Love, Lust and Landscaping

by Morgan Rouge

  And so, with no work to complete for Richard, she had embarked on her two weeks of community service in a farflung and lonely stretch of motorway just outside Glasgow.

  From afar, she could see the troops returning from their lunch. She could see Hamish speaking to Gerry in an open and friendly manner. Why could he speak to Gerry in a kind way, but not her?

  When they came to the roundabout, they all fell into place looking at Gerry.

  “So I have an announcement to make. Next weekend, at the end of our time here I have organised a walk in aid of cancer awareness. It is starting off in Kirklee and we will walk for five miles. I would really appreciate if you would all come on the walk with me, and if you can to raise some money too. My mum, for those of you who don’t know has breast cancer and I would like to help in any way I can. So I came up with this idea. Thanks”.

  Immediately, there was a flurry of conversation.

  “I’ll do it, Gerry!”

  “Yeh, me too!”

  “I will” said Bryony

  “And me” said Hamish.

  Later that day, on her bus on the way home back to Ibrox, Bryony mediated over the day. In Gerry she had found a friend and had seen a different side to him.

  Chapter Four

  “The end of week one, shall we go for a pint guys?” Steve piped up when they had finished their next part of the flower bed. The idea of a cold beer appealed to everyone in the group and everyone agreed on a local pub which was just ten minutes down the road.

  Meanwhile, Hamish felt anger boil up inside of him. Why did he feel so angry? He knew it has something to do with his conversation with Steve. Steve had spoken to him about his plan and he was both worried and insanely jealous. Earlier he and Steve had been digging up a new flower bed which next week the entire group would work on together. They had rarely spoken before but Steve had decided to open up. It was then that Hamish had heard about his string of traffic offences: driving drunkenly and speeding at ridiculous limits. He didn’t feel bad at all about his offences and furthermore had decided that if he had paid for and drove a fast car it was his right to be able to drive fast, whatever the consequences.

  Hamish felt this was the worst type of criminal: one who had no care for the damage they created or for the lives they could ruin. He knew about that too well, already. So it was after this illuminating conversation that Steve had made it even worse for Hamish: he liked Bryony and wanted to ask her out for dinner and a date.

  “Just look at her Hamish, she is gorgeous. I want to be with her, I want to kiss her! She is so perfect! How do you think I should do it?”

  From somewhere calm within his rage, he managed to say “I have no idea, Steve”.

  Perhaps what was most annoying, Hamish considered, was that there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t tell Steve to lay off: what right did he have after all? No instead, he had to just sit back and watch as this soulless cretin asked out the woman he had been dreaming and thinking about constantly for five days.

  And what a five days! He was convinced: she was perfect: kind, beautiful and totally unaware of how brilliant she was! She had spoken to Steve and Gerry and even silent Star with a carefree ease: finding everything to chat about that they might be interested in. She had given Star advice about men and had discussed Steve’s car with him for hours. She must have been bored but she hadn’t shown it at all, instead wanting to discuss what kind of engine he had and what interested him about this particular model. She and Gerry had been deep in conversation about matters which Hamish hadn’t been able to hear over the lick and whistle of the northerly Scottish wind which had accompanied them for the last three days.

  Watching her from across the bedding areas, he had seen her plant flowers with hard-work and perseverance despite the monotony of the job. Indeed she had seemed to enjoy it! Although she had been worried about a broken nail on the first day, since then she hadn’t cared about the mud, about the cold weather or about the rather more windswept aspect of her appearance which, in this wintery weather, prevailed. She had worked harder than anyone else, even Gerry, and had shown how dedicated she could be to the project.

  He had managed to overhear that she was a translator of Spanish and German in her regular job, but he had not managed to hear how she had come to be a criminal. Had something gone wrong and she had decided to break the law? Or had it always been an aspect of her past which she had decided to embrace? He was not sure but nonetheless he knew that he was desperate to find out. She took up all of his thoughts and when he went to sleep (eventually), he was dreaming of her!

  Meanwhile he knew, from watching her work, that her body was luscious. As a result, all he wanted to do was kiss her passionately, constantly, all the time. Every time he saw her, or indeed every time their eyes met, it was all he could think of: kissing her. He wanted to kiss her on her delicate lips, on her soft eyes, on her fine and slim neck, on her shoulder blades which glistened in a little sweat when she was digging, on her slender arms, her legs and her toes: in essence he had thought about every part of her body and he quite simply had the animalistic desire to cover her entire body with his lips.

  When he allowed his mind to wander further, he could imagine his hand, brushing back her hair, curling it round the back of her neck and drawing in her face, close to his, smelling her distinctive perfume and brushing her lips close to his. He imagined his hands moving over her body, over her hips, her legs, tearing off tights with his teeth and feeling her bare and slender legs. It was with these thoughts that his mind remained away through the small hours of the morning until it was almost pointless to fall asleep at all. His mind, tossing and turning throughout the night and his muscular body turning and turning over, trying in vain to get comfortable so that his mind would stop thinking and wandering!

  And yet, he could not get over the fact that she was a criminal, that she was here because she had done something which she shouldn’t have. What had she done? He had to know.

  Ten minutes later there were all sat in the pub, Bryony was struggling to remain composed. They had entered the pub and somehow she had ended up sitting next to Hamish: the man who hated her the most at this table. As she sat next to him, he had barely said two words to her and instead had chosen to ignore her, speaking to Star who was to his right. Why did he have to be so rude? What had she done wrong? During the time that she had spent there, she had seen him warm to Gerry, to chat away to Steve and to laugh at Star’s jokes (which Bryony could never as she spoke to quietly) and to basically bond with everyone on a personal level, except her! She had been ignored, shouted at and treated with an almost entirely frosty manner by Hamish, one she did not enjoy!

  Despite all this pent up rage at this man, Bryony could smell him and could also feel his leg next to hers. She could smell his scent, both his aftershave and the manly scent which lay below the aftershave. Not only could she smell him, she could feel the warmth from his body. In her mind, she could feel his blood coursing through his veins from his heart, gracing his ears and his large muscular arms.

  She felt so close and yet, so far away from him. Gerry was sat next to her, drinking a cider, whereas Hamish had opted for a beer. Steve, who was sat opposite them was beginning to be irritating. She really wanted to have the opportunity to speak to Hamish: when would she get such a good opportunity again? She wanted to speak to him, for him to warm to her, to get to know him like everyone else here seemed to!

  “So, Gerry, whatcha here for?” Steve asked a little too loudly and brashly. Bryony cringed inside. She knew that Gerry wanted to leave his criminal past, right there in the past and didn’t enjoy discussing his previous offences whatever they were. She had never asked and didn’t really want to know what he didn’t want to share.

  Gerry looked at Steve. “You know the banking crisis? Yeh? 2008? That was all me”. He had decided to avoid the question with a witty piece of sarcasm.

  “Haha, too good, too good”. Was it possible that Steve had already d
rank too much? “Then why are you here at all? No one else was convicted!”

  “Yeh, that is because it was all me. Her Majesty thought it would be best if I gave back my hundred million pound pension and work here”

  “Yeh, but seriously...” Steve began. Bryony’s blood began to boil: who did he think he was, putting Gerry on the spot like that?

  “Steve, if he doesn’t want to discuss it, leave him alone” she said quietly, but with emphasis and therefore danger.

  “Look I didn’t mean to offend. I don’t mind telling you mine: I have been caught one too many times speeding. They decided this was the best place for me: on Hamish’s programme.” Then he sent a curve ball and turned on her “What about you Bryony?”

  She looked at him, he wasn’t going to stop, he hadn’t got the hint, he was just going to keep on going until he weedled everything out of everybody. What should she do? Why had she come? The table went quiet, she felt uncomfortable: did everyone want to hear what she had done. Next to her, out of the blue, Hamish began “Look Steve if people don’t offer it up straight away they probably don’t...”

  “No, it’s okay Hamish. I don’t mind telling people what I did: I am not proud of what I did’” She paused. What should she say? Slowly, quieter, she almost whispered. “I got caught graffiting”.

  “Seriously?!” Steve almost shouted, spitting beer everywhere “you don’t look the type”.

  “Well, you know what they say: dark waters and all that, Steve” she responded. She needed people to believe her, the real truth couldn’t come out. Only Pony knew the truth and she didn’t even know what to think would happen if others did. She was going to keep it all a secret.

  “How did that occur?”

  “Well, I had some paint in my hand and I got caught by local police officers. I got caught red-handed. They are cracking down on graffiti in Ibrox at the moment and I was unlucky to get caught”.

  “What were you writing?” As if Steve could get caught out with her well-versed story.

  “I was copying a local tag, for practise really”.

  “What you tagged a wall with the name of a gang?”

  “Well, yeh, I didn’t know what it was at the time. But I soon realised how serious it was when the police came. I was just copying one, writing over it, trying to write legibly with spraypaint. Anyway, so I ended up getting two weeks of community service”.

  There was a small pause from the group, then Gerry piped up

  “So what do people have planned for the weekend?” This question seemed to hit on exactly what people wanted to discuss. Gerry, Steve and Star were all discussing their weekend plans and indeed their holiday plans and Bryony and Hamish sat next to each other in silence. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, Hamish spoke to Bryony really quietly,

  “That’s not really what happened, is it?” It was a question, and yet it wasn’t, it was more of a statement.

  “Yeh, of course it is!”

  “No it isn’t. I’ve heard you chat to Gerry: why would you want to improve your graffiti skills anyway? You aren’t into contemporary art and neither are you part of a gang, pushing drugs. No, maybe you have a good explanation as to why you got caught with spray paint, but you don’t have a good reason why you would want to be out graffiting in Ibrox in the first place. It doesn’t make sense”.

  Hamish had a point: there was a flaw in her story. And she had nothing to say on the matter: what could she say?

  “Hamish, I don’t know what you are talking about”.

  “Now, why would someone pretend to be guilty of a crime they didn’t commit? Why would you say yes, judge, I am guilty, when in fact you are entirely innocent. Why would you do that?”

  “Hamish, you are way off the truth, you know that?” She had her head down, speaking quietly, willing Hamish to stop asking questions. Instead, he came a little closer, almost whispering.

  “You would only do that if you wanted to protect someone else, someone who could have a lot of damage if they were found out to be involved in crime. I don’t know who it is: a friend, a boyfriend, a family member but you are protecting someone”.

  Everyone else was deep in conversation about the best locations in the Mediterranean whilst Hamish was slowly but surely prising apart her well-rehearsed story with his logic. Turning to her, he said, even quieter…

  “Bryony, you are probably terrified in case the law finds out what you have done: you could be in a lot of trouble. More than that though, the person who you are protecting, are they worth it? Are you being taken for a ride? Have you been forced to take the rap for the crime?”

  She looked at her shoes: how could he be so perceptive? Of course, Declan hadn’t forced her in the least; it had been more the other way home.

  “Bryony, I am not necessarily going to tell anyone but I have to be sure you did it for the right reasons. If you can prove to me that you lied to the law for the right reasons, then I won’t tell anyone either”. He turned to look at her, his eyes delving deep into her soul, she tried to hide her emotions but found it impossible. All she could do was return his stare, mouth slightly ajar. A long pause.

  “Can you still drive?’”

  “I have had one sip of this lager, I am not really in the mood”.

  “Come with me”

  Twenty minutes later after they had given their excuses (Bryony had missed her bus and was going to have to wait hours for her next one), they were heading back to Glasgow, south side of the river, to a small suburb called Ibrox.

  Hamish didn’t live near the centre of Glasgow and so wasn’t prepared for the heavy volume of traffic during rush hour. In the frosty breeze, hundreds and thousands of cars were stood, panting and waiting for traffic lights to change or for their turn on the roundabout. Hamish and Bryony sat in his car, waiting patiently in silence. Every so often, Bryony would whisper: turn right here, go left there. It was only when they had made it over four lines of traffic on the Kingston Bridge that they were able to take a deep breath and relax a bit more.

  As they drove down Paisley Road West, they saw as the buildings changed from cinemas and restaurants to large bay windowed flats and blocks. As it was rush hour, there were lots of people, wandering about, talking to each other, nipping in for their groceries after work, catching up on local gossip.

  “Before you get to the stadium, turn right, yeh that’s right, now, park just up here on the left”.

  He indicated in and switched off the car, they both sat there is silence.

  “Okay, so shall we...?”

  “Just wait Hamish”.

  They were on a small street with tenement houses lining the streets. Ground floor flats had ample bay windows, with thick curtains and small window boxes. Higher flats had smaller bay windows and the entire street had been handsomely built in red brick. Decades and decades ago, when Glasgow still had a ship building industry, these flats would have been filled with couples, families who all dedicated their lives to the building industry. After these were closed down, these flats had been renovated and turned into fashionable flats for couples, families and flatmates.

  They sat for fifteen minutes in silence in his car, the muted sounds of passers-by coming indistinctly through the windows. A young couple holding hands wandered past, giggling and whispering, followed soon after by a new mum with a baby wrapped up tight in a pram. Finally, they were passed by an older couple who sauntered together, holding hands in a comfortable silence, she had a leather handbag, he taller with a stick to support his weight slightly.

  After fifteen minutes of waiting patiently, Bryony suddenly spoke.

  “Do you see that house with the bright blue door?” He nodded, not making a sound. It was somewhat out of place in the street of otherwise grey doors. Flower boxes with every colour of flower sprouting out were balanced next to the windows and he could make out a small iron gate.

  “That flat is owned by a woman called Pony, who is my flatmate”. So this is where Bryony lives, he thought.


  “Do you see that man, limping and looking about him, just leaving my next door neighbour’s house?”

  “Yeh, he looks ill”.

  “He’s a drug addict. His name is Peter and every day he comes to my next door neighbours, either for a cup of tea, or as I suspect, heroin”

  “Is that who you...?”

  “No, of course not, Hamish. What would be the use? And why would he be possessing spray paint? His only concern is how he is going to get more heroin”.

  She paused and waited. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw the next man come out of the flats next to her. Hamish initially thought it was a man, but almost immediately saw that it was in fact a teenager, probably around fifteen or sixteen. He had a large black hoodie on, with the hood up and over his head. On the front he could just make out the letters MET, in an old traditional font: maybe it said Metallica? He had an uncomfortable walk, and was always looking around him, as if he was expecting something to happen.