‘She doesn’t know yet. I’m going to tell her tonight. It’ll be a surprise for her.’
Kitty chuckled again. She was rolling a cigarette of her own. She did the whole thing expertly with her one hand and her teeth. Really, it was hard to believe that she had only one arm. Sandy tried not to stare.
‘You know how this happened?’ she said, the cigarette wagging in her mouth. ‘I’ll tell you. I was mauled by a dog that was set on me by a farmer up north. Near Inverness, wasn’t it, Robbie? He saw me coming up his drive and he set his bloody dog on me, the bastard. I wouldn’t see no doctor afterwards, you see. Then it hurt too much, but by then it was too late. They had to amputate it. Robbie was about thirteen then, wasn’t you?’ He nodded, his eyes on the empty bowl in front of him. ‘Aye, thirteen he was. You know what we did? A few of the menfolk and wee Robbie here, they snaked up to the farm one afternoon while the farmer was about his business and they killed the dog.’ She chuckled mirthlessly. Her eyes were strong upon Sandy’s. His stomach turned the soup in a slow, sickening revolution. The matter in her left eye was like a tiny maggot, alive and wriggling. ‘They stoned it to death and threw it into the farmhouse. We had to get out of that neck of the country in a hurry, I can tell you. But it was worth it.’ She laughed this time. Her mouth was a deep red cavern surrounded by teeth like chippings of coal. Robbie was scraping his spoon across the base of his bowl.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ said Sandy. ‘Excuse me. Thank you for the soup and the tea.’ He was aware of his false formality, aware that it showed his weakness. He blanched. The old woman slid from her seat to let him out.
‘I’ll stay on for a bit,’ said Robbie. ‘Aunt Kitty and me have things to talk about.’ He reached across the table for another roll-up.
‘It was nice seeing you,’ Sandy said to Kitty.
‘And you, son.’ She chuckled, knowing the truth. ‘Come and see us any time.’
He stepped outside and breathed in the grass-heavy air. The dog stood up and barked again. He ignored it. A man watched him from the door of one of the other caravans. He was scratching his grizzled chin as if sizing the boy up for a potential meal. Sandy, his heart thudding, walked smartly away.
‘Sandy!’
He turned and saw Robbie running awkwardly towards him, as if he had never run in his life. Sandy waited for him. Robbie walked the last few yards and puffed on his cigarette. He stopped beside his friend and stared into the distance. He mumbled something, then looked back towards the caravans.
‘Promise you won’t tell Aunt Kitty,’ he repeated. ‘Promise you won’t ever tell her or anyone else.’ Sandy nodded. ‘Promise,’ said Robbie.
‘I promise.’
‘Okay.’ He took a gulp of air. His eyes were like a mongrel’s. ‘Listen then. We never killed the dog. None of us had the guts. We sat in the woods for a while, had a smoke, then went back to the camp and told everyone our story. We said that we’d best be moving. We moved away so that she wouldn’t find out that we’d not done it. It would have killed her and killed us if we’d confessed. So don’t feel bad about it, okay?’ He put a hand gently on Sandy’s shoulder. Sandy nodded. He was about to say something, but Robbie was already starting away. ‘See you later,’ he called back. ‘Come up to the house.’
‘Fine,’ yelled Sandy. He walked away, sure in his heart that Rian had been lying to him about her brother and her aunt. He did not want to believe it, yet the evidence was before his eyes like the scenery. He could accept it or not; it was reality. He frowned. There was something he had meant to ask Aunt Kitty. The meaning of an itchy nose. That was it: what was the meaning of an itchy nose?
3
George Patterson had locked the door, pulled down the blind, and was busying himself with the small change at his till when a sharp rapping on the door told him that his friend was waiting to be let in. He came from behind the counter, crossed to the door, peered through the glass, and, a smile settling on his face, drew back the lock.
‘Hello, George. Busy day?’
‘Not bad, Matt. Yourself?’
Matt Duncan scratched his cheek. He had not shaved that day and the bristles were iron-grey and hard.
‘Doing away, George,’ he said. ‘That’s all we can do, eh? Just doing away.’
‘Aye, Matt, it’s the truth.’ Patterson relocked the door and ushered the smaller man through to the back room where hair was occasionally cut. ‘Go on through, Matt,’ he said. ‘You know your way. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ He went back to his counting, his fingers springy and agile. He totalled the day, scratched with his pen on a piece of paper, put the paper and the notes in his pocket, closed the till and locked it. Then he walked slowly through to the back room, opened another door, and was in a tiny room which was comfortably furnished. Matt Duncan was opening a can of beer.
‘It’s grand to have a beer these nights,’ he said, handing the can to Patterson.
George Patterson sat down. He knew that Matt Duncan was a bit of a rogue, but he was an old friend. Patterson did not have many friends. He rejected invitations the way other men refused to play with their children. Yet he had known Matt Duncan, who was five years older than him, since his schooldays. Only in the past five or so years, however, had they become good friends. Both had bitter pasts to complain about, and both had patient ears as long as they knew that their own complaints would be listened to eventually. Patterson watched the foxy old man sink into an ancient armchair. The room contained two armchairs, a small writing desk, and a fridge. The beer had been kept in the fridge. It was chilled, and the bubbles caused Patterson to burp silently and often. It was gassy stuff this; not the same as you got in the pub. Eventually they would go out to the pub, but it was nice to sit and talk together first.
‘Weather turned stormy today,’ said Matt Duncan.
‘Aye,’ said Patterson, ‘but not before time. It’s been a good few weeks since we had some rain. I could see the paper bags and rubbish blowing about outside, just like tumbleweeds in a Western.’
They both chuckled, sharing as they did a liking for old cowboy films. Duncan liked novels about the West, too, but George Patterson found them banal. They did not discuss these novels in case they should argue. Neither could afford to lose the other, though neither really knew why.
‘It was terrible. I got caught in the rain as I was going down to the bookie’s.’
‘Win anything today, Matt?’
Duncan’s face screwed in disgust. ‘Not a bloody thing,’ he said. ‘But Dod Mathieson, a man that’s not needing money, he won naturally.’ His voice was bitter. He hated the man who had won. ‘I’d like to know how he manages to win so bloody much and I lose. I think he’s in on some game with the manager of that shop. They’re always gassing together, yet the bugger would hardly give me the time of day. Aye, there’s something funny there all right. You take my word for it.’
Patterson shook his head in sympathy. Yes, the world seemed cruel to Matt Duncan. The grass was always greener. You lose a son, you lose your job. You’ve lost everything, and you’re bitter. Patterson was not himself a bitter man, not really. He fed on guilt instead. He was, he knew, worse off than Matt Duncan, for he could not reveal his guilt, though often he had come close. Poor Hugh. What good had it all been? He had to feed perpetually on his shame, with no one knowing. Well, hardly anyone.
‘Mind you, Matt Duncan’s not a man to go telling on people. If they’ve got shady dealings, it’s up to the shop owner to find out. He must be raking it in if he can afford to ignore a swindle like the nice one they’ve got going.’ The conspiracy was now an incontrovertible fact for Duncan. He drank his beer noisily, as if its flavour were the taste of his rage.