And the Land Lay Still (66 page)

Something bothered Don all the way to Drumkirk on the bus, all day at work. The way Saleem hadn’t answered his last question, ‘Would ye recognise them?’ Was it just because of the other customer coming in?

Charlie came and went to his own timetable. He’d had a few jobs, short term, no training, no prospects. Some of them weren’t even jobs, they were just things he did and got cash in hand for. He was signing on. He told them less and less, spent more and more time at his grandmother’s. Don didn’t object to that, it was easier, but he knew a crisis was coming. And now this. Maybe this was the crisis.

He heard things. Charlie was hanging around with a couple of lads his own age who had bad reputations. Also, he was in with their big brothers and cousins. There were gangs in Drumkirk, as there were in most towns of any size, and folk were afraid of the culture. Charlie wasn’t afraid of it. He was big and strong and he could scrap if he had to. Mostly he didn’t have to. This was what Don heard.

That evening, after work, he went out to Granthill. Ostensibly he went to see his mother, but really he was looking for Charlie. How had it come to this, that he had to go looking for his own son?

Charlie wasn’t in, but he’d been sleeping there. His clothes and a
few other possessions were in one bedroom. This was some kind of good sign. The flat was untidy and dirty. Don spent an hour clearing up in the kitchen and bathroom. Molly sat watching the TV, smoking. She was hooked on
Crossroads
and thirty Embassy Regal a day. He watched her from the kitchen door. She looked drawn, sucked dry, like the fag end in her mouth.

He opened the fridge. ‘What are ye having for your tea?’ he called. ‘I’ll get something later,’ she said. ‘But there’s hardly a thing here.’ ‘Aye there is.’ ‘Show me.’ Grumbling, she got out of her chair and came through. ‘See in that cupboard.’ He opened it. A sliced loaf in a wrapper and a dozen tins of baked beans. ‘I’ll have that.’ ‘What, beans on toast?’ ‘I like that.’ ‘Ye need tae eat better than that.’ ‘I’m no that hungry these days, son.’

He didn’t push it. Actually she was lasting better than he could have hoped. Maybe she just needed to be left alone.

‘Charlie looking efter ye?’

‘Aye, he’s fine, Charlie.’

‘But is he looking efter ye?’

‘Aye. He’s a good laddie, Don.’

He let that one go. ‘Dae ye ken where he is?’

‘He’ll be oot wi his freens. Dinna fash aboot Charlie. He’s a good laddie.’

He made her a cup of tea and she settled back down in her chair. He kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll be back at the weekend.’ ‘Aye, son.’ Her hair stank of smoke. She stared past him at the screen. She might even have been taking some of it in.

He caught a bus into the town centre and walked for five minutes, keeping an eye out for Charlie all the way. He arrived at the stop opposite Rinaldi’s. What could he do but go home? He was standing there waiting on the next Wharryburn bus when the door of Rinaldi’s opened and a bunch of what the papers called ‘youths’ spilled out, five of them, loud and aggressive. Maybe old Joe had thrown them out, or maybe he was just happy to see the back of them. A moment later – a significant, deliberate space later – Charlie emerged. He stood in the doorway, looking up and down the street as if he owned it. He was wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket Don had never seen before and he looked much older than eighteen. The others, twenty yards away, turned for him. ‘Come on,
Charlie!’ Charlie waited, making a point. He wasn’t hurrying for anybody. Then he started to move. So did Don.

He cut across the road and came up behind Charlie. He was going to shout his name but instead he landed a slap on the shoulder of the leather jacket. He knew he was going to provoke a reaction, he wanted to see what it was. Charlie spun round flinging Don’s hand off and his fists were up and he was good and ready for it. When he saw who it was he eased off but there was no smile of welcome or relief. He said, ‘Ye shouldna dae that.’

‘Dae what?’

‘Come up behind me like that. Ye might get hurt.’

‘Maybe,’ Don said. ‘If ye sent for reinforcements.’ He nodded at the gang now ambling back to see what was going on.

‘Whae’s this auld cunt?’ one of them said. They were all skinny, pale, dangerous-looking.

‘This auld cunt,’ Don said, ‘is that wee cunt’s faither. And you, son, had better beat it because we’re haein a private conversation.’

‘Don’t tell me tae fucking beat it,’ the kid said. He had a white scar down one cheek that ran into a puckered repair job on his upper lip. ‘This is a public street.’

Charlie said, ‘Fuck off, Kenny. I’ll catch ye later. See yese later, boys, eh?’

Don was amazed at how they melted back under Charlie’s gaze, deferring to his assurance, his greater intelligence perhaps. Even he, the father and begetter that had once wiped the bairn’s arse, was impressed.

The gang sloped off and Charlie fixed Don with a sneer.

‘Well?’

‘Come wi me,’ Don said, and his big hand gripped Charlie’s upper arm through the black leather. ‘I want tae show ye something.’

‘Take your haund aff my jaiket.’

‘If it was yours I might think aboot it,’ Don said. He was guiding them down a side street, saw what he was looking for up ahead, a close with an open door. He didn’t want to do this but he needed to try one last thing. Before Charlie could resist he hauled him in and down the dark passage till they were out of sight of the street. Then he pushed him up against the wall and pinned him there with a hand against each shoulder, arm’s length just in case he tried to stick the heid on him.

‘Now listen tae me,’ Don said, keeping his voice as low and controlled and firm as he could. ‘I dinna ken where ye’re getting aw the gear, son,’ he said, ‘but I ken it’s no aff a wage. So are ye stealing it, or taking a slice aff your granny’s pension, or are ye getting it some other way? Eh? Because ye’re no earning it. So how come ye dinna hae tae work when everybody else does, Charlie?’

Charlie waited, as if he were picking the question he preferred to answer. ‘My gran and me are fine,’ he said. ‘Aye, she gies me money sometimes. Ye ken why? Because she likes me. She likes me being there. I look efter her. She looks efter me. Any problem wi that?’

‘That’s no enough. Where dae ye get the rest of your money?’

‘In my haund. I dae jobs for folk that dinna bother wi paperwork. That’s aw you need tae ken.’

‘Have you or ony of your wee bastard friends been up at Wharryburn threatening the Khans?’

‘What?’

‘Ye heard me.’ Don’s arms were beginning to shake with the pressure he was exerting. ‘Have ye been threatening Saleem Khan?’

‘The village Paki?’ Charlie turned his head and spat on to the stone slabs. ‘What would I fucking dae that for?’

‘For protection.’ Don could feel himself beginning to tire. Any second now the arms were going to go into spasm.

‘Protection fae what? Mexican fucking bandits? Think we’re the Magnificent Seven? They’re nothing. Fucking peasants. They’re just like everybody else up there only the colour of shite. I wouldna waste my time.’

‘If you ever set foot in that shop again I’ll come and find ye and break your fucking legs.’

By rights Charlie should have been terrified. He was eighteen, a boy. He should have been pissing his breeks but he wasn’t. To show how relaxed he was, he yawned.

‘Is that you finished then? Can I go?’

Don saw a slow, wet smile slide across his son’s lips. As if they’d both been acting all along, as if Charlie had been biding his time and only now was this thing, whatever it was, really going to start.

‘Jesus Christ, Charlie! Is that aw ye’ve got tae say? “Can I go?” This is me, your faither, speaking tae ye. But who the fuck are you, Charlie? Who the fuck are you?’

He heard himself. He who’d always prided himself on not using curse words was surrendering his tongue to them, even as the last of the strength in his arms ebbed away. He suddenly felt insecure, as if he’d stepped into a dark room and didn’t know who or what else was in there.

‘Who the fuck am I?’ Charlie said. ‘Is that really what ye want tae ken?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. With one quick shift of his body he threw Don back, smacking him against the opposite wall so that all the breath flew out of him. Before he could refill his lungs Charlie’s forearm was pressing hard against his throat, choking him. Charlie levered the arm, forcing him up on the toes of his boots. Don heard the wheeze of the last bit of air leaving his windpipe.

‘So this is who I am,
faither
,’ Charlie said. The derision in the last word was palpable. ‘The difference between you and me is thirty years and the fact that you play at being hard but really ye’re saft as fucking butter. Ye dinna like this stuff, dae ye? The violence. Ye’re only daein this because ye think ye have tae. Save the poor darkies. Save Chairlie fae himsel. Me, I fucking love violence. I could get the chib oot noo and carve my initials in your face and I’d get a fucking hard-on daein it. Dae ye hear me? I like hurting people. See that wee cunt Kenny. I gied him that scar. He loves me for it. He’d fucking die for me. And that’s me being nice. But what am I gonnae dae wi you?’

He lifted the arm slightly and Don’s lungs worked like bellows for a few seconds before the air was clamped off again. Charlie had it thought through like a professional torturer. He said, ‘Tell ye what I’m gonnae dae, I’m gonnae be
extra
nice tae you,
faither
. No because it’s your first offence because it isna, is it? But I’m gonnae let ye go anyway, and ye ken why? Because o my mither. But ye asked me a question so I’m telling ye the answer noo so ye never have tae ask it again. Who’s Charlie? This is Charlie. He’ll stay oot o your poxy wee village if you stay oot o his toon. Ken what, I’ll make it easy for ye. Ye can come intae Drumkirk, ye can even go and see my granny, but no when I’m there, or see that thing ye said aboot breaking my legs, I’ll break
your
fucking legs and I’ll dae it so ye’ll never walk again and I’ll fucking enjoy daein it. And see if ye ever see me on the street again, stay oot o my fucking road. Don’t fucking come near
me. Because if ye ever pit your haund on my shooder again I’ll turn roond and I’ll fucking cut ye.’

He stepped back. Don collapsed, gasping for air. He thought his head was going to burst all over the floor. He heard Charlie’s heels as he walked casually away. He lay retching, but nothing came up. After a while he forgot he was lying in the close.

It had still been light outside when they’d come in but it was dark by the time he started to push himself upright. Gradually the lungs eased off, the pounding in his ears faded. He got to his un-steady feet, staggered a few paces. If anybody stayed in this close they were all stone deaf or too terrified to come out. He felt like an old man. He wasn’t even fifty. He felt like an old man whose son had just died.

§

When he got home, much later, Liz wanted to know where he’d been, then she saw the colour of him. What had happened? He couldn’t bring himself to confess the humiliation he’d been through. He lied. He’d met Charlie, they’d had another argument, a bit of a fight. He refused to go into more detail.

He couldn’t articulate what he felt: the fear, the horror, the despair. He wanted to shut it all out and never think of it again.

Charlie was not to be spoken of in his presence. He never wanted to see him or hear him mentioned again. Liz could work out her own arrangements. He’d not stand in her way but Charlie had made his choices and Don would have nothing to do with him.

Liz said, ‘Ye canna dae this tae your ain son.’

‘He’s done it tae himsel, Liz.’

‘I’ll speak tae him,’ she said.

‘Dae what ye like,’ he said, ‘but I’ve had enough.’

§

If Sir Malcolm and Lady Patricia Eddelstane could not provide their son with money, they could provide him with contacts. After school, with three mediocre A Levels under his belt, David headed for Edinburgh, where he worked for a few months in an antiques shop owned by a cousin of his mother. He liked the city, although he was astonished at the run-down condition of much of the centre,
including the street near Canonmills where he was lodging. He might have stayed, but the cousin was selling up the business, and London, the centre of the known universe, beckoned. Armed with an address book and a couple of offers of work, he headed south.

The two job possibilities were these: an old MP associate of Sir Malcolm thought he might need a ‘research assistant’, a newish term for an MP’s drudge; and the husband of a friend of Lady Patricia had an opening in his property business.

It turned out that the MP wasn’t intending to pay David anything, so he put politics on hold and took the job with John Harris Associates. He was the office boy but the understanding was that this would lead to greater things. ‘We were all the office boy once,’ John Harris assured him. ‘Isn’t that right, Q?’ ‘Quite right, Mr Harris.’

Harris was a fat, sprawling man who sweated heavily into the collars of his checked Viyella shirts, considered himself a maverick, and let everybody know by never lowering his voice. ‘Bugger the rules, that’s our motto, isn’t it, Q?’ he shouted. ‘Absolutely, Mr Harris,’ said Q.

Q was Quentin Williams, born and bred in Chiswick, never set foot outside London and saw no earthly reason for doing so. He was charged with showing David the ropes.

‘Where are you from?’ Q demanded. ‘Glen where? Never heard of it. You don’t sound Scotch. All right, this is what we do. We take bets on the property market. The unlikelier the property, the more we like betting on it. We pay people to take eyesores, wasteland, condemned buildings and empty offices off their hands. Then what do we do?’

‘Build something new?’ David suggested.

Q snorted with delighted scorn. ‘Nah! Too much trouble, too much expense. We get planning permission to build, but we don’t order a single brick. We pick sites in areas that are about to come up in the world and we sit tight. If we’ve done our homework right we don’t have to wait too long. Six months, a year, two years if we have to. Mr Harris says it’s like gestation. Six months is a monkey, twelve’s a zebra, two years is an elephant. Elephants are usually the best but sometimes three monkeys are worth more than one elephant, you with me? We pick our moment and
then
we sell. And the more we do it, the better we get at it. Very few of our investments go bad on us these days. He knows what he’s doing, Mr Harris, and so do I. You watch us and learn, you’ll be fine.’