days; we may even have shared a word here and there in the past. But I recognised none of them. Names were a mystery.
At the graveside the sun blinded. A yellow oblong led the way to the broken earth, where the minister stood with a small crowd. More strange faces, people I may once have known, but not now.
Even the minister was a stranger to me, a young bloke, with pale blond hair and paler cheeks. He stood sweltering, sweat dripping down his flat forehead. It all looked very difficult for him. He started to speak; ‘Cannis Dury was known the length of the country,’ he said. ‘In his day he knew faith, not only faith in the Lord, for faith comes in many forms, but faith in himself. When he took to the football field, Cannis Dury showed his faith in a strong body and a determination to win. He had skill and he had heart, and, he was an idol to many.’
I tried to block out the minister’s voice, every word was a reminder of what I’d sooner forget.
‘In these times of change, we see the worship of many false idols, but it is men with faith, in the Lord and in themselves, we can look to for guidance.’
Please. I’d heard enough.
I loosened myself from the crowd, walked away. Under an oak tree I lit a cigarette and watched while they laid my father to rest. My mother scattered earth over the coffin, stepped away. The minister was the first to signal the end of the ceremony, heading off to the kirk’s hall.
As the crowd dispersed I lit another Marlboro with the end of the last one. It grew colder, then the brief glimpse of sun disappeared. The sky still looked blue, but grey clouds started to pitch up.
A voice from nowhere, said, ‘Hello, Gus.’
She wore black trousers and boots, one of those sleeveless tops that could be worn as a dress. Her hair was the first thing I noticed though. Shorter than usual, and a whole new colour. ‘You’ve changed — gone blonde,’ I said.
Deborah took off her sunglasses, flicked back her fringe, then swept the lot back and held it in place with the shades. ‘Fancied something different.’
‘I like it — it suits you.’
‘And you? What about those teeth?’
I dipped my head, felt tense. ‘They’re falsies.’
Silence, as we both searched for more small chat.
Then, we broke in together. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘No, you,’ I said.
‘I got your message on my voicemail, I wanted to call but — what with your father being so ill, I thought…’
‘It’s okay. Cathy said you’d visited. That was kind of you. You were always thoughtful that way.’
‘I figured you’d have enough to deal with. Last time we spoke, you sounded stressed.’
‘Look, Debs, I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. Things have been getting on top of me.’
She looked away, rubbing at her bare arms. I didn’t want to stray back into old territory. She’d already spelled out her feelings to me. I stepped back, said, ‘What am I saying? You don’t want to hear my tales of woe-’
She cut me off. ‘Actually, Gus… Look, it’s bloody freezing out here, can we go inside?’
I looked towards the kirk; most of the mourners had filed into the hall, two men in trench coats, heads bowed, were the last to go in. ‘Tell you the truth, I can’t face it. But if you’d like to grab a coffee…?’
‘Coffee, nothing stronger?’
I shook my head.
‘Okay, coffee’s good.’
As we crossed the street, the rain started up. Not heavy, but impossible to escape. We took seats beneath an air heater, ordered two large coffees, Debs had a piece of carrot cake. Her expression looked serious. I didn’t see us doing the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp at the table.
A television played in the background, lunchtime news drew to a close. The arseholes at the parliament had spent the day in serious debate about whether or not to erect a Hollywood-style sign on the Holyrood Crags. Were these people for real?
The news kept one item of interest to the end, again.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.
Debs had a mouthful of cake, frowned out a, ‘ What? ’
‘Could you turn this up, please?’ I called to the waitress. ‘I know him.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Debs.
‘Benny Zalinskas.’
‘He looks like a gangster.’
I nodded. ‘That’s exactly what he is.’
‘And how do you know a gangster exactly, Gus?’
‘Not personally — not like that anyway. It’s the case I’m on.’
‘Case… you’re making it sound like work! It’s not a job, Gus.’
I shut her down, said, ‘One minute; let me hear this.’
The TV volume rose, Zalinskas’ trial was about to draw to a close. The jury, entering into deliberation, were expected to have a verdict inside forty-eight hours.
Back to the studio. ‘And now the weather.’
‘Fuck me,’ I said.
Debs put down her fork. ‘What’s going on?’
I filled her in on the case, left very little out.
‘That’s dreadful,’ she said, pushing aside her plate.
I looked out to the street. ‘I know… to think it’s all going on right under our noses and we’re powerless to do anything about it.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No?’
‘Why are you getting yourself involved?’
‘Col’s been very good to me… I really felt for him. He deserves answers…’A cringe. ‘He deserves closure.’
‘But this isn’t your fight. You’ve let yourself get drawn into this and got yourself into Christ alone knows what.’
Her concern surprised me, but I wasn’t knocking it.
‘I’m not doing anything else.’
Her eyes lit up, she pointed at me. ‘Exactly. You had a name once. A name to be proud of. You were known for your writing, people listened to your opinions.’
I knew what she meant. I’d heard it from Col a million times. I’d even heard it, more recently, from my father. But those days were past. ‘Debs, who’d hire me now? I’m a burnt out case.’
‘That’s just what you tell yourself — keep at it, then that’s what you will be.’
I knew she was right, but it didn’t alter the end result. What she was selling, I just didn’t want any more. My life had grown meaningless. I’d lost the juice to fire any ambition.
‘You can change yourself, Gus.’
‘Can I?’
‘You can… you can be happy.’
‘You sound so sure. I’m not.’
I’d strayed into cloying sympathy. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted happiness for Debs as much as she wanted it for me. I said, ‘This is all wrong. I’m sorry.’ I called over the waitress, asked for the bill. ‘Look, thanks for coming to my father’s funeral, I’m sorry I faffed about so much with the divorce. I shouldn’t have lost that last letter. Get your lawyer to write again, I’ll sign whatever you want me to.’
A siren wailed from the street; Debs’s eyes flickered. ‘There won’t be any more letters.’
She motioned me to sit.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. ‘Neither do I.’
‘What are you saying?’
