The Dead Beat (9 page)

Summerhall was packed.

Martha drank her pint and looked round. They were in a large concrete box, a former abattoir, apparently, still with some of the fixtures and fittings mounted on the walls – big, rusty rings cemented in place, chains and hooks hanging down. There were three hundred people in the room, arranged on cheap plastic chairs facing a wrestling ring in the middle. It was dark, with strobes flashing, and some cheesy death metal bouncing around, guitar riffs echoing and arguing with each other.

The crowd was made up of metal fans and comic-book geeks, plus some obvious friends and family of the wrestlers, kids with large foam hands.
We’re #1!
The bar was doing a roaring trade. Martha smiled as she soaked it up. She had no idea this world existed, in Edinburgh of all places. The atmosphere was completely non-threatening, like a pantomime for grown-ups.

Billy and Cal were next to her, talking to each other. She’d asked Cal about tomorrow, he was cool to chum her to the Royal Edinburgh even though it was an eight-thirty appointment. Who the hell wants to get their mind reset at half eight in the morning?

Tonight was a good distraction. So what if she had a hangover tomorrow? In a stupid kind of way, she figured the ECT would wipe her hangover away too. So really, she had a free pass to drink as much as she liked.

That way madness lay.

She looked at the running order for the night. It was a mixed bill, male and female, six bouts between them. V was second up. Her wrestling name was Vengeance. The picture of her was awesome. In a black spandex bra and hotpants, with her thick black fringe and grimacing for the camera, she looked like Joan Jett raging on steroids. Her opponent was someone called Buttercup, who looked three stone heavier than V and had a Mohican, arms covered in tattoos and a thick waist exposed in a spangly gold outfit. Skull-crushing thighs.

Cal nudged her, eyes wide. ‘This place is crazy.’

The death metal faded and a booming voiceover began rabble-rousing, getting the crowd hyped up. It was low-rent stuff but it worked. Martha found herself going along with it, ironically at first, but she got sucked into the call and response like everyone else. Billy and Cal were the same, whooping it up.

The first fighters came out to thudding hip hop. Wolf against Viper. Martha shook her head. Really? Both guys had tidy beards and shoulder-length hair and were wearing tight shorts, sweatbands on their wrists and comical grimaces.

But once they got down to it, there was some serious intent. OK, it was pantomime, but Martha found herself admiring the athleticism of these cartoonish guys. She couldn’t climb a turnbuckle and leap off. She couldn’t do a forward flip through the ropes onto the concrete floor. Who was she to mock them?

‘This is awesome,’ Cal said over the crowd noise. ‘You think Viper might let me check out his trouser snake afterwards?’

Martha pursed her lips. ‘Come on.’

‘Have you seen the muscles on these guys? And these outfits, man, they must be gay.’

In the third round, Viper got Wolf pinned for a count. He sprang up, beating his chest in victory. Wolf took it badly and broke a chair over Viper’s head on the way out. Everyone roared.

V was up next on the card. Billy went to get beers before she appeared.

Cal threw Martha a concerned look. ‘You OK about tomorrow?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Should you be drinking?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

Cal looked at her. ‘You’re taking the day off, right? You’re not going into work afterwards.’

Martha didn’t answer.

‘That’s nuts.’

‘It won’t be a problem. Last time I felt fine after a couple of hours.’

‘If you just tell them, I’m sure they’ll understand.’

Martha sat upright. ‘I’m not telling anyone at the office about this. You know what people think when you say ECT.’

Cal looked away. ‘Well, there might be a problem about that.’

Martha’s eyes widened. She grabbed Cal’s jaw and turned his face to hers. ‘You didn’t.’

‘It was an accident. I thought Billy already knew.’

Martha slapped his chin away. ‘Fuck’s sake, Cal.’

‘Sorry.’

Billy returned with the beers. He was smiling. But Martha knew he knew. So, what, he felt sorry for her? Thought she was crazy? Fuck that.

She took her beer and faced the ring.

The voiceover guy began again, whipping up the crowd for the second bout.

V came out to ‘American Idiot’ by Green Day. Nice touch. She was grimacing and laughing as she walked to the ring, then she did a few backflips once she got on the canvas and ended with a gymnast’s pose. Wow.

Buttercup came out to ‘Enter Sandman’, punching the air and snarling. She was so much bigger than V.

Once the bout got going, it was just as dumbly impressive as the last one. Lots of theatrics, playing up to the crowd, gooning at the front rows. Martha found herself screaming for V to get out of a choke hold.

V slipped the hold but she was tiring, hands on knees, chest heaving. Several rounds with this dumptruck had taken it out of her. A few more slams into the canvas and up against the turnbuckles and she was bumped down into a shoulder pin and counted out.

V and Buttercup were immediately up, embracing and waving to the crowd, both soaking it in. No animosity after the bell this time, all friendly girls together.

‘V,’ Martha shouted over the crowd. ‘Hey.’

V caught her eye and waved. She had a broad grin on her face, despite getting beat. Her eyes glowed with something real amongst all the fakery, and Martha found that simple pleasure infectious. For a moment she didn’t think about ECT, her dad’s suicide, Gordon in a coma, Billy’s damaged brain, her own synapses and neurons misfiring, and just soaked in the applause, imagining it was for her.

The walls of the Royal Dick were covered in bleached animal bones and medical instruments, the pub having been converted from the old veterinary school along with Summerhall next door. Martha sat with Billy and Cal, swigging her Erdinger and imagining animal ghosts haunting the room.

V appeared wearing a ZZ Top cut-off, short leather skirt and knee-high boots. Cheers all round. Martha surprised herself by jumping up and hugging her. She felt V’s firm muscles in her squeezed embrace.

‘That was amazing,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Flukester.’

Martha introduced V to Cal and went to get the beers in. Billy came to help with the drinks.

‘I can manage four pints myself,’ Martha said.

‘I’m sure you can,’ Billy said.

When they returned to the table, Billy got a buzz in his pocket.

‘What a stud your brother is,’ V said, nodding at Cal.

‘He’s gay,’ Martha said.

‘Well, duh,’ V said. She rubbed Cal’s arm, making him laugh. ‘Any guy this buffed is bound to be. Nice eye candy, though.’

Billy was looking at his phone. ‘Oh shit, Gordon is dead.’

Martha touched the table to steady herself as the world went a little off kilter.

‘Fuck,’ V said.

‘The obit guy?’ Cal said.

V nodded.

Martha looked at Billy’s phone. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Rose.’

‘What does it say?’

‘He had some kind of massive brain seizure. No point keeping the machines on. His wife said they could pull the plug.’

‘Shit,’ Martha said. She slumped into her seat.

‘You OK?’ Billy said.

She nodded, an automatic response. She was OK. She wasn’t the one who had shot his face off. She wasn’t the one who had to go back to that house and look at the mess up the walls, soaked into the carpet, sprayed across the sofa. She wasn’t the one who had jumped off North Bridge in the middle of the night, when no one was around to talk him out of it, making sure to jump at the most effective place to kill himself. She didn’t want to kill herself, despite it all, despite the darkness and the pressure between her eyes.

She rubbed at her forehead, a pincer movement that made her wince.

She felt Billy’s hand on her back.

‘Don’t.’ She wriggled away from his touch. ‘I’m fine.’

She picked up her pint and raised it. ‘To Gordon Harris.’

They copied her. She took a big drink, loving the coldness of it in her throat, the fizz in her belly, and she wanted to feel alive.

‘What the hell is a “badmotorfinger”?’

Martha was standing in Ian’s living room with the album in one hand, glass of whisky in the other.

‘Sounds rude,’ Cal said. ‘Like a dildo gone wrong.’

The four of them were emptying out the dregs of Ian’s booze shelf. Martha hated whisky but that’s all there was left. That or Turkish brandy. V had made appreciative noises at the whisky bottle, but it just tasted like antiseptic to Martha. It was doing a job, though. She struggled to focus on the back of the album cover.

The other three were flumped on the sofa, passing the Ardbeg around.

Martha pulled out the inside sleeve of the album.

‘Holy shit, look at this guy.’

She handed it to V, who nodded.

‘Chris Cornell from Soundgarden,’ V said, ‘he’s been in the wank bank for years.’ She scanned the sleeve notes. ‘Don’t you know anything about grunge?’

She passed the sleeve to Cal, who gave a whistle.

‘Oh yeah,’ he said.

Billy shook his head.

Martha smiled. ‘I’m sorry, are we upsetting you with our man-lust?’

Billy held his hands up in submission. ‘Hey, I’m not saying anything, I’m outnumbered three to one.’

Cal gave the record back to Martha, who slipped the vinyl out the sleeve and put it on. She was beginning to like the tactile experience of Ian’s old records – a physical thing to hold onto, a chunk of black plastic or whatever it was that made a comforting scratchy sound when you slapped a needle on it. How archaic was that, sticking a sharp point into a groove to make a sound. How the hell did they ever come up with that?

She realised that since Ian’s funeral she hadn’t listened to a single MP3 on her phone, just his cassettes and records. She was regressing to the Dark Ages.

A blistering riff leapt out the speakers, frantic drums and bass, then this stud Cornell screaming. He sounded good. In control.

‘Wow.’

V got up to mooch around the living room.

‘So do you break into your dead dad’s flat a lot?’

Martha had explained to V about Ian back in the Royal Dick.

‘Quite a lot, recently,’ Martha laughed.

V shook her head. ‘Haven’t the neighbours noticed?’

Martha shrugged.

‘We close the door behind us, they probably don’t want to get involved. Maybe they think we’re squatters and this is a crack den.’

‘This is no crack den,’ V said, ‘I should know.’

Martha gave her an inquisitive look.

‘What can I say?’ V said. ‘I’ve led a colourful life.’

A sludgy, sleazy riff was chugging out the speakers now. Martha caught a line: ‘I’m looking California and feeling Minnesota’. Nice.

Martha touched V’s arm. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’

‘Shoot, sister.’

Martha turned to Billy. ‘You might as well hear this as well.’ She glanced at Cal. ‘Although I know you already know because of blabbermouth here.’ She looked at V. ‘I might seem a bit weird at work tomorrow.’

‘More than normal?’

Martha smiled. ‘I’m going to the hospital first thing for an appointment.’ She stalled for a second. ‘At the Royal Edinburgh.’

V looked nonplussed.

‘That’s the psychiatric hospital in Morningside.’

‘There’s a psychiatric hospital in Morningside?’

Martha nodded. ‘I’m due for an ECT dose.’

‘ECT? Like . . .’

‘Please don’t say
Cuckoo’s Nest
.’

‘OK.’

Martha’s mouth was running away with her. Whisky-fuelled.

‘It’s nothing like that. It just resets things. Me and Cal both have depression, I’ve tried every medication going – nothing stuck. I always felt I was still suffocating. I get regular doses of ECT and it works.’

V took a sip of her whisky. ‘Why the fuck are you coming into work after that?’

‘It’s no big deal, I feel fine after. I want to get on with things.’

V shook her head. ‘Don’t be a hard-ass, take the day off. I can cover, been doing it enough.’

‘I want to work.’

‘Are there any side effects?’

‘A bit groggy from the anaesthetic, maybe some short-term memory loss.’

V held her hand up. ‘Whoa, lady, there’s really no need.’

Cal piped up. ‘I told you.’

Martha looked at Billy. Thought about brains and minds.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

She plonked herself down next to Billy and clinked his glass.

Cal got up and began dancing with V to Soundgarden, a slow smoochy dance, both of them making a joke of it.

Martha turned to Billy.

‘How’s the hole in your head?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You heard about that?’

‘Read about it.’

Billy rubbed at the back of his neck.

Martha held his gaze. ‘Must’ve been a crazy time.’

Billy shrugged. ‘Don’t remember too much of it, actually. Took a shitload of morphine.’

‘You were on the Crags when it went on fire?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And there were guys shooting at each other?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Wow.’

He took a drink. ‘You know, Rose saved my life.’

‘Really?’

‘I owe her everything.’

They didn’t speak. The guy from Soundgarden was yelling about Jesus Christ.

‘How did Rose know about Gordon dying?’ Martha said.

Billy shook his head. ‘She’s a reporter, it’s her job to know stuff.’

‘But this is our story.’

‘There’s no story. A guy from the office killed himself, that’s it.’

Martha thought for a moment. ‘There’s a sound on the tape.’

‘What?’

‘After he shot himself. There’s a sound on the tape.’

‘What kind of sound?’

‘A clunk or something.’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘I don’t know. That’s my point.’

‘You think it wasn’t suicide?’

‘It’s possible.’

Martha refilled her whisky glass.

‘Do you think you should?’ Billy said. ‘The hospital and all that.’

Martha took a drink and waved that away. ‘I wish you could know what it feels like. It wipes away all the shite that’s accumulated. You start again with a clean slate. It’s about getting a second chance.’

Billy smiled. ‘I know what that feels like.’

Martha leaned in and kissed his cheek. ‘I suppose you do.’