He registers me and breaks into a big, if slightly guilty smile. — Jenni!
— Hello, Jason, I grin back. He doesn’t look too bad, apart from one side of his face, which has come up in big, blotchy white spots where he collapsed and fell into the stinging nettles.
— Sit yirsel doon, he urges. — Heather wis jist seein tae muh, eh, pressin needs, if ye ken whit ah mean.
— How are you? I ask, looking at the steady beam that ignites Nurse Heather’s face as she goes about her duties.
— Ah’m brand new, but thuv telt ays tae keep still till they git the rest ay they X-rays back. Aye, Heather, fae Tayport, he says as the nurse smiles thinly at me and departs with the bedpan, Jason’s offerings covered by a paper towel.
I sit down in one of two hard red plastic visitors’ chairs. Jason’s locker is stocked with Irn-Bru and grapes. He seems better than when they brought him in yesterday, a lot more settled. He thought he’d fractured his arm, but the X-rays revealed that it was just bad bruising. He had some lacerations on his back that needed stitches, but it was a really remarkable escape. — I can’t imagine what it must be like, I’m asking him, — to survive when your friend dies… tell me again exactly what happened.
— Ah appreciate ye comin, Jenni, he says, — but ah’m no gaun through aw thon again, ah telt ye it aw last night.
— Of course, of course, I nod sternly. — You have to rest, it must have been a terrible shock, I appreciate, looking at his big, confused eyes. — Still no word about his head?
Jason suddenly slaps his own forehead with his good arm, and seems in real distress about this. — Nup, thuv hud Fife’s finest oot aw night n aw mornin combin the area n thuv still found zilch. Ah cannae believe it; it’s in a rid crash helmet, for fuck’s sake!
There’s something that’s so wonderful, magnificent and symbolic… about such a death. It excites me. — I love the idea of his beautiful head, like that of a disembodied angel, floating around looking down on us all. That perfect, wonderful face that won’t age or be corrupted by life; he’ll stay as beautiful as Kurt, Princess Di and Jimmy Dean, forever young!
But this thought doesn’t seem to console poor Jason, who is so upset. — Aye, but ehs ma’s a green grape n shi’s wantin a fuckin open-casket joab! So ah’ve got tae find that heid. If the fuckin bizzies cannae dae it, n ah hae ma doots aboot Fife Constabulary’s commitment tae this case, then ah’ll need tae get oot thair masel!
— You can’t, Jason, you have to rest, I urge.
— Aye, ye talk aboot ehs beautiful heid, but it’ll no be that beautiful once the craws n rats n worms git a haud ay it, he says in horror. And it is such a terrible thought. — Yuv goat tae help ays, Jenni, ye huv tae dae me a big favour, he begs.
I’m looking into those crazed eyes, which remind me of the fighting dogs back in the barn, and I feel that I can’t really refuse. — What?
— Go tae ma hoose n tell muh auld boy that ah need some clathes. Then bring thum back here fir ays.
I know where his house is, from when I dropped him off when he was wearing the sort of clothes I don’t think he’d appreciate me getting him now. He tells me the exact address again. — Okay, but on one condition, I tell him, — I come with you and help you find the head.
It takes him all of two seconds to agree to this. — And see if ye kin git hud ay a pair ay gairdin shears.
— That shouldn’t be a problem. But why?
— They jaggy nettles ur fuckin gittin it, he says angrily, fingering his lumpy face.
I prepare to depart, and feel moved to give him a chaste kiss on his sweaty brow. Just then, a painfully thin woman with made-up eyes and long, brown hair, comes hobbling in on a walking frame. — Mrs Forsyth… Frances… Jason says sorrowfully.
She moves over to the bottom of his bed. She looks at me, then at him, and then bites her lower lip for a bit. Then she speaks in a slow, sad voice. — This coonty took muh son, Jason. It took muh laddie. Ah ask masel, why did eh come back, whin thir wis nowt fir um here…?
— Eh jist wanted tae be wi ye whin yir wirnae well, Jason says sadly.
— Aye, that’s what ah thoat. So it wis ma fault. Ah kilt um! Muh ain flesh n blood, and she looks from Jason to me.
— Naw… ye cannae say that, Jason gasps. — You ken Kravy, ehs a free spirit. Naebody ever telt him tae dae anything eh didnae want tae dae. If anything it wis ma fault, fir littin um run ays up tae Perth fir that daft table-fitba game. Ah should’ve goat the train or bus!
The woman, Mrs Forsyth, looks so spectral, as if she’s just emerged from a three-thousand-year entombment. — They said eh hit a road sign that wis buckled, she sadly muses, — bent back by human hand, she almost howls, the lips in her ash-grey face trembling.
I feel moved to say something, so I cut in. — The kids do that. Vandalism. They twist the road signs.
— This horrible coonty swallowed up ma bairn, she cries in pain, then turns her walking frame and starts moving away. She twists her head round, — Get oot ay here, Jason, you n aw, hen: git oot while ye still kin.
— Mrs F, Jason pleads, — lit me dae one thing fir Kravy… n fir you n aw.
She stops and turns at an angle, so she can bend round to see him.
— Ally’s funeral. Eh wisnae intae aw that Christian shi—nae offence. Aw ah ask, is let me organise a send-off the boy wid be proud ay.
— Dae it, son. Any kind ay service ye want. Aw ah want is tae see um one mair time, in an open coffin.
— But Mrs F… Jason begs.
But she’s manoeuvred her frame round, and she’s off.
As she departs, Jason says to me, — Ah’ve been thinkin aboot that fir ages. Gittin oot ay here, ah mean. In fact, that’s jist aboot aw ah think aboot.
— It’s all anybody thinks about, I tell him. — That was his mother? Ally Kravitz’s mum?
— Aye.
— What a terrible way to lose your own flesh and blood. Something you’ve grown inside you…
— Aye, perr hoor’s hud nae luck at aw, Jason observes, and he now seems tired as he stares off into the distance. — First her man Coco Forsyth cashes in ehs chips, then she’s caught compromised oan the steps ay the Welfare, and now this… He suddenly stares intently at me. — I need one mair favour.
— What?
— Ye ken yon auld boy that sits oan the bench ootside the sports centre?
— The tramp? That disgusting old man?
Jason seems a bit upset at my description of this down-and-out. — That’s the boy, he says glumly.
The nurse enters to check his charts and Jason lowers his voice, forcing me to move in closer. He smells of a sweet, fresh perspiration, almost like girls’ toiletries. And he tells me what he wants me to do.
— You can’t be serious, I gasp.
— Nivir mair, he says earnestly.
When I get home I check on Midnight in the stable. A sinking feeling hits me as I can sense that something isn’t right. The stable door is open. A wave of panic moves through me. I go in and for less than a second I’m relieved, as he’s in the stable, but he’s lying down, on his side. Something horrible rises in me. I fall onto my knees and burst into tears. His breathing is shallow and he’s making a horrible dry wheeze.