by Pat Young
The damage is done. To that poor guy in the grave and to me too. It’s not just the pain of the sore bits I mean. It’s all the other stuff I was doing my best to forget. The guilt, the sick feeling, the horrible black slime that I’ve tried so hard to keep in its corner.
What about the curse? I didn’t say the words this time, but I thought them. I wanted to say them. To shout them in his face the way I shouted them at Robbie. Does thinking something bad make it real or do you have to say it out loud?
Wonder what the time is? The sun has moved a lot since I got up but that doesn’t tell me anything. Don’t hear much sound coming from Brackenbrae, but it’s always quiet here. The main gate’s open. That means Dad’s up. Opening the gate is his first job of the day. Eight am sharp. Joyce usually gets here about half-past. I always hear her singing before I go to school. If she starts in the house she usually gives me money for sweeties. She always whispers, ‘Shh, it’s our wee secret, eh?’
I’ve made up my mind. No more secrets. I’m going to walk straight into the kitchen and let Mum and Dad see the state of me. Mum will cuddle me and cry. She’ll see all my sore bits and they’ll ask me what happened. I’ll take them along the path to the burn and tell them. I will.
If I’d told them what happened the last time I was in the woods, everything would be different. But I didn’t get the chance and then I couldn’t. But this time I will, definitely.
Nobody’s about. No campers, no workers. The back door’s open but the kitchen door’s closed. I hear Joyce talking so it must be coffee time. Don’t want Joyce there but I’ve got no choice. I take a deep breath, touch the door handle and stop. Someone else is speaking and I know her voice. Natalie.
She says, ‘Should we be doing this?’
‘Och, aye. The boss would never grudge us a wee coffee. Last thing he said, before they went off, was, “Keep an eye open for Natalie. Make sure she gets settled in alright.” So that’s what I’m doing.’
Natalie’s here. But Dad’s not and Mum’s not.
‘Anyway, how’s your love life?’
‘No time for romance, Joyce. I had no idea teachers worked so hard.’
‘Away! Nine till, what? Three? Monday till Friday? See the holidays they get? Weeks and weeks. Never at their work and then they’ve the cheek to say, “Keep yer weans at hame. We’re having an inset day.” An inset day? An excuse for a skive, if you ask me.’
‘Stop it, Joyce. I know when you’re winding me up. Tell me more about Brackenbrae. You really think the business is struggling?’
‘Work it out for yourself. It’s a holiday weekend and I’ve got one wigwam to clean, and one cabin.’
Natalie bursts out laughing. ‘Not a wigwam, Joyce. A yurt.’
‘A yurt. In Ayrshire?’
‘Glamping is very trendy. I think they could be on to something. I’ve got friends that tried it for a hen weekend in the Borders. I understand it’s all the rage amongst the West End set.’
‘Well, until they all start flocking down here for their glamping holidays, this is still a campsite.’
There’s a pause then Joyce says, ‘You’ll never guess what her ladyship did on Friday? She only stuck a sign at the main gate saying, “No campers.” No campers? It’s a bliddy campsite!’
Sounds like Natalie’s choking on her coffee. ‘What did she mean?’
‘She meant, “No riff-raff.” She doesn’t want ordinary folk with their tents. In case they lower the tone.’
‘But that’s madness. Brackenbrae should be grabbing all the campers we can get and what about hikers? Isn’t there a new coastal path or something? I heard some guys talking about it in the Union one night. I’m sure one of them had a book. They were planning to walk it this summer.’
‘Aye, well, they better keep walking cos they’ll no be pitching their tent here. Unless it’s a yurt, of course.’
‘Oh, Joyce, you’re priceless. I’ve missed you. Listen, how’s your husband?’
‘Oor Alec? Och, he’s alright. Too fond of the drink, but he’s a good enough man.’
‘Well, to answer your question about my love life, I’m still kissing frogs.’
Joyce laughs, then coughs. ‘Waiting for Prince Charming? Well, watch you don’t wait too long.’ She starts to sing, ‘One day my prince will come. One day I’ll find my love.’
The sound of her voice makes me cry.
‘Shh! You’ll wake Charlie!’
They think I’m upstairs asleep.
‘How’s he doing?’
‘His mum says he’s “not himself”, whatever that means. That’s why we’ve to let him sleep. She says he’s awful tired. But that’s about as much as they ever tell me. Ask the boss and he’ll just say, “I’m sure he’s fine.” Wait, I’ve just remembered something. This morning the boss said something like, “I’ve no idea how he is.” Or what was it? “I don’t know the answer to that question, to be honest.” That’s it. He honestly doesn’t know how his wee boy is. That’s just sad, so it is.’
‘The whole thing’s sad. All that trauma of his friend dying in the fire.’
She’s wrong. You’re wrong, Natalie. Robbie wasn’t my friend. His mum and my mum were friends. That’s not the same and anyway, my mum wasn’t really his mum’s friend. She was just a woman Mum met at the SWRI one winter when she went to learn how to make scones and knit jumpers and stuff.
‘Terrible thing to happen. The wee soul was over here playing with Charlie the day before.’
Not because he was my friend. Only because Mum felt sorry for his mum. I heard her telling Dad. ‘She’s not really my type, but she kind of invited herself and I didn’t like to say no. Poor thing, stuck out there on her own with two kids. In that horrible wee cottage.’
‘The next thing we know, there’s been a fire. Cottage burnt down and the whole family wiped out in their sleep. The mum and two wee boys, one just a toddler.’
‘And Charlie never saw his friend again?’ says Natalie. ‘How awful for him.’
‘Nothing but a blackened shell now, that wee house. On the road to Dunure.’
‘Do you pass it on the way to Fisherton?’
‘Aye, on the left-hand side.’
‘So Charlie sees it when he goes to school?’
‘Every day.’
Another pause. A long one this time.
‘Oh, Natalie. We’ll need to keep an eye on wee Charlie, so we will. See if we can help him.’
17
When he’s sure the kid’s gone, Gus half-sits, half-collapses onto the grass. Since the moment that gun fired, he’s been running on pure adrenaline. Now it seems to have evaporated and he feels sick to his stomach. He puts his head between his knees and waits. The nausea passes but it doesn’t take the guilt and fear with it.
What the hell’s he going to do now? He’s a foreigner, on a limited visa, with no job, practically no money and now he’s committed a murder. Whatever spin he likes to put on it, a murderer’s what he is. If he gets caught, well, that doesn’t bear thinking about.
He’d like to run for home. Trouble is, he’s got no money and right now, no way of getting it. Even if he did know someone who could get their hands on the cash, he doesn’t want to admit he’s a loser. He left South Africa to be a big-time rugby star in Europe. How is he going to tell everyone back home that it didn’t work out in France, it didn’t work out in Glasgow and now he’s blown it in Ayr? This time nothing to do with his rugby or his temper.
The same temper could have killed that kid if he hadn’t got it under control in time. Maybe there’s something in this ‘roid rage’ thing. Bad enough on the rugby pitch but kicking the hell out of a child? Man, that’s so out of order. Poor little guy seemed genuinely petrified. Still, harsh though it was, it means there’s no danger of him telling anyone. Let’s hope he’s got the sense to lie to his folks if they see the bruises. Say he got into a fight at school or something. Cos, boy, he’s gonna have some bruises tomorrow.
Gus gets to his feet.
It’s time to get out of here. He needs to head back to Ayr to that grotty bed and breakfast joint. It’s little better than a doss-house, once you get past the lacy curtains. He’d decided to move out today, find somewhere better, but now he’s lost all his money, he’s got no option but to sleep there. If he decides to stick around for his try-out with Ayr Rugby Club tomorrow.
Realistically, it’s likely to take a few days, maybe even longer, before someone reports the hiker missing. How will anyone know where he was when he disappeared? No one starts a manhunt by digging up remote hillsides.
Gus walks to the makeshift burial ground for one last check. You’d never guess a thing. The mini-landslide he created has completely engulfed and hidden the body. The grave looks natural, like any other part of the landscape. Once a few sheep have wandered back and forward to the stream, the bank will look as if it’s always been like that. He checks for footprints and scuffs a bit of dirt here and there to cover any tracks he or the kid might have left. The job’s a good one. Gruesome, but sorted.
As he retraces his steps to the path, he remembers the guy’s rucksack. He can’t leave that lying out here for someone to come across. If he takes it back with him to Ayr he’s bound to find somewhere to get rid of it. He hoists it onto his shoulder and sets off, trying to remember where he was going before this nightmare kicked off.
What the fuck was he thinking about, getting involved with that kid in the first place? He should have left him there, lying curled up in a ball. Look where being kind has got him. He should have walked on by. Kid wants to wander around the woods at stupid o’clock in the morning, that’s not Gus’s problem. Then, when he’s trying to be nice, making sure the kid’s okay, he turns the gun on Gus. Shit, what was that all about? Talk about adrenaline rush. He almost shit his boxers. He thought his time had come.
The boy must be some kind of retard. He was acting strange from the get go. Flinching every time Gus went near him and what about that refusing to speak carry-on? Kid had no idea how to interact with a stranger. It was like that movie where the two hunters wander into backcountry where all the locals are inbred.
Who’s gonna believe a kid like that if he does decide to say something? But he won’t tell. He understands enough to realise there’s big trouble ahead if the guy and the gun ever get found.
Gus pushes on, keen to get off the hillside before anyone sees him. The road over the hill is not as steep as it looked from the coast, and he’s soon on the other side and following the directions the blonde doll gave him early this morning, which seems like a long lifetime ago. When his only care in the world was whether he’d get a job throwing a ball about.
There have been surprisingly few cars on the road till now, but when he reaches a narrow stone bridge, he sees a queue forming. His first reaction is to try and hide the dead guy’s rucksack from the drivers. But no one knows it’s not his own and secondly, nobody seems to give a shit about him. They’re all too busy with their own lives. He needs to remember that.
The big hotel on the other side of the bridge rings a bell from Kirsty’s instructions. Ayr Rugby Club must be close by, but he can’t see any sign of a stadium or pitches. They’re a good club, he’d expected a ground big enough to see from the road. He decides this is not the time to go exploring and keeps walking, past a ruined church and further along, a low house with a thatched roof. A cluster of tourists pose for a selfie under the sign that says Burns Cottage. Means nothing to him, but it must be famous.
After a mile or so he stops a woman with one of those doodle dogs. The stupid mutt keeps jumping up on him while its owner pleads with it, ‘Noodle, stop. Be a good boy.’ She apologises to Gus, ‘I take him to obedience classes, you’d never guess. Noodle, leave the nice man alone.’
The nice man would like to kick Noodle in the nuts, an obedience lesson with instant results, but laughs instead and asks her how to get to the seafront.
Ten minutes later, he opens the door to Avonlea Guest House and a bell jangles above his head. Before its echo dies, the same torn-faced woman he met last night appears. She eyes his rucksack suspiciously and for a moment Gus thinks she must know it’s not his.
‘Checking out early, are we?’
‘Got a couple of things to sort in my room. I just popped out for some breakfast.’
‘I’m surprised you got served dressed like that.’ She points at his T-shirt, her nose screwed up as if she can smell the blood that’s smeared down the front.
Why didn’t he notice it before? He attempts, too late, to cover it with his hands.
‘You look like you’ve been in the wars.’
‘Yeah, I got into a bit of a rumble with some locals last night.’
‘Glasgow, probably. Not Ayr boys, I’m perfectly sure. Anyway, you didn’t have to go out. We offer breakfast as an option. Full Scottish with tattie scones and everything. I told you that when you checked in.’ She made it sound like an accusation.
Gus has no idea what a tattie scone is, but it doesn’t sound tempting. Especially if the kitchen operates to the same level of hygiene as the shared bathroom.
‘How did you get in last night? The main door gets locked at eleven.’
Jeez, this is worse than living with his mother. Gus wants to tell the old bat to fuck off and mind her own business but decides charm might be a better bet.
Laughing quietly, he lowers his head and smiles, as if he’s a bit embarrassed. ‘You’ve caught me. Didn’t actually make it back last night. Sorry.’
The woman sniffs and pats at her hair. ‘Makes no difference to me where you slept, as long as you’re having a pleasant stay at Avonlea.’
‘I might be moving on today. Slight change of plan. I was wondering, could you possibly give me a refund if I check out?’ That would be one way to get at least a few quid in his pocket.
‘Too short notice.’ She points to a sign on the wall behind her. A quick glance reveals a list of rules, printed in bold red italics. No drinks allowed. No eating in the bedrooms. No refunds.
‘No worries,’ says Gus, hoping she doesn’t think he’s taking the piss.
‘Check out’s at half-ten, mind.’
‘What, even if I’ve paid for tonight?’ Gus had thought he might grab an hour’s sleep. Clear his head. Help him to plan his next move.
The woman tips her head towards another sign. This one is in handwritten block capitals. ‘Half-past ten. No exceptions,’ she says in a voice you wouldn’t want to argue with. She hands him his key and says, ‘You’ve got twenty minutes.’
Gus heads for the stairs.
No bed had ever looked so tempting as the meagre single in the corner. What he’d give to slide under the faded nylon bedspread right now and switch off for a few hours. Forget the pile of shit his life has become.
He lowers the hiker’s backpack to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. The sight of the rucksack sends a gush of something vile to the back of his throat. He lies down till it passes. What harm would it do if he fell asleep? Is she really going to come banging on his door in twenty minutes? So what if she does? He can tell her to fuck off. He’s paid for the night. Surely the bed is his for twenty-four hours?
Determined to grab some sleep while he can, he strips off the dirty T-shirt and shuts his eyes.
The hiker appears and Gus shoots. He opens his eyes and blinks. What was that? He clears his mind, tries to think of something nice. Last night’s blonde obliges. His sleepy eyelids droop.
Bang! The hiker dies. Again. This time Gus sees his face. Covered in blood. Gus rubs his hands on his thighs. As if his subconscious believes his palms are covered in the hiker’s blood. Gus closes his eyes a third time, scared of what he’ll see. He’s in the woods. He forces his eyes wide open. Gets off the bed. Rushes to the sink in the corner and splashes cold water on his face. Takes the tiny bar of soap and rips the paper off, desperate to wash his hands. Despite the lack of warm water they’re soon clean, but he rubs and scrubs till the sliver of soap becomes a waf
er and disappears completely. He rips a towel from its hook and hides his face in the threadbare cloth. There’s no comfort in the harsh fabric and the hiker’s face appears again. He opens his eyes to banish the image and concentrates on the shape of the sun-filled window.
Gus checks the time. He’s got ten minutes till checking out time.
The hiker’s rucksack sits in the middle of the floor. Accusing him.
Should he leave it here? Walk out the door and make it his landlady’s problem? She doesn’t strike him as the type to hand it in to the police. But still. No point in asking for trouble.
He needs to take it with him and dump it at the bus depot. Or the train station. Walk away and leave it. Yeah, and spark a major security alert. He’d heard the announcements at the airport and at Glasgow Central station. Every five minutes a recorded voice made threats about what would happen to your luggage if you left it alone. The Scots seem to be obsessed with unattended luggage and all these places have CCTV cameras everywhere. He’ll be seen and recorded.
A dumpster behind a hotel or supermarket might be his best bet. But before he can abandon the bag, he has to make it anonymous. He can’t risk leaving any trace of the hiker that could spark off a search. He starts to undo the straps on the hiker’s backpack, noticing that it’s quality gear. High-end stuff and at least ten times the price of his own grotty old kitbag.
He could keep this bag and bin his own? The idea’s a good one, worth thinking about and probably safer than dumping it. Gus upends the rucksack and empties the main compartment onto the bed. The hiker’s clothes are crumpled as if he’s been on the road some time. They’re also top quality. Boxers that boast designer names on their waistband. The kind Gus would wear all the time if he could afford them. Socks with subtle logos and T-shirts with big shout-out brands across the chest. A sweater so soft Gus can’t resist touching it with his cheek. Feels like the real deal, some kind of posh, luxury wool? The label confirms – one hundred per cent cashmere.
The outside pockets contain walking gear. A fleece jammed into one. Waterproofs into another. All good quality. Gus recognises the logo but can’t place it. He’s never owned anything that expensive in his life.
