by SJI Holliday
Everyone is talking about Marchmont Lodge. It’s almost the end of the summer holidays, and there’s been no end of stories about who’s been in there and the things they’ve done. Laura is surprised that the place hasn’t been sealed off properly. It’s been closed down for years, but it’s only recently that kids she knows have been going in there. Apparently it’s a junkies’ hangout – and most kids she knows would run a mile from a junkie. Everyone knows that lot are unstable. They’ll do anything for their next fix. But something has happened recently, and she doesn’t know what. The junkies have moved on, and the lodge has been taken over by the rampant teens of Banktoun.
It’s a small town. It doesn’t take much to get people worked up. And since all that business with the bloke up at the Track, the kids who used to hang about up there have started to drift away. They’ve found themselves a new place to drink beer and smoke and shag. Not that she does any of those things . . . well, not yet. Apart from anything else, her grandmother would kill her if she thought she’d been up to no good. Bridie Goldstone is the local gossip, and she’s far scarier than Laura’s mum and dad combined.
She planned to ask Davie about the lodge, but karate was off for six weeks during the summer and she hasn’t seen him about. She still can’t believe that the local police station might be closing down. Something went on with Davie’s boss, but, as yet, Laura has no idea what. She misses Davie. Likes being around him. He’s a good listener. A good friend. Plus, he’s someone else who gives her that little flutter inside. Even if he is old enough to be her dad.
‘Oi, you coming in here or what?’
Mark is inside the building. His face peers out at her through the broken window. He outstretches a hand. ‘Stand on the tyre, then get one foot on the ledge, and I’ll pull you in.’ An old lorry tyre leans on its side to the right of the window. The idea is to put a foot on the rim, step up onto the top, then stretch across to the window ledge. There’s probably an easier way, but this is all part of the procedure. This is the way to get in.
Folk like rules and stories and bits to embellish. Once, apparently, someone slipped when they hadn’t put their foot properly on the window ledge. They fell forward and knocked three teeth out. Laura knows the story is bullshit, because the person it was meant to have happened to was in France all summer on an exchange trip with the music department. Laura knows that because her gran knows everything there is to know. In fact, what Bridie doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. She wonders if her gran already knows about Mark.
‘Sorry. Coming. I was miles away.’ Laura flips herself in through the window in two easy moves. Mark grabs her around the waist as she lands on the floor inside.
‘Impressive,’ he says. ‘You seem very . . . flexible.’ He winks at her, and Laura feels herself blush again. This time though, he doesn’t smirk. His eyes have gone dark and glassy and huge, and Laura can only stare into them as he pulls her close and brushes his lips over hers.
Her heart starts to thud. Goosebumps run down her neck. Oh my God, she thinks. Oh. My. God. Mark closes his eyes. She mirrors him.
His lips press harder against hers, and her mouth opens naturally, just a tiny bit . . . then a little more. And then they’re kissing. Properly kissing. He tastes of spearmint. His tongue darts into her mouth, making her lips tingle. A tingle that runs all the way from her lips and down . . . across her chest, to her stomach and further until it reaches . . .
THUD.
Mark pulls away. They both open their eyes. Laura’s stomach lurches. A beautiful, painful ache. They look up. The floor above them vibrates, slightly. Shuddering with the weight of whatever has fallen on top of it.
‘I . . . I think we should get out of here,’ Laura manages, trying to catch her breath. Deal with what just happened. That kiss . . . ‘I think someone’s upstairs,’ she says.
Mark seems to have regained his composure, although his cheeks are flushed and his eyes shine bright like wet stones. Laura hopes his reaction is because of her, and not the noise from the room above.
THUD.
Mark spins her around and practically launches her out of the window. ‘You go first,’ he says, under his breath. Trying to keep the panic from his voice.
Laura scrambles outside. She doesn’t need to be told twice.
5
‘Nice of you to join us, Marie. Table four have just had their starters. Six are ready to order. I’ve left the drinks check for two at the end of the bar.’
Damn. She forgot that Wendy was on lunchtime shift today. Wendy is twenty-five and has recently returned from a month’s trek to Peru. She’s even more of a bossy little cow now than when she left. Bill, the manager, likes her because she runs around like a headless chicken and gives the impression that she’s running the show. Marie’s worked in the Rowan Tree for ten years, but Wendy treats her like a junior. She holds her tongue. The regulars know what Wendy’s like. They know who pours a better pint of Best and knows which channel they like the TV to be left on all day. They also know that ‘Bendy Wendy’ is more useful for other things than pulling pints, and Marie always has a little smile to herself, wondering if the girl knows her own nickname.
Marie picks up the drinks check. Pint of lime and soda, and a half-pint of Diet Coke. She glances across at the couple at the table. Recognises them as workers from the council offices nearby. She can predict their food order: baked potato and cheese for the slim brunette who thinks cheese is a diet food, because she never puts on weight. Marie knows it’ll be the only meal the woman has all day. Anything’s a diet food if you only eat one meal. Her companion, an older man with sandy hair, will have fish and chips. She always wonders at people who can eat the same lunch every single day and never get bored. Marie has something different on every shift, but most of the time it gets left half-touched.
She places the drinks at the end of the bar for Wendy to collect, sticks the check on the spike for table two on the corkboard with the sixteen tables laid out in a grid. She’s about to start rearranging the glasses that have been shoved onto the wrong shelves by whoever it was that was working late last night when the bar door opens.
Two men that she doesn’t recognise walk in. One’s early twenties, but with more lines than he should have and dark leathery skin. The other one’s older, shaven-headed. They look stern-faced, but there’s a confidence in the younger man’s eyes as he approaches her at the bar.
‘Two pints of Stella, please, love.’
‘And a packet of dry roasted,’ the older man cuts in.
She takes two glasses from under the bar. Starts pouring the lager. It’s the first of the day and it foams up. She lets it settle, tips part of it out, pours again. She can feel them watching her.
‘Nice day for it, love.’ The younger one again. He has an unusual accent. Scottish, but not local, with an undercurrent of Northern Irish, maybe?
‘Pity I’m stuck in here all day,’ she says, placing the two pints in front of them both. ‘Seven forty, please. Oh, and the peanuts. Sorry. Eight pounds.’ She rips a bag of peanuts off a cardboard stand and lays them down between the two men. They’ve taken the two stools in the centre of the bar, the ones that face through the gap into the lounge.
‘We’re just taking a break from the setting up,’ the younger man says. ‘Maybe you’ll come over and see us when you finish your shift, eh? I reckon there’ll be a few things there to interest you.’ He winks, but it’s playful.
Marie smiles. ‘Oh aye? What’re you setting up, then?’ She takes in their clothing – dark T-shirts stained with oil and sweat.
‘Fairground,’ the older one says. ‘We’re here all week.’ He laughs, and Marie notices the dark holes where there should be more teeth.
‘I’m Gaz,’ the younger one says. ‘Speedway and Waltzer. I’ll give you the ride of your life.’
‘I bet you’ve said that line a few times.’ Marie leans in close, lays an arm on the bar and whispers, ‘Tell me, then. Does it work?’
G
az picks up his pint and drains half of it, looking into her eyes. He’s trying to read her, but he can’t. ‘Feisty one, you, I bet,’ he says.
Marie returns his stare. She can do this all day, if she has to. She likes them to think they’ve got the measure of her, but none of them have and none of them ever will.
‘Marie, drinks check for you.’ Wendy’s shrill voice breaks the spell and Gaz turns away.
‘See you later, boys,’ Marie says. She leaves them, disappears through to the other side of the bar. There’s a satisfaction in flirting with men who think they’ve got the upper hand. She’s got no interest in them at all, but she likes to knock them off their guard. Let them know that she can handle herself. She’s spent years perfecting that stance. But it’s all smoke and mirrors.
She picks up the new drinks order. A table of four have come in since she was through in the public bar. The door to the lounge bar has been propped open with a stool and she didn’t hear them come in. More council workers. This group only come in on Thursdays. They don’t even look at the menu. Always have the specials off the blackboard. Marie realises she hasn’t even checked the specials board yet. Most days, she’s in early enough that she goes through to the kitchen and gets the list herself, writes on the blackboard and props it back up on the ledge next to the bandit. But today she was late, and today she’s distracted. She takes the drinks over to the table, and there’s a murmur of hellos, but they are deep in conversation, like they always are. Talking about the weekend plans. She checks the blackboard and recognises Wendy’s familiar badly spaced capital letters, each line slanting down to the right. She has an urge to grab a cloth and wipe it all off, write it again in her neat, looping style. Cottage Pie, Macaroni Cheese, Vegetable Korma . . . Sticky Toffee Pudding, Chocolate Fudge Sundae. The soup of the day is Tomato and Basil. She hates basil. Something a bit too floral about it.
She leaves the board and walks back to the bar. A figure is disappearing out of sight, heading outside from the lounge. Someone’s been in, changed their mind and left again all while she had her back turned. The carpet has been replaced recently and its thick pile completely muffles the sound of footsteps. A strange feeling pricks at her again, just like at the old children’s home. A feeling of someone being nearby: in her space yet out of sight.
Through the gap between the two bars, she sees the pair of empty pint glasses and the crumpled peanut packet from where the fairground guys have been. The glasses still look cold, their drink break lasting only a few minutes. As she walks through to collect the glasses for the dishwasher, something crunches beneath her foot. Broken glass? She looks down and sees a small piece of clear plastic. Picks it up and examines it in the palm of her hand. A piece of Lego. One of the flat pieces that never seem to be much use. She throws it into the bin under the sink. Runs a cloth over the section of bar where the cold pints sat. Feels disjointed, out of sorts. Wishes she’d phoned in sick after all.
* * *
When the lunchtime rush is over, Wendy announces that she’s done for the day. ‘I was only covering for Bill. I’ve no time to hang about. I’ll leave you to clear the last of the dessert plates and the mats, if that’s OK? I doubt you’ll have much else to do before the five o’clock club come in.’
Marie waves her away. ‘Fine. See you later.’
Wendy takes off with a flounce, pissed off at Marie’s apathy. Marie walks round to the tables near the door, collects the salt and pepper pots. Typical Wendy. She’s no idea what happens in the pub in the afternoon. Assumes that the two hours between lunch and the post-work drinking crowd are boring and uneventful. It’s quiet, giving Marie time to think, without the constant chatter and action of what’s happening around her. But that’s the only time she has to stock the shelves and clean all the nooks and crannies behind the bar. The quiet gap seems to shrink more and more every day. Most of the tradesmen knock off at four, even though they’re paid till half past. Their foremen turn a blind eye in exchange for drinks. They come in, stinking of plaster dust, ready to kill a couple of hours with a couple of pints before going home to the long-suffering wives. Thankfully, she’s only working until seven. Part of Bill’s new shift pattern, where he’s trialling some younger staff on the late nights – Thursday to Saturday – which suits Marie just fine. She hates those late shifts when the workmen who take it easy during the week keep going to the end, five, six, seven pints . . . Ordering bowls of chips for their dinner and buying Marie endless drinks that she ends up giving away to the other staff. She tries not to drink too much. Alcohol has never really agreed with her. She drinks to be polite, more than any real enjoyment. Anyway, she’s glad to be finishing early because there’s a possibility of a date tonight. If he turns up.
Marie has been on three dates in two weeks, which is more than she’s been on in about six months. Longer, maybe. Things have a habit of fizzling out quickly, after the initial spark of lust. She often wishes that her primal instincts would become dulled altogether, saving her from the inevitable disappointment that going out with a man usually brings. This one is different though, she hopes. This one might be a keeper.
She sees off the last of the lunchtime crowd, clears away the final plates and mats. Orders a tuna sandwich from the kitchen and wonders if she’ll actually eat it. Food’s a struggle at the moment. When she starts to worry about things, it seems to lose its appeal.
When the place is empty, at last, she takes her bag out from the shelf at the end of the bar and retrieves the letter. She turns it over. Hesitates. Takes the sharp blade she uses to slice lemons and runs it across the top, opening it like a pouch. The piece of paper inside has been folded into four. It’s cheap A4 printer paper. The handwriting is only on one side, but the pen’s been pressed so hard the ink has gone through to the back, leaving small blobs and smudges. She takes a deep breath. Ten . . . nine . . . Unfolds it.
It’s a few lines from the Bob Dylan song ‘Absolutely Sweet Marie’, asking where she is tonight. She hears his voice, singing that song to her. So long ago. Her hands shake. She closes her eyes. The door to the bar opens and three men file in. Laughing at something she hasn’t heard. She folds the letter back up and shoves it under the bar next to her bag.
‘Ah, there she is – a sight for sore eyes. How’s it going, sweet Marie?’
She wants to be sick. Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that. Maybe she misheard them? They usually call her ‘the lovely Marie’ or just ‘doll’ or ‘hen’ or ‘darling’. She can handle these. But not the other one. Not ‘sweet Marie’. She takes a deep breath. Turns and smiles at them. ‘Usual, is it, lads?’
‘Just a soda and lime for me, Marie. I’m working at six tomorrow. Need a clear head.’
Laughter.
The banality of it all refreshes her. She sweeps the memories away. Joins in with the banter. ‘You? Working? I thought you just liked wearing those jeans to show us your builder’s arse, Sam.’
The second man cuts in: ‘When he says working, he means he’ll get on the bus and fall asleep, and when we get there he’ll say he’s got a dodgy gut and he’ll sit in the gaffer’s office drinking tea all day, pretending to do admin.’ He holds his hands up and makes air quotes around the last word.
‘Aye right, Paul. We’re not all the gaffer’s wee pet.’
The third man rolls his eyes at Marie. ‘Pint for me and Paul then, hen.’
‘Sam’s been skiving, then, has he, John?’ Marie says. She plucks two glasses from under the bar and fills them with lager. She does Sam’s drink last. She catches his eye when she lays it on the bar and he looks away. His eyes are red-rimmed, and she can tell he’s been overdoing it. Someone’s had a quiet word. She’s glad about that. She doesn’t want to be the one to have to take the van keys off him again. They’re hardened drinkers, most of the builders who frequent the Rowan Tree, but some of them can handle it better than others.
Paul and John take their pints and go off to sit in the corner, where they can get a better vi
ew of the television. Sam pulls out a stool and sits at the bar.
‘All right?’ he says.
Marie picks up a cloth and a glass and starts to dry it. ‘Always better for seeing you,’ she says. Winks.
Sam gives her a half smile and looks down sadly at his drink for a moment, before picking it up and draining half of it. ‘Actually, that’s quite nice. Maybe I’ll get used to it.’ He stares at Marie until she turns away. ‘You going to that party tomorrow?’
‘What party’s that?’ Marie puts the glass on the shelf and picks up another one to dry. She’s sick of asking Bill to buy them a dishwasher. No one likes hot glasses, he always says. Drying glasses is quite therapeutic, though. It’s always a good excuse not to be running around too, if you need a break.
‘Jack Henderson’s. Just his usual Friday-night thing. You know.’
‘Sending out invites now, is he?’ Marie has been to Jack Henderson’s a couple of times. It always ends up in a mess. Too many druggies and pissheads for her liking. ‘Besides, won’t be much fun for you if you’re not drinking.’
Sam gives her a look. ‘Aye. Maybe.’
The bar door swings open and a tall skinny blonde in a too-tight white T-shirt totters in. ‘Evening, lads,’ she says. Winks. Grins. She slaps Sam’s arse as she walks past his stool. ‘All right, Marie?’ Helen is all heels, tits and gob. She’s the quintessential clichéd barmaid. The lads love her.
Marie couldn’t be happier to see her. Now that Helen is here, she can get back home and decide what she’s going to do about this letter.
6
Once Mark is safely out of the old house, he grabs hold of Laura’s hand and they run across the tarmac and out onto the street. The fence was knocked down long before, and a broken strip of safety tape flutters in the wind. They keep running until they’re round the corner and the building is no longer in sight. They stop, and Mark lets go of her hand. He bends forward and leans on his knees, panting. Laura isn’t breathless at all, but her heart is thumping – from fear, more than the run.