by Daniel Shand
‘There they are,’ someone screamed.
The leader of the pack was a smallish, curly haired woman, frothing and yelling, using the butt of her torch to chink the remaining glass into us. John Bun was there too, his bawling head one among many. Now I remembered where I’d seen him – in that pub, with Sam.
We went out through the cabin’s back door and into the woods. We flew across the ground like jungle cats, like bulls.
A voice from the lochside shouted, ‘Get them,’ before the trees blocked it out.
Over and under bough we went, panting, skipping over noose-like roots in the darkness. Screams pursued us, the odd flicker of torch’s light on wet leaves above our heads.
‘What’s going on?’ heaved Mikey when we had some distance on them. ‘Was that the police?’
‘Did you not see the woman?’ I asked, my jogging making my voice staccato.
‘No. What woman?’
‘Sam,’ I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, not losing pace. ‘From Duncan?’
‘I think so. I saw her in this pub near the camp.’
‘What pub?’
I didn’t want to bring up speaking to our mother again, so I said, ‘Just this pub’, and as I recalled that evening I remembered the prim-looking gentleman she’d been speaking to. John Bun.
‘Let’s stop,’ he said, and we paused, leaned on trees, let our eyes adjust to the darkness, sent our ears crawling over branches.
‘We’ve lost them, I think.’
Mikey leaned over, palms on quivering knees, and spat a yellow chunk of phlegm. He winced up at me. ‘What did they want?’
I squeezed my eyeballs with fingertips. ‘I think she’s rounded up a mob, for Duncan.’
We were quiet for a long time. We were by ourselves. We shivered, alone.
A few crashing sounds off in the distance, muted to a rustle.
‘Fuck,’ we hissed, taking off again.
I had to get Mikey to safety, to the road.
I was so tired. I was beat, but I kept on, kept jogging through the trees. Every so often we would come to rest, hoping we had lost them, every so often they would track us down. We were not alone any more though. The ghosts had come back and they were trailing along beside us, watching. I felt no animosity from them, just a cold interest in their watchful eyes.
Up ahead the trees began to thin – the road forming.
‘Here it is,’ said Mikey, pulling me up.
We had a breather by the roadside, looking back across the treetops to the dark water. No moon shone in the sky, everything held the same shades of navy and grey.
‘I think we should split up,’ I breathed.
Mikey squinted. ‘How come?’
‘Confuse them.’
Mikey shook his head. ‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘I think we’ll have to,’ I said, pointing back into the woods. ‘I’ll head back the way we came. You try and take the road.’
Mikey looked into the trees, he looked at the road. ‘Paul,’ he said.
‘It’s the best way to do it,’ I confirmed. ‘You’ll be fine. We’ll meet up in town. OK?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not a good idea. We can both go along the road.’
I put my hands in my armpits. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I repeated. ‘But, just in case…’
‘What?’
‘Tell Mum I said sorry?’
He choked then, putting his hand out for me. I stepped back.
‘Will you?’
He nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Because I am, you know that?’
He nodded again.
‘Right. Well. See you in a bit, Mikey.’
‘See you, Paul,’ he said.
I walked backwards, down the hill, into the trees, allowing them to reabsorb me. He watched me going, his pointed elbows jutting from the hem of the robes. I waved, once, and he waved back.
I had company along the way. Each of them had joined me, in time, as I fought back through the trees. Every single one of them, except for the wee lassie. They moved in line with me along the path, stopping when I stopped, changing course when I changed course. Coming close to me when I felt brave, putting these rushing judders of fear up me when our skins touched. The air around me was thick with dead men.
I found the mob eventually. They had holed up in an overgrown area of pathway, branches intertwining overhead. The beams of their torches flickered through the spaces between trees to my hiding place a few feet from them.
‘…keep going…’ I heard one voice say.
‘…lost them…’ said another.
‘…kill the fucker…’
Wedging myself between two ancient trees, I did my best to concentrate, to try and overhear what their plans were. I didn’t let myself think about what I was doing because if I thought about it I would try to talk myself around. We could not afford that, not after how far we’d come, the things we’d had to do.
There were more mumbling voices but nothing I could pick out. So I had no choice – I let myself go. I was alone in the world and because I was alone I was free. Pushing out of my hiding place I fell onto the path, revealing myself to the mob. I caught a rapid glance of them all before torches swung to my face and I was blinded by light. Hands grabbed me and hurled me against a trunk and then to the floor.
‘Which one is it?’ someone asked.
‘Is that him?’ asked another. ‘Is it?’
‘Let me past, let me past,’ screeched a female voice, and a break in the light formed and a face came to me. The hands on my shoulders dug in and pulled me up to face her.
It was Sam. She wore an expression I’d never seen before on any human.
‘Do you remember me?’ she asked.
I told her yes.
‘Did you know I was looking for you?’
I shook my head. What good would it do to explain?
‘You killed Duncan, didn’t you? You and your brother?’
I looked at her for a moment, at the creases and wrinkles that rage made upon her. All I hoped was that I could take some of that from her. I told her yes.
‘We found him,’ she said to me. ‘He was down river. I had to identify the body.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.
‘You sick fuck,’ she said and she spat, right in my face, her warm liquid trickling down my nose. ‘Get him up.’
The hands pulled me to my feet and the torches shone in my face.
‘Take him into town,’ she told the men on my side, the faces I couldn’t see. ‘He’s going away for a long time.’
‘Wait though,’ one of the gruff voices said. ‘Which one is he?’
‘What does it matter?’ asked Sam. ‘We’ll get the other one soon enough.’
‘Are you Michael Buchanan?’ someone shouted.
‘Yes,’ I said.
All around me a groan rumbled through the mob. Lips manifested by my ear and someone screeched, ‘Fucken beast!’ directly into my brain.
‘That poor wee bairn,’ I heard a woman mutter.
And with that they were on me, spitting into my face, pulling me back to the ground. The torches were being discarded and the mob was revealing itself. I was surprised by how normal it was. Your plain, average blokes and wifeys, maybe a dozen of them in total. They set about me, laying punch after punch into my waiting face. I felt my teeth move in the bone and the fragments of my nose come away.
Not a single blow hurt me. I could barely see them in fact. I was watching someone else, the short figure beyond.
The wee lassie was waiting for me.
‘Stop it,’ screeched Sam. ‘We need to take him to the police.’
She was ignored, pushed back. They kept up the beating for a good while, concentrating on my face and torso. I was slick with blood. I was slick with their saliva.
I lay on the ground once that part was over. I could hear Sam screaming away, telling them it was going too far, pleading with them to stop.
/> ‘Look at his pretty hair,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Just like in the photo.’
I was pushed forward to my knees, the mob milling around me, arranging themselves. A hand on the nape of my neck, forcing it forward. At the other end of the path one of them was holding Sam by the waist as she fought to try and get to me. She’d underestimated my brother’s reputation.
Something cold scraped over the back of my skull, something that stung. My neck tickled and big fingers grasped at the ticklish area, then the same fingers forced my mouth open and pushed the ticklish stuff inside. It was my hair. They were shaving me.
They kept going until my mouth was filled with bloodied bundles of hair, lodged tight, deep into my throat. I struggled to breathe, so mashed was my nose. I couldn’t tell how much they cut but I knew they were taking the skin with it.
I looked past them all, past the busy mob, past the writhing Sam, to the wee lassie. Waiting for me.
‘Here it comes,’ she whispered and her voice was as loud as an avalanche in my head.
‘Will it be all right?’ I asked. ‘After?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she said.
A kick in the back. I hit the dirt.
‘What’s he fucken saying?’ someone shouted. ‘He fucken talking, is he?’
‘Must be enjoying himself,’ spat another.
‘See how much he enjoys this.’
They were quiet then as they prepared the next stage of my punishment. I let myself lie on the earth and feel the muck push itself against my ruined face. Sam kept on with her howling. ‘No. Not like this. You can’t.’
A hand lifted my head, rather tenderly, and slipped something over my face and onto my neck. I slumped forward and the rope around my neck tightened.
Ah, I thought. So this is it.
It tightened further and its pressure lifted me up. I was on my knees and then I was standing, pirouetting around. The path was busy with people, watching. My body did the rest for me, automatic, my toes scrabbling to stay connected with the ground, my fingers struggling against the rope on my neck. My skull was filling with the last of my blood, growing heavy and tight.
And then they gave a great heave on the rope and I had to give up, because I was airborne.
They hoisted me further and further until my crotch was level with their heads.
Just a matter of time.
And there she was.
Waiting for me.
19
The man gets up very early in the morning, because of the commute. He switches off his alarm before it even goes off, to keep his wife from waking with him. She sleeps in complete surrender, her palms facing the ceiling at either side of her head. A kiss stolen from her forehead is the only interaction he permits.
He makes himself a quiet breakfast in the pre-dawn. His children are light sleepers and don’t need to wake until he’s well on the road, so he has to make do with a piece of fruit at the kitchen table.
He showers downstairs in the smaller bathroom and keeps a cache of toiletries in the cabinet here so that he can complete his morning ablutions. He maintains a working wardrobe in the hallway cupboard and selects an outfit from there once he has dried himself.
The house is silent.
Even the family dog does not know he is awake. It snoozes in its basket, through the glass of the living room door. Once he’s ready for work the man lets himself out and the morning chill nips his freshly washed skin. He doesn’t mind any of it – the early rises, the need for quiet, the poor breakfast.
His car is nice, newish. It starts first time, every time and he relishes that consistency. The man had a difficult upbringing. He was prone to being drunk or high often, right up until he met his wife. People knew him as the life and soul and for a long time that was enough, to be known as a hard drinker and wild man. His heroes had been the likes of Oliver Reed, Richard Burton. He slept in frequently, struggled to hold down jobs, his doctor mentioned that he should watch out for his liver enzymes but the man shrugged it off.
And now look at him.
Look at him rising early out of a delicious sense of commitment. Owning a car that starts with a gentle purr. He truly enjoys it. There are some men at his workplace who complain about being tied down, about the restrictions of family life. He chuckles at their desperation but inside he cannot relate.
He drives his newish motor through the countryside, towards the city. This is one of his favourite times of the day. The land is so special. Every day he sees the same mountains, the same lochs, the same dark bunches of trees, and every day they look different. When his wife came to him to explain that she’d fallen pregnant he knew exactly what to do. He found a rural estate agent and he negotiated a promotion from his employers.
He chooses to leave the stereo off, feeling it too early to enjoy even music.
His second favourite part of the day is coming in the door in the evening when his children give him their hugs and they have a meal together. He is able to wrangle their day’s stories out of them in a way that no one else can. When their mother asks them how school was they say merely, ‘Fine.’
He’s thinking of the day ahead, already planning his schedule to the minute, when he sees a person by the side of the road. The person, a young man, is dressed in a garment that looks more like a towel than any piece of apparel the man’s ever come across. The young man’s standing in the ditch, not hitching exactly, but looking lost and desperate in a way that tugs on the man’s heartstrings.
Ever since his own difficult upbringing and wild years afterwards the man has a soft spot for wayward young men. He is able to see through the stubbornness and the sarcasm to the soft boy inside. At his workplace he has taken more than one difficult apprentice under his wing.
There’s a passing place further down the road that the man pulls into. He rolls down his window and waits. He can see the young man watching the car in his rear view mirror. He’s not going to pressurise the young man, just wait and let him come if he wants to.
The young man looks back up the road and then to the man’s car. He shakes his head and approaches.
‘Needing a lift?’ the man asks, when the face moons into his window.
‘Maybe,’ says the young man, tugging at the neck of his garment. ‘Where you going?’
‘Glasgow,’ says the man. ‘But we can go a bit out the way if you need.’
The young man scowls. ‘No. Glasgow’s fine.’
‘So?’
‘Aye,’ agrees the young man. ‘Fine.’
He jogs around the back of the car and settles into the passenger seat.
Off they go.
The man won’t speak to his passenger too soon, doesn’t want to startle him or put him on the back foot. He sneaks glances at him though. The young man’s clearly been in the wars. His hair and beard have been inexpertly trimmed and there’s a rank smell coming from him. That’s not to mention the bizarre robe he’s wearing. Aye, cause that’s what it is, a robe.
When enough time’s passed and the man can feel his passenger relax he attempts some conversation.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Can I ask?’
‘What’s that?’
‘About the getup.’
‘Oh,’ says the passenger, looking down at what he’s wearing, noticing it for the first time, ‘that.’
‘It’s certainly unusual. What was it, fancy dress or something?’
‘Aye,’ says the young man. ‘Something.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying but you don’t look too well. You eating all right?’
‘I’m tired,’ admits the passenger. ‘I’ve been on the road for a while.’
‘Aye. I bet. When I was your age I was always tired. Burning the candle at both ends.’
‘Hm.’
The man thinks that this person he’s picked up is perhaps one of the most lost-seeming young men he’s ever encountered. He wishes there was something else he could do for him, something more concrete and long-lasting t
han a lift to town. But also he thinks of Leonard Cohen singing about fallen robins and supposes that maybe a lift to town, maybe the phone numbers and addresses for hostels and halfway houses, will suffice.
‘If you want to talk about anything,’ says the man, ‘we could do that. You don’t know me and I don’t know you.’
The young man shakes his head. ‘Nothing to talk about.’
‘All right. I understand. Will you tell me your name at least?’
‘My name?’
‘Aye. What’s the harm?’
The road comes towards them and under them. The sky is casting off the gunmetal shades of night and pinkening with morning. The young man chews his lip and faces the road.
‘My name,’ he says again.
‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘No. It’s fine. My name’s Paul.’
‘Paul?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s a fine name. Well Paul, I’m just going to keep driving and I’ll drop you off wherever you need me to and I’m not going to say anything else but if anything does come to mind, you just say it, all right?’
He looks at the young man calling himself Paul.
Paul nods. He understands.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to the Arts & Humanities Research Council and the University of Edinburgh School of Literatures, Languages & Cultures – for financial support during the writing of this book.
Thank you to Alan, Allyson, Bennett, Dani, Jenni, Maria, Rebecca, Ross, and Sabrina – who all read early chapters and versions of this book.
Thank you to Alex E, Dan P, Luke, Phil, Tom, and all other Marchmont Pilgrims – who were not afraid to keep the madness alive.
Thank you to Alex D, Alison, Holly, Ian, James, and Lesley – for a home away from home.
Thank you to my mother and the rest of my family, as well as Andy and Maureen – for all kinds of support.
Thank you to Janey – for absolutely everything else.
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