The Last Tour of Archie Forbes

by Victoria Hendry

  ‘You’ll need to get that fixed,’ he said.

  ‘It’s in hand, my friend,’ said Mike. ‘My social worker promised me a new cooker in August. Should be here any day. Any day now.’

  * * *

  Archie found the businesswoman waiting under the statue of the unicorn on the old gate-posts to the Meadows. ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘I made it with almost no notice, so should you.’

  He had run up the Walk, but tired more quickly than he expected and had had to stroll the last mile. Three miles used to be a warm-up, he thought. ‘Hooah,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t give me any of your American army training shit,’ she said, and he knew then that she was going to be a real ball-breaker.

  ‘I’ve adjusted it to reflect the Christian ethic of the training,’ said Archie, wishing he had had enough money to buy a bottle of water.

  She stared at him. ‘Why are you wearing sunglasses?’ she asked. ‘It’s not exactly bright.’

  ‘Sun damage,’ he said. He held his arms up, palms facing upwards like a preacher he had once seen on telly. ‘Let’s start with the Lord’s prayer.’

  ‘No time,’ said the woman. ‘Let’s skip that bit.’ She put her foot up on a bench and pushed her thigh forward.

  ‘Don’t extend past ninety degrees,’ said Archie, ‘to protect your knees. Drop your pelvis down towards the ground to feel the stretch. Gently.’

  Her clothes were expensive. ‘Messenger,’ she said, following his gaze. ‘Best brand on the market.’

  Archie nodded. ‘Have you run before?’ he asked.

  ‘These aren’t new,’ she said waving at her training gear. ‘I can do twice round the Meadows,’ she said. ‘I just need some motivation to keep going.’

  ‘I’ll give you a meditation to repeat to yourself as you run,’ he said. ‘Rather than a chant. Let’s try …’ he paused, trying to remember what he had typed on his Facebook page last night. ‘Let’s try … “Oh, Lord thou art our Father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.” Isaiah, 64:7.’

  ‘Eight,’ she said. ‘Isaiah 64:8. ‘I looked at it this morning.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Just testing. The idea is that you must make yourself into good clay. Not fill yourself up with crap.’

  ‘I don’t eat crap,’ she said. ‘Just one too many business lunches.’

  In his mind’s eye he saw a table laden with food: his wedding buffet, the guests breathless from dancing, the ceilidh band drinking cool glasses of beer before the second set. So much laughter – then. So many good things, and Hannah held close; the small bump of her pregnant belly invisible beneath her wedding dress. He dismissed the thought. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  They began to run. A light mist dripped from the trees. There was a smell of damp leaves.

  ‘Watch you don’t slip,’ he said. ‘You okay with intervals?’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ll start with four minutes moderate, one minute fast and repeat. Slower up the hill over the Links. The faster pace in the minute interval will boost your calorie burn.’

  He increased the pace. ‘Don’t let your hands flap across your body. Keep them facing forward in a light grip. He’s the potter, I’m the clay,’ he chanted.

  She glared at him and he fell silent. ‘You’re the client, hope you’ll pay,’ he said into himself, and grinned.

  ‘You’re loving this aren’t you?’ she said.

  He looked over at her from behind the filter of his glasses. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Running fat ladies round this hamster track and collecting cash from them, like an ant milking aphids for sugar.’

  ‘Sugar’s not good for you,’ he said.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she replied. ‘It’s a power trip for you. Just like the board room. You know what the suits said to me on my first day? Just write your wee name in the book. I mean how fucked is that? I’m top of my field.’

  ‘What field’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m an actuary,’ she said. ‘You can thank me for your pension plan later.’

  He increased the pace. ‘Pump your arms up and down at this point,’ he said. ‘Burn more calories. Get a better return on your investment.’

  He slowed down as a cyclist sped across the path in front of them. Arthur’s Seat seeped into view through the mist.

  ‘I’ve got a stitch,’ she said, clutching her side. He stopped. ‘Stretch it out,’ he said, reaching up. She put her hand in the air and he took it and lifted her arm higher. ‘Better?’ he asked. ‘Keep breathing.’ He released her and she took a drink from her bottle.

  ‘Aren’t you thirsty?’ she asked.

  ‘I tanked up before we started,’ he lied. ‘Best practice – a drink an hour beforehand, on top of fruit, or an energy bar, consumed two hours before the training session. And don’t forget calcium for strong bones. A thousand milligrams a day for your age group. Fifteen-hundred after fifty.’

  Fifty. That number, the mid-point of remembering. The man with chained feet, the sinking ship. How long could he hold it back? He wished his mind could become clay – stop jumping and leaping in his head, throwing unwelcome pictures up on the shadow wall inside his skull. He had forgotten to take Dr Clark’s pill. ‘We’ll stop there for the day,’ he said to the woman. He couldn’t remember her name. ‘Let’s walk back to our starting point, fit in a plank to strengthen your core muscle and hope that puts paid to stitches in the future. We’ll build it into your training regime.’

  ‘How do you know I’m going to hire you?’ she asked, plugging in her headphones. ‘You must think you’re pretty hot.’

  He waited, bit his lip with disappointment. ‘Just kidding, you bozo,’ she said, punching him on the arm.

  Hunger had robbed him of resilience. He had nothing left. She tossed her half-empty bottle into the bin when they reached the gate-post with no gate, and walked off. The weathered sandstone unicorn crowned a list of Scottish burghs carved below. Prince Albert’s exhibition palace of industry had long since gone, leaving only its gate-posts. ‘See you same time Wednesday,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And my name is Brenda, since you’ve obviously forgotten.’

  He re-tied his shoes then picked the bottle out of the bin. He was parched. ‘Hey,’ her voice said behind him. ‘What are you doing?’

  He turned round, the bottle in his hand.

  ‘I never had you down as a scrounger,’ she said.

  He looked down at the green plastic bottle, at the liquid inside. The hot surface of his throat contracted. ‘Recycling,’ he said. ‘Can’t bear to see all that plastic go into the earth. There’s a recycling point over there.’ He waved in the direction of the new flats. ‘I’m going that way.’

  ‘Okay, man of clay,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask you about charting my progress. It would be nice to see the weight dropping off. How about a chart, or something?’

  ‘I’ll send you one tonight for you to download and fill in. If it goes well, you might want to put it up on my page to testify, to bear witness for others that …’ he took a deep breath, ‘… you can slim for Jesus.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got faith.’ She pulled forty pounds from a roll in her pocket. ‘Here’s a small advance. See you next time.’ She turned on her heel and jogged off.

  He put the bottle in his pocket and walked towards St Philomena’s, hoping he hadn’t missed breakfast.

  12

  He got back to the flat with a bag of shopping, courtesy of Brenda’s money, and climbed into a hot bath filled from the electric shower and three kettles. He poured in two handfuls of Dead Sea bath salts from the health shop and sank down into the slippy water. His muscles softened and he fell asleep. Not dreaming. Floating. Floating out of the past, out of the present, slipping by the promontory of his appointment with Dr C
lark, drifting on the sea, a dark, internal sea, the current off-shore.

  He washed up at the community garden a mile across the hospital grounds that afternoon. There was no sign of Dr Clark. Petal was there, digging up a line of potatoes. Her flowery dress clung to her back, which was more muscular than he expected. She was wearing green wellies with tiny rhinestones and sequins glued to them. ‘Jazzy,’ he said, pointing at them, ‘Not standard issue.’ Picking up a hoe, he marked out a few defensive Tai Chi moves in the air; strike head, right, ribs, left, knees, throat, press down. His sunshine pill shone behind his eyes. He pushed up his glasses. It was brighter inside than out.

  ‘Good to see you,’ she said, and he hoped she meant it.

  ‘I’m here to dig for the five thousand,’ he said. ‘Like that minister in Leith who’s trying to feed the hungry.’

  ‘I hear he’s run out of food,’ she said. ‘One of the food banks is empty.’

  Archie thought of Mike’s hand-outs drying up. ‘There’s always the pound shop, if you like instant mash and chocolate biscuits.’

  She didn’t reply and bent to shake the earth from the potatoes’ thin roots. ‘Autumn is my favourite time,’ she said. ‘I’m a root veg girl.’

  ‘Five a day?’ he asked.

  ‘Minimum. I’ll need to introduce you to my beetroot smoothie.’

  Archie grimaced. He didn’t want to hear the roar of the blender’s blades, see the steel cut into the red flesh. ‘A cup of tea, and you’ve got yourself a date,’ he replied, trying to smile, but it wasn’t working.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘You know how it is,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘You haven’t told me.’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone,’ he said.

  She leaned on her spade.

  ‘Where’s Joy?’ he asked, looking round.

  ‘She’s away for an op,’ she replied. ‘They picked her up this morning. Women’s troubles.’

  Dr Clark was picking his way between the veggie beds towards them. ‘Hide me,’ he said to Petal, moving behind her, but Dr Clark was already calling his name and waving.

  ‘You missed your appointment, Archie. That’s the bad news, but I have time now. That’s the good news.’

  ‘It depends on your point of view,’ said Archie.

  ‘What’s your point of view?’ asked Dr Clark, stooping to pick a nasturtium flower and eating it.

  ‘I’m happy here,’ he said.

  ‘No one is happy here, Archie. That’s why you’re here. Happy is what they do outside this place. Healing is what we do here, and that takes effort.’

  Archie passed Petal his hoe with an exaggerated sigh.

  * * *

  Dr Clark’s office was just as before. The TV in the common room was blaring. Something about a handshake between President Obama and the new Iranian leader, Rouhani. He remembered his translator in Afghanistan telling him how the Iranians and Syrians hated each other. How the Persians called the Syrians Arabs, and spat. Their governments were friendly but the people were not. Nothing was simple, and now this new détente between America and Iran over Syria: Obama and Rouhani tweeting.

  ‘Nothing to do with putting pressure on Assad,’ he said to Dr Clark’s back.

  The doctor shrugged. ‘I don’t pay much attention,’ he said. ‘There’s enough going on here.’ He waved at the room with its beige walls, like the bank. Neutral.

  ‘I hate beige,’ said Archie. ‘Everything is wall-to-wall beige.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Dr Clark. ‘How’s life?’

  Archie shrugged. ‘As a closet racist?’ he asked, to fill the silence.

  ‘Are you a closet racist, Archie?’ asked Dr Clark.

  ‘No, but I might be a fruit-cake.’

  ‘Let’s move on, Archie. Keep it professional. You were a professional man, weren’t you?’ He looked at Archie’s notes. ‘A financial services lawyer. A lieutenant in the reserves.’ He picked up his pen. ‘How are you finding the medication? It kicks in more quickly in some people than others. A fortnight is average. It can take a month. No side effects, I hope?’

  ‘Helpful, I think,’ said Archie. ‘When I remember to take it.’

  ‘Is that difficult?’ asked Dr Clark. ‘Are things difficult at home?’

  ‘I’m not at home.’

  Dr Clark raised his eyebrows and scanned the notes. ‘Of course. Forgive me. So where are you staying?’

  ‘The Ritz,’ said Archie. ‘Also known as The Alcove, 8/6 Skid Row.’

  Dr Clark leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’

  ‘I’m observing you. We’re going to try something new today. It’s called EMDR – that stands for Eye Movement Desensitisation Reprocessing. It was developed by the rather wonderful Francine Shapiro, who posted a study in 1989, in the Journal of Traumatic Stress.’

  ‘Couldn’t you subscribe to something more cheery?’ asked Archie. ‘Homes and Gardens, Anglers’ Weekly?’

  ‘She noticed that bringing eye movements under control during the recall of a traumatic event reduced anxiety in the patient, especially when it can be evidenced that PTSD or depersonalisation disorder might be the root problem.’

  ‘What’s depersonalisation disorder, Doc?’ he asked to slow down the approach of the therapy, but he already knew. It was his body looking out over the Forth on an early morning; it was his figure at the door of his old home; it was the restless sleeper behind the glass wall; it was the calls he had deleted without answering.

  ‘It’s very effective,’ said Dr Clark. ‘We move slowly from Preparation to Desensitisation to Closure.’

  It was walking through a minefield. ‘I don’t really fancy it,’ he said.

  ‘I know you are being avoidant, Archie, and that is entirely understandable, but could you at least give it a go? Let’s try with a memory you can handle. Nothing approaching the memory you have locked away, but still something upsetting. Something difficult. Perhaps something you trained for?’

  ‘There’s no training for the things I saw, Doc,’ he said. ‘Sticking a bayonet in a straw man is seventy years out of date. We’re talking clinical strikes here.’ Even as he said it, he saw the ground that had exploded; the sandy road with big slabs of toffee tarmac; toy cars at crazy angles; the boy with the tiny bird on his arm, the black bird on his white arm, stock still, smiling, watching them pass. ‘You can’t ask me to go there,’ he said, ‘and then come back here as if it were a holiday and shop in supermarkets, and ride on buses and sign up for the Universal Bloody Credit in your world of abbreviations where everyone has forgotten how to talk to each other, and no one wants to listen.’

  ‘I want to listen,’ said Dr Clark.

  Archie fell silent.

  ‘If you want to talk,’ added Dr Clark. He walked over to the water cooler in the corner and poured Archie a paper cone of water. Archie drank it, then put it between his lips and sat staring at the doctor over his beak.

  ‘Not funny,’ said Dr Clark. ‘Is this bird ready to sing, or not?’

  Archie balled up the paper cone and fired it into the bin under the window. ‘Do your worst,’ he said, moving to the bed and straightening its paper towel. He lay down.

  After thirty seconds of silent recall, he tried not to laugh as Dr Clark waved his pen from side to side in front of him. He described the ruined road and then replaced his negative cognition with a positive one, as instructed. He saw the road healing itself. The tarmac fitting itself back together in a seamless jigsaw and, by the time he had mentally scanned his body for areas of tension, he had tarmacked a path the length of Afghanistan to Kabul. ‘I’ll give you a couple of relaxation exercises to practise in tandem with these sessions,’ said Dr Clark. ‘Remember to replace your NC, negative cognition, with a PC, positive cognition, if th
is unwelcome memory should intrude at an inappropriate moment. This is about empowering you.’

  Archie’s eyes flickered.

  ‘You don’t look quite so staring,’ said Dr Clark. ‘Not quite so fixed.’

  Archie got up and checked his reflection in the mirror positioned above the sink. It was the same. ‘Thanks anyway, Doc,’ he said.

  Dr Clark passed him a piece of paper. ‘I think you should contact this veterans’ support group in town,’ he said. ‘They might be able to help you. You could be eligible for a WCA, Work Capability Assessment, and that might get you off JSA, or Universal Credit, and onto DLA, in the short term at least.

  Archie put it in his pocket. ‘Is gobbledegook all anyone speaks nowadays? Gobble. Gobble. Gook. Gook. Gook.’

  13

  After a long day at the hospital, Petal logged on to her gaming account. Her avatar leapt on screen with her bow on her back. Behind her, mountains spread out in pink and blue. Petal scrolled through the money and weapons in her account, and selected a quest. Negotiations to find the lost mine of Nazar would be difficult with so little gold to bribe the white elves, and the forest was full of serpents. She looked at her map and decided to consult the wizard at Delphium. The Oracle of Hath was too far. Crossing the swamp would be difficult, but if her health was good, she could leap from tussock to tussock. Her fingers flew over her controller and her avatar did a back-flip, landing on the first grassy tussock, sure-footed. Cupid would have to wait. Two hours later she checked her phone. There was a message. ‘Great to hear from you,’ it said. ‘I am a self-employed businessman, forty years old, a bit of a foodie, no ties, and if you would like to meet up for a drink, then text me on this number and I’ll see you at The Byzantium Bar at six thirty pm tomorrow.’

  ‘No problem,’ she texted back. ‘See you there.’

  * * *

  The guy wasn’t what she expected. He was completely bald. Hairless. He stood up as she came into the bar, and held out his hand. ‘Calum Ben,’ he said, ‘of Ben Organics.’