It Takes One to Know One

by Isla Dewar

  There were rustlings in the undergrowth. Mice, rats, he thought, and looked in dismay at his feet. Small furry things might scurry over them. Moving back to the street, he disturbed a flurry of pigeons that rattled and flapped into the air. He jumped, pressed his hand against his startled heart. It was coming up for six o’clock. Light now and more people about. He hadn’t found Chrissie Lewis. He was tired and still sore from his set-to with Brendan Stokes. Time to go home. He freewheeled down the hill and into Queen’s Park.

  It was always the best part of an early morning journey home, to cycle here. Flat road and hill and gorse, wildness in the city. Arthur’s Seat looming, often climbed but never really tamed. He pedalled slowly, contemplating that wonderful moment when he’d slip into bed and let go and sleep.

  He wasn’t looking ahead. Instead, with no other traffic about, he was watching the road skim below him as he gained speed. So he didn’t see Bellow surging towards him. But he heard him.

  ‘Charlie Gavin. There you go, Charlie Gavin.’ The voice was huge. Filled the park. This man wasn’t called Bellow for nothing. He walked the city shouting. He wore a lot of yellow – scarf, shirt and trousers – and had once been known as Yellow Bellow. But maybe that was too much to say. It might take too long to come out of your mouth before his great voice drowned you.

  He didn’t so much walk as thrust himself forward, wild hair flying, shouting as he went about God, impending misadventure, doom and the fickleness of friends. He always carried two overstuffed yellow shopping bags rumoured to be filled with priceless antiques, but Charlie suspected contained rubbish.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Been up on the hill watching stars. Good stars up there. Thousands of them. You should turn your gaze upwards.’

  Charlie said maybe he would some day.

  ‘Look at you, Charlie Gavin. Your face is mush. Been fighting?’

  ‘Somebody got into a fight with me. I didn’t fight back.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ He boxed the air, pranced. ‘Footwork.’

  Charlie thought it was a wonder that a man could dance like that in boots with no laces. But watching the agile gallop of boot on tarmac made him contemplate the grime-encrusted, blistered state of the feet the boots contained. To chase the image from his mind he took out his photo of Chrissie and showed it to Bellow.

  He stopped his boxing demonstration. ‘The Duchess.’

  ‘Duchess?’

  ‘Yes. Tells everyone she’s met the Queen. Used to mix with the aristocracy. Shy type, though. Hangs about the Grassmarket. Slips away if she sees someone she used to know. Thinks she’s better than the rest of us. But that’s the way of it when you’ve no roof over your head, no bed to lay that same head at night. You have to believe you’re better than those who have.’

  Charlie said he could see that. ‘Do you know where she sleeps at night?’

  ‘Somewhere safe she says. Don’t know where. Women have to be safe. It’s their weakness. Along with chocolate.’

  Charlie said, ‘It’s my weakness, too.’ He gave Bellow a couple of pounds, mounted his bike and pushed off. ‘Safe with a bar of chocolate works for me.’

  The great voice followed him. ‘It will come to you, Charlie Gavin. It comes to us all. Misfortune, bad luck, wrong choices. You will be among us who have no roof and no bed and come to know the night. The homeless will watch for you, Charlie Gavin.’

  Charlie sped away from the roar.

  ‘It happened to me. It’ll happen to you. The great misfortune will happen to everyone. It’s coming for you all.’

  Charlie cycled faster. Shot out of the park and into the morning traffic. He didn’t look back. He feared he was hearing the truth.

  At home he removed his shoes, placed them carefully side-by-side and flopped onto his bed. He’d planned to shower and brew a perfect cup of coffee, but didn’t. He fell instantly into a deep sleep and dreamed he was walking barefoot across rubble trying to reach a woman dressed in yellow. He was calling to her, mincing gingerly over jagged ground. When she turned to face him, he saw it was Martha. He tried to go to her. Had something to give her – a bundle he was suddenly carrying. But he couldn’t move and his jaw was weak. He couldn’t speak.

  He was shivering when he woke. The window was open. He’d been sweating after his frantic cycling when he’d thrown himself on the bed. He rose stiffly, hobbled to the shower and stood under the hot spray trying to wash away his dream. Dreams bothered him. They visited often. He felt dreaming was his mind out of control, thinking on its own when he wasn’t around to stop it.

  30

  Safe

  He dressed after carefully examining his mood – grey shirt with black jacket today, rather than black shirt with grey jacket – and selected socks of the day before brewing his perfect cup of coffee.

  He walked along the beach to work. The day was warm and Murphy needed a run. It was almost half-past eleven when he arrived at the office, well after bacon roll time. This bothered him.

  Martha was at her desk looking industrious. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I know. Have you had a bacon roll?’

  ‘No, I waited for you.’

  ‘Better get them now. My day is all out of kilter. But I might put it back the way it ought to be if I can pretend that it’s three-quarters of an hour ago.’

  Ten minutes later, sitting on the sofa with their rolls and coffee, trying to get their day back on track, Charlie said, ‘Where’s safe?’

  Martha said, ‘Home.’

  ‘If you wanted somewhere safe to sleep, where would you go?’

  ‘My bed at home.’

  ‘But if you had no home. If you were living on the street.’

  ‘I’d go to a hostel.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that. Where else?’

  ‘Home. I’d slip into the back garden after dark. It’s safe there. And I know it. I’d be close to people I love even if they were unaware of my being there. There’s a little secret place behind the lilac tree, soft grass and shade. It’s where I went when I ran away once. And where I hid if I was in disgrace or feeling sad.’

  He reached out, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Why were you sad?’

  ‘I was sad when my dad died. Sad when I got a bloody ukulele. I was so disappointed I went and stood in my secret spot for hours. I was freezing and missing Dad. It was our first Christmas without him. Lonely and heartbroken me, I wallowed in sorrow.’

  ‘You sound like you enjoyed it.’

  ‘I had a great wallow. Don’t you ever wallow? Just let sadness take you over? Just gorge yourself in self-pity?’

  ‘No. It must be a girl thing.’ He was not about to admit to his wallowing. He did it often.

  ‘Oh, you should do it. It’s good for you.’

  He squeezed her shoulder and said, ‘I prefer a beer to a wallow.’ He got up and gathered their plates and cups, wondered if he’d squeezed her shoulder too hard. He’d been on the verge of giving her a slap on the back and inviting her out for a pint later on. He’d nearly advised her to stop praising the joys of wallowing and be a man. ‘Keep it to yourself and have a couple of beers.’

  He washed the dishes, slowly turning over the business of embracing misery.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, coming from the kitchen with dripping hands, ‘you stood behind a lilac tree in sub-zero temperatures because you got a ukulele?’

  ‘I wanted a red guitar. I was in love with it.’

  ‘If you’d got it you would have tried to play it. Failed and given up. That’s what happens when you get something without working for it. But you worked for your guitar. Bought it. Started a band. Went on the road. Behaved like a prat. Got drunk. Got pregnant. Had Evie. That ukulele is the best thing that ever happened to you.’

  Martha told Charlie that he was dripping onto the floor. She stared at him, debating her reply to his ukulele remark. She couldn’t argue about a bloody ukulele with somebody who’d suffered as he had. Instead she said, ‘By the w
ay, I’ll need your car today. The Beetle’s still buggered and I have to take my mother to the doctor. They want to keep an eye on her, check her stitches, poke at her ribs and so forth. Then she has to go to the outpatients’ next week to get her stitches out.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Three-fifteen. So I’ll need you to pick up Evie from school and walk her home.’

  Charlie said, ‘Please.’

  ‘Sorry, could you please pick up Evie. You could please take Murphy. She’d like that.’

  He picked up his list for the day, held it up. ‘I’ve things to do. I’ve written them down.’

  ‘Just because you’ve written something down doesn’t mean you absolutely have to stick to it. Things happen. Life sneaks up on you.’

  ‘I work very hard at not letting life sneak up on me.’ He made lists. He kept himself safe by tapping his nameplate, putting his pens in perfect order, wearing the correct socks on the correct day. He couldn’t explain to her, or anyone, the importance of his rituals. He just knew that if he let them go, something awful would happen. Life would sneak up on him.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it. I’ll see Bernice tomorrow and tell her the investigation is over. I was going to see Ted Lewis and give him an update. But I’ll do that the day after.’

  ‘Not today? You’ve got time.’

  ‘No, I have to procrastinate. I have to think. I’ll pick up Evie and bring her here.’

  ‘Why do you procrastinate?’

  ‘I think. I don’t rush in. Putting things off till tomorrow is a good policy.’ He drummed his fingers on his desk, relishing the delights of procrastination. ‘And if you make a wrong decision, you’re also delaying the regrets for a day or two.’

  ‘Just don’t procrastinate on picking Evie up. Be there on time.’

  Charlie reckoned it was a twenty-minute walk to the school. He planned to leave at three. Evie would get out at half-past. This gave him a ten-minute leeway. He was prepared for unforeseen things that might happen on route.

  Of course he hadn’t thought about anything unforeseen that might happen before he set out. Ted Lewis phoned and delayed him.

  ‘I was wondering how your investigation is getting along.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve spoken to all Chrissie’s friends.’

  ‘So you’ll know she’s back in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘She was spotted in the Grassmarket.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her friend phoned and told me,’ said Ted.

  ‘Yes. I spent quite a long time there yesterday looking for her.’

  ‘Are you planning on going back today?’

  Charlie looked at his watch. Ten past three. He should be on his way. ‘I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I was going to go in the evening.’

  ‘Well, I’m going now.’

  ‘Please don’t. If she sees a familiar face, she might move on. We have no idea where she’d go.’

  ‘The familiar face she’d see would be mine, her husband’s. I have a great deal to say to that woman.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. But please let us find her. I don’t want her frightened off.’

  ‘Frightened off? What do you think I’m going to do? Wield an axe at her? I just want to talk to her. Why would she be frightened?’

  ‘Guilt. Shame. She might not want to face you.’

  ‘I don’t care what she wants. I want to talk to her. I’m going to look for her now.’

  He put down the phone. Charlie looked at his watch. ‘Damn.’ He was late.

  He put on his jacket, checked the gas was off, put the guard in front of the fire, clipped on Murphy’s leash and set off, tapping his nameplate as he went. He walked a few yards and stopped. He patted his pockets, making sure he had everything placed correctly. He stood staring ahead. Had he turned off the gas? He thought he had. He remembered doing it. But had he? It was so automatic he might just be thinking he had. Better go back and make sure.

  In the office he stared at the oven. ‘It’s off.’ The fireguard was in place, his pens in a perfect parallel row and his LPs all in their sleeves in alphabetised order on the shelf. ‘Excellent.’

  He checked his watch. Twenty past. ‘Christ.’ He locked up. Put his key in the correct pocket, tapped his nameplate and headed to the school. Stopped. Had he really made sure the gas was off? ‘Damn,’ he said out loud. ‘I have. I have. I know I have. But it’s so automatic I maybe just think I have.’

  He turned back. Checked his watch. Twenty-five past. ‘No time.’

  He ran. It wasn’t just because he was late; it was what he did when he was agitated. He tried to put as much distance between himself and his problem as quickly as he could. Daft, he thought, because his fretting was in his head and he was taking it with him. But movement helped. So, he pelted along the pavement, cheeks red, pockets jingling and Murphy running beside him, ears flapping. He was enjoying this.

  School had been out for ten minutes when Charlie jogged towards the gates. A van covered with psychedelic patterns and CND stickers was parked across the road. A woman with long dark hair was leading Evie towards it. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘No, Evie, no.’ Letting go of Murphy’s leash, he waved his arms in the air as he ran. Evie turned, saw Murphy, wrenched her hand free from the woman’s grip and ran towards the dog arms outstretched.

  It was like the tear-jerking end of a French film when two long-parted lovers rushed towards one another. It could have only taken moments for the two to come together in the middle of the road, but to Charlie it seemed to take an age. Evie knelt and clutched the dog to her. Murphy wriggled, jumped and licked her face. The woman looked briefly at Charlie running towards the two reunited lovers. She was beautiful.

  Charlie could hardly stop himself from staring her. She was perfect. She smiled. ‘Jamie wanted to see her one more time before we leave. Going to Australia soon. He wanted to say goodbye.’

  Charlie said, ‘Understandable. But probably best to arrange something with Martha. You weren’t planning to take Evie with you to Australia, were you?’

  The woman smiled. Perfect teeth. She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got what I want from Martha’s life. She can keep her child.’ She climbed into her van and drove off.

  Charlie swept the lovers from the road and led them to the pavement before giving in to his sweat, panic and exhaustion. Panting and working at not throwing up, he said, ‘I thought I’d left the gas on.’

  He took Evie’s hand and they walked slowly down the road. She held Murphy’s leash.

  Charlie said, ‘Ah. I don’t think your mother wants you to go with that lady.’

  ‘She said Mummy had sent her.’

  ‘She sent me. I was late because I went back to the office to check I’d turned the gas off.’

  ‘Grandma’s always doing that. She gets to the front door and says, “Did I switch the gas off?” And she has to go back to check because she’ll not be happy if she doesn’t. It’s really boring.’

  Charlie was relieved to know he wasn’t the only one so afflicted. He looked down at his hand linked with Evie’s and smiled to her.

  ‘The lady said she and Daddy were going to live in another country. I could go too if I wanted,’ said Evie.

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Nah. Mummy can’t come. Murphy can’t come. So I’m not going. She asked if I wanted to come for tea. But I didn’t. They eat too many things with bits in.’

  They walked in silence before Charlie asked, ‘Where do you feel safe?’

  ‘Home. In bed all toasty with the covers over my head. But I keep one ear out so I can hear Mum and Gran moving about and chatting and doing stuff in the kitchen. That’s safe.’

  ‘What if you didn’t have a home or a bed?’

  ‘I’d go behind the lilac tree in the garden. It’s a hidey place nobody but me knows about. It’s a secret. You mustn’t tell.’

  Charlie said, ‘I won’t, if you promise not to tell that I was late.’

>   31

  Transference

  Sophie shuffled to the door. Moving was painful and if whoever was ringing wasn’t so persistent, she wouldn’t have bothered going to answer it.

  Duncan was on the doorstep smiling his delighted, but slightly sheepish, smile. ‘I hadn’t seen you in a while so I thought I’d drop by.’ He didn’t at first notice the state she was in.

  He followed her up to the kitchen, took his usual seat at the table and only when she went to the sink to fill the kettle did he notice how stiffly she was moving. When she turned to fetch the cups, he saw the bruising on her face and her stitches.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Got set upon by a couple of lads after my cake.’

  He stared at her, taking this in, then asked, ‘What cake?’

  ‘The da Vinci one.’

  ‘No. That was a beauty. Did they get it?’

  ‘It got smashed when I fell.’

  ‘A tragedy,’ said Duncan. ‘An absolute tragedy.’

  ‘I was very proud of that cake. Best I’ve ever done. But I’m fine, thanks for asking. A bit knocked about and bruised, broken ribs, stitches – but otherwise fine.’

  ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless of me. It was just such a wonderful cake.’

  Sophie sighed. ‘You can make the tea. It hurts me too much.’

  She watched as he fussed with teabags and cups and kettle of boiling water. He was an insensitive buffoon, she thought.

  She wished Martin were here. He’d have cared for her. He’d have plumped her pillows and made her comfortable in bed. He’d have brought her tea. He’d have asked her several times a day if she was all right. He’d have asked so often she’d have been irritated. ‘Of course I’m not all right. Stop asking,’ she’d have said.

  Oh, but she missed him. The longing for him still swept over her. It always came unexpectedly. She’d be peeling potatoes or dusting the living room or lying awake in bed waiting for sleep and she’d remember he was gone. She’d never see him again. She’d be filled with a long slow sadness. It had taken her a year after his death to know she’d never truly get over it. She’d quietly grieve for the rest of her life.