The Waves Burn Bright

by Iain Maloney

  Then there was something about the Christmas tree.

  The twinkling lights.

  Driving into the Highlands. If this was the west coast then that was about four hours of driving.

  A wave battered him and he threw up in the ditch next to the car. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his fleece and rooted around in the boot amongst the camping gear that lived there, found his emergency kit – a bottle of water and some peanuts. Washed his mouth out. Left the nuts. Didn’t think he could manage them. A tot of whisky. Dug some Aspirin out the First Aid kit. Just gone half six. He should find somewhere less conspicuous to park the car. He pissed into the ditch, his urine the colour of rust, the colour of whisky, like it had just passed straight through him. Probably could get pissed off it. Can it, call it lager, nice froth on it. Make a fortune.

  On the back seat he noticed his kitbag, the one he’d used whenever he went offshore. He hadn’t touched it since. He picked it up and it tinkled happily. Felt like he had emptied the drinks cabinet into it. Good man, Marcus, planning ahead.

  The engine caught and he eased her onto the road. She was an old lady, Ruby, the Saab, but he could still rely on her. They’d been through a lot together, her red paintwork and leather interior racing up the A96 and into the Highlands every chance he got. She knew the roads herself, could find her way even without him at the wheel. Never let him down.

  As soon as he was round the corner, he knew where he was. The Ullapool road. Of course it was, fucking autopilot. Like a homing pigeon, he kept coming back here. He couldn’t think of anywhere better to go than onwards.

  He braked milliseconds before a corner, dropped two gears, was already accelerating again and back up to top before the car was straight. This was driving. Him and this car, they’d had some fun. He turned off the main road, gunning the engine. He hit a humpback bridge and almost took off. He raked in the glove box and pulled out some tapes, Frank Zappa, Genesis – Peter Gabriel era of course – yes, there it was, Pink Floyd. He popped out the tape already in the machine. The Corries? He must’ve been in quite the melancholy mood last night. He banged in The Piper at the Gates of Dawn and cranked it up, welcomed the morning as he broached a hill and saw the Atlantic below.

  About twenty miles up the coast there was a little dirt road that you’d miss if you didn’t know it was there. He swung in, the Saab jumping as he dragged the back wheel over a rock. Sorry old girl, won’t happen again.

  The road dipped down, turned to the right and ended at a stone dyke. No one could see him from the road and the farmhouse was two fields away. No one would know he was there unless they deliberately came and found him.

  He took the tent, sleeping bag and blankets, the mat, and climbed down onto the sand. It was a small beach, beautiful white sand, the bay that jutted out farther on the northern side, just now it was an island but when the tide went out, it exposed a rocky causeway. It would be easier to set up at the southern side, near the car, but he knew from experience there was no shelter there. At the north end there was more protection from the wind, an almost cave, dry and peaceful. That was where Hannah and he had first camped.

  Apparently most people don’t fall down when they’re shot, they only fall down when they realise they’ve been shot. They fall down because they’ve seen it in the movies and think that’s what happens.

  Tent up, ropes weighted by stones. If anyone could see him they’d think he was mad. Suicidal. Maybe he was. Like it mattered. He’d camped in colder conditions than this, up mountains, in the Arctic circle. No such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes. If people could survive on the top of Everest, he could survive winter in Scotland. He scratched out a fireplace, lined it with rocks, big enough to provide heat, small enough to escape notice. He finished the Laphroaig, rattled through the kitbag and pulled out half a Caol Ila.

  Last night, memories like fireworks. No taxis. A kiss under the mistletoe from Isobel.

  He went down, landed hard on his arse outside the Spar. Up again, arm around a lamppost, tried to light a fag.

  He huddled closer into his jacket, the hood up over his hat, trying to remember.

  The snow on the lawn up over his boots, dragging his feet through it. The curtains in the living room still open, the Christmas tree lights still on, blinking.

  Blinking.

  The key circling the lock like water around a drain, eventually slipping in, then he couldn’t get it back out again, tripped over the step. But home. Made it.

  He went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a nightcap, a decent slug of Laphroaig in the crystal tumbler they got as a wedding present. The last one standing.

  He put some music on.

  On the sofa. Boots dripping onto the carpet. Glass in his gloved hand.

  Merry Christmas.

  Carrie upstairs. He couldn’t face her in that state, the look she’d give him. Couldn’t meet her eye.

  Merry Christmas.

  Above him, there on the west coast, a gull scooted by, the wind carrying it. It arced down and round, landed on the sand in the lee of a rock and watched him. He watched it.

  He must have dozed off on the sofa.

  The lights. Blinking.

  Blinking. Flashing. Each light a face. Faces, blinking. Faces without names. Flashing lights. Sirens. In the darkness with flashing lights. You were back. You were there. A space filled with darkness and smoke, flickering lights, shouts.

  The glass, smashed into the picture frame over the fireplace. Shards. Whisky.

  The blinking. The tree.

  Needles catching in your clothes. The tree was down, baubles bouncing across the carpet. You yanked the lights from the wall, the wire coming out the plug, shorn.

  Darkness. The blinking gone. The faces still there.

  You left.

  Got in the car and drove.

  Aberdeen, June 2013

  ‘Let’s see some greenery.’

  We’d finished the wine and I was feeling a bit spacey. I ran through a mental picture of Aberdeen. There were gaps I couldn’t immediately recall, like those old maps that just had blank spaces and here be dragons. ‘There’s Union Terrace Gardens. A bit small and boring but in the centre. Westburn, but that’s…’ too close to home, I didn’t say. ‘Hazelhead Park isn’t far from here. It’s nice.’

  ‘Done.’

  It was only when the taxi dropped us at the entrance that I made the connection. Something in me had chosen this particular park. We passed by families with young children playing on the grass, teenagers sitting on benches, lounging like gangsters, staring at us. Dogs fetching sticks, frisbees. The maze was dilapidated, the building at the entrance boarded up, a window on the second floor smashed. The hedges hadn’t been trimmed for a long time. The ice cream stall closed.

  I took Ash down the path opposite the maze and through the trees. I’d only been here once, in 1994 just before going to Durham. Dad had refused to go to any of the services, had refused to come to the unveiling of the memorial in 1991. ‘I don’t belong there,’ he’d said. ‘I wasn’t part of the crew. I was just there for a day or two.’

  On top of a granite plinth three bronze figures, their backs to each other like three corners of a triangle, looking into the distance. A roustabout, a man in a survival suit, a man holding a pool of oil in his hand, symbolic figures, symbolic poses.

  Ash read out, ‘Dedicated to the memory of the one hundred and sixty-seven men who lost their lives in the Piper Alpha oil platform disaster. 6th July 1988.’ Around the plinth, gold lettering on the granite, were the names. ‘This was the one your dad…?’

  ‘Yeah. It should be one hundred and sixty-eight. One of the survivors killed himself.’

  ‘Post traumatic stress?’

  That was why we came, finally, in 1994. ‘When the Press & Journal ran the article, Dad went to pieces, disappeared for three days. When he came back he sat opposite me in the kitchen, my suitcases open upstairs, my train tickets to Durham booked. I thought I’d have to cancel
them. What happened, the survivor’s guilt, that was Dad. We both saw that article and knew that… that it could be him. I called a taxi and we came here. He didn’t argue, followed me like a child. I sat over there. He walked round and round it, reading the names, looking at the figures, letting himself remember. Either this would shock him into getting help or… He sat next to me on the bench and cried and cried.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Enough to make me believe it was safe to go to Durham.’

  Durham, January 1999

  ‘Doctor Caroline Fraser.’

  ‘You can stop saying that, Dad.’

  ‘I’ll never get tired of saying that. Doctor Caroline Fraser BSc, MSc, PhD, Volcanologist. Like Spock.’

  ‘He was a Vulcan.’

  ‘You don’t have the ears for that. But live long and prosper.’

  We were in a restaurant overlooking the River Wear. It used to be a brewery pub but about eighteen months ago friends of my girlfriend, Anna, had taken it over and converted it into a restaurant and art space. When Hannah heard I knew the people running it she had insisted on making a reservation for my graduation dinner. She’d been trying to get back into my life and, tired of it all, in the flush of post-PhD completion I relented, let her invite herself up. And the problem with divorced parents is you can’t favour one over the other, so Dad came too.

  While Hannah was in the toilet, Dad ordered another bottle of Pinot. I wasn’t drinking. Hannah was drinking the Chablis recommended with the sea bass.

  ‘I saw that Graeme Anderson the other day,’ Dad said. ‘Did I tell you?’

  ‘He’s back in Aberdeen? Did they have a parade?’

  Graeme had won bronze in the Halfpipe at the Winter Olympics in Japan the year before. I’d watched all the heats with Anna, both of us cheering him on.

  ‘Just visiting. He was having a drink in Under The Hammer with his father. Said to say hi.’

  Hannah returned, face suitably powdered. They’d both been on their best behaviour so far, but an increase in wine meant all bets were off. I’d kept them apart last night, dinner with Hannah, leading Dad on something of a pub crawl around the real ale haunts. At breakfast they’d been civil. So civil in fact that I worried Dad had started early. In the cathedral they both reverted to public roles. Dad, the proud ebullient father, that’s my daughter you know, the PhD. That was when I spotted the hip flask being slipped back into the sporran as he came out from behind a pillar. At least he was trying to be subtle.

  ‘Say hi back.’

  ‘Hi to who?’ said Hannah.

  ‘You remember Graeme Anderson? My year at school?’

  ‘The snowboarder.’

  ‘I’m surprised you know that, Hannah,’ said Dad. ‘Doesn’t strike me as your kind of sport.’

  ‘Jonathan, Frank’s son, is the fan. I heard about Graeme during the Olympics. They kept mentioning Aberdeen. He’s very handsome. Were you two friends?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We used to climb together.’

  ‘And he’s trying to get back in touch?’

  I could see what she was thinking. Hannah was the mother trying not to be the mother, straight back and shoulders, dress cut a little bit too young for a woman with a PhD daughter, gratified when Anna – introduced as a friend of course – exclaimed, ‘You can’t possibly be old enough to be Carrie’s mother.’ But she couldn’t help herself. Some part of her wanted to be a grandmother and I was the only chance she had. If only she’d known that the night before I’d had my head buried between Anna’s legs, tonguing her to a juddering climax. That would wipe all thoughts of babies from her mind.

  There would be no grandkids for Hannah. My sexuality didn’t preclude it but my upbringing did. Bringing someone into the world with the chance they could have the kind of childhood I had? Fighting, affairs, divorce, recriminations. A child of mine hiding in their room drowning out reality with audiobooks? The risk was too great.

  ‘Dad just bumped into him and he said hi.’

  ‘He seemed quite keen,’ said Dad. ‘Kept asking about where you were and what you were doing. He gave me his email address to pass on to you.’ He patted down his pockets before remembering he was in a kilt. ‘Back at the hotel.’

  The waitress cleared the plates away, the sea bass and Dad’s lamb reduced to smears and flakes, my stuffed mushrooms half-eaten.

  ‘Anyone for dessert?’ Hannah asked. I shook my head. ‘Go on, Caroline, it’s your day, treat yourself. Why don’t you order the pecan pie and if you don’t want it all, I can help.’

  ‘If you want the pecan pie, order it yourself. I’m full.’

  ‘Stuffed with stuffed mushrooms. So there isn’t much room.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, now I do feel sick.’

  ‘How about an aperitif. A liqueur? Hannah you were always a fan of the rusty nail. Can I tempt you with one now? Carrie? Baileys?’

  ‘No. Thanks. So, Caroline.’

  ‘Yes, Hannah?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop calling me that.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘You can call me Al.’

  ‘Helpful, Dad. Hannah, you were saying?’

  ‘What’s next? You’ve got your PhD.’

  ‘A job,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll have your pick, all those publications under your belt.’

  ‘You’ve been published?’ Hannah emailed me regularly, in love with the technology since it was harder for me to dodge than a phone call, but if I replied at all it was short, lacking in information.

  ‘A few papers.’

  Dad smiled smugly.

  ‘So what were you thinking?’ Hannah sipped her wine. ‘Is there anything here in Durham? It’s nice, the castle and the cathedral.’

  ‘There’s a position going but I’m not sure. The pay’s not great and I’ve been here for four years.’ Anna was leaving for a job in Norway, so there was no point staying. She was out with her own parents. We hadn’t spoken about it yet but it was over. We both had futures and they didn’t involve each other.

  ‘Did I tell you Harry Boyle’s at Aberdeen now?’ said Dad. ‘Maybe he could get you something.’

  ‘She’s not moving back to Aberdeen.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with Aberdeen.’

  ‘Do you want the list or the highlights? Anyway, it would be a backwards step. How about Bristol? They’ve got a top class geology department, or so I’m told.’

  ‘Bristol?’ said Dad, dismissing the whole city with a wave. ‘How about Oxford? Cambridge? Edinburgh? Get into one of those institutions and you’re set for life. Who you know, you know?’ He was slurring, not noticeably but enough for me. ‘But Hannah’s right, don’t come back to Aberdeen. It’s going downhill. Overrun by students and house prices are insane.’

  ‘Well I haven’t decided anything yet. There are a lot of things to weigh up.’

  ‘Are you going to take a holiday?’ said Hannah. ‘When was the last time you went away?’

  ‘I went to Tenerife last spring.’

  ‘Tenerife? Really? Wasn’t that a bit… cheap?’

  ‘Teide?’ said Dad.

  ‘What’s Teide? Oh don’t tell me. I didn’t mean a field trip, I meant a holiday.’

  Anna came with me. We went paragliding and fucked all night. ‘It was relaxing. I can take a month or so off, depending on what job I take.’

  ‘Take? So you’ve had offers?’ said Hannah.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘That’s great, where?’

  That Chablis looked really good. ‘New Zealand. Washington.’ I’d hoped for a job in Hawaii but nothing came up. Professor Kiana Lau was still there. I reread Dislodging Fossils at least once a year.

  ‘DC?’ said Dad.

  ‘State.’

  ‘But they’re both the other side of the world,’ said Hannah.

  ‘That’s who offered.’

  Hannah’s face soured, drew into that lemon-sucking pout that meant she was upset but didn’t want to be the one to say it. Did she think a PhD would
give us a new relationship? We’re both called doctor, so what?

  ‘Probably just as well.’ Dad waved at the waitress with his empty glass, the bottle finished already.

  ‘And why would that be?’ said Hannah, cut-glass tone.

  ‘Nowhere to stay if you came back to Aberdeen. I sold the house.’

  Into the silence came the waitress with Dad’s glass. He sipped. ‘Just delightful.’ He eyed her over the rim of the glass and watched her bare legs, her arse in the tight black skirt, move back to the bar.

  ‘You’ve sold the house?’ said Hannah. ‘Why?’

  ‘Seemed like a good idea. It’s mine now after all.’ He had bought her out a year after she left.

  ‘Yours in keeping for Caroline.’

  ‘And she can have half now.’ He reached behind him to his jacket, his elbow knocking his wine glass. I lurched and caught it, practised, only a drop or two splashed out, blood-red on the tablecloth. He twisted back round, oblivious, and handed me something. A cheque. ‘There you go. Start a new life with that. You can go wherever you want, do anything you want. You have the cash and you have the qualifications. Despite it all, we’ve done our duty as parents, Hannah. She’s grown up, educated, rich, not a junkie, not pregnant and not married to some wee shite. I think we can pat ourselves on the back.’ He leaned over to pat her back.

  ‘You think you’ve got anything to be proud of?’

  ‘Hannah. Volume,’ I snapped. ‘Dad, this is generous and thoughtful. But why did you sell the house? Where are you living?’

  ‘I got a flat on George Street. There’s only me now. Stupid to have a house like that.’

  ‘There’s no garage on George Street. Are you really going to park your beloved Saab out in the street?’ Hannah’s voice was like the whistle from a pressure cooker.

  ‘Sold that too.’

  ‘Ruby?’

  ‘No point having a car. Always pissed,’ he laughed. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘But how will you get to work?’ I said, this feeling, this knowledge.

  ‘Doesn’t really matter, does it. They let me go. SERVICE!’ he bellowed, silencing the restaurant, turning heads. The waitress came, wary. ‘Ah there you are, my lovely. Liqueurs. A rusty nail. A Baileys. A brandy. And something for yourself. Add it to the bill.’