Throwaways

by Jenny Thomson

  Michael gazed at his shoes. “She’s fine, busy building a nest, you know. Obsessed with baby things.”

  The look I gave him could have melted steel. “She’s pregnant.”

  Whatever I’d expected it hadn’t been that. This was the guy who didn’t even have fish because they needed “too much looking after.”

  “Uh, huh,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. He didn’t look too happy about it, but then he wouldn’t be happy about anything that stopped him from being the centre of her world.

  His unease made me giggle. The thought of a baby puking and pooping all over his designer furniture, including that damn Charles Rennie Mackintosh coffee table, made me happy.

  “For goodness sake, Nancy can’t you be an adult for once instead of a bitter bitch.”

  He spoke to me as though he was the aggrieved party. It took all my restraint not to slap him. Not one of those girly, light slaps across his face, but in a Zorro motion; every slap like the slashing of a blade.

  “You’re one to talk. You left me in a nuthouse. Left me for fake blonde hair and torpedo tits.” Despite my simmering rage, I spoke clearly and calmly as nearby an old woman in a duffel coat fed the pigeons who squabbled and gobbled down bread as if it were their last meal. She turned her head in our direction, but I doubted she could hear us above the cooing of the birds. “Do not lecture me on being a grown-up.”

  Michael took a step back and eyed me with concern. Maybe deep down a part of him was sorry for how he’d treated me, but it was probably more to do with the fact that his actions had ended up with him becoming a dad. Throughout our 4-year relationship, the only time he mentioned children was when he was complaining about “snivelling brats” ruining his meal at a restaurant.

  “I know,” he swallowed, “I’ve been a right bastard. That’s why I want to make amends.” He paused. “I’ve heard you’re with someone else.”

  My hackles were up. “Yeah, I am, although I fail to see what that has to do with you.”

  “I still care about you, Nancy.”

  Yeah, right. You cared so much you jumped into bed with someone else.

  The vein in my forehead started to throb. “What do you want to tell me?”

  Michael squinted up at the sun then made a small play of looking behind me, as though what he was going to say was top secret and he was worried someone could hear. Then his gaze rested on me. “It’s that guy you’re seeing.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with you.”

  Michael frowned. On him, a frown looked like it belonged to a toddler who’d been told by his mammy that he couldn’t get any more sweets.

  “He’s not what he seems. He can’t be who he says he is. Tommy McIntyre’s dead.”

  My whole body stiffened. Was he for real, telling me this crap?

  “You are un-fucking believable. Your Barbie doll’s up the duff and you’re annoyed that her main priority won’t be you any more. So, you’ve come up with this pathetic lie to screw up my life. Honestly, you’re pathetic.”

  As I turned to leave, he put a hand on my shoulder and I shook it off. The touch I’d once longed for repulsed me.

  My face flushed. “Just leave me alone,” I snapped, but something made me stop, to turn around and face him. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m looking out for you, Nance.” His gaze met mine. He believed what he was saying. Or, did he? Knowing him, this could be a lie to get back at me for moving on.

  “What? By concocting this lie?”

  He held me in a steady gaze. “It’s not a lie. Why would I make this up?”

  “Because you think I’ll come crying back to you.” As I said it, I realised how ridiculous it sounded. Michael had left me. He didn’t want me any more.

  Staring at him, looking for any evidence that he was spinning me a line, I asked, “How do you know this?”

  “You remember Kyle?”

  Unfortunately I did. He was one of Michael’s circle of pals, a flash git in a designer suit who’d put his hand on my knee at one New Year’s party we’d all gone to and nearly got it broken off. Kyle Cafferty was chief reporter for the Daily Scot newspaper and the most arrogant man on earth. When I thought about it, a lot of Michael’s pals were like that: brash, loud and arrogant and loaded. They loved to flash the cash and talk down to people. That’s why I’d positively encouraged their boys’ only nights – I wanted to spend as little time as possible in their company.

  Michael carried on talking. “He did a story on the brother who was killed, Sammy McIntyre. He remembered speaking to the mother. Sammy McIntyre was killed in the line of duty. He was a policeman.”

  Tommy had told me all of this; this wasn’t news.

  “Anyway,” added Michael, “he remembered the mother telling him that she’d lost both her sons. He compared it to Saving Private Ryan.”

  What? That couldn’t be right.

  “Her other son, died in Iraq or Afghanistan. I can’t remember which. He was blown up by a roadside bomb.” The throbbing in my head gave way to nausea. “This guy you know. That you think you can trust. He can’t be Tommy McIntyre because Tommy McIntyre is dead.”

  I searched his face for any sign that it was a lie. My impression was that he believed what he said.

  “Could he be wrong?” I spoke calmly despite the tightening in my chest; the droplet of sweat making its way down my back. “Maybe this woman had three sons?”

  Michael looked sorry for me. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She had only the two.”

  Suddenly I felt the need to vomit.

  When Michael put a hand on my shoulder I wanted to rip it off. “Leave me alone,” I spat, directing all my anger at him. Why had he cornered me like this? Was he getting a sick sense of satisfaction out of doing this?

  Without saying another word, I started walking back in the direction of my apartment. I’d some thinking to do.

  Chapter 17

  My head felt tight, like it’d been put in a vice. If what Michael said was true – and it seemed too inventive a lie for him – who had I got into bed with? Trusted to cover my back?

  Who the hell was the guy calling himself Tommy McIntyre?

  I toyed with coming straight out and asking him for an explanation. But unless I had more than Michael’s word to go on, Tommy could brush it aside; blame it on my spiteful ex. And, maybe I’d believe him. Tommy had been there for me when Michael had abandoned me. Without him, I’d have been stuck at the bottom of the Clyde.

  But, if I did nothing, the doubts would linger. I’d never be able to trust him.

  There was only one thing for it – I’d have to give him the benefit of the doubt for now and ask Michael’s weaselly journalist pal Kyle for help. The thought of having anything to do with that slimy creep made me feel as though I’d been doused in cooking oil. Kyle Cafferty had that effect on me, yet other women seemed to throw themselves at him. They must have been able to see something I didn’t, or, maybe it was his fancy sports car, bulging wallet and penthouse apartment that first attracted them. It certainly wasn’t his sparkling personality or self-effacing nature.

  I put in a call to his newspaper and asked to be put through to his line.

  His syrupy tone came down the line. “Kyle Cafferty speaking.”

  I could hear the cacophony of keyboards clattering and people chatting away in the background and I fought the urge to hang up.

  “It’s Nancy.” There was a brief pause. “Nancy Kerr.” Dead air. Either he didn’t remember me or this was some power play. Considering who I was dealing with either was possible.

  “Aw, Nancy. You’re Michael’s bird.” His voice dripped with condescension; even the way he said my name made me want to jump in a bath of disinfectant and scrub myself clean.

  I resisted the urge to start clucking and instead said, “Not any more.”

  “Aw, I forgot, he ditched you for that blonde piece with the pneumatic tits after you had that wee bit of bother.”

  Wee b
it of bother? Somebody tried to kill me and they murdered my parents. What would he call a big bit of bother? But, I refused to rise to the bait. If only his admiring readers knew what an insensitive prick “The People’s Reporter” really was and how he carried a teddy bear around with him so he could strategically position it in photos.

  “Aye, that’s me,” I snorted. “The girl dumped for a pair of fake boobs and bad hair extensions.”

  He chuckled. “What can I do for you, Nancy?” He’d adopted a chattier tone.

  “I need to ask you about something.”

  “Oh, aye. And what would that be? I’m used to people giving me information, not the other way round.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What do I get for giving you this information?”

  The bastard was toying with me.

  “The benefit of doing the right thing, Kyle. Isn’t that enough for the Daily Scot’s ace reporter?” Despite the fact I wanted to reach my hands down the phone and throttle him, I managed to keep my tone light-hearted, almost like I was flirting with the creep.

  Let him think he’d a chance of getting a little something, something and maybe he’d help me.

  There was a deep intake of breath. “Okay, you got me there,” he said. “I’m all about doing the right thing.” There was a long pause and I heard him tapping away on his keys.

  The ignorant swine said nothing for a few minutes before loudly clearing his throat. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “You did a story a while back about a mother who lost both her sons. One was an undercover cop. He was trying to bring Sandy McNab’s empire crashing down – at least before his daughter blew his brains out. He was called Sammy McIntyre.”

  “Aye,” said Kyle. “Course I remember that. A major story for me. Major. Got me a pay rise here so I wouldn’t up sticks and head off for the bright lights of London town. Good opportunity for me, but I prefer my own wee domicile up here. Being the king of my own castle.”

  I wasn’t interested in his career prospects, so I cut in. “Do you remember his brother’s name?” Whilst I was asking, I was hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremble in my voice.

  Kyle let out a long sigh. “Tony. Naw, Tommy McIntyre. That was the brother. He died in Iraq. Blown up by one of those IEDs. Vaporized the poor bastard. They didn’t have anything left to bury. Not even his teeth.” For the first time, there was a trace of humanity in his smug voice. “His mother was a lovely woman; gave me tea and homemade shortbread when I went round. Only two boys she had and they were both gone, just like that. Bloody heartbreaking.”

  Before he could say any more, I’d muttered a word of thanks and put down the phone.

  My head felt like someone had stuck it in a washing machine and put it on spin.

  If Tommy McIntyre was dead, who the hell was the man pretending to be him and what did he want with me?

  Chapter 18

  Kyle Cafferty might have been a womanizer and a sleaze but he was a good journalist with a clutch of awards to prove it. Even I had to concede that. It wasn’t like him to get his facts wrong. But I had to be sure.

  There was one last thing I needed to do before I confronted Tommy and I wasn’t looking forward to doing it.

  It wasn’t difficult to trace Tommy’s mother; if indeed that’s who she was. Tommy had told me that it was just him and his dad, who was in a nursing home, left and up until now I’d had no cause to doubt him.

  I managed to track down the article Kyle Cafferty had written. For the piece, he’d visited Anne McIntyre at her Glasgow home where she was in the process of moving to a small coastal town in Ayrshire called Fairley.

  Anne McIntyre wasn’t listed in the electoral roll, so I hatched a plan. Equipped with a clipboard, I went door to door in the town, posing as a market researcher to find her. Fairley was a small place, so it didn’t take me long.

  Anne McIntyre lived in a nice cottage on a quiet street. She was trimming her rose bushes when I arrived. A short woman, she looked much younger than 62. She could have passed for 40. Like Tommy, she had black curly hair and a quick smile.

  “You look tired, dear,” she said after I gave her my market research pitch and she invited me into her home.

  When she went into the kitchen to make some tea, my eyes were drawn to two pictures on the mantelpiece. Once I saw them, all my doubts disappeared. There were two little boys in one of the pictures, standing in front of a caravan. They were both grinning away. One of the boys had a shock of red hair and the other’s hair was curly and black. Apart from the hair, they could have been twins. Next to that photograph was one of them as grown men. The redhead was wearing a police uniform and a goofy grin and standing next to him proudly wearing an army uniform was Tommy. Seeing the pictures, there was no doubt: the Tommy I knew was the one in the picture.

  When Tommy’s mum came back into the room she had a tray with her and I was forced to go through with the charade of pretending to be a market researcher, asking her pointless questions about her shopping habits. All the time, I was asking her such mundane questions as what detergent she used, my head was pounding away. Why the hell was Tommy pretending to be dead?

  Once I’d finished my questions, I nodded over at the photographs. “You must be so proud of your sons,” I said.

  Her smile dimmed and I hated myself for having to do this, but I wanted to hear her say it so I’d know that there was no mistake: that Tommy was meant to be dead.

  “Yes, I am dear. But sometimes I wish they had chosen different paths.” I tried to look surprised. “Both my sons are dead.”

  She leant over to the coffee table and removed a hanky from a box and dabbed her eyes. “I miss them dreadfully and with my husband in a care home – he has Alzheimer’s – I’m all alone now. I have friends and I help out at my local church, but it’s not the same.”

  Fighting the panic crushing my chest, I gulped down the rest of my tea and told her I had to go.

  As I walked towards the gate, I fought the urge to turn back and tell her the truth. To tell her that I didn’t know what he was playing at, but her son was very much alive and that if she came back with me she could see him. But, as selfish as it sounds, I was more concerned with how this all affected me.

  Without Tommy, what did I have? My family was all dead. My auntie was M.I.A. If I couldn’t trust Tommy, I was more alone than I thought.

  I had to speak to him. He’d help me make sense of all of this.

  Chapter 19

  Tommy was tossing corn on the cob into a stir fry when I came into the kitchen.

  “Tommy we need to talk.”

  He gazed over at me, brown eyes filled with mischief. “We do? That sound ominous.”

  He went over to the chopping board and started chopping up bits of broccoli and cauliflower. He did a good job of it and tossed that in the wok too. Normally the delicious aroma would have had me salivating, but not tonight. I didn’t know the man in the kitchen any more: that’s if I’d ever known him at all.

  On the drive over, I’d even debated whether to come back here at all. Whether to just sever all contact with him. Even if he came up with a plausible explanation, how could I ever trust him again?

  It was reminding myself that he’d put his life on the line for me that had made me come back. Liar or not, I owed him the chance to explain.

  He caught me watching him.

  “Dinner will be ten minutes,” he said. “Now, what is it you want to talk about? There was a glint in his eyes; he’d no idea what was coming.

  “Tommy,” I paused to swallow. “You might want to take the wok away from the heat.”

  Despite my serious expression, he grinned.

  “Christ, Nancy. Can’t you keep your hands off me for five minutes? You’re insatiable, darling.”

  He knew I hated being called darling.

  My scowl cut him dead in his tracks.

  “Okay, I get it. You want a serious talk.”

  He pulled out one out of the chairs from the table f
or me and sat down on the other.

  “I suppose you want to know if my intentions towards you are noble, Miss Kerr?”

  A chuckle stuck in my throat; came out as a snort. If only it were that easy.

  “Stop messing around.” I said. “This is serious.”

  The tone of my voice surprised him. “Okay, fire away.”

  Part of me wanted to tell him to put the dinner back on and we’d watch some nonsense on the TV and pretend I hadn’t said anything, but I had to know who this man I’d trusted was.

  What kind of person would let their own mother think they were dead?

  He knew my deepest, darkest secrets; why I woke up at night, drenched in sweat, screaming “no” over and over again. Yet he’d hidden something this important from me?

  What the hell was going on?

  “I went to see your mum today.”

  There was no preamble, I spat it out.

  He slammed a fist down on the table. “You did what?”

  When you’ve stared death in the face, not once, but twice, a man pounding his fist down on a table doesn’t so much as make you flinch even when he’s glaring at you crazy-eyed.

  “I visited your mum. Don’t think you’re the only one with the right to be surprised. You told me your mum was dead. But, of course, that was just another lie.”

  My heart was a big stress ball that was being squeezed.

  Tommy’s shoulders relaxed. “Did you see her? How was she?”

  At least he wasn’t going to try and insult my intelligence by trying to deny it.

  “Oh,” I shrugged, “she was fine for someone who was meant to be dead; very well-preserved. We had a nice wee chat over tea and she told me about her sons Sammy and Tommy and how they both died.”

  Tommy couldn’t meet my gaze. His eyes faced towards the wall as though he was buying time before he spoke.

  “What the fuck is going on, Tommy? Why does she think you’re dead?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He briefly looked up to say that, met my gaze, steady no wavering. “I can’t.”

  “Okay,” I said, dragging my chair across the floor and getting up. “In that case I’m going and I won’t be back.” The blood pounded around my brain. “I’ve had enough lying bastards to last me a lifetime. You won’t be seeing me again.”