Fallow Page 13

  They were gone though. My stomach sank. Beds empty and hastily made. I shuffled into the bathroom and ran myself a shower. Once the water was as hot as it would go I stepped inside. My chest and thighs and cock screamed from the pain. It was good though. My skin went pink as peaches and my eyes and brain cleared.

  Mikey gave me a funny look as I sat down on my bunk, a towel round my waist.

  ‘You all right?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I got some water in my eye.’

  Isaac and Mikey didn’t bother with full showers, deciding to wash themselves in the sink. We dressed and went downstairs and handed the keys over to the receptionist. She snatched them out my hands, sucking on her own mouth with anger.

  As we passed by the lounge I glanced inside. The same crowd was in there, only now the sheet had been taken away and the furniture pushed back. They were all sat around having frothy coffees and chatting away. The receptionist coughed from behind me, so I followed Isaac and Mikey out into the street. We piled into the van and I started the engine. They were in the back, quarrelling over who would be allowed to lie down on the sofa bed. Isaac was convinced he should have it, due to being the oldest.

  ‘But the van’s half mine,’ whined Mikey.

  ‘Let him lie down,’ I said. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  I drove down the road with an idea of where to go half forming in my mind. If either of the clowns in the back questioned me, I’d tell them to mind their own businesses. I was driving and it was up to me where we went. The roads were quiet – it was a Sunday and still early. I made my way to the city’s heart, following road signs for what I was looking for.

  I pulled the van up outside Central Station, behind a line of black cabs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Mikey.

  I looked behind and saw he was pressing his nose and hands up against the glass, staring at the station’s atrium.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, rolling down the window, scanning the crowd on the pavement opposite.

  ‘Are we getting a train?’

  ‘No.’

  I saw women and men and boys and girls but I couldn’t see the faces I was looking for. It was a long shot anyway. It was a daft idea. I restarted the engine and put it in gear.

  ‘Right,’ I said, turning the steering wheel.

  And then I stopped. A pair of dark-haired figures emerged from the newsagents on our side of the road and crossed over towards the station, only a few taxis in front of us. I honked the horn and they stopped, turning to us.

  I rolled the window down and leaned out, waving.

  They waved back.

  ‘Yous wanting a lift?’ I shouted.

  The two faces broke and scurried across the road to meet us. Lou got into the back with the boys but Brett stood by my window, his hand gripping the pane. His knuckles were sharp and had veins running over them.

  ‘This is amazing,’ he said. The wind moved his hair around.

  ‘You should get in,’ I told him.

  Isaac had woken up by then and Brett got inside and I drove us away. Introductions were exchanged and everyone settled in to the journey. Lou told the boys we were going to a place called Arran and we were going to have the best time ever.

  I drove us south across the bridge and the Clyde was slimy and dark. I imagined Duncan beneath the surface, looking up at me as I sped over the bridge. I beat you, I told him. You, with your education and your travelling and everything you had, you couldn’t beat me. I beat everyone in the end.

  He blinked and swam away, down river, towards the open sea. I smiled to myself as I watched him go.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Brett, sat beside me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  We drove through the city’s Southside and out into the country again. We were headed for the ocean. This vehicle was my hand and everyone inside was mine. I was in charge of where we went and when we went and I held all of them in my smooth palm. If I wanted to, at any second, I could close the fingers, and that would be it. That would be it. I could turn the steering wheel and plunge all five of us into a wall, if I wanted to, or out into open water. I could do anything I wanted to.

  I wasn’t going to though.

  I had other, better plans.

  9

  There was confusion at the ferry terminal. First, it was Isaac.

  Ardrossan was only an hour or so from the city and we’d spent the journey in friendly conversation. Lou and Brett told us about their travels so far, how they’d flown in to Belgrade and worked their way west. How they’d slept on the beach in Croatia, ridden funicular railways in the Alps, eaten warm oily pasta in Florence.

  ‘And now we’re here,’ said Lou, casting her hand at the flat land moving by the van’s window.

  ‘And now we’re here,’ repeated Brett.

  ‘How’ve you found it?’ asked Isaac. ‘It’s shite, eh?’

  ‘No,’ said Lou, offended. ‘It’s a beautiful place. We went all the way up last week, didn’t we Brett? We were in Mull. Oban and Mull.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Isaac. ‘Bet it was shite though, wasn’t it?’

  By the time we made it to the harbour the boat was already waiting. It towered above the cars, its great black hull dull and massive.

  ‘Em,’ piped up Isaac. ‘What’s the fucken story here then?’

  I ignored him, paying the man at the stand and joining the queue of traffic waiting to embark.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I heard Mikey ask and I twisted round in my seat to look into the back. Isaac was on his knees, crouching down to take in the ferry’s height through the window.

  ‘I mean, what’s the fucken story with this great big fuck-off boat? Nobody said we were getting on a boat.’

  ‘We told you,’ I said. ‘We told we were going to the Isle of Arran.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but I thought that was just an expression. A turn of phrase.’ He looked terrified. ‘I’m afraid my good people that this is where we part ways. Nice to meet you all.’

  Mikey frowned and looked at me. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked Isaac.

  ‘No pal, no jokes. Me and the water, we don’t mix. Like, eh, oil and water. Well,’ he said, looking at each of us and then clapping, ‘cheerio.’

  He shook Mikey by the hand, opened the van door and hopped out. He slid it closed and blew us a kiss. We all watched in bemusement as he weaved away among the queuing traffic, his hair as bright as a halo.

  ‘What did he give you?’ I asked Mikey.

  Mikey unfolded the item Isaac had slipped him and studied it. ‘It’s a map,’ he said. ‘I think.’

  ‘Pass it here,’ I said.

  It was a napkin from the pub the night before on which Isaac has drawn a crude map of the West Coast, all the islands and sounds and peninsulas scribbled in chunky crayon. ‘Fucken hell,’ I said. Up at the top he’d drawn a star and written, in a childish scrawl, Very Heaven.

  I held it up so that Lou and Brett could see.

  Brett took it from me. ‘I mean...’

  ‘What an odd person,’ said Lou and we all laughed, even Mikey.

  ‘Very Heaven,’ I muttered. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  Mikey shook his head. ‘No. Well, maybe. He said he was heading north didn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Brett handed the map back to Mikey. ‘Where did you dig him up from?’

  I explained that he had tagged along with us, how we’d been camping and he’d just shown up one morning. I neglected to include where the van had come from or the reason we were camping out in the countryside in the first place.

  I parked the van deep inside the belly of the boat and we went up on deck to watch the island approaching. It was a shadowy mass out on the horizon, mountainous in the northern regions, hulking stacks of grey hills rising from the Clyde Firth. It wasn’t a particularly choppy crossing but Lou ended up going green. I told her she could go downstairs and sit in the van.

  ‘I’ll come down with you,’ s
aid Brett, taking the keys from me.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘She’ll be fine, it’s a comfortable van.’

  But he went anyway.

  Mikey and I got sick of watching the island so we went down to the bar. I had a shandy and Mikey had a proper pint. It was our first time alone together for a day.

  ‘That was funny,’ I said, ‘about the map.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ laughed Mikey. ‘He’s some boy.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘Say anything about what?’

  I drank a mouthful of the sweetened beer. ‘You know what I mean. About the whole situation. I mean, what’s he doing giving you a map like that? Just you.’

  Mikey stared into the bottom of his beer. ‘He didn’t say anything in particular.’

  I said, ‘Mikey,’ in one of my voices.

  ‘Right. OK. All he said was that maybe running away from my problems wasn’t the best solution. That was it.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  I sighed and drank some more. There was a strong smell of grease and fish coming from the ferry’s canteen next door. ‘When are you going to learn to trust me?’

  ‘I do trust you. It’s just that...’

  ‘It’s just what?’

  ‘I know you said about all the newspapers and that outside, but I never saw them. You just told me.’

  I leaned over our drinks so that my whisper would carry. ‘You’re calling me a liar, is that it? You think that I wanted to go trailing over the whole fucken country? Like, that’s my idea of fun or something?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Course not.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad that’s not what you think because otherwise I’d be left feeling like I’m wasting my time.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said.

  ‘He also said I’d be in trouble.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘For missing all them parole meetings. Mind, it was meant to be every week that I saw the social worker and police. And I never went to any of the psycho... psychom...’

  ‘The psychologist.’

  ‘I never went to any of the psychologist meetings they set up.’

  I shook my head. ‘They’ll understand. When we get back and I explain it all to them, about the press, about the harassment.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  We finished the drinks and went upstairs to stand at the prow and watch as the ferry inched closer to land. The island was something else. The land looked alive and real. Solid and green and purple and brown with plump clouds full of delicious water. We watched as the ferry came alongside the jetty and some men threw ropes to each other. When that happened we knew we’d better get downstairs sharpish.

  Lou and Brett had found a photo album.

  ‘Hey,’ they said, looking up as I slid the door open, ‘who’s this?’

  I took it from them. It was a series of pictures of a small, blonde boy. The small, blonde boy standing beside a snowman, full of pride. Riding a tricycle down a brown-carpeted hallway. Using a fork and knife on a comically large pizza. I flicked through it, confused, trying not to show it. I came to the final photo and there was Duncan, kneeling on the grass beside the small, blonde boy. On the back cover someone, an adult, had written To Daddy, with love, from Carl.

  I held up the final photo to show the Americans. ‘There’s the chap we bought the van off,’ I told them. ‘He must’ve forgot it was in here.’

  The opening to the parking hangar was beginning to crack open, letting in a chink of sunlight, so I ducked into the front to start the van up.

  ‘Oh my god,’ said Lou. ‘That is so sad. You have to make sure you give it back to him. It’s his little boy!’

  I kept the photo album on my lap and Mikey slid the door behind him. ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Maybe.’

  We followed the slow crawl of traffic out of the ferry and onto the harbour. As soon as we hit the tarmac the ocean smells started to seep into the van. There was a petrol station immediately outside the ferry terminal. I parked there and waited for the Americans to run to the tourist information office to find someplace to crash.

  I flicked through the album and scoffed. ‘What a fanny that guy was,’ I said. ‘Duncan.’

  ‘He wasn’t a fanny,’ said Mikey. ‘He was just a bit… y’know.’

  ‘No, he was a total fanny,’ I said and I peeled the final photograph from the album. ‘There,’ I said, crumpling it between my hands and tossing it from the open window. Mikey watched it fly, blinking back some kind of displeasure.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  Brett and Lou wandered back from the tourist information. ‘There’s a nice sounding spot up in the north of the island,’ said Brett, parking himself in the passenger seat and closing the door.

  ‘Whatever yous say,’ I said, and off we went.

  The road clung to the beach for most of the journey. We went out of the main village and around the coast, heading north. A family of seals were sitting out in the bay, their heads and tails extended to heaven, their fat bellies resting on underwater stone. They watched the van pass with complete lack of interest, with dull dogs’ eyes. Above the road as we came out of the village was a grand castle or country home, red as raw bricks and empty.

  ‘The girl in the place said we’d pass that,’ said Brett. ‘I think she said it was an old… maybe a hunting lodge? I don’t remember. Lou?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ piped up Lou. ‘I think it was a hunting lodge.’

  ‘It looks scary,’ said Mikey.

  ‘Don’t be silly, sweetie,’ said Lou. ‘It’s just old.’

  We drove past the castle or house or lodge and the land above the road grew wilder. We passed through a handful of tiny villages, with their milk-white pubs and decorative fishing boats in the harbours. Eventually the road went inwards, away from the coast and into the higher land. The mountains were piles of boulders and scree up close, bare rock held together by moss and heather and damp. Much harsher than the mountains we’d had by our camp.

  ‘Woosht,’ said Mikey, gazing at the ragged molars of rock. ‘Look at those.’

  The road began to descend again and a road sign told us we were entering Lochranza, which Lou explained was the very place in question. The village was built around a wide bay with a narrow mouth. A decrepit castle was perched on a slip of land by the opening. We passed a distillery and a campsite and a string of tooth-coloured houses, built back from the road, mangy fields between us and them.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Brett. ‘I don’t know. The girl just said it was here, the hostel.’

  I drove the village’s length once to try and locate the hostel but I saw no sign of it. There was another, smaller ferry terminal at the far end where the coast turned back in on itself. On the way back I parked up outside the village shop, Marigold’s, to ask for directions.

  There was a young girl seated at the counter, her head buried in a book.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  She looked up, smiling, fresh faced. ‘Hello,’ she squeaked.

  ‘Hiya. Do you know where the hostel is here?’

  ‘It’s a half-mile or so down the road. There’s a big sign.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Remember Marigold’s for your messages, eh? Sorry, I’m supposed to say that.’

  I said, ‘That’s all right,’ and I went back to the van.

  I told the others that we were a pack of clowns. There was a sign for the hostel facing the other way down the road. A gravel path led up the hill to a bright pink building.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Mikey. ‘Is this the place?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  I parked the van and ushered the rest of them inside. I wasn’t worried about them spying on Mikey – the hicks in these
parts wouldn’t know a newspaper article if it bit them on the arse. Lou and Brett hiked their rucksacks up their backs and I carried Mikey’s and my bag. There was a vast woman seated behind the reception of the hostel. Her hair was shorn short and she wore an African-style dress. She wore a name badge that read Mother Senga.

  She said, ‘What?’

  ‘We’re looking for some beds,’ said Lou, looking back and counting us. ‘Do you have room for four? Four people?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mother Senga. ‘Yous go up and find yourself a spot. If the bed’s made it means it’s free.’

  The four of us climbed the stairs and opened the first door we came to. Lou and Brett unpacked their bags onto a set of bunks. Brett’s bag fell open and a bag of grey powder flapped onto the sheets. I asked what it was and he slipped it back inside.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

  After we unpacked it was decided we would drive down the western coast. It was flatter and less wild than the east. We came across an abandoned graveyard. The stones were covered in moss and standing at acute angles. Lou begged me to park, so I did. We nipped over the road to inspect them, reading the names and dates.

  ‘See,’ said Lou. ‘Part of the point of coming here was that in a roundabout way Brett and I are from here.’

  ‘Eh?’ asked Mikey. ‘I thought yous two were Americans?’

  Lou stroked the upper curve of a weathered stone. ‘No, we are. But our ancestors came from here. They got a boat over some time in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Brett. ‘Is that offensive? With the clearances and so on?’

  ‘I don’t feel offended,’ said Mikey. ‘Do you Paul?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed. ‘It’s fine.’

  Brett said, ‘Phew.’

  Mikey and I stood by the fence, watching as Lou and Brett examined each gravestone, comparing it to a list of ancestors they had with them. When they were far enough away Mikey sidled over to me.

  ‘They’re funny, them two.’

  I watched Brett squat before a stone turned green from lichen. ‘What d’you mean?’