by C. P. Wilson
Of their own volition, her eyes move up along his body and her mind visits notions unwelcome to her. Dougie has never been a powerful man, but he is tall and imposing, certainly to a child. He carries himself with authority, so has he used that power, that influence to manipulate or damage or to groom?
Dougie knows each of the kids he teaches well… Too well?
Comments and threads Frankie spent too many hours the previous evening scanning through on Facebook and Twitter flash past in a series of uninvited images and emotions.
A growing number of people are circulating as fact that they know, or know of, teenagers and young adults who have a story to tell about how Mr Black gave them the creeps. Several news sites are running the story through the night and slowly it’s spreading to the mainstream media.
One of the secretaries from the school posted up a comment that she regularly sees Dougie with a very young woman, walking arm in arm in the park or in the Meadows, then disappearing into a nearby apartment for hours. The post has since been deleted, presumably by her, but has got Frankie wondering who that young woman Dougie was with could be. The realisation that she knows, and has always known, so little of his life outside school hooks into her.
Frankie mentally revisits each of these posts and her own memories of Dougie fray and tatter. This man she has worked with every working day for a decade, who has eaten at her home, supported her when she needed it, berated her when she needed that too. Dougie Black stops being himself for her. The shadows spread. Frankie’s confidence in the man before her disintegrates and the monster abruptly becomes real for her at that moment.
Frankie takes a step back as her eyes reach his mouth and face. Darkness and light war to cover and reveal his features as surely as the real-life experiences and memories she holds battle with the ever-growing torrent of online speculation and accusations. A shadow mask crawls over his face as the world rotates and her brain plays a slideshow of unbidden and unwanted suppositions and faux leaps of logic. She wonders at the lies her friend may have told. At who he has kept hidden beneath the mask she calls friend. If this man she thought she knew could possibly be what people are saying he is.
The fabric at the back of her sweater brushes against something and Frankie becomes aware that she has backed away from the bedside. Somehow Dougie seems to have grown and to have diminished before her eyes. Frankie’s right hand covers her mouth. She smells the traces of the cigarette she had so enjoyed earlier and is out the door before she consciously realises that she has decided to depart.
Her coat forgotten, left behind in the ICU suite, Frankie crashes through the main doors out into the ambulance bay and beyond, past the smoking area she met the kid in earlier. The full dark of the night closes around her, crushing the last embers of trust she has been trying so desperately to fan. A moment’s regret, a nag from her subconscious elicits a final glance up at the window to Dougie’s room and Frankie Malone trudges downhill, coatless into the unsympathetic night.
End of part 1
Part Two
The Past
Chapter Twenty-One
Mary’s hands moved swiftly and surely, feeding the material though her industrial sewing machine. Decades of experience guided them despite the ordinarily ubiquitous tremors, which all but vanished whilst she sewed. Dougie watched his wife as she worked, enjoying the peace and the certainty of purpose she clearly experienced during these moments.
From his vantage, Mary looked as though she was her whole self, her ‘real’ self as she sewed. Her head tilted and bobbed and darted as she adjusted her loose grip and made quick alterations to the path of the material through the needle’s path. Dougie watched her snip part of the cloth free from the machine and smooth it out onto her work table that she may examine her progress. Dougie imagined her sharp eyes moving over the completed sections and her mind effortlessly calculating the next phase. Although he couldn’t see his wife’s face, experience told him that she would almost certainly be smiling broadly as she worked.
Regretful at having to break her concentration, but aware that he must, Dougie stood up from the desk he’d been lean-sitting against.
“Mary-love?” He spoke gently as to not startle her in case she had forgotten he was in the room, such had been the peace of the moment.
Laying her dress-in-progress down, Mary Black turned sharply to lock eyes with her husband. Dougie’s heart wrenched at her expression. He had broken her concentration and the magical effect that sewing had on her. Smiling warmly at the woman he had loved for almost forty years, but now barely recognised, Dougie held his breath and voice, giving her time to process.
Mary’s eyes, wide with confusion, narrowed and then relaxed again as recognition dawned. “Oh,” she said, smiling back at him finally. “I’d forgotten that you were here.”
Dougie bobbed a nod. “Yeah, I was trying to be quiet, let you work. Sorry if I scared you.”
Mary shook her head. “S’fine,” she shrugged. Noting that Dougie’s jacket lay on the desk behind him, she asked, “You off out?”
“Yeah.”
“Work?”
“No, love. Just for a walk.”
Mary nodded.
Losing interest, she was already turning back to her task.
Dougie pulled his jacket on and walked over to place a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Leaning over, he planted a soft kiss on her cheek. Her hands already occupied at their task, her mind locked on the dress, Mary barely seemed to notice.
Dougie swallowed regret and headed to the door.
“I’ve left a sandwich in the fridge and there’s plenty tea in the pot,” he told the back of her head.
An abrupt surge of guilt almost changed Dougie’s mind about leaving the house. He considered just staying in, perhaps watching the telly whilst she worked. His conscience prodded at him to tell Mary the truth about where he was going. His better judgment whispered that he should keep his secrets.
Making his way from Mary’s work room out into the hall, Dougie pulled the front door open. Slipping out into the early evening, he whispered a half-hearted goodbye to Mary.
In the back-room, Mary Black’s hands busied themselves, expertly stitching, rotating and adjusting. Skills earned from thousands of hours of crafting garments allowed her to perform on auto-pilot, for the most part.
Hearing the front door close, Mary spoke over her shoulder to no-one, “Bye, Tom. Have fun.”
∞∞∞
An icy wind cut across the Meadows and Dougie pulled his hat down over his forehead as he continued his short walk from his and Mary’s apartment on Gillespie Way to the building on Nightingale Way where Karen lived.
Karen.
As always, the instant Karen’s name floated up to the surface of his thoughts, his heart lurched with the pain of misleading Mary about her.
Not lying, exactly, just not telling the truth.
Dougie pushed the false justification away. Not telling Mary was lying to her. He knew this and refused to hide from the wrongness of it. Dougie felt like punching himself. Instead he trudged across the Meadows towards Karen’s apartment.
Despite the guilt and the pain he felt every time he saw her, Dougie’s time with Karen - never enough despite how close their respective homes were - brought intense feelings of comfort and a rightness to his empty world.
Karen’s face floated up before his mind’s-eye.
Twenty-four years old. Still so very young.
The thought brought a sad smile to his lips. About the same age as Frankie at work, but so very different.
Dougie warmed himself with the thought of her as he sliced through the Edinburgh evening, shoulders hunched against the growing wind.
By the time he reached the tall, red double-doors of her building, Dougie’s thoughts were fixed completely on Karen and the short time they would have together before he had to return home.
Entering the building, Dougie smiled at the receptionist, who returned his greeting. As he didn
’t recognise her, Dougie assumed she was new.
“Who are you here for?” she asked pleasantly, regarding, almost assessing, him as she talked.
“Karen,” he replied pleasantly.
“Ah, ok. I’ll buzz you up.”
Dougie Black thanked her and headed upstairs, heart pounding in anticipation.
Knocking softly, Dougie pushed the door open a moment later to find the large living room warm and welcoming. Karen was seated in a high back chair, her back to the door. She didn’t turn to acknowledge his entrance. Dougie Black slipped inside, closing the door.
Approaching her from behind, he stood a foot away from the chair. “Hi, Karen,” he said softly.
Karen rose from her chair, turning to smile at her visitor. Dressed for indoors in black, she tilted her head as she smiled, taking the few seconds she needed to recall his face and their history together. When she did smile, it lit up the room and Dougie’s heart both.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Strolling along, Harry navigated the pedestrian crossing at the junction for East Fettes Avenue, taking care to cross only when the green man shone. His right hand clutched at the cord handle of the bright pink gift bag he’d chosen himself to hold his best friend’s birthday present. Inside, a carefully-chosen humorous card and what he hoped was a funny and considerate present lay. A Harry Potter picture-novel, with her name inscribed onto the pages as a character.
Jenna loved the Harry Potter books: they both did. Harry hoped she’d get a thrill from the comic version of Philosopher’s Stone, but worried that his gift would come off as childish to their other friends. Since they’d turned eleven years old and entered their final year of primary school, the rules of the world they inhabited had shifted subtly.
New trust and freedom had been granted to both by their parents. They walked to and from school without a child-minder now. They returned home also, or visited each other’s homes. Their parents had allowed them to go into the city centre alone by bus, twice now. Things had been changing fast, all with the shadow of high school on the horizon.
Where, in the past, Harry and Jenna had been free to play, to chat, run and giggle with no issue, recently people their own age had begun attaching significance to the time they spent together and the activities they enjoyed. Harry was unsure when their routine chats and play became worthy of nudges and winks and sneers, but there they were, and he and Jenna had had to adapt.
Uncertain of who they were to each other at present, Harry’s hand had hovered over the gift and almost veered off to choose a more grown-up version of Jenna’s favourite book. In the end, though, he had relied on their long history as friends and their shared knowledge of each other and had simply bought her the item he figured that she would enjoy the most.
The twilight of their childhood years was on them and the approach of their teenaged years sat in the distance awaiting their arrival. Harry did not know who each of them would be in these new roles, but felt sure that they would remain close friends.
Harry walked the remainder of the route through Comely Bank and into Stockbridge, taking a sharp right off the main street onto Jenna’s street. As he walked he scooped up a fallen tree branch and rattled railings with it until coming to Jenna’s apartment.
Jenna’s mother answered his knock at the door quickly.
“Well hello, Harry Jardine,” she sing-songed. “You’re bang on time.”
He wasn’t, he was early, but early was on time for Harry. Jenna’s mum was used to him appearing five minutes before he was due. She also had a habit of calling him ‘Harry Jardine’, rather than just ‘Harry’. Initially she did this to distinguish him from another kid named Harry who had been in his and Jenna’s Primary 1 class. ‘Other Harry’ had since left their school and moved to Australia with his parents, but the ‘Harry-Jardines’ continued, out of habit he supposed. Harry liked that Mrs Hopkins still referred to him with his full name. It made him feel special. One of the family.
“Thanks, Mrs Hopkins,” Harry offered, passing her into the hallway.
“She’s in her room.” Mrs Hopkins jutted her chin upstairs.
Halfway upstairs she shouted after him. “Mind and knock.”
It was another new aspect to their friendship. When they were younger they got changed in front of each other, but now it felt too embarrassing to see each other with even a shirt off.
Arriving at the top of the stairway, Harry flicked at a brass plate on the wall as he passed, eliciting a loud ‘ding’. It was a habit he and Jenna had developed over the years: a ‘ding’ on the brass plate brought memories of cowboys spitting into spit buckets in old movies they’d watched and re-watched together.
Harry heard Jenna laugh at the sound from inside her room.
“Come in Harry,” she shouted through the closed door before he had the chance to knock.
Harry shoved her bedroom door open; it had always jammed a little and needed the extra force. Entering the room, Harry found Jenna pulling and teasing at her hair, which she had curled.
“Hey, dude,” she greeted him. “That for me?” she asked, nodding at the bag in his hand.
Harry’s confidence in his choice of gift suddenly deserted him. “Eh, aye.”
He handed her the bag, wishing he had chosen the other book.
“But I’ve got the receipt if you don’t like it.”
One hand already rummaging in the bag, Jenna grinned up at him wolfishly.
“You worry too much,” she teased.
Turning her attention to the book, Jenna turned it over several times, examining its covers and interior. Harry felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his arm as he observed the top of her head, unable to assess her reaction. Finally, she looked up at her friend.
Jenna’s smile beamed, her eyes held a misting of tears. “Harry, I love it!”
Harry’s heart slowed then leapt apace once more when Jenna threw her arms around him. Kissing Harry on the cheek, she thanked him again and followed the kiss with a playful slap to the same cheek, drying the wetness of her kiss.
Harry watched her place the book he had chosen for her into her bedside drawer with great care.
"Two minutes, okay?" she told him before she began raking around in her dresser drawers.
Harry sat on the little stool beside her dresser, watching her busy herself around the room, fussing at her hair, swooping and scraping bits of make-up onto and off her face.
Growing bored, he scanned her bedroom. Once adorned with My Little Pony paraphernalia, toys and stuffed animals, her room had recently transformed into the typical pre-teen shrine to One Direction, Pitbull and Taylor Swift. An assortment of make-up products and clothes scattered the various surfaces, and the carpet
The feel of his best friend’s room had altered, along with their respective roles in this new stage of their lives. Harry shuffled his backside around on the stool uncomfortably, feeling strangely alien and out of place in the room where he’d sent so many hours with her.
Shaking off his unease, Harry asked, "So who’s coming?"
Jenna, still drawing on herself in the mirror, spoke to his reflection.
“Katie, Murran, Kyle, Jordan… and a few others.”
Harry nodded. Most of them were kids they’d shared a classroom with for years.
“My cousin, Gordon,” Jenna continued, “and a couple of S1 boys from the high school.”
Harry’s shoulders sagged. He knew exactly which kids she meant. A bunch of thirteen-year-old dickheads she had met at the ice rink. All sharp haircuts, expensive kicks and jeans that hung off their arses.
Catching his reaction, Jenna flung him an icy sidelong glance. “Don’t start, Harry. They’re alright.”
Holding his hands up in an appeasing gesture, Harry nodded quickly several times. “Cool, just not keen on them, that’s all.”
Jenna turned to face him, delivering a hard stare. “Well I am, so be nice, okay.”
Reminding himself that it was his best frie
nd’s birthday party, Harry forced as authentic a smile as he could. “Aye, I will. Promise.”
Jenna eyed him for a moment, decided he was being sincere, and turned back to her grooming.
“If you try hard enough, Harry Jardine,” she said tartly, “you might enjoy yourself by accident.”
Harry laughed, but inside he thought to himself, doubt it very much.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Leaving Karen’s building, Dougie decided to walk the long way home. Heading towards Quartermile, he followed what for him was an uncommon impulse and headed into Starbucks. Not a fan of the chain or its coffee, he attempted to order a simple cup of tea. After hearing several options he requested, “Just a cup of tea, son” of the young cashier.
Leaving the shop, Dougie selected a seat outside, despite the chill of the evening. Around him, and all along the thoroughfare between Quartermile and the Meadows, a myriad of people bustled, offered flyers, performed little tasters of their shows and acts or simply milled around soaking in the atmosphere of the Fringe. Dougie’s eyes scanned around the people coming and going, watching moments from their lives. The cold seemed no deterrent to those darting around the night quarter. Many were young, early-twenties, with a pint or a burger in hand as they laughed with their friends, or handed out flyers.
More than a spattering of men and women closer to Dougie’s age also made their way through the throng of people. Tickets in hand, they scanned the venue numbers and maps on their phones, searching for their evening show.
The Edinburgh Festival brought a huge number of people to the city from all over the world. Across a few weeks several thousand acts and performers, from circus turns to comics, to dramatic theatre and everything in between would be on display. Many of the acts were world famous, some just at the start of fledgling careers. Dougie had observed more than one famous comedian passing by Quartermile in the ten minutes or so he’d been sat warming his hands on his weak-tasting tea. For a life-long people-watcher, this time of year in Edinburgh was irresistible.
