A crash from behind heralded Eddy running towards him, jumping up the steps, pointing his phone, the dull gleam whipping around the inside of the boiler, then steady. Eddy stood in the doorway, shining the brutal light at Malki’s face. Scarlet freckles were splattered all over his face. It came from his neck, at the side, a ragged mess of skin, like something had burst out of it, a cut like lips, only an inch or so long, but the redness came from it. A puddle had formed underneath Malki and soaked into his white tracksuit, it was working its way up through the material. He looked old, skullish, but Pat knew he was just a wee boy.
Eddy: ‘How did the cunt get overpowered by a midget Paki?’
Slowly, Pat stood up. He stared straight into the beam of light, an expression on his face that made Eddy’s feet falter. ‘My phone…’ said Pat flatly.
Eddy tipped his head quizzically, as though he had never seen Pat’s face before. Pat pushed past him, down the ladder. His steps fell loud as cannons as he crossed to the door.
‘Um, Pat?’ Eddy called after him, his voice small, ‘are ye off to phone his ma?’
With wide purposeful strides Pat passed through the packing room to the light at the loading bay door. Eddy’s voice was thin and far away.
‘I’ll wait here then, eh?’
Through the loading bay, under the lintel, into the broad concrete road, Pat burst into a run, faster and faster until he got to the car and then a sudden burst of adrenalin made it impossible to stop. He sprinted the three hundred yards to the end of the concrete strip, dropped to touch the edge for reasons he would later find bewildering, and bolted back to the car. He was by the door, jogging on the spot, knees up to his chest, faster and faster and faster, trying to keep time with his heart, lifting his fists in time, punching his chest. He panted like a woman in labour, trying to breathe the pain out, trying to burn it up.
Twenty-three years ago Pat had sat on a settee with his feet not reaching the end of the seat. Auntie Annie sat next to him, her hands hovering beneath the baby’s back and head, and Pat holding the baby for a photo. Pat grinning, the baby turning away from him, secretly making an ugly face that no one knew about until they got the picture back from the chemist’s. They’d ordered two sets.
Malki once had a girlfriend who looked like a monkey. Big jaw. She chucked him and he cried for a week.
A car door, blue, new, swinging open in a street in Shettleston as Pat yomped the five miles home in shitting icy rain one Hogmanay night and Malki’s gleeful face grinning out from the driver’s seat. ‘Lift?’ He was thirteen.
Pat kept running on the spot until his lungs felt like they might burst. The energy left him as fast as it had come. He slumped over the roof of the car, pressing hard against the cold metal. Pat pushed his face into the roof, pushed until the bridge of his nose clicked.
Standing up, he drew in a breath and held it. The marsh smelled of rotting things, of dead grass melting into the water. Without a thought in his head Pat pressed the button on the car key in his hand, opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and locked it, adjusted the seat to fit him, pulled the seat belt over himself.
He flicked the headlights on just as Eddy’s face appeared under the lintel. Eddy’s mouth was open, eyes wide as the headlights crossed him. Swinging the car in a wide circle on the concrete, Pat turned around and drove away.
30
Morrow drove home through the calm traffic, wishing it was heavier, hoping someone not far in front would have an accident. No one did.
Blair Avenue was settling in front of the television after a heavy dinner, curtains were being pulled, lights were on upstairs as families spread out and children steeled themselves to do their homework. A man coaxed an old dog along the road, touching its back to remind it of the direction. Three teenage boys eyed two girls chatting showily on a far corner.
Her curtains were drawn open, the light was on in the living room but she couldn’t see the flicker from the TV. They had a security timer on the lights. He might not even be in there.
Taking her courage in both hands she reach forward, took the car key from the engine and opened the door to the street. She put one foot on the road, made the other one follow it, slammed the door, locked it and kept her head down as she walked up the path to the house. He’d done some tidying in the garden since this morning. Weeds pulled up and the loose soil brushed back off the tiled path. He’d brushed the steps as well.
Her key was in and the door half open before she heard the radio from the kitchen. Her chin crumpled, a hot red flush rose to her eyes, making her stop on the step to take a deep shuddering breath. Dread of home. Not tonight. Not him and not tonight.
Being stuck on her own doorstep made her angry and she used the feeling to open the door and step in. Shutting it carefully behind her, she dropped her shoulders and let the coat slide down her back and into her hands. She threw the coat on the end of the banister, dropped her bag so that it would be in the way and marched into the kitchen.
Perched at the end of the kitchen table, Brian was doing some work on his laptop. He had heard her coming in, was already looking up at her, the resentment smothered by his pursed lips. White light from the computer screen glinted off his glasses, turning his eyes into harsh silver razor blades.
‘Alex…?’
‘Hi.’ She meant to sound light but it came out leaden. She dropped her keys on the counter. ‘Big case, didn’t get back last night. Haven’t slept for about forty hours.’
‘Hm. You must be tired.’
She almost laughed at the banality of the observation. He sat back, one of his broad shoulders turning a circle as if his neck was sore. He looked at her, his mouth twitched softly. He was waiting patiently for her to answer. ‘Yes,’ she responded in the same bland tone. ‘I am. How are you?’
‘Fine. Neck’s a bit sore again. The plumber came, sorted out that drain in the garden.’
She flicked through the gathered letters on the table to give herself something to do. ‘Good. Did he find the blockage?’
‘Newspaper, he said.’ Brian was trying to catch her eye, ducking his head to meet her, missing every time. ‘He said someone in the street has been using newspaper instead of toilet paper. It doesn’t dissolve in the same way.’ She didn’t speak. He waited for a beat. ‘I think it’s the students farther down, probably, in the Bianci house. They probably ran out of paper and were improvising.’ He forced his mouth to smile, half closing his eyes, keeping them shut when the smile was gone, trying to mask his hurt. ‘Can I run a bath for you?’
Morrow no longer loved the texture of skin on his neck, no longer loved the way he held his mug or the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Think I’ll have some herbal tea. Want some?’
‘I’m on the beer tonight.’ He held his bottle up, as if guilty. ‘Needed a beer…’
She turned away and flicked on the kettle, biting her bottom lip hard to stop herself shouting.
Brian was skirting it, getting around to talking about things. Losing her breath she turned away to the crockery cupboard and issued a warning: ‘God, I’m absolutely exhausted.’ She took out a mug and watched the kettle rumble to its high C. Don’t say that, Brian. Don’t fucking say it.
Brian watched her back for a moment, she could feel him reaching for her and finding her gone. ‘Well, you know what they say.’ Don’t Brian, don’t say that. ‘A watched kettle never… well, you know.’ He sniggered to cover his embarrassment.
Morrow kept her face to the kettle and brought her index finger to her mouth. She bit the knuckle so hard she could taste blood.