‘Pardon?’
‘You look upset.’
I clear my throat. ‘I was away with the fairies just there. Look, Harry, I don’t know anything about . . .’
He holds up his hand again, cutting me off. ‘I know you don’t, Sean. There are only three of us who do the banking, including me, and it has to be one of us. No, it was just a couple of things. First, I thought you’d like to know that we’ve made more than two grand over our forecast income for this month, even in spite of things, and that’s down to your antiques. Also, this came through the door this morning.’
He passes over a short, handwritten note, addressed to The Manager, Once Loved Furniture.
Dear Sir/Madam
I am writing to express my profound gratitude to you for allowing Sean McNicol the time to clear the house of my late father at Cauldhill Farm. Sean has been kind, gentlemanly and efficient, and he has spared me what would have been a long and traumatic job. He also provided a good listening ear when I needed to talk, which was over and above the call of duty. I hope you will pass my deepest thanks on to him.
Yours sincerely,
Molly Wells
I look up from the letter. ‘A good listening ear. I would have offered two, but . . .’
Is that a sense of humour I detect, Nic? Are you sure you’re feeling alright, son?
Right enough, Harry laughs.
‘That was nice of her,’ I say, wondering about her motive. Either she’s trying to keep me sweet so I look after the house well, or she’s still trying to bed me from afar.
‘Yes, it was. If you don’t mind, I’ll share this with the board. They’ll be delighted to know that someone is doing a good job in this place.’
‘Why . . . do they think we’re not?’
He presses the switch on the kettle on top of the filing cabinet. ‘Let’s just say they’ve questioned my capacity to manage challenging employees. But never mind. You’re doing a stellar job. You want some coffee?’
‘Okay.’
He spoons fresh coffee into a cafetiere, falling into a contemplative silence as he pours in the water and waits until the grounds have risen into a thick, black layer. The smell of coffee fills the stale little office.
Harry never speaks loudly, but around me he is always very careful not to talk with his back turned. I’ve noticed this and am grateful that he does it without having to say anything about it. Eventually he hands me a mug and sits down again, leans back in his chair and crosses his ankles in front of him.
‘So yesterday I went round to try to talk to Billy. He wouldn’t let me in the door.’
‘He was at home?’
‘Oh aye. He didn’t look in any fit state to go anywhere.’
‘Is he ill, or . . .’
‘Fleein’.’
‘Ah.’
He swallows coffee, then clears his throat. ‘He’s not well, though, you know that. He’s been seriously depressed for a long, long time.’
At least he doesn’t hear voices, I think, and stare resolutely into my coffee.
‘He self medicates with hash, among other things.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
‘To be honest, in the three years he’s been here he’s managed alright. He’s disappeared for the odd day here and there, but never anything like this. The thing is, Sean, he’s tried to kill himself in the past. Somebody needs to go and talk to him. He likes you, I wondered if you would.’
‘He likes me?’
‘You’re surprised by that?’
‘He threatens to welly me on a fairly regular basis.’
‘Aye, I know what he’s like. But he does like you. He told me. He respects you. I know it’s a lot to ask, so please tell me if you don’t feel able.’
‘One mad bugger to another.’
Harry puts down his cup and folds his hands together, presses them against his lips and studies me intently. ‘Is that honestly what you think you are?’
I shrug.
‘Some people describe Post Traumatic Stress as a natural response to an unnatural situation. Does that make any kind of sense to you?’
‘Maybe,’ I pause, waiting for him to respond. He just sits there, thoroughly happy in counselling mode, hands in a ball and any comprehensible thought well concealed behind the beard.
‘Fuck, Harry, I know that. I know I’m not mad, it’s more like . . . this probably sounds wrong . . . sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world who sees what’s actually happening.’
‘And what do you see?’
I take a deep breath, lean my elbows on my knees, and it all comes spewing out like semi-digested chunks of kebab out of the guts of a drunk on a Saturday night.
‘That we’re puppets on a string. That none of the wars I’ve ever played my tiny part in has ever been about freedom – ours or anyone else’s – because freedom’s a myth they’ve cooked up to keep us in line. That it doesn’t matter if you’re Scottish or English or American or Afghan, whether you swear on the Bible or the Koran, because we’re all bent over the same barrel being fucked by the same forces.
‘That . . . that there’s a tiny group of men in this world – the ones who control the banks and the corporations – who are holding the rest of us by the ball hairs and we don’t even know it, and the more we fight amongst ourselves, the richer and more powerful they get, and I . . . I just feel so fucking angry all the time. Everything that happened to us, every mate I saw die, every person I killed . . . it’s all for nothing. That’s it, Harry. That’s what I see.’
I sit up again and retreat into my coffee.
The slightest deepening of the creases around Harry’s eyes indicate a smile. ‘That view of the world isn’t exactly compatible with service in Her Majesty’s armed forces, Sean.’
‘I know. They were quite happy to see the back of me after I told them that. It’s easier to tell one twitchy, blown up Jock that he’s nuts than to question their own motives.’
He chuckles. ‘Then welcome to the resistance, Comrade. We’ll lead the revolution one three-piece suite at a time.’
Relief swirls around me like a warm wave. I close my eyes and swallow the urge to weep. ‘Sorry for going off on one.’
‘Dinnae be. Believe me, I wouldn’t be working here if I didn’t feel the same. That’s what keeps me here, you know? The thought that every ugly old settee we divert from landfill and sell to some poor person who needs it is a strike against The Man.’ He bends forward and refuses to let me break from his gaze. ‘You know what I’m saying?’
This bloody guy thinks he’s Tom Joad, Mitch observes, then goes quiet again. He agrees with Harry too, I know he does, but he wouldn’t like to admit being on the same side as a wee fat hippy in a Fair Isle jumper and Clarks loafers.
Then I nod slowly and push the hair away from my eyes. ‘So then . . . back to Billy. What about Linda? Why can’t she talk to him?’
‘They’ve fallen out. She won’t speak to him. That’s what started all this.’
I sigh. ‘I’ll go see him.’
So half an hour later I’m climbing the outdoor stair to Billy’s flat above Sheena’s Cafe in Pentland Street, to a long row of doors and a landing strewn with black rubbish bags and pigeon shit. The yellowish harling is flaking off to reveal the brick beneath, and telephone cabling hangs loose, catching the wind and tapping against the wall. A woman with pale, spotty skin and dyed black hair passes me, dragging a folded buggy with one hand and clinging to a scrawny, drool-soaked baby with the other. She eyes me coldly as we pass each other, suspicion oozing out of every pore.
It’s not the kind of place many strangers would venture, except cops and social workers, and automatically my eyes begin scanning for shadows, right and left. A pigeon startles out of a recessed doorway and my whole body seizes. For five seconds I am down a back alley in Basra, completely rigid except for my heart, which is banging so hard it might be visible from the outside. When I take another step forward, my legs feel like they mig
ht give under me. Feeling a complete arsehole, I speed along to Billy’s door at the far end and bang soundly with a fist.
Receiving no response, I bang again and press my good ear against the door. Vaguely I can make out voices, then a creak and footsteps. They seem to approach, then stop.
‘Billy!’
‘Whae’s that?’ he demands.
‘Sean. Let us in, eh?’
‘Whit ye wantin?’
‘Billy, I cannae speak to you through the door.’
The lace curtains of next door’s window twitch and the drawn, frightened face of an elderly woman peers out. I raise my hand and offer what is meant to be a reassuring smile, though I think it’s closer to a grimace.
‘I’ll kick this door in if you dinnae open up.’
Eventually he cracks the door. He’s standing there in a stained blue dressing gown and greyish underpants, the skin of his face and bare chest pale and falling into loose, dehydrated creases. He’s emaciated and the smell of piss wafts off him. His appearance is shocking even to me; the depth to which he has descended in a short space of time, albeit from a pretty low starting point, seems terminal.
A man steps out into the corridor behind him, pencil legs in skinny jeans, a black Super Dry jacket, pale hair gelled into a quiff. Darren Armstrong hasn’t changed since school: he’s still an arrogant, scrawny thug wrapped in poncy labels.
He sniffs. ‘Well, look who it is. Alright Sean? I thought you got fucking blown up in Afghanistan or something.’
‘But miraculously, here I am. The wonders of modern medicine. Long time no see, Derek.’
‘Darren.’
‘Darren, of course. How could I forget? What you doing here?’
‘My mate Bill and I were just havin’ a wee chat, weren’t we, Billy? A wee cup of tea and a natter.’
‘Aye, ye prick,’ Billy growls, ‘Now get oot.’
Darren laughs and slaps Billy on the shoulder. ‘He’s a good laugh, isn’t he? If you can put up wi’ the stench.’
Billy winces and huddles into himself.
I step past Billy and pause in front of Darren, not right in his face but three or four inches closer than most people are comfortable with. ‘You were just going?’
Sure enough, he takes a step backwards. ‘Maybe.’
‘I think you were.’
He faces up to me but his eyes flicker about, doing the maths and obviously not liking the answer. Then he turns to Billy. ‘One week. You fucking pay up.’
Billy’s voice actually breaks. ‘I bloody telt ye, that’s it Daz. I cannae gie ye anymair. That’s all there is.’
Armstrong places a spindly finger on Billy’s chest. ‘That’s not my problem.’
I clear my throat and place my hand on the back of his jacket, fingers gripping the fabric lightly. ‘Come on Dapper Daz. I’ll get you to the door.’
‘Get your hand off me, McNicol.’
He tries to duck away but I grip harder and steer him in the direction of the front door. ‘Whatever he owes you, why don’t you just forget it? A little charity between neighbours, eh?’
‘This is nane o’ your business.’
‘Then give me a reason to make it my business.’ I let go of his jacket and shove him hard toward the door.
He stumbles, catches himself and spins quickly, faces me. ‘I dinnae want bother wi’ ye, Sean.’
‘No, you don’t.’ I smile personably and close the distance between us again, effectively pinning him to the door. ‘And your business with Billy is done and dusted. Understood?’
His lips work silently and his chest heaves up and down. ‘Aye, whatever. I dinnae need the fuckin’ dosh anyway. I’m no fuckin’ beggar.’ Cautiously, he leans around me and juts his chin toward Billy. ‘See you around, Bill, yeah?’
‘Piss off, ya cunt.’
I open the door and hold it open. ‘Nice bumping into you, Daz. Cheerio, eh?’
He glances briefly at me, then scurries away.
I pull the door shut again and lock it, then turn around. My hands are shaking so I shove them into my pockets and take a deep breath. ‘Well then.’
Billy sags against the corridor wall. ‘What was that? Some kind of fucking Jedi mind trick or something?’
‘He’s a playground bully. Just called his bluff, that’s all.’
‘He’s no fucking bluffing.’
‘Neither am I.’
Billy grunts and turns away from me. I follow him into a dark sitting room littered with chip wrappers, beer cans that have been flattened into makeshift bongs, dirty socks, cups of week-old tea with mould floating on the top. The blue and white striped wallpaper hangs off in strips in some places. There are a couple of detached wires protruding from the wall in the corner, but no telly. It looks like someone has taken away everything of value.
‘I see I’m a wee bit late.’
‘It doesnae matter. Thanks anyway.’ He drops heavily onto a stained grey settee and lifts his feet onto it, then closes his eyes. ‘Harry sent ye, eh?’
‘We’re worried about you, mate. We just wanted to see how you’re doing.’
His eyelids flutter. ‘Well, see for yersel’.’
‘I don’t like what I see, Bill. I’ve been in some shitholes in my time, but this takes some beating. You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on?’
‘Nothing, I just dinnae feel like comin’ tae work.’
‘What happened with Linda?’
He opens his eyes and stares woozily at me. ‘She got a better offer.’
Is it just me, or is that hard to believe?
I bite my lip until I’m sure Mitch isn’t going to say anything else; three-way conversations involving a dead guy and a strung out hash-head are definitely to be avoided.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
He gives a disdainful sniff and stares blankly at the nicotine-yellowed ceiling. ‘Doesnae matter. You want a cup of tea?’
‘Aye, sure.’
‘Help yersel’.’
I sigh, then get up and go into the kitchen and stand there for a couple of minutes, eyes closed, breathing in for a count of ten and then out, until my pulse slows. I splash some cold water onto my face, but there is nothing to dry with except the hem of my shirt. Even if there was a tea towel, you probably wouldn’t want to let it anywhere near your face. There are dead flies on the bunker and black mould creeping up the wall behind the sink, a few crusty dishes in the sink. I boil the kettle and locate a packet of powdery teabags, wash a couple of mugs and make tea. Unsurprisingly, the milk in the fridge is rock hard.
I bring the black tea back into the living room and nudge Billy with my toe. ‘Here.’
‘Dinnae want it.’
‘Sit up, you lazy piece of shit and take the fucking tea.’
His body jerks and he pushes himself upright, takes the mug and sits there holding it between trembling hands, not looking at me.
I sit down on a sticky faux-leather chair opposite him. ‘Drink it.’
He dips his upper lip into the tea and shudders. ‘So . . . what’s the story?’
‘Someone’s had their hand in the till. But you know that already.’
He opens his eyes properly for the first time since I got here; his pupils are huge and the whites are laced with pink. ‘How would I ken that? Whae is it, like?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
His mouth opens and closes silently like a landed cod, and then a sheen comes over his eyes. I sit back and wait for perhaps two full minutes, drinking my tea and eyeballing him. From my position I can see across the hall into a bedroom that contains nothing but a mattress on the floor and a pile of clothes in the corner.
‘What happened to you, Billy? How did you get this way?’
His laughter sounds like a cat trying to bring up a hairball. ‘Nothing happened tae me. Nothing except whit ye see around ye. I was just tryin’ tae get oot, that’s all. I bought a motor off Daz. Like I said tae ye, he really thinks he’s something. Thinks he ow
ns this fuckin’ toon.’
‘Uh huh.’ The story spills open in front of me, inevitable as black ink tipped over white paper.
‘And I couldn’t pay him, so he took the fuckin’ thing back, and the interest.’
‘Your telly and all your gear. You let him?’
‘Look at the state o’ me. He came wi’ his mates. First class thugs, man, even if he’s not.’
‘So why’s he back now?’
‘He says I still owe him for the damage.’
‘Damage?’
‘Fuckin’ door and wing are all scraped tae hell.’
I take a sip of tea to swallow a snort. ‘I may be stating the obvious here, but you’re not exactly in a fit state for driving.’
‘It wasnae bloody me, I telt him that!’
‘Aye, okay. But because you’re such a big man, you stole from the shop to pay him back for damage you didn’t cause.’
He puts the mug down and sits with his hands shaking between his knees. There is something almost transparent about him, as though he has already started to fade out of the world of the living. He’s not solid enough anymore to harbour a lie.
‘Linda did it for me.’ The confession comes out of him like the final hiss of air out of a deflated balloon. ‘She didn’t want to, but the whole motor thing was her idea. She wanted us to pack up and go away, find a better life somewhere else. A fucking pipe dream, that’s all.’
I feel Mitch warming up for a Hank Williams chorus and try to head him off at the pass by sliding my fingers into my hair and concentrating my gaze on a crusty, grey patch on the carpet between my feet.
‘You can’t run away from your habits, though.’
‘Nuh. You’re right about that, at least. What are ye gonnae dae? Tell Harry? Get us the sack?’
‘That’s not my job. You’re gonnae go tell him yourself. Maybe instead of sacking you, he’ll let you resign with some dignity. Go get dressed.’
‘What if I say no?’
‘I phone the cops.’
‘You’re a self-righteous bastard, ye ken that, Mister Green fucking Beret.’ He hauls himself off the sofa and wobbles onto his feet. ‘I ken who you really are. I kent yer ma.’
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