As if he’d spoken aloud, or his head was transparent, he smelled tea. “Cup of tea,” said his mum.
Slowly, cautiously, he tried moving his head and his feet in different directions. It seemed to work. His feet were on the floor, his head resting against the back of the sofa. He drank some tea, bitter as usual. She had a theory about sugar and seldom put in enough. That made him think again of Joan, more warmly. She would never give him three spoons and claim it was four.
“Last night I dreamed about cows,” his mother said. “I don’t know why. I haven’t been near one in ages.” She recounted the dream in laborious detail. “Maybe it had something to do with my father. He was always fond of cattle. Or it could be the massage Rita gave me with the shampoo. She rubbed especially hard behind the left ear. That’s where the childhood memories are stored.”
Kenneth drank his tea and nodded. She had talked this way for years, as though her dreams contained vital messages. For the first time he felt something like sympathy. He did want to know who that stranger was and what the hell they were doing messing around in his head. Forget it, he told himself. His stomach growled. He’d pick up some fish and chips. Then Joan wouldn’t have to cook.
He moved his hand to his pocket. There were so many notes it was almost like carrying a book, a book with a single, wonderful page repeated over and over. Not safe, though. With his free hand, the one not holding the tea, he explored the side of the sofa and found a narrow space between the cushions. Once his mum left the room, he’d slip the money down there. Just keep a hundred pounds for current expenses. He’d seen people get lucky on the horses or a bonus at work—not this lucky, mind you—and piss the whole thing away in a weekend. Stupid buggers. Well, he wasn’t going to be one of them.
As usual, an idea cheered him up. “Perhaps the cows are telling you you need to go somewhere,” he said to his mother. “You haven’t been out of Perth since you visited Nelly. It’s only a few quid on the bus to Edinburgh. You could have a nice day out. Buy yourself a spring bonnet.”
“Kenneth, are you okay? Just because you have a dream doesn’t mean you turn into Mother Teresa.”
He grinned at her. “Why do you never put enough fucking sugar in the tea?”
Time had done one of its odd things again, humped up and sprawled out. When he got downstairs it was already dark, with the streetlamps casting their dingy glow. He counted the pubs as he walked, so he could tell Joan how many he’d passed up to see her. Fourteen by the time he reached the Chip Inn round the corner from her flat. He got two plaice and chips—thirty pence more than the haddock but well worth it, another thing he could point to as evidence of good behaviour. He scoffed a few chips on his way up the stairs; they were thin and hot. Whenever he was a bit wobbly, fish and chips was one of his standbys—according to his mum, the grease helped bind the stomach together. Almost immediately he did feel better.
Outside Joan’s door, he was about to knock when he remembered he was Lord of the Keys, both sets. He juggled the fish and chips, found the keys, and on his second attempt got the door open. Stepping inside, he nearly collided with Joan. She was standing in the hall. At the sight of him her face widened from surprise to dismay to horror. Before he could proffer the fish and chips, she began to scream. “Grace, where is she? Where is Grace?”
It was like a fire alarm. The first impact of the noise, echoing up and down the stairwell behind him, was so overwhelming it was impossible to think or act. He tossed the fish and chips on a chair, shut the door, grabbed Joan’s wrists, and shook her. “Shut up,” he said. “Shut bloody up. How can I tell you where Grace is if you’re making this goddamn racket. Grace is fine. She’s in the pink.”
“You liar,” Joan screamed. “You said she would be here. You said this evening.”
He slapped her, briskly, on the cheek and suddenly thought of the neighbours. Mrs. Kemp downstairs had a phone and might just call the cops. Then Kenneth would have to explain it was a domestic argy-bargy, which did not fit with his earlier fantasies of re-encountering Wallace as an honest citizen.
His hand was stinging, and Joan only screamed louder. She wants the cops to come, he thought, stupid bitch. He held on to her wrist and clamped his other hand over her mouth. “Listen,” he said, “if you want to know about Grace you keep quiet. Okey-dokey?”
He kept his hand there until she nodded. Slowly he took it away. “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “I got us some plaice and chips.” He picked up the two packets and carried them into the kitchen, then scooted back to lock the door and pocket the keys. Joan was standing beside the table. She was wearing regular clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, which made her look smaller and dumpier. There was a dark mark on one cheek where he’d smacked her. A pity, but at least it didn’t show as much as if she were white.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to explain. These people have Grace, nice people, big house in the country, a dog, a car, really la-di-da. They gave me a cup of coffee. They took Grace by mistake. They’re sorry, but they’re looking after her. They gave me some dosh. Here.”
He pulled out a couple of twenties and laid them on the table so she could see the purple picture of the man, his name was Michael Faraday, and the Queen, without her specs, and the metal strip they wove into the paper. “There’ll be more of this. Lots more.”
“Grace,” she said.
“Ten o’clock tonight I’m phoning the bloke. He said he’d have her by tomorrow. I told him we’d go to the police if he didn’t get a move on. I mean, she’s our kid, not just any old baby. Come on. Let’s have some grub. Then you can ask all the questions you like.”
He sat down, unwrapped a packet, and began to eat. When he looked up, Joan was still standing there. She was not crying. He couldn’t think of a word for the expression on her face, but probably there was one. At school once he’d had to find “melancholy” in the dictionary and been appalled by how many words there were, hundreds of them, thousands. The ones he read nearby—megrim, melic, melinite—were for things he’d never heard of: a small flounder; meant to be sung; a French explosive. The experience had made the world seem even larger and more confusing. He never wanted to see a dictionary again.
He’d finished his fish and chips, and Joan was still standing there. “Aren’t you hungry?” he said. She didn’t answer, so he reached for her packet and started in on that too. The chips were a bit cold but nicely sodden with vinegar, and the batter was crispy.
When he had eaten everything, he got up and washed his hands at the sink, drying them on a tea towel. His stomach felt thoroughly, even overly, settled. He sat back down again. “That was grand,” he said. “What’s the time?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Okey-dokey. Time for a cup of tea and some telly. Then we’ll go to the Blind Beggar and sort this bloke out. Grace will be back in no time, you’ll see.” Joan was onto something, he thought, the old brain clicking away. There was money in being an outraged dad. He should watch her and take lessons.
Some of what he said must’ve got through, because finally she put on the kettle and threw the fish and chip papers in the rubbish. She made tea and went so far as to pour herself a cup. “Come sit with me,” he said. “There’s no fun watching alone.”
At first he thought she was going to refuse. Another of those dictionary expressions came over her face. Then she followed him into the living room and sat in the farthest possible corner of the sofa. A hospital program was on, docs and nurses rushing around in a way they never had at the infirmary. Across the room he spotted Grace’s carry cot and felt a tug of what was maybe fatherly feeling. Bloody cheek, those nobs nicking his baby. Hang on to that, he admonished, don’t let it out of the starting gate for nothing. Now, instead, he pondered the pleasant subject of money.
At nine-thirty Joan stood up, left the room, and came back in her raincoat. For a moment he thought she was cold. Then she stepped over to the television and switched it off. “We must telephone,” she said. “Get up.
”
He started to bluster it wasn’t time yet, who the hell did she think she was, bossing him around, but it was time, and her screams came back to him. If Mr. Lafferty made any trouble, he’d pass the phone to Joan. She’d soon sort him out. He stood up and felt the reluctance of his body for any further gyrations. The fish and chips were like a stone in his stomach. He shifted his jeans, trying to loosen the waistband. It was better, then worse. If they saw a taxi, he decided, they’d just hop in.
There was not a single taxi in sight. Joan marched him along at a ferocious pace, taking his arm to drag him across at traffic lights. By the time they entered the pub, his head ached and his stomach was distinctly dodgy. The place was jammed with a darts tournament, and Kenneth stood swaying in the doorway. Why was he here? he wondered. Christ, he could afford a regular phone. Joan jerked his arm. “Telephone,” she said.
He shook her off. “In a sec.” He lined up at the bar. After five minutes he got a shot of Teacher’s for himself and, on impulse, one for her too. Might loosen her up a bit. He added plenty of water. She took the glass silently and stood there while he drank. He watched one of the darts players, a skinny bloke with a long pony tail, which he tossed back before each throw. Though Kenneth couldn’t see the board, he had the impression the bloke was playing well. Then something distracted him. Was it a new smell, a new record on the jukebox? He sensed a profound shift in the barometric pressure of the pub, but no one else seemed aware of the change. He felt Joan motionless beside him, and it came to him that it was her waiting that was fouling things up. If he didn’t make that phone call, one or the other of them might just drown in these strange vibrations she was giving off.
He squeezed round the darts match to the phone. When he got there he realised he couldn’t faff about, searching for the scrap of paper. He ducked into the Gents, catching a searing look from Joan, and came out mouthing the number. His palms were wet from heat or nerves, he wasn’t sure which. Maybe the latter, because the first time he dialled he got a recording saying the number was out of service. The second time the phone scarcely rang before Mr. Lafferty said, “Hello.”
“Have you got Grace?”
“Tomorrow. I swear she’ll be here by tomorrow evening. I know where she is. Everything’s under control.”
Through the crowd Kenneth saw Joan pushing and shoving her way towards him. “My wife,” he said—had he called her that before?—“my wife is in a terrible state. She’s talking about going to the police.”
“Don’t,” Mr. Lafferty gasped. “We’ll do—”
At that moment Joan seized the phone and in a high-pitched voice, almost a wail, said, “Where is my baby? What have you done with her? Where is she?” over and over, leaving no chance for the bloke to answer. Kenneth sipped his whisky. Good old Joan, he thought, going for an Oscar. He slid three more pennies into the coin slot.
At last she fell silent, and he got restive. “What’s he saying?” he whispered hoarsely, but she didn’t respond. Her face was bent over the phone as if she could pour herself down the receiver and emerge at Mill of Fortune like a genie out of a bottle. Kenneth grinned. That would give Mr. Lafferty a shock. He seized the phone back.
“You see what I mean,” he said. “She’s in a right old state. What did you tell her?”
“I said Grace will be here by seven tomorrow. You can fetch her then. You’ll all be together again tomorrow night.”
“And what about the …?” He hesitated. “Money” was too crass a word, even if Mr. Lafferty had already made a deposit.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of her. Tell your wife the baby is safe. Absolutely safe and well.” Before Kenneth could explain that that wasn’t his worry, Mr. Lafferty said goodbye and hung up.
Kenneth hung up too. Then, noticing the slippery palm print, he picked up the receiver, wiped it on the sleeve of his jacket, and put it down again. “Shite,” he said. “Banks are closed on Saturday.”
He had been speaking to himself, but Joan must have heard. She stared at him with glittering eyes. “You did it for money,” she hissed. “You stole Grace for money. Like a slave trader.”
He didn’t have a clue what to say. He wanted to boast of his cleverness, to let her know that all this new largesse was due to his ingenuity. Christ, what could you do with a baby? If you let them, they ate money and crapped shit, but he’d found a way to turn the process around, to get something out of Grace, and he was dying for applause. The noise of the pub throbbed around him, and the lights grew dazzlingly bright. Patience, he thought. Soon he could explain everything. For now, keep her calm so she doesn’t rock the boat.
“Joan,” he said, “what happened was an accident, several accidents.” Mention Grace: that was what she had a bee in her bonnet about. “The main thing is Grace’s okay. This time tomorrow she’ll be home, bawling her head off. We won’t be able to go out on the town at the drop of a hat. Come on, let’s have another drink. We’re here, we might as well enjoy it.”
She pulled away as if he had one of those diseases you can catch from standing next to a person. Who gives a fuck, he thought. “Have it your way,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
“I want to fetch Grace. To go to the man’s house.”
“Joan, he doesn’t have her. I was there this morning, and she definitely wasn’t there. They’re bringing her back tomorrow. Didn’t he tell you? I’ll collect her then. Okey-dokey? There’s no point in going now.”
She said nothing, simply went on staring at him, without affection, without regard, with an absolute, merciless desire to know whether he spoke the truth. He looked back at her—the mark on her cheek was almost gone—and did his best to make his face open and friendly as he had that morning, hitching a lift to Mill of Fortune. “Let’s go home,” he repeated. “We need a good night’s sleep.”
In the street there was still no sign of the taxi he’d imagined. They started walking, past the spot where he had fallen that afternoon, past the fourteen pubs. As they waited to cross Kinnoull Street, Joan spoke. “I am coming with you tomorrow,” she said.
Kenneth stumbled over the curb. Not a bad idea, he thought, taking her along. He wouldn’t have to deal with Grace, plus it would up the ante. Hysterics have their price. Meanwhile, the night lay before him, and he hoped he didn’t do this dreaming stuff again. Once was enough, more than. He hated the way people came and went in his head without permission, hated the way they left their shadows. “Wait a sec,” he called to Joan, and took her arm.
Chapter 18
By eight a.m. the four of them were in the car, retracing Mollie’s journey of the day before. Mollie and Olivia sat in the back, Ewan beside Vanessa in the front. Normally when he was up this early on a Saturday, it was to go to the Chapel Street market. Now, as they drove down the narrow streets, he envied the pedestrians, whom he imagined on innocent errands: off to buy mushrooms picked in Kent that very morning or smooth brown eggs laid in Sussex the night before. His own errand was of a grimmer nature. The last twelve hours had proved beyond doubt that something was deeply awry with Mollie. Although she had raised no active struggle against departure, indeed had collected her few possessions and filled Olivia’s bottles with automaton-like efficiency, Ewan felt the effort of imposing his will upon her. The smell that had hung around her earlier was gone, but he waited apprehensively for its return.
As for Vanessa, sharing a bed with her for a second night had turned out to be more misery than pleasure. He had been poignantly aware that her feelings fell far short of love or even lust. When he rested a hand on her sleeping shoulder, she twitched him off as if he were a gnat buzzing through her dreams.
They passed an Odeon in East Finchley showing the film the two of them had planned to see the night before, and suddenly, as the red and white striped marquee flashed by, Ewan thought he could not continue this charade. He must have clarity, at least in one area of his life. On Monday morning he would phone Coyle and tell him what had happened. Not the part he knew fr
om Vanessa, but his own indiscretion. There was no reason to become a criminal twice over.
Then Vanessa asked him to turn on the radio, and reaching for the knob, he realised that his so-called integrity was now a luxury beyond his means. Here was Vanessa helping him drive his mad sister back to Scotland; he could not reciprocate with betrayal. Whatever the cost, he was committed to mendacity.
For a moment this knowledge caused him such pain that he did not notice the raucous music flooding the car. Some small but essential organ had been cut out of him. He was no longer his father’s son.
“Ewan,” Vanessa protested, “I wanted one of those Saturday morning programs about the relationship between oysters and mussels or the history of jade.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. He found Radio Four, where a gardening programme was in progress. “Take the lupin,” a man with a Yorkshire accent was saying.
“Oh, good,” Vanessa said.
“How’s Olivia?” Ewan asked.
“Asleep.”
Mollie’s voice was so curt he glanced around. He could see little—her face was tilted towards the window—but the visible crescent of cheek had an unpleasant greenish tinge. More striking than her pallour, however, was her posture: she was leaning towards the door as if she could not bear to be close to Olivia strapped in her car seat. This, too, is my fault, Ewan thought. He had failed to grasp the most fundamental fact about his sister—her yearning for a child—and construed her response to the baby as simply the way women were. Then he had compounded his offence by allowing her to become Olivia’s main caretaker. For the rest of the day, he vowed, he would be more helpful. Too little, too late, yet better than nothing.
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