Stonemouth

  One day, of course, the whole Ancraime estate – and the family’s various properties elsewhere – will be his, but his dad’s just twenty years older than he is and in robust good health, so in the meantime Hugo thought he’d get independently independently wealthy, if you see what I mean.

  People blamed Callum, partly, though he always swore he had been trying to think ahead and had shot Wee Malky purely so that George would accept that the game was over, and put down the sword. Those of us who knew Callum well thought this was plausible but unlikely. He’d never shown that sort of psychological acuity before and only arguably did afterwards. Still, Callum made it very clear he deeply resented any hint of an accusation that he’d done anything other than try to help, and try to help quite ingeniously, too, and over the ensuing years, if you listened to the way Callum told it, you might have thought the principal victim of the whole episode had been him.

  Only Ferg and I really blamed Phelpie too, a bit. He must have seen George head off in the direction of the house but then told Hugo he’d gone in the opposite direction, uphill. He even changed his story; at first he claimed he’d sent Hugo in the right direction and Hugo must have got lost, then, after a week, when he must have worked out how preposterous that idea was, he said, no, actually he’d pointed towards the house but Hugo had raced off in the other direction because he must have assumed Phelpie was trying to trick him.

  Anyway. This was all too much blame, too much detail, for most people, and in the end none of it would bring Wee Malky back or, for that matter, make George more or less culpable for a crime he still didn’t really understand he’d committed.

  Phelpie works for Mike MacAvett now; he’s the chauffeur and home handyman, officially, but more Mike’s bagman and bodyguard, where needed.

  We all got counselling. We pretty much all scorned it at the time, but it certainly seemed to help. I hate to think how bad my nightmares might have stayed without it.

  Though, between us, Ferg and I did think of a way Wee Malky might have escaped, after all: as you were sliding down the slipway you’d have to give up on spreadeagling and trying to stop or slow yourself, and instead make yourself as narrow as possible and somehow steer yourself so that you sped between two of the stumpy stone pillars at the bottom. Take your chances that George would have missed you with his sword as you shot past him and that you’d get far enough away down the channel beyond on sheer momentum, so that by the time you got to your feet and started running, you’d have a chance of escaping.

  Unlikely as it sounded even to us, we found this thought consoling, though somehow it never got incorporated into the nightmares. Their substance never really changed; they just became slowly less real, more faded, further away and less frequent.

  Sue MacAvett’s scones, as donated by Jel, were gently reheated, and judged very good by Mum, Dad and myself. The jam, too.

  I spent the evening with my parents; they wanted to congratulate me properly for joining the partnership. Mum drove us out to the Turrie Inn, near Roadside of Durrens on the Loanstoun road. Fine meal, fine wine. Place was busy on the strength of the chef’s word-of-mouth reputation, some magazine features and rumours of a Michelin star next year, maybe. Mum and Dad seemed happy and relaxed and glad to see me, and I had an almost surprisingly good time.

  Quietly pissed, but feeling like a child again, I watched through the side window of the Audi as a waning moon like a paring from God’s big toenail flickered between the black trunks of sentry trees ridging lines of distant hills.

  SUNDAY

  10

  ‘Aye, but they still compete.’

  ‘I’m not saying the teams don’t compete, I’m simply seeking to contrast the cut-throat, evolutionary, highly competitive world of the European and particularly the English League system with the moribund, non-relegatory, survival-guaranteed world of US American so-called “Football”. Which is mostly handball, anyway. I think it’s instructive and ironic that the land of the free enterprise principle and unfettered Marketolatry has produced such stasis, while the decadent, communitarian Old World revels in such tooth-and-claw competition. It’s why people like the Glazers don’t get it. I don’t think they fully understand that if their team does badly enough it’ll end up relegated to a lower league and out of the big money.’ Ferg puts down his cards and slides a fiver into the centre of the table. ‘Talking of which; raise you five.’

  ‘You call that big money?’

  ‘No, just money. And I’m not calling you, I’m raising you.’

  ‘Okay. See you, then.’

  ‘Nines and fours.’

  ‘Jack high.’

  ‘Fuck. You bluffing bastard, Phelpie. I should have gone for bigger money.’

  ‘I’d have folded.’

  ‘You say that now,’ Ferg says, scooping the pot towards him.

  Sunday, around noon: traditional time for the weekly poker game at Lee Bickwood’s. Lee has a big old converted sail loft near the old docks. Lines of Velux windows look out to east and west and – today – bead with rain as a smir rolls in off the sea, coating the glass. The beads grow slowly fat on the sloped glass, then get too heavy and run off suddenly, gathering speed as they sweep up smaller globules in a chaotic, zigzagging line down the glass. It all happens in silence; the rain is too soft to be heard through the double glazing.

  Lee’s family ran the town’s main hardware store for over a century until Homebase and B&Q moved into their respective retail estates on the outskirts of town. Now most of the family lives in Marbella, and Lee has a couple of gift and gizmo shops here and in Aberdeen.

  The Sunday poker game has been a fixture for the last ten years or so; Lee provides a running supply of rolls – bacon or black pudding, generally – cooked by his own fair hands during intervals. Lee is not a very good poker player, so getting out early and rattling the grill pan is a good way of seeming to stay with the game while actually ducking out at the first plausible opportunity. Whenever he does get a really good hand, one so good even he believes he can win with it, he stays in and bids big, fast. We tend to fold and he wins, but small. Occasionally somebody will stay with him, but he’s always telling the truth. I have never seen him exploit this pattern. Like I say: not a very good poker player. Lee had startlingly ginger hair when he was a year above us in school, though it’s going auburn now. He’s tall but getting a little pot-bellied, one of those guys who buys all the sports gear but rarely gets round to using it.

  ‘They can’t be that stupid,’ Phelpie says. ‘They’re fucking billionaire businessmen. They may be assholes but they’re not fuckwits.’

  Phelpie prefers to be known as Ryan these days, but we still think of him as Phelpie, and, besides, calling him Ryan would confuse things, given that Phelpie works for Mike Mac, who has a son called Ryan. Ryan the son who was briefly married to Ellie, and who might, apparently, turn up here later. Not sure how I feel about this. Actually, yes I am, but I won’t be scared off just because the guy that wed my girl might show.

  Lee agrees with Phelpie. ‘They’ll do the research, Ferg,’ he says. ‘They’ll know what they’re getting into. They’ll have people to do due diligence and such.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Phelpie says.

  Phelpie looks bulkily fit and well fed these days, brown hair slicked back. He wears a blue Deep Blue IV fleece over a pink shirt. Jeans, but new ones, so he’s still the most formally dressed. The rest of us are in sweats, tees and old jeans. Trainers all round. Even Ferg has dressed down specifically for the occasion, though he has set off his open shirt with a cravat. This reminds me of old Joe Murston, and gets me thinking about the funeral tomorrow. The cravat has not gone uncommented upon, though Ferg merely accuses us of provincial small-mindedness, a concomitant lack of imagination and outright jealousy.

  ‘You mentioned the European and particularly the English League there, Ferg,’ Jim Torbet says. Jim’s a junior doctor at the hospital. Medium build but wirily buff; a rock climber. He’d probably be scaling a clif
f today if the weather was better. He’s the only one of us wearing glasses. ‘What about dear old Scoatlund?’ He shifts to Glaswegian nasal to pronounce the last word.

  Ferg snorts. ‘Barely worth bothering with,’ he tells us as he shuffles the cards. ‘A duopoly where it makes sense for the two big teams to buy up star players from their lesser opponents and then leave them sitting on the bench or playing for the reserves—’

  ‘Or on loan to an English team,’ Lee provides, because this is a familiar theme for Ferg, and we can all join in if we want to.

  ‘– just to make sure they won’t be playing against them is the worst of both worlds: insufficiently competitive and pathetically, defensively cynical at the same time. Personally I think the idea of the Old Firm joining the Premier League is brilliant; get them to fuck out of the small pond that is Scottish football.’

  ‘What if they get relegated?’ Lee asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jim says. ‘Torquay United might object to travelling all the way to Glasgow.’

  ‘Be like a European tie for them,’ I suggest. ‘They should be grateful.’

  ‘Or Taunton,’ says Phelpie.

  ‘Oh, it’s not going to happen,’ Ferg concedes, dealing the cards. ‘It’s like world peace: great idea but don’t hold your breath.’ He snaps the deck down onto the table, picks up his cards, glances at them and looks left to Phelpie, who is carefully studying his. ‘Phelpie?’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Phelpie. A couple of people sigh and put their cards back down.

  ‘In your own time, Phelpie,’ Lee breathes. Phelpie prefers not to be hurried.

  Talk turns to what people were doing last night. Jim was working, but the other guys were out enjoying themselves, clubbing or in bars. Ferg was in Aberdeen at a not very good party; came back early. I am looked on with some sympathy for having had to endure an evening with the old folks. As no one can recall me having form in this – dereliction of the duty to party – the piss is not taken. I listen to what the others got up to, allowing a little for bravado and exaggeration.

  This is so much like the old days. And, again, I have mixed feelings. In some ways it’s good and comfortable to be fitting straight back in like I’ve never been away, but, on the other hand, I’m getting this constrictive feeling as well. It’s the same places – like the bars and pubs on Friday night – the same people, the same conversations, the same arguments and the same attitudes. Five years away and not much seems to have changed. I can’t decide if this is good or bad.

  After a long-feeling two minutes of deliberation, Phelpie goes a minimum pound. Actually there has been progress; on a majority vote round the table, Lee pulls out his Android phone and announces a one-minute maximum thinking-time limit. He leaves the phone on the table with the stopwatch function ready.

  ‘No fair,’ Phelpie says, though he’s grinning.

  Phelpie usually takes for ever to decide on his bet, though I’ve seen him be quick and decisive enough when he really needs to be. When challenged on this studied glaciality he claims he’s just working through all the angles and probabilities, though none of us really believes him. On the other hand, as Ferg has pointed out (though only to me; not for public consumption), while Phelpie rarely wins big he never loses big, and he’s very good at restricting his losses. He plays like somebody who knows the difference between luck – which is basically mythical – and chance, which is reality. Phelpie knows when to fold, maybe better than any of the rest of us.

  I end up going head-to-head with Ezzie Scarsen, a skinny, wee, shaven-headed guy I know only a little; a couple of years older than most of us. Works in the control room of the road bridge. He blinks a lot, which might or might not be a tell. I’ve got three tens and I think Ezzie’s an optimist; tends to over-bet.

  There’s a sort of unofficial limit in these games, which has shifted from twenty to twenty-five pounds while I’ve been away. Just a fun game between pals, after all. We get to twenty quid apiece on top of the pot before he sees me. Ezzie has kings and queens.

  ‘Gracias,’ I say, scooping with both arms.

  ‘Aw, man,’ Ezzie says, sitting back.

  I start shuffling.

  ‘Any jumpers this week, Ezzie?’ Lee asks.

  Ezzie nods. ‘Just the one, a female, but no a fatality.’

  ‘That the lassie on Wednesday night?’ Jim asks.

  ‘Aye,’ Ezzie says. ‘One of the McGurk girls? Chantal. Youngest one, I think.’

  There’s a round of shrugs, shakes and Nopes round the table as we agree she’s not on any of our personal databases, though we’ve all heard of the McGurk family; one of the larger tribes of the hereditary jobless from the Riggans estate.

  ‘You treat her?’ Lee asks Jim.

  ‘Been on Casualty all week,’ Jim says, with a nod.

  ‘Mazing how many people jump before the watter an hit the grun,’ Ezzie says, inspecting the interior of his wallet. ‘Even in daylight. At night, you’d unnerstan. Canny see where you’re headin. If you don’t know the bridge you can make a mistake like that. But daylight? You’d think they’d look.’ Ezzie shakes his head at such suicidal slackness. ‘We’ve had people get to just where the barriers start on the south approach and loup ower. You just land in the bushes; you’re lucky if you’re even scratched.’ He shakes his head. ‘Weird.’

  ‘I guess their minds are on other things,’ Ferg says, watching my hands carefully as I deal. No insult intended; he watches everybody’s hands carefully as they deal.

  ‘The lassie going to be okay?’ Lee asks Jim.

  ‘Not really supposed to say too much, Lee,’ Jim says. ‘But I think you could expect a full recovery. Be on crutches for a while, but I’d imagine she’ll be back dancing at Q&L’s again by the year end.’ Q&L’s is one of the town’s two clubs, in the old Astoria Ballroom.

  ‘Any idea why she jumped?’ Lee asks.

  Jim looks at Lee as he lifts his cards, ‘And that’s us over the patient–doctor confidentiality line, right there,’ he says, smiling round at all of us.

  ‘Do you keep the tapes of people jumping?’ I ask Ezzie as the betting starts. ‘You know, from the CCTV?’

  ‘No tapes these days, Stu,’ Ezzie says. ‘All hard disk.’

  Phelpie gets stopwatched.

  ‘You ever hand out copies to civilians?’ I ask.

  ‘Just the polis,’ Ezzie says, looking a little awkward. ‘Gie them a dongle if they ask for it. But we’re no even supposed to hand out copies to the families. How?’

  I shrug. ‘Just heard something.’

  ‘D’you ever watch footage of old jumpers?’ Ferg asks. ‘When it’s a boring shift? Is there a collection of greatest hits?’

  ‘Canny really say,’ Ezzie mumbles, closely inspecting his cards.

  ‘Is there a going rate for copies, Ezzie?’ Lee asks.

  ‘No,’ Ezzie says. He looks up at us. ‘Come on, guys; no fair.’

  Lee’s phone beeps. ‘Yes,’ Ferg says, ‘let’s get on with it. Phelpie, bid or fold.’

  ‘Pound,’ Phelpie says, sliding a coin decisively into the centre of the table.

  Ferg sighs dramatically.

  Ryan Mac arrives, nods at me with a sort of wary politeness – I like the wary more than the politeness – and sits in. El’s ex, though I’ll never be able to think of him that way. He’s slim and fair and slightly puppy-fatty, though in a cute way. Still very young-looking, and I can see Ferg eyeing him up. Phelpie takes a call from Mike Mac and has to go. Ryan gets up suddenly to have a word with Phelpie before he leaves and they stand at the far end of the loft’s main living area, by the stairs, talking quietly.

  Meanwhile I’m in a head-to-head with Ezzie again, who definitely thinks he has a chance this time. Which he might, of course, though I’m looking at a full house of jacks and threes.

  Lee is making more rolls. Ferg has gone to the loo.

  Ezzie had three kings, and deflates when he sees my hand. I suspect that’s the last of his money. His wallet looks anorexi
c and working in the bridge control room can’t pay that well. I go to arm-sweep in all the money, then stop. I look at Dr Torbet and motion with my eyes.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ Jim says. ‘Excuse me.’ He stands, goes to help Lee with the rolls.

  I look Ezzie in the eyes, nod at the pile of money bracketed by my arms and say quietly, ‘Ezzie, this is all yours if you can tell me a bit more about some of that CCTV stuff.’

  Ezzie looks alarmed. He glances round. ‘I canny sell you any of it,’ he tells me.

  ‘Just want to know if anybody’s ever got a private look, you know? Somebody not off the bridge?’

  ‘Aye, well, might have happened,’ Ezzie says, looking at the money.

  ‘Any footage ever disappeared, Ezzie?’

  Ezzie looks up at me. Another not very good poker player. I can see in his eyes the answer’s yes. ‘Oh, now, not really for me … Canny really say, Stu.’

  I lean over a little closer and lower my voice still further, though the industrial-looking extraction fan over the hob and grill is easily making enough noise to drown out our conversation. ‘What if somebody wanted to see the time Callum Murston took a dive?’

  Now Ezzie looks positively frightened. ‘Think that was all wiped,’ he tells me quickly.

  ‘Wiped?’

  ‘Polis. They said to. Didn’t want it fallin into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. The wrong hands? What does that mean – the press?

  ‘Aye,’ Ezzie says, ‘like if somebody put it on YouTube or somethin? Mr M might get upset and things could kick off, ken?’ Ezzie glances round at where Ryan and Phelpie are standing, still deep in earnest discussion. He looks back at me. Ferg is pacing back from the stairs. ‘Ah was on holiday at the time, Stu,’ Ezzie tells me quickly. ‘That’s all I know. Onist.’

  ‘Ooh! Blood sausage!’ Ferg says, stopping by the kitchen island. ‘Better have one of those.’