2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel

by Christopher Brookmyre

  One more year and then that’ll be everybody away. Robbie’s not very sure he’ll be staying on after the summer, either. It’s been hard enough at home over him staying on for Fifth Year. Can’t see the old man wearing it if he says he wants a sixth.

  Maybe he’ll get lucky and find a job. That way he could move out the house, get away from the family. It’s been fucking murder lately. Ma and Da fighting all the time, and what makes it worse is he now knows what it is they’ve always been fighting about. It all came out last summer, when he said he wanted to stay on and do Higher History because he got a ‘B’ for his O Grade. He didn’t let on to anybody, in case they made out he was a poof, but he was well chuffed at getting a ‘B’. He also got ‘C’s in Arith and Geography.

  Da—aye, right: “Da”—said no chance. Wanted him out the house soon as he was sixteen, never mind out the school. Said it was time for him to support himself. Ma pointed out there was no way of supporting himself if there were no fucking jobs, and he’d be in with a better shout of getting one later if he’d more exams. And that’s when Da lost the place and said it: “I’ve supported that useless wee cunt for sixteen fuckin years an he’s no even mine.”

  Aye, that was a champagne fucking moment.

  However, tell the truth, when Da finally came out with it, Robbie realised it was something he’d suspected deep down for a long, long time. Just never got round to admitting it to himself. Not as if there hadn’t been plenty of fucking clues down the years. But there you are, that was it finally in the open.

  He’d since asked his ma millions of times who his real da was, but she wouldn’t tell him. “Just leave it,” she’d always say. Leave it? This was his fucking father he was talking about. Did she really expect him to shrug his shoulders and quit asking? Probably not, but she wasn’t fucking telling, that was for sure, and she got really upset if he pushed it too hard. Da leathered him for it once, absolutely knocked fuck out him. He saw’Ma was upset, and even though she wouldn’t say what was wrong, Da guessed. Told Robbie never to ask her again, so that was always the risk he was running.

  Atmosphere in the house has been fucking awful ever since; worse than usual recently. He can’t see himself getting his Higher history. He didn’t think he did well in either paper. Hardly studied in the run-up because he couldn’t bear to be in the house. Realistically, he can’t see himself being able to come back and resit it next year. That’s why he’s lapping this up the now: he knows it’s the end.

  Scot Connolly appears alongside him, dancing with Helen Dunn. Robbie might end up dancing with Helen in a minute, because there’s a lot of that been happening: you just swap over and dance with whoever. That’s how he ended up getting a dance off Samantha. Mind you, he might not get a swap off Scotty, as now he thinks about it, he’s not seen either of this pair dancing with anybody else since really early on.

  The song changes and Zoe starts dancing with big Tico Hughes, who was behind Robbie dancing with Margaret-Anne. This leaves Robbie with her as a partner, and it kind of says it all about tonight that she just smiles and gets on with it. Margaret-Anne can be a right torn-faced bitch, and if anybody was going to give him a knock-back, she’d be the one. Well, maybe not just her. There’s Eleanor as well. That would be the ultimate test, wouldn’t it? He can see her close by, now that he’s facing the other way. She’s with Kenny Langton, and she’s smiling, probably because Kenny’s coming out with all his jokes as usual. Robbie’s glad she’s smiling, but. It’s a fucking sin for her, what happened. Her ma killed herself. Took a fucking overdose. Left a note, they said, then washed down a bottle of sleeping tablets with a half-bottle of vodka. It was about a month ago. Eleanor’s not been back at school since. Missed her exams and everything. Nobody knew whether she’d come along tonight, but maybe it’s a way of breaking herself back in gently. He’s tried not to look out for her, because he knows everybody’!! be doing that, and he of all folk understands what it feels like to be the subject of their fascination.

  He’d like to talk to her, but, to let her know he’s been there as well, and that he knows how hard it is when every cunt’s tiptoeing round you but unable to keep their eyes off you.

  He wants to say sorry as well. All that shite between them, it was fuck-all to do with him and her. It was all about fucking Boma and Joe—mostly Boma—and how much they hated the Fenwick boys. He and Eleanor were just caught in the middle, and he feels like he ought to say something about it. This feels like the kind of night for things like that. Everybody’s getting on, acting like adults, treating each other with a wee bit of respect. Tempo’s still acting like Charlie Big Balls, because it’s his da’s gaff, but other than that, nobody’s holding any grudges.

  Aye, he thinks. That’s what times like this are for.

  He moves along a bit as he dances, Margaret-Anne staying close, following his lead, then he positions himself so that he’s got his back to Kenny.

  The record starts fading and another one begins. He taps Kenny’s shoulder and he turns round.

  “Awright, Robbie?” Kenny says with a big grin, then flashes his gnashers at Margaret-Anne, stepping in to be her new partner.

  Robbie side-steps to let him pass, then finds himself face-to-face with Eleanor in the centre of the dance floor. Linda Ogilvie’s to his left, dancing with Matt Cannon; and Big Tempo’s on the right, dancing with Jojo.

  §

  Colin is getting a semi here, which is a worry. He knows these trousers with the double pleat look cool-as, because he saw Don Johnson wearing a pair just like them on Miami Vice, but if his cock doesn’t cool the jets in a minute, it’s going to be really fucking obvious. Would have been all right if he’d just worn Ys instead of these boxer shorts, but the boxers look a sight more sexy if they’re all you’ve got on, and he’s set fair to be seen in just that condition not too many hours from now. That’s why he’s getting a semi, in fact. It’s quite a bouncy record that’s on—Waterfront (the DJ’s been told: plenty Simple Minds and Bowie or he’ll not be getting another gig at the Bleachfield)—and between the sight of Jojo’s tits jiggling about in that low-cut dress and his own unsupported tackle swinging free, it’s difficult to think about anything else.

  He’s been buttering up Jojo for a few weeks now, and this is when it’s all planned to pay off. He’s the main man here tonight, everybody knows it; it’s practically his party, and he’s got a room ready upstairs.

  Embarrassing to relate, Tempo’s never done it, and that seriously needs to be put right, which is why he’s been working hard and carefully on this. Ideally, he’d have lined up somebody that’s definitely done it already, because that would be a surer bet. Unfortunately, most of the ones who he knows have done it are either spoken for or total dogs. He doesn’t know whether Jojo’s done it or not, but she always talks big about sex, so he reckoned she would be a good shout. If she hasn’t done it, then it’ll probably be a worry to her that most of her pals have, because Jojo always likes to be the one in the know. Plus, she’s not the bonniest of that crowd, still a bit on the plump side, so he’s accurately predicted she’d be flattered he was paying her so much attention; in fact, semi-officially going out together. So far he’s had a finger up her and she’s given him a wank, so he’s betting that now she’s the one on the arm of the star of the show tonight, she’ll reckon her ship’s come in. And he’ll be sailing that ship right upstairs and on to that king-size.

  §

  Robbie smiles at Eleanor, trying to look apologetic, trying to look friendly.

  Eleanor smiles too, for about a second, the second it takes for it to register who she’s dancing with, who she’s looking at. Then her face just sort of crumbles. She stares at him, not dancing, not moving. He’s expecting a mouthful, or her to turn away, but she just stands there, looking at him, staring at him, and there’s this look in her eyes, this sadness.

  He sees her mouth start to tremble. She raises her arms. For a fraction of a second he thinks, incredibly, that she’s about to
hug him, but then she collapses into tears. And he means collapses. She puts her hands to her face, then her legs go wobbly and she slumps to the floor on her knees.

  Jojo’s right in there like a shot, helping her up and leading her away, right out the room. Robbie should have been the one to lift her, to help her, but he felt unable to move, like he was stuck in a silent glass box with everything still going on around it. He was paralysed in the moment because he saw exactly what Eleanor saw, saw what had knocked her down, what her dead ma must have told her in that note before she went.

  Did Boma and Joe know as well, all this time, he wonders? No. Specially not Boma. Cunt would never have been able to keep his mouth shut. All he’d have known was that his da hated the Fenwicks, was never done slagging them and especially their no-good father who walked out on the whole sorry bunch.

  §

  “I took her out to the car park for some air,” says Jojo. “Took her to the toilets first, but they were mobbed. We sat on the steps to the fire escape and she just poured it all out. We weren’t big pals or anythin back then—no enemies either, we got on okay—but no exactly confidantes, you know? I think it just needed to come out. She needed to tell somebody, and I was the first person on hand to take an interest.”

  “I had no idea,” Martin says. “I don’t think anybody did. We all just assumed she broke down because it was too big an occasion for her to be in the middle of after her mum died. I don’t think anyone thought Robbie’s part was anything more than incidental. In fact, I don’t think anybody else today would have been able to tell me who Eleanor was dancing with when it happened.”

  “And that’s where you’d be wrong again, Professor.”

  §

  Colin stands next to Jojo as she helps Eleanor to her feet. He’s offering an arm to help support the lassie, but Jojo shakes her head and puts out a hand, gesturing him to leave them alone. “I’m takin her oot,” Jojo says. “Just leave us the now.” He nods and steps out of the way. Around him there are couples and groups still dancing, oblivious to what just happened, or maybe in some cases politely pretending they never saw it. There’s plenty more being less sensitive or discreet: heads turned, fingers tapping shoulders, hands cupped to ears. And then there’s Robbie: standing like it’s a massive game of sticky statues and he’s the only one who thinks the music’s stopped.

  Colin, similarly bereft of his dance partner, taps Robbie on the arm to break the spell and leads him off to a seat at the side. Nobody is looking at them: whatever happened, Eleanor’s the one it happened to, while Robbie and Colin are just two guys leaving the dance floor. But something did happen to Robbie, Colin can see. He looks totally spooked, white as a ghost, his eyes focusing somewhere that isn’t in this room.

  And suddenly something clicks into place. The secret fragment of childhood history that Colin has always carried, jagged and anomalous, transforms from a baffling isolated shard to the piece that completes a larger puzzle.

  It’s Primary Four, St Lizzie’s. Playtime. Colin has left the game of Colditz early because he needs a pee and wants to go before the bell rings. Plus he was stuck being a Jerry. He walks into the boys’ toilets and sees a sight he will never forget.

  Boma Turner is booting at the door to one of the stalls, repeatedly bringing his right foot to bear upon the side of the lock, furious, determined grunts issuing from his mouth with each kick. Fairly miraculously, the lock holds out against this onslaught. Boma then gives the door a charge with his shoulder but is again rebuffed. In response, he lets out a guttural roar that starts as frustration but becomes like a war-cry as he takes another runny and scrambles his way over the top of the cubicle.

  Colin then sees the door shudder further, accompanied by more thumps and, this time, yelps of pain and panic.

  He hears Boma’s voice, low and breathless now: “This is for what your bastart da done tae ma maw,” followed by more blows, more cries. Then the lock snaps back and the door opens just enough for Harry Fenwick to hurl himself through the gap before Boma can pull it closed again. He sprawls on the floor, his trousers tripping him around his knees. Colin sees shite all over Harry’s legs before he hauls them up and scrambles for the exit, clutching his waistband.

  Boma steps out and watches Harry run, then turns to look straight at Colin. “You say anyhin tae any cunt an you’re next,” Boma says quietly, walking to the sinks where he calmly proceeds to wash his hands.

  Colin shakes his head rapidly. He can’t find the words to state his acknowledgement.

  “Now get yoursel tae fuck.”

  Colin told nobody the truth about the legendary incident, at first through fear of Boma, and later out of shame that he had been so cowardly as to hide it for so long.

  Boma would have been ten, maybe eleven. Chances were he didn’t know precisely what Harry’s da had done to his mammy; and, like Colin, was probably under the mistaken impression that the Fenwicks’ da was whatever man was then living with their mother. There would likely have been some conversation or argument between Boma’s parents, overheard and half understood, about which all he knew for sure was that his da was really angry. Like Colin, Boma himself at that point probably assumed this outrage to have involved Harry’s da somehow hurting Mrs Turner.

  As far as Colin understood, Joe Turner and the older Fenwicks had already crossed swords, so with no way of knowing how historical Mrs Turner’s injury to be, he was under the impression it was part of an ongoing greater animosity, rather than the cause of it. They were the two bampot families of the scheme, so it was inevitable that their boys would be laying rival claim to being kings of the midden. That, Colin assumed, and not whatever Boma had referred to in the toilets, accounted for the mutual hatred between the Fenwicks and the Turners in later years: such as Eleanor putting the glue in Robbie’s schoolbag, and Boma dropping animal guts on Colin and Eleanor that time he was getting off with her. Boma wasn’t at the disco, but soon afterwards it was common knowledge that he had been the one who broke into the school that night and stole the video. Colin therefore had no doubt about what else he’d done, though he’d never felt much inclined to dig him up about it.

  Once Colin was older, on the rare and uncomfortable occasions he had cause to remember the incident in the toilets, his teenage fixations made him imagine Mr Fenwick’s transgression must have been something darker, like rape. Tonight, though, seeing Eleanor break down and Robbie freeze, he understands not only what it truly was, but when it truly was.

  Eleanor’s mum killed herself a few weeks back. Left a note, they said.

  Colin thinks of Boma and Joe, how Robbie never looked much like them. And now, after years of it literally staring him in the face, he realises who Robbie does resemble.

  §

  “Did Robbie already know by that point?” Martin asks. “Christ, I’m saying that, but…I should be asking you if Robbie even knows now.”

  “He knows,” Jojo says, nodding. “I don’t know when or how exactly he found out, but I do know they faced up to it together shortly after. Eleanor says they met a few times over that summer. Must have been hard, specially given how much they’d hated each other, but family’s family: they were brother and sister, or half-brother and—sister anyway.”

  “Must have been easier for Robbie to forgive than the other way around,” Martin suggests.

  “Maybe,” Jojo demurs. “Eleanor knew she was no saint either.”

  “Hard to believe Robbie would want another sibling, given how he got on with his brothers.”

  “He got on okay with the women, I think: his mum, his big sister. Having a sister who was nothing to do with Johnny Turner must have seemed a good thing.”

  “So is it common knowledge now?”

  “No. I mean, there’s folk who know, but it’s not mentioned aloud, you know?”

  “And Robbie and Eleanor, are they close?”

  “Not really. Eleanor kept him at arm’s length. Robbie was always a bit of a shambles, as you know, though Elean
or told me any time he had money he tried to help out with Gail. He also tried to track down their father, but got nowhere. Spent money on agencies and stuff, but nobody really knew where to begin. Eleanor’s mum wasnae around to ask, and Eleanor knew nothing because Charlie Fenwick disappeared before she was even one. That was 1969.”

  “The year the Bleachfield was built,” Martin says.

  Jojo nods and gives him a penetrating look. “You worked it oot yet, Sherlock?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Aye, well, so did Colin, would be my guess. At roughly the point when Johnny Turner became determined to stop him demolishing the hotel.”

  “But how did Colin know Charlie Fenwick was Robbie’s father?”

  Jojo sighs and an uncharacteristically vulnerable, regretful look plays across her face.

  “You told him,” he guesses.

  She winces a little and briefly closes her eyes. “It wasn’t quite like that,” she says. “It was…That was the night…” Her words falter and she has to swallow and sniff as a few tears form. Martin puts his hand into his pocket and produces a tissue. She doesn’t take it, but does hold the proffered hand.

  §

  It’s getting late, close to midnight. The bar closed half an hour ago, which is a good thing, considering how pissed certain folk look. Karen thinks they ought to run a sweepstake on who pukes first out of John-Jo, John-James, Tarn Mclntosh, Liam Paterson and James Doon. She’d give evens on a dead-heat between the Carnock Cousins, as they did everything together. Kenny Langton looked pretty blitzed, too, she thought earlier, but that turned out to be just the way he was dancing.

  It’s winding down: slow numbers from the DJ, the dance floor left to a few genuine couples and two of the guys having a slow waltz as a carry-on. Helen is still out there with Scot Connolly. Karen came here with Helen and Alison in Karen’s mum’s car, but she and Alison have hardly spoken to the lassie for the past two hours. Karen’s delighted for her, though: she’s positively radiating. Helen looked good tonight anyway, if a little self-conscious about being so glammed-up, and seemed to grow into her dress once she started dancing with a few guys. However, it was after she danced with Scot, and then went off to a table with him and talked and laughed and talked and laughed that she really started to glow.