Authors: Denise Mina
She might have to arrange his funeral; maybe being his next of kin gave her the obligation. But the police wouldn’t be releasing the body until they got someone for it so it couldn’t be that. Terry might have left her a note. She hoped to fuck he hadn’t. It would mean she was his last thought and she found that unbearably intimate, definitive, as if he was carving himself into her life forever. She could refuse to read it. She could refuse to arrange his funeral, but the rest of the press would think she was a skank if she did that.
“Can I call the office from your phone?”
“No, they’ll know we’re together. The car phone makes a weird crackle when they pick it up.”
A red Vauxhall was cruising slowly towards them, checking carefully through the cars, looking for a space. Paddy and Sean slid down in their seats as it approached, checking out the driver. It was no one they knew. Finding a space near the compound fence, he parked, gathered his things, and when he stepped out they saw that he was wearing a prison officer’s uniform. He strolled past them, checking his wallet for something.
“Nah,” Paddy whispered at the dashboard. “A hack wouldn’t be here on his own.”
“The photographer might be in the car,” said Sean. “I’ll go and have a look.”
He waited until the prison officer was skirting the wall and climbed out of the warm car, blanching and staggering at the unexpected wind. Walking casually over to the Vauxhall, he glanced in at the cabin, shaking his head to himself when he found nothing there.
She saw a man carrying a plastic bag of shopping at the far end of the long gray wall, heading towards them. Shift change maybe.
Sean came back to the car but stopped outside, looking away from the prison, taking the air and stretching his legs, his hair flattened to his head by the wind.
The man with the shopping bag was cutting across the car park, coming towards them. A gray bomber jacket, too short at the cuffs, a sweatshirt with “Wrangler” written on it, a crease across the front where it had been folded in the packet, brand-new, and dark blue denims, creased across at the knee. It was a strange look, all new clothes, like a costume.
Paddy recognized the hair first. Black and wavy, a little long over the ears. And then his face: heavy black eyebrows, a broad nose, gray skin, features more square than she remembered them. His jaw was solid, muscular from the habit of being clenched tightly. What she didn’t recognize was his height and the width of his shoulders: he was six three at least and built like a dray horse.
It was Callum Ogilvy.
She leaned over and threw open the driver’s door, catching Sean on the thigh.
“It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.”
“All right,” he said, jumpy because she was. “Calm down.”
And he turned to meet his cousin.
II
Fifty-three steps so far, another eight to get to the side of the car, nine maybe. The distances between cars, sky and ground were too far, everything spaced out so much that there was nothing to cling to. In nine years he hadn’t been farther than twenty feet from a wall; even the exercise yard was narrow. The wind that had ruffled his hair when he was inside walls now skirled unkindly around his face, jagged, sharp. Here it was unbridled, unstoppable. He felt he might blow out to sea at the next gust, drown, salt water flooding his sorrowful lungs while people watched from the shore, happy to see him go. And who could blame them.
His toe hit a break in the concrete and he stopped, the plastic bag containing everything he owned slapping against his leg. Dizzy suddenly, he stood still, staring at the ground, calculating whether it would be less painful to move again or just wait here to die. The muscles on his arms and legs were so taut that he was twitching.
The mind can only hold one conscious thought at a time.
Fifty-three steps so far, fifty-four, fifty-five. He looked up and saw Sean at the side of the car, his cousin, his family. A woman was with him. He’d said there would be a woman with him. A friend of the family. Their family.
The woman had seen him now, he could tell by the way she moved in her seat, sitting up tall, straining to catch a glimpse when he lost them behind a car. She reached over and opened the driver’s door, talking to Sean, keeping her eyes on Callum.
Sean looked up.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine. They stared straight at him. Not the way screws looked: screws saw you, looked away, and then looked back again, thinking about you and what a bad person you were, muttering to each other. Killed a baby. Quiet. Weirdo. But Sean and the woman looked straight at him, their expectations drawing him in like a tractor beam.
Sean turned to meet him, the vicious wind blowing his hair flat. He looked small outside the visitors’ room.
Sean’s face was open and his arms rose from his sides in greeting. He was smiling hard but his eyes were full of reservations.
Callum didn’t know what to do. He stood stiff while Sean put his arms around his shoulders and hugged him. He was smaller than Callum, not as wide. When Callum tried to respond he twitched a big nod, accidentally butting the side of Sean’s face. Touch. Sean’s arms were tight around him, his cheek brushed Callum’s briefly and the warmth stung his skin.
When Sean let go, Callum wanted to grab on to him, make him do it again, but the woman was beside him, hands rising, expecting a hug as well. A woman. Callum blushed at the thought that her tits might press into his chest like when he masturbated, that he might hold her low on her waist. Ashamed, he cast his eyes downwards and she saw what he was thinking. She extended a hand.
Nice to see you again.
He looked at her. Big arse on her and a coldness in her eyes like the nurse in the infirmary. He knew her, remembered a cold room a long time ago, before the dark night, ripped wallpaper hanging off walls, and feeling ashamed that everything in the house was dirty. Ashamed of his mother, drinking. Clean people sitting around, wondering when they could leave.
“You were at my dad’s funeral.”
“I was.” She looked kinder then. “And I met you in hospital, Callum, d’ye remember? Your wrists were bandaged.”
He didn’t want to remember that time. It was after the night in the grass, before the trial, and no one had ever talked to him about it. It was a time that belonged only to him, his footprints were alone through that. The grass from that time was up to his chest. When he went there in his head he felt it suck the breath from his lungs.
He found himself looking at the prison. It was OK now he was next to a car. The big gray wall blocked the view of the sea. For the first time he felt glad to be out of prison.
Let’s get in out of this wind.
Sean smiled up at him, hopeful, nervous. He held the door open for him, and dipped down to look at Callum after he got in.
I’m awful glad to see you out, pal. Come on, we’ll go home.
The car had a phone in it and room for his legs. He hadn’t been in a car for nine years, not since the dark night. It was always vans after that, prison vans, police vans. The last time he was in a car his feet hardly touched the floor.
The woman got into the front passenger seat, Sean in the driver’s. Sean started the engine and they rolled slowly out of the car park.
Callum was watching them, looking at the sides of their faces. Sean opened his mouth a couple of times before they hit the main road, as if he was going to say something but decided not to. The woman was looking out of the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand over her mouth. She didn’t look happy. When they got to the junction she turned to Sean.
That went well, anyway.
Sean nodded and looked to the left for cars coming down the road.
“What went well?” Callum couldn’t quite believe he’d said it so casual and normal.
“Well, to be honest,” she turned to look at him, “we thought there might be other journalists in the car park. Hiding, you know, waiting for you.”
“Why?” He’d done it again, normal, real.
“They’d be looking for a photo of you. It could be worth a lot of money so there’s going to be a bit of a competition. You should be ready for that in the coming weeks. I don’t think there’s any way of stopping them from getting close to you. Most of them have guessed you’ll be at Sean’s house so they’ll probably stake that out. You should be careful who you talk to.”
She ran out of breath and looked away for a moment. But Callum hadn’t been listening to her. He was still back at the first thing she’d said.
“Other journalists?”
The woman shut her eyes, blinking too long, shuttering him out. She cleared her throat. “Um, aye. Other journalists.” She looked at Sean but he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m a journalist. Don’t you remember, we spoke in the hospital?”
She was Paddy. He had met her before.
“You have a SON,” he said, too loud at the end.
She turned her head quickly towards him, angry.
“PETER.”
She looked furious and turned away.
He swung his head at the window. They were traveling down a wide road, few cars on it, flat fields on either side, a tractor in one of them, a long way away. Sean’s eyes were reflected in the rearview mirror, narrow, hiding something. The skin on his cheek twitched.
Callum looked back at the prison, a speck now on the horizon. Panic rose in his chest. Sean had brought a journalist with him. Was that normal? Was he taking money? Act normal. Behave normal.
My wife made sandwiches.
Still keeping his eyes on the road, Sean leaned over the back of the car seat and showed him a plastic box with bread and an apple in it. Callum lifted it and found a can of fizzy juice on the floor under his feet.
He pulled the tab on the tin of juice and drank it in two gulps, to show that he was grateful, to fill his mouth, stop him shouting or saying anything that would make them turn around and drive him back.
He opened the box, ate the sandwiches, sitting with the empties on his lap, not knowing what else they wanted him to do.
Sean had brought a journalist with him. And who could blame him. Callum supposed there had to be something in it for Sean but he hadn’t expected this. Maybe he should have known, maybe it was obvious. It wasn’t enough just to be family: he’d had a family before and nothing was for nothing, not for him. For children in storybooks, maybe, but not for him, not for him.
I want to live in a loving family unit.
He was shouting, bits of the dry sandwich scattering on his knees.
The woman spun to look at Callum and found him crying, a trickle of red-juice saliva at the side of his mouth. Alarmed, she looked at Sean.
MY DREAM IS TO WORK IN A FACTORY.
His loud voice rang around the hollow inside of the car.
Sean didn’t look at him. He slowed the car, gently easing over to the side of the road and pulling on the handbrake.
He was going to put Callum out, make him get out and leave him there for shouting in the car. And who could blame him.
He’d freeze because of the wind and no walls, moving would be so hard he’d have to wait there until he died. His heart was hammering in his chest. He could feel his pulse on his cheeks, on his nose, in his eyes.
The woman wasn’t looking at him anymore. She had her hand over her mouth again, was turned away from him, looking out of the car at the side where he would be left.
Sean undid his seat belt and turned, taking Callum’s hand in one of his and stroking it with the other. “Pal,” he said as Callum gasped for breath, “we’re going home, where it’s warm. Together. Look at me.”
Callum forced his eyes from the woman’s neck to Sean’s face. He was nodding slowly, like he wanted Callum to nod back. “OK? Are you going to be OK?”
Callum nodded. Sean stroked his hand again. “It’s natural to feel this scared, OK? Perfectly normal.” He let go of his hand and turned, pulled the belt back on and restarted the car, checked to look out of the side window for a car coming and then pulled back out into the road.
They were going home. Where it was warm.
A journalist. The woman’s dark hair pulled up on top of her head, exposing the soft skin on the back of her neck. The necks he saw as the protected prisoners were crocodiled to work or the canteen were always leathered or spotty. Gold chains dangled from her ears, swaying with the motion of the car, never touching her neck.
Exhausted, Callum sat back on the seat, slowed his breathing, and reminded himself of the one thing he knew for certain: everything smells the same when it’s burning.
TEN
BUNTY AND THE MONKEY
I
Sean stopped the car at Glasgow Cross under the railway bridge. “This do you?” he whispered.
Paddy looked at Callum, sleeping in the back. He seemed to have grown during the drive, filling most of the backseat as his hands fell to the side and his knees relaxed and spread out. Although asleep, he remained upright, ready for an attack, like a bear.
Sean whispered again and nodded towards her door. “Can’t drop you any closer in case we’re seen.”
Paddy looked from Callum to Sean. Not wanting to wake him, she made a horrified face at Sean. “How does he know about Pete?”
“I must have mentioned it.”
She hissed at him, “I don’t want him knowing about Pete. I don’t want him knowing anything about him, understand?”
Sean said nothing but tipped his head at her, his eyes liquid disappointment.
“Peter’s your son. He’s five.”
They both turned sharply to look at the bear in the back. Callum hadn’t moved, hadn’t twitched or stretched or done any of the normal things people do when they wake up. He had opened his eyes so that the white showed all around the iris, and was staring at her like an accusing corpse.
She nodded, breathless, wondering whether he had ever been asleep at all. “Yes.”
He sat up, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Why don’t you want me to know about him?”
Sean was watching her. There was nothing he could do to save her from the situation but Paddy sensed that even if there was he probably wouldn’t anyway.
“I, um, my son . . .”
“Pete,” Callum reminded her.
“Yes, my son Pete has been ill . . .” She couldn’t think of a single plausible excuse. “He’s been ill . . .”