*
That evening became a bit last-supperish. In this case, Sam had had enough of my steaming newspapers filled with salt and vinegar and fat and cooked some stringy chicken and vegetables. We tried to eat it but it was more about pushing the food around the plate than getting it into our mouths. After her days of abstinence, Sam joined me in a glass or three of single malt. Glenlivet, smooth and soft on the tongue like molten heather. It was a taste I couldn’t afford to acquire, and it would be back to Red Label in London. Back to my old habits. My mouth went dry. Would the dark days and long nights start again? Would I fall back into the pit? Though it had ended badly this quest had forced me to think outside myself. I couldn’t see what would replace it, where I would find a purpose compelling enough to keep the black dog at bay.
By unspoken agreement we talked about anything and everything except the trial and the impending hanging. At least we tried; it always crept back in.
‘Would you ever come back here and live?’
‘Some day, maybe. It depends on my mother. How she is. But I have to say it’s warmer down south.’
‘Getting soft.’
‘I had a taste of the real south. I’d like to see what Sicily’s like without someone shooting at me.’
‘You haven’t mentioned it before. Is that what gives you the nightmares?’
‘Christ! You heard me? I thought I’d been better.’
‘It was just the first week or two. I didn’t want to say anything. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘What is there to say. It’s not unusual. I was a soldier. You see a lot of things. Best forgotten.’
‘My dad was the same. Never a word. But sometimes you have the same look.’
I poured another glass. ‘What about you, Sam? What’s next? You’ll have made a name for yourself. The judges were impressed, even I could tell.’
‘I might take a wee holiday. Go up north, spend time in the Highlands. My folks loved Skye. I might rent a cottage in Portree for a few weeks. Blow the cobwebs away.’
Suddenly that seemed a highly attractive thing to do. I almost said so. We drifted though dinner, on into desultory conversation in the library and called it a night as the clock struck eleven.
I had been lying in the dark, tossing and turning for an hour or more, smoking, wondering if Hugh was getting any sleep in the condemned cell in D Hall. Did he know that the scaffold was just a short walk across the landing? I heard a faint knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened and Sam stood in her dressing gown, uncertain and silhouetted against the moonlight streaming on to the landing.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.
‘Me neither.’
‘Douglas, this doesn’t mean anything…’
‘Come here.’
She shuffled over and sat on the edge of the bed. She sat staring out of the window, her hands clasped in her lap, her bare legs showing beneath the dressing gown. She was shaking.
‘Are you cold?’
She nodded. I pulled the covers back and edged over. She took her dressing gown off to reveal a nightdress. She slipped into bed, with her back to me. Her thin shoulders trembled. I pulled the covers over her. She pushed back towards me and I lifted my arm and put it round her. We pulled closer till she was spooned and shivering against me.
‘It doesn’t mean anything…’
‘Shush. It’s OK.’
Later, when the shaking stopped, she turned towards me. Our faces were inches apart. There was enough light to see each other’s expressions. She looked grave and thoughtful. We didn’t recognise each other. But her kiss wasn’t a stranger’s. Her body wasn’t unfamiliar.
She didn’t make love like a lawyer. There was no cool calculation, no steady build-up and smooth exposition of her case. This was criminal stuff, pent-up and violent, wondrous bodily harm. We committed crimes on each other’s bodies, pummelling, biting, pounding in sweet assault and battery.
We slept and woke together in the dark middle of the night. This time we were gentle, easy with each other. Sliding and sensual, careful of each other’s needs, pretending to be lovers.
THIRTY-TWO
We woke with a start at nine o’clock, guilty as sin. Not for our deeds, but for sleeping past eight o’clock. Dozing in sensual comfort while a man’s life was snuffed out. Sam slipped on her nightdress and dressing gown and went downstairs. I heard her on the phone. She came back up to the bedroom and stood in the door. I was sitting on the edge of the bed smoking and looking out the window.
‘It’s done,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘I’m getting dressed,’ she said and went off to her room. I heard the bath run. The trees outside were lush from the frequent drenchings of Scottish rain. Look thy last on all things lovely every hour. Wordsworth, I think. Or was it de la Mare? An hour ago while we slept Hugh would have seen only blank prison walls and prison bars. Then they would have come to him with the black bag and the leather strap to bind his arms before his last short walk. Who’d heard his last confession now Cassidy had gone on ahead, as Hugh would put it? Did he have any doubts at the end? I hope what was left of his faith carried him through and that there was a big guy in blinding white waiting on the other side saying; everything’s all right now. Don’t worry. Here, see. Your son’s waiting for you. But I didn’t think it worked like that. But however you looked at it, with faith or without, it was a bitter final chapter to a wretched adult life…
I thought back to our boyhood and the mad days running wild across the back greens. It was as well we had no idea of our future. I think Hugh would have thrown himself under a train if he could have seen this end. I might have joined him. I reran the past month in my mind and harangued myself for not doing enough, not being smart enough. I castigated myself for wallowing in self pity in London since last November. I should have come back to Kilmarnock right away and not dallied down south with a bottle stuck to my mouth. Maybe then I’d have heard about Hugh. Maybe done more. But would I? Wouldn’t I have gone on nursing my anger against him for stealing Fiona from me? As though my boyhood love was more precious or significant than any other teenage passion? I had let it define too much of my life. Their betrayal – how melodramatic that sounds now – had probably been the clincher in making me knuckle down to my exams and drive me on to Glasgow university. Just to put distance between us. I thought of her going to him yesterday. I hoped they were kind to each other. I hoped they spoke without regret of their son and their brief days together. I hoped they found some of their old love.
I veered between anger and emptiness. It was over. I could get out of here and back to London. I would put aside last night’s maudlin thoughts and get on with my life. I had a good degree. I had risen to major by being tested on the battlefield and not found wanting. I could now hold my head up alongside any of my old pals who’d followed their fathers down the mines. I had no right to squander these achievements. I thought of my old CO, General Tom Rennie, who led the 51st across the Rhine. We were within days of the German surrender when Tom was killed by a shell. Like me he’d been at St Valery with the BEF. He was captured but escaped to lead us through north Africa, Italy, Normandy and finally into Germany itself. It was Tom who gave me field promotion to major when Davy Sinclair took a bullet. I remember his words: this company’s now yours, Major Brodie. Their very lives are in your hands. And for God’s sake, Brodie, smile! The men hate a gloomy bugger!
I washed and shaved and we met at the breakfast table. Our consciences didn’t get in the way of slice sausage and tattie scones. Something had wakened all our appetites at once. Intimations of mortality? After mopping up the juices with our bread, we faced each other over cups of tea to discuss beginnings and endings.
‘You’re off south, then?’
‘Time I earned some money. If I still have a job, that is.’
