He turned to look at Martin. In this perfect winter light the boy seemed more pure and unsullied than ever. He was naïve and innocent in a way Connor never could be again. He was untainted by the world, and Connor envied him. It struck him once more how much Martin looked like him – the same mess of black hair, the same green eyes, the same hollow cheeks and spindly limbs. They could be brothers. But Martin somehow put it all together better, didn’t have any of the poisoned shit in his mind that Connor had, the stuff that ended up contorting Connor’s face into a sight he hated. The stuff that made Connor feel like he’d unravelled, that his being was made up of disparate body parts barely held together by fragile threads of sinew and vein. His body and mind were fucking wrecked, almost beyond repair, and that realisation slowly started to creep through him as he watched this perfect, untouched, beautiful version of himself sit next to a serene loch, picking at bits of moss and stick on the ground.
‘Martin.’
Martin looked up, but didn’t hold Connor’s gaze.
‘Want to tell me what happened?’
There was a pause.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Last night.’ Connor waved a finger behind him. ‘Out there.’
Another pause.
‘I found you unconscious.’
‘Come on, Martin, I’m not a fucking idiot. We’re fifteen miles from anywhere. You were following me, right?’
Martin moved his head slightly in agreement.
‘Look, why not rewind back to Fort William. Start at the beginning.’
Martin hesitated, then looked away as he spoke.
‘I was in the police station. My parents were driving up from Edinburgh. I didn’t want to go back. So I walked out.’
‘Just like that?’
‘I wasn’t under arrest or anything. I was just in an interview room. I waited till they were busy with a couple of drunks, then sneaked out. It was easy.’
‘Then what?’
‘I came back to the pub. I was almost there when I saw you in the car park with those bikers. Pointing a gun at them.’
Martin looked Connor in the eye now, and it was Connor’s turn to look away.
‘I saw you take one of the bikes. As you were leaving, the two guys ran into the pub, presumably to get help. They must’ve panicked, because they left the key in the other bike. I took it and followed you.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘I came off the bloody thing at the Glen Nevis turn.’ Martin lifted his right leg and Connor saw there was a large rip in the knee of his jeans and scrapes down the thigh. ‘I’ve only ridden wee scramblers before, that was a big beast of a thing. Anyway, I got back on, but by that time you had quite a head start. I got to the car park at the end of the road, and saw your bike next to the start of the Corrour path. I put two and two together, and set off to find you.’
‘Just like that.’
‘I got some provisions from my bike’s panniers. Food, a torch, these boots which happened to fit and this big dorky jumper.’
‘But how did you know where I’d gone?’
‘There was a path. I just followed it. After a while I found an empty gin bottle, so guessed I was on the right track. It was like you were leaving a trail for me. Then I heard you shout a few times as well. I tried shouting back, but you mustn’t have heard me.’
Connor tried to remember. Had he thought he heard shouts or screams? Most of last night was a blur, a mush of visions jumbled together. ‘But I got lost, there didn’t seem to be any path after I stopped at that big loch.’
‘Really? I followed the path up the hill all right. Then I found another gin bottle. So I just kept going.’
‘But how the fuck did you find me in the end? I mean, there was a blizzard and miles and miles of fucking moor.’
‘I heard shots. One shot at first, so I headed in that direction. Then a few more as I was getting closer. But it was just luck that I found you, I suppose. I almost stumbled over you on the ground. Maybe it was fate.’
Connor didn’t believe in fate. Although fate was doing a pretty good job of changing his mind at this rate.
‘And what about the station house? I didn’t see it and I was only a few yards away. How did you know it was there?’
‘Maybe the visibility got better, or the snow eased off or something. I saw a faint light, then what looked like the outline of a house. I tried to drag you that way, but I couldn’t lift you. So I went and got help.’
Connor was having trouble taking it all in. It seemed too fluky to be real. By rights, he should be dead. Is that what he wanted? Was that why he’d come out here in the middle of a snowstorm at night? To die? Well, if it was, it hadn’t worked. Martin had saved him. His guardian angel came good after all. He really had been looking out for Connor all along. Through some sort of ridiculous, corny miracle, or some piss-taking divine intervention, he was still alive. Wasn’t that a kick in the fucking crotch.
‘I guess I should thank you for saving my life.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘It wasn’t nothing, it was everything.’ Connor put his hand on Martin’s shoulder, as Martin looked away at the loch, embarrassed. ‘Thanks.’
They sat in silence, looking out at the elemental, primeval stillness of the world in front of them. Eventually Connor spoke.
‘There’s something I don’t understand.’
Martin looked at him but said nothing.
‘Why?’ said Connor.
‘What do you mean? I just did what anyone else would’ve done.’
‘No, I don’t mean why save me, I mean the whole thing. Why run away from home, why follow us round the country? Why follow me into the wilderness? Why?’
Martin just shrugged.
‘Were you unhappy at home?’
Martin stayed silent for a while. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally.
‘Was someone hurting you or something? Abusing you?’
‘Nothing like that.’
Martin suddenly looked like a typical teenage boy, confused and unsure of himself. Connor had always assumed he was older than fifteen, but now, if anything, he looked younger.
‘Then what?’
‘It’s just… it’s difficult to explain. I have these… thoughts, I suppose. Feelings. I don’t know, it’s confusing. If Mum and Dad knew what goes on in my head, they’d freak.’
‘Come on, everyone has weird thoughts. It’s nothing to get worked up about.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
Connor thought about everything that had gone on in his head, all the ridiculous crap that had brought him here, to this beautiful, lonely place next to this worried teenager.
‘I’ve probably had weirder thoughts than you.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Remember in Kyle, I told you I thought you were an angel.’
Martin looked at Connor and a quizzical grin spread across his face.
‘But that was a joke, right?’
Connor shook his head. ‘I kept seeing you – at gigs, beaches, on television. I seriously thought you were an angel come down from heaven or something, visiting me for some reason, trying to tell me something. And I don’t even believe in God.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘That is weird.’
‘Told you.’
More silence between them.
‘Was it something to do with Hannah?’
Martin looked uncomfortable.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Lots of kids have a crush on their teacher, it’s normal.’ Connor put a reassuring hand on Martin’s leg. ‘And Hannah is pretty cute.’
‘I don’t have a crush on her.’
‘What then?’
Martin looked down at Connor’s hand on his leg, then back up at his face. He was blushing. He leant in and kissed Connor on the lips, forcefully, quickly, then pulled away and held his gaze for a moment before looking away at the ex
panse of Loch Ossian.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Connor, taking his hand from Martin’s leg. ‘What the fuck?’
Then he twigged. Everything seemed to slot into place, although Connor could scarcely believe it.
‘Me? You fancy me?’ Connor was almost laughing, it was so ridiculous, but tears were welling up in Martin’s eyes. ‘Fuck, Martin, I’m flattered and everything, but I’m not gay.’
‘I know that. Neither am I.’
‘Aren’t you?’
Martin was crying now.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I am. I don’t know. If my dad knew, he’d fucking kill me.’
‘Don’t be stupid, it’s perfectly normal.’
‘That’s not what he thinks.’
‘I’m sure he’d be fine with it if you were.’
‘I don’t even know if I am, you know. Gay. That’s what’s so bloody confusing. I haven’t felt like this about other boys. Or girls. Just you.’ He turned to look at Connor, tears streaming down his face. ‘I love you, Connor.’
The words floored him. He didn’t know what to say. This was totally fucked up.
‘No, you don’t, Martin. It’s just a crush.’
‘Don’t say that, it sounds so trivial and stupid.’
‘That’s not what I meant. Of course it’s not trivial. But you know I’m going out with Hannah, so you know I’m straight, right?’
Martin nodded, sniffling as he wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.
‘And anyway, I’m – what – nine years older than you? You’re just a kid.’
‘I can’t help the way I feel.’
‘Martin, I…’ Connor just didn’t know what to say.
‘I’ve felt this way for months,’ said Martin, blurting out the words. ‘Ever since I first saw The Ossians. A few of us came along to a gig to see Miss Reid – Hannah – see what her band was like. The first moment I saw you it hit me like a punch in the chest. You looked so amazing up there on stage, totally cool and, I don’t know, in control.’
Connor laughed, but quickly stifled it when he saw the look on Martin’s face.
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘I’m sorry, Martin, really. I’m not laughing at you. But, in control? Me? Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?’
Martin looked away.
‘Martin, look. You’ve seen me acting as an unwilling drug courier for a twat I owe money to, unwittingly take part in a gull massacre, get more fucked up on drugs and booze than any human should, steal a motorbike at gunpoint and almost kill myself in the middle of the Scottish wilderness. I would’ve killed myself if it hadn’t been for you. You’re the cool one, you’re the one in control. I’m the biggest fuck-up you’re ever likely to meet. I’m a complete arsehole, a selfish wanker, a pretentious dickhead. Just ask the rest of the band if you don’t believe me. Ask Hannah. I don’t know why she puts up with me.’
‘If you’re an arsehole, what does that make me? I stole my dad’s car and credit card and buggered off round the country chasing after you like a…’
‘Like a what?’
‘A silly little schoolboy. Which is what I am.’
‘Jesus, Martin, I should be learning from you, not the other way around. You’re a fifteen-year-old kid who’s independently travelled round the country on your own for two weeks, all the while keeping your head together. You trekked fifteen miles in a snowstorm and saved my life. Hey, wait a minute – how are you able to drive?’
‘I just am. It’s easy.’
‘But you can’t have a licence.’
‘No.’
Connor shook his head.
‘Anyway. You saved my life, Martin. You saved my fucking life. I’m in your debt for the rest of my sorry little existence. I should be learning from you. You’re the mature person here.’
As he spoke, Connor realised the depths he’d sunk to. He really could learn about how to be a proper human being from this kid. Here was a boy who’d followed his heart, taking him round the country on a trip he didn’t understand, all the while being levelheaded and smart along the way. What had Connor done over the last two weeks except run away from shit? Take more and more pills and speed and whisky and gin and beer and hash and coke and more pills just to keep the real world at bay. He’d been abusive to friends and strangers alike. He’d been rightly beaten several times for being a total wanker, and he’d brought that on himself deliberately, so he could play the battered victim, a martyr that only he believed in. It was all so pathetic. Seen through Martin’s eyes, he must look like the sorriest cunt in the history of the world.
He’d wrapped this whole thing up in a flag. From the band’s name, which now seemed like a puerile joke, onwards, he’d been banging on about looking for the real Scotland, a tangible nation, something he could call home at least. But he’d missed the point. He hadn’t even been able to read more than thirty pages of that book of Ossian’s poems, what the fuck did he know about the history of this sorry little country anyway? It wasn’t a matter of inventing or denying some romantic, made-up ideas about nationhood or homelands, or worrying about borders or the fucking English, it was just about getting on with life, getting on with people, and being honest and kind and trying not to fuck up too much. It wasn’t much of a life philosophy, but it was a fucking start.
But how could he start again? His body was a wreck and he needed alcohol and drugs to stay alive. That’s how he felt, deep in the marrow of his bones and in the tainted blood running through his veins into his brain, which was in worse shape than his body. He was sitting here with a fifteen-year-old schoolkid, in the middle of nowhere, swigging from a bottle of cask-strength whisky as if it was fucking juice. He didn’t know what to do, and he felt like he didn’t have the strength to sort himself out. But he wasn’t going to run away any more. He was going to Glasgow to face up to everything. Face up to himself.
‘What’s going to happen with the band?’ said Martin quietly.
‘What?’
‘The Ossians. Reckon you’ll get signed?’
The Ossians couldn’t go on. He realised now that he didn’t want to get signed. What would happen if they did? Relocation to London – a bigger, brighter shitehole to crawl about in like a lab rat and slowly kill himself? No thanks. Endless promotion and gigging, talking and explaining about the band, and all the while hating everyone who was idiotic enough to be interested in them and their dumb-arsed, pathetic, insular tunes? Fuck that. He hated The Ossians. He hated what he’d become as frontman of the band, a self-important dickhead playing at being ironic about the whole thing, but secretly loving the shallow praise, the adoration of kids like Martin, the puerile, meaningless nature of everything they did, which was nevertheless lapped up by fans and critics who didn’t know anything about anything.
‘The Ossians are splitting up.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I hate this irrelevant, shitty little band. It’s been my excuse for being an arsehole for years now, and I don’t want an excuse, I don’t want a hand-fed reason to fuck up, to act the cunt for the rest of my life. We’ll play this gig tonight, then it’s all over.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Why?’
‘I love The Ossians. I think you’re great.’
‘We’re not, we’re shite. Do you play an instrument?’
‘No.’
‘Learn one and form a band. I’m sure you’ll be a lot better at it than me.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Give it a go. If you’re shit, it doesn’t matter, as long as you enjoy yourself. I haven’t enjoyed being in The Ossians for years.’
With the realisation that the band was finished, Connor felt a huge surge of relief. He wouldn’t have to do this shit any more, the tour was almost over, the band was almost finished, he could go home soon and sleep for a month. He could try to dry out, stay off the pills and blow, maybe he and Hannah could go away somewhere for a holiday, or even a new start. Maybe they could come and live som
ewhere like this. But that was running away, and he’d had enough of running away. Besides, it was a joke, thinking he could live somewhere as remote and quiet as this. For all he moaned about his life in the city he would be lost in a place like Loch Ossian. It was easy to sit here for a few hours and glamorise life in the country. He could walk the dogs, maybe start smoking a pipe, Hannah by his side as they mended fence posts or whatever the fuck people did around here. It was pathetic. That was just as useless a life as the one he was living now, if he didn’t sort his shit out. And that’s what it came down to – straightening himself out. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he wanted to do it. The desire was there. But he doubted he had the strength of character, the will to face the world without drugs, and with only reasonable amounts of booze. See? Already he was moving the goalposts, ruling out the idea that he could do without alcohol completely. Fuck, this was going to be impossible. Life was going to be impossible from now on, no matter what he did.
Something came to him from last night.
‘Shit, the bag. What happened to my fucking kitbag?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t I have it when you found me?’
‘No.’
Connor tried to think back. Had he kept it until the end? He couldn’t picture himself having it later on, but then he couldn’t remember much. Christ, he must’ve left it somewhere out there, maybe when he stopped at that bigger loch. Maybe he’d put it down and just completely forgotten about it, or had he chucked it away in a pointless rage? Fuck.
‘We have to look for it.’
Martin gave him a sceptical look.
‘We’ll never find it. There are miles of blanket bog and frozen moorland out there.’
‘You found me, didn’t you?’
‘That was a fluke.’
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky again.’ Connor said it, but looking around at the colossal expanse of gorse, heather and moss, he knew it was pointless. The bag was gone, the drugs and money were gone. Nick was going to fucking kill him. In a way, he was relieved. Now he could really start afresh, without all this hanging over him. What’s the worst that could happen? They wouldn’t actually kill him, would they? So, what, they’d badly beat him up? He’d be in hospital for a while, but eventually he’d get out and be able to start again from scratch.
The Ossians Page 28