it growing stronger by the day.
The dog came over to me on the couch, jumped in my lap. I patted his head, said, ‘Least I still have you, boy.’ The words seemed to pump me up. I didn’t want to lose Debs again, after all we’d been through. I didn’t want to go back to that lonely place, the late-night lock-ins, the obliteration of drink, the longing for a new life. I had another chance, but did I deserve it? Christ, it was more than Michael had. The thought wounded me. The old Presbyterian guilt rose. Was God toying with me? Giving me a glimpse of happiness to make the return of misery more painful than ever?
I felt sure of only one thing: I couldn’t go on like this. Something had to give. And soon.
My thoughts spiralled away from me, then my mobi began to ring; brought me back to earth.
Picked up. ‘Hello.’
‘That you, Gus?’ I half recognised the voice. ‘It’s Mr Bacon.’ My former boss on the newspaper, Mr Bacon — or Rasher, as I called him. He went on, ‘I was sorry to hear about your loss, Gus… so very sorry.’
I didn’t want to hear this; I knew at once why he had rung.
‘You got the scoop, then…’
He gave a little cough. ‘Erm, that’s not why I called at all. I just wanted to say…’
I wasn’t buying his bullshit. Hacks have little compassion when there are headlines involved. He was using his best ‘in’ to get a comment. I said, ‘You wanted to fake concern to see if there was a better line on offer, that it?’
‘Gus, I–I never…’
I sounded harsh. Like I gave a shite.
‘Fuck off, Rasher.’
Hung up.
My mobi smelled of Marlboros. As I held it in my hand I knew I needed to get moving. If the press were onto the murder story, time was a bigger factor than ever.
Dialled Jayne.
The answerphone came on, inane preamble followed. I was about to leave a message when she picked up: ‘Hello.’
‘Jayne, hi… It’s Gus.’
She spoke fast, sounded manic: ‘I was just doing some cleaning up — I don’t know where all the dust comes from.’
I skipped the chit-chat. ‘So you’re not tied up, grand. I was wondering if I could pay you a wee visit.’
She faltered. ‘Erm, yes, I suppose… Was it anything in particular?’
I felt my eyes roll in my head. Of course it was something in particular! Wanted to say, Well what do you fucking think? Went with, ‘It’s about… Michael.’
She was fiddling with the answerphone, I guessed running a duster over it. The woman was coping the best way she could. I felt guilty for being short with her, even if it was only in my imagination.
‘Yes, that should be fine.’
‘Okay, I’ll be round in an hour.’
Clicked off.
Got booted and suited. The dog trailed me down the stairs and onto the street. At the top of Easter Road I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: a man carrying a sandwich board. It read, FREE CHIPS WITH EVERY PIE. As he passed I looked to see what was written on the back, CHIPS AND A CAN — ONLY?1. Had we really slumped this low? We had returned to Victorian advertising practices. I shook my head. Don’t know why I was getting so het up — we had been recycling Victorian work practices for years now. I wondered how far we were from seeing a man in a sandwich board that read, WILL WORK FOR FOOD.
I’d parked the car next to a communal dumpster that had been filled with a burst couch. Some massive floral eyesore, beige, but worn black at the arms, and spilling industrial foam onto the street below. It had been introduced vertically — a real challenge. I almost admired the arrogance of the fly-tippers.
As I put the key in the car door a bloke in a council van pulled up, started taking photographs of the couch. I couldn’t believe this, thought: Of course, they’ll be collecting forensic evidence to catch them. Laughed, shook my head for the second time in five minutes.
An old gadgie appeared at my back, said, ‘He’s wasting his time.’
Did I want to engage this bloke? Tried a ‘go away’ smile.
He went on, ‘They’ll have that oot there in no time.’
I knew he wasn’t talking about the scaffies — the council would have a cherry picker in the street before risking someone putting their back out, health and safety regs and all that.
‘Who will?’
‘Some mug after a sofa. Can’t leave anything on the street now. Shit-stained mattress isnae safe these days!’
True to form, a blue Bedford pulled up, couple of blokes got out and eyed the couch.
The gadgie watched. He had no upper teeth, just two in the row below. ‘Told you…’
I saw him on his way with a salute. ‘You weren’t wrong.’
I opened the car door and Usual jumped in.
The journey out to the Grange was treacherous; black ice had put a few cars off the road. A bus had bumped a left-hand drive-Beemer, pushed it onto the kerb at York Place. All the buses had been taken off Princes Street to get the new tramlines down and there was a tailback that stretched the length of George Street. We had to be the most congested city in the world. Nowhere else had a look-in, surely. It seemed utterly pointless owning a car; but then, that’s what The Man wanted. So fuck him; I revved it up.
As I pulled into my brother’s drive, I noticed someone had been busy: a snowman had been built in the front garden. It seemed out of place — I wondered who had felt jolly enough in the home to do it. I got out of the car, watched Usual settle in my vacated seat, then a loud scream came from the back garden.
I slammed the door and ran to the gate.
It was Alice.
I thought she was in trouble, visions flashed. They were all wrong.
‘Alice!’ I yelled.
She looked across at me. She had a snowball in her hand, taking aim at the lodger, Vilem. They both looked flushed and red, covered in snow. She opened her mouth a little, derived something from my expression and dropped her snowball on the ground. She pulled off her mittens as she ran to the back door. Her lope was girlish and knock-kneed.
I called to her as she passed me, ‘Alice. Alice…’
She ignored me and went inside.
I turned back to Vilem. He looked smug, pressed down the corners of his mouth in a smirk, shrugged.
I said, ‘I’m keeping a close eye on you, fuckhead.’
He tossed his snowball between hands, then threw it at the wall. It exploded on impact. He didn’t answer me, followed Alice’s footsteps through the snow as he walked back to the house. He knew he was protected as long as Jayne was around; he’d done quite a number on them, but it couldn’t last.
I still felt nervous having this guy around my brother’s family. ‘A real close eye…’ I said, ‘remember that.’
I went round to the front, knocked. Jayne opened the door in an apron and Marigold gloves. As she waved me in she looked over the handle and letter box, ‘I’ll need to get some Brasso on those.’ She tugged at a rubber glove; it twanged as she removed it. She repeated the motion for the other one, spoke rapidly: ‘Can I get you some tea, coffee?’
‘Eh, coffee please.’
Jayne’s quick steps on the parquet floor sounded like rifle fire as she went. I watched her remove the apron over her head in one swift, deft movement. Right away I saw she was hypo. I hadn’t known her to behave like this before. My brother and Jayne were the most together people I knew; it was a knock to see it. Made me wonder how much you really ever know anyone.
I settled down. She soon returned with a tray, set with cups. Sat down herself. ‘Oh, the biscuits.’ She jumped up again, ran through to the kitchen. I grew exhausted watching her.
