The Boy Who Hugs Trees

by Dougie McHale

  ‘Oh that’s good then,’ Dylan says, relieved. ‘I can’t wait to tell Mum.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Georgia says. She is standing at the doors to the garden, not quite in the room; she has on a large floppy hat, a set of pruners in her hand and a small woven basket hanging from her forearm.

  ‘Guess what? I’m going to do a project about Mozart,’ Dylan says, cheerfully.

  Georgia looks at Adam and smiles.

  ‘That sounds wonderful dear.’

  Dylan picks up the sheet of paper and crosses the room towards Georgia. ‘Look, Mum, we’ve done a mind map. How cool is that?’

  He shows it to Georgia as if Adam has just given him an unsuspecting present.

  ‘That will keep you busy. There’s a lot there.’ Georgia places her hand on Dylan’s head.

  ‘I don’t mind, it’s going to be great.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be.’

  ‘We’re finished for the day Dylan,’ Adam says, as he leans towards his laptop and turns it off, closing the screen.

  ‘Can I start tomorrow?’ Dylan asks.

  ‘Like I said before, I’ll put it on your timetable. It’ll be the last thing you do each day.’

  ‘I can’t wait. Can I go in the pool after lunch Mum?’

  ‘Only if you put sun cream on. Ask Theresa for some, she’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘That’s the happiest I’ve seen him since we arrived.’ Georgia says as Dylan leaves the room. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I thought I’d go into the village and play chess.’

  ‘Ah yes, you’re almost a local now, I’ve been hearing.’ Georgia grins.

  ‘What about you, a bit of gardening?’ Adam nods towards her basket.

  ‘I’m finished now. After lunch I’m going to tackle the attic, clear it out, there are things up there as old as the house.’

  ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve no idea what I’m going to find up there.’

  Chapter 20

  A Proposition

  It is at Palma, at the harbour, that Stephen and Chris meet with Cesar on his luxury boat for their arranged meeting. They are reclining on cream leather sofas, under a white canopy that shades them from the sun. The spires of La Seu, Palma Cathedral, dominate the cityscape, while around them, a fleet of boats and yachts shimmer and clink in the midday sun. On their arrival, they are escorted by a young man, dressed in white shirt and black waistcoat, to the upper deck, who informs them Cesar, will join them shortly.

  Chris smiles. ‘Nice piece of kit, don’t you think?’

  ‘Certainly put him back a few million.’

  ‘It’s one of the biggest boats in the harbour, a bloody ship really.’

  Stephen feels the quality of the leather on the sofa. ‘Well, we’re not here to appreciate the view or the trappings of Cesar’s wealth.’ Stephen scoops the air with his hand. ‘It’s business as usual.’

  ‘Stephen, Chris.’ Cesar appears from glass sliding doors. He moves towards them with a confident swagger, offering his hand to each of them before sitting. He takes his sunglasses off and places them on the table. Stephen notices the Armani logo and approves of Cesar’s taste.

  ‘I’m glad the both of you could make it. Sorry about the short notice, I know how busy you are… but aren’t we all?’

  A waiter approaches.

  ‘What will it be? Wine, beer, or a whisky perhaps?’ Cesar offers.

  ‘I’ll just have a glass of water,’ Stephen says.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a beer.’ Chris smiles.

  ‘My usual,’ Cesar orders, and the waiter nods his head before leaving.

  ‘How are the houses coming on, still on schedule?’ Cesar spears an olive with a small fork.

  ‘We’re a week behind, an issue with suppliers, it’s not a problem we can’t fix and we can make up for lost time in other ways,’ Chris says consolingly.

  ‘Good and the sales?’

  ‘There are only two houses unsold but there’s interest from two overseas clients. Should be tied up within the week.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Cesar says, encouraged.

  The waiter returns with their drinks and an ornate cigar box. Chris hands out a document from his case and directs Cesar's attention to various figures and coloured charts.

  ‘Well, this deserves a celebration.’ Cesar leans forward and opens the lid of the cigar box; he gestures for Stephen to take one.

  ‘The best of Cuban.’ Cesar wags a large cigar at them.

  ‘Not for me.’ Stephen waves his hand.

  Cesar strikes a match and puffs until the embers are fired into life with an orange glow. He sits back, satisfied, and exhales a plume of smoke.

  ‘You’ve got to admire our South American cousins. They make nothing less than quality.’ Cesar looks at the cigar in admiration. ‘I’ve only two addictions in life, these magnificent cigars and making money, lots of it.’ He gestures around him with the hand holding the cigar. ‘As you can see, I’m good at it.’ Cesar looks at Stephen, observing him seriously. ‘On the other hand.’ He upturns his free hand. ‘One man’s addiction can be his strength, but another’s weakness. I don’t trust those who can’t recognise their weakness, such a man doesn’t have the vision to turn it to his advantage.’ He puffs enthusiastically on his cigar.

  ‘What is your weakness, Stephen?’ Cesar asks.

  ‘What is my weakness?’ Surprised, Stephen waivers, he cannot think.

  Chris has already lit a cigar and crumbles into a fit of coughing as he inhales. ‘Christ, it’s like a train hitting your throat.’ He gasps. Cesar laughs.

  It feels like a reprieve, as Cesar hands Chris a drink of water.

  ‘Our venture in your fine city of Edinburgh has been very successful and profitable for us all; it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I have a proposition for you that will strengthen our partnership, our alliance. All propositions need an investment of some sort and this one proposes an investment of your time but crucially, my money.’ Cesar’s eyes widened.

  ‘Sounds interesting. I’m not one to shy away from a profit,’ Stephen says.

  ‘I know, but, this is slightly different. Let me explain. New markets are opening, Albania, the Balkans, the Middle East. Trafficking drugs from Albania to Greece is an arduous business, moving it through forests, mountain paths and inaccessible areas of the borders. Illegal border crossings have made it easier to move the merchandise and get it to the customer. I’m talking about cannabis, marijuana, hashish, these all end up in Greece and Italy. Heroin from Afghanistan and Pakistan is smuggled into Greece through the Balkan route. Geographically, Greece is the country of transit for drugs from the Balkans and Asia, usually passing through ports in Greece on their way to Western Europe. There are gangs in Greece. The Greek police have been successful to an extent in breaking up these operations; however, many of the police officials are involved in the trafficking.’ Cesar explains that the cost in the effort of manpower and time to establish a hold in these markets is an option that is not on the table. He already has Cocaine from his South American operations that can be smuggled into Greece by sea, directly from Spain. The consignment will be camouflaged as a trade deal, coffee from South America. He has contacts in the Greek Coast Guard who will see the safe passage into Piraeus port and into warehouses. Another route is being established that will see a foothold into the Middle East market.

  Stephen looks at Cesar and asks why he is telling them this, but even as the words come out of his mouth he knows his connection to Corfu is fundamental to Cesar’s ambitions.

  ‘I’ll set up the meeting in Athens, all you need to do is be there, make sure the arrangements are met and those on the Greek side know the protocols, who’s in charge and everything is agreed and signed, all above board. Chris will make sure all parties subscribe to the terms of the contract. They will be paid in cash, a substantial sum of money to begin with
and thereafter, instalments through several bank accounts as each load is successfully brought into the country and then distributed to the next link in the chain.’

  Stephen looks over the railing towards the bow of the boat where two men have stood since their arrival. He views their personas differently now. There is an air of menace about them, they are there to protect the man sitting opposite him. How many others are on this boat employed to do the same?

  Cesar motions with his hand to the waiter. ‘Bring more drinks.’ Turning his gaze to Stephen he says, ‘We need to cement our new venture with a toast.’

  Chapter 21

  The Discovery

  Georgia is standing on ladders, and with a little effort, she pushes the hatch open. She climbs into the attic space and, remembering where the light switch is, she flicks it on. She can stand upright; as she does so she coughs, as particles of dust catch her throat. It is warm; the air is stale and sultry, the smells of faded grandeur pressing heavy against her skin. It’s been several years since anyone has been up here, she thinks, probably her mother being the last.

  Georgia scans the area; an excited knot pulls at her abdomen. It’s either going to be an Aladdin’s cave or just piles of junk. There are stacks of old yellowing magazines, cardboard boxes and distressed chairs. Several pictures lean against a beam and, incredibly, toys from her childhood are scattered along the floor: a pram with a doll still sitting upright, staring into space, a doll’s house with its miniature furniture and a figurine family with their pet dog. It’s like stumbling across a child’s museum. They bring back instant memories. Her mother bought the pram and doll’s house in Corfu Town; she remembers it as if it were yesterday. Georgia moves around the attic, opening the lids of boxes: one is full of old vinyl records, LP’s and seven-inch singles, pristinely kept, as the day they were placed in the box. She comes across an old typewriter, her father's; she types her name, the sound of the keys instantly bring forth an image of him, not recalled, but rather, from the stories her mother has told her. Georgia can see him sitting on the terrace, studiously typing with a cigarette between his lips and a glass of vodka or whisky; he wasn’t choosy, sitting next to him, keeping him company. She brushes her hand along the typewriter’s keys, several letters have faded: L, E and C. The angled white line of the letter N is still visible, as if in defiance. Georgia traces it with the tip of her finger. She has never looked into her father’s eyes and the typewriter is a reminder of this.

  In a corner stand jars full of seashells and more jars filled with pebbles and sea glass. An old trunk snags her attention, reminding her of old movies, foggy train stations, steam trains hissing and porters wheeling cages stacked with trunks, similar to the one she now kneels next to. She opens the lid and is surprised at how heavy it feels. Inside, placed with care and attention, females clothes are folded into three piles. Mustiness permeates her nose, the smell of abandonment and confinement, in contrast to the vibrant colours that have refused to fade with age. She feels the material between her fingers, soft and smooth. She admires the stitching and patterns. Georgia lifts a dress from the trunk and standing, she places it against her body, a perfect fit. She loves the colour, ice blue; it reminds her of the sky.

  A pocket on the underside of the lid catches her eye; she thinks she detects the shape of a book. She reaches in and pulls it out. It is brown and leather bound, with a gold lock, a diary or a journal, she tells herself. She tries to prise the lock open, but it is stuck fast. A key, there should be a key. She places her hand once again into the pocket, deeper this time and explores each corner. Nothing, it is empty. Disappointment slips inside her, like a snake.

  It takes Georgia an hour to move the items from the attic that require minimum exertion, the items that are heavy and bulky will wait until Stephen arrives later, at the end of the week.

  In the kitchen, Georgia pours herself some lemonade and sits at the table. She is gazing down at the curiosity that is the book she has plucked from obscurity; she runs her fingers over the leather cover; it feels luscious to touch. Georgia picks up the book and turns it in her hands several times and, while doing so, she debates a decision. She is aware of the silence in the house. Georgia takes a drink of lemonade; it numbs her forehead and momentarily her head feels weightless. Half of her wants to return the book to the attic, dissipating the guilt of the thief, but there is another side to her, urging her to take the initiative, tugging at her fascination for what may lie within its pages and with some finality, her decision is made.

  She takes a knife from a drawer, the biggest one she can find, and wedges it under the lock; she makes several attempts to free it, only for the lock to squeak in protestation as the blade slips each time. She is becoming more frustrated with each failed attempt and is about to abandon the idea, when suddenly the leather creaks and the latch gives way. Georgia gasps in wonderment, finding no regret in her action, as an instantaneous bubble tickles her stomach.

  She sits for some time staring at the book; her euphoria has wavered, replaced by embers of doubt. Maybe there is nothing in it, not a diary or journal, just an empty notebook that someone has stored away, but then, she at once amends her thought. What if it was not spur-of-the-moment or impetuous? But a calculated and deliberate attempt to conceal, to hide and forget? In such case, was it of value to someone? Was it that precious that it could not be destroyed, burned or ripped into tiny shreds, but also at the same time not be read? There is only one way to find out. Eventually, with her thumb she flips the book open, the spine creaks as if new. To her surprise the first page is blank; she adjusts her position on the chair.

  The sun beams an angular light across the floor and, in the surrounding silence, she can hear herself breathing. This time, she picks up the book and turns the next page. She can see a date and a year; Friday, 2nd June 1972. The page is full of writing, her mother’s handwriting, the indistinguishable flicks and exaggerated curves are undeniably hers. She always had beautiful handwriting, Georgia remembers. It feels like her mother has entered the room.

  At that moment she can hear someone come into the house. She closes the book and covers it with her hands as if surrounding it with a protective screen. Bare feet slap the tiled floor Dylan runs and then stops at the entrance to the kitchen; he performs what the onlooker would describe as a subtle jig before he crosses the threshold into the room. It is a ritual he has conducted since a toddler, moving him from one room, from one space to another.

  ‘Dad’s here, look what he bought me.’ He is staring at the cover of a book. ‘It’s called, Mozart’s letters, Mozart’s life. Selected letters edited and newly translated by Robert Spaethling.’ Dylan starts to jump up and down on the spot, flapping his hands. ‘This is going to be great for my project. Imagine Mozart’s letters in here, in this book, that’s amazing. I can’t wait to tell Adam.’

  ‘That’s wonderful honey.’

  ‘It’s me,’ Stephen bellows from the hallway. ‘I managed to get an earlier flight.’

  ‘You’re two days early.’

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

  Stephen is in the kitchen now. He throws his bag on the floor and kisses Georgia on the cheek.

  ‘Chris sends his love. I told him he should visit.’

  ‘That would be nice; it’s been some time since I’ve seen him.’

  ‘You know Chris, always up to something. I’m dying for a drink.’

  Georgia reaches for the lemonade jug.

  ‘I mean a real drink. Is there any beer in the fridge?’

  ‘I think so. Dylan likes the book you bought him.’

  ‘I saw it in the airport. I wasn’t sure if he had it… but obviously, he hasn’t.’

  ‘Talking about books, look what I found in the attic.’ Georgia lifts the book. Stephen glances at it as he opens the fridge.

  ‘What were you doing up there? Ah perfect.’ He pulls the ring of a can and the beer hisses, a gush of foam erupts over his hand. ‘God, someone's been shaking this. W
hat is it anyway?’ He nods in Georgia’s direction and sucks the foam into his mouth.

  ‘It’s a diary I think. Mum wrote it, I’ve not read it yet, but it says 1973.’

  ‘That was before you were born. I wonder what it was doing up there?’

  ‘Mum must’ve forgotten about it. I found it in a big trunk full of her old clothes, some really nice dresses in fact. I might take a closer look later on.’

  ‘What else is up there, anything interesting?’

  ‘One of Dad’s old typewriters.’

  ‘I bet that’ll be worth something.’

  ‘Actually, I was quite surprised; there was some furniture and some of my toys, a pram and dolls house. I couldn’t believe it when I saw them, they look brand new.’

  ‘Your mum wasn’t one for throwing things out. It took us weeks to clear her house, remember? It’ll be interesting to know what’s in that little book.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it will be.’ She touches the cover as if it is a thing already precious to her.

  ‘Dylan looks happy. How are the lessons going?’ Stephen sits down and takes another drink.

  ‘He’s doing a project about Mozart, it’s really motivated him. It was Adam’s idea.’

  ‘Maybe he knows what he’s doing after all.’

  ‘Dylan likes him and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Mm… I suppose so.’

  ‘Look Stephen we’re here now, it’s happening, Dylan is being taught by Adam, just get used to it. For God’s sake, Dylan has.’ She points out.

  ‘Ok, I’m sorry; it’s just that I’m not here all the time, that’s all. You know, it’s difficult having a man I don’t know living in the house, alone with my wife and child.’

  ‘He’s not a convicted rapist or paedophile, he’s a lecturer, he teaches, and he’s a nice person.’

  ‘I can see Dylan’s ok with him, I just need to accept it.’

  ‘If you actually spoke to Adam civilly and took the time to get to know him while you’re here, you’d feel a lot better about it. He’s not a threat to you.’ She realises she is defending Adam and wonders what this means?