by Pat Young
About me, likely, and what a freak I’ll be at the Academy.
The staffroom door opens. ‘Hello, Charlie? You still here?’
Nod.
‘Mum not here yet?’ Miss Lawson looks worried.
I point to the next door with its shiny gold sign. Head Teacher: Mrs A Walker. Beside it, there’s a sticker with a big smiley face and underneath a poster that says, ‘Welcome to our school. Glad you’re here!’ Mrs Walker is trying to make visitors think she’s friendly, and most of the time she’s nice, but she can be really scary too. Hope Mum’s not scared.
‘Did you want to see Mrs Walker? She’s not here, Charlie. She had to go to a meeting at County Buildings this afternoon. Did you want to see her about something very important?’
Shake head.
‘Can I help?’ Her arms are full of sheets of paper.
Another shake.
‘Well, I’m sorry. Everyone else has gone, I think. Do you need me to call Mum for you?’
Smile and shake head. Point to the door.
‘You can wait with me till Mum comes, if you like. Help me to put away all this photocopying?’
I like helping Miss Lawson, but I shake my head. Mum will be here soon.
‘Okay, you pop out and wait for her. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes. If she hasn’t turned up by then, we’ll phone and see what’s happening. All right?’
Nod and smile. She’s lovely. We’ll all miss her when we go to the Academy. Wish I could tell her that.
‘See you in a bit.’
Wish I could tell her that Mum’s car’s in the layby. But even if I could, don’t think I would. Because I’ve got a bad feeling about why Mum’s late.
Run to the corner and stand up on the wall. A black Mercedes, sleek as a panther, slides into the layby behind Mum’s car. Can’t see who’s driving. After a moment, Mum gets out, closes the door and bends down to wave her fingers.
I hunker down behind the wall and watch the black car glide down and stop at the main road. The driver has black hair, a neat, kind of fancy beard and a very white shirt. That’s all I’ve got time to see before the car turns right and accelerates off with a whooshing noise that sounds very powerful, like the Batmobile. He’s heading for Ayr, whoever he is. What were you doing with my mum? I want to shout after him. But he’s gone.
Run to the steps and sit down, so Mum won’t know I’ve been spying on her.
‘Sorry, Charlie,’ she says, all rushed. She’s dressed up fancy. With her high heels on and those shiny tights she wears that make her legs look like a supermodel’s, Dad says.
I scowl at her.
‘Please don’t look so cross.’ Her voice is tinkly, like she knows a funny joke. ‘I’m not usually late, am I?’
That’s true.
‘Dad had some paperwork he wanted me to look at.’
That’s not true.
‘Didn’t notice the time till he said, “Shouldn’t you be picking up Charlie?” Sorry, wee pal.’
That’s not true either. Why is she lying to me? Why not the usual ‘boring business stuff’? That’s what they always say when there’s something they don’t want to tell me.
She reaches down for my school bag and lunch box and says, ‘Come on then, kiddo. Let’s get you home.’
As we walk towards the gate, she says, ‘Where are the teachers? You shouldn’t be sitting out here all alone.’ This sounds more like Mum. Always ready for a moan these days. ‘Any weirdo could be passing.’
I point to the school.
‘Did someone ask if you were okay?’
Nod. A lot. Don’t want her kicking up a fuss, getting Miss Lawson into trouble.
‘That’s good.’
Her happy mood seems to be back. She sings on the way home. ‘All the single ladies. All the single ladies.’ She doesn’t even like Beyoncé. Should have heard her when one of the boys in my class told her his new baby sister was called Beyoncé. She went on about it all the way home in the car then told Dad and laughed. ‘What are these people like,’ she said, in her snooty voice.
That was when she started going ‘private’.
‘He’s not going to a private school, Viv.’
‘Give me one good reason why not.’
‘We can’t afford it. Is that a good enough reason?’
Haven’t heard it mentioned for a while. Thank goodness. It’s hard enough for me without a school where I’ll not know anybody. That was another good reason Dad gave her, and they’d have to drive me every day and the uniform costs a fortune. Dad had loads of good reasons not to send me. I was glad.
Wonder what she’ll tell Dad about where she’s been? I’ll have to listen tonight.
‘Right. Straight upstairs and out of your school clothes please. Have you got homework to do?’
Make a sad face. Doesn’t usually work but today Mum laughs and goes, ‘Okay. It can wait till after tea.’ She never lets me off with homework. Definitely something fishy going on. Get upstairs fast.
‘Charlie!’
Oh no, she’s changed her mind.
‘Charlie?’ Her voice is sing-songy.
Thump my foot on the floor, to let her know I’m coming. Once I get my school stuff off.
‘Can you run quickly and find Dad for me, please?’
Halfway down the stairs, I mime, ‘Where?’
‘No idea, but he can’t be far away. Fast as you can, please, Charlie.’
Jump down the last two stairs and sprint out the door and across the courtyard.
Suits me to find Dad. Because I’ve decided I’m definitely going to tell him. Today. The minute I find him. I’m going to tell him about the dead person. He’ll know what to do.
Turn the corner, fast, skidding, and barrel right into someone. Someone big. I bounce right off him, like in a cartoon. Land on the ground, on my bum. Look up with a grin, because it’s funny. Expecting to see Mark or maybe even Dad, smiling back at me.
But it’s that Seb guy. He’s not smiling.
He towers over me, muttering swear words, grabbing at my T-shirt. He drags me to my feet and up onto the tips of my toes. ‘Well, well, well. Look who it is. Not seen you for a few days, buddy. Been keeping out of my way?’
I stare at him. Never been so afraid of anyone in my life.
‘You need to watch where you’re going, dumb-ass. Now, are you gonna say sorry or what?’
Shake my head, desperate to get away.
‘Is that no, you won’t apologise?’
Shake my head. In case that’s the wrong answer, I nod, then change my mind and shake. His crazy eyes look into mine. He must know I can’t speak. Dad will have told him by now. Or Natalie. Or Joyce.
He drops me, as if he’s touched something disgusting. I stumble back and stand there, with my head down. Hoping I’m off the hook, like a wee fish that gets away, cos it’s not worth bothering with.
He steps towards me. Starts jabbing his finger into my chest. Then he leans in close, and whispers, ‘Say sorry.’
Don’t want to look at his face. I stand there as if I’m made of stone and concentrate on my shoes. His big hand comes up again. Prods at me twice more, even harder this time. Two jabs, sharp as a knife. How can one finger hurt so much?
‘Come on, asshole,’ he says, quietly. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’ He waits and waits. I’ve got no choice but to look up at him.
‘You listening to me?’ He’s whispering again. Much scarier than shouting. ‘This can’t speak stuff? Pile of horseshit! Everyone knows you can speak. Seems to me you’re nothing but an attention-seeking mummy’s boy.’ His mouth is so close to my ear his stubble scratches my cheek. As he draws away he stares into my eyes, like he wants to hypnotise me. ‘Come on. Talk. All you need to say is, “Sorry.” One word. Apologise. Before my patience runs out.’
When I say nothing, he glances around the corner like he wants to make sure no one’s coming. He pounds one meaty fist into his other palm. It makes a punching noise, scary as claps of thunder.
/> ‘See this?’ he says, holding his fist in front of my face. ‘Well, say, “Sorry, Seb,” before I smash it into your skinny gut.’
I’m going to tell Dad anyway, the minute I can, so I might as well talk now.
I put my teeth together and make the Hissing Sid noise I learned when I was wee.
‘Ssssss.’
Nothing else comes out.
Try to add the o sound, but nothing happens.
‘Ssssss. Ssssss.’ Why can’t I make the word?
He laughs like a movie villain. ‘Look at you. You sad little pisser.’
I check my shorts, in case I’ve wet myself without realising.
He laughs again and watches the corner. I wish Dad would come. Or Mark, Mum, Natalie. Anybody.
He folds his arms. Like he’s got all day.
I try again. Feels like my stomach’s going to come out my mouth, but only the tiniest hissing sound escapes.
He cups a hand behind his ear. Like a bad actor pretending to listen.
‘What did you say? Doesn’t sound like, “Sorry”. How do I know you’re not saying, “Piss off”? That pathetic hiss could be anything. How do I know you’re not calling me an asshole?’
He grabs my hair. Yanks me up till my eyes are level with his.
‘Last chance, buddy. Say. Sorry. Seb.’ He hisses every s sound, as if he’s trying to wind me up as much as he can. The long gap he leaves between the words are scarier than anything.
I can’t make the words. No matter how hard I try. Can’t get past the s. This isn’t fair. I was the one who decided to stop talking. Surely I get to decide when to start again.
Seb laughs quietly and shakes his head. ‘Okay, bud. I guess it’s true. You don’t talk after all.’ His voice is kind again, like it was when I first met him and he thought I was lost. Sounds as if he feels sorry for me.
I squeeze my eyes tight shut to stop any tears from getting out.
‘Yeah, it’s a pity you can’t talk. I was kinda hoping you could tell me about that fire.’
The fire. How can he know about the fire?
‘You know, the one your friend died in?’
I open my eyes but I won’t look at him.
‘With his mum and his poor little baby brother.’ He looks as if he’s being really clever.
‘Did you have something to do with that fire, Charlie?’
Try to look away, at something in the distance.
‘I think you did. That’s why you won’t talk. In case you have to tell somebody what really happened, eh?’
My eyes look at him before I can stop them.
‘Thought so.’
Something in his voice makes me keep staring at him, as if I’m hypnotised.
‘Is that why you won’t talk. In case the truth comes out?’
I make myself look away again. Pretend he’s not there.
‘Eh?’ Such a tiny word, but scary the way he says it. He starts prodding me again till I look at him.
His raised eyebrows tell me he wants an answer, so I nod.
‘Now you’ve got two things you won’t want to talk about, and another dead body. Let me see, now, that makes one…’
He’s counting on his fingers.
Shut my eyes.
‘Two, three, four people dead? Wow, no wonder you don’t want to tell anyone. You got some kind of hex on you, kid? I think I’ll keep well out of your way from now on.’
Keep my eyes screwed up tight.
When I open them, he’s gone.
31
France
Tuesday 19 June
Catherine looks around Sebastien’s room, checking she’s not missed anything.
This is the first time she’s been able to spend time in his bedroom without bursting into tears. Amazing what having a sense of purpose will do.
She has already been through his wardrobe, twice, and his chest of drawers but found nothing worthwhile, apart from the pale-blue sweater that she can’t stop raising to her cheek. Does it really still smell of Sebastien, or is she imagining it? Why didn’t he take it with him? It’s merino wool, softer than any sheep’s wool you can find in France. Perfect for the chilly Scottish climate. Eric brought it back from a business trip to New Zealand. He’d wanted her to go with him, make a holiday of it, but she’d been unwilling to leave Sebastien, claiming he wouldn’t study for his exams if she didn’t keep on his case. She knew at the time that wasn’t true, and knows it still, for Sebastien has always been motivated to work hard in school. Would it have made any difference if she’d gone with her husband, pleased him by saying yes?
Maybe she’ll go next time, if another opportunity arises. By all accounts, New Zealand justifies the long flights. It seems to be a beautiful country, very like Scotland in fact. Well, she’s never been to Scotland either, but that’s about to change.
She holds the jumper at arm’s length and examines it properly. This will never fit Sebastien now. His swimmer’s shoulders would surely burst the seams and it will be far too short. Her boy has turned into a young man.
Eric chastised her last night for thinking of Sebastien as a boy. ‘You need to remember that when you see him. No treating him like a child, especially if his workmates are within earshot.’
‘Okay, okay, I get it,’ she said, laughing.
Eric grabbed her in a hug and kissed her ear, making her wriggle out of his arms. ‘It’s so good to hear you laugh again, I can’t tell you.’
Catherine folds the jumper and places it back in the drawer. It might be too small, but she’s not ready to throw it out yet.
She turns to Sebastien’s birthday gifts, piled in the corner. Far too many to take with them.
‘Now, don’t go packing too much stuff,’ said Eric as he left for work this morning. ‘Remember, everything we take, Sebastien will have to bring home and he’s only got a rucksack.’
Catherine lifts one carefully wrapped package after another and weighs each in her hand, all the time thinking how sad it is that Sebastien wasn’t here to open them on his birthday.
Come on, Catherine, she reminds herself, no negative thoughts. A week ago, she was worried she might never see Sebastien again and now here she is, packing to go and visit him in Scotland. She selects the two gifts she knows Sebastien will enjoy – a ludicrously expensive box of his favourites from La Maison du Chocolat and a bestseller he’s been talking about reading. She carefully places the presents on top of her suitcase, trying not to spoil the bows she spent ages tying. As an afterthought, she grabs a soft, flat package – a technical base-layer that was meant for skiing but might be handy if he’s finding Scotland too cold. She squashes it into the zipper compartment on the lid of the suitcase and closes it.
She is just getting into the shower when she thinks she hears the phone ringing in the hall. She turns off the water and listens. Yes, the house phone’s ringing. Her first instinct is to run in case it’s Sebastien, then she decides to let it go to the answering machine. When she hears Eric’s voice, she smiles and grabs her towel. He’d better not be ringing to say he’s running late. She has no intention of missing the flight. Even if she has to travel alone.
‘Catherine, if you’re there, can you pick up please?’
She can tell from his voice. Something bad has happened. She grabs the phone. ‘Eric?’
32
Scotland
Wednesday 20 June
‘Morning, Seb. I’ve just been hearing you were on a pub crawl the night before you got here?’ says the boss as they cross the courtyard.
A few pints in that place in Dunure where he made an arse of himself? ‘A pub crawl?’ he says, playing for time.
‘Pubs on the riverside, along from the harbour?’
Gus doesn’t remember any riverside. ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, hoping his employer will elaborate. ‘I’ve been in a few bars in my time.’
‘Joyce was saying her husband saw you in his local. Having a right old laugh by the sounds of things.’
Shit,
this could be tricky. In more ways than one. Probably best to say as little as possible. ‘You know me, Boss. Always up for a laugh.’
‘Apparently, you couldn’t understand the natives?’
Time to think quick. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said–’ The boss stops, realising. ‘Oh, I see what you did there. Very good.’
Change the subject. Fast. ‘I was hoping to get the chance to speak to you alone, Boss.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Just to let you know that I’ll be happy to work extra hours, any time you like, say, if Joyce is not available to help with this wedding idea.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Gus looks up at the tower. ‘No windows. When did you say this was built?’
‘Nope, no windows. That’ll be the first job, making it wind and watertight. Most of the castles you see dotted along the Ayrshire coast date from the sixteenth century. We think there’s been a tower here from about the same time. Whether it’s this same tower, we can’t know for sure.’
‘What’s the reason for it? Defence?’
‘We think so. There have been some pretty bloody scenes around here, you know.’
Gus immediately thinks of the corpse on the hillside on this man’s own land. ‘Really?’ is all he can manage to say.
‘Oh yes, you wouldn’t think so, would you? But this coast was a great place for smugglers at the time of Robert Burns. You’ve heard of Robert Burns, haven’t you?’
‘Of course.’ He hadn’t, apart from what Nat had told him yesterday. ‘Wrote “Auld Lang Syne” I believe.’
‘Probably the most sung song in the world.’
‘From Times Square to Tokyo,’ says Gus, hoping he won’t be asked to sing.
‘Well, here we are,’ says the boss, reaching the door of the tower. He puts his shoulder to the old door, which looks flimsy enough to push open with one finger. Gus wonders if he should offer to help.
The boss coughs as if he’s embarrassed at his lack of strength, then barges the door like a TV cop. He rubs the top of his arm and laughs, shaking his head.
‘Should I have a go, Boss?’
