The Dead Beat

by Doug Johnstone

  ‘You are fucked up,’ Ian said. ‘This is Debbie Logan all over again.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  Elaine had no idea what they were talking about.

  ‘It’s exactly like that. Anything I have, you want. It’s pathetic.’

  ‘Anything you have?’ Elaine said. ‘Excuse me.’

  Johnny pushed at Ian. ‘You’re screwing Rose. At least I was being a friend to Elaine.’

  ‘Calm down.’ This was Gordon, trying to get in between them.

  Rose had her hand up to her head.

  Ian grabbed at his brother, past Gordon. ‘A friend? You’re such a fuck-up, you probably believe that’s true. You’re so fucking deranged. I’ve spent my whole life looking out for you, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Deranged?’ Johnny said. A strange look came over him. ‘I’ll show you deranged.’

  He leapt up onto the wall of the bridge, then was quickly over the other side, standing on the ledge.

  Elaine went to grab his hand. ‘Johnny, for fuck’s sake.’

  He had stopped on the ledge and was looking back, grinning. ‘How’s this for deranged?’

  Ian laughed. ‘Oh, here we go.’ He shook his head. ‘You going to jump, yeah? Show us all how mental you really are?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Come on,’ Ian said. ‘That would be suicide bid number, what? Four? Five?’

  Elaine stared at Ian. ‘What?’

  Ian looked at her. ‘He’s never serious. It’s an attention thing. There’s fuck all wrong with him. He just likes being a drama queen.’

  Elaine reached out over the wall. ‘Come on, Johnny, come back over.’

  ‘No, I’m going to do it,’ Johnny said. Something in his face made Elaine believe him.

  She clambered up onto the wall.

  ‘Hey,’ Ian said. ‘What are you doing?’

  She briefly turned back. ‘I’m trying to stop your brother doing something really stupid. It’s more than you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s what he wants,’ Ian said. ‘It’s all about the attention.’

  Punters were giving them a wide berth on the pavement. They were just a bunch of drunken nutters dangerously mucking around.

  Elaine was sitting on the wall now, reaching out.

  ‘Come on, Johnny, give me your hand.’

  She stretched for him, but he shirked away, towards the edge.

  ‘OK, relax,’ Elaine said.

  Rose spoke. ‘Please come back over, Elaine.’

  Elaine turned to her. Maybe in other circumstances they could’ve been friends. But she was fucked if she was going to take advice from the woman, not now.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she said.

  This was all so messed up. If they could just get down from this bridge and go home, they could sort it all out.

  She felt a hand take hers and turned. Johnny. She felt relief, but that changed when she saw his face. He looked in a daze, like he didn’t know where he was.

  ‘Come here, you cunt,’ Ian said, and made a lunge for Johnny’s other arm.

  Johnny flinched away and in a quick movement grabbed Elaine and hauled her down onto the ledge. He pulled her into a hug and stepped backwards off the ledge.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered in her ear.

  Her feet left the ledge and she felt herself falling, a sudden blast of air around her as Johnny’s grip tightened and they fell together.

  The adrenalin made her breath stop as they dropped through the sky, and the last thing she thought before they hit the ground was that Johnny was not only killing himself and her, but the unborn baby sleeping inside her.

  49

  The question hung in the air.

  Martha stared at Elaine, wondering if she was going to answer.

  Eventually Elaine turned and looked her in the eye. A tiny shake of the head.

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I never found out which one was your dad. Both are possible, if you know what I mean. In the end, does it really matter?’

  Martha thought about that. They were both dead now, and neither of them had done much for Martha or Cal when they were alive. Except maybe give them a family history of mental illness. Cheers for that.

  Did it really matter?

  Elaine glanced round and Martha followed her gaze. Ian’s flat looked like it had been turned over, but that was just the state Martha had left it in the previous night.

  There had been a second ambulance down below by the time Johnny had fallen onto platform 8, and they were at his body straight away. The police officer up on the bridge got the call on his radio moments later. Dead on impact.

  Martha, Cal, Billy and Elaine were checked over by the paramedics up top. No physical problems. They were interviewed by police while sitting on the back step of the ambulance. The crisis intervention team turned up ten minutes too late.

  For Martha and the rest there would be follow-up stuff, according to the police, but for now they were free to go, did they have somewhere to stay?

  Ian’s flat.

  ‘This is where Ian lived?’ Elaine said.

  Cal nodded.

  Billy was pouring out the last of the brandy into mugs. He handed them out and sat down.

  Elaine turned to Martha. ‘I was in hospital for two months after the fall.’

  She had already explained what happened that night. The drunken fight on the bridge, the jump.

  ‘The doctors said it was a miracle you both survived. I only found out I was expecting twins after I came round two days later. Apparently Johnny had cushioned my fall. He was even more badly injured than I was.’

  Martha thought about that. A massive trauma like that while still in the womb, that could have an effect on how two babies turned out, couldn’t it? Maybe that was the reason she and Cal were the way they were.

  Cal went over and touched Elaine’s arm. ‘So Ian had Johnny committed?’

  Elaine sipped her brandy. ‘That was all done while I was still in hospital. Ian never came to see me. Gordon kept me up to date on what Ian was doing. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time Johnny had tried something like that, not by a long way. Gordon said that during the trial they mentioned five other suicide attempts, one of which also involved a young woman. That time pills, a suicide pact, except the girl didn’t know anything about it, woke up in hospital but refused to press charges.’

  Martha frowned. ‘But even with a history of mental instability, Johnny was in Carstairs for so long.’

  Elaine shrugged. ‘If you don’t show improvement, they can keep you in forever, especially if you still seem a danger to others. The impression I got from Gordon was that Johnny got worse inside there. And since Ian was his only remaining relative, he had a big say in what happened.’

  ‘You think Ian kept him in out of spite?’

  ‘Maybe that was part of it. Maybe he was sick of having to clean up his brother’s messes. And Johnny really was a threat, Christ, he’s proven that since he came out, hasn’t he?’

  Martha drank. ‘But why do you think Ian changed his mind recently, why sign him out after all these years?’

  Elaine shook her head. ‘Maybe he felt remorse. Maybe Johnny tricked him. We’re never going to know, are we?’

  Cal sighed. ‘You think it’s true, what Johnny said, that Ian jumped of his own accord?’

  Elaine didn’t answer. There weren’t any more answers. She looked down at her mug. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve told you both about Johnny. And I shouldn’t have told you that Ian was your dad when I didn’t know for sure. But it just crept up on me. When you were little it wasn’t a problem, it was just the three of us. But then you started asking about why you didn’t have a daddy, all that stuff. I suppose I panicked a little bit, I just thought it was easier to say Ian. I spoke to him about it, and he said he was fine with it, as long as we didn’t expect anything from him. Back when it happened, it was horrible, I didn’t want to think about any of it ever again. I was recover
ing from the fall, on my own, with twins coming. I wanted a fresh start. The three of us. We didn’t need a dad. Not Ian or Johnny or anyone else. You understand that, don’t you?’

  There were big streaks of tears on her face as Cal gave her a hug.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, rubbing her back.

  Elaine looked at Martha.

  ‘Martha? You understand why I did it, don’t you?’

  Martha looked around the room, at Billy, at the mess of her life, at the flat of the man she used to think was her dad. Maybe he still was. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter.

  She downed her brandy and sighed.

  ‘I understand.’

  50

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ Cal said.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Back in the ECT waiting room next morning. Same beige and brown walls, same scratchy seats. Martha fiddled with the information leaflet in her hand. Two sessions per week for three weeks. Switching things off and back on again.

  She looked at Cal. ‘Besides, I think I could do with some short-term memory loss, don’t you?’

  Cal raised his eyebrows at her.

  The door opened and Colleen shuffled through. Big smile when she saw the two of them.

  ‘It’s yourselves,’ she said. She sorted through some papers on her desk and handed Martha the clipboard and questionnaire. The same one she’d filled in two days ago, how was she feeling, any major stress in the last seven days, all that.

  ‘Did you catch up with that fella you were looking for?’ Colleen said to Martha.

  Martha and Cal looked at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘We did,’ Martha said.

  51

  She stood outside the hospital and blinked. Sunlight was fizzing all around her, and she stood there like a lizard on a rock, warming her blood. She was aware of air molecules colliding with her eyeballs, drifting up her nose. She breathed in. Cigarette smoke and pollen and cheap cooking smells. Good to be alive after all.

  She looked at her watch. Four hours ago she’d woken up in a different hospital. Took it easy this time, let Cal and the nurse take care of her for a bit. Then she’d sat up and persuaded Cal to let her come here.

  She headed inside and followed the signs for ward 19.

  Rose was out of bed, sitting in a classy silk nightie in the plastic chair by the window. The view outside was terrible, chunky hospital buildings, air vents, a meat delivery truck down below.

  ‘Hey,’ Martha said.

  Rose turned and smiled. It was a genuine smile and Martha liked it.

  ‘Hi, Martha,’ Rose said. ‘Sit down.’

  She waved at a seat over by an empty bed. Martha grabbed it and brought it over, sat across from her.

  ‘Billy has been in,’ Rose said. ‘Told me everything that happened.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Quite a night.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  Martha did a little inventory. No headaches. No aches and pains. No heavy weight pressing down on her, no blackness on the horizon. Her heart felt light, like it could float on water.

  ‘I’m good.’ She rummaged in her bag and pulled out Rose’s laptop. ‘Here.’

  Rose gave her a strange look. ‘You hold onto that for now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you have your own laptop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, keep it for me, you can put it to good use. I’m sure you’ll need it. Not so sure I’ll be doing much writing for a while.’

  Martha frowned. ‘But you are going back to the paper, right?’

  Rose stared out the window. ‘We’ll see. Maybe.’

  ‘Rose, you have to.’

  Rose just shrugged.

  Martha laid the laptop on her knees. ‘You know he typed a suicide note from you on this.’

  ‘Billy told me about the typo.’

  They were both smiling.

  Martha put the laptop back in her bag, pulling out the Walkman to make room for it.

  Rose looked at it. ‘You should probably invest in some new technology, you know.’

  Martha passed the cassette player from one hand to the other. ‘I quite like this old thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got a long career as a reporter ahead of you,’ Rose said.

  ‘You think?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Like I said before, you remind me a lot of myself at your age.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  Silence for a moment between them. Rose coughed and held her side, winced. ‘How are you and Elaine?’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on her, Martha. She did what she thought was best for her children.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘She loves you and she brought you up OK, didn’t she?’

  Martha didn’t speak. She could feel Rose examining her closely.

  ‘Billy told me where you were this morning,’ Rose said.

  Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’

  ‘Does it work?’

  Martha nodded. ‘Yeah, it works.’

  ‘Good.’

  Martha got up to leave, the Walkman still in her hand.

  Rose put a hand out. ‘Look after Billy for me, will you?’

  Martha smiled. ‘He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.’

  ‘Nevertheless, look out for him.’

  ‘I will, Rose.’ She took Rose’s hand, a firm grip. ‘You take it easy now, you hear?’

  Rose coughed out a laugh. ‘I’ll try.’

  52

  Her whole body felt shaky as she got off the bus.

  Was she just picking at the scab, or was this some half-baked idea about closure?

  North Bridge was busy. Rush hour on a Friday, everyone keen to get somewhere. She felt like a twig in a stream, swaying under the influence of everyone around her.

  She had her earphones in, listening to another of Ian’s cassettes. She looked at the box. It was the B side of the very first tape she’d listened to on the way to the Standard offices. That was The Lemonheads, this time The Breeders. Last Splash. Sounded weird but cool, two women singing about a cannonball.

  She crossed the road to the east side of the bridge, saw the Samaritans’ sign, the same one from before. Who cares? We do. We don’t.

  She walked to the exact spot. Put her hands on the wall. Felt the rough stone under her fingers. Rubbed her hands up and down lightly.

  She leaned over and looked down at platform 8. Busy with commuters, weekend travellers, people heading all sorts of places, away from here.

  She thought about that.

  The sun was behind her, casting her shadow onto the stone of the bridge. She looked out to sea, just calm blue, a couple of oil tankers, seemingly still. Then she looked at Calton Hill to the left, lit up in the afternoon sunshine.

  The Breeders were creepy now in her ears, like it was recorded underwater. She caught a line, ‘Raw, where the shot leaves me gagging for the arrow’.

  She turned and walked down the bridge, turned right at the junction and up Waterloo Place. Her stride quickened as she went. Took the turning up Calton Hill, through the trees, along the path, bending round and up, round and up.

  She reached the top, out of breath, panting, and turned. From here you could see all the way down Princes Street to the castle and past it to the Pentlands. Thousands of people going about their normal day, carrying all the stuff around with them that folk did, each with their story to tell, each one as insignificant as the rest, each one just as important.

  North Bridge looked like a little model, toy cars and buses shunting up and down. The distance from North Bridge down to the train platform below looked like nothing, like jumping off a garden wall.

  Perspective.

  The Breeders were playing ‘I Just Wanna Get Along’ in her ears. Chugging surf rock. They sounded like a fun band to have a bee
r with.

  She sat down, opened her bag, pulled the laptop out and opened it on her knees. Powered it up. Looked at the clouds while she waited. Then opened a new document and began typing.

  Obituary: Martha Fluke

  Born: 14 April 1993, in Edinburgh. Died: ?? ?? 20??, in ??, aged ??.

  Martha Fluke was a highly accomplished and greatly admired journalist. She was born in Edinburgh and studied journalism at Napier University before going on to . . .

  She took a deep breath and looked away from the screen. Her mind was blank. She tried to imagine what kind of life she might have, the kind of things a decent obituary writer would put in. She couldn’t.

  She clicked on Word Count. Twenty-five words so far. That was all she could think of for twenty years of life. Even for a short piece, how would she fill the other 275 words?

  She saved the file, closed the screen and stared at North Bridge way down below, feeling the sun on her face.

  53

  She scanned the trees looking for her wood pigeon. Or the cat that had brought her the offering before. Nothing.

  The cemetery was busy. Gordon had more friends than anyone had realised.

  Martha thought about the three-hundred-word obituary they ran yesterday. How many words did it take to sum up a life?

  Everyone from the office was here except for Rose, still recovering in hospital.

  V looked amazing in a tight trouser suit, high heels and a faded Aerosmith T-shirt under her jacket. Well, at least it was black. She gave Martha a wink from the other side of the grave.

  Martha put her arm through Billy’s and rested her head on his shoulder.

  It seemed like the ECT yesterday had been a success. She still felt great today, far too good to be at a funeral. She almost felt like dancing among the tombstones.

  The minister was talking but Martha wasn’t listening. She looked at all the faces around the grave, thought about the impact Gordon Harris had made with his short time on earth. Tiny, really, like any of us. But not nothing, that was the main thing.