Starburst (11 page)

He had no option now other than to go the long way round. If he was seen anywhere near a stolen car, he knew he’d be roped in for it. No doubt within the hour his father would be getting a visit from the two policemen, asking of his son’s whereabouts last night. But this time it hadn’t been him. He hadn’t nicked a car for the past few months, ever since he had given up on the hard stuff. It had been hard graft trying to break both habits, but he owed it to his solicitor, Mr. Anderson, for somehow getting him a two-month probationary order with compulsory rehab instead of the expected spell in Borstal. “I can’t help you anymore, Thomas,” Mr. Anderson had said to him afterwards outside the juvenile court. “One more offence like this and you’ll have me looking a real fool and you’ll be facing lock-up for at least two years.”

T.K. ran out to the front of the estate and turned eastwards onto the main road that headed towards Leith Docks. Not that he didn’t miss it, though. The joy-riding, that is, not the drugs. He still took the “script,” the prescribed methadone, but he was determined not to go back on the hard stuff, not after suffering those interminable days of gut-wrench and vomit and shivering and hallucination.

But the joy-riding was a different matter. First time he’d done it was when he was fourteen years old. It was a Ford Fiesta, parked up for the night in Northumberland Street Lane. The boy he was with got into the car and hot-wired it within one hundred seconds, and with a heavy burn of rubber they’d headed off on an exhilaration trip that took them up onto Queens Street, down Leith Walk and then back along Ferry Road, eventually ending the evening triumphantly by abandoning the car with its front wheels on the top step of the war memorial in the centre of the gravel sweep at Fettes College. As they made their escape across the playing fields back towards Ferry Road, the boy had panted out proudly that on their journey they had come across ten sets of traffic lights showing red and he’d never stopped at one of them.

After that, T.K. had been hooked, and in the two years that followed he took off no fewer than fifty cars. He became an artist at his craft, being able to break into the most sophisticated German car, disabling its alarm, hot-wiring its supposedly foolproof ignition system, all within the space of two and a half minutes. He did get caught once in his early years, and that’s when he’d first met Mr. Anderson, who managed to get him off on the grounds of his age and it being his first-time offence. T.K. hadn’t asked for the seven cars he had stolen previously to be taken into account.

And then he had done the contract theft of the BMW for the man in Craig-millar and he suddenly found himself with two hundred pounds in his pocket. He didn’t go looking for the drug dealer. Word just got around the estate that Thomas Keene junior had money and the man came knocking on the door of the flat. And after that, he never again had the concentration nor the ability to carry out his craft. He had tried on a number of occasions, but his brain lacked any degree of coordination and his hands shook so much that he would set the car alarm off before he had even unlocked the door. And so he had come to rely on petty theft to feed his habit, hanging around the bus stops and coffee shops uptown, watching out for an open handbag or a jacket or coat slung casually across the back of a chair.

Then three months ago, impulse had made him jump into the Vauxhall Vectra left outside the newsagent on West Granton Road with its engine running, the owner having rushed in to buy something like cigarettes or a newspaper. T.K. had been pretty loaded up at the time and only managed to drive it for a mile before sideswiping a parked car at speed. The impact slewed him across the road, and although somehow he managed to thread an unscathed path through the oncoming traffic, the car ended up with the driver’s door caved in against a tree. His brain had been so completely rat-arsed that it never occurred to him to make his escape through the passenger door. He just waited patiently until the police came to free him. And it was following the resultant court case that T.K. decided to take Mr. Anderson’s advice to heart.

After an hour and a half’s walk, T.K. found himself heading with aching legs up Broughton Street towards the top of Leith Walk. He stopped for a rest, leaning his shoulder against a lamp post, and glanced across the street at a small coffee shop, its stone surround painted in pastel green with the words “The Grainstore” written in looping purple italics above the door. Even at that distance, T.K. could still smell the rich aroma of ground coffee beans and warm bread drifting out through the open door, and his stomach began to ache with hunger, not having had anything since his paltry meal of a slice of pizza and half a can of baked beans the evening before. Pushing himself away from the lamp post, he shambled across the street and peered in through the plate-glass window at the coffee shop’s busy interior. Customers were talking or reading newspapers, some seated at the small round tables, other perched on high stools, their coffee cups resting on the narrow wooden ledge by the window, while a long but orderly queue snaked along the full length of the display counter. He let out a resigned sigh and ambled into the establishment. Ignoring the queue, he approached the girl with the short blond hair and black hairband who was operating the till at the far end of the counter.

“If you want something, you’ll have to join the queue,” she said, not looking up at him as she counted out change in her hand.

“Nuh,” replied T.K. abruptly.

“I’m sorry?” the girl asked, now giving him a quizzical frown.

“Ah mean, ah’m no’ aifter some’ in’ tae eat or drink. Ah’m aifter a joab.”

The girl let out a short laugh of disbelief. “Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yeah, ah’ll dae onythin’. Waash dishes, whativver ye waant.”

The girl’s humour disintegrated from her face and she turned to catch the eye of a tall thin man wearing a red-striped butcher’s apron, who was in the process of laying succulent strips of rare roast beef onto a baguette with disposable-gloved hands. She beckoned him over with a flick of her head.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, his brow creased questioningly as he took in T.K.’s disheveled state.

“Ah’ve just said tae the girl here that ah’m needing a joab,” T.K. repeated.

“I’m afraid we’re fully staffed,” the man said curtly, an uncertain smile flickering across his mouth. “Now, if you want to buy something, please join the queue. Otherwise, I must ask you to leave.”

T.K. shrugged his shoulders. “Aye, cheers onyway, mate.”

He turned and made his way over to the door. The queue had now grown to such a length that it stretched out onto the pavement, causing a bottleneck in the entrance with those who were trying to leave the coffee shop. As T.K. joined the throng, he was pushed hard against the back of a chair, and he shot an apologetic smile at its elderly occupant, who turned around enough for T.K. to spy the small American flag stuck into the lapel of her cotton jersey. And then he saw the open bag slung over the back of the chair and the silver glint of the camera inside. It was so close he could make it out quite clearly to be one of the new compact JVC digital video cameras. He scratched at an imaginary itch on the side of his leg, judging the camera would be no more than nine inches from his outstretched hand once he was upright. A feigned stumble would be all it would take.

During the next ten seconds, T.K.’s mind went into turmoil as images of right and wrong flashed in his brain. His father’s words of “Awa’ an’ tak’ photies of a’ thae tourists” spun around his head, merging with Mr. Anderson’s “I can’t help you anymore, Thomas.” He looked back at the counter and saw that both the girl and the man were too preoccupied in serving customers to bother looking in his direction. And then the crush of the bottleneck started again, and T.K. felt a dunt on his shoulder from behind, powerful enough to make him nearly lose his balance, and he was pushed along with the crowd and out onto the street.

T.K. turned left down Broughton Street, walking swiftly until he had cleared the corner of the coffee shop, and then, tucking the camera into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, he pulled up the hood and took off as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Even though he heard no cries of alarm behind him, he was still convinced that some silent fleet-footed coffee drinker was giving chase, and there was no lessening in his pace as he raced around the corner into London Street. At that point, he felt he had to look back to see if there was need for him to jettison the camera and make a break for it. He did not see the lad walking towards him with the two paint cans in his hands, moving from side to side in an attempt to avoid a collision. As T.K. turned again with relief, he veered to the same side of the pavement as the paint carrier. Their shoulders came into heavy contact, sending the two cans clattering to the ground.

T.K. heard a yell of anger behind him, but he didn’t turn round nor did he stop running until he came to Dundas Street, at which point he thought he would be safe enough from any pursuit.

J
amie Stratton stood rubbing a hand at his throbbing shoulder and watched with annoyance as the hooded figure with the sagging jeans disappeared at speed around the corner.

“Effing junkie,” he said quietly as he walked across to the edge of the pavement and stepped down into the gutter where the two paint cans had come to rest. Both bore large dents but somehow they were still intact. He picked them up and held them out at arm’s length, just to make sure there were no leaks, then, switching them to one hand, he took the bunch of keys from the pocket of his paint-spattered jeans, walked up the wide stone steps and opened the heavy black entrance door.

He had got into the habit of taking the stairs to his third-floor flat at a run, two at a time, as it helped to keep his leg muscles toned for rugby, both in and out of season. He let himself in, stooped down to pick up the mail and then walked into the large kitchen, depositing the keys, the paint cans and the pile of mail on the table. He moved across to the sink and removed a couple of dirty saucepans so that there was sufficient space to fill the kettle. He put it on its base, flicked the switch, and then, folding his arms, he leaned back against the Formica worktop and listened to the eerie, unnatural silence in the place.

He had bought the high-roomed Georgian flat at the beginning of his second year at Edinburgh University, his father being the instigator of the purchase. He had lent Jamie the deposit for the mortgage, saying that it would be a good investment and that he could pay off the monthly instalments by renting out the three other bedrooms to fellow students. Having bought the flat at a knock-down price because of its appalling condition, Jamie had cajoled four friends to help him to gut the place during the summer holidays with the promise of a party-to-end-all-parties on completion. They stripped the walls of several layers of ingrown wallpaper, filled the cracks and buffed them down to their original state. They teetered precariously on makeshift scaffolding to fit new roses for the lights and clean and paint the endless cornicing, then sanded acres of dark stain from the pine floorboards. They defied gravity when stretching from stepladders to replace the broken cords on the tall sash windows, and retched with disgust as they pulled rubber-gloved handfuls of human hair from the shower outlets and delved into the mechanics of the lavatory Saniflo to clear blocks caused by certain unsavoury items. Then, having painted the place from top to bottom, they sought out auction rooms within a radius of thirty miles of Edinburgh and spent hours chatting up traffic wardens to allow them to park the Land Rover and Ifor Williams livestock trailer, lent to them by Jamie’s father, on the single yellow line outside the flat while they unloaded the furniture. And when they had finished their two-month slog, they had the party-to-end-all-parties. The problem was Jamie had then set the precedent by it and over the next three years the place had endlessly thumped with the sound of music and laughter, to such an extent that he was more than relieved at the end of his university career, two months before, to walk away with a 2:2 Honours Degree.

And now it had all come to an end. His three flatmates had left, two to start jobs in Newcastle and Manchester and the other to travel the world, while he had been offered a September placement with a publishing company in London. He had discussed the future of the flat with his father, being reluctant to let it go, but his father had persuaded him it was time to move on and better to sell the place and roll his capital over into a small property in London. So, with heavy heart, Jamie had decided to heed his advice. The plan was made for the flat to go on the market in mid-September and for Jamie to ready it for sale over the summer months, eradicating all signs of the three years’ worth of hell-raising (a job which the two cans of paint would finish off completely), and covering the intervening mortgage payments by renting out the three empty bedrooms during the three hectic weeks of the festival.

Jamie let out a nostalgic sigh and turned to shake a heavy dollop of Nescafé into a mug before pouring in the now-boiling water from the kettle. He walked back to the table and sifted through the mail, lobbing the circulars and catalogues directly into the bin by the cooker. He kept in his hand the two letters that remained, one a heavy, buff-coloured A4 envelope from the
Edinburgh Fringe Review
and the other from the accommodation agency that was to be renting out his flat. He tore open the envelope from the newspaper and emptied its contents onto the table. It enclosed a Fringe programme, a heap of flyers on the forthcoming acts and the treasured yellow ticket that would allow him free passage into any of the shows. He read quickly through the accompanying letter, confirming they were pleased he would once again be joining their team of reviewers and setting out the conditions of use of the ticket and the deadlines for the submission of articles. The job generated little money, but it did mean that he could see as many of the Fringe shows as he wished as well as keeping his writing skills honed before joining the London firm in September.

Jamie spun the letter onto the table and set to opening the smaller envelope. He unfolded the crisp parchment paper and glanced through its short message.

“Shit!”
he yelled out, whacking the letter ineffectually on the side of the table. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tight in exasperation before reading through the letter once more.

“What the
hell
do I do now?” he said with a shake of his head, as he refolded the letter and repeatedly creased its edges so hard that it would have become three separate pieces with no more than a flick of a finger. Tossing it onto the table, he ran his hands over his thick blond hair as he tried to work out what options were now open to him. With a further loud expletive, he strode out of the kitchen into the hallway, extracting a battered moleskin notebook from his back pocket, and walked over to the dark mahogany sideboard upon which sat the telephone. He pulled the elastic band off the note-book, opened it at the back page, and then picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

“Good afternoon, R. and J.L. Mackintosh, Solicitors,” a female voice sang out in a refined Edinburgh accent.

“Yeah, can I speak to Gavin Mackintosh, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Jamie Stratton.”

“Just hold the line, please, and I’ll see if he’s in his office.”

The line went onto hold and Jamie drummed his fingers irascibly on the top of the sideboard.

“Hello, Jamie, Gavin here.” The solicitor spoke in a slow, deep, methodical voice, one that Jamie had always found strangely comforting, as if Gavin Mackintosh had the ability to sort out any problem, regardless of its complexity.

“Hi, Gavin.”

“How’s that father of yours keeping? Still chasing sheep over the Lammermuirs, is he?”

“Nothing changes,” Jamie replied with a chuckle. His father and Gavin Mackintosh had been friends since their time together at Loretto School, and consequently Gavin had become his father’s solicitor almost from the moment he joined the family firm, hotfoot from university. He and his father still played fierce rounds of golf against each other at Muirfield and the two families always came together for the international rugby matches at Murrayfield.

“So you’ve finished with university. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yeah, a drinking degree.”

“A what?”

Jamie laughed. “A 2:2. I was hoping to squeeze a 2:1, but what the hell, I’ve still managed to get a job with a publishing company in London, starting September.”

“Good for you. And what about the rugby? Are you going to keep that up?”

“Yeah, I’ll try. I’ll go and see if either Rosslyn Park or London Scottish have any need for a stand-off who moves like a dead turtle.”

“Don’t think so little of yourself, lad. Scotland has dire need of a player with your skills.”

Jamie scoffed. “I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking, Gavin. There are about three or four lads from the regional clubs who’ll get a trial before me.”

“I’m not so sure. You played for the under-twenty-one team, so it should be a natural progression. Anyway, let’s get ourselves down to business. How can I be of help?”

“I just wanted a bit of advice about the sale of the London Street flat.”

“Right. So just remind me, it was September, was it not, when we were going to be putting it on the market?”

“Yeah, but the thing is I had the flat rented out for the festival through an agency and they’ve just written to say the theatre company involved has cancelled. Trouble is I really need the money to cover my last mortgage payments, and the agency won’t be able to get anyone else so close to the start.”

“Oh, what a blessed nuisance for you!”

“It’s more than that. I’m not sure what to do now. Maybe we should think about bringing the date of the sale forward. I’ve practically finished doing the place up, and if I sold it off quick-like, then I’d get some money to pay off the mortgage.”

Jamie heard Gavin hum thoughtfully on the other end of the line.

“My first instinct, Jamie, would be that you wouldn’t benefit much by doing that. We could certainly put it on the market now, but I would advise you against going for the quick sale. You might well find yourself undervaluing the property if you hurry it along, and anyway, conveyancing can be a long, drawn-out affair. Even if you sold it immediately, I wouldn’t think you could expect payment for a good couple of months, which really doesn’t help your predicament, does it?”

“Not really,” Jamie replied despondently. “So what d’you suggest I do?”

“Take one step at a time would be my best advice. I know the festival is only a week away, but there are still quite a number of notices in shops and newsagents all over the place advertising rooms to let, so why don’t you do the same? I can’t believe there aren’t people out there still desperately looking for somewhere to stay for the duration.”

“Yeah, that’s not such a bad idea. Certainly worth a shot.”

“And while you’re doing your rounds, drop a couple of flyers into the Fringe office. That might be a good bet as well.”

Jamie twisted his fingers around the telephone cord. “But if nothing comes of all that, how am I going to pay the mortgage?”

“We’ll get you fixed up with a short-term bank loan to cover the payments. You’ll have to pay a bit of interest, but you’ll no doubt recoup it by allowing the flat to be on the market for a good competitive period.”

“D’you reckon I’d get the loan, though? I’m pretty near being flat broke.”

“Don’t worry about that, Jamie. That flat of yours will have appreciated in value by a fair amount over the past few years.” He laughed. “I’m sure you’ll find the banks falling over themselves to get your business.”

“Well, that’s good news. Cheers for that, Gavin.”

“Not at all, Jamie. Keep in touch and let me know how you get on.”

“Will do. Bye.”

Jamie replaced the receiver and blew out a long breath of relief. “Thank God for that,” he said out loud, his voice carrying around the high ceilings of the empty flat. He went back into the kitchen, picked up a random spoon from the sideboard and set about opening up one of the tins of paint.