Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  Turn about, look back toward the centre of town, and all you see is a grey, purposeless collection of houses. Old men who ache with nostalgia for days spent down a black hole, young men who ache for a life that only exists on TV, and women who ache for whatever joy is to be had at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Fucking No Man’s Land. Not exactly what I’d imagined for myself after more than a decade in some of the world’s most notorious glory holes, but where the hell else was I going to go?

  I kick off my mud-caked trainers and leave them on the mat next to the kitchen door, then fill a pint glass with water and down it in a oner.

  ‘What time did you go out?’

  ‘I don’t know. About five, I guess.’

  ‘Sean, your light was still on when I got up for the toilet at three. How can you go to work when you haven’t slept all night?’

  ‘Same way you can fight a war when you haven’t slept in months.’

  Janet presses for more. ‘How’s that?’

  You just do it, that’s how. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you are desperately knackered: so tired that the idea of dying becomes almost acceptable. And maybe this is the point. You’ll walk into a village where a hundred enemy eyes might be watching you from behind the mud walls because you’re too wasted to be afraid.

  I could tell Janet this, but somehow I think she doesn’t really want to know. I stick my glass into the dishwasher and wipe my face on a tea towel.

  ‘You’ll run yourself into the ground.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s more restful than sleeping.’

  ‘That’s not right, Sean.’

  ‘Probably not.’ I laugh softly and catch a whiff of myself. ‘I smell like a cowshed. I’m away for a shower.’

  ‘Strip before you go up,’ Janet orders, her voice drooping with resignation.

  Under the hawkish eye of my sister, I strip down to my pants and leave my squalid clothes in a heap by the door.

  ****

  ‘Aye, Ah’m tellin’ ye, she’s suckin’ his face off oot there.’

  ‘Oh, you are jokin’, Emma, that is minging. Ye seen his fuckin’ teeth, man? They’re green.’

  ‘Ah ken. It’s disgusting. Eh Sean? Rank, innit?’

  I’ve been at Once Loved for a month now, having survived my trial fortnight without wrecking the van or giving away the worst of my psychoses. The work is brainless and physical, and the girls who work the shop floor giggle when I lift a wardrobe or double bed onto my back.

  For the avoidance of doubt, their attention does nothing for me. Saddos of the female variety are still Saddos, and even after more than two years of celibacy, I’m not that desperate. Emma and Dawn, the two who are now gossiping as they stir their coffees, are both in their early twenties, pale and doughy, with bad skin and over-styled hair. Emma is slack jawed, mean and thick as over-cooked porridge. Dawn is brighter, meaner, and might have been bonny if she’d ever eaten well, exercised or had her teeth fixed. She has two kids by different men, neither of whom have anything to do with her or the bairns.

  Linda, the shop administrator and subject of their relentless gossip, is in her forties and skinny, with a sixty-a-day cough and a drink problem which she doesn’t even bother to keep secret. Linda is, if the gossip can be believed, sleeping with Billy, my van assistant. Billy’s a scuzzy wee guy who’s never been further afield than Princes Street and never had two pennies to rub together. He’s nervous and a little paranoid, a fact which isn’t helped by Emma and Dawn and their furtive looks.

  The best thing I’ve learned since I got the job is that being half-deaf isn’t always a disability. Sometimes it’s a downright blessing, especially when I’m in the staff room tucking into a brew and a tub of Janet’s stovies, and the Pilsbury Doughballs get into one of their nasty little exchanges.

  Emma waves her hand in front of my eyes and I look up from my paper. ‘Earth to Sean.’

  ‘What? You saying something?’

  They glance at each other and laugh. ‘Never mind,’ Dawn says with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ll say it in sign language next time.’

  ‘You do that,’ I reply, and look down again. ‘That way I won’t have to listen to your nippy bloody voice.’

  Ooooh, NOT very friendly, Nic. That’s no way to speak to a lady.

  Fuck off, Mitch, she’s no lady.

  Emma looks at Dawn, and Dawn giggles in a way that makes me wonder if she thinks I’m flirting with her. Imagine shagging that one. For just a moment, I do: acne on her back and a fanny that smells like chip fat.

  I check my watch, then push back from my seat and wash my dishes, wiping up the coffee they’ve spilled while I’m at it.

  ‘Duffers, the pair of you,’ I mutter, rinsing the cloth and slinging it over the tap.

  Dawn puts her hand behind her ear and shakes her head. Then she sticks out her lower jaw and puts on the slurred voice of a deaf person. ‘Sorry, I cannae hear you, Sean.’

  Nasty pieces of work. I shake my head and leave the staff room, head out to shop floor to check the delivery schedule for the afternoon. The first thing I notice is that the girls have left the shop unattended. The second is that there is a dark-haired woman examining the leather settee we put out this morning. The settee is ugly – reddish-brown with walnut-effect legs – but the woman is quite stunning. A strong nose, possibly on the big side, full lips framed by high cheekbones and a square jaw. Her hair is sleek and full, waving a little on its way past her shoulders, and she is well dressed in tight jeans, tall brown boots and a dark purple down parka. I only have time to admire the elegant curve of her backside before she turns toward me and smiles.

  More like it. Imagination suddenly becomes a much more worthwhile enterprise.

  ‘Hello. I wonder if you can help me.’

  Oh, watch yourself here, boyo. This one’s officer class. Way the hell out of your league. Bloody essence.

  ‘I’m sure I can.’ I smile back, then leap in with both feet. ‘Please don’t tell me you like that settee.’

  She laughs and approaches the desk. ‘It’s hideous. No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘I popped in to see whether I could arrange for someone to come out and take away a load of old furniture. My father’s recently passed away and I’ve got to clear the house.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She bows her head slightly. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely furniture . . . antique, a lot of it. Could do with a bit of loving care and repair, but I’m sure it’ll sell.’

  ‘You wouldn’t rather try to sell it yourself?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ she pauses, presses dark red lips together, ‘I really just want to be rid of it. Actually . . . if you do full house clearances, that would be even better. Just take everything. But maybe you don’t do that.’

  Harry is away at a meeting somewhere. I open my mouth to say I don’t really know if we do that or not, then catch myself. Dithering isn’t an attractive habit.

  ‘Why don’t I come out and have a look and get an idea of the size of the job.’ I flip through the order book. ‘My last delivery today is at four. I can come after that if you like.’

  Billy gets dropped off at home after our last delivery, so I won’t have to drag that overripe little weasel along with me. Briefly I wonder if I’ll have time for a shower.

  ‘Oh, would you?’ Her shoulders subside with what looks like incredible relief, and for a second I think she’s about to cry. ‘Thank you. It’s just me, you see. It’s too much.’

  ‘Just tell me where to come,’ I say softly.

  ‘Cauldhill Farm. You take the road past the old bing at Rosewell, and keep going about four miles.’

  ‘I know exactly. I run up there sometimes.’

  Her tidy dark eyebrows arch. ‘Do you? From where?’

  ‘Town here.’

  ‘You must be fit.’

  I smile. ‘I’ve been fitter.’

  ‘Well, I’m impressed. Two miles is about my limit. Anyway, it�
��s the main house. I’ll be there.’

  Main fucking house. Told you this bird’s worth something. This one doesn’t screw men who wear overalls, I can tell you that right now. Bet the old man was a fucking Colonel.

  She raises her hand to wave and her wedding ring catches the dusty sunlight. ‘See you then.’

  Crap.

  III

  ‘Dad let the place go a bit, these last few years.’

  Cauldhill Farm sits at the base of the Moorfoot Hills, at the end of a road so pitted I have to wonder whether the van will manage it. A couple of green fields bounded by stone dykes and beyond them boggy moorland and heather. And although it still bears the name of farm, it doesn’t look as though it’s been worked for years. Decades maybe. There are a few rusty bits of farm machinery lying about. Bits of roof have fallen in on the old sandstone barns and outbuildings, and weeds have taken root in the walls. The gate to the walled garden beside the house is hanging on its hinges, and I look in to see a jumble of bare branches and weeds. The house itself, a double-fronted Victorian, looks sorry for itself: flaking stonework, telephone wires hanging loose, filthy windows.

  And inside, no joke, it’s just possible the lost Roman Ninth might be squirreled away for safekeeping. As she leads me into the kitchen, all of my anal military sensibilities start bellowing so loudly I think I’m going to explode. It’s just . . . stuff. The random stuff you collect in life – apparently a very long life, or more likely several long lifetimes – unfiltered and in a state of utter disorder. Every bloody where.

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Every room’s the same. He was a bit of a packrat.’

  ‘How can you live in this?’

  She laughs, a single sharp ‘Ha! I don’t. I live in Cambridge, I’m just here to sort things out and get the place on the market.’

  ‘Oh. And . . . how long have you got?’

  A shrug. ‘As long as it takes, I suppose. We . . . haven’t actually introduced ourselves properly. I’m Molly Wells.’

  ‘Sean McNicol.’

  Her eyes widen and she fixes them on my face as we shake hands. I wonder if the name means something to her, but she doesn’t say anything further so I clear my throat and turn away, make a show of surveying the disaster zone. ‘I’m sure we can help, but I’m quite new in the job so I’ll have to get a bit of advice on how to price this.’

  She replies, but very quietly behind me.

  I turn back toward her again. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said I’m not worried about the price. I just want to be rid of it.’

  ‘Aren’t there things you’d like to keep? Sentimental value or . . .’

  ‘No.’

  I have seen many women bombed out of their homes, sifting through the dust for whatever they could find: a photograph or a toy or a piece of jewellery to remind them of happier times. And here is a whole house full of memories that nobody wants. I wonder what the Afghan women would make of it.

  Molly’s face softens. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure that sounded bad. My dad and I . . . well . . . you know. Didn’t always get on. I’ll help you, obviously, and if there are any little things I want, I can pack them up. Why don’t you have a look round the rest of the house, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I won’t. But you look like a man who needs a cup of tea. There’s no point denying it. Milk and sugar?’

  If it wasn’t for that bloody ring, I’d have almost considered myself in there.

  ‘Alright then. Just milk.’ I laugh. ‘If you can find it.’

  ‘I bought it specially. Just mind you don’t get lost.’

  ‘Aye, I will.’ I move out of the kitchen, following a corridor past a large dining room with peeling wallpaper. Past the dining room is a smaller office or library. I step inside and breathe in the smells of dusty paper and old pipe smoke. The floor is cluttered with objects: fireplace tools, dustbins, fan heaters, piles of yellowed newspaper, ashtrays. I step carefully past it all and examine some of the books on the shelves: histories and memoirs, mainly, as well as some medical and veterinary textbooks.

  My eyes land on a chunky volume about the Falklands war: amazing such a little war could have produced such a fat book. I withdraw it and flick through the pages, automatically searching out the green berets. I’ve seen these pictures many times; they were so much a part of our collective psyche that sometimes you almost believed you were there, fighting for the Two Sisters. For a couple of minutes, the chaos around me fades into the tunnel.

  And then there is an almighty crash and I jerk around so violently that the book flies out of my hands. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ Molly splutters as tea splashes onto the tray. She’s tripped over the iron caddy of fireplace tools.

  I dive forward and move them out of her way. ‘Are you alright?’

  She puts the tray down on a little table. ‘Yeah. Are you? You about jumped out of your skin there.’

  My legs are going off the Richter scale and I have to sit down. Then I make the mistake of grabbing one of the mugs, and slosh tea down my hand. I put the mug down again and tuck my hands under my arms, but Molly has obviously noticed.

  She places her long, manicured fingers on my arm. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I’ve given you a proper fright.’

  I pull in a long breath and release it slowly. ‘I’m fine. I was just . . . in my own wee world for a moment, there,’ and I laugh to cover myself. ‘I had visions of the whole place caving in.’

  Her eyes are still full of concern, but she smiles. ‘Have your tea.’

  This time I manage to hold the mug without too much seismic activity, and the tea helps to settle my drumming pulse.

  ‘Did your old man live alone here?’ I ask to divert her attention.

  ‘Mmm, after we left. My mum was much younger than him, and she left him when I was twelve.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘So . . . anyway. He was here until he died a couple of months ago. I suggested sheltered housing once and he threatened to shoot me in my sleep. He meant it, I think.’

  ‘Nice guy, eh?’

  ‘Not if he could help it.’ She sighs and her eyes turn toward the pink-gold dusky light filtering through the window. Then she looks back at me. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Ehm . . .’

  ‘We were at primary school together. You were the year below me.’

  Now I have an excuse to stare at her, so I take it. A wisp of memory coalesces into an image: a girl hovering outside a circle of more popular ones, gawky limbs burdened by too much flesh, eyes magnified behind thick glasses, hand dipping into a pocket for sweets.

  Disbelief must be visible on my face because she laughs. ‘Molly Finlayson. I thought I’d better own up before you recognised me.’

  ‘You’ve changed for the better.’

  ‘It’s taken a bit of work.’ She seems amused, but not offended.

  ‘Sorry . . . was that rude?’

  She laughs again. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m glad you think so.’

  I clear my throat and ignore the sniggering in my ear. ‘You sort of disappeared.’

  ‘My life was such a misery at primary; Mum persuaded Dad to dip into his very tight pocket and send me to Heriots. Not that it was any better there; posh brats still know how to call you a fat cow. I stopped eating when I was fifteen and ended up in hospital with anorexia.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s mad, you know, the things you do to make people accept you.’

  ‘I never bothered.’ I bite my lip. I tried so hard not to bother that most sensible people thought I was a budding sociopath and kept well away.

  She narrows her eyes, maybe remembering more than I would like her to. ‘You were a proper dark horse.’

  ‘Not really. Just shy and misunderstood.’

  ‘Aye, right. So what have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘This and that.’

  She puts her mug down and sits
back in the creaky seat. ‘Your accent isn’t local anymore, which means you’ve been away and come back.’

  ‘Uh huh. Not to prison, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘Oh God, it never crossed my mind. I’m guessing . . . army?’

  Once upon a time, the bootneck in me would have taken this as the world’s greatest insult. But now I just hold my hands wide and give her a resigned grin.

  ‘Hair like Jesus and I still look like a soldier. I’m doomed.’

  She laughs. ‘I’m good at this game. Am I right?’

  ‘Not quite. Royal Marines. I came out last year.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nods slowly. ‘You’ve been busy, then, these last few years.’

  ‘A bit, aye.’ I drain my cup and put it down, stand up. ‘There’s only so much of it you can take, eh? If I’m a bit jumpy when things start crashing around, you know why.’

  ‘Mmm. I am sorry about that.’

  ‘Not your fault. Look, I better make tracks. Give me your number, Molly, and I’ll phone you tomorrow about making a start.’

  She follows me back through the kitchen to the door, then says something apologetic.

  I turn. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I . . .’ she shakes her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Wait.’ She tears a scrap of paper off a stack of documents on the kitchen table, and scribbles her number on it. ‘I’ll hear from you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You will phone, Sean, won’t you?’

  I glance back at her. She’s standing on the step, hands clutched in front of her, and I catch the briefest glimpse of the graceless schoolgirl.

  ‘I said I would, so I will, alright?’

  She nods. ‘Sorry . . . right. Cheerio for now, then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  She’s gagging for it, Nic, wedding ring or no. You want to know why? Because she wanted your arse in primary school when no lad in his right mind would look at her. It’s a memory she wants, not the sad, twisted reality. Don’t you forget that.