raised his eyebrows. Billy smiled and gave a little wave. The old guy shook his head in a ‘kids today’ gesture.
Billy was at the entrance to the ward. In one direction was a desk with two nurses stationed at it. He recognised them from earlier, which meant they would recognise him. In the other direction were more wards and corridors, doors leading off to other parts of the hospital. He began walking, not looking back, waiting for the nurses to shout after him. He was sweating along the edge of the bandages on his head, the bandages that were blasting out a signal like a beacon — patient escaping, patient escaping — then he was round a corner, more identical corridors and doors, people in scrubs and uniforms, patients in nighties and pyjamas, and him, striding through it all like he was completely at home, examining the stream of incomprehensible signs, hoping to find a way out.
He just kept walking and turning corners. No one stopped him or even looked in his direction. An exit sign caught his eye. He went through the doors and shuffled down two flights of stairs, then he was at the entrance of the hospital, a handful of visitors and patients outside smoking fags, a car park and bus stop across the road glowing like apparitions in the sodium light of the street lamps.
He got his phone out and switched it on. Two missed calls from Adele. No message. It was half ten at night. What day was it?
A gang of taxi drivers was standing in a huddle at the taxi rank, smoking and swapping bullshit. A thug with Hearts tattoos separated from the pack and opened the door of the first taxi when he saw Billy approaching unsteadily.
‘Where to?’
He gave Adele’s address.
The driver got in and examined him in the mirror.
‘You OK, mate?’
‘Just drive.’
The engine started and they pulled out, Billy bracing himself against the judders and rumbles that sent shards of pain snagging through his body.
28
Each speed bump made his head rattle as the taxi turned into Blacket Place. Heavy oaks leaned over garden walls, lights were on above ornate front doors. A middle-aged woman walking a golden retriever eyeballed Billy as he paid the driver and eased out of the cab.
What must he look like to her, bandaged head, zombie shuffle, wheezing for breath? He stared at her and she turned away with a tut under her breath. Lowering the tone of the neighbourhood, no doubt. That was a laugh, considering one of her neighbours was a major criminal.
The Whitehouse place seemed so peaceful, a happy suburban home. A chink of light splayed out from between the closed curtains of a front room. He scrunched up the gravel and peered between the curtains. Adele, feet tucked under her on the sofa, just like when he’d met her in the summerhouse. That was a different life, a different time, long gone. She was cradling a huge glass of red wine and staring blankly at a TV screen above the fireplace.
He tapped on the glass. She jumped and spilled wine on the arm of the sofa, then turned to the window. Her eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. Billy pointed towards the front door. She kept shaking her head, telling him no, but she got up, glancing nervously around, then headed from the room.
As he scuffed round to the front door, the light over the porch went off. She must’ve killed it. The door opened a crack.
‘Go away,’ she said.
‘Come with me.’
She looked panicked. ‘Dean’s in the garage out back. He’ll be in any minute.’
‘All the more reason for you to leave. Now.’
‘I can’t. Ryan’s asleep.’
‘So wake him.’
‘You’re fucking insane. Look at you. Get back to hospital before you drop dead. And leave us alone. We’re fine.’
‘I’m not leaving you with him.’
She reached a hand through the crack in the door and pushed his chest. He tried to grab her wrist but missed. The shove caught him by surprise and he took a couple of steps back then steadied himself.
‘Just go. He’ll kill us both if he sees you.’
She closed the door in his face. He could see her walk away through the crinkled glass. He stood staring at the patterns on the glass, like raindrops running down a window.
He stepped back and gazed up at the house. No other lights on. He crept round the side of the building till he could see the garage. The door was open, a light on. Inside, Dean was pulling a sweatshirt on over his head. The two goons were there. One picked up a pile of clothes on the ground next to Dean, the other swung a petrol canister backwards and forwards. They left the garage and walked to a large metal bin like a brazier, threw the clothes in, poured petrol over them and set the whole thing alight, throwing a metal lid on top. They were laughing and patting each other on the back. Dean used a remote control to close the garage door and put the light off, then they began walking towards the back door of the house.
Billy stood looking at the metal bin, whispers of smoke curling out the side of the lid. He stood there for a long time, hearing voices inside the house, the three men joking and excited. He didn’t hear Adele.
Eventually he walked away from the Whitehouse place. He turned left then left again and headed home, his bandaged head screaming like it was in a vice.
*
At the corner of Rankeillor Street he stopped and leaned against a low wall. Across the road was St Leonard’s police station, where he’d passed out at the press conference. When had that been? He felt dislocated from his past, from everything that had happened before the aneurysm.
Inside the station was a police officer manning the front desk. Billy tried to picture himself walking across the road and going inside. He looked down at his feet then rubbed at his eyes, pushing his thumbs into the tops of his eye sockets until little flashes of light appeared in his vision. He shook his head and turned into Rankeillor Street.
From about thirty yards away, the Micra seemed to be glowing. It was parked underneath a street light, lit up like an alien spaceship, signalling its presence to the universe. A small, red, family hatchback, more than ten years old. It used to be their family car.
He ran a hand from the boot over the roof and down the bonnet, his fingers feeling the grime of the city’s emissions, little tiny pieces of Edinburgh’s soul, emitted then gathered again, never able to leave, just like him. He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, swallowing all the grit and dirt his home city could produce.
Where was the car key? Charlie had it. There were no lights on in the flat. What time was it? The pubs and kebab shops were still open, so not too late.
He got his keys out, opened the door quietly and crept inside. This was his home, but he felt like a stranger. No light. No noise except the soft pad of his feet as he walked down the corridor to Charlie’s room. He stood outside for an age, staring at the grain of the wood, trying to make sense of the knots and whorls.
Eventually he pushed the door open, making sure not to let the hinges creak.
Moonlight bathed the mess in the room. Asleep in bed, peaceful smiles on their faces, were Charlie and Zoe. Her hand on his chest, cuddling in. One leg over his. Like she used to do with Billy. Charlie on his back, a bare arm hanging out of the covers and over the edge of the mattress.
Billy stood looking at them, motionless, silent. Then he inched forward till he was standing over the bed. He reached down and opened the drawer next to Charlie’s head. He carefully picked out half a dozen drug packets, one at a time, and placed them in his pockets. Then he closed the drawer as softly as he could. He spotted the car key on the bedside cabinet and picked it up.
It made sense, seeing them together. He straightened up and looked at their faces. They looked happy. More than happy, they looked contented. Imagine being content with life, Billy thought. Imagine that.
