by Pat Young
The dude had excellent taste and clearly, plenty of cash.
Gus stops and rubs his hand over his jaw and then his scalp. Feels the stubble but doesn’t register the need for a shave. He’s going through a dead guy’s gear. Checking out the quality and the style, as if this was no more than a clearance sale.
He comes across a bag full of toiletries. Body wash. Deodorant spray. A razor. He sees the hiker’s face. Clean-shaven? Hard to tell. Too much blood.
Gus swallows, forcing bitter liquid back down his throat.
Where do you stop with this kind of invasion? You handle a guy’s boxers, does that make it okay to look in his toiletry bag? Open his wallet? Go through his personal belongings? You can’t get much more personal than a dude’s boxers.
Gus fingers the zip on the last pocket. The one where he would keep the important stuff if it was his bag.
He slides the zip. It runs easily, quietly, but Gus cringes at the sound. As if it might wake the whole house and tell everyone he’s about to take a dead guy’s money. For that’s what this is about. Has been all along. He wants to know if there’s enough cash to pay for his escape.
The pocket opens. Gus hesitates for a moment. He’s not a thief, never has been. But then, he’s never been penniless either. Or homeless. Steal or go hungry? It’s a no brainer.
He pushes his hand into the pocket and his fingers touch soft leather – a wallet. It doesn’t feel very fat. What harm will it do to look inside? His heart sinks. Two tenners and a fiver, all from different Scottish banks. One English ten pound note, with its big picture of the Queen. That makes thirty-five quid. Not even half of what he lost in the stupid arm-wrestling bet last night. Tucked into a separate compartment, he finds a bunch of euros, familiar from his time in France. Gus looks for the orange and blue notes, fifties and twenties. There aren’t any.
He counts the cash and counts it again. It’s not going to get him on a flight to South Africa, but there’s enough to solve his immediate cash-flow problems. He might have to sleep in a shop doorway tomorrow night but at least he’s got enough cash for food. He raises the money to his lips and kisses it, then folds up all the notes and sticks them in his hip pocket. He can sort them out later. Change the euros if he needs to. He’s got about five minutes left to get the hiker’s stuff sorted and his own bag ready to go.
18
They’ve got it so wrong. Natalie and Joyce. I want to burst in and tell them. Robbie wasn’t my friend.
Instead I sneak up the stairs to my room. It’s still dark, apart from a slice of light at the side of the blind. The bundle I made in the bed hours ago looks just like a boy sleeping.
I run across and climb in, shoving the pillow boy out of the way. Pull the covers up over my head and remember the red throw, out there by the path where somebody will find it.
That’s too bad. I can’t go back into those woods. Ever. What if the guy’s still there, waiting to give me another kicking?
Footsteps on the stairs. Not Mum, she always runs up. Dad takes stairs two at a time, but this person is coming up slowly, as if he shouldn’t be in my house. Or doesn’t know where he’s going.
I pull the duvet up over my face and hold my breath.
The door handle turns, clicking gently like it does when Mum comes in to say goodnight. She thinks she’s being silent but I know all the sounds in this house. The handle always does a wee click at the last minute. Then a tiny squeak as the door opens. I wait for the creaky floorboard at the end of my bed.
No creak. Must be the stranger. Looking for me. I should have waited to make sure he didn’t follow me home.
Need to breathe but I’m scared he hears me, or sees the covers moving up and down. Why doesn’t he just get on with it? Come in and shut the door. Kill me, or whatever it is he’s here for. Can’t hold my breath any longer. Big breath in.
‘Charlie? Are ye sleepin, wee man?’
It’s Joyce. I’m safe. I want to sit up and howl, but I don’t move.
‘Charlie,’ she whispers again. ‘You okay?’
Eventually the door shuts and her footsteps tell me she’s gone downstairs. When she gets to the bottom she says, ‘He’s still sleeping, Natalie. Is that right, do ye think?’
The kitchen door closes before I can hear what Natalie thinks.
Where are Mum and Dad? This is just like the last time. I want to tell them what’s happened but they’re not here. They’re never here when I need them. They’re rubbish. I hate them. Wish I had normal parents and a normal house. In the town. Miles away from woods and the terrible things that happen in there.
The back door bangs shut, the way it always does when Joyce goes in or out. I run to my window and pull the blind away. The sun hits me in the eyes and makes me blink and squint. Joyce and Natalie are crossing the courtyard. Joyce shouts something that makes Natalie laugh. Then Joyce waves bye and goes into the toilets to start cleaning them. Wonder what Natalie would say if she knew about the dead guy. I watch her drag a big suitcase towards the barn where the summer workers live.
It makes me think about the guy’s rucksack, lying out there on the hill, waiting for someone to find it. I might as well phone the police right now. Tell them there’s a dead man buried on Brown Carrick.
19
It’s time he was gone, but Landlady of the Year hasn’t come a-knocking yet and there are still a couple of things in the rucksack he wants to check. A travel wallet and a skinny book with a photo on the front. Ayrshire Coastal Path: The Official Guide Book. Gus allows a few pages to flicker past his thumb then turns back to something that caught his eye on the first page. It’s a message, written in French, but short and easy for Gus to read.
Dear Sebastien,
Here’s to a wonderful summer in Scotland. I’m sure you will have fun with the contents of this book!
Sending you all my love, always, Mamie.
Sebastien. He’s called Sebastien. Gus says the name out loud, no idea why. Before he knows what he’s doing, he finds himself talking to the guy, as if he were here in the room.
‘I’m sorry, Sebastien. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. But why the fuck did you have to choose that moment to walk into the path of a gun and get yourself killed. It’s not just your own life you’ve screwed up, you stupid bastard. It’s mine too.’
Who’s this Mamie who’s sending him all her love? What if she’s his girlfriend? Someone who will come looking for him when she doesn’t hear from him in a day or two. Maybe a hiking geek, same as him. ‘Here’s to a wonderful summer in Scotland.’ Shit, that sounds like this Mamie is here too, hiking. Maybe she’s on the hill right now, looking for Sebastien, wondering why he hasn’t waited for her. Maybe they’d planned to meet up in the pub in Dunure. Shit, shit, shit. It never crossed his mind that the hiker would have company.
Gus tries to picture this Mamie person. Young, like Sebastien, but dressed in hiking clothes that a grandmother could wear. That’s it, of course, Mamie’s not a name, it’s French for Granny. One of the props in Toulouse, a slab of a man, used to talk about his mamie all the time and the other guys ripped it out of him.
Relief makes Gus laugh out loud at his mistake. He shuts up fast in case the landlady hears and remembers he’s supposed to have left.
So, this Granny’s sure Sebastien will have fun with the contents of a hiking handbook?
‘You need to get a life, mate,’ Gus says, without thinking. Guilt hits him like a high tackle. He throws the book in an arc towards the pink plastic waste bin under the wash basin. It misses. Topples the cheap flimsy bin and lies there accusing him.
He starts to transfer his own clothes into the rucksack. They only half fill the space, so he pushes the hiker’s waterproof and fleece back in. They’re too good to dump anyway, Gus might be glad to wear them, if the weather turns bad. If they don’t fit, well, he can always sell them. No point in trashing something that might come in handy later.
Taking a deep breath, he opens the travel wallet, hoping for
more money, travellers’ cheques, anything. He finds a European passport, French, and casts it aside. That explains the euros and the French grandmother. Some insurance-type stuff, some pages that look legal and complicated and a letter, well, an e-mail that’s been printed off.
The bottom left-hand corner has a green and blue logo. Meant to be hills and sea by the looks of it, and, in a fancy font, ‘Brackenbrae – so much more than a campsite.’
Dear Sebastien,
We’re delighted you decided to accept a vacation job here at Brackenbrae. Thank you for sending paperwork – I’m pleased to report that everything seems to be in order and you are authorised to take up your duties here. They will be, as agreed, to organise our club for children and to supervise the swimming pool – not at the same time, don’t worry! Your hours and remuneration will be as outlined in our previous correspondence. We may ask you to help us out of a tight spot if we’re very busy, but you’ll have plenty of free time to explore the local area and of course you won’t be the only student working at Brackenbrae, so you can expect some fun with the other guys.
We look forward to meeting you at some point on Monday 28 May. Any taxi from town will bring you out here, but I’ve heard some refuse to come up the drive. Too many pot-holes, they say. What a joke. Every road in Ayrshire’s like the surface of the moon. Anyway, it’s a short walk if your taxi drops you at the road-end or you decide to take the bus. Don’t make the mistake of getting off too early – at the place along the road. We’re a much smaller affair, and much classier. You’ll find Brackenbrae’s more a ‘glampsite’ than a campsite.
Regards,
Richard
Firstly, what the hell is a ‘glampsite’? Secondly, Sebastien is not going to turn up for work. Today or any other day.
What if this Richard, the owner probably, calls the cops when his babysitter slash pool-boy doesn’t report for duty? He might get in touch with Sebastien’s folks and check where he’s got to. They might start an international search for him.
He folds up the email, his hand shaking in a way he’s never noticed before. But then, he’s never killed anyone before – no wonder he’s scared. Nothing in his life will ever be the same again. Especially when Sebastien is reported missing. Won’t take long for that kid to talk and the police will start looking for Gus.
But maybe the campsite owner won’t care where Sebastien’s got to, as long as he has all the workers he needs to run his place. Maybe Gus is worrying too much. Mr Glampsite will soon find some other sucker to do his child-minding and pool supervising. What a job. Imagine doing that all summer. Mind you, it would be a piece of piss. Any brain-dead fool could do it.
Why would Sebastien’s parents assume the worst had happened? Kids go off travelling all the time, don’t they? Change their plans without telling their folks. Hell, when did he last call his mother? The time at home is a couple of hours ahead so she’ll not even be awake yet. Still sleeping off last night’s bottle, unless things have changed. When she finally wakes up, Gus won’t even cross her mind. He ignores the tiny jab of pain that stings each time he remembers how little his mother cares. Maybe Sebastien’s folks will be the same. Getting on with their lives and letting their kid get on with his.
Gus needs money to get home. To make money, he needs a job. There’s a job going at this Brackenbrae place. Maybe he could give it a day or two then swing by and ask if there’s any chance of some seasonal work. That’s not unreasonable, at this time of the year. There must be loads of students in Scotland looking for summer jobs.
Wait a minute, he’s due to try out with Ayr Rugby Club. He could hold this job in reserve, in case Ayr don’t take him on. He wouldn’t be surprised if Glasgow have tipped them off. What if they’ve said don’t touch the South African, he has anger issues? Gus isn’t sure he could take another rejection. With all that’s happened this morning, will he be able to play his best game and showcase his talent? Being rejected for his temper is one thing. Being told he’s not good enough would be much worse. Ayr can stick it up their ass. He can play rugby when he gets home. That’s his priority now. Getting home as soon as he can.
He picks up the hiker’s passport and opens it again. This time he takes a good look at the photo, expecting to see the red hair that he can’t get out of his mind. The definition is so poor the hair looks brown. Did he just imagine that sudden flame of copper in the shaft of sunlight? The dude in the picture could be anyone. Well, maybe not anyone, of course, but any unsmiling white guy with no facial hair, scars or disfigurement.
He looks the age you’d expect a student to be, but hey, what age is a student these days? Gus has played rugby with some guys who seemed to be hell-bent on studying till they’re thirty. Or till their rich folks stop paying the bills.
Gus tucks the passport and email into the travel wallet, pushes it into the secure pocket of the rucksack. As he zips it shut, he remembers the book, lying by the bin. Not clever. He kicks the plastic bin out of the way and picks up the book.
He stows the hiker’s clothes into the old threadbare holdall he’s had since he was a teenager. He sets both bags by the door and scans the room, to make sure he’s forgotten nothing. The bed beckons from its murky corner under the eaves. The bed he’s paid for.
He adjusts the position of the bags so they’re blocking the door and turns the button on the lock so it can’t be opened from the outside. As he flops onto the bed, the divan screeches in complaint. Sounds exactly like his landlady, he thinks, as he closes his eyes, hoping for sleep.
20
I get out of bed and run to the bathroom. Skid on my knees to the toilet, just in time to be sick. Even when nothing comes out, my stomach keeps trying. Heaving like it wants to come up my throat and splatter into the toilet too.
I want my mum. She usually comes when I’m sick. She’s like a heat-seeking missile. Something tells her I need her and she just appears. Mother’s instinct, she calls it.
If she was here she would grab a wet flannel and kneel beside me on the floor. She’d gently wipe my mouth. She’d stroke my hair off my face. She’d hug me and tell me I’ll be alright.
But she’s not here. I don’t know where she is.
I stand up and grab some toilet paper to wipe my own face. Throw it in the bowl with the sick. Press the button and watch it flush away. Try to look in the mirror. My eyes are crying from being sick so everything looks blurry. I can see my face is dirty, all streaky with trails under my eyes. I lift the tail of my shirt to wipe my face. My bare belly looks like I’ve been paint-balled. Red marks everywhere he kicked me.
I wash my face and dry it on a white towel. Except it’s not white now, it’s mucky. My shirt’s all messy with blood and my shorts too. I take them off and throw them in the dirty-washing basket. Five seconds later I take them out again. Mum will go crazy if she finds them. Can’t leave them in there.
I take small, careful steps back to my room and sit on the bed. Everything looks the same as it did this morning. It looks like a wee boy’s bedroom. A happy boy with nothing to worry about. Not a boy with kicked-in ribs and another terrible secret to keep.
I shove my clothes under the bed. Where the gun used to be. Grab clean clothes from my drawer. A sweatshirt and jeans. Got to cover my arms and legs.
I go down the stairs, very carefully, listening. Every step hurts, but the house sounds empty.
I open the kitchen door. See my bowl and mug on the table and a glass of orange juice. Why is Mum not here to give me my breakfast?
I take a sip of juice but even though I’m thirsty, it doesn’t taste right. Not cold enough, as if it’s been out of the fridge for ages.
I open the Coco Pops packet and stick my hand in the bag. Mum hates me doing that but she’s not here so I shove a handful in my mouth. They taste bad too. I spit them into the bin and a bit of sick comes up. Spit it out too.
Mum’s left me a note in my cereal bowl.
Morning Charlie,
Hope you had a good sleep.
Didn’t want to wake you.
Dad and I decided late last night that we had to go to a meeting this morning. Boring business stuff.
Have your breakfast. Joyce will be around if you need anything while we’re out.
We’ll be back in the afternoon. Definitely before teatime. Big Mark will make your lunch.
Remember now, no matter what he says, you are only allowed ONE glass of coke.
Love you. Stay out of trouble.
‘Stay out of trouble.’
If only she knew. I’m going back to bed.
I wake up feeling like I’m swimming towards the light from the bottom of a deep pool. The closer I get to the surface, the sadder I feel. Want to sink again, back down to where nothing bad happens, but I’m rising. Can’t fight it. I break the surface and burst back into the real world, remembering. Like gasping for air, like a fish that’s just been caught. Can’t stop thinking about the hiker and the stranger. Wish I could go back to sleep.
The new blind is still closed. With an orangey pink line round the edge. The sky’s turning red. That means the sun’s setting. I’ve been sleeping for ages.
I hear voices downstairs. Mum and Dad are back, at last. Don’t remember Mum coming into my room. My throat is jaggy, like that time I had an infection, and there’s a nasty taste on my tongue. Want to spit but my mouth is too dry. Need a drink of water. I roll over, to knock on the floor, but my ribs hurt too much. I flop onto my back and wait.
At last I hear Mum’s footsteps running on the stairs. I pull the covers up to my chin and wait for the door to open.
She tiptoes in. When she sees I’m awake, she says, ‘Aw, Charlie. Are you feeling poorly?’ Her voice is kind. It makes me want to cry, but I try not to.
