Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Ehm . . .’ She wavers, mouth half open. ‘They saw each other for a couple of years, on and off, while he was still in the army. He used to disappear without a word, not write to her for months, then turn up again as if he’d only been gone a week. They split for good, probably just after that second photo was taken. You would have been . . . two and a half, maybe? Three at most.’

  I sit at the table and my right leg jiggles up and down. Anger so heavy in my chest it’s hard to breathe.

  ‘He lives on Cauldhill Farm. He’s been there all this time. You lied to me all these fucking years and I had to find out by accident. Do you want to tell me why, please?’

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispers and drags out a chair, sits heavily and covers her mouth with her hands. ‘Well, for a start I didn’t know until the other day that he was still living anywhere near here.’

  I drum my thumb on the tabletop. ‘You’re trying to tell me that in thirty-odd years, you never saw him about? Mum never saw him?’

  ‘I don’t know. If mum did, she . . .’ She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her fists. ‘I saw him in passing a few times, but that’s it. He didn’t want you. He wanted nothing to do with you. He didn’t acknowledge you as his, he wouldn’t allow her to put his name on your birth certificate. Alright? D’you understand?’

  There isn’t any sensible reply to this, so I stare at the table. The evening sun shines on it, illuminating dust and red wine stains.

  ‘Sean, it’s worse. He beat her up.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘More than once. She used to leave us at Granny’s and the pair of them would go out and get hammered. She’d come home with a burst lip or a black eye, and she’d deny it was him. She’d say she’d fallen or run into a door . . . the usual excuses.’

  She shakes her head and wipes tears from her eyes. ‘She admitted it was him eventually. I think possibly he sexually abused her too. Made her do things that even she thought were indecent. I’m not sure. Sometimes she said things like that for effect and I was never sure how true they were.’

  We sit there for a minute or two, the clock ticking on the wall. My legs jiggle. Another crossroads, once again way beyond the boundaries of any map.

  Eventually she closes her eyes and sighs. ‘Maybe I should have told you before. Really Mum should have told you.’

  My shoulders rise and fall and I chew on my bottom lip. ‘Mum didn’t give a crap about me, or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is, Janet. As far as I’m concerned, it always was.’

  ‘She loved you. She was trying to protect you.’

  ‘If she loved either of us, she would have got herself straight. She was a sick, selfish woman and you were just her helper. Fucking pathetic, the pair of you.’

  ‘That’s just cruel, Sean. I won’t have you say that.’

  ‘I’ll say what I bloody like.’ I stand up and swipe the photos from the table, slide them back into their envelope and stuff this into my rucksack. Then I thump out the kitchen door again.

  Janet minces after me in her bare feet. ‘Where you going now?’

  I pretend not to hear her as I head down the garden path and grab the bike.

  ‘Sean! What are you doing? Don’t you dare go out there!’

  I pause at the gate, turn to face her and lie through my teeth. ‘I’m not going out there, alright. Just give me a fucking break, Janet. I’m going to clear my head.’

  She steps back and watches me mount the bike. I push hard up the hill, past the field and out toward Rosewell, pumping hard enough that there can be no spare room in my head for doubts.

  It hardly takes any time to reach the rutted road to Cauldhill Farm, and within minutes I pass the drive. Molly’s car is there, but I carry on past. The bike jitters over the potholes and gravel, then over the cattle grid and onto the muddy track up to Duncan’s cottage. I haven’t rehearsed what I’m going to say or the tone I’m going to take, because I don’t know what state I’m going to find him in. But as I swing off the bike and lean it against the outside wall, I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a potential attack. I haven’t got a weapon of any sort except my hands, though I know I could disarm him easily enough if he came at me with a knife. But still my heart begins to rev itself into combat mode.

  A cloud obscures the sun, bringing a keen edge into the air and raising goose bumps on my arms. I bang on the door and shout, ‘Duncan!’

  There is no response at first except the rasping of crows on the roof and the distant bellow of sheep, and my face glows hot with frustration. Stupid old bastard must be out drinking himself legless. Then, maybe I’m the stupid one, to think he’d be safely at home while the pubs are still open.

  But I bang again and wait there, hands poised at my sides in case something comes flying at me. After a moment, there’s a clatter inside the cottage and a grumbling voice raised in complaint. I suck in a deep breath as the door creaks open.

  We face each other. He wavers a little, exhaling toxic fumes into the already gamey air, brows knitting together. Drunk, but not paralytic. I suspect the only time he is even close to sober is first thing in the morning, and that probably lasts only as long as it takes him to pour the hair of the dog down his gullet.

  ‘Whit ye wantin?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to you, Duncan.’

  He glances over his shoulder and I look past him into a dank corridor with a muddy carpet and nicotine-yellow woodchip wallpaper. Added to the general stench of stale booze and fags is what smells suspiciously like sheep shit. This is my genetic inheritance: pervert, pisshead and in all probability, sheep-shagger to boot. Fucking great.

  ‘I’m goan oot,’ he replies in a voice that seems to mimic the crows that are nesting at the side of his chimney. He takes a step back and tries to swing the door closed, but I catch it.

  ‘I know who you are. I think you’d better let me in.’

  His chest swells. ‘Are ye threatenin’ me?’

  I hold up my hands, palms toward him. ‘Take it easy, aye? I only want to talk.’

  ‘Dinnae fuck wi’ me, son, I ken how tae fight.’

  ‘So I hear. You slapped my ma around a few times and all.’

  ‘Whae telt ye that?’

  ‘Somebody who knows the truth.’

  He swallows hard and stares at me, mouth half open, an argument hanging there in the entrance to it. But then he snaps his gob shut again and turns his back on me, shuffles down the corridor. I follow him inside, letting the rucksack slide off my shoulders, quietly unzipping it and removing the photographs.

  Duncan shows me into a fusty lounge with an ash-dusted carpet, tatty but surprisingly good quality furniture, empty bottles lying around or stuck to shelves by their sticky remnants. The old black and white collie is lying in front of a fireplace with no fire in it. The dog raises its head and blinks at me, then lets its chin fall back onto its paws.

  Without an invitation, I sit myself on the least filthy armchair, drop the two photographs of Duncan onto the coffee table, then cross my legs and wait. His hand shakes as he bends slowly, fingers reaching toward the photos then pausing before touching them, as though they might burn him. His breathing is laboured and wheezy. He lingers there for a moment, staring without touching, then straightens up, turns away and mutters something.

  ‘Turn around and face me, Duncan.’

  He turns around again, but stares at the floor. ‘D’ye want a drink or no?’

  ‘No.’

  A shrug. ‘Suit yersel.’ He shuffles across to the shelving unit against the far wall, twists the cap off a fresh bottle of supermarket whisky and fills a tumbler. He throws half of it straight down his throat then refills the glass and crosses the room again, sits across from me and stares at me with renewed clarity. ‘I heard ye came a cropper in Afghanistan.’

  I smile to cover my surprise. ‘Word gets about, eh? Don’t tell me you actually ca
re.’

  ‘I dinnae. Yer ainly living because yer ma remembered too late she wis a Pape and refused tae get rid o’ ye. I telt her I didnae want the bairn. So if it wis some kind o’ faither-son reunion ye wis wantin, I’m sorry tae disappoint ye.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I want to lumber myself with a wasted old prick like you?’

  ‘Dinnae speak tae me like that, boy, if ye ken whit’s good fer ye.’

  ‘I’ll speak to you how I like.’

  He takes another slug of whisky and his bristly jaws work silently as he assesses me. ‘Whit dae ye want? Money? As ye can see, I’m no exactly loaded.’

  ‘To know the truth, Duncan, that’s all.’

  ‘Apparently ye ken it already.’

  I shake my head. A battalion of questions has come marching into my mind, but I’ll have to choose them carefully. My combative tone has knocked him into compliance for now, but it won’t last. ‘Not all of it. How’d you meet her?’

  ‘Up the toon, I telt ye that before. The Scotsman bar in Cockburn Street. We were just back from a tour in Northern Ireland, and she was on the hunt. Bonny girl, yer ma, I mind that much.’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  He shrugs. ‘I wouldnae say we were together. She kept comin’ aifter us, I didnae . . .’ He breaks off and stares out the window.

  ‘You didn’t what?’

  ‘I wasnae in any fit state.’

  ‘No change there, then. You’re a pathetic lump of shite, Duncan, I’m surprised even the army wanted you.’

  ‘Ye ken nothin’ aboot me.’

  ‘You got her pregnant. You beat her up, you humiliated her. You brought a child into this world and denied he had anything to do with you. You’re a pathetic lump of shite, and you’re a coward. That’s about the sum of it, as far as I can tell.’

  He explodes out of his seat with surprising agility for a man who looks like he could fall over his own shadow. One hand on the coffee table, he leans across and jabs a finger toward my face.

  ‘Get oot ma hoose, or I’ll fuckin’ show ye what I did tae yer ma when she asked for it. She had a nasty tongue in her heid an’ all.’

  I draw down my poker face and refuse to flinch. ‘I’ll go when I’m ready. Sit down before you hurt yourself, Duncan.’

  Scarlet circles appear on his cheeks and his mouth drops open, but he retreats back across the table and thumps into his chair.

  ‘What about Molly Finlayson. Did you fuck her as well?’

  ‘Did she tell ye that?’

  ‘She said it wasn’t her idea. She said she didn’t want to do it.’

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ he whispers, so softly I can’t really hear the words. But I can read the shapes of his lips just fine.

  ‘If I’m a bastard, it’s your fault. Did you rape her, then, Duncan?’

  ‘No, I didnae. You’ve got it wrong.’

  I lean across toward him. ‘She as much as told me you did.’

  In one fluid motion, he dives out of the chair, grasps an empty bottle and swings it in a sweeping arc toward the side of my head. I duck to the side of the table, catch his arm and twist it viciously back on itself, his hand automatically releasing the bottle as I force it behind his back. The dog erupts into a frenzy, growling and barking at my ankle. Duncan spews whisky fumes in my face and struggles, knocking over the coffee table as he tries to get purchase on me with his left hand and sweep my legs.

  I could have him face down on the floor in a second, but instead I shove him away from me hard and let go. He stumbles, trips over the upturned table and falls on top of it.

  He groans, as though the one burst of violence has spent him completely, but by now rage is crashing through me. I swing for him with my right foot and nail him in the side of the abdomen: every hurt I’ve ever felt for the unfairness of the life he and my mother gave me, and every resentful thought that’s darkened my mind on their account, all channelled through the toe of one muddy trainer and into the ribs of the man on the floor in front of me.

  He gives a choked cry and flops onto his side, trapped between the legs of the upturned table. I kick him again, this time in the face, and watch blood explode from his nose. The dog launches itself toward me, and yelps with pain as I boot it away.

  Duncan is still moving, a low whimper issuing from his throat as his hand creeps up toward his face. The sight of him is foul and painful, like a dying animal on the road. I want to finish the job. I stand over him, grasp his collar with my left hand and place my best right hook under his jaw. His head snaps backward.

  I swing again, but someone screams my name behind me and breaks the spell. My fist is already moving, but it goes with less force and scuffs off Duncan’s stubble.

  ‘Sean, stop it! Oh my God, stop it!’

  Hands lock onto me. Two sets of hands, dragging me backwards by the shoulders.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you’ve fucking killed him!’

  It’s like someone’s turned off a tap. I go limp and collapse backward, sitting on the floor with Duncan’s blood splattered across my shirt. I am only vaguely aware of two women stooped over Duncan, speaking in words I can’t make out. The energy and will to move have ebbed out of me, so I draw my knees up to my chest, rest my forehead against them and feel my throat closing.

  The women move in and out of the room, bringing wet cloths and tending to Duncan, ignoring me completely for a length of time that I can’t measure. Eventually he begins to rouse himself. He staggers to the sofa and lies down again with a stream of curses, and a trickle of selfish relief creeps into me. A murder sentence for the worthless old wanker would have been suicide time.

  I look up and my eyes begin to focus. Blood still damp on the floor, Duncan stretched on the sofa with a red-stained towel pressed over his nose. Molly is dabbing at a cut above his eye and Janet is holding a cold beer can over a vivid, creeping bruise on his ribs.

  My breath shakes as I fill my lungs. ‘Is he alright?’

  Janet turns on me. ‘He’s a bloody mess. What in the name of God are you trying to do?’

  I don’t bother trying to answer. ‘You followed me?’

  ‘Of course I followed you. I’m not that stupid. I had to go to the farm and ask Molly to take me here. Jesus Christ, Sean, you’ve lost the fucking plot.’

  Duncan ignores Janet and stares at Molly. ‘I think maybe somebody else has lost the plot and all. Why does he think I raped you?’ His voice is thick and muffled.

  Molly’s mouth falls open slightly, and she looks from him to me and back again. ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Tell him the truth or I will.’

  She rises from her seat and refuses to look at any of us.

  ‘Fucking tell him,’ Duncan orders again.

  ‘I am, alright!’ she snaps, then blows loudly through pursed lips. ‘It was Gillian’s idea. Gillian Taylor, you remember her?’

  I close my eyes and nod. Duncan makes jerky hissing sound, which is apparently a laugh. Tears drip from the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Evil wee minx, she wis.’

  Molly turns around, shoots him a look. ‘We were twelve. Bored, stupid and twelve. We . . . took some photographs of ourselves that were . . . well . . . .basically pornographic, and left them in his house. I don’t know what we thought. Maybe that he’d be interested. Maybe that he’d see us as women instead of little girls.’

  ‘Dinnae believe that, by the way. She wanted me away, that’s all, because the auld man didnae gie a toss aboot her.’

  He turns back to Molly again, finger stabbing the air. ‘I brought the photies tae the old man and telt him what ye’d done. You fucking accused me of taking them, and yer ma believed ye. She was all for havin’ me put away. Tell him, hen. Tell him I never touched ye.’

  Molly wilts onto a chair and covers her face with her hands. ‘He never touched us. He never did anything wrong except drink too much, live off Dad’s money and keep Dad’s dirty little secrets. That was the last straw for Mum; that was the end of their
marriage. This is my fault. If I’d told you the truth when you asked me, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  At this point Janet decides to leap in with both feet. ‘It’s not your fault, Molly. Sean did this, not you. He’s ill, alright? He hears voices. His dead mate talks to him.’ She turns on me. ‘You need help. Do you see that now?’

  The look she gives me, fear and disgust and heartbreak, I’ve seen before. She looked at me like that when Mum was dying and I refused to make my peace with her. Maybe then I deserved it, and maybe I do now, but the force of it is more than I can take. I launch myself to my feet and stumble out of the room.

  ‘Sean, don’t you leave,’ Janet shouts after me. ‘Sean!’

  I’m already on the bike by the time she gets out the door.

  ‘Sean, will you fucking stop!’

  The bike chitters over the gravel, skidding as it hits larger stones. I clatter over the cattle grid and freewheel down the hill, legs pumping hard in high gear. The light is beginning to fade and there is still a bit of traffic on the main road, mostly coming the other way. One or two vehicles pass me on my side of the road, so close I feel the brush of displaced air against my cheek. I’ve got no helmet, no light, no reflectors. I don’t particularly have a death wish, but then, I don’t particularly have a life wish either.

  Going home is not an option but I’m going to crash soon. Jack’s only got the one bed, and he’ll require explanations and cups of tea. I head back to the shop and let myself in the back door from the alley.

  ‘Harry!’ I call out, and receive only a wraithlike echo of my own voice. The shop is cavernous and gloomy, but turning on the lights will draw attention so I don’t bother. I wheel the bike inside, lock the door behind me and switch off my mobile phone. Then I go to the kitchen and fill the kettle, make tea and sit at the sticky table, watch wisps of steam spiralling upward and wait for my breathing to slow.

  Remember Macpherson. Never regret necessary actions. No matter how brutal, do not regret. Regret will kill you.

  Macpherson was one of our instructors on the mountain leader course, a Scot of aristocratic northern breeding, arching public school vowels and an ice-scarred face. Rumour was he cut off his mate’s foot to save him from gangrenous frostbite somewhere in the Himalayas. A hard bastard: a man who never spoke words he didn’t live by.