~o~
Suzanne was back to her cheerful self. She was fully occupied with watching Emily edge day by day back to the young woman she knew. When not at her daughter's bedside she spent time preparing for her imminent home coming. Tony's absence was not unusual, he often did not come back home at night and when she took the call from Brinkman Motors Suzanne was shocked to hear that her son had not turned up for work for the past three days and was not answering his phone. She confessed her ignorance of where her son could be and promised to get back to Brinkman's with some information as soon as she had anything to tell them. They warned her that his job would not be held open for him unless he contacted them soon.
Suzanne checked Tony's room and found it to be in its normal chaotic state. However it was clear that much of his clothing was missing as was his cheap nylon overnight bag. It was obvious that he had gone somewhere and had done so without letting anyone know. There was pain for her in that realisation, that her son could not disclose to her why he had disappeared nor where he had gone. She remembered that Tony had complained of being in debt and wondered if his disappearance was connected to that. She sat on her son's bed, looked around the room. The posters, the music player, the scattered collection of trainers all spoke of an adolescence that her son should have abandoned long ago. This was still the room of a teenager. The contrast between her troubled son and his sister was starkly displayed for her and she wondered what more she could have done for him.
It was a short email sent from an internet café that went part way to putting her mind at rest:
Mum don't worry I need to lie low for a while. I'm safe and well, don't worry. I'll be in touch soon.
– All my love Tony.
It said far too little to convince Suzanne that she had no need to worry but at least she knew he was alive and apparently well.
Since his childhood, all Tony ever really craved was to be concealed and protected; to be able to burrow down into a place of undisclosed warmth and huddle there, hidden from the sky's pitiless gaze and the harsh night air. What he found on his first night of exile was far removed from that dream. He spent an uncomfortable night shifting between pacing the streets and snatching brief spells of sleep on a park bench. Kept from freezing to death by little more than the last remaining strands of his primal urge for life. He shivered uncontrollably as a cold Glasgow mist settled over him.
He took refuge in the inviting warmth of café as soon as the early risers could be seen waking the dark city from its slumber. He filled up with fried food and cups of steaming sweet tea drawing warmth from the steamy atmosphere of the greasy spoon. He cadged a paper from an old timer who himself had come in from the biting wind for a cup of dark brown tea. Tony scanned the listings for somewhere cheap to stay. He had sunk low before but now he was down and out in the absolute sense of the word. The places he found in the paper that had any appeal were costly enough to exhaust his cash reserves within a few weeks. He had no idea if or when he could find work. In the end he answered an advert for a room to let. The building was dilapidated with crumbling brickwork and flaking paint, the room small had minimal appeal and the landlady appeared as trustworthy as a starving dog in a butcher's shop.
"You up from the south?" She asked hearing the accent and watching his face with the darting eyes of a magpie.
"Doncaster." Tony said, how easily lying had become second nature to him.
"Doncaster is it? Well you settle in dear and there'll be a cup of tea waiting downstairs when you're ready. It's two weeks in advance by the way."
The price fell within Tony's meagre budget and as an alternative to being discovered stiff and lifeless on a park bench, he reluctantly took the room. As he sat on the hard unyielding mattress of his narrow bed and looked about him, his thoughts drifted back to the recent memory of Somerville Park. The lake, the golden sunset and spring flowers... But from some dark place came the chill sound of the crow taunting him again. Out there across the dingy rows of terraced houses was the flow of a cold black river... Once the home of a major ship building industry and an endless font of employment. They say that drowning is the most peaceful way to die... but how do they know? How could anyone know?
Comatose Page 32
