roaring, “D’ye see them yet?… I’ll fucking put you through it, I will.” My mouth filled up with muck and potato skins, and he was roaring, “I’ll put ye through it, I’ll put ye through it.” My mouth filled with dirt — I can taste it now. The rotting waste, in my nostrils and my eyes. Filled with thick black soil that stuck to me and choked me and then… the earth was frozen and hard where the midden ended.’
I looked at the doctor. Her mouth had drooped, her hand gripped the chair’s arm. I wondered if she wanted me to stop. I carried on.
‘I cowered from him. He looked lost in his fury, then a bizarre thing: a mouse scurried out from the midden and he shouted, “Vermin.” Even with my eyes full of muck, I saw Mam and Michael and Catherine watching as my father’s great boot stamped on the creature’s head. The children screamed at the sight of it and Mam gathered them around her, led them back to the house.’
‘I think that’s enough,’ said Dr Naughton.
I wasn’t finished.
‘I can still remember the way the mouse’s little legs kept going — it wasn’t dead yet. He brought down his boot again, and again, until the mouse was just a bloodied tangle of flesh, and tiny white bones.’
The doctor rose and wheeled her chair back behind her desk. ‘I think we’ll leave it at that, Gus…’
Chapter 16
After the visit to the shrink I spent two days in dock. Moped about the flat, doing the one thing I knew I shouldn’t: thinking. I’d once asked my brother why he worked so hard. His answer had shocked me: ‘It stops you thinking.’ I knew at once what he meant, but I’d never been able to apply the wisdom. Only way I knew how to switch off the white noise in my napper was with drink. In the last few days I’d grown fixated on the whisky brands with which I’d once obliterated my thoughts. I’d come close to the World’s End incident again, had even broken the seal on the quarter-bottle of Grouse I carried in the pocket of my Crombie, but my lips never touched the rim.
The visits to Dr Naughton had spurred my memories. I was deluged with events from the past. I thought of Michael and I thought of myself. I thought of how different we were, and also how similar. We were both men who had gone through a brutal upbringing. I never understood all those people who whined about a loss of youth, or complained about the surrender of dreams to maturity. Just getting to adulthood was achievement enough for us both. We weren’t trading in any excitement for the drudge of the workaday world — we were escaping to it.
My brother wanted better for his family, but I worried that his passing had put any easy happiness out of reach for them. I’d kept schtum about Alice’s performance at the Spar; I didn’t want to bring the girl any more grief than she already had, but clearly something needed to be done for her.
I picked up my mobi. Jayne had gave me Alice’s number, asked me to have a word. Apparently I was the only one in the family the girl didn’t rate an old grunter.
I dialled.
Ringing.
She answered, ‘Yeah, hi.’
‘Alice, it’s Gus.’
‘Who?’
Bad start, said, ‘Gus… your uncle.’
‘All right. Whatcha want?’
She had that ‘am I busted?’ tone to her voice. I cleared that up for her: ‘Well, I’m not phoning to blast you for the shoplifting attempt if that’s what you think… I’ve snaffled a few bottles of Woodpecker in my day.’
She giggled. ‘Mum would go spare if she found out.’
I knew she was right. ‘Look, so how you keeping? Are you sorted?’ I winced on the last word — I sounded like Jonathan Ross, like I was trying too hard to be down with the kids.
‘Yeah, guess.’
‘You sure, there’s nothing… bothering you?’
A gap on the line. Then, ‘I have to go now.’
I’d only just called. ‘What do you mean? I just got you.’
‘I have to go.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Alice…’
She hung up.
I looked at my mobi. The ‘call ended’ counter flashed; our talk’s duration was fifty-seven seconds.
Said, ‘That went okay.’
My niece wasn’t handling her father’s death at all well, that was clear. Something would have to be done to stop her becoming seriously troubled, or worse. I toyed with the idea of talking to Jayne or maybe one of her friends but I didn’t feel capable. I mean, who was I, fucking Oprah? I felt a stab of guilt at not being able to do anything for her, but what could I do, save keep an eye out for her and offer the odd word of support? I knew we were all on our own, after a certain point.
There had been a story in the newspaper about parents buying Kevlar-lined blazers for their children at a city school — they were worried about a rise in crime being a by-product of the economic crash. It seemed like paranoia to me, but it did show they cared. Could you care too much for a child? I definitely wasn’t the man to answer that — I had no experience on that score.
I dropped my breakfast dishes in the sink, threw Usual a spare crust. He snatched it in mid-air. The water in the taps felt cold, but I saved on the immersion heater and washed up with it anyway. Easter Road stadium glared at me through the window as I filled the sink. It was a view that unsettled me. My father had played there many times. As I watched the grey clouds coming in off the sea at Portobello I found myself cursing him all over again.
‘None of us matched up to you, did we, Cannis?’ I threw in the dish mop and went for my coat. The dog was watching as I closed the door.
I drove to Newhaven, my mind turning faster than the wheels, even when they spun on the ice. I’d lost two days to self-pity and I wasn’t about to give up on finding Michael’s killer. Outside the factory gates I put the car up on the kerb. Parked on double yellows — like I cared. A couple of snoutcasts chugged on their smokes by the front doors. I could see the young receptionist on the phone, but I didn’t want to bother her; she was far too jumpy for my purposes.
‘All right.’ I rocked up to the smokers. ‘I’m looking for Andy, foreman fella… Heard there might be work going.’
The pair looked at me, sussed me as a schemie or a dole mole and bought the act. Bloke with a quiff, polo shirt buttoned up to the top, said, ‘Aye, I’ll give him a shout on the way in.’
I thanked him: ‘Nice one, mate.’
He dowped his tab, went inside. I took out my Marlboro and asked the bigger bloke for a light. He was just about smoking the filter, gave me the last millimetre of lit tip — ‘Chuck it when you’re done.’ He went back to the factory, leaving a trail of slushy footprints.
My hands were turning blue when Andy showed up. He recognised me right off, gobstopper-eyes the giveaway.
‘Hello, Andy,’ I said.
His steps faltered on the tarmac — there was a bit of ice. ‘Hello.’ He put his hands in the pockets of his starched white dustcoat. I saw his brow crease up; he had more lines than a Notting Hill dinner party.
I offered him a smoke. He declined, took out a packet of Royals, the Superkings. ‘I’ll stick to these, can’t hack the Marlboro.’
I nodded, said, ‘They suit me fine… But I’m made of hard stuff.’
He laughed up. ‘Aye, aye… you and yer brother both. I mind seeing your old boy play. Christ, he was a hooligan!’
I got this kind of thing from everyone who had seen my father play. I never enjoyed hearing it. ‘That’s the word for him.’
Andy lit up, coughed on his first drag. ‘Your brother wasn’t that fond of hearing about him either.’
