It felt like someone threw ice-cold water in his face. Beth had slept with Hamish. She – Beth, his Beth – had got naked with this, this person. This morning. Of course. She’d been tired, grumpy, late. The sad look she’d had. The night before. She’d slept with him. With Hamish. Had sex. Been naked with him, and then slept with him, and then slept beside him. And woken up. Naked. Sex. With Hamish. Beth. With Hamish. And this morning. She’d known. She’d known.
Sudgeon was looking at him, waiting for a response. Stewart could feel the anger now, but it was steady in his mind, a hum, like some kind of focused white-hot energy. He felt like he could hear and see and smell and feel everything, perceive all that was happening around him.
“Sorry, sir?” Stewart spoke carefully.
“Ha, in a world of his own! Probably thinking about the last time he had the young filly to himself. Don’t get jealous now, there’s plenty to go round. Particularly when you’re a good-looking young man with a spare bit of money. And you’ll get that soon, Scott, no doubt. Don’t worry.”
Stewart felt hot, cold and full of energy simultaneously, like he could punch through the oak table with one blow. He looked at the gargantuan stupid windbag in front of him before his eyes slid over to Hamish, who was looking warily back at him. He focused on him for a moment, then turned back to Sudgeon.
“I’m not worried, Mr Sudgeon. And I’ve never had a similar experience to Hamish with Beth, sir. I consider her a good friend. I’m also happy to assure you that this guy …” he indicated Hamish while keeping his eyes on Sudgeon, “… is not someone I am jealous of.”
Sudgeon pulled himself upright, his expression becoming uncertain. Stewart could feel the new wariness in the rest of the group, the men all leaning back, drinks that had been held by their side now being held up universally across their chest. “I see. My dear boy, I hope you understand I didn’t mean anything against your good friend. I speak purely out of admiration for a girl who is reportedly so young and attractive.”
Bollocks to this for a game of soldiers. Bollocks. To. This.
Stewart smiled, a manic grin. “Of course, Mr Sudgeon, I fully understand.” He turned to look around the group. The happy merriment was gone now, everyone watching him closely, as if they’d just found out the animal they’d brought into their house wasn’t tame but savage. “I’ll take my leave, gentlemen, and wish you all a most pleasant evening.”
Stewart turned away from the group. He marched back over towards Jennifer and Michelle, who were still chatting. They looked up as he approached.
“Having a nice time with all your boyfriends over there?” It was Michelle who asked, but her smile disappeared when she saw Stewart’s expression.
“Just came to say goodnight. And that I bloody hate macho bullshite. Really, really hate it. I’ll see you guys later. Have a good one.”
Stewart turned and strode out into the hall, not waiting for a response. He grabbed his long coat and headed down towards the service elevator. He was still flushing, hot and cold, practically bouncing on his feet.
She had slept with Hamish. With Hamish. Beth. The woman he adored. She had slept with him. The guy he loathed. She knew Stewart loathed him. Stewart had told her that. But she’d slept with him anyway. Hamish. Of all the people.
The thoughts flew through his mind, constantly recycled over and over again, his body stiff with anger and energy. The blood was pumping through his veins so intensely it was painful.
He was outside now. The storm was in full flow, the rain pelting down onto the concrete floor, smashing into Stewart’s unprotected head as he stood in the darkness, clenching and unclenching his fists. Thunder boomed overhead.
He walked back to the flat, up Lothian Road and across the darkness of The Meadows, unheeding as the wind buffeted him and the rain poured down. Lightning flashed, showing trees swaying wildly and leaves being swept around as the wind treated The Meadows like its own personal playground. He found himself outside the door to the flat all too quickly, with the same thoughts, over and over.
Beth was sitting at the table in the living room, eating some kind of green leaves. He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t care. All that was important was the anger. It was in him, in a way he couldn’t ever remember having before.
She looked up, saw him, and he knew that she knew that he knew.
“Where’s Saz?”
Beth looked at him, mouth half-full of salad, fear in her eyes. She swallowed quickly. “Eh, she’s out, I think. Went to the pub straight from work. Stewart, you’re soaked! You need to—”
“Hamish?”
“What?” But her voice was trembling.
“Hamish?” He repeated, his voice the colour of steel.
She put her fork down, took a deep breath. “Stewart, I’m sorry. I—”
“Do you want to know how I found out? Your new man, Hamish, boasting to me and my work colleagues about how you kept him up all night, all the different positions, how you were crying out his name, begging for more. You couldn’t even tell me this morning, eh? Before I walked in there?”
Beth sat there, seemingly stunned.
“Nothing to say?” Stewart spoke into the silence.
Beth’s eyes began to tear up, but she swallowed, and there was anger in her face now, replacing the fear.
“I said, nothing to—”
“You know what, Stewart? You don’t own me, okay? I’m not your girlfriend.”
Stewart stared at her for a second, then nodded slowly.
“Okay. Yeah. You’re right, I don’t own you. And yeah, you’re not my girlfriend. Perhaps not even my friend. So the next time one of your eight million shagging partners begins boasting about it to me and the rest of the world, you know what? I won’t say you’re a friend of mine. I’ll just laugh along. Christ.”
Beth glared at him, a mixture of tears and anger, although it looked like the tears were coming out on top.
“Actually, know what as well? I think I’m out. Don’t need to be staying with folk who aren’t friends of mine.”
She wiped her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ll get out the flat, go find a new place. And you can start bringing all the boys back here instead of staying over at their place. I don’t want you to feel bad, you know.”
Stewart could see the blows were landing, Beth recoiling at each sentence, but he didn’t stop. He stood over her as she sat in the seat, the elation coursing through him as he channelled all his anger directly at her.
Stewart heard the sound of the door opening and closing, and Saz’s voice shouting from the hallway. “Helllllloooooooooooooo! Dearest flatmates of mine. Who’s at home? I’m just dropping by for a quick pit-stop before I …”
Saz came around the corner. Stewart could smell the drunken fumes coming off her, but she sobered up pretty quickly.
“What’s going on?”
Stewart kept looking at Beth when he responded, his voice hard, flat. “This one here’ll tell you, no doubt. Her new boyfriend’s told everyone else in the world. I’m heading off to bed. Long day today. Plenty to think about.”
Beth glared at him through her tears as he turned around and walked past the astonished-looking Saz before he marched up the stairs and went into his bedroom.
Stewart didn’t bother turning on the light. Instead he got his suit off, leaving it in a crumpled pile all of its own, and grabbed a towel. After he’d dried himself a bit, he got on a pair of comfortable trousers, thick socks and a fleecy sports hoodie.
He sat on the bed, looking emptily into the darkness. His mind was beginning to whirl now, the anger slowly dissipating as his focus and concentration frayed, unwound and then dissolved in a swirl of emotions.
Beth was right, of course. That was the godawful thing. He didn’t own her, he didn’t have any claim over what she did. But for Christ’s sake. Even if they weren’t any more than friends, they were still friends. Or had been, at least. She knew how much he loathed Hamish, and she
certainly knew that he liked her.
And he had nowhere else to go, no-one else to talk to. He couldn’t talk about it with his mates. It was barely allowed to show you were upset when it was your girlfriend who had done something like this, much less some girl you just fancied. As for his brothers, they had their own lives, their own families, and besides, this had never been something they’d discussed.
He felt a spot hit his hand, and for one second he thought his hair was still wet, still dripping. But then he realised it was his tears that were flowing. He bent his head and licked the wet patch like an animal licking its wound, tasting the salt.
He hadn’t cried in ages. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried because he was upset. Scottish males weren’t allowed to do that. Anger, yes, but not upset, and certainly not tears.
There was a cautious knock at the door. “Stewart? You all right in there?” It was Saz’s voice, as circumspect as her knock had been.
He hurriedly wiped his eyes. “All good, thanks.” He forcibly kept his voice neutral, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Mind if I come in?” The door creaked open slightly, a sliver of light coming into the room.
“Actually, Saz, I’m a bit tired the now. Mind if we leave the chat until later?” Even he could hear the edge in his voice.
The door paused for a second, reminding Stewart oddly of the day before, an age ago, when he and Dakar, the best of pals, had been standing outside Martina Donaldson’s door.
“No worries. But you are okay, right?”
“I’m fine. All good.” The stock response was even more of a lie this time than it was all the other times.
“Okay. Listen, sleep well, hope everything’s all right, and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Aye. Okay. No bother. Have a good one.”
“Okay.” The door closed again with a click, and Stewart was once again left alone, in the darkness.
He sat there for a long time, occasionally feeling the tears come down his face, or a huge surge of emotion well up in him, which exploded through him with some kind of whole body shiver. His mind whirled, the thoughts queueing up – from Beth, to Hamish, to home, to his family, to work, to Sudgeon, to Green, to Dakar – round and round and round and round.
At some point his phone lit up with a message. At first Stewart ignored it. There was no-one in the world he wanted to talk to right now. But after a few minutes his curiosity got the better of him, and he picked it up. Wiping his salty wet face with one hand, he brought the only light in the darkness up to his face. It was Dakar.
‘Graham Donaldson has just been arrested.’
Chapter 43
Stewart was sitting in a barber’s chair, looking at himself in the mirror, and Dakar was the barber, except he wasn’t cutting his hair, he was taking out Stewart’s brain and slicing it up, but Stewart wasn’t feeling any pain, and they were having a nice chat, but then Dakar found a big stone in Stewart’s brain, and was angry, holding it up, and shouting, more and more, louder and louder and louder …
Stewart woke up with a shock. His alarm was going off beside him, screaming at the world that it was seven thirty. He rubbed his eyes.
Stewart sat upright as the memories came crashing back. The memory of Dakar’s fury the previous night sent a cold shiver through him. And then Dakar being on his own. He’d meant to go and see him, hadn’t he? But he hadn’t. No, because …
Stewart could feel the dread loom in his mind. Beth had slept with Hamish. It was true. And then he’d come back and absolutely unloaded on her. Stewart could almost feel his heart shrivel and harden, like skin around a scar wound, as he remembered standing over her so triumphantly, barking and snarling at her.
Stewart managed to get up and struggle his way through to the bathroom. He’d fallen asleep in the clothes he’d been wearing. After the warm water of the shower, he came downstairs slowly, dragging his feet. Beth was in the living room, reading a book at the table. He went to say something, anything, about something, anything, but nothing came out. Instead he ate breakfast no more than a metre away from her, with Beth not so much as looking at him.
It was as he was selecting a suit that he realised that he didn’t know if he had to go into work. It was Friday, the third and last day of his assignment with Dakar. But the police had arrested Graham Donaldson for the crime, and so far as Stewart knew, they didn’t have anything to show the police were wrong. Plus there was the small matter of Dakar being furious with him.
But he couldn’t just sit around. His mind would torture him. He had to do something, even if it was read drafts of a bloody contract or whatever. Maybe he could get the Raker file – his file – back. Plead for it with Sudgeon, promise never to desert again, beg. And then he could work on it and things like it forever, and ignore any more emotions he ever had.
Stewart put his suit on. He heard Saz singing in the shower on his way out, and shook his head in wonder. So cheerful. He tramped down the stairs and headed outside.
It was a cold day, a bit gusty, but the storm from the night before had blown itself out, the grey clouds that had replaced their darker cousins far less threatening. Stewart got a taxi, feeling sufficiently low that even walking to work was a bridge too far.
Stewart got into the office, and took off his coat and scarf. Michelle and Jennifer were there, but no Hamish.
Thank the big man for small mercies.
“How’s it going?” Michelle looked up. “Didn’t expect to see you until Monday.”
“Aye, yeah. Me neither. But the thing with Dakar might be finished, I’m just waiting to hear. So I thought I’d better come in.”
“You all right? You sound a bit flat.”
“Ha, yeah. Tough night last night.”
Michelle laughed. “Long night after the office party?”
Stewart paused as he considered the events of the previous night. “That’s one way of putting it, aye.”
He sat at his desk, starting his computer and checking his emails. Nada, or at least nada of interest. He began looking at his to-do list. Nothing pressing. He looked up at Michelle and Jennifer. “Eh, if I can help with anything, then just give me a shout. I don’t have anything major on right now, since, well …” Stewart gestured a bit helplessly in Michelle’s direction. “I’m not claiming anything back, or anything, just offering to help,” he added hastily.
A mischievous smile came over Michelle’s face. “Well, actually, a couple of days ago one of my so-called colleagues just dumped some crappy file all over my desk without so much as a by-your-leave. Maybe you could help with that?”
Stewart smiled with relief. “Some people are the worst.”
“I know! This guy’s definitely one of them.”
Stewart smiled again, tired muscles creaking the sides of his mouth upwards, but it was a smile nonetheless.
Michelle waved a stapled document at him. “Here. I’ve been drafting a memo on the materiality of counter-offers. But I worked late on it last night, and I might have gone a bit off the deep end.” Stewart got up and collected it from her, then headed back to his desk.
After a few seconds of looking at it, he muttered, “To think I entrusted my beautiful file into such hands …” He glanced up, to see Michelle staring at him with her eyebrows raised. He gave her a quick wink, and another smile.
Ten minutes later, Stewart was halfway through the draft – good quality, he had to admit – when he heard the door open and close. He looked up to see Hamish walk in, a surly look on his face, like a kid who’s just been told they’re not allowed any more sweets.
Stewart began to scowl. Memories of Hamish boasting last night, as well as his thoughts about the night itself, took over his mind. He felt the righteous energy bubble up inside of him, the white-hot anger coursing through him once again.
He put his head down and gritted his teeth. It felt like his anger was boiling over, like he was going to explode. He gripped the draft tightly with both han
ds, trying to get back the narrative of what had been happening, when he slowly became aware that someone was standing in front of his desk.
Stewart looked up. Hamish was standing there, immediately in front of his desk, leaning forward on his knuckles, his face red.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you little prick, telling Beth what I said last night?”
Stewart looked at him for a second or two, and almost felt himself relax.
Ah right.
He let the stillness that enveloped the room settle for a good few seconds, and studied Hamish. The guy had his suit jacket off, and sleeves rolled up, burly forearms on full display. Stewart looked at his face. Sullen, angry, with a pinch of fat showing underneath one chin.
Stewart spoke quietly and carefully.
“Come again?”
“I said, what the hell do you think you’re playing at, you little prick, telling Beth about what I said last night?”
Stewart put Michelle’s draft down, and tidied the papers, squaring off all the edges. Then he stood up, and walked around the side of the desk. Hamish turned to meet him as Stewart walked right up to him, eyeball to eyeball.
“What did you call me?”
Hamish turned redder. “Eh, I said … I said, what the hell do you …”
Stewart grabbed his the collar with both hands. “I didn’t ask what you said. I asked what you called me?”
Hamish recoiled from the grip, an astonished expression on his face, and grasped Stewart’s wrists, trying to dislodge them. “What the … Get your hands …”
Stewart leaned into him, and marched Hamish, off-balance, backwards until he reached the wall, Hamish’s head knocking into it.
“What did you call me?” Stewart spoke deliberately, tightening his grip on his lapels and yanking Hamish’s face towards him.
Hamish, still with hands on Stewart’s wrists, yelped as Stewart pulled him closer. He struggled for a second longer, the fear shining brightly in his eyes. Stewart let him struggle for a second or two.
The Price to Pay Page 23
