by John Niven
Robertson gave her a moment, waiting until she tapered off to a steady sob. ‘But there is some good news. His score on the Glasgow Coma Scale, which is what we use to measure the severity of comas, is relatively mild. Ten. And with head injuries we really know so little. If he wakes up, there might be absolutely nothing wrong with him. On the other hand–’
Even through her grief Cathy lasered in on the word. ‘If he wakes up?’
‘Yes.’
‘B-but wasn’t this operation going to make sure he wakes up?’
‘Ah, the operation was to repair and to try and prevent further damage to the brain. There’s no guarantee it’ll bring him out of the coma.’
Cathy kept right on crying.
‘How long,’ Pauline asked, nodding towards the bed, ‘can he stay like that without…?’
‘Again, it’s hard to say. Some coma patients are out for weeks and regain completely normal lives. Others are…less fortunate. We just have to be positive.’
Robertson looked up as a nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘Dr Robertson, you–’
‘I know.’
He turned back to the Irvine women. ‘I’m very sorry, I must see to another patient. Please, have a think about what I’ve said and Mr Cobham, the surgeon who performed the operation, can answer any further questions you might have about the procedure itself. You’re in good hands, Mrs Irvine.’ Robertson placed a hand on Cathy’s shoulder. ‘He’s one of the best neurosurgeons in Scotland.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Pauline said, shaking his hand. Soft hands. No wedding ring. In her inside pocket, next to her left breast, she felt her mobile phone vibrate softly as another text arrived.
‘Not at all,’ Robertson said as he followed the nurse out of the room and down the corridor.
Pauline stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her husband for a long time before she softly whispered ‘Jesus’ to herself. She sensed Cathy’s approach and let her put her arm around her. The two women stood there. Cathy was already getting her head around various scenarios: her wheeling Gary around the park. Liquidising his food. Feeding him. Cleaning him up down there. These were bad-case scenarios to be sure, but Cathy felt more than able to cope with all of them. The worst-case scenario–the headstone, the coffin–was something she was unable to picture. The boy was going to live and that was that. Whatever state he was in was something they’d just have to deal with as best they could. She patted Pauline’s hand. ‘Come on, hen. Ye heard what the doctor said, we have to stay positive.’
‘I know,’ Pauline said softly.
Pauline was positive.
She wouldn’t be staying married to some drooling mongo. She was one hundred and ten fucking per cent positive about that.
15
MASTERSON THUMBED INTO ‘MESSAGES’ AND SWIFTLY deleted Pauline’s most recent text before crossing the patio and going through the open French windows into the kitchen. It was a huge room–the cooking end was separated from the dining area by a black marble island that incorporated twin sinks and a battery of gadgets. Leanne was at one of the sinks washing an apple. ‘I’m just making some fruit salad, do ye want some?’
‘Naw, ah’m awright thanks, doll.’
Aye, right. Fucking fruit salad? Soon as ah’m oot that door the biscuit jar’ll be getting a right fucking panelling…
He watched her waddling towards the huge, stainless-steel fridge-freezer, the loose grey material of her sweatpants flapping from monstrous cheek to monstrous cheek, each buttock easily weighing in around the same as a newborn baby, and thought to himself–How the fuck did it get tae this?
He had loved her once, this monster.
Her weight gain had been stealthy enough through her thirties and early forties, but the last few years, now the kids were out of the house, now she literally had nothing to do, had seen a mammoth escalation. Every few months a new diet was launched–protein shakes, low-carb, no-carb, soup-and-salad, steamed food only–and then quietly decommissioned.
A few months back he’d gone over to Ayr to have lunch with Simon Murphy at Murphy, Mills & Harrington. Divorce–what was the worst-case scenario? Over expensive pasta Murphy laid it out for him: they’d been married for nearly twenty-five years. Raised two children together. Leanne had been there since before the business was worth anything. Forget her getting half of everything he’d made in the last two decades–she might get all that and be able to make a case against any of his future income.
‘Fucking whit?’ Masterson growled through gnashed teeth.
‘Well, they could argue that by taking care of raising your children and running the household, Leanne enabled you to focus on making the business a success, which in turn led you to the financial position you’re in today, where you have the capital to take advantage of further opportunities. Listen, Findlay, I’ve got a client in Glasgow, TV writer, about your age. He got divorced and she’s getting a piece of everything he makes for the next ten years on the grounds that he might have had some of his ideas while he was married to her! The cunt’s working his nuts off just to break even.’
‘You mean,’ Masterson said, ‘if some hoor puts your dinner on the fucking table every now and then, and slaps a tit intae the mouth of a crying wean here and there, then she gets a chunk of your fucking dosh for the rest of her life?’
‘Just cheat,’ Murphy had said, pouring them more Rioja. ‘Because, you’re what, fifty-one?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Whatever. Listen.’ He leaned in, lowering his voice. ‘There’s a girl I use over in Prestwick. Two hundred quid for the hour. Twenty-two years old and she could suck the chrome off a bumper. You could do that every other night for the rest of your life and it’d still work out cheaper than divorcing Leanne. I’ll give you her number.’
Masterson didn’t take the number.
He met Pauline shortly afterwards.
16
‘DELTA! STYX! AH’M NO FUCKING KIDDING YE, IF YOU TWO DON’T FUCKING BEHAVE AH’M GONNAE LEATHER THE FUCKING PAIR OF YE! RIGHT? AMAZON! FUCKING STOP THAT! LISA–WHERE’S MA FUCKING CAR KEYS? FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’
A normal evening chez Lee and Lisa: Delta was smashing his younger brother’s face off the wall. Amazon was grinding a crayon into the living-room carpet. Lisa was in the kitchen, surrounded by an Everest of ironing, and Lee was late. Lee hated hospitals. Had she said visiting was six till eight? Or eight till ten? Or…maybe he shouldn’t have had that last joint.
Lee couldn’t believe the timing. He’d been lying on the sofa all day, heroically smoking hash to try and get himself into the right frame of mind to call his little brother and ask him if he could borrow a lot of money. By late afternoon he was just about there–stupefied to the point where he didn’t really care what he was doing, not quite stupefied enough to be unable to speak. (He had to watch his temper too. Gary was always nice and usually lent him the money but sometimes he could get a bit cheeky. Asking Lee what it was for and stuff like that. Lecturing him. Lee had once rung Gary intending to borrow money and had somehow wound up offering to cut his throat. The fucking temper on him. Like his old boy, Lee thought.) Lee had actually been reaching for his new mobile when it rang. He’d looked at the caller ID: ‘BAWBAG’. It was Gary, calling him from home. Unbelievable. For a second Lee entertained the thought that Gary was calling just to offer to lend him some money. Out of the blue. No strings attached. It was this thought that made Lee realise how very stoned he was. But it hadn’t been Gary. It had been his mum in tears, calling from Gary and Pauline’s with the news about the accident.
‘LISA! WH—’ As he went to shout (all communication in their tiny house was conducted by shouting, it was almost unthinkable that someone would enter the same room as the person they were conversing with) he spotted his car keys on the mantelpiece.
‘Da! Da!’ Something tugging at the hem of his jacket. He turned and looked down to see Styx’s crying face. ‘He keeps calling me a fucking poof!’
‘Naw ah don’t,
ya lying prick!’ Delta shouted from the hall.
‘You two watch yer fucking language!’ Lisa shouted from the kitchen.
‘Fuck!’ Amazon shouted squeakily from the living room.
‘SEE!’ Lisa shouted.
‘If he does it again,’ Lee said to Styx, ‘just lamp him wan.’
‘LEE!’ Lisa shouted.
‘Ah’m away up the hospital tae see ma brother!’ Lee shouted.
The breeze and the silence were blessed relief as he slammed the front door behind him. Then he looked up.
Alec Campbell and the Beast were walking up the garden path.
‘Alec,’ Lee began, ‘I was just coming to–’
The Beast punched Lee hard in the stomach, his thumb jutting stiffly between his index and middle finger, and Lee went down. Alec lounged against Lee’s ancient, battered Nova while Lee fought for breath. After a moment he said, ‘Ye want tae try again?’
Lee got unsteadily to his feet, his legs trembling. ‘Ah…ah just had a wee bit of a delay offloading the gear. Ah just need a few more days, Alec.’
‘See? That wisnae so hard, was it?’ Alec said. ‘A dialogue is what we’re having here. As a responsible borrower you need to inform your lender if you’re having difficulty meeting your obligations. Then we can decide on the necessary course of action, eh?’
‘Aye, aye, ah’m sorry, Alec. I just, ma brother–’
‘Here’s the deal–you’ve got two weeks. If ah don’t have the money or the gear by then you’ll just be dealing wi Frank, OK?’ Alec slapped a hand on the Beast’s massive shoulder, having to reach up half a foot to do so. The Beast wasn’t even looking at Lee, like it was beneath him. ‘And Frank doesn’t do dialogue.’
‘Aye, Alec. Two weeks. Fine. Ah swear oan ma wean’s life.’
Finally the Beast spoke to Lee. ‘Are ye sure about that, son?’ he said.
17
THE SMELL OF THE PLACE WAS INCREDIBLE. SO MANY SCENTS dusting the warm air–pine, camellia, crab apple, jasmine, juniper, flowering peach, white dogwood, azalea and, of course, magnolia. Magnolia everywhere. In a daze Gary followed the gravel path through the groves of eucalyptus trees towards a beautiful building–a two-storey, whitewood structure with a veranda and balcony capped with a grey slate roof.
Heaven certainly looked a lot like Augusta National, Bobby Jones’s immortal masterpiece, the most photogenic golf course in the world.
And there was Bobby Jones himself, standing on the first tee and waving Gary over. Jones was talking to someone, another golfer, who had his back to Gary. The man had a driver threaded through his arms and was stretching from side to side, warming up, and Bobby Jones was laughing at something he was saying. A third man stood at the back of the tee, slightly apart, taking graceful, precise practice swings with an old-fashioned persimmon-headed driver. His swing was picture-perfect. Of course it was. It was Ben Hogan.
The Georgia sun was warm on Gary’s face and bright in his eyes and he had to shield himself against it with his hand as the man with his back to him began to turn round. He knew those shoulders and the thick, seamy sunburned neck. He knew who this golfing legend was before he saw his face.
‘Hello, Dad,’ Gary said.
‘Hullo, son,’ his dad said pleasantly, casually, as though he had only seen him the day before. ‘Yer cutting it fine, are ye no? This is Boab.’ Bobby Jones extended a hand and a warm smile,
‘Pleased to meet you, Gary,’ Jones said in his buttery Southern twang, ‘I kinda feel like I know you already, your dad talks so much about you.’
‘And this–’ his dad turned as Ben Hogan strolled towards them extending his hand–‘is Ben.’
‘Mr Hogan,’ Gary said, shaking hands, his throat dry.
‘You can call me Ben, son. Now, are you boys ready to play some golf?’
‘Mugs away,’ Gary’s dad said, gesturing to the tee box. Hogan strode onto the tee, ball in hand, and Gary turned and looked down the first fairway at Augusta–its woods and waterways glittering green and silver in the morning sun.
‘Now,’ Gary’s dad whispered, leaning in close to Gary’s ear, ‘ye huv tae watch Ben. Total bandit. Always trying tae do ye on the handicaps. He’s just after trying to tell me and big Boab here he reckons he’s aff plus 1 these days. Aye, his erse in parsley. Mair like plus 3.’
Gary nodded and looked at his father. His hair had not yet gone grey, it was the thick black it had been when Gary was a little boy. ‘Dad, your hair, it–’
‘Shhh.’ His father pressed a finger to his lips as Hogan unleashed a ferocious drive, almost splitting the fairway but running too far, catching the thick right-hand side rough.
‘Oooh, nae luck,’ Gary’s dad said. ‘Heavy in there.’
Gary could hear music, faint but distant, some words about your heart being black and broken…seeming to come from nowhere, from the cloudless sky above them, as Bobby Jones drilled a three-wood up the middle–safe as houses, but he’d left himself a longish approach shot. ‘You’re up, son,’ Gary’s dad was saying, and now Gary was walking towards the tee, taking a ball he couldn’t remember putting there from his pocket and recognising the music now. ‘Can anyone hear the Stone Roses?’ he said.
‘Son,’ Ben Hogan said, ‘what the hell is the Stone Roses?’
‘I’m sorry, you’ll need to turn that down a wee bit.’
It was the elderly nurse with red hair, the one who Stevie liked, who’d asked him if she could bring him a cup of coffee the first night he was here.
‘Sorry, Nurse. I was just…’
Stevie reached over and twirled his finger around the luminous dial of his milk-white iPod, wheeling the volume down, the track fading down to background level. The little speakers were set up on the bedside tables on either side of Gary’s head. Fucking Apple, fucking Steve Jobs, Stevie thought. Self-aggrandising, hippy-face-of-corporate motherfucker. Still, yer whole CD collection oan yer hip 24/7? Cannae be arguing with that. ‘Was that one of his favourite songs?’ the nurse was asking.
‘Actually, no,’ Stevie said, standing and stretching. ‘I’m trying to wind him up. Annoy him awake.’
‘Christ, friends like you…’ The nurse laughed as she walked off.
The Stone Roses second LP had been responsible for one of the few serious fallings-out they’d ever had: Gary taking the party line that it was a disappointment on a par with finding out that Miss Kirk, their twenty-three-year-old, blonde third-year English teacher, was a Tory, while Stevie (perversely, always a big fan of raising his hand and saying ‘Hang on a minute’ when a consensus was forming) decided there was much to enjoy on the record. This track, for instance, ‘Ten Storey Love Song’, was as good as anything on the first album. ‘Baws,’ Gary had said. Nearly fifteen years ago now and today, after three or four pints, they could still get into it. One of those arguments that helps to define a friendship, that neither party wants resolved because it was too much fun to keep on having.
Stevie looked around the empty hospital room (Cathy had finally been persuaded to go home and get some sleep) and closed the door. He came back to the bed and looked down at his best friend, his chest rising and falling in the heavy, rhythmic pattern of someone in a deep sleep. There wasn’t so much as a flicker beneath the eyelids. Stevie ran a hand down Gary’s arm, along the plastic tube feeding him glucose, and swallowed. Not easy this: Stevie believed in no God and was not much given to Cathy-like displays of emotion. The only time he’d cried in the last ten years was when Celtic got beaten 3–2 in extra time in Seville.
‘Um…listen, Gary, ah, uh, Christ, ah feel like a total fud.’ Humour paving the way, leading him towards what he needed to say. ‘I know you can’t hear me by the way, but, anyway. I…’ But he was already realising that he was talking to himself, that there were things he needed to hear himself say about his friend. ‘I was just thinking, maybe you’re right. Second Coming…it’s no all that, is it? Well, maybe ‘Tears’ and ‘Love Spreads’ and ‘Tightrope’, but a lot of
it’s just Led Zep knock-off, isn’t it? And…och,’ Gary’s hand warm in his now, the plastic valve jutting out the big vein feeling horribly alien and intrusive. ‘This is–’ Stevie tried to laugh, but it was the other thing that was on the way now, his bottom lip curling back into his mouth and his top teeth sinking down into it. ‘Just wake up for fuck’s sake, pal.’
And here they came, Stevie’s tears, making their first appearance since that terrible night in the Estadio Olimpico.
They were parked in a remote spot, a small car park between the dunes at the back of the beach. The wind was up, the first bad weather for a couple of weeks, and the Irish Sea was fairly whipping against itself, a frothing slate-grey mass tipped with white breakers. Gulls struggled to hold their positions, or were thrown hard at dramatic angles across the dark afternoon sky.
‘I mean, Jesus Christ, whit’s the chances?’ Masterson was saying, ‘Wan in a million. Tae hit a wee baw nearly, whit, three hunner yards ye said? And huv it hit someone oan the heed? Wan in a million. Stupid bloody game anyway if ye ask me.’ Masterson, having no soul, did not care for golf.
Pauline pressed her cheek against the cream leather of the passenger seat of the Mercedes and fixed her gaze on the cigarette lighter set into the walnut facia. She wasn’t really listening to him. She was thinking about when she was little and they had had to sell Harriet, her pony, after her dad went bankrupt. ‘Bye-bye, Harriet. Bye-bye,’ Pauline had said, crying and looking out the back window as the car pulled off down the long driveway from the stables. ‘Ah wis glad ye called, doll,’ Masterson went on. ‘Ah’ve been going aff ma fucking nut this past week, so ah have. Ah miss ye like fuck.’
‘I miss you too,’ Pauline sighed. ‘I just wish…I know it sounds terrible, with him in the hospital and everything, but I wish we could be together properly.’