The Storm Without (4 page)

I saw her in a biker
'
s jacket, ripped 501s, and mad spiky hair that came straight from a L
'
Oreal ad of the time. She was dancing to The Waterboys. At least, that
'
s how I remember her. Were the memories real? At this stage, was anything? Did it matter?

I had to help her. There was no talking myself out of it. There was no talking sense to myself. There was no reason. Someone said once,
'
The heart has its reason that reason knows not of.
'

I removed my mobile from my inside pocket, scrolled through my contacts as I got into the car.

The number I selected was ringing before I closed the door.

'
Hello.
'

'
Mason
…
it
'
s Doug Michie.
'

A stall on the line.
'
Why in the world are you calling me?
'

'
Because it
'
s serious.
'

Mason took a breath, spoke calmly.
'
Well, it would certainly have to be that.
'

I sat at the South Harbour Street lights, waiting on the filter. Two slightly-built youths battled the elements to scrape flaking paint from a manky shop front. It was an old shop, one of the weather-scarred ones that sat at the foot of the Sandgate feeling sorry for themselves. I wanted to get out and help, scrub the place down; the street had become an eyesore. Fine, if I was just another rep or white-van man passing through, but this was my old home town. The heart of Burns Country. I still had some respect for the place, if nobody else did. I trembled at the thought of tourists driving up from the yuppie-developed Shore to be greeted with this. It was an embarrassment to rank alongside finding your grandmother had wandered into town in her nightie.

As the lights changed, and I pulled out, I remembered a pizzeria that used to be down this way when there was still paint on the buildings. Stefano
'
s did a mean thin-crust. I smiled to myself. It didn
'
t last; that was the trouble with coming home, very little was like I remembered it. It used to be easy getting around the Auld Toun. I was old enough to recall the days before the powers-that-be pedestrianised, or should that be paralysed, the High Street. Before a parking voucher scheme no-one could find tickets for. Before Woolies went, and one whole end of the town went with it. I wondered what was next. The new Ayr seemed to be leaving the old Ayr to hang.

I eased past the Carnegie Library, got a break at the second set of lights and swung round past King Street Police Station. The traffic thickened before the roundabout and I found myself applying the brakes. I was staring across at the station when I suddenly felt the blood in my veins shriek. My heart ramped, as I saw a face I recognised exit the front door and walk towards a silver Lexus.

'
Gilmour.
'
The word fell flatly from my lips.

I watched him yank the door of the car open and slam it behind him as he got in, planted the foot. A wail of car horns followed him as he sped onto the roundabout.

Someone was in a hurry.

I waited for the traffic to clear and made a mental note of the scene I
'
d just observed. Jonny Gilmour hadn
'
t changed much in the last few years; he
'
d grown thicker round the middle, and his hair was shorter than the old mullet he once wore, but he still had the look of a man you didn
'
t want to get in the way of. He seemed to be doing okay for himself, though, driving a Lexus; I remembered when he had holes in his gutties. He was in and out of the station back then as well.

I let the revs out on John Street, took the roundabout at Dampark onto Station Road and followed the clogged arteries of Auld Ayr all the way to Morrisons. I didn
'
t want anything from there; nothing depressed me more than bumping elbows and knees in overly lit supermarkets, but the Market Bar was located in the top end of the store
'
s car park. I pulled up and made for the door.

The bar had changed little in the years since I
'
d last got tanked up on Tennent
'
s lager on the way to a night on the town. They kept the place warm, homely. Just how I liked it. I spied Mason straight away, even with his back to me. He was a bear of a man, as broad as he was; the burden of the job looked no more than a chip on his shoulders. I walked over and nodded to the barman to refill his pint, bring me the same.

'
Hello, Mason.
'

A slow creak emitted from his chair as he turned.
'
Doug.
'

I moved myself to the other side of the table, sat facing him. There was a gap of a few seconds before I spoke again.
'
You look well, haven
'
t changed.
'

'
Spare me the small chat, eh
?'

I looked up as our pints arrived.
'
Okay.
'

Mason nodded to the barman, almost smiled.
'
So, to what do I owe the pleasure?
'

There didn
'
t seem any point dressing it up. Mason knew me, had done for years. We'd been in uniform together. Seen things. Shared experience, they called it. Some of those experiences we
'
d sooner forget; most, to be honest, but they counted for something. They brought weight to the table and Mason knew that as well as I did.

'
I
'
m back in town.
'

'
I see that.
'

'
Aye, well, I
'
m not here for old time
'
s sake
…
you needn
'
t worry about that.
'

He raised a hand and planted it on the table. The pints trembled; some golden liquid escaped over the brim of my glass.
'
What do you want, Doug?
'

I wiped the table with a beer mat, took a sip of my pint.
'
A friend of mine, her son
'
s in trouble.
'

'
A friend?
'

'
That
'
s right.
'

'
What kind of trouble?
'

I lowered my glass, peered over the brim.
'
The worst kind.
'

'
And you
'
re telling me this, why?
'

I pressed my back firmly into the chair, exhaled.
'
Come on, Mason, don
'
t make me go over old ground.
'

A laugh, his face reddened.
'
God Almighty, Doug, are you still playing that tune?
'

I knew what he meant, but acted dumb.
'
What?
'

'
The old pal
'
s act
…
it doesn
'
t wash these days.
'
Mason shook his head, sucked in his mouth. Two yellowed teeth dug into the fleshy part of his lower lip.
'
You know that, Doug
…
not now, it
'
s all changed, the world we live in.
'

My jaw tightened.
'
We haven
'
t.
'

He looked away. Shook his head again.

I spoke louder.
'
I said, we haven
'
t changed, Mason.
'

'
Speak for yourself.
'
He looked edgy, started to claw at a packet of Embassy Regal that sat on the table in front of him.

'
We still know right from wrong, don
'
t we?
'
I didn
'
t give him time to answer, leaned forward and let the tone of my voice be his guide.
'
My friend
'
s name is Lyn McPherson. Her son is called Glenn and he
'
s been charged with murder. Now I don
'
t know the ins and outs of it, but I
'
ve been around long enough to know when something
'
s not right.
'

Mason pocketed the cigarettes, rose.
'
I
'
m promising nothing. Do you hear me, Doug?
'

I nodded.

Mason started to fasten his jacket.
'
I
'
ll take a look. But we don
'
t meet like this again, do you hear me?
'

I nodded. Got up to face him.
'
One more thing
…'

He rolled his eyes.
'
What now?
'

I lowered my voice, spoke to his lapels.
'
I saw an old face today. Jonny Gilmour.
'

Mason put his hands in his pockets, shrugged. I let the name float in the air for a few moments, then tried to discern what I could from his expression. Nothing came.

I spoke again.
'
He was at the station. Looked riled.
'

Mason
'
s head shifted, left to right. He took a deep breath.
'
Don
'
t be picking at old wounds, Doug
…
that wouldn
'
t be very wise where Gilmour
'
s concerned.
'

The room was familiar, but then, why wouldn
'
t it be? I
'
d spent the first twenty-or-so years of my life here. New wallpaper came and went, at least a couple of times, but the florid seventies swirl-print that had been up when I was a lad stayed with me. It was likely still there, under a layer of woodchip or two. Some memories of screaming matches with my parents trapped with it, maybe the theme tune to Kojak or On the Buses playing in the background. Days long gone. I raised myself on the edge of the bed; the ageing springs creaked beneath me, made me wonder about my own mortality. My second night in my mother
'
s home felt like a siren
'
s wail to throw myself at the all-too-recognisable wall. I resisted, for now.

I stood staring at the single bed I
'
d slept in; it was crammed against the wall. A functional cabinet, lamp atop, sat beside it. I remembered sick days from school I
'
d spent sitting up in this bed, reading the Beano and the Dandy, maybe a new copy of Shoot if I
'
d been running a temperature. It seemed so long ago, like looking back on a world that only existed in black and white pictures now. I knew that coming home to Ayr would stir up some memories, but I wasn
'
t prepared for the concomitant emotional response. I felt like I was revising for an exam on a part of my life that I
'
d previously forgotten about. It seemed so alien to me now, after the force, after Ulster.

I removed my Levi
'
s from the old Corby trouser press that belonged to my late father; a lot of his possessions seemed to be migrating to parts of the house he never inhabited. It was like he was being pushed out, at least, it seemed that way to me. I wondered why my mother still stayed here; she inhabited the place like a ghost. It was too big for her; a family home needed a family. She knew that too, but she was living in the past. Could I fault her for that? Didn
'
t we all?

I flung on a crisp white T-shirt, black V-neck. Laced my boots and made for the kitchen. On the stairs I smelt the Berkeley menthols my mother smoked; she was up and about, clinking glasses in the sink. As I walked in she pinched her lips tightly around the cigarette
'
s filter tip, the long ash threatening to fall on the floor as she spoke.
'
You
'
re up early.
'

I nodded. There was a glass of port sitting behind her.
'
Not starting as early as some.
'

She turned away from me, walked towards the glass. Her cigarette ash fell as she placed the Berkeley in the ashtray. The small port went with her as she left the kitchen, mumbling something I never cared to discern.

I shook my head as the door closed.

Shaking my head at my mother wasn
'
t an altogether new response. I put on my jacket and picked up the dog
'
s lead, called,
'
Ben
…
Ben
…'

The dog meandered his way from the dining room into the kitchen. The clack of his long claws on the floor tiles told me he wasn
'
t getting walked as much as he should. He stumbled, caught the corner of the fridge with his head; he was aging too, losing his sight.

'
Come on boy, let
'
s get you some air, eh?
'

I took down my jacket, checked my mobile phone was in the pocket. There was a missed call; I didn
'
t recognise the number. It struck me that it might be Lyn, or maybe Mason. I doubted the latter; he would make me wait. Mason didn
'
t want me on his patch; he didn
'
t want the grief. He was counting his days till retirement, and counting on them all being easy. I couldn
'
t blame him; we
'
d both had our fair share of hard days for sure.