My chest constricted. My throat froze. I knew words were impossible now. Debs had always said it was a girl. We never knew.
‘Eighteen… I know that’s right, only it seems wrong.’
‘Too long ago, or too short… I can’t decide.’
I knew exactly what she meant. It was a long time ago, but yet, at the same time, it seemed like yesterday.
‘It never leaves you. It’s as if… it’s as if it’s impossible to move on from that time.’
The sun seemed to have left for the day. Debs put back her shades; I knew she wanted to hide the reddening of her eyes. ‘Sometimes, I wonder, did we make a mistake?’ she said.
I felt I should reach out and hold her hand, but I didn’t want to scare her off. I knew this was important; we needed to talk about this, however painful it was for us both.
‘Deborah, we were judged enough for that decision… Don’t be judging yourself now.’
‘But-’
‘No buts, Debs… We were children ourselves; there was no way we could have raised a child. For crying out loud, your mother turned you out the house when she found out you were carrying. There was nothing we could have done different. Nothing.’
She nodded, understood. ‘Gus, it was abortion… a horrible thing.’
Oh hell. The word.
No other word in the world haunted me like it. It accounted for a million and one miseries I’d seen Debs go through.
‘Deborah, don’t play that Catholic guilt trip on yourself.’
‘I can’t just stop, it’s-’
‘Your programming. It’s all just religious mumbo-jumbo, Deborah. Listen to me, you are a good person, don’t ever think anything different for a second.’
As she looked at me I realised, without thinking, I’d taken her hand. We sat holding each other’s hands for a moment and then it passed. Debs pulled her fingers away slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I don’t say it lightly.’
I’d seen the best and worst of her, and I knew there was little difference. Even when she was whipped by the family she’d done nothing to deserve, she held her values in check. She was as good and kind a soul as I had met and I knew it would be a lifetime before I met another like her. As I stared into the depths of her I understood the misery I had brought her. Her time with me was something she could have done without. She had so much to look forward to. She had so much going for her. But when she took up with me all that evaporated. An abortion, then a miscarriage that ruined her chance of a child when we dearly wanted one. I was a plague on this poor girl’s life. She had every right to hate me for what I had brought her to. And, worse, denied her still.
‘Debs, I don’t want to mention this…’
‘ But…’
‘Yes, well, there’s always one of those, isn’t there.’
‘Just spit it out, Gus.’
‘I, eh, met Jonny again.’
She didn’t flinch like I thought she might. Only the intonation of her voice shifted, became harder. ‘And?’
‘Well, he said something which didn’t quite make sense to me.’
‘He thinks you killed a man, Gus.’
That bust my flush.
I threw up my arms. ‘There you go, that again. I didn’t fucking kill anyone. Though that little bastard gives me any more of an excuse, I might yet!’
Debs sat further back in her seat, pouted. ‘Look, what did he say, Gus?’
‘He hauled me down the station to tell me fifty grand was lifted from Tam Fulton’s corpse and he thinks I took it.’
Debs’s mouth widened; she looked as if she’d been slapped. ‘Fifty thousand pounds…’
‘Your prick boyfriend is pinning his hopes on it being my motive.’
‘I don’t think he’d do that, Gus.’
I tried to rein things in again. ‘You don’t think, Debs? Full stop you don’t think, if that’s how you rate the fella.’ I’d gone too far. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge.’
‘Need a drink?’
Booka-booka. She got me.
I stood up, said, ‘Deborah, I think I should go. I’ve enjoyed being with you again. I really appreciate that you still see fit to give me the time of day and I don’t want to get in the way of any happiness that you have found for yourself.’
A cold stare. ‘You think he’s wrong for me.’
I put a tenner down on the table, moved my cup and saucer over it. ‘Debs, I’ve said too much.’
‘You think I’m wrong to marry him.’
The dog sprang to life. Ran to my heels, eyes wide.
‘Who am I to say?’ I wouldn’t be drawn in; I knew I’d said too much already. Debs needed to find some enjoyment in life. She was still young, beautiful. She could move on, put the past behind her.
‘Gus…’ she grabbed my arm, ‘I can’t bring myself to tell him that I can’t have children.’
I was on my knees, holding her tight before I even realised the tears had started all over again.
Chapter 43
Princes street has come down in the world of late. Once the site of Scotland’s most prestigious retailers, now it plays host to pound shops, puggies and, worst of all, Ann Summers. I slunk past the window display of naughty nurse uniforms, dominatrices and — is there a worse euphemism? — love toys. If it made me blush, Christ alone knows what John Q. Citizen thought of it. Back in the day, a window display like that would have the dirty mac brigade scuffling outside clutching brown paper bags — now it’s fair play for the Scottish capital’s main drag. How things have changed.
I tied up Usual and jumped into a whisky shop. There were less of them, too. Got a half-bottle of Bell’s and a full bottle of Glenfiddich in a presentation case; had plans that required a ‘bring a bottle’ touch.
Outside the shop I unscrewed the cap of my latest purchase, took a good blast. The dog was scratching at my legs to be untied. I let him loose, got strolling again and jumped a bus back to the boat. The slow drive through the city and the mild buzz from the whisky had me thinking about Debs all over again. I couldn’t put our meeting out of my mind. There’s a streak in me, Presbyterian probably, that moons over predestination at times like this. It’s a uniquely Scottish trait. We even have a phrase to live by: What’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye.
Rough translation: what’s meant to be, will be.
I liked the cut of it. Appealed to my alkie’s wisdom. We’re all looking for someone to say, ‘You’re doomed, there’s nothing you can do about it.’ In such instances, the best course of action is always to say: ‘Fuck it, let’s get blootered.’
There are some alkies who can separate out the doomed stuff from the everyday disappointments like the shaving cut, the burnt toast, the late bus. Me, I add them up, say, ‘There’s your proof.’
It’s when things go right that I become truly distressed.
When nothing goes wrong on you, when the world conspires to give you calm, it’s the drinker’s duty to disrupt it. You start to feel the world closing in on you. It’s too small a place. Too simple. People, normal people, begin to irritate you endlessly. Your anger knows no bounds. Shouting, ranting, bawling and raging at anything becomes the norm. A DJ’s comments on the radio, a chance remark overheard in a shop, and you’re off. You want out. Anywhere will do. Just away from this… state.
I’d read about famous alcoholics; it had become almost an obsession with me. To a one they all said the same thing: ‘I can’t imagine a world without drink, it would be too… boring.’
When I hear this I know at once that it’s the addiction talking. Alkies just can’t put up with themselves. To a
