‘Where are you going to get a wren?’
She ignored him, holding aloft the gallows. ‘Moodie made this out of holly wood. I’m going to create a tableau with the hanged wren at the centre of a rabble of small birds and animals. I might even have an old-lady hamster knitting at the foot of the scaffold!’
She giggled. Walt’s face felt tight with disgust, but she didn’t even notice. Perhaps she was right: perhaps he wasn’t the right person for the job. ‘It will symbolise cultural disdain for the innate Pagan power of the female.’
‘Right.’ She’d lost him again. He was thinking a long, cool beer would be good right about now. He’d shut himself in a room far away from Alys’s artistic craziness, but then she turned and looked at him in that way she did sometimes, the way that made the pit of his stomach smoulder like she’d thrown a lit flare down there.
He had to speak, to break the spell. ‘I went to the park.’
‘I don’t pay you to go to the park.’
‘Mouse was there.’
‘And?’
‘She thought the gallows were a bit sick.’
Alys laughed, the sound strangely hollow. She snatched the little pliers from Walt’s hand and tossed them at the magpie. They made contact with a flat thunk and the bird jerked as if galvanised back to life. A cold-water shiver dripped down Walt’s spine.
‘Mouse never approves. She’s always been the same, creeping around, waiting for me to fuck up. As a kid she spent most of her life curled up – curled up in bed, curled up in the corner, reading a book. Never speaking, but watching everything. Hiding.’
‘What was she hiding from?’ The suggestion echoed in the dark basement.
Alys shrugged. ‘Mice can turn. They pack a nasty bite when cornered. They’re also a pest and hard to get rid of.’
Walt hesitated, uncertain whether she was serious or not. She didn’t look amused. ‘But you live together.’
‘Not by choice. She got pregnant and the father didn’t stick around. I’m the only family she’s got left. It was my duty to take her in.’
Something didn’t add up about that. What about the grandfather? The one in the care home? Dutiful was not a word Walt would have used to describe Alys. He began to think of other words: sexy, wayward, eccentric.
She was looking at him now, her eyes cool, calculating, unpeeling something inside him. ‘Did you come here to talk about Mouse?’
‘I came here to deliver your gallows.’
‘Oh yes.’ She picked up the wooden framework, caressed it with her artist’s fingers. ‘I like it. Look at the grain of the wood, the way it’s finished . . .’ Her voice dropped, catching with excitement, and there was something about the tone of it that vibrated in his groin. ‘Ah, I have so much going on in my head . . . But you don’t want to go there.’
It was the kind of thing he said to people, to keep them at arm’s length, and for a moment he saw himself in Alys. She was like a mirror and he was drawing closer, close enough to see his reflection in her eyes, to mist her face with his breath, and when their mouths came together it seemed inevitable. It was tentative at first, a slow clinging of the lips, hands reaching out, finding. Alys dropped the gallows. It bounced off his leg but he didn’t feel it; could only feel the soft, stained jumper, the narrow back. Her arms snaked around him, pulling him against her. She smelled of dead feathers and cigarettes. They pressed against the workbench and he was no longer sure who was instigating this, or who would be the first to draw away.
It was Walt, breaking the kiss but not the contact. They leaned together, lips damp, breathing hard. ‘This isn’t a good idea,’ he whispered.
‘It is.’ She smiled and there was a new wickedness about her. Her eyes shone with it. ‘Just don’t expect to get paid extra.’
He pulled away from her. He picked the gallows off the floor and set it upright on the workbench, still tasting her, feeling her bones beneath his hands. He knew he wanted more. He knew he had to get away from her.
‘I don’t think we should go there again. And I really don’t want to know what goes on in your head.’
Her smile was crooked. ‘I think you do.’
14
Later, Walt went out to buy fags. A cold east wind had got up, bringing rain with it from the Forth. Not for the first time he thought about the grey Crombie overcoat he’d left in his wardrobe at home. He might have to buy another one if things didn’t heat up. Or even a scarf, he thought, pulling the collar of his jacket up. Turning into Alys’s road he took out his key. He was surprised to see a strange bicycle chained to the basement railings. Alys didn’t have friends, and definitely not friends with bikes. Though it was an old-fashioned type, ‘pre-owned’, as they say in sales circles, and probably more than once. The saddle was dappled with drizzle. Curious, he let himself into the house. There were voices in the kitchen. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he’d make himself a coffee and take it up to his room. His job was definitely part-time, sporadic. Sometimes he was sure Alys simply forgot he was there.
The table had been cleared, apart from the single place setting at the end. This was Alys’s place, Mouse had warned him. It was always set for whatever meal she might turn up for. The tablemat was a plastic child’s mat, with an orange cartoon fish, and her mug sat empty and waiting. The mug bore the slogan ‘Taxidermists don’t give a stuff ’.
Mouse had a friend over for tea; they were sitting opposite each other, a white cardboard bakery box between them, and fat ginger crumbs on their plates, smears of butter cream. Walt recognised the girl from the pharmacy, the one with the geeky glasses. She smiled when he came in, the turn of her head quick, like a bird. Don’t stay too long in this place, he thought, it’s not a great place for birds. Her skin was pale and unwrinkled, like double cream, her hair blacker and shorter than he remembered. She was very animated when she talked, her nose wrinkling, dislodging the Buddy Holly frames. Mouse looked relaxed for once, her eyes picking up a spark from this girl. She’d melted a little, like her crisp shell was only sugar frosting and there was something luscious inside.
‘Hi, I’m Fee,’ said the girl. ‘I saw you at the pharmacy.’
‘Loofahs.’ He went over and shook her hand. She had a good, strong shake for the size of her.
‘Sorry, we ate all the cake but you can come and have a coffee with us,’ said Mouse. He couldn’t work out if that was the good mood talking or her usual need to do the right thing. They resumed their conversation as Walt filled the kettle and found a mug.
‘I think you should go, Maura.’
‘I’m not sure. It would be really awkward.’
‘It’s only a meal, you don’t have to sleep with him!’
‘Ugh, thank God!’
Walt swung into a spare seat, looked from one to the other. Mouse stared at her plate, but Fee laughed and said, ‘Galen has asked her out!’
‘What, the old chemist guy in the bad suit?’
Mouse rolled her eyes. ‘He dresses very well, for his age.’
‘For his age,’ Walt repeated. ‘What are you thinking?’
It was none of his business, obviously. You’d have to laugh, really, at the thought of those two together, Church Mouse and a guy old enough to be her father, jangling his money in front of her. She’d be lucky if that was all he jangled.
‘He’s sent her a friend request on Facebook and he has a house in the Dordogne.’ Fee made big eyes, like this was the clincher. Mouse let out an embarrassed huff of a laugh.
‘That’s the worst possible reason to shag a guy, because you think he’s got money,’ Walt said.
‘I would never do that!’ Mouse’s nose went pink around the edges. ‘I wasn’t even thinking of it!’
‘I bet you were.’
‘I wasn’t!’
‘You were. You were thinking, I’ll latch onto this old bloke with money and a house in the Dordogne and all my worries will be over.’ He was teasing her, but she’d turned angry; she couldn’t meet his ey
e and when she did, eventually, he saw a sort of quiet desperation that he recognised. He felt sorry and didn’t know how to tell her, but Fee had turned it all into a big joke.
‘Galen’s fancied her for ages!’
‘How would you know? You’ve only worked there five minutes,’ Mouse said.
‘I do two days a week,’ said Fee, sticking her tongue out. ‘I’m a psychology student,’ she added, in case Walt thought she was stuck in that shop, like Mouse, with no chance of anything better. That explained the spark. She was doing what Mouse longed to do. She had the life that Mouse had given up.
‘And anyway,’ continued Mouse, ‘I’m not accepting his friend request. This is why I hate Facebook – it’s creepy, everyone seeing what you’re up to.’
Fee laughed and turned to Walt. ‘You know she relies on William to help her with Facebook!’
‘So?’ He felt a pang of sympathy. ‘She’s right. She’s got better things to do than post crap pictures of her sandwich on social media.’
Fee looked vaguely disappointed. William wandered in, still in his uniform, shirt untucked and carrying an enormous Lego spacecraft. He set it carefully on Alys’s place mat and pulled out the chair with both hands. No one said anything when he sat down but Walt could see Mouse begin to fidget, with her teaspoon, her bracelet. He felt it himself, an indefinable uneasiness. He imagined Alys appearing, sweeping the Lego to the ground.
‘Are you speaking about Galen?’ said William. ‘I went on the laptop, Mum, and checked your Facebook for you.’
‘William! If I knew how to do it, I’d change my password!’
The boy giggled. ‘I made you and Galen friends. Is he still an old lech?’
15
So he arrives home without Tom.
They should have been together, as always, anticipating the moment of touchdown, of coming down the aircraft steps and seeing their families waiting to greet them. Tom’s wife would have been there, his little kids running to meet Daddy; and Tom lifting them, the Strong Man, one on each arm as they kissed his sunburned cheeks.
But there is none of that. The lads are subdued. There are funerals to go to, relatives to be phoned, respects to be paid. Walt knows he will go to Sara’s first of all, they live near the base now, to tell her the things she wants to hear. No, he hadn’t suffered. You don’t feel the pain; your body goes into shock. Yes, he was joking around right up to the end. Same old Tom.
He catches the train back to Newcastle, slumped in the seat, angled away from the curious stares of the other passengers. There’s something about the uniform that brings out extremes in people. They either want to shake your hand or give you a pasting. As the flat landscape speeds by, he rests his temple against the cold window and tries not to see Sara’s tear-stained face in the ghost of his reflection.
His parents meet him at the station. His mother is pale, sobbing into a tissue.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she says in the car for the tenth time. ‘He was part of the family.’
She’s sitting in the back, allowing Walt the honour of riding shotgun, the returning hero. He keeps his eyes on the road, on his father’s dependable fists curled around the steering wheel. His mother has always stated the obvious. It’s one of those endearing little quirks that irritate the hell out of him, like the way she carefully explains the ending of every movie even though you figured it out halfway through, and the way she repeats telephone conversations when you’ve been right there in the room listening. It’s irritating and he doesn’t need it, not now. Losing Tom is like losing a brother, but he doesn’t want to keep hearing it. When he closes in on himself Mam gets all the more upset, hissing to his dad in the hallway: ‘He’s very quiet, do you think he’s in shock?’
They hang their coats on the newel post as they always do, and dad makes tea. He’s itching to get back to his shed, you can just tell. He’s never been much of a talker and too much emotion really makes him clam up. He asks a few safe questions about the weather and the flight and when that angle dries up they sit at the table, listening to the dull tick of the kitchen clock. Mam has a turkey defrosting on the draining board.
‘Life must go on,’ she says fiercely. ‘Steven and Natalie are coming over for tea, but I haven’t said anything.’ She nods her head towards the wall. He knows what that means. No family gathering is ever complete without Tom’s elderly parents making the short walk from next door. Even when Tom had moved away to start a family, Bert and Maureen had always been included. Bert has a fondness for a good malt or three, and Maureen can talk for Britain, but nobody minds.
‘I’ve been round to see them, of course.’ Mam sniffs. ‘But it’s so hard. I feel so guilty.’ The tears overwhelm the tissue and Walt doesn’t quite know what’s expected. He could do bear hugs. Bear hugs are friendly and safe, but if he clings to his mother now, he will come apart like the tissue. He knows all about the guilt. He reaches over and pats her shoulder.
16
‘Let’s do something normal,’ he announced at the weekend, although he hadn’t meant to stress the ‘normal’ quite as much. When Mouse turned to look at him – she was elbow deep in the kitchen sink again – he could see the word had found her.
‘Normal? As opposed to what?’ Her tone wasn’t particularly friendly. She turned back to the sink to rinse the cutlery under the tap. She had on jeans and sloppy slippers and a grey cardigan that sagged at the back. She didn’t look like someone desperate to escape.
He sighed. ‘I just feel . . . redundant, I suppose. Alys told me to bugger off. She’s been holed up in that basement for the last three days.’
She glanced around again with that little hitch in the corner of her lips, like when William said something funny.
‘I thought she was quiet. Has she started on this wren thing?’
‘Yup. She took delivery of a glass case the size of a kid’s coffin and the gallows are all set up.’ Mouse winced at the description.
‘I was glad to get out of there. I get claustrophobia in that bloody basement at the best of times. Aye, I was glad to get out.’
He looked at William, sitting at the table with colouring pencils and paper, enjoying a Saturday morning breakfast of pop tarts. On school days Mouse cooked porridge, the comforting smell of it warming the kitchen for hours, but routine came undone at the weekends and Walt wanted a bit of that too.
‘She’s always like that when she’s got a project on the go.’ Mouse turned back to the sink, shook water from a mug and placed it upside down on the drainer. ‘She’s driven. You learn not to take it personally.’
‘I wasn’t. How about a nice cappuccino on the Royal Mile?’
Mouse switched off the tap and turned all the way around, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘Too far.’
‘Rose Street?’
‘Full of pubs.’ They both glanced at the kid. It would have to be a threesome, of course.
As Walt searched frantically through streets in his brain, Mouse said, ‘Ooh, I know somewhere with great cake, across the road.’
Walt grinned. Across the road would do. ‘Great. Are you ready?’
‘Some of us can’t just drop everything and take off, you know. I have chores to do. And another thing . . .’
He hated sentences that began like that. Jo used to throw that one at him when they were arguing: And another thing, that girl you were flirting with on Saturday night . . . Weird that he should start thinking about Jo now. He’d been doing a good job of blocking her out.
‘. . . so it’s not a good idea, with all the cats about and . . . Robert, are you even listening?’
‘I am listening.’
‘You’re not. What did I just say?’ She glared at him with a touch of triumph. He hated that too.
They traded looks. He felt his face crease into a grin, and suddenly she was smiling too, although she tried hard to hide it.
‘You were going on about takeaways. You thought I’d had a takeaway and not cleaned up after myself.’ He stood his grou
nd, laughing at her expression. ‘Ah, you see, I don’t miss much. But you’re wrong, bonny lass, I would never leave a mess. The army knocks that right out of you.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but there was a truth there that she couldn’t ignore.
‘Seriously, there were open containers all over here.’ She gestured to the worktop. ‘And the cats were up licking at them. Disgusting.’
He lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Maybe it was Alys?’
‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘Alys would only eat Chinese if I ordered it. She won’t talk on the phone.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. It’s one of her things.’
‘Maybe she had a change of heart. Whatever. It definitely wasn’t me.’
Case closed. It took ten minutes but he managed to persuade her to leave her chores and be spontaneous. Then William had to be coaxed into his trainers and zipped into his coat. He wasn’t finished his drawing, he said. And he hated coffee, and why couldn’t they just leave him at home?
‘Because you’re eight and I’d be arrested.’ Mouse pulled up his hood and the boy instantly flipped it down again. Walt sighed. He should have gone out alone, found a soft seat in a dim bar, people-watching with a wee nip in his hand. Now Mouse was promising carrot cake and lemonade and William was hopping from one foot to the other.
‘I have to pee first,’ he said.
‘Go on then, and be quick. I need to change.’ Mouse plucked at the cardigan.
‘Maybe lose the slippers.’
‘I’ll lose the cardigan. Two minutes.’ Mouse disappeared, leaving Walt in the kitchen.
The shut-in feeling was threatening to engulf him so he went outside, sat on the top step and lit a fag. The morning was cold with a hint of rain on the breeze. This was why he didn’t date women with kids: the endless peeing and putting on of shoes and all the rest. He could have been sitting in a pub by now. He got to his feet as soon as they emerged, wincing at the pain in his hips. Sitting on cold stone wasn’t a good idea, given the battered condition of his body. William’s hair had been slicked down with water and he looked pissed off and whiney, and Mouse had to check her bag for keys and zip up her parka before they could set off. Walt walked quickly, trying not to limp, and the others had to run to catch up. He knew his mood was making Mouse nervous, but there was a perverse pleasure in seeing her flushed and breathless. It made her look alive.
Beneath the Skin Page 6