The Casualties

by Nick Holdstock

  It was three o’clock in the morning when Sam finished looking at the album. He felt a pleasing throb of sadness. These people were long gone, but they had been happy, felt love for each other. The children seemed content; the parents looked dependable. His only regret was that their family name was McRae, not Campbell.

  That night he slept in the shop. In the morning he washed his face and hands in the sink, then began to price the books. When he came to the album, he hesitated. Perhaps it was too soon to sell it. He had been so tired; he might have missed something.

  He was still hesitating when he opened the shop. His first volunteer was bulimic Dee, who sat at the till and gripped her elbows while he priced the rest of the books. Boring Lesley came in at eleven, shortly after which they sold one of Mr. Campbell’s volumes for £500. In some respects, not a lot of money. But enough to pay a social worker for an extra day’s work—so they might visit a child a week earlier, so they might see bruises before they healed.

  That afternoon Sam put the album in the shop window and felt a tremendous relief. Sometimes he felt he was wasting his time on questions he did not need to answer. Perhaps he didn’t need to understand why apparently good people could make terrible parents, and vice versa, in order to take the risk that everyone took without thinking. It wasn’t as if he’d have to justify having children: It was the “normal” choice. It was not wanting to have any that required explanation. And if he did have sex, and it led to a baby, and if he and the mother raised this child, perhaps it didn’t matter that there was no way to guarantee that they wouldn’t fuck it up. If, for example, they were emotionally distant, and their child subsequently grew up with trust issues that made it hard for him/her to form meaningful relationships, they would be breaking no law. They would not be publicly condemned. Even if the child grew up to be a murderer or tyrant, they would still get away with it. It was not like hitting a child: That left marks others could see. If they were cruel, no one would ever know, except themselves and the child—and sometimes, if they were lucky, the child might not know either. But they would, and always.

  Sam sold two more of Mr. Campbell’s books. Magda came in at four. She was an elegant lady with bright silver hair who had buried three husbands. She was carrying a small cage wrapped in a blanket that contained her rat. “She doesn’t like the cold, do you?” she said into the cage.

  Sam went into the back office, shut the door, and put his head on the desk. Magda could look after the shop. He needed to sleep.

  He closed his eyes and soon was dreaming of climbing a steep hill to watch an organised flood. Sinead was admiral of the fleet; Toby was dressed as a whale. There was a mock battle with pirates and cannons. Metal balls roared through the air, blasting through timbers and rigging. The air was full of smoke and shouting, the screams of people injured. As he felt the table under his head, and knew where he was, there was a shout about thieves.

  “Stop shouting,” Magda shouted.

  Sam stood and opened the door and saw Alasdair at the counter. He was holding his bicycle with one hand while jabbing a finger at Magda.

  “It’s mine, and you took it.”

  “Stop shouting,” she said more quietly. “You’re upsetting her. She doesn’t like it.”

  This confused Alasdair long enough for Sam to interrupt.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “He says we stole that photo album.”

  “It’s mine,” said Alasdair. “Those photos are mine.” He stopped talking and put a hand on his chest, as if the words were causing him pain.

  “We didn’t take them,” said Sam. “They were donated.”

  “By a thief. They are—” He hesitated. “My family. Give it to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t, not unless you can prove it’s yours.”

  “They took it. They beat me, and they took it.”

  “Who took it?”

  Alasdair shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know. They had masks, they had black faces. I want it back,” he shouted, and then Magda hit him hard in the throat. Alasdair made a choking sound, then staggered from the shop.

  “I warned him,” said Magda.

  “Did you?” said Sam, but she wasn’t listening. He watched as she kissed Daphne. The rat’s tail twitched with pleasure. Could she feel that way about a child? Somehow he doubted it.

  For the next hour he dozed and thought about Mr. Campbell’s black mask. If he was willing to beat up the homeless, what else might he and the others have done? Perhaps one of them was the man in the picture with the boy. Why did Mr. Campbell have this picture? It was definitely not a picture you wanted someone else to have. They could blackmail you. You would have to give them money, do exactly as they said. You would become desperate. You would do anything to make them stop.

  But although this is plausible, it remains speculation. All we have is what Sam knew. There cannot be more.

  When he woke up, the rat was looking at him. She was sitting on Magda’s shoulder. She had such pink eyes.

  “She likes you,” said Magda. The shop was quiet. He could not hear music or voices.

  “What time is it?”

  “Half past five. But I thought we should close. We’re both tired. Today was very stressful.”

  “True,” he said, and she kissed him. Her mouth did not feel old.

  At first he was too surprised to pull back, and then he was not sure he wanted to. That was when she stepped back and steadied Daphne, who had almost fallen.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, and smiled. “That was just because of today.”

  “OK,” was all he could say.

  “I’ll see you next week,” she said.

  After she had gone he replayed the kiss. Soon he was thinking of Sinead. It did not matter that she was unstable, obsessive, obviously bad news. Even now, she might be outside. He could go to the window and beckon, and in less than a minute they’d be having sex on the desk. Her teeth biting his lips, his cheek, her nails digging into his back as he pushed into her, harder, faster, till she had come several times, at which point he might start to slow, but she would dig her nails in, tell him not to stop, and this would go on until they were exhausted, perhaps in pain, and only then would he come. It would feel incredible, overwhelming, like a little death. He would lie on her, still inside her, as they softly kissed. Desire would be transmuted from something physical, a basic hunger, into the start of an emotional connection, or better still, the recognition of a bond that had been present, albeit neutered, during all those times he had feigned disinterest. Only with reluctance would he lift himself from her. As he slid off the condom, he’d see it was torn.

  Sam did not go to the window to see if Sinead was there. Instead he put the money from the till into the safe. He vacuumed the floor. He turned off the lights. He locked the shop, then walked down the street to where Trudy lived. It was not his usual time, but she was glad to see him.

  Sam was there for two hours, but he did not masturbate. He did not remove his trousers or lie on the bed. He spent the time looking at the bruises on her neck, trying to get her to say who had done it, asking her not to see Mr. Asham again. When he offered to compensate her for the loss of earnings, she said she’d think about it. He was on the verge of telling her she needed to leave Comely Bank. Until she was living and working somewhere legally, she would always be vulnerable.

  He was about to say this when his phone rang. It was the police. The officer was calling from the shop. “You need to come here,” he said.

  Someone had thrown one of the heavy batteries that vehicles used in those days through the window. The floor was covered in broken glass, and the wind had pushed over the displays. Books were strewn over the floor, their pages flapping in panic.

  “Was anything taken?” asked the policeman, who looked very cold.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Sam scanned the books in the window. All of Mr Campbell’s books were present.
Except the photo album.

  “Nothing’s gone.”

  “It was probably just kids,” said the policeman.

  Sam had to wait for someone to come and nail a board to the window. He picked up the books and shook them to make sure there was no glass in their pages. As he did, some photos fell from one of Mr Campbell’s volumes.

  Both had Mum, 1956 written on the back. Assuming this was Mr. Campbell’s mother (notwithstanding the fact that there was a girl in the picture and Mr. Campbell had been an only child), it seemed unlikely that she could be blamed for any of his failings. These scenes were not from an exceptional day. Such warmth could come only from quotidian kindness. For the child in this picture (and perhaps Mr. Campbell), love was not a treat dispensed on weekends—when there was time, perhaps the will—but a constant star in her sky. She could rely on it. It would not shoot, or fall.

  Why shouldn’t a man as horrible as Mr. Campbell have had good parents? The kind of adult you became was not due just to your upbringing. Where you lived, the school you attended, whether you could think or run quickly: All these things could shape you. Every parent made mistakes, was sometimes impatient or cruel, confused their interests with their child’s. But the day could still be saved (and, of course, ruined).

  Sam remade the displays, then swept up the glass. The emergency glazier came and boarded up the window.

  “Bad luck, eh?” he said, and hammered.

  “More like bad karma.”

  “Haven’t we all. Can I get a coffee?”

  When the glazier left, Sam sat in the dark for a while. He did not want to go home, but the shop was cold from the wind that came past the boards. It was a freezing night, not one to be out in, certainly not for long. It was definitely not a good night to spend by a river under a bridge.

  Sam locked the door, buttoned his coat, and went to see a thief.

  11. No Place Like Home

  THERE WAS NO MOON, AND some of the streetlights were off. The wind was a cold hand trying to push Sam over.

  When he reached the bridge he called Alasdair’s name. Although there was a chance Alasdair would run away, Sam didn’t want to sneak up on a man who had just committed a crime (not to mention been punched in the throat).

  He went down the icy steps with care, but on the last he slipped and badly grazed his hand. He couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, just that it was bleeding. It hurt a lot, so he put it in the river, till there was no feeling.

  It was even darker by the water. He had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he saw the narrow path that ran along the bank. When he reached the bridge he called out again. He told Alasdair he did not care about the window. He offered him a place to stay. Sam said this with conviction, but the echoes emptied his voice.

  He went under the bridge and the sound of the river was magnified into a roar. Sam repeated his offer, then felt very stupid. He was standing under a bridge at night, talking to himself. Even if Alasdair could hear him, he would not trust Sam.

  “Do you have a bath?” said a voice behind him. Sam was so startled he stepped off the path and into the river. The water came up to his knees; it was so cold that he swore.

  “Good for the blood,” said Alasdair. “And very good for the brain.” He did not seem frightened.

  “Did you know the human heart is twice as strong as that of an elephant? That isn’t in books, but it’s true. So do you have a bath?”

  “Yes,” said Sam, and got out of the river.

  “You’ll need to sit in warm water, then cold, or you’ll get sick.”

  “I’ll be having a hot one.”

  He heard Alasdair tut. “That would shock the blood, and you might get very depressed.”

  “OK,” said Sam. “I’m going home. Are you coming?”

  “I said I was. But if you try and take the album I’ll call the police. They’ll put you in prison with the other thieves.”

  “I won’t take it away.”

  “Fine. But you’ve been warned.”

  Sam stayed close to the wall on his way out. From behind came sounds of breaking glass, laughter, bronchial coughing, spitting, more breakage, further coughing, then the sound of something heavy being dragged. Like a body, perhaps a human’s, maybe a sheep’s. Which was ludicrous, but then so was going under a bridge at night to invite a deranged homeless man to come and stay in your house. So was not having sex with beautiful women because they might end up having kids that he would fuck up.

  They came out into the lighter dark where things at least had shapes. Alasdair was dragging a long, white sack. He was wearing stained yellow trousers, black tennis shoes, and at least four coats.

  “Stabbing me in the back,” he said. He stopped, rummaged, pulled two golf clubs out of the sack, then threw them into the river. The sack was so heavy he needed Sam’s help to get it up the steps. That was when Alasdair noticed the wound on Sam’s hand, which was bleeding again. Most people would have recoiled at the sight of so much blood; Alasdair reached into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Without asking, he put it over Sam’s hand, then wrapped it several times around. He tied it with a complex knot that made Sam think of ropes on boats.

  “Is that a sheepshank?”

  Alasdair stared blankly at him. “What’s that?”

  “A kind of knot. Where did you learn it?”

  “It’s how I tie them. But you need to have strong fingers. Most people’s are too weak.”

  “Yes, but did someone teach you?”

  “I taught myself.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs the wind tried to push them back down. It was a mark of how hostile the weather was that no one else was on the street. Traditionally during that time of year—just before Christmas—it was socially acceptable for people to drink until they passed out or told each other the truth. It was a time of staggering, shouting, kissing in doorways, weeping, begging for forgiveness or punches in the face.

  They took turns dragging the sack. All the windows were dark.

  Sam lived on his own in a two-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a tenement building. He did not think of it as home; most nights he slept on an inflatable bed in the back room of the shop. Although it wasn’t comfortable, he slept better there. He did not lie awake listening for the sound of a key in the lock.

  They went in, and there was the relief of warmth. In the living room were only two chairs, simple wooden ones that were similar but not quite the same. The only other furniture was an old tin trunk that served as a table, on which there was a lamp. There was no carpet or curtains or pictures on the walls. The floorboards were not smooth and polished, as in Caitlin’s flat, but rough and paint splattered. They sat on the chairs.

  Alasdair asked Sam if this was his new house. “It’s not mine,” he said, and Alasdair nodded in approval. He went to explore. The kitchen had a stove, a sink, two saucepans, a frying pan, a fridge, some knives, and a chopping board. There were no gadgets, not even a toaster; the cupboards contained only food.

  The bedrooms were similarly plain. A bed, a wardrobe, a small table with a lamp; once again, no curtains or pictures, and a floor of bare boards. Even Trudy’s room for clients was better furnished. It was as if the flat had been looted by burglars so thorough they verged on the vindictive. They had taken everything that was personal.

  “Very good,” said Alasdair when he came back in. “I will stay.”

  “All right,” said Sam, who had not realised that this was in doubt. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, I have my own.”

  “What kind is it?”

  Alasdair cocked his head. “It’s very rare. Very rare, and secret. It is Chinese medicine. If you drink it every day you cannot get cancer. No one who drinks it ever has unless they smoke cigarettes or come from a hot place.”

  “I thought China was pretty hot.”

  Alasdair tutted at him. “Only some of it.” He took a box from an inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Sam. On the box w
as a drawing of an old Chinese monk with a long white beard. It was a tea that Mr. Asham sold.

  While Sam waited for the kettle to boil he removed the plastic bag from his hand. It was stuck to the blood, so he peeled it off slowly. The cut was not that deep. There was always far more blood than seemed appropriate.

  Alasdair was asleep on the floor when Sam came back. He was using the photo album wrapped in a coat as a pillow. He looked exhausted. Sam sat and drank the tea and watched him twitch and groan. In sleep, Alasdair’s features seemed better arranged. Sam could imagine a time, perhaps ten, fifteen years ago, when the face had been softer, clean shaven, something presented in boardrooms, classrooms, operating theatres. Or perhaps this was wishful thinking. He could have come from a home where his parents kept him locked in a cellar. There was no way to know unless Alasdair remembered. Until then, Sam could believe whatever suited him.

  * * *

  SAM WOKE TO the sound of breaking glass. Which is to say he woke, gasped in a breath, and thought he had heard glass breaking; then, when all was quiet, he wondered whether that sound was only something he had dreamed. He decided it was the latter. He lay back and tried to remember his dream. He could recall several fragments—a rabbit in a cage; the circus; running upside down—but they did not add up.

  He closed his eyes.

  He drifted.

  Something smashed.

  Sam got out of bed and went into the living room. Alasdair was standing on one of the chairs. He wasn’t wearing trousers. He wasn’t wearing underwear either. The floor was covered in shards of china and glass. Alasdair pointed at what remained of the lamp. “It’s broken,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “It fell off the table. And I had to break some bottles.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going to sell them.”

  “You didn’t have to break them inside.”

  “I couldn’t wait. Will you pass me my shoes? There’s a lot of glass on the floor.”

  Sam put Alasdair’s shoes by the chair. He looked away, out the window, as his guest pulled on his trousers. It had snowed heavily. Cars were crunching past.