her, looking at her directly, as if he saw his pain reflected in her face.

  ‘Of course,’ said Margaret, washing a hand across her eyes.

  ‘You look…’

  ‘I’m fine, come on… You sit yourself down,’ she said, plumping up the cushion in the big armchair near the fire. ‘Dinner won’t be long. Thought we’d eat about three.’

  ‘Whisky, John?’ Ben asked.

  ‘If you’ll join me.’

  The children started showing off their presents. They tried to teach John how to play a computer game where he had to navigate a futuristic car over a space-scape obstacle course.

  Her father looked relieved when he finally sat down at the table. Margaret’s jaw ached from smiling. She was trying to do things too quickly and Ben was now in their small kitchen with her. He was so big and kept getting in her way. It was pâté to start, but they had to coordinate the vegetables for the main course.

  Margaret lined up the pâté dishes while Ben mixed up the salad dressing. She missed the counter putting down a plate and it shattered on the kitchen floor. When she bent to pick it up, she nicked her forefinger.

  ‘Mags, what are you doing?’ said Ben, nudging her out of the way so that he could pick up the smashed dish.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she said, surprised to hear anger in her voice.

  ‘You see to your finger.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he collected the pottery into the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the cold-water tap as she rinsed her finger until the bleeding stopped.

  She heard the lid of the bin slap shut and then felt his arms on her shoulders.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Just chill out. There’s no rush, nobody’s demanding anything.’ He turned her round by her shoulders and took her face into his hands. She nodded, feeling the warmth of his palms on her cheeks.

  By the time they were sitting down, Margaret felt a little better. Eliot got out of his seat to pull his Christmas cracker with his grandfather. It spilled its contents with no sound, but John, engineer that he was, insisted on re-pulling the paper sparker. The bang, although expected, made Margaret’s fingers tremble. She could taste the gunpowder at the back of her throat. They sat with paper hats on, trying to be jovial.

  Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of wine and cleared the starter plates.