Fallow Page 3

  He started to get hyper at about five or six, chewing his nails, standing up for no reason and then sitting down on the grass again. At seven he crawled into the tent and emerged a good half hour later wearing a white shirt.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘The shirt.’

  ‘This?’ he said, pulling out the sleeve. ‘Just a shirt. Nothing special.’

  This was the first of me hearing about Mikey’s white shirt. He must’ve been saving it someplace for special occasions. It was as wrinkled as an elbow.

  ‘So are we heading off then?’ he asked, clapping his hands once.

  I checked my watch. ‘It’s only half seven.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well it’s a wee bit early yet.’

  His face fell. ‘So when will we get going?’

  ‘How about we say we head down when it gets dark?’

  He agreed to that without looking happy about it, slumping on the ground. I thought about warning him that he would get grass stains on his back, but it wasn’t the time. Perhaps I’d be able to nip inside the tent for an hour or two of shuteye, when… the paper! I’d forgotten to check that day’s paper! I scrambled into the tent and flicked through the pages.

  Again, he was right near the back. It was the same photo as the day before. I skimmed the article. They were calling him the ‘Buchanan Beast’. That name had been all over the papers and telly when it first happened, but you didn’t see it around so much anymore. Buchanan being our surname. This was a bad sign.

  ‘That the paper?’ he asked from outside. ‘What’s it saying?’

  I swallowed. ‘Nothing. Just the usual.’

  ‘Right.’

  Finishing the article, I was glad they had no new information. No new neighbour interviews, pieces of fluff that cast aspersions on the two Buchanan boys. There’d always been something off about them, even when they was young.

  I did my best to sleep but I couldn’t get the photograph out my mind. It was Mikey, emerging from the front door of our mother’s house. Our house too, I suppose. I didn’t remember the exact day it was taken but it would’ve been one of the first they all showed up. We hadn’t told him they were out there, he didn’t know the papers had his address. He’d stumbled out the door, going to the shops or something, and all the flashbulbs went off at once. The photo showed his mouth open, his hand halfway to his face to shield himself from the light.

  I lay back in the sleeping area with the paper on my chest and closed my eyes, imagining how it would be when all this was over. We’d be able to go back to our mother, be able to sleep in normal beds again. The only real issues I could see were the subject of money, and then the butcher and the man with the four-wheel drive. Those nosy fuckers might prove to be something of a stumbling block. Mind you, the Buchanan boys had overcome worse obstacles in their time.

  When I woke it was dark and Mikey’s big face was looming through the sleeping area door. He was rummaging around me, trying to find something.

  ‘What’s up?’ I croaked.

  ‘The torch.’

  I sat up. ‘It’ll be in the front. Did you check my bag?’

  ‘No,’ he said, but his face didn’t leave the gap.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if I’m needing the torch then it must be dark, eh?’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Fine. Let me try and find a top that’s not absolutely reeking.’

  ‘Nice one,’ he said and tried to stand up inside the tent, catching his head in the fly guard.

  I located the least crumpled T-shirt in my pile of clothes. It was pretty rank in the tent by then. Mikey liked to ball his clothes up and stuff them down the side of his sleeping bag and everything had a faint scent of mustard, which couldn’t be healthy. I was always very neat though, as far back as I could remember.

  At night the darkness came alive with the creaking and ticking of insects, with the fluttering and swishing of birds. As we walked down the road to town I could hear toads bubble in the burn. We passed by the wee house and the car was parked in the drive. I could feel Mikey get excited.

  ‘That’s it Paul,’ he hissed. ‘That’s the motor.’

  ‘I know it is. Just keep walking. Don’t look inside.’

  I observed him from the corner of my eye. He couldn’t help himself; his head turned ninety degrees to gawk into the house’s glowing windows.

  ‘Fucksakes,’ I said, grabbing his arm and marching him down the road.

  ‘What’s the matter? I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘You were so looking. I seen you.’

  I waited until we were out of sight of the house before I let him go. He rubbed his arm where I’d held it.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said

  ‘Never mind ouch.’ I pulled him in close to me and I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses. ‘When I say to do something or not to do something, you do it. Or not.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Good.’

  We kept going and didn’t talk until we were in town. The village was nice at night, it turned out. They had old-fashioned streetlamps and the light reflected on the cobblestones like glass bottles. It was difficult to appreciate all that because my blood had kicked in when Mikey had looked into the house and I was struggling to get it down again. That happened a lot with me, especially in tight situations. My blood would kick in and I would see red.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Mikey when we reached the pub. He looked inside and saw the crowd through sepia chunks of glass. ‘Paul,’ he said, shaking my arm. ‘There are girls.’

  We went inside and I scanned the room. It was one of those narrow pubs with the bar along the long side and a room at the back with pool tables and fruit machines. There was a good table near the door. Easy to nip out if things got odd. I pointed to it and Mikey sat down.

  ‘Aye?’ the barman said to me as I approached. He had a clutch of long but sparse hairs on his top lip.

  I looked at the taps. ‘Two pints of Dirty Monk please.’

  ‘Dirty Monk’s off. There’s Carling there. Or Tennent’s.’

  ‘Two pints of Tennent’s then.’

  I put the drinks down on the table and sat beside Mikey. From our position in the corner we could see the whole bar, except the pool room. The outsides of the glasses were wet from the coldness of the drinks. Mikey sipped his lager and slapped his hands together. ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. It is a bit.’

  We both took a sip.

  ‘Aah,’ said Mikey as he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He smiled at me, smug. ‘I told you it would be fine. I told you it would, and now look at us. In the pub, having a great old laugh.’

  I said, ‘Mm,’ and sipped my pint.

  ‘I’m enjoying this chair. No sitting on the ground for me tonight. Oh no. It’s funny the things you miss, like sitting in a proper chair, eh Paul?’

  Just as my blood was going down, it kicked in again. We’d had a whole conversation about this back at the camp. I put my hands on the table and breathed. I’d told him. I’d fucken told him. He was Alan, I was Rob. If we went in there swinging our proper names around like cats we’d soon come unstuck.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ I whispered.

  Mikey laughed. ‘What?’

  ‘What you said. That’s not my name.’

  He spluttered into his pint, mid-sip. ‘What’re you on about?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. I told him my name was Rob and he just kept smiling. He kept smiling until I gave him one of my looks. Then he thought about it. Then he remembered.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. Rob. I’m Alan,’ he said, extending his hand for a shake.

  I batted him off. ‘Put that away.’

  As we were draining the dregs of the first round, the posse of girls Mikey had spotted earlier came past us from the toilets. You could smell their perfume cutting through the dull odour of beer and carpets. Mik
ey gave me the eye and I nodded. He sat up sharper in his chair and smoothed down what little beard he had left.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What about this job then? You fancying it or not?’

  ‘Christ, I forgot,’ I said. ‘Meant to use the phone box on the way down.’ I stood up. ‘See you in a bit Alan.’

  The barman was busy pouring himself a measure of Famous Grouse when I approached. ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  He flipped around. ‘What? I’m the barman,’ he said, holding up the whisky. ‘It’s allowed.’

  ‘No. I’m sure it is. Have you got a phone I could use?’

  He pointed me through the side door. It led to the toilets, where the girls had come from. There was a pay phone on the wall between the ladies and the gents. I fed it some change and dialled the number on the classified card. I hadn’t allowed either of us a mobile. The government or the police could use those to find out where you were.

  It took a while for my call to be answered.

  ‘Aye,’ said the voice on the line. ‘Duncan.’

  ‘All right? I, eh… I saw your card in the Spar.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Duncan. ‘Aye, I put one there didn’t I? So you’re interested? It’s not much money.’

  ‘That’s OK. I don’t need much.’

  ‘You’re fit and that, aye? Can work all day? Heavy work.’

  ‘Should be fine.’

  ‘That’s great news pal. Are you local? I can give you a run up if you like.’

  I told him that would be grand and gave him the address of the wee house near camp. It would be easier than having him pick me up by the tent.

  Mikey was gone by the time I got back. I’d been anxious that he’d have tried to talk to the girls in my absence and given away some crucial information, but he wasn’t with them. They were in their circle, unpestered. I asked the barman for another round and brought the drinks over to our table. I leaned back in my chair and traced my fingers on the cold wet curve of the glass. I shifted the glass around on its beermat, tilting it each way. He was probably just in the toilet, I reasoned. No need to panic.

  Wait though, I thought. Wouldn’t I have noticed him going in?

  I would give him five minutes.

  The barman was pouring a slow pint for an old boy up at the bar but the crackle of conversation in the pub stopped me from hearing what they were saying to each other. The barman looked up from the tap and caught my eye.

  I gripped my pint tighter and looked into it. I took a drink. When I stole another glance the barman was off doing something else. I really, really hoped he wouldn’t end up being a problem for us. There was already enough people in the village trying to get in our way. I cast my eye around the rest of the pub. They seemed like a friendly enough bunch, the locals. All a bit bumpkinish and wrinkled but not nosy, which was the main thing I valued. There was another old boy at the top end of the bar balancing a fiddle on his knee, threatening to begin playing at any moment.

  Mikey’s empty glass went past my eyes and I snapped out of it. He swapped it for the full one I’d bought him and took a hearty swig.

  I glared at him. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Just playing on the fruit machines,’ he said, nodding behind himself up the length of the bar.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘All right.’

  ‘This pub’s OK. Nice beer, nice atmosphere.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Nice girls.’

  ‘I phoned up about the job. I got it.’

  He sat down beside me again. ‘Congratulations. What is it?’

  I thought about the job and realised I still had no clue. Telling Mikey as much, I emphasised just how desperate we were for money. I thought about how we’d have to scrimp and save until the first bit of cash came through from the job, whatever it was. I thought it might be gardening like I’d said before, maybe even be a building site of some sort. Perhaps farming.

  And then I thought, where the fuck’s this monkey getting money for the fruit machines?

  ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘You heard me. How’ve you got cash for putting in the puggies?’

  ‘I don’t have any cash. This nice man up at the pool tables gave me some.’

  I had a horrible feeling about that. I went up along the bar to check in the pool room and, sure enough, there was the butcher and his assistant in their jeans and polo shirts.

  The butcher gave me a little twirly wave when he spotted me. ‘All right Robbo? Just been talking to your brother. Great laugh that boy.’

  ‘All right,’ I nodded, backing away from them.

  The butcher smiled and leaned himself over to reach the cue ball.

  I got Mikey up by his collar and we both downed our pints. ‘Come on,’ I whispered to him. ‘We’re going.’

  ‘But we’ve only had the two,’ he whined. ‘I thought we’d have at least one or two more. And besides...’ He rolled his eyes towards the girls in the corner.

  The road outside was fully dark by the time we fell from the pub’s front door, cobblestones glistening like a reptile’s back. I swallowed great big breaths of air to calm myself down. I bent forwards with my hands on my knees.

  Mikey put his hand on my back. ‘There, there,’ he said.

  ‘What did I fucken tell you about that man?’

  I felt his hand leave me. ‘What man?’

  Standing, I let my face be close to Mikey’s, close enough to make him cower. ‘The fucken butcher, Michael.’

  He sniffed and touched the back of his ear. ‘The guy playing pool and that?’

  ‘Aye the guy playing pool, and that.’

  ‘I didn’t...’

  Then the pub door swung open and the man himself came swaggering out. He looked us both up and down.

  ‘Evening gents,’ he said, producing a pack of fags from his chest pocket. He helped himself to one and offered the pack to Mikey and me. It felt wrong, but I accepted. He said, ‘Nice evening,’ and fondled his lighter until a squat flame popped from its top.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, accepting his light. ‘Nice in there too. In the pub I mean.’

  ‘Aye. It’s a grand place, the Shackle.’

  The butcher rocked on his heels. He put his fag between his wet lips. Mikey observed the movement of his hand. I took a draw of mine and rocked on my own heels. The butcher smiled again and made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sigh, winking at Mikey then at me.

  ‘Adam and Rob was it?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My best customer. Best sausage customer anyway.’

  I laughed at that, but the chuckle escaped as a choke.

  The butcher scowled. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yep. Not used to the real thing,’ I told him, holding up the fag, ‘I’m usually a roller.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A roller, as in rollies.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right.’

  The three of us stood in a triangle. Mikey put his hand on his neck and grimaced. He looked at his new boots and then looked at me. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Mikey scrunched his face up in panic and then rounded on the butcher. He opened his mouth wide and I thought to myself, you little –

  ‘I was wondering.’ he announced. ‘What’s your best meat?’

  The butcher inhaled and the smoke made him close one eye. ‘The best meat?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mikey looked at me. ‘Your best one. Of meats.’

  ‘I think what he’s trying to say is, like, what your personal recommendation would be,’ I explained.

  The butcher scowled.

  ‘Being in the trade and all,’ I continued.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, mulling it over. ‘The best meat. Um. Pork, I’d say.’

  I nodded. ‘Pork.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Mikey, looking genuinely fascinated.

  The butcher winked at him. ‘Versatility.’

  Throwing my fag onto the cobblestones, I put my hand on Mikey’s shoulder. ‘I r
eckon we’d need to be getting back.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the butcher. ‘Right enough. I’ll see you tomorrow I’d imagine.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said and guided Mikey down the road. ‘See you.’

  ‘Cheerio,’ winked the butcher.

  ‘Jesus fucken Christ,’ I hissed, under my breath. ‘The best meat. The best fucken meat.’

  Mikey twisted himself free of my hand and stormed ahead. ‘Well. It’s not as if you were saying anything. It was weird. It was awkward.’

  ‘Awkward.’

  ‘Aye,’ he huffed.

  We went through the village like that, with Mikey a few steps ahead of me. This was how it had been when we were kids. We would be up the woods or at the swing park and it would all be fun and games until we fell out or I lost my temper or I suggested Mikey do something a wee bit too unusual and he’d storm off home. I’d be left to follow and try and get ahead of him so that I could speak to our mother before him. It was always important to me that I got my side of the story across first. I usually did all right.

  My blood went down a touch as we left the village. I reasoned that it would do me no good to have Mikey in a mood with me. He was less likely to follow orders if he was pissed off. Not that I wanted to control him or anything, just make sure he was safe.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Mikey. How about them lassies eh?’

  Even from behind I could tell he was smiling.

  I went on. ‘I think I saw a few of them giving you the glad eye, pal.’

  He spun round. ‘Aye?’

  ‘I think so. I think I saw them giving you the... y’know.’

  ‘See,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his jean pockets. ‘I thought so too. It’s difficult to tell sometimes though eh?’

  ‘It can be,’ I said. ‘It can be.’

  Instead of taking the road out of the village our feet guided us up into the fields. It was faster that way but the country had a tendency to be muddy. While we’d been out drinking the night had turned cold and a frozen mist had descended from the mountains and hung in the valleys like wool. If I cast my eyes down I could see the water from the air collect in my beard like shining blisters.

  ‘Not long now,’ I told Mikey as we descended what I thought was the penultimate hill. ‘Should be the next one over.’