Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  We take the measure of each other. A lot of his muscle tone has gone south, and his face has the puffy look of someone who drinks too much beer and eats too much salty food. His hair is wet and he is clutching a small holdall.

  ‘I moved down to Edinburgh a couple of years ago, man,’ he says, still trying to catch his breath. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve been shouting on you since the swimming baths. You deaf or something?’

  I laugh. ‘Aye. You not heard?’

  ‘Nae joke?’

  I show him my cheek. ‘Fell foul of an IED, Tig. I can’t hear out this ear at all. But all in a day’s work, eh?’

  He nods slowly. ‘Too right. I heard about Mitch.’

  ‘It was the same device got us both. He saved my life.’

  Hooray for Mitchell the Hero, I saved a miserable bastard’s life. Did you tell him about my George Cross? Go on, tell him. You don’t get one of those for falling off a rock in Norway.

  ‘Ocht.’ Tig hisses through his teeth. ‘A heart of gold, that boy. You guys were like that, from the start.’ He holds up crossed fingers. Then he grins broadly again, refusing to descend into melancholy. ‘You look fucking great, though, man. Except for the hair. What’s that about?’

  ‘It’s . . . I guess it’s just my way of saying cheerio and fuck you to my former employers.’

  He laughs heartily and seems to think I’m kidding. ‘You working now?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Shifting furniture.’

  ‘It’s keepin’ you fit, anyway. I wish I could do something physical, Nic, I can’t lift so much as a shopping bag anymore.’

  ‘How’s the back, anyway?’

  ‘Sair. And it gies me chronic fuckin’ sciatica which isnae a barrel o’ laughs either. Threaders, you know? Was on incapacity benefit till some beak tells me I’m capable of workin’ and stops my dosh. So I’m driving a taxi. It’s dull as muck and doesna dae my back any good. Some days I canna sit still for the pain, like, but the money’s alright.’

  ‘A pretty shite state of affairs, Tig.’

  ‘Aye well.’ He pauses, looks away for a moment and runs his fingers through damp hair. ‘Cheerfulness in the face of adversity. Remember?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘So where ye off tae?’

  ‘Just walking. Clearing the head.’

  ‘I’ve been for a swim and I could murder a pint. Fancy one doon the Espy?’

  ‘I’ve come out without the wallet, Tig, I’ve nae dosh.’ It’s true but sounds like an excuse, and a pathetic one at that.

  He slaps my shoulder. ‘Come on, my shout.’

  ‘Just a juice then. I’m a cheap date, anyway, you know that.’

  He nods, smiles. ‘You still teetotal, Nic? I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘Yep.’

  His eyebrows curve upward. ‘Each to his own, eh?’

  We continue walking along the Prom and fall into an easy banter, reminiscing about guys we knew: Android Bradley whose only vaguely individual feature was the ability to burp God Save the Queen, Paul Lucas with his enormous hairy feet (no prizes for guessing that he was christened Hobbit the moment he took his boots off), Roger Rabbit Arundel, so called because he and his wife had four bairns by the time he was twenty-five. He used to say with a proud grin that all he had to do was hang his trousers over the bedstead and she was pregnant.

  ‘Last I heard, Droid and Hobbit were still in,’ Tig says. ‘In it to win it.’

  ‘Might take a while.’

  ‘Aye,’ he laughs. ‘Rabbit’s oot. He’s living on a fucking farm, doon in Cornwall. Couple mair bairns for the collection. They all run aboot the place naked, Rabbit and the Missus too.’

  ‘You kidding?’

  ‘Hell no, man. I stayed with them for the weekend last year. They raise pigs and chickens and grow all their ain fruit and veg. They say they want to live off grid, whatever the fuck that means.’

  ‘No mains electricity or gas. Self sufficient.’

  ‘Fucking hippies. Dinnae ken what’s got intae the man.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice life.’

  He stares at me.

  I shrug. ‘It does. Not the naked thing, necessarily, but the rest would be okay. I could do that. Mind you, depending what the wife looked like . . .’

  Tig laughs, shakes his head. ‘Anyway . . . that’s all I ken. Not really in touch with anybody since then. You?’

  ‘Nah. I haven’t wanted to, mind.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Dunno. Clean break, I guess.’

  In the Espy, I nab a table by the window with a view of the broody Forth and Tig goes to the bar. I watch as the barman pours my orange juice, and a pint and a nip for Tig. The nip goes down the throat before he even pays for it, then he opens his wallet, slaps some money onto the bar and carries the pint and juice over.

  He sits across from me and sinks his top lip into the frothy head of his pint, drinking deeply and closing his eyes.

  ‘Fuck, I needed that.’ Then he clinks his glass off my own. ‘I admire your moral fortitude, my friend.’

  I smile. ‘Morality has nothing to do with it.’

  He snorts, then digs into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of tablets, presses one out and pops it into his mouth, washes it down with more beer. I think he’s embarrassed that I’m watching him because he shakes the packet, taps it on the table anxiously and shoves it back into his pocket.

  ‘Heavy duty co-codamol.’ He laughs too loudly. ‘Mix it with a couple of pints and I’m just fine.’

  ‘Comfortably numb.’

  He nods with veiled eyes. ‘That’s the general idea.’

  ‘How’s Rhona and the bairn?’

  ‘Nae bad, so I’m told. I’m away frae her. She . . . liked being mairrit tae a bootneck, Nic. Once I came oot . . . it was a different story. Wee Joe, he’s braw. Seven noo. I have him one weekend a month and a couple of weeks over the school holidays, that’s my lot. Rhona’s shacked up wi’ a fuckin’ polisman. Big fat baldy bastard, barely fits his vest. The pair ae us come to grief once or twice, which is why I’ve moved doon here. He was aching tae get me done for something, and that would have been that for me seein’ Joe, ken what I mean?’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say hollowly.

  His hands splay out in front of him, and for the first time I notice the RMC dagger tattooed on the back of his left forearm. He must have had it done after he left. It looks brutal and coarse. ‘There ye go. I’m a free agent again. It’s good, mate. There’s plenty lassies, ken, it’s no exactly a drought. You?’

  ‘I recently met up with a girl I knew years ago, but . . .’ I shrug. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

  ‘Complicated.’ He snorts. ‘Why does it always have to be so bloody complicated, I’m askin ye. What you done to your forehead there? Been scrapping?’

  ‘Bad tackle.’

  ‘You playing rugby again?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Outstanding, man. What position?’

  ‘Second row; one of the heavy mob. Just for the seconds at the local club; most of the guys are in it for the beer and the craic. There’s only a couple of weeks left in the season.’

  He nods but doesn’t ask anything further about rugby, or much else for that matter. He blethers a relentless stream of bullshit about himself, interspersed by hyena-like laughter and deep draughts of beer: Rhona’s crimes of passion with the baldy fat copper, girls he’s bagged in nightclub toilets, the psychos he’s transported in the taxi, the getaways he’s made from the drug barons and small time gangsters, hammering the Hackney through the streets of Broomhouse, the time a guy stuck a knife up the back of his head and asked him to hand over all the cash. Fuckin disarmed him from the front seat, one hand still on the wheel, wee chavvy bastard didn’t know who he was messin’ with till I showed him the tat. Then he crapped it and ran.

  The pub begins to fill with Sunday night drinkers. A gaggle of female forty-somethings settles at the table next to us and Tig’s words quickl
y lose their meaning. I lean forward and try to watch his lips. He goes on and bloody on. I sit there, nursing my watery orange juice, chortling from time to time to show some token appreciation, my hollow belly grumbling at me like a bored child.

  He breaks off mid-flow, drains his pint and points at my empty glass. ‘You want another juice, mate?’

  ‘I haven’t had my tea and I’m fucking Hank Marvin. I should probably get off home.’

  ‘Naw,’ he says, almost desperately, ‘dinna. I’ll get you a plate of chips. It’s too early for home time.’

  I can see he’s out for a proper session, and I can’t think of anything more soul destroying than sitting here watching him drown his sorrows.

  ‘To be honest, Tigger mate, I can’t hear a bloody thing in here. It’s a proper pain in the arse.’ I stand up abruptly. ‘I’ll let you get me something from the chippy. Coming?’

  I half hope he elects to stay in the pub, but he snatches his holdall from under the table scurries to follow me out the door.

  ‘I said something to piss you off, Nic?’ he asks when we get outside.

  I pause and look at him. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are full of something else. He always did have that slightly needy way about him, like the kid who is so desperate to fit in with the popular gang that he’ll do anything to win their respect.

  I sigh and press my fingertips into my eyes, feeling the beginnings of a hunger headache as well as a chorus of aches from elsewhere in my body, chiming up to remind me what a long bloody day it’s been. ‘No. Sorry. I’m just wabbit and hungry, and I cannae hear half of what you’re saying. I’m not so good in crowds.’

  ‘Aye, I know what you mean. Normally I like to sit with my back to the wall. Just in case, you know?’ A strange, strangled little laugh.

  I nod vaguely and wander in the direction of the chippy. Tig bounces along beside me and buys us both some food, waving away my offer to get him one the next time. Probably he makes more money than I do, and probably the company (such as my surly presence may be) is worth the cost of a portion of haddock and chips. He even splashes out on smoked sausages as well as the fish suppers, Coke for me and a can of lager for himself.

  We sit on the wall overlooking the tawny sand and fill ourselves with grease and God knows what: Scottish comfort food of the sort that will put you out of your misery a little more slowly but just as surely as any suicide method known to man. It sends its cloying, delicious smell out into the moist, salty air: a little whiff of the homely British seaside disappearing into the lonely haar. A ship’s horn bellows in return from somewhere unseen.

  That sound used to make me fantasize about going to sea, about sunnier shores, shabby cantinas lit by candles in waxy bottles, women with skin like milk chocolate, drunken sailors in hammocks. Not long after passing out we were pulled off exercise in the Caribbean to help with the rescue effort in Honduras following Hurricane Mitch. We spent our time up to our knees in mud, digging chocolate-skinned bodies out of the ruins of cantinas and schools and homes. The water was soupy with mosquitoes and disease and I carried the smell of rotting flesh in my nose for months afterwards. I doubt I’ll ever be able to use the words tropical and paradise in the same sentence again.

  ‘D’you know what I miss?’ Tig says, waving toward the sea with his sausage. ‘Foghorns.’

  At least that’s what I think he says. I glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, almost studiously avoiding my gaze, chewing with his mouth open and banging his heels against the wall.

  ‘Think I might head up the toon,’ he says after a moment, swallowing a mouthful of lager. ‘Catch a band or something. Fancy it?’

  ‘Nah. I’m cream crackered, mate.’

  ‘I got something’ll cure you of that.’

  I stand up, crumple my chippy wrappers into a ball and toss them into the bin beside me. ‘You’re a veritable medicine man these days, eh, Tig? Watch yourself, yeah? Face down in a puddle of your own puke isn’t a very noble way to go.’

  He shrugs. ‘I can think of worse.’

  We face each other. ‘So can I, but that’s not the point. Thanks for the scran, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Hey, swap numbers, eh?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We enter each other’s numbers into our phones and promise to meet up again soon.

  Then he spreads his hands wide and low and grins. ‘Brilliant to see you, Sean. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Yep.’

  He looks like he wants a hug but I leave him with a slap on the shoulder and head back along to the end of the Promenade.

  It’s nearly nine o’clock by the time I get back to the car, and I reckon by now Janet and Tim will be settled in the living room, having coffee or progressing on to after-dinner relations. It’s not that I’m not pleased for her; the poor woman deserves a bit of romance and she’s pretty taken with Social Work Tim.

  I drive around for an hour: a big sweeping loop through Musselburgh and the coast road to Aberlady, then inland and over the hill to Haddington and the back road to Dalkeith. At home I pause momentarily at the base of the stairs and catch the murmur of voices in the living room, then poke my head round the corner at them. They’re side by side on the sofa, drinking red wine in their socks, and I wonder if he’s planning to stay the night.

  Tim looks up at me and smiles, and to my surprise looks nothing like the kind of guy who would wear red shoes and carry a man bag. He’s wiry, silver-haired and bearded, and looks more like a naval officer than a dithery social worker; my estimation of him increases cautiously.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  Janet sighs, a frustrated noise that indicates I’ve been Subject of Discussion Number One. ‘Tim, this is Sean.’

  Tim gets up and shakes my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sean.’ To his credit, he doesn’t say he’s heard a lot about me.

  ‘Yep, you too.’

  ‘I saved you some curry,’ Janet offers. ‘You want to join us?’

  ‘I’ve eaten.’ I nod at the pair of them. ‘My bed’s calling me. See you again, Tim.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he says kindly.

  I back out of the room and head upstairs. I have a quick wash, then pull my clothes off and slip into the safety of my bed, lights out to indicate that visiting hours are definitely over. For a while I lie there thinking of Tigger, drinking pints and nips in some student bar up town, eyeing up the 20 year-old honeys in hot pants, hoping his war stories and dagger tattoo will somehow obscure his puffy eyes and dog breath.

  ‘Poor old Tig,’ I whisper up toward the ceiling, my head resting on my arms.

  I bet he’s saying the same thing about you, says Mitch.

  ‘Fuck off Mitch,’ I mutter, and swipe my mobile from the bedside table, check for messages.

  Nothing. I scroll through my contacts and pull up the number Paula gave me, ring it and lie there. After six rings, I get her voicemail.

  ‘Hey . . . it’s Sean.’ I pause, grapple with disappointment and uncertainty. ‘Just . . . you know. Wondering how it’s going. Baby should be here any day now, huh? I guess you’ve got a lot on your mind. Anyway, ring me whenever. Okay? Talk soon.’

  I click the phone off and drop it back onto the table, blow a long breath out between closed lips and lie there feeling far from sleep.

  Poor old Sean, says Mitch.

  ‘Fuck off, Mitch.’

  XIV

  ‘So the situation is this. Sales have gone up over the last couple of weeks, thanks to the new shop layout, and we’ve had some extra income due to Sean’s house clearance.’

  Harry Boyle looks around at us, gathered on the sofas in the shop at 9:30 on a Monday morning. His hair is standing on end and his fingers are buried deep into his beard, grey tufts of hair sprouting between his fingers. He rubs his face and draws in a long breath.

  ‘However, unfortunately, I have noticed some . . . financial irregularities. There have been a number of bank transactions over the past couple of weeks that don’t match the til
l receipts. We also appear to have lost some items of stock.’

  I’m half listening, trying not to fret about the fact that Paula still hasn’t phoned. Emma and Dawn are sulking opposite me like schoolgirls caught smoking in the toilets, Dawn digging a bitten pinky nail into a pluke on her chin. Al is beside me chewing on his tongue and Linda is hunched and quivery as a little owl. The smell of last night’s booze, or maybe this morning’s, shimmers off her like the smell of rot from a corpse in the sun. Nobody speaks.

  ‘Obviously I’m going to have to investigate this,’ he continues, letting his gaze settle on each of us in turn. There are bags under his eyes.

  ‘I also have to let you know that the Board has been made aware and that they are prepared to involve the police. You will each be formally interviewed as part of the investigation process, so that we can identify the person responsible.’

  ‘It’s really fuckin’ obvious, innit?’ Dawn says to her lap. ‘It’s fuckin’ Billy, eh?’

  Harry holds up a hand. ‘Let’s not make random accusations. If anyone has information, please share it with me in private. In the meantime,’ he pauses, puffs his cheeks and pushes out a long breath. ‘I’ll be honest with you, stealing from a charity is about the lowest of the low. Things like this can put us under.’

  He stands slowly, rubbing his lower back. ‘That’s all. Let’s try and make the best of things. Thanks for listening, folks.’ Then his eyes land on me. ‘Sean, can I speak to you for a minute?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Dawn crows behind me as I follow Harry to his office, ‘you’re nicked, mate.’ Harry and I ignore her, but Mitch doesn’t.

  Ha ha, you’re nicked, mate, he parrots, his laughter echoing in some hollow chamber in my brain. Ha ha. Ha hahahaha.

  Fuck off!

  For a split second, I think I’ve said it aloud and I glance around to check whether anyone is looking at me.

  It’s nothing to do with me and you know it.

  You start work and things start going missing. It doesn’t look coincidental.

  ‘Close the door,’ Harry says as we step into his office, and I feel as though he’s just woken me out of a short but deep sleep. He smiles and pulls out a chair for me. ‘Are you alright?’