Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  On the bus into Edinburgh I stare out the window and see little except the flotsam and jetsam of a throwaway world: blown plastic bags caught in hedges, fast food packaging strewn across sports pitches, Saddos in doorways. The city looks ugly and has the feel of a place that is not so much suffering recession as terminal decline. There’s too much shit in this nest. I want to leave. I want to go somewhere clean, wipe the memory files and start again.

  I get off at Waverley Station and buy a single ticket to Fort William. Then I draw a couple of hundred quid out of the cashpoint, buy a kingsized bag of fruit pastilles, a little lined notebook and a large coffee to go, then hop onto the 10:15 train to Glasgow Queen Street.

  I only get my phone out again once the train has cleared Edinburgh’s dreary western reaches and is speeding into the West Lothian countryside. Pulling up Janet’s number, I suck in a deep breath and steel myself for the inevitable lecture.

  Her voice almost falls down the line at me. ‘Sean? Oh thank God. Please tell me you’re alright.’

  ‘I’m alright. I’m sorry about last night.’

  I can hear her sigh. ‘Aye. Well . . . that makes two of us. Where did you sleep?’

  ‘The shop. Is Duncan okay?’

  ‘That depends how you define okay, I suppose. He says he’s taken worse beatings.’

  ‘He’s inflicted worse too. He’s done time for it.’

  ‘That doesn’t justify anything, Sean. But anyway, he’s alive. I don’t think he’s fit to live up there on his own. The place is squalid and cold and miles from anywhere. He doesn’t even have a phone. The poor man is totally isolated. I’d like to speak to Molly about trying to get him into some kind of sheltered housing.’

  ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I have no opinion on the matter at all. You’re the expert on these things; do what you think is best.’

  ‘He’s your father, Sean.’

  ‘No, Janet, he isn’t. He gave up any right to call himself that years ago. I want nothing to do with him.’

  ‘You’d just see him suffer up there on that hill?’

  ‘No more or less than anyone else. If you think he needs to live somewhere else, you see what you can do about it and try to convince him he’s got to move.’

  ‘I’d rather talk about this face to face.’

  ‘I’m kind of tired of talking. Anyway, I’m on a train.’

  Her calm tone cracks a little. ‘You’re on a train now? A train to where?’

  ‘Fort William. I need to get out in the hills for a few days. Harry said I could have some time off.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel. I’ll call you, eh?’

  There is a troubled pause. ‘Sean . . . you will come back, won’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m just gonna to take off into the hills forever. For fucksake, Scotland’s not that big.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know what you meant, and I cannae believe you’re even asking.’

  I can, Mitch interjects, and I put my fingers over my bad ear and stare out the window at a scrubby plantation of birch trees screening industrial waste ground.

  ‘I just want you to be safe.’

  I sigh. ‘Okay, look, I’m taking a wee holiday and I’ll be home in a few days. That’s all, I promise.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  She’s annoying me now. ‘Aye, I will. See you later, alright?’

  ‘Sean . . .’

  ‘Goodbye, Janet.’

  I end the call, sip my coffee and sit there absorbing the gentle rattle of the train. I think about calling Paula and decide against it, switch off the phone to save the battery. Then I stand and pull the Bergen down from the overhead rack, dig out the maps and heave the pack back up again.

  The rest of the way to Glasgow, I plot a dozen or more possible routes through mountains that feel like old friends. The Ring of Steall, the Mamores, the Aonachs, the Devil’s Staircase and the Glen Etive Slabs, the damp scramble through Glencoe’s Lost Valley to the summit of Bidean nam Bian. The high windswept boglands of Rannoch Moor, where you hear nothing but air stirring the heather and the rasping calls of ravens. Places where we trained, hill tracks we ran light-footed in trainers or trudged in full webbing, rivers we forded, the best places to catch rabbits or poach salmon, ridges where we roped up and moved blind through winter blizzards, rock faces we climbed and abseiled down. Sometimes we felt like Boy Scouts, that we were out there for no reason other than the pure joy of being outside and of pushing our bodies through cold and fatigue toward something like euphoria.

  At Queen Street I switch to the West Highland Line and bag a table seat so I can continue perusing the maps, but at the last possible moment three red-faced Englishmen in their fifties pile on and breathlessly invade the table with wafts of beer and aftershave.

  ‘It’s your lucky day, mate,’ says the man who squeezes in next to me. He produces a six-pack of Boddingtons cans from a plastic Tesco bag. He shares the beer out to his mates and offers a fourth to me. ‘A little token of my gratitude for letting us share your table.’

  ‘Nah, you’re alright. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Go on, there’s plenty more. We’re on our jollies. Stag week. Mikey here’s getting married next month.’ His words are muddy over the grind of the diesel engine.

  I glance up at Mikey, the man sitting across from me. He’s got short-cropped hair in a suspect tone of reddish brown, puffy eyes and a Wasps rugby shirt.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  He laughs. ‘Third time lucky, eh? Still, a good enough excuse for a party. Have a beer, Jock.’

  Go on, Nic, you abstemious old monk, let your hair down.

  Fuck off, Mitch.

  I consider moving, but there aren’t many free seats left and my choices seem now to be limited to sharing with fractious children or American tourists. Quickly I assess my options: revert to antisocial type, turn down the beer and pretend to sleep all the way to Fort William, or just take one and drink it for the sake of international relations.

  I force a laugh. ‘Alright, just the one. Thanks.’

  ‘Good man,’ says the boy next to me, sliding the can over.

  I crack it open and raise it to my lips to catch the overflowing foam. It tastes surprisingly good and I swallow two or three mouthfuls before putting it down again. Mitch applauds in the background, makes some jeering remark about me popping my honorary cherry and starts to sing Hearts of Oak.

  The grubby little diesel chuffer makes its way out of Glasgow’s northern suburbs and up along the muddy shore of the Clyde. Mikey and his pals drink and plan a night on the town in Fort Bill: meal and pub crawl, followed by a boogie if such a thing can be found in the back of beyond. Tempted to wonder why they bothered to leave London for a second rate West Highland curry, I enjoy the warmth of the beer in my chest as I set about my maps again.

  The man next to me says something. I glance up again to find him peering over my shoulder at the map.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You going walking?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet. Wherever my feet take me.’

  ‘We’re doing The Ben tomorrow. Nevis.’

  ‘Are you really?’ A vision of them puking and farting their way up the tourist trail: heart attacks on legs. The kind of walkers the mountain rescue guys dread.

  ‘You done it?’

  I smile. ‘Once or twice.’

  Once or twice. You remember the last time?

  Aye, I remember the last time. You nearly killed us down Five Finger Gully, you Taff bastard. You never did learn to navigate properly.

  Only a fucking Yeti could have navigated through that storm.

  ‘Sure he has,’ says Mikey. Jock’s a squaddie, ain’t ya, Jock?’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘I said you look like you’re in the army.’

  ‘I wa
s a bootneck. In a past life.’

  ‘Blimey,’ says Mikey appreciatively. ‘This guy knows a thing or two about the Scottish hills, then. They all train up here, don’t ya? I saw a documentary thingy on telly about it. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Sure as fuck isn’t Jock, anyway.’

  Mikey bellows with laughter. ‘Fair comment. I’m Michael.’ He offers his hand and we shake across the table.

  ‘Sean.’

  ‘Pleased to meet ya, Sean. These reprobates are Ed and Simon.’

  I nod at the pair of them.

  ‘What’s a bootneck, then?’ the one called Ed asks, looking up from The Sun to check me properly out for the first time.

  ‘A fucking Royal Marine Commando.’ Mikey punctuates each word and puffs out his chest as though I’m his long lost best mate. ‘Sean here’s one tough geezer. Bet you’ve seen some action, Sean, haven’t ya.’

  I swallow about a third of the can in a single draught and nod, feeling half cut already. ‘You might say that.’

  ‘Where you been, then?’

  Ed swats him with his paper. ‘Jesus wept, Michael, give the man a break why don’t you? Maybe he don’t want to talk about it.’ He looks at me. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s pissed as a fart.’

  Mikey nods. ‘He’s right, I am. Don’t mind me. I know a guy at work whose son was in the Paras. He went to Afghanistan and got blown up. Roadside bomb, bang, nothing left of him but a grease spot in the dust. Nineteen, he was. Only been there a couple of weeks, left his girl alone with a brand new baby. Tell me something, Jock, is it worth it? Are we winning?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  I shrug. ‘I killed a kid on my last tour. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. He came running at me with an antique Kalashnikov that didn’t even work, but I shot him between the eyes before I realised that. The word winning doesn’t apply to anybody in Afghanistan except bent politicians and opium barons. Taliban are just biding their time, till we leave.’

  Ed puts down his newspaper and they all look at me.

  ‘You asked,’ I say by way of an apology, then drink some more and look out at verdant, bracken-covered hillsides rising steeply away from the train. We are moving past our own store of weapons of mass destruction at Faslane, toward Arrochar and the bottleneck of Loch Lomond. The guys drink and chat more quietly now and I get the distinct impression I’ve spoiled their party.

  I see the kid’s face superimposed over my own reflection in the window. I see him lying across his mother’s lap, eyes turned blankly toward the puffy white clouds, blood oozing brackishly from the wound the way it does when the heart has stopped pumping. It was the dirt smudged on his chin that made him look like he had stubble, but up close he was a boy playing the hero, trying to scare us with his father’s clapped out rifle. A father long dead, a mother crying to Allah, asking him to take her too. Goats bleating in the background as though nothing had happened.

  I dropped my own rifle then, as though it had suddenly become too hot to touch, turned away and spewed my last meal into a wadi. That was the moment I cracked; the thrill of battle finally ended there, frozen in the dead stare of a child. I had to wait out another three months for an IED to send me home.

  We arrive at Crianlarich station and sit out the usual bumps and jostles as the Oban half of the train detaches. My hospitable English companions offer me another beer and I take it. We chat about weather in the hills, the joys that are to be found in Fort William of an evening and rugby, where at least the comforting choice between winning and losing still holds.

  My head swims a little and my eyes close for a while, sleep pulling my chin toward my chest. By Bridge of Orchy I am feeling slightly sick and desperate to be off the train, and instead of going all the way to Fort William, I decide to get off at Rannoch Station. It’s only thirteen miles or so across the moor to Kingshouse, likely to be blissfully deserted, and the fair weather appears to be holding. The moor will be a tapestry of spring wildflowers, all fragile pinks and yellows amongst the still dark heather and patches of verdant moss, sun shimmering off lochans like polished steel. Tomorrow, depending on weather and my mood I can tackle the Aonach Eagach or the Buachaille. A vision of myself – brief but visceral, as though it’s happened in a dream-- spreading my arms, flying from The Chancellor over Glencoe, and blowing away to hell like a crow on the shoulder of the wind.

  XXV

  I am the only person to step onto the tiny platform at Rannoch Station. Head foggy from the beer, I delve into my provisions and break off about a quarter of the fruit loaf and eat it with some peanut butter. After a few slugs of water, I hoist the pack onto my back and, still working the sticky sweet and salty goo off the roof of my mouth, set out on the track heading west toward the mountains. The sun beams in rays through silver clouds, and the wind comes out of the southwest with the sweet smell of gorse blossom. Where the track is dry and easy to follow I run, and my head empties of everything except the physical process of lifting one foot after another.

  Endorphins carry me to Kingshouse, but begin to drain as soon as I head down the gradual slope from the moor toward the old hotel. It’s dusk by the time I arrive, and there are two tents tucked into the heather behind the pub already. I am lured by the smell of chips into the climber’s bar at the back, and park myself at the last empty table. It doesn’t take many bodies to fill the small room, with its carved high-backed seats, wood fire and walls hung with mountaineering photos.

  I let the Bergen slide onto a bench, then head for the bar and wait my turn behind a couple of guys in boots and gaiters. They’re boisterous as they gather their pints, laughing about some misadventure on the hill. I order lasagne and chips and, after only a moment of swithering, a pint of Guinness. Back at my seat, I sip it slowly and take stock of myself: the now familiar tightness at the backs of my knees, a grumble in the lower back and a bit of chafing around my right ankle. Thirteen miles wouldn’t usually faze me, but running in boots, with a loaded pack, is something altogether different. I’m not sure I’d pass the ML course now, if I had it to do over.

  I loosen the laces of my boots, soak in the warmth of the fire and try not to throw back the Guinness too fast. The door creaks open, letting in a blast of cold air and a young woman in a Nepali hat with ear flaps and a bright green North Face jacket. Slim legs, stiff brown walking boots. She stands for a moment looking around for a seat, then takes off her hat and runs her fingers through long, honey-blond hair. The other tables are all occupied by groups, so she fixes her eyes first on the spare seat at my table and then on me.

  ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ A wee hopeful smile and a nice accent: west of Scotland, educated, comfortable in itself.

  I sit up a little straighter and return the smile. ‘I think you are.’

  ‘Oh God, thank you.’ She peels off her jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair, then walks stiffly to the bar and places an order for food. After a couple of minutes she returns, carrying a pint. She puts it down, warms her hands in front of the fire, then sits. Closes her eyes for just a moment with the relief of being off her feet, and takes a long drink. Her cheeks glow in the dim, flickering light.

  She groans softly. ‘I’m totally jiggered.’ Then she looks up at me and smiles again. ‘I’m Laura.’

  ‘I’m Sean.’

  ‘Are you on the West Highland Way as well?’

  I laugh. ‘No, I’m walking Sean’s Way.’

  Her brows draw together. ‘Where’s that go, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll tell you when I get there.’

  This gets a clear, rich laugh out of her and she says something generally appreciative, which I don’t catch over the testosterone-fuelled conversations going on around us. I lean toward her and rest on my elbows, and she does the same. This is about the point where Mitch could be expected to chime in, but I haven’t heard from him since I left the train.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘West Highland Way. I
left Glasgow four nights ago.’

  I’m concentrating intently on her words, which probably gives the impression that I’m coming onto her. But then, she doesn’t seem to mind.

  ‘You’re on your own?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m celebrating my singleness after five years with the most uptight man on the face of the earth. I’m doing a Nancy Sinatra.’ She holds up a boot. ‘I’ve got blisters on both feet and the fucking pack is killing me, but I’m loving it. I’ve met some incredible people on the way. Today I met two women riding these black highland ponies across the moor. They’re riding the drovers’ roads all the way to London for charity. Amazing. It seems like everyone out here has a story.’

  I take a drink and consider this. ‘Out here you realise it’s your story that makes you who you are. It’s not your house or your job or what mobile phone you’ve got. When your life is stripped down to the things you can carry on your back, you realise that your stories are the only things that matter.’

  And right on cue: Listen to this rubbish. I forgot what a twat you are when you drink, Nic.

  I ignore him and focus on Laura’s face.

  ‘That is so fucking right,’ she says, and looks at me as though this is the most profound thing she’s ever heard. ‘You know what? That’s exactly why I left John. Because he defined his life by his mobile phone.’

  ‘Most people do.’ I glance up as a weedy young waiter arrives with an enormous plate of lasagne and salad, with a bowl of chips on the side. My stomach growls on cue. I dig my fork in and take a large bite, yaffel it down almost without chewing. After three or four bites, I remember my manners. ‘Sorry, Laura. I’ve had nothing but fruit loaf and peanut butter since Waverley Station this morning.’

  ‘Fruit loaf and peanut butter?’

  I like the little wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. ‘Protein and sugar. Keeps you going.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Sounds disgusting. How’s the lasagne?’

  I pause to taste it. ‘Right now it’s the best meal I’ve ever had. I could eat the table as well, mind you.’

  The waiter reappears with her meal: a cheeseburger and more chips. She unwraps the cutlery from the paper napkin and starts eating, almost as greedily as I am. After a few minutes, she sits back and wipes tomato sauce off her mouth and says something into her napkin.