Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Fancy something different?’ she says.

  He nods.

  She pours them both a whisky and ginger ale. She never drinks whisky. It doesn’t really agree with her. Makes her do things she shouldn’t be doing. She has the two tumblers in her hands. Changes her mind, pushes them both up under the optics and makes them doubles.

  ‘Now,’ she says, pulling up a stool beside him, ‘where were we?’

  They sip their drinks in silence, until Sam says, ‘You know, Marie, I’ve always fancied you.’

  She feels the drink swilling around in her stomach. The fuzz in her head. She’s had too much. They both have. They should go home right now. Sleep it off. She is off tomorrow. She can sleep all day . . . But no. She can’t. Because he is in her flat. Fuck it. Fuck him. She swivels around on the stool, her knees bump against Sam’s, and he turns to face her. His lips are wet from the ice. She leans forward, kisses him.

  He hesitates, just for a second. Then he pulls her close. Kisses her hard. Marie feels a stirring deep inside. Something she thought was long gone. Something she always tried to push away. Couldn’t cope with the memories. Seeing his face, looming at her. This should be Davie, she thinks. He should be pulling me close like this. He should be the one who makes me want it like this.

  But Davie is not here. Sam is here.

  She puts a hand under his T-shirt. Feels the soft warmth of his chest. He is not too skinny, not too muscular. He is not like Graeme. He is not like Davie. Sam stands up. He leans into her stool, pushes her against the bar. His kisses are urgent, but gentle. They’ve had too many drinks. This is a mistake. But she doesn’t care any more. He pushes up her skirt, and she shuffles back on the stool. She leans forward, unbuckles his belt. Unzips him. They’re still kissing. Deep and frantic now. His hands are up her shirt, in her bra, on her nipples. She reaches down, moves her knickers to the side. Grabs hold of him. Making him gasp. He pushes into her. She’s pressed up against the bar, and he’s pushing into her, and everything in her mind disappears. Except this.

  Afterwards, he wipes the tears from her cheeks. Kisses her. Walks her home. They hold hands the whole way, but neither of them speaks.

  * * *

  Marie wakes to the sound of drawers and cupboards being opened and closed, cutlery being dropped on the worktop. She can smell burnt toast. Her head throbs. Her neck aches from the way she’s slept, head slumped towards her chest. She’s never fallen asleep on a chair before. Sofa, occasionally – if she’s been watching a late film. But never a chair.

  Someone is in the kitchen, clattering about. Making breakfast. What the . . . ? Then she remembers: Sam. She glances over at the sofa, which has been straightened, pillows fluffed, her fleecy throw blanket folded neatly and left on one arm.

  No. Not Sam.

  Graeme.

  She walks through to the kitchen, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to click it back into place. The kitchen looks like a tornado has hit it. Graeme is humming something. ‘Crocodile Rock’, off-key. It was always one of his favourites. He turns, tray in hand. When he sees her he flinches, almost dropping it.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m not used to someone else being here. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

  Graeme smiles, dimpling his cheeks. Same smile as he always had. He offers her the tray. ‘I’d have made something else, but you didn’t seem to have any food apart from bread. I made some roasted cheese.’

  ‘Toasted.’

  ‘It’s roasted. Stuff’s only toasted if it comes out of the toaster; this came out of the grill . . .’

  ‘So it’s grilled cheese, then.’

  ‘Do you want a side of fries with that, ma’am?’

  ‘Your American accent hasn’t improved much over the years.’

  ‘Not much call for it in there. I tried a few Jack Nicholson lines from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but it seemed a bit close to the bone.’

  She wants to laugh, but it won’t come out of her. They always had the debate over roasted versus toasted when they were young. They agreed to disagree. They were both huge fans of Jack Nicholson films, too. Another thing she’s tried to avoid since he went away.

  The smell of melted cheese drifts across the kitchen and Marie realises she is starving. ‘Bring it through then. You’re lucky I even had cheese.’

  ‘I had to cut the mouldy bits off.’

  He lays the tray on the coffee table, hands her a plate and a mug. ‘Two sugars,’ he says, smiling.

  Marie takes the cup and sips it. Yes, two sugars. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. She watches him as he nibbles on the toast. Too many things are swirling inside her brain, making her head hurt even more. Davie . . . Sam . . . Graeme. What the hell was she doing, letting him in here? She lays the plate back on the tray, toast untouched.

  There is a sudden movement. Graeme drops his plate. Stands up. He’s standing by the side of the sofa, arms by his sides. Staring at her. His face is tight. His mouth is set in a grim straight line.

  ‘How’s your boyfriend, Marie?’

  She feels sick. He’s safe, she thinks. Davie is safe. And Graeme can’t know about Sam. How could he know? Has he been following her? That was him at the shows. Must’ve been. He saw her with Davie.

  Or did he see her with Sam? If he saw her with Sam, that means he’s been outside. All of the windows face out to the back of the building, into the garden. Into the dark. If he saw her with Sam, he must’ve followed her. She shudders. Imagines him watching her. Always watching her.

  ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend,’ she says. Her voice shakes. She looks at her hands. Quivering. Sets the mug down. ‘You know what? I need to go out. Might be best if you just stay here and rest today, OK? I just have to pop out and do a few things. I’ll come back later, make us some tea. What do you fancy?’

  Graeme giggles. A horrible, high-pitched sound that she’s never heard from him before. ‘Don’t be silly, Marie. You aren’t going anywhere.’

  A cold trickle of sweat runs down her back. ‘What . . . what do you mean? I’m just popping out to the shop. I won’t be long. You can wait here for me, can’t you? We’ve been apart so long, what’s a few more hours?’ She tries to keep her voice light, upbeat, but it feels false.

  He takes a step towards her. ‘You know, Marie. My sweet Marie. In Balinese culture, it’s common for twins of the opposite sex to marry each other, since they’ve already had sex in the womb. Did you know that? I’ve learned a lot of things since I’ve been away, you know. Things I need to tell you. That’s why I knew it was time for me to come back. So why don’t you sit yourself down and I can tell you some more?’

  Marie is frozen. ‘I . . . Look, we can talk more when I get back. I told you, I won’t be long.’

  He takes another step towards her, then stops. Smiles. A wide, forced grin that turns his face into a terrifying mask. Marie takes a step backwards, her hand grappling wildly behind her for something, anything she can use as a weapon.

  His face goes blank. He seems to be staring right through her.

  ‘Graeme?’

  He sits back down, starts fiddling with the TV remote. He won’t look at her.

  A bead of panic fizzes inside. He’s calm again, but for how long? She can’t do this. She needs to get out. Call the police. Get him back where he belongs. Sort things with Davie. Talk to Sam – does she have to talk to Sam? Just a one-off. Sam has a wife. Kids. Nothing is going to happen.

  She needs to get rid of Graeme. If she can get him out of her flat, she can try to work out what to do. ‘Maybe you should go upstairs and get your stuff. You can put it in the spare room. Let me know if you need anything new and I can get it for you.’

  He ignores her. He’s pressing the on-off button on the remote.

  On. Off. On. Off.

  ‘Graeme?’

  ‘Whatever you think, Marie. You know best. You always did.’

  Marie can’t bear it any longer. She walk
s through to the bathroom, locks the door behind her. Takes a deep breath. A flood of anger hits her. Her cheeks burn. Hot tears roll down her face.

  I’m not letting you ruin my life, Graeme, she thinks.

  Not again.

  29

  ‘Are you sure you want to walk down by the river? Bad memories and all that,’ Mark says. He is still pale, but other than a night on an IV drip he hadn’t needed any serious treatment. He was lucky. Luckier still that despite the doctors not being able to work out what he had taken, their standard treatments for overdose had worked: pumping him with fluids, giving him charcoal to help eliminate the poison from his system. His blood tests showed that there was nothing left behind, although they did stress that they couldn’t know if there would be any long-term effects.

  They’ve sent the capsule off to toxicology for testing, Mark told her. Because no one actually knows what it is. Laura watched a TV documentary about legal highs. It was horrific. People injecting stuff into their groins. People convulsing on the ground while their mates filmed them. According to the show, the problem with these drugs is that every time the lab develops an assay to identify them, the manufacturers come up with something new. Laura realises how lucky he was. Lucky that he’d come to see her. Lucky that she hadn’t ignored him and let him wander off. Things could’ve been very different.

  Laura and Mark are walking side by side. Occasionally, his hand strays towards hers, but she pushes it away. She hasn’t forgiven him just yet.

  ‘I’ve no bad memories of that day,’ she replies. ‘Just what happened after . . . and yesterday, obviously – when you scared me half to death.’

  He lets out a long, slow sigh. ‘You know . . . or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t ever feel like this. But sometimes – don’t you just wish you weren’t one of the good kids? Just for a while? Imagine what it might be like to swear at old people at bus stops, skive off school and go drinking . . . take a few risks now and then. It’s so fucking boring being the one who does well at school. The one that your parents like to boast about in their Christmas cards to Auntie Pat, who I really don’t think gives a fuck one way or another.’

  Laura laughs. ‘Have you actually got an Auntie Pat?’

  ‘No. But you know what I mean. It’s not just me, is it?’

  Laura takes his hand. He grabs hold of it, tight. ‘Why do you think I did what I did, with you . . . what we did?’ They pass by their picnic spot. Tucked away in a corner, they can make out the edge of a rug. The faint sound of voices. Ah well, she thinks. It was hardly a unique choice of venue. They stop walking and he pulls her close.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea how much. I thought I was being wild and crazy hanging out with Gaz, taking that shit. I could’ve died. You saved me.’

  ‘Quinn saved you. And don’t think he’ll be letting you forget it. He wasn’t happy with you for standing me up the other night. Said something along the lines of “liquidising your bollocks to put in the pâté”. It’s put me right off that stuff now, I’m telling you.’ He pulls her closer, and she enjoys the feeling of his arms around her again. She feels a stirring inside her, but she pushes it away. They’ll both need to wait a bit longer for that. ‘Did your mum and dad go mental?’ she says into his chest.

  He leans his chin on her head. ‘Not yet. They were mostly just scared, and shocked. I was hooked up to the drip when they arrived. I think my mum went a bit hysterical. They were quiet this morning. I think I’m going to get the “we’re disappointed” chat later. I’m just glad they let me come down to see you first. I wanted to make sure we’re OK. I mean . . . I totally get it if you don’t want anything more to do with me, but I wanted to explain at least. I don’t want you to think I’m a total dick. I’m not like Gaz . . .’

  Laura pulls away. ‘Talking of Gaz – what’s going on with him and Hayley? I’m done with her, but I don’t want her to end up in a ditch somewhere.’

  Mark laughs. ‘He’s a drug-dealing creep. He’s probably shagged half the girls in the county. I reckon she’ll get the clap. If she’s lucky. I’d try to tell her to stay away, but she won’t listen. She’s off the rails, that one. You’re right to be wary. I feel sorry for Sean, though. He did actually like her. It’ll be interesting to see what happens in a few days’ time when Gaz and his dodgy mates have moved on to the next place, looking for new pickings.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to Davie? About the stuff you took . . . Gaz made it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Enough about Gaz.’ He leans down, places a hand under her chin, lifts her face up to his. She likes the move, although it feels a bit rehearsed – like something he’s seen in a film or something. She lets him kiss her, just a gentle brush of his lips against hers. Then she pulls away. She has to ask him this now or forever wonder if she’s making a big mistake.

  ‘You know . . .’ she says, making it sound like she’s pondering some great truth.

  ‘What?’ He is smiling. Anticipating.

  ‘You did do something the other day that pissed me off a bit, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You called me a “wee nympho” . . . and I didn’t really like the way you said it. Like it was bad, that I might be enjoying it. Enjoying doing it. You made me feel cheap.’

  ‘Isn’t that a line from a film?’

  She punches him playfully in the ribs. ‘Never had you down as a fan of Pretty Woman. Seriously, though, what was that all about?’

  Mark sighs. ‘Just me being a dick. Honestly, Laura. I’ve fancied you for so fucking long. I was starting to think it was never going to happen. The amount of times I thought about you . . . when I was in bed on my own, late at night. Imagining what it might be like to kiss you, never mind anything else.’

  She turns away so he can’t see the big fat grin on her face.

  ‘Well, OK then. I guess I should be flattered.’ She kicks at a stone. ‘There is one more thing though, since you asked . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He looks sheepish, waiting for her to hit him with something else that’ll make him squirm.

  She leans up and whispers in his ear: ‘You still taste of sick.’

  30

  After sending the information to Malkie about the drugs forums and the possibility of a link to the fairground, Davie is at a loose end. He’s not working for CID officially, so he can only do what Malkie asks him to do. Which was fine for a while – dipping his toes in without the responsibility. But he’s already starting to feel bored again.

  He knows what he has to do – the options are simple. He can stay here and be in charge of a station that effectively does nothing and will remain on the brink of closure until someone higher up makes the final decision. Or he can take control of his life and take a position in CID. It’ll involve on-the-job training and he’ll be part of a much bigger group. And at some point he’ll have to go and do the residential part and sit an exam. It’s that part that puts him off, but Malkie is insistent that this won’t be an issue. It’s nice that his friend and colleague has so much faith in him. In fact, he’d probably have more faith in himself if it wasn’t for all this stuff with Marie. It’s clouding his judgement, and he knows he should stay away from her, or tell Malkie his suspicions about the link between Marie and Woodley – but it’s hard for him to move away from the informal community policing style that he’s so used to.

  He doesn’t know another way.

  He’s managed to turn the previous inhabitant’s office into his own. Gordon ‘the Big Ham’ Hamilton has been gone for nearly a month, and oddly it doesn’t seem to have made much difference to the place. Apparently Gordon is moving to Spain. Getting away from it all. A new start for his retirement. Davie’s not convinced. He thinks there is more to it. Money, for example. Gambling debts due to the wrong people. Other stuff too. There were always rumours about Gordon’s murky past. Him and dodgy councillors. But nothing ever held up.

  There are a couple of shelves full of old ring binders that Davie has to g
et sent off to archiving. It was all before his time, but there are some old cases. He’s sure there’s some interesting reading in there. It’s a shame to archive the files without having a chance to read them, but it’s hardly a priority. He’s in the middle of packing the files into boxes when there’s a knock on the door. Callum sticks his head around the corner.

  ‘Someone here to see you, Davie. He reckons you’ll want to talk to him.’ There is a smirk on Callum’s face that he is clearly unable to shift.

  ‘Who is it? Can you not see I’m busy?’

  ‘Stuart Mason. Says he’s got information for you. Want me to bring him in? He’s at the desk trying to chat up Lorna for a cuppa.’

  ‘Fine. Get him a cuppa. Bring one for me too, would you? And bring him through. This’ll be interesting, I’m sure. What’s he doing anyway? I was hoping he’d be back inside for a bit after last week’s wee stunt.’ He sighs.

  ‘I heard a new word down at the school the other day. I reckon it was made for our Stuart. Cockblanket. What d’you think, Davie?’ Callum laughs, quite pleased with his own hilarity, then shuts the door without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Cockblanket,’ Davie mutters to himself. ‘Aye. Sounds about right.’

  He slides the box of files under the desk. There are still a few on the shelf, so he lays one on its side to stop the rest from tipping over. He sits behind the desk, shifts some bits of crap out of the way. He’s putting pens into a pot when the door opens and Stuart Mason slithers in, like the wee snake that he is.

  ‘Stuart. To what do I owe this pleasure? Let you out, did they?’

  ‘Just gave me a fine, boss. Big man says there was nae point me going back in. They’re gi’en me a chance, I think. I’ve tae go doon the job centre the morn. They’re gonnae sign me up an’ all that. I’ve hud one oh they things . . . what dae ye call ’em again? When there’s the flash o’ light and it all just comes tae ye in yer heid?’

  ‘A migraine?’

  ‘Naw! An episcopacy, something like that . . . ye ken what I mean?’