The taxi pulled up. I passed the cabbie a ten-spot, schlepped to the door of the practice. The path had been cleared of snow, but icicles still hung on the railings. Inside, my doctor was impassive, a bland, unreadable expression on her as she greeted me.
‘Don’t you want to take your coat off, Mr Dury?’ she said.
‘I thought you were going to call me Gus.’
She didn’t respond to that. I kept my coat on and she brought me a bottle of water. I refused to take it and she placed it on the floor beside me. I acted like a child; I felt as helpless. Her hair looked wet. It smelled of apples; the thought of it made my eyes moisten, reminded me of a vague sensation from childhood. Scrumping for apples – how old was I when I did that? Where was Michael at the time? God, why did I have to think of that now? Was there a single moment in my past I could face again?
I looked at the pine shelves with the doctor’s slim collection of books on them, tried to read the titles, distract myself. ‘I thought you’d have more books.’
She smiled at me, grateful I was becoming more chatty. ‘Everything’s online now.’
I hadn’t thought, said, ‘I see.’
She put her hair back in a band. ‘I’m sorry: tried to cram in a trip to the gym . . .’
That explained the wet hair, the smell of apples. ‘What shampoo is that?’
She blushed – seemed out of place for her, ‘Palmolive.’
‘Oh, right . . . It smells familiar.’
I calmed down a notch. Got up, removed my jacket. The cycle helmet and Karrimor still sat in the corner.
As I returned to my seat, Dr Naughton spoke: ‘I wanted to ask you about the kind of people around you at present.’
‘Okay, go on.’
‘What are they like? . . . Affectionate? Impatient? Bad-tempered?’
I shook my head. Who did she want me to think of? Debs, Mac, maybe Fitz? Said, ‘Some are, some aren’t.’
The question wasn’t the opener she’d hoped for. She paused a moment, then tried again. ‘I was thinking about what we spoke of towards the end of the last session.’
‘Oh, yes.’ We’d spoken about Michael.
‘Would you feel comfortable telling me something about your brother?’
I shrugged. I felt strangely drawn out of myself now I was here, said, ‘Guess so.’
‘Could you tell me about something that happened to you both?’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Perhaps something from your childhood.’
I remembered something. It was the smell of apples that reminded me.
‘I robbed an orchard when I was about twelve, brought home bags of apples. They were cooking apples and when my father came in from the pub, utterly blootered as usual, he tried to eat one. He spat it out and then threw the whole lot in the midden at the bottom of the yard.’
Dr Naughton seemed interested. ‘Is there more to the story?’
Was there ever. I went on, ‘The next day my brother, he was only young, about four, found all the apples spilling over the midden and I told him the fairies had left them . . . My mam had told me the midden was a fairy rath when I was his age, that’s where I got the idea.’
Reliving the memory now, in front of the doctor, didn’t seem so hard. I felt a glow remembering my young brother. ‘So Michael must have spent the day digging in the midden, looking for the fairies, and about dinner time he appeared at the table in tears. He was covered head to toe in muck and carried a hell of a stench.’
I could see him now, his face smeared black with soot and dirt. ‘My father stamped his fist on the table: “What is this you are bringing into my house?” His voice trembled so much that it seemed his next word might hurl the plates and dishes to the floor.’
I smiled as Michael’s words came back to me. ‘My brother said he was looking for the fairies: “It’s a fairy rath in the yard . . . Angus showed me.” In a flash, all eyes shifted on me, then my father came racing towards me and lifted me from my chair. I knew I was in for trouble as he dragged me by the hair into the yard.’
I stopped talking.
Dr Naughton gently prompted me: ‘Go on. What happened next?’
‘My father grabbed my head, his whole hand fitted round it, and then he pushed me face down in the midden. There was the sound of shuffling as my mother and family came to see what would happen next and then my father roaring, “D’ye see them yet? . . . I’ll fucking put you through it, I will.” My mouth filled up with muck and potato skins, and he was roaring, “I’ll put ye through it, I’ll put ye through it.” My mouth filled with dirt – I can taste it now. The rotting waste, in my nostrils and my eyes. Filled with thick black soil that stuck to me and choked me and then . . . the earth was frozen and hard where the midden ended.’
I looked at the doctor. Her mouth had drooped, her hand gripped the chair’s arm. I wondered if she wanted me to stop. I carried on.
‘I cowered from him. He looked lost in his fury, then a bizarre thing: a mouse scurried out from the midden and he shouted, “Vermin.” Even with my eyes full of muck, I saw Mam and Michael and Catherine watching as my father’s great boot stamped on the creature’s head. The children screamed at the sight of it and Mam gathered them around her, led them back to the house.’
‘I think that’s enough,’ said Dr Naughton.
I wasn’t finished.
‘I can still remember the way the mouse’s little legs kept going – it wasn’t dead yet. He brought down his boot again, and again, until the mouse was just a bloodied tangle of flesh, and tiny white bones.’
The doctor rose and wheeled her chair back behind her desk. ‘I think we’ll leave it at that, Gus . . .’
Chapter 16
AFTER THE VISIT TO THE shrink I spent two days in dock. Moped about the flat, doing the one thing I knew I shouldn’t: thinking. I’d once asked my brother why he worked so hard. His answer had shocked me: ‘It stops you thinking.’ I knew at once what he meant, but I’d never been able to apply the wisdom. Only way I knew how to switch off the white noise in my napper was with drink. In the last few days I’d grown fixated on the whisky brands with which I’d once obliterated my thoughts. I’d come close to the World’s End incident again, had even broken the seal on the quarter-bottle of Grouse I carried in the pocket of my Crombie, but my lips never touched the rim.
The visits to Dr Naughton had spurred my memories. I was deluged with events from the past. I thought of Michael and I thought of myself. I thought of how different we were, and also how similar. We were both men who had gone through a brutal upbringing. I never understood all those people who whined about a loss of youth, or complained about the surrender of dreams to maturity. Just getting to adulthood was achievement enough for us both. We weren’t trading in any excitement for the drudge of the workaday world – we were escaping to it.
My brother wanted better for his family, but I worried that his passing had put any easy happiness out of reach for them. I’d kept schtum about Alice’s performance at the Spar; I didn’t want to bring the girl any more grief than she already had, but clearly something needed to be done for her.
I picked up my mobi. Jayne had gave me Alice’s number, asked me to have a word. Apparently I was the only one in the family the girl didn’t rate an old grunter.
I dialled.
Ringing.
She answered, ‘Yeah, hi.’
‘Alice, it’s Gus.’
‘Who?’
Bad start, said, ‘Gus . . . your uncle.’
‘All right. Whatcha want?’
She had that ‘am I busted?’ tone to her voice. I cleared that up for her: ‘Well, I’m not phoning to blast you for the shoplifting attempt if that’s what you think . . . I’ve snaffled a few bottles of Woodpecker in my day.’
She giggled. ‘Mum would go spare if she found out.’
I knew she was right. ‘Look, so how you keeping? Are you sorted?’ I winced on the last word – I sounded like Jonathan Ross, like I w
as trying too hard to be down with the kids.
‘Yeah, guess.’
‘You sure, there’s nothing . . . bothering you?’
A gap on the line. Then, ‘I have to go now.’
I’d only just called. ‘What do you mean? I just got you.’
‘I have to go.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Alice . . .’
She hung up.
I looked at my mobi. The ‘call ended’ counter flashed; our talk’s duration was fifty-seven seconds.
Said, ‘That went okay.’
My niece wasn’t handling her father’s death at all well, that was clear. Something would have to be done to stop her becoming seriously troubled, or worse. I toyed with the idea of talking to Jayne or maybe one of her friends but I didn’t feel capable. I mean, who was I, fucking Oprah? I felt a stab of guilt at not being able to do anything for her, but what could I do, save keep an eye out for her and offer the odd word of support? I knew we were all on our own, after a certain point.
There had been a story in the newspaper about parents buying Kevlar-lined blazers for their children at a city school – they were worried about a rise in crime being a by-product of the economic crash. It seemed like paranoia to me, but it did show they cared. Could you care too much for a child? I definitely wasn’t the man to answer that – I had no experience on that score.
I dropped my breakfast dishes in the sink, threw Usual a spare crust. He snatched it in mid-air. The water in the taps felt cold, but I saved on the immersion heater and washed up with it anyway. Easter Road stadium glared at me through the window as I filled the sink. It was a view that unsettled me. My father had played there many times. As I watched the grey clouds coming in off the sea at Portobello I found myself cursing him all over again.
‘None of us matched up to you, did we, Cannis?’ I threw in the dish mop and went for my coat. The dog was watching as I closed the door.
I drove to Newhaven, my mind turning faster than the wheels, even when they spun on the ice. I’d lost two days to self-pity and I wasn’t about to give up on finding Michael’s killer. Outside the factory gates I put the car up on the kerb. Parked on double yellows – like I cared. A couple of snoutcasts chugged on their smokes by the front doors. I could see the young receptionist on the phone, but I didn’t want to bother her; she was far too jumpy for my purposes.
‘All right.’ I rocked up to the smokers. ‘I’m looking for Andy, foreman fella . . . Heard there might be work going.’
The pair looked at me, sussed me as a schemie or a dole mole and bought the act. Bloke with a quiff, polo shirt buttoned up to the top, said, ‘Aye, I’ll give him a shout on the way in.’
I thanked him: ‘Nice one, mate.’
He dowped his tab, went inside. I took out my Marlboro and asked the bigger bloke for a light. He was just about smoking the filter, gave me the last millimetre of lit tip – ‘Chuck it when you’re done.’ He went back to the factory, leaving a trail of slushy footprints.
My hands were turning blue when Andy showed up. He recognised me right off, gobstopper-eyes the giveaway.
‘Hello, Andy,’ I said.
His steps faltered on the tarmac – there was a bit of ice. ‘Hello.’ He put his hands in the pockets of his starched white dustcoat. I saw his brow crease up; he had more lines than a Notting Hill dinner party.
I offered him a smoke. He declined, took out a packet of Royals, the Superkings. ‘I’ll stick to these, can’t hack the Marlboro.’
I nodded, said, ‘They suit me fine . . . But I’m made of hard stuff.’
He laughed up. ‘Aye, aye . . . you and yer brother both. I mind seeing your old boy play. Christ, he was a hooligan!’
I got this kind of thing from everyone who had seen my father play. I never enjoyed hearing it. ‘That’s the word for him.’
Andy lit up, coughed on his first drag. ‘Your brother wasn’t that fond of hearing about him either.’
‘I bet.’
Andy leaned against the wall, rested a foot on the storm drain, a faraway look forming in his eye. ‘I really was very fond of . . . Michael.’
‘You said.’
He held his smoke like a dart, then pressed it in his mouth. As he spoke, the cigarette rose and fell with his words. ‘He was very good to me, took me off the wagons when my back went.’ He smiled, the cigarette wobbled at its tip. ‘Even kept me on through all this nonsense.’
I put my shoulder on the wall, faced him. ‘Nonsense?’
Andy seemed to clam up. He took the tab out his mouth and stubbed it on the sole of his shoe. ‘Aye well, we’ve no work.’ He put the half-dowped tab behind his ear. ‘So that’ll be you off now.’
I watched him but said nothing. He knew what I was thinking, and why I was there. Two more workers came out of the factory. They spoke in Czech to each other, laughed and passed out the tabs.
‘I have to be getting back.’ Andy’s breath came white against the cold air.
‘Okay,’ I said.
He leaned over, lowered his voice: ‘Look, I’ve nothing to tell you.’
‘I hear you.’
‘I’m serious . . . I have a family to think of too.’
I dropped my gaze, said, ‘We’ve all got families, Andy. My brother had a family; Ian Kerr had one too.’
The two Czechs pulled up beside us, nodded to their gaffer.
Andy raised his voice: ‘So, thanks for dropping by. I’m sorry we’ve no work for you.’ He took me by the arm to the edge of the car park. I watched his gaze shift edgily, left to right, as he walked. ‘The backshift comes in a couple of hours. Give me five minutes to sort them out and then I’ll see you over there.’ He pointed to a boozer – it was old school, proper Edinburgh.
I thanked him: ‘I won’t forget this.’
I moved the car off the double yellows; even in an industrial area, you couldn’t be guaranteed the ticketers wouldn’t be out – it had become a real cash cow for the city. I got parked on a side street. Children were throwing snowballs all about, young kids, only about seven or eight. They sang a bawdy old rhyme:
Olé, olé, olé,
Tits in the trolley,
Balls in the biscuit tin.
The words came back to me from my schooldays. I used to think it was just a street saying that got passed around by the kids. Now I disinterred a deeper meaning, a significance: life was just a constant struggle, projected in our physical and mental deterioration. But even so, it was the only game in town. Graft, or go under.
I crossed the street to the drinker. A portable telly sat on the bar, no flat-screen here. The barman was watching Countdown; he could hardly drag himself away as a Geordie bloke asked for a vowel and then a consonant.
‘Can I have an orange juice, please?’ I said.
Cautious looks from a toothless jakey in a baseball cap to my left. I knew the territory: there was a time when I wouldn’t have trusted someone coming into a pub and ordering – that worst of things – a soft drink. My father would be roaring laughing in his grave.
I took my glass to a table in the corner, where I could keep an eye on the front door. I still heard Countdown blaring from the portable, the clock ticking to the end of the round.
I found a newspaper sitting on the next table, flicked through it, eyes half shut. Full of celebrity pish, no content. One story struck me though: today tattoos had officially become uncool – Nigel Havers had got one.
I sipped at my orange and watched the clock begin again on Countdown. I wondered about buying another drink when in walked Andy. He wore an old Lord Anthony ski jacket; the shiny collar was turned up, his thin shoulders poked through. He had a look about him that fitted many a Scotsman of his class and generation, the word is puggled. A lifetime spent keeping body and soul together had taken its toll. Left him worn out.
I greeted him with a nod. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A wee nippy sweetie.’
I took myself to the bar, ordered a dram. I switched off my mob
i – didn’t want to disturb Andy if he started to rabbit. He scratched the stubble on his chin as I returned. ‘We no’ a bit close to home for you in here?’ I said.
He tutted. ‘Nae danger . . . None of that shower come in here.’
It was my experience that a workforce piled into the nearest pub after every other shift. ‘How come?’
Andy rubbed his chin again. ‘No’ allowed.’
This threw me. ‘Y’wha’?’
He took up the wee goldie, sipped. It made his eyes widen. He had very large eyes, dark, with an excess of white surrounding them, said, ‘The set-up in there is the workers get bussed in and bussed back. Bus doesn’t stop at the pub.’
I saw Andy might be ready to unburden himself, but I thought I still had some persuading to do.
He drained his glass.
‘Another?’
He pressed his lips together. The tip of his tongue darted out. ‘Aye . . . please, son.’
At the bar the jakey watched me order another whisky with something close to envy glowing from him. He tried to engage me in chat about Carol Vorderman having refused a cut in her million-a-year salary: ‘A fine bit ay stuff, mind . . . for an older woman, like.’
I blanked him. Returned to my table.
Andy kept his jacket on. I noticed there was a little snow on the shoulders; as I glanced out the window I saw another deluge had started.
‘Here you go.’
He took the glass, fired a good mouthful. ‘Slainte mhath.’
I watched the burn of the whisky settle his mind. I envied him, but knew I needed to stay the course.
‘Andy, do you know why I came to see you today?’
He nodded. ‘I have a fair idea.’
‘You strike me as a decent sort.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well, I know.’
He looked at me, quickly turned back to his glass.
I said, ‘Andy . . . my brother was murdered. I don’t know what you heard about that, but I know that something fucking shady’s going on over the road . . . I think Ian Kerr knew that too. I need you to help me join the dots.’
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