11
Kyle of Lochalsh
‘I don’t sleep
So I walk these dirty streets
Halfway to the grave’
The Ossians, ‘The City of Dreadful Night’
Kyle of Lochalsh was a dead-end town. Hewn out of the dark, damp rock, the scatter of depressed houses seemed to shrug at their miserable fate. Once, Kyle had some purpose as the place to catch the Skye ferry, but when the bridge was built it became the stopping place no one in their right minds stopped in. The bridge, arching gently in the distance behind the sprawl of pathetic houses, seemed to mock the town, as did the omnipresent misty black bumps of the Cuillin Hills behind it. Cars sped along the town’s main road, blurs of hope, heading for better things on the island. The snow of further north had turned to oppressive, ominous rain, the kind of rain that beats you down into the ground with relentless force, dissolving your head and shoulders, torso and legs until there’s nothing left.
The windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the thud of raindrops as they pulled up to the hostel in a thick fog of misery. The hostel was a large, dirty concrete brick of a building with a long, unpronounceable Gaelic name and a badly drawn cartoon wolf on its wall. Across the street a handful of teenage girls hung about a sheltered bus stop near the jetty. They wolf-whistled and cat-called any boys who came within a hundred yards, their shrieking laughter piercing the skin of the van and sending a shiver up Connor’s spine. Occasionally cars stopped by the bus stop – teenage boys in pathetic souped-up Fiestas with spoilers and extra lights – and a short exchange of expletives and flirtations would take place, before the boys spun off in a screech of tyres and a flurry of bum-fluffed macho bravado.
No one had slept at all, so as soon as they checked in to the hostel they crashed out, all except Connor, despite pleading from Hannah and the rest that he really needed sleep. He knew he needed sleep, but it seemed so long since he’d closed his eyes and dreamt that he didn’t think he could do it any more, and couldn’t ever see a time when he would again. He dabbed some speed, rolled a joint, rubbed the handle of the gun in his pocket a few times and headed out into the wretched rain and the wretched town, a suitably wretched figure.
He bought a bottle of the cheapest gin at a corner shop and had the seal broken before he was out the door. He stood outside surveying the scene. Across the road was the jetty and the Lochalsh Hotel, a massive white building frayed around the edges, like the suit of a Scottish laird fallen on hard times. The large car park outside it was empty, and waterlogged picnic tables stood at the lochside next to a lone flagpole. To his right was Main Street and the Kyle Hotel. Christ, these people had some imaginations, he thought. Another squat, dirty white lump of concrete, its main body had ugly extensions sticking out at various angles. The Kyle was their gig venue for tonight and Connor grinned ruefully looking at its pitiful frontage. He turned to look past the hostel to the dingy, grimy train station. Two engines rested in the sidings pumping small clouds of black smoke up into the unforgiving rain. This was Kyle of Lochalsh, very possibly the arsehole of Scotland. If they had any sense they’d move everyone out of here and bulldoze the fucking dump, like they did the Gorbals.
He made for the shore. If in doubt, make for water to soothe the nerves. He headed across the road, dodging between cars as they fizzed continuously to and from the bridge, none of them willing to spend a second more than they had to in this shithole. As he walked towards the jetty, the girls at the bus stop started shouting a mix of obscenities and provocation at him, anything to get noticed.
‘My mate wants to shag you, ya prick, will you no shag her? Are you a fucking poof?’
‘Come over here and we’ll shag your arse off.’
‘We’ll batter you, ya cunt, are you fucking scared?’
Connor had heard it all a million times before. He ignored them and sat at one of the soaking picnic tables outside the Lochalsh Hotel. The rain lashed down, drips turning to rivulets at his collar, drops mixing with snot as they dripped off his nose, dampness seeping through his jeans. He looked out across the water at the drenched island beyond and realised he couldn’t feel the rain.
He swigged the gin and sucked his teeth. It occurred to him how rude it was not to have offered the bus-stop bitches a drink. He remembered how he would’ve done anything for booze when he was that age. He got up and headed back in their direction. As soon as they saw him they started.
‘Here he is, the fucking gay cunt,’ said one girl, her hair tied back so tightly in a ponytail it gave Connor a headache to look at it. He smiled calmly and took a big swig from the bottle, letting them see the label.
‘Afternoon ladies,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Are you a pervert?’ said Ponytail. ‘A fucking child molester, aye?’
Connor stood holding the bottle out. There were four of them, dressed almost identically in pink or yellow cropped tops, blue pedal pushers and white shoes. They all wore cheap gold jewellery and watches, were caked in make-up and had their hair tied back in various arrangements. The abuse continued for a few more minutes, accusations followed by bursts of laughter that were too hard and forced. Gradually they quietened down until Ponytail warily said, ‘It’s just gin, aye?’
Connor nodded and waggled the bottle at her. Ponytail grabbed it in an ungainly lunge, like a newborn foal taking its first steps. She made a show of wiping the rim of the bottle on the hem of her top, then took a big gulp. One of the other girls made a grab for it, but Ponytail took another long drink before she passed it on.
‘Keep it,’ said Connor, walking away.
‘We’ve got yer fucking bevvy, dickhead,’ said Ponytail, but there was something in her voice which lacked conviction. ‘Too scared to take it back, aye? Or did yeh spike it, ya fucking perv?’
Connor walked back up to the corner shop to get himself another bottle. The girls called insults after him, but he felt them bounce off his back like the rain, his wrecked body now shielded by an unseen force field. He walked into the shop and asked for another bottle of gin to raised eyebrows. As he stepped back outside, he saw the girls shoving each other as they fought over the bottle. He felt better than he had for a while. He stroked the gun in his pocket. It seemed to be giving off heat which spread through his body. A familiar noise came to him. It sounded comforting, but he couldn’t place it. After a while it came to him – ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. The phone. He took it out and answered as he downed gin and watched the girls at the bus stop. A wasted female voice babbled in his ear.
‘Where are you?’
‘Across from the Lochalsh Hotel.’
‘I’ll meet you there in five minutes.’
‘Fine, I’ll be at one of the picnic tables.’
‘Outside? In this rain? Are you mental?’
Connor hung up. He crossed the road, taking a wide berth around the bus stop, where the girls were still fighting over the bottle. He sat down at the waterlogged table, the relentless splat of raindrops on wood for company. He thought of the angel. He hadn’t seen him last night at the gig – was that a bad sign? They’d been occupied with saving themselves and their gear from destruction, and he hadn’t given his angel any thought until now. He felt ashamed. If his angel was looking out for him, shouldn’t he also look out for his angel? What if he was back in that car, up near Durness, and Connor could’ve rescued him? What if he’d decided to leave earth altogether, give up on Connor’s soul? He didn’t think he could take that. Having an obsessive, stalking evil angel look out for you was better than having no one look out for you at all.
‘Connor?’
He recognised the voice from the phone call, but hesitated before turning round, hoping it was his angel.
He assumed this was Susie, since that was the name on the last package. She looked as if she was having a much worse time than Connor. She looked scrunched up and soaked through, and wore a grey hoodie, tracky bottoms and skanky old trainers. Her eyes were sunken, surrounded by gritty
bags, and her mouth and nose were rimmed with sores. The skin hung loose at her neck and hands, although she didn’t seem old, just worn through.
‘You got the stuff from Nick?’
‘You got the money?’
‘Of course, let’s see the drugs first.’
Was this the first time someone had explicitly referred to these packages as drugs? He reached into the kitbag under the table and handed over the package. To his surprise, she ripped it open right in front of him, frantically inspecting the contents before smiling and closing the package. She wasn’t like the others. They’d been in control and assured, she seemed like a totally fucked-up end-user. What was Nick doing dealing direct with someone like this? Maybe he owed her a favour, or maybe he was sweet on her or something, although it seemed unlikely anyone could be sweet on such a car crash. He was a fine one to talk.
‘Where’s the money?’
As soon as he asked it, Connor knew the answer. Susie was edging away from him, her body turning side-on, her eyes looking away.
‘Where’s the money?’
‘The thing is…’
Connor waited. What was he going to do? Looking at the state of her, she wasn’t going to give the package up without a fight. He didn’t want to be in this fucking shithole, in the pissing rain, fighting over a drugs package with a junkie cow. Then he remembered the gun. He stroked the metal in his pocket. How would it pan out if he pulled the gun on her? He was taking the gun out his pocket, Susie watching in horror and realisation, when he heard another voice.
‘Hey, cuntface.’
It was Ponytail and her mates. He pushed the gun back in his pocket. Susie edged further away. Ponytail and her mates were heading towards him fast, then all around him, right in his face.
‘Who’s yer girlfriend?’ said Ponytail. ‘Fucking junkie scum. Got any more booze?’ The girls were between him and Susie now, she was getting further away and he couldn’t do anything about it.
‘Fuck off,’ he said, pushing Ponytail. She stumbled, then came straight back at him, shoving him hard in the chest so that he lost balance.
Susie saw her chance and bolted. She was across the main road before Connor had even righted himself. Ponytail was screaming in his face, and the other three girls were shrieking as well, joining in the chorus of abuse and crowding round him. He looked across the road but Susie had gone, slipped behind some shop or house, disappeared under a fucking rock in this slimy little pisshole of a place. Fucking great. The bus-stop bitches were still screaming at him. How easy it would be to get rid of them just by pulling the gun out his pocket and waving it around. That would shut them up. But he didn’t take it out. Instead he offered up his second bottle of gin to Ponytail, who shambled forward and grabbed it, swearing at him in triumph before turning and leading her posse back to the bus stop.
He would just have to tell Nick what happened. He wasn’t to blame. But Susie would say she handed over the money, so it would be Connor’s word against hers.
How had it come to this? He was standing in the pissing rain in the biggest scum-sucking shithole in the country, fucking up drug deals, giving away booze, and somehow expected to play a gig. He looked at the bridge in the distance and pictured himself jumping off it. He thought about stepping on to the road in front of a car, feeling the cold, hard kiss of metal against his body.
He heard a voice he recognised.
‘Connor?’
He turned and smiled at his guardian angel, his runaway boy, his stalker. A strange glow seemed to be emanating from the tall, thin figure, and the rain seemed not to be making him wet. As he noticed this, Connor thought it was both ridiculous and perfectly reasonable.
‘I could’ve used you a few minutes ago,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I had a spot of bother.’
‘What kind of bother?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘No, go on.’
Connor waved a hand at nothing. ‘Drugs, junkies, money, booze, schemie underagers…’
‘Sorry I wasn’t here.’
‘Where have you been? I didn’t see you in Ullapool.’
‘I had car trouble.’
‘Shit. Was that your car on the scree slope on the road down from Cape Wrath?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I saw it, but it was too late, we’d already driven past it, and I didn’t know anyone was in it anyway, let alone that it was your…’
The figure raised a hand slowly. ‘It’s OK. I slept in the car last night, then hitched a lift this morning.’
Connor stood with this serene figure in front of him, the rain thrashing the ground all around them.
‘What’s your name? You never told me your name.’
The figure seemed to consider this for a while.
‘Martin.’
‘Martin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me something, Martin, are you an angel?’
Martin laughed shyly, but didn’t reply.
‘Are you?’
‘Are you serious?’ Martin’s smile faded. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? No, Connor, I’m not an angel. Not by a long way.’
‘But you said you were looking out for me. I thought you were maybe my guardian angel.’
‘I am looking out for you, but I’m no angel.’
‘Then what? A stalker?’
Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not a psycho, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way.’
‘You didn’t mean “stalker” in a bad way?’
Connor didn’t know how to explain that he’d liked the feeling of being followed.
‘If you’re not an angel or a stalker, what are you?’
‘I’m just a fan,’ said Martin, looking awkward.
‘A fan of what? The band?’
The rain hammered the tarmac beneath their feet. Martin looked embarrassed, but didn’t speak. Connor wanted to ask again, but didn’t dare in case Martin ran away. He couldn’t bear it if he made this kid run away. But he couldn’t help himself from wanting to know more.
‘Why do I keep seeing you on television? Have you run away from home? I’ve seen your parents, and the car you were driving, which must be theirs, and the area of Edinburgh you live in, which looks like Marchmont or Morningside. The police are looking for you, you know. I saw them with your picture in a book shop up north.’
Things began falling into place in his booze-soaked brain. This was just a kid who’d run away from home, and was following him and the band round the country for whatever messed-up reasons. He wasn’t an angel, or a stalker, or some kind of saviour. He was just a fucked-up kid.
‘Why don’t you come and meet the rest of the band.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
Martin looked nervously around him, as if the whole thing was a set-up, and the rest of The Ossians might spring out of the nearby water and grab him. He started moving away from Connor.
‘No, wait!’ said Connor desperately. ‘Don’t go. Not again. I want you to stay.’
But Martin had already turned and was running away. It never even occurred to Connor to run after him, so heavy were his legs. He watched as Martin nimbly darted across the road, and off down Main Street into the godforsaken gloom of Lochalsh.
‘Still nothing?’
Kate looked at Hannah, who looked ill in the yellow light of the Kyle Hotel. Hannah pursed her lips and shook her head, looking down at her lap.
‘What are you going to do?’ said Kate.
Hannah shrugged. ‘What can I do? Wait and see. I can’t get a pregnancy test here anyway, have you seen this dump? There’s barely a shop, let alone a hint of civilisation.’
She looked around at the tattered brown walls of the bar. A handful of oddball punters were in, one man wearing wellies and a waxed jacket, another middle-aged woman in what appeared to be a Stet
son and cowboy boots. Apart from them there was a handful of neddy types, inevitably clustered round the pool table. The young, muscular barman had a bored look on his face as he watched motor racing on a television mounted in the corner above the toilets. The smell emanating from that direction suggested the bogs hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. The strip-lighting, sickly walls and urine stench seemed to create an unearthly mist in the place, Hannah thought, as if they were playing tonight’s gig on Venus or something. She turned back to Kate, who had a worried look on her face.
‘Fuck’s sake, Kate, lighten up,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got cancer.’
‘All right, but…’ Kate trailed off, not knowing what to say. She nodded at the double vodka in front of Hannah. ‘What about that?’
‘What about it?’ Hannah straightened in her seat. ‘I’ve told you, we don’t know anything for definite, and I’ve skipped periods before, mainly because of booze and stress. This is not a big deal.’
She realised she’d been prodding the table. She examined her finger, which was sticky with spilt alcohol and had a grey smudge of dust on it. That bloody barman could be cleaning these tables, she thought to herself. What else did he have to do in this dump?
‘Fine,’ said Kate. ‘It’s your body, do what you like. But Con is my brother, and I think you should tell him. What if you are pregnant? He deserves to know. I realise he’s been an arsehole, but this is maybe just the thing to sort him out.’
‘You’re getting way ahead of yourself. There’s no point getting him involved when we don’t know anything.’
‘But that’s just it, he is involved. I assume.’ As soon as she said it, Kate regretted it.
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ said Hannah, blood rising in her cheeks. ‘What are you trying to say? That I’m sleeping around?’
The Ossians Page 23