When nights are lang and mirk
The wife’s ane son cam hame to her,
His hat was o’ the birk.
‘Cold blows the wind, my mother dear,
O let me bide this night,
For I hae been beneath the ground
Where shines no living light.’
‘Are you an angel, son?’ she said,
‘All clothed in birk sae dark?
Take off your mantle of cold clay
And helmet o’ the bark.’
‘So let me be,’ he said to her,
‘Take not my garment firm.
My house lies neath the muckle wood
Where chides the chann’rin worm.
‘A twelvemonth lang it gnawed my banes,
A twelvemonth and a day,
Now he is fat and I maun mak
The last step o’ my way.’
The wheezy harmonium in the corner like the sound of angels and his mother working it with the same steady patience that made her push the steam iron over piles of white linen or turn the handle of the sewing machine. Life is work and when the work runs out you’re finished so the fact of the matter was that Joe Coyle died long ago, he knew it. All those years he served as apprentice, journeyman, master of his tools, father of two children, gone and counted for nothing. Janet in a commune or a squat or God knows where, even changed her name, and Robbie gone to ashes and dust, his last months a torture as his mind went, talking to himself as if it was people in the room there with him. He’d always been one to make up stories in his head, thinking he was an astronaut or whatever, Anne reckoned those tales of his about going inside the installation were the same kind of harmless make-believe, but Robbie’s illness, that cancer that got put in his skull, it was a black hole that sucked him right inside. It fed off his healthy young brain, ate it up, swelled to engulf him. In the end he couldn’t hold a spoon or keep his head up to drink a bit of soup, howling with terror at nothing, fallen over the edge and there was no bringing him back. Joe holding his son’s hand, seeing his boy’s face like yellow wax and telling anybody that’d listen it was the installation was the cause, but nobody listened. His son’s last word, a girl they never traced, a name that meant nothing. Dora.
Where we finally belong is the place a flame goes to when it’s snuffed, a song when it’s finished; the immaterial past. And if he could wind everything backwards, Joe thought, then he would, growing younger in his grief and stronger in his anger, to the day they turned Robbie into smoke and nothing, and further still, through the years till their son was a wee boy again, hiding his self in the cupboard under the sink, saying it was his spaceship. Back until he was conceived one night the pair of them never noticed, dissolved into a parting egg and sperm, unmade by life as surely as by death since both’s the same in opposite order. Unliving but unmourned, and Joe pushing further through the years like a falling stone becoming swifter and more vigorous with each retreating second. Yes, he’d do it if he could. Robbie, Janet, Anne, his years at the plant, his whole life – take it and leave me only the sweet innocent start.
Still he could hear the harmonium as he walked, its music the anthem of that great leveller, the democratic socialist republic of death. Faither didn’t like music, didn’t like noise, so whatever memories Joe had of his mother’s playing came from those moments when it was only the two of them; abundant moments. Then one day faither found a tiny hole in the instrument’s side and declared it to be infested with woodworm. A single puncture, no more; Joe saw it at the end of his sorrowful mother’s fingernail, the tiny black hole that threatened to spread and dissolve their entire house. So faither heaved the harmonium downstairs and through the close to the back midden where the dustbins stood and he took an axe and chopped it all to pieces with his strong bare arms, smashed and crunched that old harmonium whose split wood was pale and innocent beneath the dark paint, the dying instrument giving out a last plaintive chord, Joe remembered, before its keyboard scattered like loosened teeth beneath the fatal blow. It must have broken his mother’s heart but she said nothing at all about it, and soon it was as if there’d never been a harmonium in the house. That’s how we live with loss.
Something over there, other side of the river. A figure moving, Joe reckoned. Couldn’t see the form, only changing shapes of darkness against the trees. Druggie hunting for a place to shoot up, couple fancying a spot of bum-freezing open-air sex. Mugger. The possibilities clicked in Joe’s head like the chambers of a revolver and he felt fear, the thing he’d spent a lifetime trying not to show and most times managed. He stopped and stared across the river and thought of turning and going back because if there were hoodlums on that side they could have friends on this. But there was no movement now, and Joe satisfied his self with the tune in his head.
She’s made to him a feather bed,
She’s made it large and wide,
Then laid her grey cape over him
And sat down by his side.
Till up there crew the blood-red cock,
And up and crew the white,
The sun crept o’er the hill o’ stanes
And banished all the night.
‘When sail I see you son again,
In pleasure or in toil?’
‘When grow again the fallen leaves
That lie upon the soil.’
‘Then fare ye well my bairn sae mild,
Fare well my ane pure heart,
Till we bide at the far green place
Where nane sall mak us part.’
He saw it now, a figure on the opposite bank, pale and motionless, almost as if hovering. He saw and understood.
‘Robbie!’
The sound came out of him like air from a submerged jar, a name he called again.
‘Robbie!’
For it was his son standing on the other side of the river, Joe was blindingly certain of it, and the fear drained from him, replaced by a giddy lightness. His own son, though why did he not wave back or call in response? Joe felt a tightness in his chest, he was almost panting with joy and astonishment, half expecting the apparition at any moment to resolve itself in his adjusting gaze to a misinterpreted fence-post or concrete slab. But no, it was a waiting human figure, and it was Robbie.
‘I’m coming, son!’
Only one way to reach and save him, the water low enough even for an old man to walk across. Never mind the madness of it, Joe was seized by the power of love and hope, acting on instinct, following his feet into the cold flow that rose to soak his shins, his knees, the hidden stones making him stumble several times, but on each occasion when he looked up he saw his son still standing there, growing larger and more certain, his own son come back to him, as impossible as it was true.
12
Kid’s like staring at the local newspaper and says to the guy still lying with his eyes closed on the bed, ‘You’re in here, Dad.’ But before he can answer there’s a knock on the door and it’s their food brought on a tray by someone dressed as a waiter. As in, he’s a waiter. Way the kid looks at it, if you’re dressed as a waiter and you’re carrying a cheeseburger with no salad and a club sandwich on a tray and you’re saying ‘room service’ like it’s a lovely sunny morning and you just woke up and feel glad to be alive when really it’s late and you’re beat and want to go home, well, in that case you’re a one hundred per cent genuine waiter. Expecting a tip.
‘Thanks,’ says Robert Coyle, as in the one sitting up on the bed reaching into his pocket for change, not the one whose death notice is in the newspaper the kid folds and returns to the desk-table thing where it lives. Robert Coyle stretches a coin-loaded fist that the waiter’s drawn to like a fish to a worm, taking the money with exaggerated gratitude then retreating through the door so the guests can eat the meal he’s delivered. Kid thinks it looks like shit. Wishes they’d gone to Burger King.
‘Get yourself a drink from the minibar,’ guy says to him, nodding towards the cupboard under the television where the kid finds
a fridge and gets himself a Coke. ‘And bring me some mineral water.’
Then the two of them sit on their respective beds basically eating. Almost a family-type moment, as in neither of them saying much, until the kid decides he’d better mention the newspaper again because it’s like the guy doesn’t care that his name’s in it. ‘Robert Coyle, died aged nineteen,’ he reads.
‘It’s not me.’
‘But it’s the same name. And look, it’s next week.’
‘No, it’s not,’ says the guy. ‘It’s the same date, but twenty-five years ago.’
‘You know what I mean,’ the kid protests, stuffing in another mouthful of unexpectedly satisfying carbohydrate. ‘It’s like totally freaky. Are you a ghost?’
Guy pauses momentarily over his club sandwich. ‘What do you think?’
Kid doesn’t know what he thinks. You dress and act like a waiter, that makes you a waiter, especially if you get tipped for it, but the kid doesn’t know what a ghost ought to dress like or how it behaves. Not floating around with a white sheet over its head, that’s for sure. ‘You told me you were a spaceman.’
‘So to speak.’
‘And you’ve got like this magic card. Even if you aren’t a pervert you’re pretty damn weird.’
Guy munches and swallows and looks totally real, as in not a ghost, because ghosts you can see through, they’re like this ectoplasmic thing. Says, ‘What’s the worst thing a person can do?’
Comes out of nowhere but the kid’s used to weirdness from this guy. ‘I don’t know, kill somebody I suppose.’
‘What if you’re a soldier?’
‘Then it’s different.’
‘And what makes you a soldier?’
It’s got damn all to do with the newspaper and being a ghost and so forth and the kid realizes it’s misdirection, like the way he stretched an empty hand in WH Smith to hide his stealing. ‘If you’re a soldier you’ve got like a uniform and an army.’
‘What if there’s no uniform?’
‘There’s still an army. That makes you a soldier.’
‘And what if you’re the last man left?’
Now he gets it. This guy, as in the Doctor, is the last of the Time Lords because the rest of his race were wiped out in the Time War and he’s like this sole survivor. But that’s shit because it still doesn’t explain how he died twenty-five years ago but is able to eat a club sandwich. And when would Doctor Who ever eat a fucking club sandwich? Kid says, ‘Even if you’re the last man left and you’ve got no uniform you could still be a soldier.’
‘So it would be all right to kill?’
‘Depends who.’
‘The enemy.’
‘Sure, that’s OK.’ It’s like, either Robert Coyle is the dumbest shit-brain in the galaxy or else he’s playing some kind of game. And anyway, he isn’t the same Robert Coyle, it’s only a name. Like, if the kid called himself Jesus Christ it wouldn’t mean he was the one in the Bible. Kid says, ‘You stole the name, didn’t you? You read it in the paper when you were here earlier.’
Guy nods pensively, like it’s basically plausible, but then says, ‘You’re forgetting something.’
‘What?’
‘I used the name when I first checked in, before I got the room and had any chance of seeing the paper.’ OK, so he’s not quite the dumbest shit-brain. Guy says, ‘Ever heard of identity theft?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, it works best if you steal from someone who isn’t in a position to complain.’
Now the kid gets it. Except that he doesn’t. ‘Dead people don’t have bank accounts.’
‘I’m not interested in anybody’s bank account,’ the guy says. ‘I’ve got a card that gives me all the money I want. Only thing I needed was a name.’
Again the kid gets it. And again he doesn’t. It’s sort of like eating a cheeseburger and fries without the salad. Chew, swallow, digest, then wonder why. ‘You could have made up any name,’ he says. ‘You didn’t need to steal one.’
‘But then I couldn’t have gone to the registrar for a copy of my birth certificate,’ the guy explains. ‘Couldn’t have got myself a national insurance number. And a passport.’
Kid gives a burp. ‘I thought they’ve got like computer checks and stuff.’
‘They have. They want to stop illegal immigrants. But I’m an ordinary British white man who’s in a hurry and tells the nice young girl at the desk that he needs a copy of his birth certificate for a job application. And she believes me.’
Kid’s eyes wander to the foot of the guy’s bed and the dark trolley case standing there with its handle erect. ‘Is that the honest truth?’
‘Maybe.’
It’s like the kid can believe whatever he wants to believe: this guy is a ghost or he’s a fraudster. And it’s like basically the kid doesn’t care, as in it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other because there are two options in the menu and the kid’s got the remote. It’s like what difference does it make? Truth is whatever we choose. Kid says, ‘What’s with the question about killing people? Was that a test?’
‘Everything is a test, Felix.’
‘And are you some kind of soldier? Is that it?’ It’d be another option in the menu, and three’s cooler than two.
Guy says, ‘You think killing someone is the worst thing a person can do?’
‘Sure, if it’s not like a war situation, self-defence and so forth.’
Guy nods like he agrees. Says, ‘Suppose you were in a world full of evil people. Or rather, a world where the system has made people evil. You get hold of a weapon, purely by chance. You could use it to kill evil people and start a revolution.’
‘Go ahead, do it.’
‘But then you’re a terrorist.’
‘No, you’re a soldier.’
‘All right,’ says Robert Coyle. ‘Let’s say we go in my time machine and we find Hitler when he was a baby. Would you pull the trigger on him?’
It’s like one of those brainteasers they get in PSHE but the guy looks serious, like he’s really got a time machine. Options: ghost, fraudster, soldier, Time Lord. ‘Sure,’ says the kid.
‘You’d murder a baby?’
‘It’d be for the best.’
Guy says, ‘What if we go back further to make sure? Would you shoot Hitler’s parents when they were babies?’
This is like so not relevant. ‘Sure I’d shoot them, they’re dead now anyway and it’s not like it would make any difference.’
‘And if I told you there’s a child who has to die tomorrow to save the future of this planet, would you kill that child?’
The kid feels a shiver again, as in this is starting to feel uncomfortable. Change the channel. Kid asks quietly, ‘What’s the next step of the mission?’
Guy chews a moment, draws a swig of mineral water from the bottle, swallows and arrives at some kind of decision. ‘We’re going to the airport tomorrow morning. Plane to catch.’
Kid’s stomach tightens. As in this is serious. Ghost, fraudster or whatever the heck he is, going on a plane with him is like running away big time, and it’s like all at once the kid’s looking for an excuse. ‘I haven’t got a passport.’
‘You don’t need one.’
‘It’s a domestic flight?’
‘You won’t be getting on the plane.’
‘But where are you going?’
‘Home,’ says the guy. ‘When the plane reaches the right altitude, I’m going home.’
It sounds weird. Kid stares at the black trolley case and all he can think is that this is even freakier than if the guy was a paedo. Guy starts waving his dick around, he could understand that, but all this altitude crap, he’s lost. ‘Why do I need to come with you to the airport?’
‘When we get there you only have to do what I tell you. It won’t be difficult.’
‘You mean this is another test?’
Guy nods. ‘This is the biggest test of all, Felix. A test of faith.’
‘A
nd if I pass?’
Guy thinks about it, shrugs. ‘Then we’ll see.’ He can see the dissatisfaction on the kid’s face. ‘I’m not being secretive for the sake of it. These are complicated issues.’
‘Oh, sure, too complicated for a kid.’
‘No, Felix. Too complicated for an adult. Even I don’t really understand it. But we live in a sick world …’
‘Too right.’
‘And the world needs to heal itself.’
Kid doesn’t feel like listening to some grown-up sermon-type crap like he hears every week in school assembly when the head goes on and on about how we’re all one big family, got to work together, blah blah blah. Instead, while Robert Coyle keeps talking to him, the kid tunes out and thinks about the other Robert Coyle, the real one who died at nineteen, which is sort of old but not old from a dying point of view, in fact it’s impressively young. Probably crashed or OD-ed but maybe he got sick, it happens, kind of sad and embarrassing, those people you see in the news with their wheelchairs and bald heads and tubes up their noses, brave kid and so forth, not a rock-star way to go but just as likely when you think about it. And if the world’s sick then maybe it’s sad and embarrassing too, like all the other planets would prefer it if ours just got out of the way and died instead of looking ill and bringing everybody down. Brave little Earth, battling against the odds. Earth takes part in charity half-marathon. Earth gets award for courage. Earth loses fight. Rest in peace.
‘So you see, Felix, everything is connected.’
Kid has no idea what Robert Coyle has been talking about but thinks he gets the drift. The right altitude is when the spaceman goes back to his galaxy far, far away. That’s his mission.
‘But now we need to get some sleep, Felix, we’ve got an early start tomorrow. Taxi’s picking us up at five.’ The guy stands up from the bed, puts his empty plate and water bottle on the coffee table, starts undressing. Like, this is it. Kid thinks, any moment now he’ll be waving his dick at me.
Kid sweeps his last chip through a smear of ketchup, finishes his Coke and goes to the bathroom. Light makes a horrible humming noise or perhaps it’s the extractor, sound matches the harsh white glare of the room. Maybe the kid should sleep here with the door locked. Maybe he should run away. As in, run away from running away, which would make him sort of a runaway squared. Has his real father even noticed? Has Stegosaurus phoned Spud’s parents to check his son is sleeping over? Probability zero.
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