I run my finger along the curving grain of the table top. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Sean, be careful. I wish you’d just . . .’
‘What? You’re cutting out on me.’
Her eyes disappear behind crumpled lids, and she holds her fists up to them. ‘Fucking hell.’
I get up and cross to the other side of the table, stand in front of her. ‘Molly, what are you trying to tell me? Are you alright?’
‘I am, Sean, honestly. I’m just tired and . . .’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Look, if Duncan says anything about me, please just know that I . . . didn’t want to do it. Alright? It wasn’t my idea.’
‘What wasn’t? Please tell me, whatever it is.’
‘I can’t.’
I want to push her, but she is so fragile she might crumble. I just shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘I think you should go now. I want to go to bed.’
‘You can phone me if you need anything.’
She nods, her eyes looking past my shoulder. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
XX
‘You given up shaving for Lent or something?’ Tigger laughs, then shoves half a Lorne sausage roll into his gob and chases it with a slug of Red Bull.
We are in the cafe downstairs from his flat on Easter Road, having breakfast at lunchtime because he’s had a heavy night and I’ve been out for a big run over the tops of the Pentlands, from Turnhouse to Scald Law and back along the Glencorse road. After four or five texts from him, I’ve finally caved and agreed to meet him, mainly as an excuse to get away from home on a Saturday afternoon.
I glance at my reflection in the window next to our booth. A bit navvyish, right enough, with four or five days’ stubble and a shirt I pulled off the bottom of the wardrobe.
He has shaved, but his eyes are shot with pink and he’s got dark circles under the arms of his blue polo shirt. There’s a particular smell about him: sweat, stale booze and greasy food, disguised but not completely masked by spray-on deodorant.
I pour myself another mug of tea from the pot. ‘Lent’s past. Anyway, given the dubious circumstances of my birth, I figure the obligations of Catholicism never really applied to me. Nah, it’s just that since I cut my hair off, I was in danger of looking too much like a fucking bootneck.’
‘You a Catholic, Nic? I didna ken that.’
‘No. My mother thought she was, and my Granny really was. Let’s just say God and I have an arrangement: I deny he exists and he pisses on me from a great height every now and again, just to keep me in my place.’
Tigger chews with his mouth open and studies me, then says in all seriousness, ‘You’ve got some anger issues going on there, my friend.’
I laugh out loud. ‘You think so?’
‘Aye.’
‘What about you, then? Everything’s hunky dory in your wee world, is it? You’re actually okay with how your life has gone?’
I’m riled and he can tell. He stares down at his fingernails. ‘What happened to me wasn’t anybody’s fault, Nic. My back’s fuckin’ agony every day o’ my life, and it’s hard enough to manage that without getting myself tied up in knots aboot it. Sometimes I canna, so I get high, I admit that. But on the whole, I’m pretty thankful to the Big Man.’
‘Amen, brother.’ I poke at my food, should be ravenous but feel slightly queasy. The tines of my fork pierce the flabby sausage on my plate and shiny grease trickles out, mixes with streaks of egg yolk and runny tinned tomato. The Full Scottish looks like a bomb blast on a plate. ‘Look at this. Nae fuckin’ wonder we’re in the state we’re in.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Look around.’
Tigger surveys the busy cafe, eyes passing over bloated arses oozing over the edges of chairs, bellies resting on thighs, man-tits gathering crumbs and blobs of chewed meat.
‘No exactly the pillar o’ health as a nation, are we.’ He sighs and pops the last of his roll into his mouth. ‘We’re not all destined to be Mountain Leaders. Sometimes you just have to accept where you are. There’s a reason for everything, ken?’
‘No.’
He fixes his eyes on me, waiting for something else.
I wait a moment too, because now is about the time Mitch can be counted on to offer a honed one liner. When he doesn’t, I shrug. ‘Sorry, Tig, but I don’t. There’s no reason, and you don’t have to accept anything. Just because you land in the shite doesn’t mean you have to stay there.’
‘Life’s a lot bloody harder if you fight it all the time. It’s all part of His plan.’
I push my plate toward the edge of the table. ‘Where’s all this sanctimonious crap coming from, anyway? Last time I saw you, it was all angst about Rhona and her new man, and now you’re sounding like a proper devil dodger.’
He hesitates for a moment before speaking, which is unlike him, takes another slug from his tin of chemical pish and then wipes brown sauce from the corner of his mouth.
‘The church up the road started up a wee support group for ex-servicemen,’ He eyes the leftover sausage on my plate like a gull, but doesn’t take it. ‘Wednesday nights. There’s a few of us now. Ten, sometimes fourteen, fifteen turning up. It’s good, like. I’ve been talking to Ian, the Padre, quite a lot and he’s . . . you know. Helping me see things differently, eh?’
I open my mouth, but Mitch leaps in: Don’t say it.
This surprises me a little, but I close my mouth again and try not to let it show on my face. My legs start to jitter. I glance at my watch, then take a deep breath and will myself to be still. ‘Good for you, mate.’
‘You should come along.’
‘Ah, Tig . . . I dinnae think so.’
‘How? You’d fit right in with all the guys, it’s like . . . being home. Civvies just dinna get it, you know?’
‘We are civvies.’
‘Come on, Sean.’
‘No, listen Tommy. I asked to leave the Corps, right? They wanted me to stay and I wrapped. I had . . . a moment back in Sangin, before Mitch died, when it all came clear to me. We were just tools in the war machine, and there’s nothing honourable about it. You and I, mate . . .’
Here we go again. You’ll be manning the barricades at Faslane next.
I press my fingers over my ear and ignore this. ‘We were only ever clones sent out to do the dirty work of our corporate puppet masters. It’s a total clusterfuck.’
Tig looks like I’ve just slapped him in the face. ‘That’s no true at all.’
‘It is. It took me a while to get it but once I did, I couldn’t see it any other way. The last thing I want to do is sit about swapping war stories with a bunch of twisted old Tobies and praying for the souls of the poor innocent lads who died for the cause. I’ll tell you who they fucking died for. They died for the CEOs of BP and Monsanto and those motherfuckers at RBS. They died to maintain the global order, so fat-arsed Americans can keep getting fatter on their cheap, processed food . . . and looking around here, so that we can do the same. They didn’t die for the rights of any poor Afghan woman, and they most certainly didn’t die for the rights of that bugger in the doorway over there.’
I point with my thumb toward a beggar huddled under a blanket in the doorway of a boarded up shop. Tig glances about in case anyone is staring at us.
Cue thunderous applause for the great orator. Give that man keys to Number Ten. You’re wasting your time, Nic.
‘He’s a dosser. He’s there every day.’
I told you.
I close my eyes for a moment, press my fingers into them.
‘You go ask him why, Tig.’
Tigger rubs his cheek and deep lines form above his eyebrows. His open, round face is lined with distress, whether for me or himself or the sanctity of his little world, it’s hard to tell. He puffs out his cheeks and blows, then shifts and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.
‘Mitch didn’t die for some corporation, Sean, he died for you.’
‘Yeah
.’ I pull out my own wallet and drop a tenner onto the table. ‘My shout. If there’s any change, give it to him.’ I point toward the homeless man again, then slide out of the booth. ‘I’m gonna head up the road.’
‘Nic, wait.’ He leaves the tenner on the table and scurries after me.
I step out into moist air, heavy with the smell of the brewery and electricity from a passing thunder shower, then turn and face him. He looks frightened and apologetic.
‘I didn’t mean it that way, ken . . . aboot Mitch. Naebody blames you. All that other stuff back there . . . it’s just grief talking.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
I can tell he doesn’t believe me. ‘Listen, dinna run off. Come up to the flat for a bit and chill out. Watch a film or something.’
‘Nah, I . . .’
Mind your manners, Nic.
‘Thanks for asking, Tommy. Next time, eh?’
He nods. ‘You alright?’
‘Aye, sure. See you later, okay?’
I leave him and walk up Easter Road, then turn right and head along Regent Road, the Old Town rising up from Holyrood on my left, golden gorse blossom on Salisbury Crags catching the filtered sunlight behind. I pause in the gardens halfway along the road and look out over the view. Far to the left, the water of the Forth looks like wrinkled blue leather, stretching out into the North Sea and beyond.
I sit down on a bench and look out for a few minutes, imagining myself into a kayak, cutting through the waves like a clean, sharp knife. It’s a good picture – calming – and I keep it there for a little while. Then I get out my phone and bring up Paula’s number.
She answers with a slightly frayed, ‘Hey, you.’ I can hear Eva crying next to the phone.
‘I’m in town. I was going to ask if you wanted to meet up, but it sounds like a bad time? What you up to?’
‘My eyeballs in slimy water and dirty washing, that’s what. My fucking washing machine’s just packed in and flooded my kitchen.’
‘Ah. Want me to come round and have a look at it?’
‘Do you know how to fix washing machines?’
‘No, but how complicated can it be, right?’
She laughs and her voice brightens. ‘At the very least, you can entertain Eva while I phone round and try to get an engineer. Aye, do come. I’ll get this mopped up and make you some lunch.’
‘Oh God, no food. I’ve just had the most bogging fry up. I may never eat again.’ I get up and start walking. ‘I’m just heading for Princes Street. See you in twenty or so.’
‘Great.’
I lengthen my stride and dodge tourists, chattering clusters of European students and Saturday shoppers. Princes Street continues to be a building site, obstructed by barriers and fences and holes in the ground where the mythical tramline should be. The once beautiful street has become a cacophonous nightmare to walk along, and as soon as I’ve passed the Mound, I cut down into the gardens and jog along the path, over the railway line and below the castle.
‘That was quick,’ Paula says when I arrive, watching over the railing as I come up the stairs two at a time. She hugs me. ‘Thanks for coming.’
I follow her in. Eva has stopped crying and is lying happily on a play mat, waving her arms and fingering the little toys dangling above her. I squat down beside her and she focuses on my face, squawks and gives me a slavery smile. I can’t help but mirror the expression.
‘Hiya, kiddo. Look how much you’ve grown,’ I say to her, offering a finger for her to grab. She tries to pull it toward her mouth.
‘No wonder,’ Paula says beside me. ‘The amount she eats. She’s a wee piggy, aren’t you, Eva Bean?’ Then she rubs my back. ‘You look weary, Sean.’
I sit back on my heels. ‘A bit, I suppose. Did a monster run up the hills this morning.’
‘You sleeping?’
‘Ehm . . . yeah . . . sometimes.’ My knees crack as I get to my feet. ‘Let’s have a look at this rebel washing machine of yours, eh?’
The kitchen smells of dampness and washing powder, and there is a heap of wet towels in the sink. Paula sets Eva in a bouncy chair beside the window.
‘What’s happened?’
She sighs, sweeps her hair back from her face. ‘It jammed up and wouldn’t drain. I opened the little hatch to see if there was something stuck in the filter, and all this bloody water just came pouring out. Not very clever, really.’
‘I take it you didn’t find anything.’
‘No, that would have been too easy.’
I stare at the machine for a minute, rubbing my chin. ‘Maybe the hose at the back. We’ll have to pull it out. Have you got an old sheet or something?’
‘Aye.’ She goes away and comes back a moment later with a cream coloured bed sheet.
‘Ta.’ I spread the sheet on the floor at the base of the washing machine. ‘If we can just get the wee feet onto the sheet, then we should be able to slide it out.’
‘Good luck,’ she says, standing back and watching me try to work my fingers into the tiny gaps between the machine and the kitchen units. ‘So . . . what you doing in town?’
‘I met up with a guy I knew in the Marines. We had breakfast in this grease pit below his flat, and honest to God, I feel like I’ve got a ball of congealed lard sitting in my stomach.’ I tip the machine to the left and trap my fingers between it and the cabinet.
‘Ow . . . f . . .’ Then I remember Eva, bite my lip and tip it the other direction. It makes a cracking noise as the feet unstick themselves from the floor.
‘I’m glad you’ve got a mate in town. Must be nice to see him.’
‘He’s never been my best mate. I don’t think we parted company on the best terms today. I had a bit of a moment.’
‘A moment?’
‘Aye.’ Once on the sheet, the washing machine slides out over the floorboards, dragging streamers of dust and debris. I kneel and peer into the gap, tracing the grey drain hose to its connection with the pipework under the sink. ‘I need a bucket and a wee Philips screwdriver. By the way, did you know you’ve got mice?’
‘Aye. There was a fat one in the middle of the kitchen floor the other morning, gallous as anything. Hang on.’
Once more, she goes away and comes back with the things I need.
‘What kind of a moment?’ she asks, as I set about loosening off the jubilee clip from the hose. It pops off and I drop the end into the bucket. A dribble of soapy water trickles out. I sit back and watch it for a moment.
‘He invited me along to some church group he’s got himself involved in, some thing for ex-servicemen, and I just . . . you know. I guess we all deal with things in our own ways, and great if that works for him. I gave him a bit of political commentary and it rattled him.’
‘It rattled you too, I think.’
I glance at her. ‘Maybe. I’ve been a bit rattled lately in general. So . . . I think there’s something in the hose. If I tip this forward and hold it, can you take the hose off?’
‘Yep.’
‘Right.’ I get back to my feet, hand her the screwdriver, then tip the washing machine forward and balance its weight on its front edge so the rest of the water doesn’t spill out the back.
She deftly detaches the hose, then laughs at the watery clunk of hard objects on the floor. She bends down to pick them up. ‘Forty seven pence and the key to my mother’s house. Trust her to be obstructive.’
‘That’s about right. Go and get that hose back on; this thing weighs a bleeding ton.’
‘Put your back into it,’ she says robustly, reconnecting the hose and twisting the clip tightly back into place.
I ease the machine upright again. Grey, soapy water flows freely into the bucket for a few seconds, slows to a trickle, then a drip. I reconnect the pipe and push the machine halfway back into its slot, then switch it back on to complete its cycle. We both stand there for a minute or two, hopefully, as it begins to hum.
‘I think that’s it.’ I shake my hands to unknot my arms, an
d Paula rubs my shoulders.
‘I’d give you a medal. You’re a fucking lifesaver.’
‘Nobody ever died of a broken washing machine.’
Paula laughs and points at Eva. ‘When you have a baby, you’ll understand.’
A wave of fatigue spills over me and I sit down at the table and stretch my complaining legs out in front of me. ‘Jesus, I’m buggered. I ran too hard today.’
‘Cuppa for your efforts?’
‘Aye, ta.’ I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘I don’t mind you at all,’ she replies, voice loaded with suggestion.
I smile and listen to the washing machine going about its business, water filling the kettle, the crinkle of biscuit wrappers and Eva’s little gurgles and squeals. Paula’s kitchen is warm and filled with bright afternoon sunshine, which glows even through my closed eyelids. I feel myself drifting, but it feels safe here so I give in to it.
‘You’re snoring, Sleeping Beauty.’
My eyes pop open. Paula sets the tea and biscuits onto the table and sits down beside me, pats my knee.
‘Mmm.’ I rub my eyes and sit up. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s alright.’ She fills two mugs, slides one toward me. Eva has conked out in her seat, a beam of sun falling across her cheeks. Her little lips work at an imaginary teat.
Paula’s gauzy blue blouse falls low at the neck, showing off a teasing hint of breast. I allow my eyes to settle there for a few seconds, and I want to catch her hands and pull her onto my lap. I wonder how long Eva will sleep and whether Paula can have space in her mind or her heart for anyone else.
The line between appreciation and lechery is far too easily crossed, with dire consequences if you misjudge the timing of your crossing. So I pull my eyes away and grab my tea.
Paula leans back in her seat and crosses her legs at the ankles. ‘So . . . are you okay? What’s rattling you?’
I take a drink and a deep breath. ‘Janet and I are at each other’s throats, so home isn’t the nicest place to be just now. I can’t talk to her, she’s . . . uptight. She can’t handle anything that’s the least bit scary or traumatic.’
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