Borrowed Time

by David Mark

  ‘Very thoughtful,’ he mumbles, flicking through the pages. ‘I’ll give it a go, definitely.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Alison, beaming, looking relieved. She turns around to see if her father has come down to join them yet. He hasn’t. He won’t. ‘Right,’ she says, clapping her hands. ‘Are you going to stay for a nightcap?’

  Irons doesn’t know why she bothers. She knows he’ll politely decline. Make an excuse about having some place to be. He’ll promise that next year, they’ll all sit down for dinner together. He’ll apologize for not having made it to lunch, despite his earlier assurances he would do his best.

  They have the conversation.

  She smiles, and pretends to believe him.

  He tells her to have a good time. To pass on his best to Franco, along with his hopes he’s had a good day. Gives her his word they’ll all go out for a drink to see in the New Year together. Fucks off, holding his presents, and feeling a blush in his burned face.

  Pulls at the door handle and feels cold air on his hot face.

  Blinks, slowly, in the darkness, the soft rain: the smell of Christmas and money.

  Glares through the woods in the direction of the cottage. Clocks the single yellow light: a pale patch of yellow on the black velvet evening.

  Knows.

  There’s a feeling in his gut he can’t place. It’s almost one of reunion.

  Of joy at finding something feared lost.

  Thinking: Adam.

  Back.

  He wouldn’t fucking leave it alone.

  And now he’s going to get the whole, ugly truth.

  FORTY-FIVE

  11.55 p.m.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  ‘None of it.’

  ‘Wine.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Tea.’

  ‘Tea, then.’

  Adam leans against the cold wall of the big, farmhouse kitchen, and inhales the scent of dead flowers. It’s a clearer, crisper scent than the odour which emanates from Irons. Less of an insinuation and more a genuine presence. He turns, slightly, to follow the scent and his shoulder nudges the light switch, casting an orange glare over the bare flagstones, the deep, red-stained sink, the vase of half-dead flowers.

  Irons turns from the kettle, his ravaged face suddenly brought into sharp relief. He looks like an iced cake, left out in the warm for too long.

  ‘You want it off?’ Adam asks, jerking his head at the light.

  ‘Leave it,’ says Irons with a shrug, and pours the boiling water into a brown mug, puts his finger in and squashes the teabag against the enamel. Pours in milk without being asked and nods at it.

  ‘Tea.’

  Adam doesn’t move.

  They stand at opposite ends of the kitchen, surveying each other, searching the signs and maps and scars and clues in each other’s faces.

  They survey each other for another minute, before Irons nods. He pulls the cord from around his wrist, and lays it on the table. There is a clunk, as his other hand hits the wood, and as he removes the giant palm, a blade winks up, lying on its side: a fish out of water.

  ‘Boy Scout,’ says Adam.

  ‘Always prepared,’ says Irons.

  More silence. Then: ‘You’ve got a funny way of staying away, lad. Think I was quite clear you shouldn’t be showing your face in this part of the world.’

  ‘They let you show yours …’ begins Adam, then stops. There’s no bravado in him. No strength. Part of him wonders if he came here for a confrontation he cannot win. If he wants to offend this killer, and to see if he can find peace at the end of his knife.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, softly. ‘I couldn’t, I mean. I don’t know what I want or what to do next. I can’t just close the lid on it all. The things I’ve heard. When this all started I just wanted to know a bit about my background. Answer a few questions. I wanted to know about my biology, I suppose. If there’s a history of anything interesting. Christ knows what. Being good at football, maybe. Boxing. If we were into maths or English. If there was a predisposition to cancer. Just the stuff you take for granted when your parents are who they say they are. Then I hear this name Francis Jardine, and my life suddenly has roots in shit and blood and all this horrible stuff. I meet you, and Alison, and you tell me where I came from. What he did. What she went through. You tell me he’s dead and so’s she. Or maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s still out there. Nobody wants to talk about it, nobody knows anything and everybody’s scared of upsetting people who already seem like they’re dying inside. And now I’ve got the money and the problems have gone, but it doesn’t matter, because I know the world isn’t like it was before. I feel like a baby whose been left in front of the TV and a horror movie’s come on. It’s got under my skin. I don’t know if the way I’m acting is because of my blood, or if my brain is telling me this is who I should be, or if I just think it’s a good excuse to bitch and whinge and feel sorry for myself and do whatever nasty shit I feel like doing. I could live another fifty years, and I can’t live them like this. With these thoughts. I can’t be a dad. I couldn’t even be a son.’

  Adam’s arms look as though he is conducting an orchestra as he gesticulates, wild and desperate. Finally, his hands encase his face, and he slides down the wall. He doesn’t feel there’s enough whisky in the world to drown what he’s feeling.

  Irons looks at the boy on the floor. Then at the doorway through to the living room. He pictures the image on the chimney breast, the patterns of light that dance on the polished brass of the urn. Gives the thought a nod.

  And begins to unfasten his shirt.

  Adam looks up. His eyelashes are tangled spider-legs, the lenses of his eyes hazy and sore. He seems to be looking out through a swarm of flies. Black dots dance in his vision. Puke swims in his gut.

  Irons holds his gaze. His words, heavy footsteps on dry leaves.

  ‘She sketched me once,’ he says, distantly. ‘She just sat me down and sketched my face. Every scar. Every broken bone. She was a diamond. An angel. She came into our lives and she lit us up. Lit me up. And I don’t light easy.’

  Irons stops. Lost in himself. Staring at nothing. He gives a slight nod of his head and motions for Adam to follow him to the living room, flicking the light on as he goes. He stalks to the fireplace, giving a pursed-lip smile to the urn, the rose, the pictures on the chimney breast. He turns back to where Adam stands, red-eyed, open-mouthed, gazing at the vile pornography on the bare brick.

  ‘She became part of the family,’ he says, softly, talking as much to himself as to his guest. He has never said these words out loud. Never even acknowledged them in his mind. ‘Franco had always wanted more kids, but that wasn’t to be. Then suddenly he had this other little girl. Quiet. Grateful. Happy. Talented. Everything you could want. Her and Alison barely fell out. Always said her pleases and thank yous. I used to pick her up sometimes, when she was still living with that useless excuse for a mother. I always used to bring one of the big motors, because it made her a bit of a princess down that estate where she was living. I used to look forward to that time together. She would talk to me like I was a normal man. Like I hadn’t done all the things I’d done. Told me about painters. Her favourites. Different styles. What they meant. She loved paintings of flowers. Henri Fantin-Latour. Not easy to say with no teeth. French guy who did flowers. He was the one she liked most. She gave me a book on him once. She was a beautiful soul. Saw the beauty in everything. Everyone.’

  He stops again. Holds up a hand as Adam begins to speak. He feels like he’s excavating himself. Digging down through rock-layers of memory; dragging out his feelings in an avalanche of bone.

  ‘Then Franco got pulled. A silly so-and-so and his mate tried to do one of our bars. Silly in itself, but even sillier when Franco was in there at the time. They did a proper job on the place. Took everything in the till and made all the punters chuck their wallets and watches in a bag. Franco too. Didn’t know him
. Didn’t know what they were doing. They got picked up quickly enough, of course. Couple of my lads found them in a B & B. I was on my way to solve the problem, when Franco gets a rush of blood to the head. Goes there himself. His temper was up. By the time I got there, they weren’t breathing. Franco was. Hard. I went spare at him. No point having me and exposing yourself, I said. He just told me this one was his job, not mine. Wouldn’t even let me get rid of them for him. Bundled them in his car and took off. And didn’t he go and get pulled for speeding? Our whole world looked like falling apart. He was on remand for months. Alison and Pamela, terrified they were going to be left on their own. Me, trying to keep things together. Every other outfit for miles around trying to get what was Mr Jardine’s. Worst of the lot, the blooming Dozzles. Gypsies who settled down. The type who keep an old car engine on their front lawn. Lived in squalor. Fat, nasty, ugly people one and all, but hard as nails. I don’t say that lightly. Wouldn’t back down. Would take a beating and come back for more. Lose an eye and blink the problem away. Felt entitled to a good share of this area and with Franco away, it was hard to keep what was ours. Had a few scraps, we did. People got hurt. So we gave them a wee bit of what they wanted, and I took on the youngest, Thomas, to look after some of the pubs and clubs on our patch. Wasn’t much more than sixteen, but a tough kid. Only dapper one in the family. Looked like a Teddy boy. Born in the wrong time. And temper? By Christ he couldn’t keep it in check. Cost us more money than he made. Got his own back on people who didn’t pay on time by bombing their pubs. Even the ones we owned! I hired him out once or twice, bit of muscle work, but he didn’t have much in the way of finesse. I don’t like to use such words, but he was an arsehole. Randy little git. Nasty, arrogant and dangerous. Didn’t blink very often. I reckoned once Franco came out, I’d solve the problem permanently, but it was all about containment in his absence. Keeping things together. That’s what I did. By the time of the trial there were no witnesses left. His barrister arranged the hearing around the date we’d already booked the celebration party. We knew he was getting out. We hired this gorgeous place out west. Belonged to somebody Franco knew. Football chairman. I went over and inspected it before the big night, just to check it out. Took the girls, actually, just for the run. The owner was having the place tarted up. Painted, banners hung, all the usual. Workmen crawling over the place like ants. The girls loved it. Cheered them up no end. Then word comes through he’s been acquitted, and it’s party time.’

  Irons looks down at his feet. His gaze flickers back to the urn.

  ‘She came in her best dress. In the big car, with Alison. Danced her little socks off. Had the time of her life. Reckon that was the last time she smiled …’

  ‘Look, I don’t …’ begins Adam, and stops when he realizes his throat is too dry, his insides too nauseous, to finish the sentence. He sips his tea and feels it burn his dry lips. Sloshing and blending with the whisky in his chest. He wants to vomit. Throw up his insides and fill himself with something better.

  Irons looks away again, back at the chimney breast, as though the words he needs are painted there. His fingers have stopped fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. They fall back to his sides.

  ‘I’m pretty good at knowing people. I look into their eyes and see what they’re capable of. What they are willing to do. I looked in hers and knew what she was. She was one of those paintings. Her insides were a watercolour. His weren’t. Dozzle. I knew they were black, but I didn’t know how dark. That night, we were at the party. All hugs. All smiles. Dozzle didn’t have much to do. Just keep an eye on the door. Keep the Press back. Behave himself. Couldn’t do it. Had to play the big man. Had to try and get one over. So he goes off for a kiss and a cuddle with Alison. She was only fifteen. And she was a Jardine. Lad committed suicide when he touched her. One of the boys heard a commotion in the cloakroom. Should have told me, but he went to Franco first. Was all I could do to stop him from killing the lad there and then. Don’t get me wrong, Franco’s the cool head, but that temper had put him inside and we’d only just got him out. I did what I do best. Sorted it. Told Mr Jardine to go back to the party. To leave it to me. I was going to take him somewhere quiet and keep him there until all the pretty people went home. Until we could think about what to do next.’

  Irons’s tongue darts over his ruined lips. He closes his eyes, immersing himself in the horrors of three decades before.

  ‘I took him outside. There were still some work vans parked up at the service entrance from the people who’d tarted the place up so I figured I’d bung him in one of them. Put him out of harm’s way. I never got the chance. I was barely on the grass when I saw her. Your mum …’

  ‘Don’t call her …’

  ‘Pamela, barefoot on the grass, staring at the stars, smiling like it was Christmas morning. All the venom went out of me. All the darkness I had to do. That I had done. Suddenly all I wanted to do was watch her. Next thing I can’t breathe. Cheeky little bleeder’s only stuck a blade in my throat. I couldn’t even speak. Just dropped. I’ve been covered in blood a lot of times but it’s always warmer when it’s your own. They found me a while later, and by then, it had happened. She’d been taken. And hurt. Somebody had done such horrible things to her, and I was lying on the grass, breathing blood.’

  A shiver seems to pass through the room, wrapping Adam in a cold chill, then making Irons sway. He reaches for the mantelpiece for support, then balls his fists, trying to soothe himself.

  ‘I was out of action for an age. They didn’t tell me what happened for weeks. Franco was sorting it out diplomatically. They had no doubt it was Dozzle. I suppose I didn’t either, once the idea was put in my head. I didn’t stop to think about it. Didn’t ask the questions. Who else was there? Who had the opportunity? Just fixed it in my head it was the lad. Then Franco tells me she’s pregnant. Having a nipper. Born out of that. I shut myself down. Concentrated on getting well. Speaking again. I wanted to see her, but she’d seen enough ugliness. He sent me away. Bit of hurting work on the coast. Then you pop out. And I don’t give a damn about keeping the Dozzles onside any more. I do what needs to be done. I go to the boozer where they’re all giggling and having a laugh and playing pool and wearing silly bloody Christmas hats, and I take them down. Put my foot on the young lad’s neck and take his face. Blow the rest of it off with a shotgun. He was begging, but I’ve heard begging before. Saying it wasn’t him, but they all say that. Trouble was, his eyes said he wasn’t lying. That’s why he’d stayed low. Heard about what happened to her. Knew it was a death sentence. But once I’d pulled the trigger I couldn’t get any more answers. Maybe that’s why I pulled it. Hoped I could convince myself it was over. The right man had died. But I didn’t convince myself. I got sent down and spent most my lifetime in a cell. Thinking about it. Over and over. That and nowt else. Closed off. Shut down. Caged.’

  Irons suddenly spins back from the fireplace. He tears at the buttons on his shirt and exposes his bare chest.

  Adam visibly flinches.

  On the pink and hairless canvas of his broad chest are concentric circles of scars. Ugly, risen, like a procession of bald caterpillars following one another over a grotesquely pale canvas. They spin inwards, growing fresher. Smaller. More bloody. They remind Adam of African ceremonial scars. What was the word? The one from the documentary channel. Keloids, is it? Not knowing how to articulate his feelings, how to react to this abomination of tortured flesh, his mind retreats to the safety of the question, busying itself with trying to remember the word for what he is witnessing.

  ‘Eighteen years inside, son. Done for manslaughter, because Franco got me a good brief, but I done somebody else while I was inside and the stretch kept stretching. I didn’t care. I was in my cell when word came that she’d done herself in. Her heart was broken.’

  Irons shakes his head afresh. Begins rubbing his hand over the wrinkled, ridged skin on his torso.

  Outside the cottage the wind picks up and the bare branches suddenly
bend to scratch at the windowpanes like fingernails. A gust of wind surges down the chimney and a handful of petals fall from the rose. Irons, his reflexes abnormally fast, catches them as they fall, scooping them into his palm.

  ‘She left her mark here. Chose this place to end it all. Left me this picture. This present, to remind me what had happened. I’ve tried to cover it up but it’s still under there – the picture she left to show us all why she’d done what she’d done. A picture of a man in a gas mask, fucking a little girl. Look past the big brushstrokes and you’ll see it. Then you’ll never not see it.’

  Another petal falls, and Irons doesn’t even try to catch it. He reaches up and touches the brick; tender, as if cupping a cheek.

  Adam’s bones ache as he rises to his feet. He is swaying, slightly. Cold. His mind full of pictures of the final moments of a woman he once lived inside.

  ‘I’ve looked at this picture every day I’ve been out,’ says Irons. ‘Tried to find something about him that looks like Dozzle. Or Riley. Or Ace. Even Franco. I don’t know who did it to her. I don’t know who took her life or created you. I don’t know how to live the rest of my life, so I don’t. I function. I take care of business. I kill. I’m Franco’s monster. The only person who ever made me feel anything else is dead, gone, and burned to dust.’

  Adam walks, unsteadily, to where Irons stands. Together they examine the picture.

  ‘His chest,’ says Adam, through a closed throat and dry lips. ‘What’s that on his chest?’

  ‘Dead Man’s Hand, son. You know your Wild West? Wild Bill was holding it when they shot him. It’s a tattoo. Playing cards held in a fist.’

  ‘He had this on him? The man who did it?’