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Authors: Allan Guthrie

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BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
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"Yeah," Joe said. "Yeah. Got some bad news. Got drunk. Crashed out." Explain it away like any normal day. "You know."

"Cooper told me about Gemma," she said. "I'm so sorry, Joe. Sit down. I'll fix you some breakfast when Cheetah's finished."

"Couldn't eat a thing." Joe pulled a face and patted his stomach. "But thanks." He watched the baby suck Sally's nipple. "Cheetah?"

"Look." Sally slid her forefinger under Gary's earlobe. Joe took a step closer. Dark fuzzy hair grew all over the cartilage of the little man's ear. "Remember Tarzan?" Sally asked him.

"Ah, the chimp." Joe chuckled. "Cheetah. Like it."

Sally moved her hand and stroked her baby's head, smoothing the jet-black hair across his scalp. "My pet name for him, Joe. Don't tell Cooper. He won't find it amusing."

"You don't say." After a minute, Joe asked, "Both ears like that?"

She nodded. "Apparently it's quite common. He'll lose the hair as he gets older. He's only ten months."

Joe said, "Extraordinary," because he didn't know what else to say. He stood in front of her for a moment, realized he was staring and probably shouldn't be, given what he was staring at, and took a step back. He turned towards the sink. "Just get myself a drink, if that's okay."

"Course it is. How you feeling, Joe?"

"Like I headbutted a wall." He took a glass from the drying rack. "Guts feel like they've been through a shredder." Filled the glass with tap water. "Apart from that, I'm raring to go."

"I meant, you know…"

For a moment he was confused. Then he said, "Oh, yeah. See what you mean. I'm okay."

"Yeah?"

He noticed the Mickey Mouse plaster and remembered crushing the glass last night. He peeled off the plaster. The skin round the cut was pale and spongy. "I'm fine." Joe stuffed the plaster inside an empty milk carton sitting on the work surface. A bit of fresh air and the cut would soon scab over.

"How's Ruth taking it?"

Glass of water in one hand, milk carton in the other, Joe walked over to the bin. He crushed the carton and disposed of it. "I better go." He raised his glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of tepid water. "Cooper around?"

"Went to the hospital."

"What's wrong?"

"Visiting."

"Doesn't sound like Cooper. Who's ill?"

"Somebody Strachan, I think he said. Billy, maybe? Do you know him?"

Joe hesitated. Last night's memories were hazy, but his recollections of the night before last were clear enough. The quilt falling to the floor. The book on origami. Joe swallowed the rest of his water. Why was Cooper visiting the hospital? Couldn't he leave the poor bastard alone? Billy had taken a beating. He didn't need to be tormented as well.

"Name doesn't ring any bells," Joe told Sally. He returned to the sink, refilled his glass and gulped the water down in one. He felt sick. He shivered. "Gotta go," he muttered.

*

The smoke was thick enough to taste. Joe coughed and put his hand to his mouth. He was reminded of the fag he'd had last night. Only a single puff. Fortunately, he still felt too ill to consider having a second drag.

Rattling his pocket, he approached the drinks machine in the corner. He counted his change, deciding between Irn Bru and Coke. As he spun the money in the slot, a wave of nausea forced his eyes shut. He swore, opened his eyes and pressed the Coke button, expecting as always that nothing would happen. He'd lost count of the number of times these machines had ripped him off.

A can of Coke clattered to the bottom.

There you go. It knew well enough not to mess with him today

He reached in, removed the can and pulled the tab. He took a long swallow. Could be colder. He looked around him. The place was rumbling like a minor earthquake. Not that he'd experienced one first hand, but he imagined this wee bookie's sounded similar. Race commentary on the 12:20 at Folkestone blasted out of the loudspeakers. The mile and a half race was reaching the seven furlong stage. Getting interesting. More interesting, though, if you had money staked on the outcome.

Dotted around the room were about twenty men. More than half were standing by now. As he watched, another few got to their feet. Almost all those still sitting were old enough to be pensioners. The volume rose. Listening carefully, you could pick out individual layers. Roars of encouragement, shouts of annoyance, wails of anger. Each separate, distinct. Clenched fists waved, winning or losing. All eyes, apart from Joe's, fixed to the bank of overhead screens, faces intense with a passion rarely seen by wives or girlfriends. Looking at one bloke in particular, sporting a skinhead, tight white t-shirt (at this time of year), jeans and white socks, Joe thought: or boyfriends, if you wanted to be p.c. with the poofs. At which point Gemma's voice yelled in his ear: "They're not poofs, Dad. They're
gays
."

He put his hand on the drinks machine and hoped to Christ he wasn't going to burst into tears.
It's the smoke, lads. Making my eyes water.
He took another swig of Coke and set the can on top of the machine. He rested his forehead on his arm, apologizing to his daughter under his breath. She didn't answer.

She was somewhere in Orkney. He couldn't imagine her naked, cold, stiff, stuck out of sight in a big drawer. God, he wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to see her.

Over the din of the last furlong of the Folkestone race he became aware that his mobile was ringing. Reaching into his pocket, he made for the exit, the relative quiet of the street. "Hello."

"Finally turned your phone back on."

Relative was the right word. It was Adam. Traffic crawled along both sides of the road. A motorbike dodged between the cars. Hardly a deathly silence. He put his little finger in his left ear and said, "Listen, you bastard—"

"No, you listen. How could you do that, Joe?"

"Adam, I've been meaning—"

"Don't bother denying it. I have proof."

"You were supposed to look after her."

"You can talk! I know all about your little secret, you fucking animal."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Adam, and I don't care. Start running."

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't tell the police?"

About what? Joe was silent for a moment.

"You can't, huh? Didn't think so."

"You let Gemma die," Joe said. "You're going to pay for it."

"You arrogant cocksucker. You know fucking well that you're entirely to blame."

"Now you're taking the piss."

"Your fault, Joe. If Ruth wasn't so cut up already, I'd tell her what I know. Your fault."

Joe whispered, "Taking the piss." His shoulders were shaking. An explosion of rage shattered his self-control. He shouted into the phone, "Taking the piss." He yelled once again into the phone, pulled back his arm and threw the phone as hard as he could against the nearest wall. The casing broke, scattering plastic over the pavement. A couple of passers-by looked at him and he felt suddenly embarrassed. He bent down, picked up the bigger pieces and ambled to the bin twenty feet down the road. Casual as you like. As if phone hurling was a traditional Scottish sport. One at a time, he fed the bits of broken phone into the mouth of the bin, Adam's voice still echoing in his ear. Joe looked at his watch, wondering if he could get a flight to Orkney today. Then they'd see whose fault it was.

SEVEN

When Joe looked at his watch again it was seven minutes past seven and British Airways Flight 8899 had just landed at Kirkwall airport. After the plane came to a standstill Joe complained to the stewardess that the flight had arrived two minutes late. He didn't mind, of course. A two minute delay wasn't worth making a fuss about. His complaint was simply a matter of principle. He was still sore at the fact that his one-way ticket had cost him £188.70 (including airport tax, sir). Compounded by the detour via Inverness, it was no wonder the bloody plane was practically empty.

After destroying his phone outside the bookies, Joe had gone home, made the call on his landline and arranged the flight. Ruth was out. No note, no message. No thought whatsoever for anybody else. As per bloody usual. He tried her mobile and got her voicemail. He left a message telling her he was flying to Orkney and didn't know when he'd be back and if she had a problem with that she could fuck herself. He spent an hour tidying up the mess she'd left in the kitchen, pausing over an empty vodka bottle sitting in the center of the table. Odd. She didn't drink. Making a point, was she?
Well, Joseph, it isn't only you that can get drunk.
Thing is, Joe wouldn't have started on a half empty bottle in the first place. Ruth would be suffering now. She wasn't a drinker. A couple of shots and she was anybody's. He snatched the bottle off the table, poured the dribble that was left down the sink and chucked the bottle.

He packed a bag in under five minutes. A book, underwear, shirts, pair of trousers, washbag. He wasn't going to stay long. He added another book. For the journey. Take his mind off other things. Maybe. No harm in being optimistic.

As he stepped off the plane at Kirkwall airport, having read only a single sentence, albeit a dozen times, he suffered a moment's hesitation. The wind whipped his face, clacked the lapels of his overcoat, flattened his trousers against his shins. He could turn round right this minute and go straight back home. Did he want to do this? Well, it hardly mattered. The plane probably wasn't going anywhere else tonight. Apart from which, wimping out would set him back another hundred and eighty quid. Forget it. Turn to the front and face the Orkney music.

With each step, gusts of wind lifted the bag — his only item of luggage, small enough to be allowed on board as hand luggage — away from his side.

Anyway, he reasoned, he had to see Adam. Had to make the man face up to his responsibilities. Joe owed it to his daughter.

This was a business trip. Joe had a job to do and he was going to fucking well do it.

Fighting a steady headwind, he staggered towards the terminal building. Once inside, he found an unexpected bounce in his step. There was no security and he had no luggage other than his bag, so he headed directly for the exit sign, stepped outside and found a taxi rank with a solitary waiting taxi.

The driver folded up his newspaper when he spotted Joe. Joe opened the back door, shoved in his bag and ducked inside after it.

The driver said something. Sounded like a question. He said it again. "Whahr tae?" He was small, bald, over fifty, and when he turned in his seat he reminded Joe of the stiff, mechanical motion of a clockwork toy. It took Joe a moment to penetrate the accent. Then he got it.

Joe asked, "You know Wrighters' Retreat?"

"Adam Wright's place? Oh, aye. Clever name, isn't it?"

"Just take me there."

The driver started the engine, licked his lips and drove for a while, saying nothing. A couple of minutes into the drive he cleared his throat and said, "Come up from Inverness?"

"Edinburgh."

The driver was silent again. He drove textbook style, both hands on the wheel. Joe unglued his gaze from the driver and stared out the window, eyes sweeping over the expanse of flat green fields leading to a ribbon of grey sea merging with a darkening sky. What little remained of the light at this time of the evening stained the walls of a few scattered cottages the same dull grey as the sea. After a while the driver spoke again. "Hope you don't mind me saying so," and continued without waiting for a reply, "but you don't look like a writer."

Joe said, "You just can't tell."

The driver nodded. A jerky, clockwork nod. "Girl died there the other day. At Adam's place. Terrible tragedy. Killed herself."

Joe didn't respond.

"Her folks must be hurting," the driver said. "What do you think leads a little girl to do that?"

"The little girl was called Gemma. She was nineteen."

The driver's eyes stared at Joe's reflection in the rearview mirror, no doubt wondering how his Edinburgh passenger knew the details of this local tragedy. He glanced at the road, shook his bald head and looked in the mirror again. "I knew you weren't a writer. You're her father, right?"

Joe said nothing.

The driver said, "Whole life ahead of her. Tragic. Anything I can do…" He shrugged.

"If you really want to help," Joe said, "you can shut the fuck up."

EIGHT

"Is there a sports shop in Kirkwall?" Joe asked the taxi driver.

"Thought you wanted me to shut up. In fact, if I remember correctly—"

Joe leaned forward, placed his hand on the driver's leg and squeezed.

The driver winced. "Aye, in the town."

Joe removed his hand and glanced at his watch. Too late. If only he'd been able to get an earlier flight. Late night shopping? In this dump? Unlikely. He asked anyway. "Closed, I suppose?"

The driver didn't require any prompting this time. "You'll have to wait till the morning." Quickly, he added, "Is it golf you're interested in?" Maybe he imagined Joe had interpreted his answer as being a shade impertinent, as if he was telling Joe what was permitted, and wanted to clarify that he was really being helpful, not rude. Or maybe he just liked to hear the sound of his own voice. Or maybe he was just stupid. Or maybe he was really a clockwork device that, once wound up, couldn't stop.

BOOK: Kiss Her Goodbye
7.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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