by Zoe Strachan
What do you know about it? I said, still smug from a recent tryst with a second year anthropologist after the Les-Bi-Gay social.
Oh, just what a little bird told me, Luke said, all sly.
Well then, I said, punching him on the shoulder.
Not bad for a nancy, he said, rubbing where I’d hit him. Let’s just say, you’d have more choice.
Oh really?
Bit of rough trade on Calton Hill, or scouting around the unions for a pretty boy from the art college, if that’s more your scene. You’d be like a pig in shit.
Charming, I said, making as if I was going to thump him again. I’d say that a pretty boy from the art college is definitely more my scene. Don’t you think?
He shrugged. I don’t know.
Don’t you?
Only what I hear, he said, and went back to reading his book. Now if you’ll shut up and let me finish my chapter, I’ll buy you a drink. Maybe even more than one.
I thought you were skint?
He tapped the side of his nose. A little windfall. Now wheesht and back to your formulas and proofs, or whatever it is you’re meant to be doing.
When we got to the Union we sat at the bar rather than at a table, which was fine by me as the rugger buggers were all in after their afternoon practice, braying and yahing in those voices I’d never encountered in the flesh before I came to university. English accents of course, and that ridiculously full-mouthed Scottish which at first I thought originated somewhere specific (in Perthshire perhaps, or round about Inverness), until experience taught me to recognise the tones of confidence and good schooling, complete acceptance that what you have to say should be uttered loud and clear. Even if it was just a tedious inventory of alcohol consumed over the previous weekend.
Stupid cunts, Luke said, as a particularly obnoxious guffaw rang out above the sound of the jukebox. The barman heard him and curled his lip into the closest approximation of a smile I’d ever seen near his face. The Union may have been run by students, for students, but even the inept management committee weren’t foolish enough to employ a student to manage the bar. Instead we had Michael, a forty something local with an eagle eye for underage freshers and a penchant for recycling the contents of the slops tray.
I noticed Luke’s room-mate Max and his friend Hugo detach themselves from the rugger table and approach the bar, and I thought I saw Max whisper something and nod in our direction. They issued their order and the barman stomped past us on his way to the cider tap at the far end of the bar.
Why do Scotchmen wear kilts? Max say, taking no trouble to lower his voice.
I dinnat ken, his friend said, in a dreadful pastiche of the accent.
Because sheep can hear the sound of a zip a mile away.
The barman allowed the two pints he was placing in front of them to spill over the rims of the glasses.
Hello Max, Luke called over.
Luke.
The chilliness between them was nothing new, but there was an edge to it that I hadn’t witnessed before. Luke was half-smiling to himself as he drank his pint.
Haven’t run into you during waking hours for days, he said. How’s it going?
Oh, I’m just fine, Max said. So, developing a little sideline, are we?
His friend angled by his side, as if preparing for some tackle or pass.
Don’t know what you’re talking about, Luke said, lighting a cigarette. Want another drink, Richard?
Sure, I said. But it’s my turn.
Don’t worry about it, he said. See you later, Max.
Max scowled at me as he left, but there was nothing new there. The Les-Bi-Gay group had all the rugby boys pegged as repressed. I disagreed, inclining more to the view that they really were rampant homophobes, communal showering or no.
Thanks, I said, raising my glass to Luke. Buying two drinks in a row for someone amounted to phenomenal largesse in student terms.
Nae probs, he said.
I waited until the barman had returned to his little cubby hole at the back of the bar before I asked, So what was that all about, with Max?
Luke smiled. Oh, nothing.
I don’t believe you. You look pleased with yourself.
He sighed. Okay then. At the beach party on Monday, the one you didn’t attend because you were engaged in unspeakable acts with an anthropologist – he paused to take a drink and admire the look of surprise on my face – I had a bit of a run in with a girl of Max’s acquaintance.
When you say a girl?
She was definitely a girl, Richard. All the signifiers were there.
No-o. When you say a girl, do you mean his girlfriend?
He thought so. She had a slightly more flexible approach.
Ah. And what’s a relationship without communication.
Exactly. So now Max is pretending very hard that he didn’t come looking for her in the dunes only to discover her doing for me what I hope your little brunette did for you.
Oh he did, I said, draining my pint. And not so little, as it happens.
Really?
Mmm, I said, and suddenly I was hyper-aware of Luke next to me, of the pressure against his trousers where his cock was, of how much I wanted him to kiss me. I felt it like a kick in the stomach, like something aching inside me, screaming at him, but Luke didn’t notice a thing.
You gays are all the same, he said, indicating to the barman that we wanted the same again. Perverts.
You’re one to talk, I said, searching in my pocket for the five pound note I was sure I still had. So, what was Max going on about when he mentioned a sideline?
Luke shrugged. Don’t know. Unless … I got a wee bit hash for Libby, the erstwhile girlfriend. Maybe that was it.
Hmm, I said, handing the money over to the barman before Luke could pay again. Did you know this Libby was Max’s girlfriend? Before, I mean?
He shrugged. Don’t pay much attention to his personal life.
You bastard, I said.
He grinned. Yeah.
So I guess room-mate relations have hit an all time low, I said.
You could say that.
Well, I said. Calum didn’t come back after the weekend. Glandular fever, apparently.
Glandular fever? Who’s he been kissing, Princess Leia?
I don’t know, I said. Anyway, there’s a spare bed in mine if it all gets too much.
Luke laughed. Stay in your room, like? I’d not be able to sleep for worrying about my virtue.
Don’t flatter yourself, I said, though of course he wasn’t.
We stayed in the Union, soon becoming embroiled in a happy sprawl of fellow students, getting drunker and drunker as the evening wore on. I sat opposite Luke, and we talked for what seemed like hours, laughing together, discussing I don’t know what. William Burroughs and Joseph Beuys and the music of Ennio Morricone; whatever it was, it seemed to throw up connections and agreement and opportunities to tease each other for failures in taste. He was looking into my eyes, a lot, but I didn’t take it seriously until it crept up on me, a sense that everyone around us had faded away. I felt sure, drunkenly sure, that this was it, that something was going to happen between us. That I needed only to reach out and press my leg against his, under the table. I don’t know what stopped me, though I’m glad something did. Because it wasn’t different, we weren’t set apart. He was like that with everyone. I don’t think he even knew he was flirting, though he was clever enough to work it out if he tried.
11
Feet pounding against the road, concentrating on avoiding potholes and pancakes of mud and dung, Richard felt better. He’d had to force himself to come for a run; he’d have preferred to collapse on the couch with his laptop and play an hour or two of World of Warcraft (it could almost be classed as research, after all). This thought slowed his pace, so it was an effort to speed up again as he ran along the flat by the pebbled beach. Stephie and this Laurel person were in the sitting room, his sitting room. He’d heard their voices as he passed the open
door of the porch, laughter which made him skulk past rather than look in on them.
Was it possible, he wondered, ever to escape these small and to anyone else inconsequential recollections that suddenly burst into your consciousness and occupied it completely? Pausing at the wooden beam where he and Stephie had sat the other day, Richard did some stretches, flexing each leg in turn, working on his too-tight hamstrings. An awkward phrase, a stupid comment, long forgotten by the person to whom it was addressed, that years later could still flood you with self-loathing. And other memories, of stronger things, if you allowed those to slip into your mind. He thought of one of his very first programming exercises, designing a virtual version of the simplest of games. Stone blunts scissors, paper wraps stone; the present should trump the past.
Richard picked his way back to the grass verge, where he jogged on the spot for a second before setting off again. Hearing a car behind him, he paused by the little bridge ready to let it cross first, then realised it was Rab in his bashed-up old Nissan.
‘Richard, hop in and I’ll jump you up the hill.’
‘Cheers Rab, but I need to get in shape.’ He patted his stomach, an awkward, clichéd gesture.
‘Ah well, each to their own, eh?’ He meant running of course; Richard was exasperated by his own sensitivity. ‘Getting a wee minute away from your visitors are you?’
‘Something like that,’ Richard said.
‘Tell you what,’ Rab said. ‘It’s going to be a beauty the morrow. Get the lassies to come down and I’ll let them on the boat for free. You can get some peace.’
‘That’s good of you Rab, I’ll tell them.’
‘Aye well, no skin off my nose. Joyce telt me you were up against it with that computer work of yours. See ya.’ He revved the engine, lurched forward then stuck his head out the window and called, ‘Haw, Richard.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘Too much exercise is bad for you.’
Richard heard a hoarse chortle as Rab drove off, tooting his horn twice by way of farewell. The hatchback of his car was tied down with string, unable to close over a bale of hay which had been stowed there. As well as the boat, Rab kept a few sheep – ‘just for the hell of it’ – and whatever he said about exercise, he was possibly the fittest person Richard had ever met. Which made him feel all the stupider for not accepting the lift as he hauled himself up the hill and home at a pace scarcely faster than a brisk walk.
He did his final stretches at the picnic table, then collapsed onto the bench. Rab had been right about the weather. The sky was clear and tinged with seashell pink and the water between mainland and islands was as glassy and calm as he’d ever seen it. He closed his eyes and waited to see if he could hear the water swilling against the rocks. After a few moments he tuned into it, and let his breathing slow to match the ebb and flow. Then he heard footsteps and felt the bench sink as someone slipped in beside him. He smelled Stephie’s perfume, pictured the bottle in the bathroom, but couldn’t remember the name.
‘It’s going to be a nice day tomorrow,’ he said, opening his eyes and seeing that Stephie had put on a jumper over her blouse and was cupping a mug of coffee in her hands. ‘You feeling all right?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, just trying to wake myself up before we get started on dinner. We had a bit of a late night last night. If you still want to have dinner, that is?’ She sipped her coffee, looking up at him over the rim of the mug.
He nodded, framing an apology in his mind then rejecting it. Stephie stuck one of her feet up on the table.
‘I borrowed a pair of your walking socks. Do you mind?’
‘No,’ he said, wondering whether she’d taken them off the clothes horse or gone through his drawers. ‘I met Rab. The guy with the boat. He says if you want to go over to the islands tomorrow he’ll let you on for nothing. You and Laurel.’
‘Loren,’ she said.
‘Loren.’
‘How did he know she was here?’
Richard stretched again. The cooler evening air was starting to niggle at the sweat patches on his T-shirt. ‘Someone’ll have seen you both. You don’t get away with much around here.’
Stephie swirled the last of her coffee around inside the mug, as though she was looking for signs in the dregs. ‘So it’s okay then?’
Richard sighed. ‘It’s just for a few days, isn’t it?’
She nodded, and he wondered what she’d meant when she’d said that she didn’t want Loren to come. Just some teenage tiff, he supposed, then he remembered that she wasn’t teenage any more.
‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he said.
She reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘It’s okay. It is a disruption, I know it is. I just … well, I just needed a break and I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘You certainly know how to make a person feel wanted.’
She smiled. ‘I did want to see you. You never visit.’
‘I know.’
She wiped away a drip of coffee that was congealing at the edge of her mug and said, ‘And I want to hear more, about what you were telling me the other night.’
‘I was indulging myself, going into all that stuff about when Luke and I met. There’s a much simpler version of events: I was at uni, with Luke. There was a sort of accident. Somebody died. We both got chucked out.’
Stephie tucked her hands inside the cuffs of her jumper. ‘An accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘A girl drowned. She was under the influence of drugs. They thought she’d fallen off the pier. The sea was very cold, in winter.’
‘What age was she?’
‘Twenty.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t see how it could be anything to do with you.’
He hesitated. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘And Luke, what about him?’
‘Luke was into drugs. A bit. The university court put two and two together. He withdrew from his course of studies.’
‘But you got kicked out?’
‘I knew her, that’s all. I didn’t want to tell them about Luke, about the drugs. To drop him in it. So it seemed like I was … implicated.’
She got up and walked over to where the slabs met the grass, then looked back at him. ‘Implicated,’ she said, taking care to pronounce the ‘t’ rather than letting it drop. ‘But it wasn’t your fault.’
‘No,’ he said.
The porch door swung open and Loren walked out onto the patio. ‘Hey,’ she said, in Stephie’s direction.
‘This is my brother,’ Stephie said. ‘Richard.’
‘Hey Richard,’ Loren said, wiping her hands on her jeans as she approached him.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘No need to be formal,’ Stephie said, laughing as they shook hands.
‘Okay,’ Loren said, smiling and letting her hand go limp in Richard’s. ‘Well it’s nice to meet you anyway. Thanks for letting me stay.’
‘That’s all right. I guess I’d better go and freshen up.’
He realised how cold he’d become sitting there in his sweaty running gear and jumped up, feeling suddenly self-conscious at being in his shorts. When he’d first come out he’d got used to being looked up and down, convinced himself that it was welcome, that it signified acceptance, approval even. When Loren gave him the once over, he couldn’t judge the tone of her gaze.
0
I found Luke in a quiet corner of the Union bar, legs stretched out along the seat, pint and cigarettes on the table by his side as he read. I couldn’t see the title of his book because he’d folded the cover round over the spine.
Any good? I said, slumping down on the chair opposite him and feeling mildly resentful of his afternoon of apparent luxury.
Have to read it for a seminar tomorrow. Not that I’ll be able to get a word in edgeways with that bunch of Yahs.
I nodded, and he put the book down and reached for his cigarettes.
And, he said, the tutor always smokes during the class but I reckon she’d go mental if I lit up. But I should. One day I will.
Oh, I said.
He looked at me. What’s up with you?
I groaned. I’ve been tramping round the town for hours looking for a job and there’s just nothing there. I went into every bar that was open, the Co-op, the cinema, the shops. I even went down to the golf club. No luck. One café had a sign in the window but they just looked at me and said no thanks, and the Co-op said they’d keep my details on record but I’m not holding my breath.
Luke swung his legs round and sat up. Did they ask if you were a student?
Yes. Though I’m sure they could spot it a mile off.
Not too keen on us, are they? The locals, I mean.
Can you blame them? I said. Think of your seminar group.
Yeah, I guess. Anyway, want a drink?
I held my head in my hands and said, I thought you’d never ask.
When Luke had gone to the bar I gave in to a long and heartfelt groan. At least back home I’d known the score when it came to part time jobs, even if I’d had a similar lack of success in finding one for myself. Top of the heap: Saturdays in the chemist, the preserve of two aspiring pharmacists who lived in the new houses on the edge of town, the ones with stone-cladding and faux Tudor detail. Mediocre but still desirable: early morning shelf stacking in the Co-op, for which special dispensation to miss registration was granted by the school. Lowest of the low: counter attendant in one of the takeaways. These jobs might have been perceived as vaguely disreputable because of the late hours and the dentally-challenged man who fed the deep fat fryers in the chippy and turned up in the court report of the Ayrshire Advertiser every fortnight, but I guessed it was more due to incipient racism. People queued up to order their chicken jalfrezi and peshwari naan on a Friday night, but the way they went on about Morag McGill working in the Korma Chameleon you’d think it was the last outpost of the white slave trade. As for me, by the time I reached sixth year I still hadn’t found a job and my dad had exhausted his encouraging anecdotes about childhood milk rounds.