‘Look at his hands,’ said Hannah. ‘We have to do something.’
She knelt down, rubbed his back gently and held one of his wrists. He let himself be guided away, his eyes still closed as he walked like an old, infirm man slowly up the soft, white slope of the garden and into the kitchen, Hannah on one side of him and his father on the other.
Inside, they sat him down carefully at the kitchen table. Alan closed the door and Connor’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, confused, like a young animal searching for its mother. He stared down at his hands, frozen and bloody, caked in crystalline smears of icy dirt.
‘What’s happening?’ he said in a weak voice.
‘You were sleepwalking, honey,’ said Hannah. She pulled out a chair and sat next to him. ‘Out in the garden. We didn’t know what to do. You were digging in the ground with your hands.’
Connor kept looking at his hands and stayed silent. Hannah saw a cloud of confusion pass across his eyes. He seemed to be trying to recall something, as if conjuring back his dream would explain it all.
‘I can’t remember,’ he said.
He started to cry. Small, sharp intakes of breath to begin with, growing into a heaving motion as tears ran down his face. He made almost no noise, and Hannah thought briefly that he was having a panic attack, not crying. She held him and rocked him gently, his head on her chest.
‘Shhh, baby,’ she said. ‘It’s OK now.’ She stroked his hair and he tried to speak but nothing came out. His father stood watching, not knowing what to do. Gradually Connor’s wheezing receded.
‘I’m fine,’ he said eventually. He wiped away wet patches from his cheeks with the backs of his hands, then noticed the bloody mess of his fingers again. He stared at them. He shook his head and smiled a thin, straight smile.
‘Better get myself cleaned up,’ he said as he moved to the sink. He winced as the hot water spilt over his hands. He rubbed them with soap and turned to smile at Hannah and his dad.
‘Out damn spot, eh?’
Alan eventually pushed himself away from the worktop, keeping his eye on Connor the whole time. He patted him gently on the back as he walked past.
‘Think I’d better put the kettle on.’
‘Ah, the old magical cup of tea,’ said Connor, turning off the tap and facing the room. ‘Good idea, Dad.’
Hannah looked at him and felt like crying.
6
Aberdeen
‘Who doesn’t dream of a car crash?
The rip of steel through skin’
The Ossians, ‘Melancholia’
The centre of Aberdeen looked as if you could buy it in a box. Neat granite buildings the colour of window putty lined Union Street, with turrets, clocks and spires sticking up at irregular intervals. Unlike Edinburgh’s crumbling, scaffolded history, Aberdeen looked like it was built yesterday. Connor hated it. It reminded him of those terrible seventies kids’ shows like Trumpton they kept repeating on telly. Expensive executive cars rolled impatiently down the city’s main artery, exuding the earthy richness that oil money brings.
Connor had gone back to bed for a few hours and woken surprisingly refreshed, events in the garden banished to the back of his mind. They left the Alexanders around three, their journey up the coast flanked by a fat orange sun alone in a sharp blue sky. Hazy light washed along the sea’s horizon like a distant fog waiting to come inland. The sunlight was warm in the van and they soaked it up like lizards, but stepping out on to Belmont Street they were smacked by an icy blast of wind.
The gig was in Drummonds, a ramshackle pub on the edge of the small, cobblestoned grid of streets that was a magnet for the city’s students and slackers. Sharing Belmont Street with Drummonds were three churches, now converted into large, soulless chain pubs; two communist-themed vodka bars called Revolution and Stalin; a handful of swanky style bars with large glass frontages and neon signs; and a smattering of multinational sandwich and coffee-house chains. This was nightlife in Scotland’s third largest city.
It was five o’clock on Thursday, not a kick in the arse off the weekend, and Drummonds had a handful of punters starting early. A drum kit was already set up at the back of the room next to a flimsy PA stack on a small stage. Danny went over and examined the kit, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.
Waiting at the bar was Gerry, a friend of Paul’s who ran a club in town and was a small time dealer on the side. Gerry was kicking on for forty, but looked older, thanks to two decades of heroin addiction. Back in Aberdeen’s boom time, Gerry had a promising career as a solicitor ahead of him, but a series of smack-related misdemeanours and dodgy dealings with minor criminals put paid to all that. He was a decent guy deep down, Paul said, but he’d always had trouble trying to detox. Last Paul heard he was mixing heroin with methadone, the odd ketamine pill on the side. He had greying curly hair and a deeply lined, baggy face, and he was chatting to a dark-eyed barmaid with a pencil stuck through the silky brown hair piled on her head. He looked relaxed but worn around the edges. Paul introduced them and got a round in. A fat, open-faced man with a fin haircut and a bunch of gold hoop earrings in one ear came up to Connor.
‘Connor Alexander? The Ossians?’ He stuck out a pudgy hand.
‘That’s me, and us,’ said Connor.
‘I’m Cary Jones, I present the Northsound alternative show on Thursday and Friday nights,’ he said. ‘We had an interview scheduled?’
‘News to me,’ said Connor.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Paul. ‘Connor, you’ve got an interview with Cary Jones from Northsound at five o’clock.’
‘Thanks,’ said Connor.
He and Danny plonked themselves down in a booth opposite Cary, who fished a minidisc and mic out his bag and set it on the table. ‘You can swear if you want to, but we’ll have to bleep it out.’
Most of the interview covered the same territory as previous ones, with the band name as the launch point. Scottishness, the reasons for the tour, the St Andrew’s Day EP, challenging lyrics in rock music and the lack of a structured Scottish music industry were all covered in the first ten minutes.
‘You seem to write a lot about drugs,’ said Cary.
‘Do I?’ said Connor.
‘Well, yes. Are you advocating drug use?’
‘We’re not advocating anything, Cary, but I do take drugs. Probably more drugs than Danny here knows about. But I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Connor, leaning forwards. ‘I’ll tell you what the best drug of all is, shall I?’
Cary looked at him.
‘Booze,’ said Connor, waving the remains of his pint in the air. ‘This stuff is absolute nectar of the fucking gods, Cary. It’s ambrosia, too, and I’m not talking about that rice pudding crap you get in tins. Booze can do anything, Cary, abso-fucking-lutely anything. It’s massively underrated. Everyone’s always banging on about smoking this or injecting that, or what you can create under the influence of licking poisonous frogs or snorting Guatemalan cacti. There’s nothing worse than these drug-bore cunts. Nothing. “I’ve taken more exotic microdots than you have” or “Ooh the mushies on the south side of the mountain have a much smoother trippy effect”. Who gives a fuck? Drugs are supposed to get you fucked up, right? And what gets you more fucked up than booze? Nothing. And it’s fucking legal, which is genius. It’s amazing what the human body and mind can achieve fuelled by booze. Great works of art can be created and great pains can be numbed, and all you get is a wee hangover, and probably some chilli sauce stains on your trousers from a kebab on the way home. I’m not advocating that anyone dabble in kebabs, you understand. Evil, nasty things, kebabs. Never touch them.’
‘Uh, right,’ said Cary. ‘Apart from booze, what else drives The Ossians?’
‘Hate,’ said Connor. ‘Another vastly underrated commodity, and we plan to bring it back into the mainstream consciousness with a bang. I’m not talking about all that nu-metal or emo angst crap, I’m talking about real, true, bona fide hate. Everyone hates something, whether
it’s your wee sister, your boss, the way slow people get in your way on the pavement, the government, your shitty damp flat, your smack habit, your lack of anything interesting to say to the opposite sex. Whatever. But it’s everywhere. There’s a media-led social fascism in this country whereby people aren’t allowed to admit that they hate things – car adverts, reality TV with so-called celebrities, piss-poor jobs or the neighbours’ matching fucking tracksuits. Everyone’s supposed to just knuckle down and endure it. No way. Hate is the answer. Hate and booze. A classic combination like Ant and Dec, or Ecstasy and grass.’
He finished his pint. Behind Cary, in the corner of the room above the bar, a gaffer-taped television was on with the sound down. On screen was a slightly out-of-focus photograph of a teenager. Connor stared at it for a few seconds, then realised where he recognised it from, it was the same picture he’d seen on television a couple of days ago – was it in Dundee or St Andrews? He definitely recognised the face from somewhere, but where? He hadn’t been sure if it was a boy or a girl before, but it was definitely a boy, he could see that now with a clearer head. And maybe the kid wasn’t as young as he’d thought – possibly around twenty – definitely nearer Connor’s age than he’d thought before, in his stupor. But where did he know the face from?
Connor pushed himself out the booth and shouted at the barmaid, who was still talking to Paul and Gerry. ‘Hey! Stick the volume up on the telly, will you?’
The barmaid looked as if she wanted to take the pencil out her hair and stab Connor in the eye with it. Connor stood next to the booth as Cary and Danny stared at him. Paul and Gerry, too, were looking at Connor with annoyance. He could see out the corner of his eye that Hannah and Kate were watching him as well, as were most of the punters in the place. The barmaid slowly turned and started rooting around next to the till for the remote. Connor looked up again at the television, which was now showing footage of the inside of the Scottish Parliament, MSPs waggling their fat fingers in the air. He sighed.
‘Never mind,’ he said to the barmaid, who was only searching half-heartedly anyway. Everyone in the place returned to their business, and Connor wondered what was so compelling about that kid’s face, and why it was always on television.
‘Did you see it?’ asked Connor.
‘What?’ said Danny.
‘There’s some news report I keep missing. About a kid or something. I’ve seen it a couple of times now, and I definitely recognise the face.’
‘It wasn’t Crimewatch, was it? Could’ve been your own face, maybe.’
‘Ha, ha. I’m serious. Whatever this kid’s done, he’s on the news, and I’m sure I know him from somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s just it, I can’t remember.’
‘Maybe he’s a fan of The Ossians,’ said Cary.
‘What?’ Connor only now remembered Cary was there.
‘Maybe he’s a fan, that’s why you recognise him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Connor. For a second he thought someone had put Nirvana on the jukebox, then realised the sound was coming from his pocket. Hell’s teeth. He needed to put that fucking thing on silent.
‘Are we done with the interview?’
‘Sure, if you’ve had enough,’ said Cary. ‘I’ve got plenty of material for the show.’
‘Cheers, then,’ said Connor, shaking hands and heading towards the toilets. ‘Gotta go.’
He hurried to the bogs, gripping the mobile in his pocket, trying to muffle the sound. By the time he got to a cubicle the ringtone was at the first verse, a nasal Stylophone sound replacing the melody. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. ‘Kenny’. He pressed reply.
‘What?’
‘Connor.’ The voice dragged out slowly.
‘Kenny?’
‘Yeah, man.’ Shit, this guy sounded stoned off his fucking tits, or worse. ‘You got something for me?’
‘Yeah, from Nick.’
‘Quality, quality.’ There was a lengthy pause. Connor didn’t know whether to speak or not. Eventually he heard, ‘You at Drummonds?’
‘That’s right, we’re playing in a couple of hours.’
‘How about if I come down and meet you after the show, dude.’
‘Don’t know if that’s a good idea. The rest of the band don’t know I’m doing any of this.’
‘Don’t worry, man, I’ll be cool. I’ll come find you.’
The gig went well. A healthy crowd of students and locals pitched up, all sauced but not so far gone that they didn’t pay the band at least a bit of attention. A couple of well-meaning local support bands – a chubby new rave outfit and a pasty-faced Radiohead bunch – brought plenty of mates. Connor was precariously pitched between the best part of a bottle of gin he’d lifted from his folks’ house, a couple of anonymous pills and some furious weed smoking, and kept his provocative banter more or less in check. The band were relaxed and confident after a night off, and although playing well within their capabilities, they seemed to fit together more neatly than they had for the first few shows. Coming back on for a genuinely unplanned encore they sauntered through an old Thin Lizzy cover before finishing with a new tune, ‘The Haar’, which they’d been kicking around the rehearsal room for a while but never played live. Swaying to a sea shanty rhythm and with both Kate and Hannah playing keyboards which sounded like accordions, the song built to a shuddering climax of crashing drums and shredded, warped guitars before collapsing in a glorious mess. Everyone loved it, and the four band members left the stage with big smiles on their faces.
After the show there was back-slapping and a heap of nervous praise from a handful of seventeen-and eighteen-year-old school-kids in indie wear, the girls with their hair in bunches, the boys hiding behind straggly fringes. The band lapped it up. Cary from Northsound appeared and added to the congratulations, saying the title track from the new EP was one of his most requested songs.
Connor was standing with Cary, Paul and Hannah, but only half-listening. He scanned the crowd for someone who might be Kenny, at the same time searching for the face of the boy from the television news reports. There was too much weird shit happening: the face on television, the note in his pocket, the people he was seeing everywhere who seemed to be watching his every move, following him around. Just as he was gazing round the place he felt a tap on the shoulder and almost jumped through the ceiling.
Behind him was a tall, ungainly man, hunched over for no good reason, his long hair tucked behind his ears and a smoky look in his bulbous eyes. He looked like a Jim Henson creation. He held out a giant hand, which Connor shook, getting a surprisingly firm grip.
‘Just wanted to say, man, that was a great set.’
Connor recognised the drawling voice immediately.
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it, youse have got some fantastic tunes, mate.’
‘Cheers.’
‘My name’s Kenny by the way.’
Connor had already moved to stand between Kenny and the rest of them. Paul and Hannah left him to it, assuming that Kenny was just a fan after a chat. Connor glanced round at them.
‘I’m Connor.’
‘I know.’
‘Well?’
‘I’m away to the toilets, man,’ said Kenny, dropping his voice and pawing at the ground with one foot, a movement which made Connor nervous. ‘I’ll be in the first cubicle. Follow me in.’
Kenny lumbered off in the direction of the bogs. Connor waited a couple of minutes then wandered as casually as he could over to their gear behind the stage. He pulled the kitbag from the pile and made his way to the toilets. He looked round to see if anyone was watching. Hannah and Paul were still talking to Cary, and over at the other side of the room Danny and Kate were laughing and joking with each other, sliding out from a booth and heading in his direction. They hadn’t seen him. He ducked through the back and into the Gents.
The toilets were empty, apart from the first cubicle door being closed. Connor pushed it open and
there was Kenny, slouched and smoking a joint. There wasn’t much room and Connor had to squeeze past his bulky frame to close and lock the door. He heard the door to the Gents open, then a pair of giggling, breathless voices followed by the sound of stumbling, a cubicle door closing and locking, then the grunts and gasps of a couple trying to have a quick, silent shag. Kenny shook his head while smiling, then pointed at the cubicle door, unlocked it and slipped back out the toilets. Connor followed, listening to the sounds from the other cubicle and being reminded of the noise through the wall the other night.
Outside the Gents, Kenny was heading down a flight of stairs to the pub’s delivery door. He stopped at the door which, although a fire exit, appeared to be chained and padlocked.
‘Thought it best not to do business to the sound of lovemaking,’ said Kenny.
Connor thought it was an odd choice of word for a quickie in the bogs, but said nothing.
‘Let’s just get this over with. Folk’ll be missing me. You got something?’
‘Sure, dude, no worries.’ Kenny pulled a thick brown envelope out his back pocket and held it up as if examining it for the first time. ‘And you?’
Connor unzipped the kitbag and took out Kenny’s parcel, handing it over in exchange for the envelope.
‘Sweet,’ said Kenny, secreting the package under his coat.
‘We done?’ said Connor.
Kenny laughed quietly. ‘You’re not used to this, eh, mate?’
‘What?’
‘You look nervous, man. I’m guessing you don’t do much of this kind of thing.’
Connor looked up the flight of stairs, then back at Kenny. ‘Correct. Now, we’re finished, yeah?’
‘Sure, man. Pleasure doing business with you.’
‘Wish I could say the same.’
‘Hope to see you around.’
The Ossians Page 12