‘Alice! Alice!’ wailed Jayne. She jumped up to see out the window, then squeezed her face in her hands. ‘Oh, God, she heard every word . . .’
I watched as Jayne took off after Alice. She didn’t get far, but wouldn’t have made any kind of escape anyway, thanks to the footprints she was leaving in the snow. Jayne chased her to the edge of the street, where they both fell to the ground. They wrestled for a brief moment before Alice grabbed out to her mother and they held each other. As they started to sob, I looked away.
When they returned to the house I saw their eyes damp with tears, the edges of their noses red with cold.
‘Alice, you okay?’ I said. It was a lame remark. She ignored me, held her mother.
I rubbed her back with my hand. ‘I’m sorry, Alice.’
She sobbed deeply, cries that came from a part of her that was too remote to reach with any words.
I looked out to the snow-covered street, tried to imagine myself somewhere far beyond the rooftops. Nothing felt real any more.
Christ
, what had happened here? How did everything go from being so normal to so fucked up?
Jayne stroked Alice’s hair. They were both bubbling with tears as they sat down on the sofa in the living room. In the open doorway, the lodger appeared. Something inside me wanted to give him a slap and say, ‘This is family business.’ But I let it slide, closed the door on him.
Jayne took a blanket from the shelf in the bay window, wrapped it around her daughter. She watched her shiver for a moment then started to stroke her hair again. She turned to me, put pleading eyes on me. I nodded, said, ‘She’ll be fine.’
Jayne said, ‘Come on, let’s get those Uggs off . . . Look, they’re soaked.’ She pulled at her boots and then the pair fell into each other again and hugged.
As the full realisation of the news I’d brought them hit in, I saw the misery they felt. I couldn’t watch. I eased out of the room, went through to the hall. I wandered over to a table by the window. A pile of letters beside the phone drew my eye. I picked them up, bills mostly. Gas, leccy, council tax. It took just a glance inside to see they were all printed in red. I looked up to the ceiling, sighed. Michael’s house was just as I remembered it: if he’d been feeling the pinch, it didn’t show. There was even a new plasma through in the living room. But then, maybe that was the problem: maintaining a lifestyle without the income to back it up.
As I put the letters back music started playing upstairs – bloody Lily Allen, same track that had been on heavy rotation all over. I followed the tune to what I presumed must be the new lodger’s room. I wondered about knocking, then thought, Fuck that. I pushed open the door; Lily pitched up a notch or two on the speakers. I walked in and the lad immediately bridled, turned on me, palms out: ‘Hey, you cannot come in here.’
I laughed in his face. ‘Calm down, bonnie lad. Just a little room inspection, shall we say.’
‘No. I don’t think—’
I cut him off, put a finger up to my mouth, went, ‘Shhhh.’
He looked at me like I was some wido off the street. He was almost right. I paced around, picked up a book here, a CD there, opened a drawer.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he said.
‘I’ll ask the fucking questions.’
He looked at the door. Was he contemplating a bolt? A wee bleat to Jayne about me? Think again. I kicked it shut. ‘Now, you tell me . . . what are you doing here?’ I don’t know what I expected, I was merely testing him. I prodded him in the chest with my forefinger. ‘Well? Let’s have it.’
He retreated into the wall, said, ‘Leave me alone.’
I used the flat of my hand to press him up against the plaster, tried to keep the threat low, but make my point. ‘Come on, now it’s a simple question. How did
you
come to be kipping in my brother’s home?’
He snapped, ‘Keep your hands off me!’ He cuffed my arm away, puffed his chest. I smiled in his face. Had seen Clint do this in the
Dirty Harry
movies – someone wearing a grin before a pagger says
I enjoy this shit, try me on for size
.
He didn’t flinch: there was more to this guy than he let on.
I was ready to pound him into the bricks when, ‘Gus, Gus . . . Are you up there?’ It was Jayne.
Lodger man took a step to the side. He winced as he put weight on his bad leg, said, ‘Go please, you have no right to come into my room.’
‘Oh, no . . .’
His eyes blinked a spasm. ‘I can expect some privacy.’ He limped away from me, went to smooth over the duvet on the bed. He tugged out the edges, stood up and put his hands on his hips. Sweat glistened on his upper lip.
Jayne called again, ‘Gus?’
The lodger lifted a hand from his hip, indicated the door with his palm. I put one foot in front of the other, but kept a bead on him as I went. For a second I wondered if I had him all wrong, but I still had my suspicions. At the door I turned, said, ‘Pray I don’t take an interest in you.’
Jayne had climbed the stair, was waiting for me in the hall.
‘She’s quietened down.’
‘That’s good. Look, I know this must be a shock and you must have questions and . . .’
She looked back at the door I’d just walked through. ‘Were you talking to Vilem?’
I tried the name on. ‘
Vilem
. . .’ I looked back to the room – the door was closed now, ‘Yeah . . . Where was he last night?’
Jayne tugged nervously at her earlobe, playing with the little gold hoop in there. ‘He was here with us . . . He watched a movie downstairs with Alice.’
‘He was here all night?’
‘Yes, all night . . . Well, he was here when I was. I went out to my book group.’ Her eyes misted over as she remembered. She turned away from me and sucked in her lower lip. I could tell that she was replaying the last time she saw Michael.
‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t mean to . . .’
Jayne snapped, ‘Are you checking our alibis or something, Gus?’
‘I’m just . . . checking.’
I watched her closely for a change of tone, a tell; nothing came. ‘Vilem is a nice boy, he’s one of Michael’s new workers. He’s just here till he finds a flat. Michael was helping him out.’
I took her back a few steps. ‘New workers?’
‘After the lay-offs . . . Michael was . . .’ Her face drained of blood; she flattened her hair back with her hand. I watched her eyes follow the ghost of another memory.
I hadn’t heard about any lay-offs at my brother’s firm. He always prided himself on looking after folk, last of the great cradle-to-grave employers. I wanted to know more but couldn’t face the tears; knew this was the wrong time to press her. I said, ‘I’ll let you be, Jayne.’
She jerked back to me, rubbed at the outside of my arm, then hugged me. ‘Thanks for everything . . . I know you mean well. For Alice and me.’
I didn’t want to hear the words, they put ice in my belly – the thought of them on their own, without my brother, wounded me. I stood silently – nothing seemed the right thing to say, then some stored response began to play: ‘Jayne, if there’s anything you both need, or I can do . . .’
I didn’t have the words to make her feel any better. I was stood in my brother’s home, talking to his wife about his death when he had been with us less than twenty-four hours ago. It seemed like I’d started to inhabit someone else’s life.
‘Thank you,’ Jayne said. She looked wrecked, black circles forming beneath her eyes. ‘Oh God . . . Davie.’
Michael’s business partner Davie Prentice was a golf-club bore, what we refer to in Edinburgh as a cheese merchant. ‘I’ll go and see him: you need to know the lay of the land with the business.’
I walked to the stairs. I’d reached the bottom step before Jayne hollered to me, ‘Gus, please don’t give Davie a hard time.’
Her words sliced me like a rotor blade; was I carrying that much threat? I lied: ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour.’
Chapter 4
I FELT PUNCHY. NUMB. I palmed off the job of telling Mam about Michael to my sister. Catherine would handle the task better, but it stung. I consoled myself that I wasn’t up to the job – it would have ended me and I needed to keep it together. Was struggling though, even drove home with Debs’s Katy Perry CD playing and didn’t bother to switch it off. The dog greeted me like a Ritalin-deprived six-year-old, jumping and clawing, diving all over the furniture to land a paw on me. He was a dog that I’d rescued, took the name ‘Usual’ from the regulars in a pub I ran for a while. Another failure of mine; something else to forget.
I shut Usual in the living room and hit the hay. I’d been up all night without any sleep. As my head hit the pillow the dog clawed at the door. I realised I didn’t actually want to be alone and got up to let him in. As I climbed back into bed Usual chanced his luck and jumped up. I allowed him to curl silently at my feet.
I felt tired. Damn-near exhausted. But sleep didn’t come. I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to block out the light streaming in through the curtains.
Wasn’t happening.
I knew whatever I did next, none of it would sit well with Debs. After our divorce we’d went our separate ways but we’d patched things up now; there was something that pulled us back together. A bond? Shared history? We’d been through so much misery that maybe we just knew where to stack the ballast to keep each other afloat. My jaw tensed at the prospect of her reaction to me raking into my brother’s death.
A child in the flat upstairs started laughing. Sounded like it was trapped in the floorboards. It was all I could take.
Grabbed my mobi, dialled: ‘Y’right?’
‘Gus, lad, how’s it hanging?’
I didn’t need to soft-soap Mac the Knife. ‘My brother’s dead.’
He rasped, ‘Michael . . . dead?’
‘Killed. Plugged.’
‘What the fuck?’ His voice dropped. ‘Where are you?’
‘Home. I need some gear. Can you get me some speed or something?’
A pause.
‘Erm . . . is that a good idea?’
I sat up in bed, took a bit of a flier: ‘Don’t gimme good or bad idea here, mate, can you get me fixed up?’
Mac took the blast well. ‘Aye, sure. I’ll be round.’
‘Fine.’
I hung up.
There was a stack of folk I needed to see and Davie Prentice topped the list. If there was some trouble at my brother’s business, I needed to know.
Shit
, I needed to start somewhere. The factory seemed like the best place to turn up a motive. Fat Davie needed to face some harsh questioning.
I got out of bed and put on the shower. Got it burning hot; pushing up the steam, I crouched down and let the hot water burn into me for the best part of an hour.
When I came out, the dog was sat at the bathroom door, lying on the rug with his chops between his front paws. He looked up when I appeared.
‘You’re a smart animal,’ I said. He sensed the change in me; I felt it myself.
I hunted for some music, but nothing seemed right. The nearest I approached was Johnny Cash, toyed with it, put it in the player and cranked up the track I wanted to hear: ‘Hurt’, his Nine Inch Nails cover, but I couldn’t bring myself to press ‘play’.
Got dressed in a new pair of Gap jeans and a top from River Island that Debs had bought for me. They didn’t feel quite comfortable enough, like I was trying too hard for trendy. Still, she hadn’t quite succeeded in weaning me off my Docs yet.
I had the kettle brewing for coffee when Usual let rip with a burst of loud barking. Someone was on the stairs. The door went.
It was Mac.
He strolled in, eyes down, never raised his gaze once, said, ‘That’s some bad shit about Michael . . . I’m sorry for your loss.’
I thanked him, but I really didn’t want to hear it again. I didn’t want to hear it the first time. I shouldn’t have been hearing it at all. That was the truth of the matter and nothing was going to change it.
I steered him off course: ‘Did you get my gear?’
He fished in his jacket pocket, exposed a ‘Vote for Pedro’ T-shirt. ‘Some fast powder.’
I snatched the wraps off him, got fired in.
‘Go canny with that stuff.’
I rubbed my nose, backed him off with my eyes. ‘
Why
?’
‘Just, y’know . . .’
‘Just what? . . . Think it’ll turn me back to the drink? Get a taste for one drug, it’ll whet my appetite for another?’
‘Gus, cool the beans, eh . . . I’m just saying, watch yourself.’
I gave him a nod – his concern was genuine.
‘Mac, I need a clear head. I also need to get moving, that’s all this is about.’
I bagged up the wraps of speed and started to comb my damp hair. Needed a shave but wanted to maintain the roughneck vibe for Davie’s visit. I put down the comb, turned to face him. ‘Someone plugged Michael for a reason.’
Mac looked deep in concentration, probably on a number of fronts. He had tried to get me on the straight and narrow many times, preaching to me about his own rehabilitation after a stint in Barlinnie’s Nutcracker Suite. He and Debs had been in cahoots to get me to see a headshrinker but that plan was turfed when I showed them I could handle the sauce on my own. I didn’t want to let them turn my brother’s death into another cause for concern but I saw Mac was wondering, were we wading into choppy waters?
‘Gus, y’know, the filth aren’t going to be best pleased with you poking about in this . . . after the last time.’
I volleyed that one back at him: ‘Well, don’t think for a second I’m going to leave the investigation of my own brother’s murder to plod. Don’t even contemplate that.’
Mac took the hint. He knew he was onto a loser, he’d tried that lark before. ‘Okay, count me in.’
‘What do you mean?’
He squared his shoulders. ‘I’m on the team, on the case.’
‘Not minding . . . I don’t need minding on this, Mac.’
‘No way. I want to help.’