‘So should I call you Dr Naughton?’
‘Would you like to call me Dr Naughton?’
I figured pretty quick that this was the way it was gonna play out: she’d be big on questions, short on answers. ‘Well, I suppose.’
Somewhere in my mind, I’d formed an impression of what a psychiatrist should look like. I blame television. She fitted none of the clichés, was too relaxed in a black linen shirt, grey-to-black cords and Kicker boots. Looked like she’d walked out of a Gap advert. Only the candy-stripe neckerchief bust the image, brought her back into the professions.
Dr Naughton sat to the side of her desk, explained she didn’t want the object to be a barrier. I saw a young child’s drawing in a picture frame hanging behind her, wondered: One of hers, or a client’s maybe?
She eyed me over a clipboard. ‘I usually ask new patients to tell me what they’d like to achieve with their first session.’
I laughed. ‘Sorry . . . until recently I was going for a whole other type of session.’
She didn’t say anything, gave me that over-the-glasses stare as a prompt.
‘A
session
. . . y’know, a few bevvies.’
She smiled, an indulgent one, wrote something down on her clipboard. There was a cycling helmet and a Karrimor rucksack in the corner of the room; figured an outdoorsy type wouldn’t approve. ‘Is that me down there as a drinker now?’
‘Is that what you want me to put down?’
Sighed, ‘Wouldn’t be wrong.’
She placed the clipboard to one side, took off her glasses altogether. She had very grey eyes. They unsettled me, reminded me of a caged wolf I’d once seen; but I was prepared to admit I was imagining things, making life difficult for myself. That was my usual modus operandi.
I scanned the pine bookshelves behind her. They looked pretty light on books.
Another question: ‘Can you tell me a little about yourself?’
‘Not much to tell.’ I sounded defensive. Maybe it was just nerves but I didn’t want a bad report to go back to Debs; tried to play along. ‘Well, can you give me some pointers?
Yourself
covers a multitude of things.’
She returned to the clipboard and glasses, read from a list, ‘Patient. Ambitious. Sensitive . . .’ She stopped, looked at me again, continued, ‘Temperamental. Pedantic. Domineering.’ She put aside the notes once more. Removed her specs again and folded them in her hands. I noticed a wedding band and a very large rock sat above it.
Said, ‘Yeah, that sounds like me.’
‘You identify quite a few aspects of yourself in there?’
I nodded. ‘At one time or another I think we all have the potential to be sensitive or patient or . . . temperamental.’
‘When have you been temperamental, Angus?’
‘Gus, please.’
‘I’m sorry . . . Gus.’
She waited for my answer.
I sighed. ‘Temperamental . . . I’m pretty temperamental now, have been for a few days . . . Look, my brother just died, you must know that.’
‘Yes. It’s in your file. How many siblings do you . . . did you have?’
The answer bit me: ‘One. I’ve one left.’
The doctor looked to be weighing possibilities; something formed behind those grey eyes. ‘What position were you in the birth order?’
The question seemed ridiculously formal. ‘What does that matter?’
She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really, I only ask to find out a little bit about you.’
She’d laid a guilt trip on me. This line of questioning had me rattled. I didn’t want to talk about my brother. I didn’t want to talk about our childhood, didn’t she get it? ‘I was the eldest . . . Michael was the youngest.’
She fidgeted in her seat, then pressed on. ‘Was there a big age difference between you?’
‘Eight years,’ I snapped.
A lengthy silence drew out between us; she caught me checking my watch. She knew she’d unsettled me, made me feel uncomfortable with her questions. I wasn’t ready to talk about my brother. I stood up. ‘Can I smoke?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. We can take a quick break if you like.’
I nodded, took my tabs out my coat pocket and went to the door.
I walked straight out of the building in a white rage. I didn’t know where it had come from.
Temperamental
. That was one of her words; yes, I was temperamental. I sparked up and took the smoke deep into my lungs. A ferocious chill filled the air; I’d left my Crombie inside and the shock of leaving the centrally heated rooms near knocked me out. I felt my shoulders start to tremble.
Debs, what the fuck have you signed me up to?
God, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for that woman but this was edging close to the limit. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a
Far Side
cartoon. The therapist was nice enough, but her professional sangfroid set my nerves jangling. Get a grip, Gus, I told myself. I knew I needed to open my mind to new experiences; like Mac said, I had been too closed-minded for too long. Christ, this might even help me. And I needed all the help I could get.
I dowped the tab, crushed it under my boot and went back inside. The waft of warmth gave me a smack. I felt myself automatically rub at the outside of my arms.
‘Chilly out there,’ I said.
Dr Naughton smiled. ‘Yes, it is. You feel it when you leave these overheated buildings.’
I sat down, had grown more relaxed; she had a way of setting you at ease. Did they teach them that?
‘Would you like to take off where we left?’ she said.
‘Where were we?’
‘You were telling me about your brother . . . but if it’s too painful to talk about him so soon after . . .’
I wanted to say ‘he was murdered’ but went with, ‘No, it’s fine.’
‘What kind of upbringing did you have?’
I crossed my legs, fiddled with the seam of my jeans. ‘Not your average.’
‘Oh, no? In what way?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to say, what’s average?’
She stayed silent, waited for me to continue.
‘My father was a sportsman, a footballer . . . He had aggressive tendencies and, well, a violent streak.’
‘Was your father violent towards you?’
‘Shit yeah!’ I uncrossed my legs, leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry . . . I mean, yes . . . He was a drinker.’
She looked concerned – they taught her
that
, surely. ‘Did his violence extend to other members of the family?’
I nodded.
‘To Michael?’
I nodded again.
I felt the middle part of my chest hardening, a stiffness spreading up my neck and into my jaw. My throat grew paralysed.
The doctor spoke: ‘Perhaps that’s enough for one day.’
I felt enormous relief. ‘You sure?’
She stood up, extended her hand. ‘Quite sure. You’ve been very strong. Thank you for that, Gus.’
It seemed a strange thing to be thanking me for. I felt utterly confused by this whole experience. Didn’t know where to file it away in my head. I took my coat down from the stand. ‘Do I make another appointment?’
‘Yes, I’ll see you again in a couple of days.’
I was surprised. ‘So soon.’
‘Yes, is that all right?’
I put on my coat. ‘Fine.’
I walked to the door. Neither of us said goodbye. I turned, ‘A couple of days – I must be a special case . . . or a nutcase.’
She said nothing.
Chapter 11
FELT RELIEVED TO BE AWAY from the doctor’s questions. As I walked back to the car I rolled the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my hand. My heart was pumping hard. I didn’t know whether I felt exhilarated to have got the session over with, or relieved it hadn’t ended with my being carted away by the men in white coats.
In the car Usual was sitting in the front seat. I moved him aside – wanted to check the glovebox to see if Debs had missed any wraps. No joy; it was empty. I always kept a Shakin’ Stevens ‘Best of’ on the dash – to deter thieves. It had found its way in here so I put it back. Debs had dropped off a couple of new CDs too. I picked them up, turned them over. ‘Leona fucking Lewis . . . Holy crap, Debs, sure it’s not
you
that needs to see a shrink!’ The other CD looked more promising, an eighties compilation: ‘Town Called Malice’, ‘Ghost Town’, ‘Golden Brown’. I knew she’d bought this for me. And what had I done? Ruined her surprise.
I felt low.
Put on the CD, tried to listen.
The first track was Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. I remembered I hadn’t liked it at first, seemed too slick for the Thin White Duke. By the time it had gone to number one, though, I had the thing playing in the house all day long. As I listened to it now I saw the old video of the child finding the red shoes in the desert and dancing. I was taken to a different place:
There’s a baby crying. I’m only eight or so, and I’ve never experienced a child in my home; my new brother cries constantly. I have to turn up Bowie just to drown him out. ‘Let’s Dance’ gets louder. The neighbours bang on the wall. My father shouts. The baby screams on and on. My mother walks the floor patting his back. And then my father, roaring angry, rises and puts his foot through my record player.
I ejected the CD.
I couldn’t listen to it. Dredged up too many memories. Wondered: Is this what a trip to a shrink does for you?
I pointed Usual into the back, pulled on my seatbelt. As I drove to Newhaven I tuned in the radio. The newsreader said there were riots in France at the government’s handling of the country’s economic collapse. I figured we were a ways off riots here: if the Scots had put up with being governed from England for three hundred years, it might take more than a shove.
The dog sniffed on the back seat, tried to lick up some leftover Bonio crumbs. I had forgotten to feed him. I’d been a bit remiss on the walking front too, but he would have to put up with that. I had more pressing matters to attend to.
At the gates of the factory I kept shoatie for Davie Prentice but he didn’t show himself. The place looked to be in full swing, a few snoutcasts out front hanging off tabs but they didn’t stick about like the ones outside pubs. It was a quick drag, then back to work. I saw no sign of Andy the foreman either – he’d need shaking down later. Maybe Ian Kerr’s death would give me some leverage, get him talking. He knew what the set-up in there was, and that was something I was going to have to take a closer look at.
I parked up, told the dog to sit. He watched me as I locked the car door. The sky threatened more snow, but the wind carried only the stench of onions from the burger van. I took a deck at the van. It said ‘Chuck Truck’ on the side in big yellow letters. Thought: More like make-you-fucking-chuck truck.
As I crossed, my Docs slipped on the icy road; wasn’t about to land on my arse, so I calmed it. Steam rose from an aluminium chute at the side of the burger van. As I got closer the bloke inside leaned forward.
‘All right, mate,’ I yelled.
He seemed glad to see me, wide smile and a wave. His jet-black hair looked beyond Brylcreemed, it sat so flat on his head it could have been ironed. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said.
‘Christ, this is some weather.’
The bloke had his sleeves rolled up; a thistle tat on his forearm moved as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Worst winter in twenty years, they say!’
‘I bet they’re right.’ Cupped my hands, blew into them. ‘You gimme a coffee?’ He looked pissed off at that; I figured it was going to take a bigger parting with the readies. I scanned the menu for anything other than a heart attack. ‘What’s that there . . .
Wurst
?’
‘Aye . . . sausage. Got it for the Czechs in there.’ He motioned to the factory. ‘They won’t bloody touch it though.’
‘They won’t?’
‘Nah, bloody bags of them I’ve got. Bought them off a Polish bloke, told me the Czechs would be gantin’ for them.’
‘But no takers, eh? . . . Sounds like your
wurst
nightmare.’
He laughed at that. ‘Aye, very good. Very good.’ He dropped off my coffee and I ordered a wurst, just to seal the deal.
‘So, what’s the go with the Czechs?’
He scooped out the long, grey sausage, put it in a styrofoam box, said, ‘You want sauce on that?’ I shook my head. He returned to leaning on the counter, continued, ‘They’re all Czechs in there now . . . punted the rest.’
‘That sounds rough.’
He mock-laughed. ‘That’s about right –
rough
.’
I removed the lid from my coffee; a rainbow of oil sat on the surface. ‘I saw a pair of them the other day, looked hardy lads.’
A snort: ‘Fucking crooks.’
‘
You wha’
?’
He looked down the road, called me closer. ‘I hear they’re all living down in Leith, in the one big hoose . . . forty or fifty of them, fucking crammed in like rats.’
I played up: ‘Get away.’
‘I shit you not. There’s a bloke runs squads of them about in a big Pajero’ – he raised his thumb to the roof – ‘kind of thing I could use to tow this . . . No’ cheap. Nice black one it is too, all chromed up and that.’
‘So what’s his game?’ I sipped the coffee; it was shithouse.
‘You tell me, pal. He doesn’t do a day’s work in there, though, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
This all sounded dodge to me. ‘This bloke, where’s his house?’ The burger man started to clam up, thought I’d went a question too far. Had to distract him again. ‘Chuck us over a Mars as well, eh.’
He turned to the rack. I counted out the cash.
‘Somewhere in Leith’s all I’ve heard,’ he said.
He thinned his eyes, waited for my reaction. I didn’t want to press him. I might need to tap him again and I had the black Pajero to go on anyway. I took the Mars and the wurst, said, ‘Grand coffee, chief. I’ll catch you anon.’
He nodded and grumbled, slunk back in the van and picked up a copy of the
Star
.
In the car I opened up the box with the wurst; the smell of it made my eyes smart. I pushed it over the back for Usual. He sniffed at it and went to the other side of the seat. ‘What? Not good enough for you?’