Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  He had started a degree in history, but dropped out after a disastrous first year spent mainly in the pub or in someone else’s bed. He used to say he joined the Royal Marines because it felt more honest to be part of a war than to read about it, and for all his intelligence, he was the most idiotically fearless man I ever met. He got up to all manner of crazy shit, maybe to prove he was a man, or prove he was alive or maybe just because he could. He was always first into minefields and hostile compounds. He swam in the North Sea in winter in just his trunks. His favourite sport was free climbing: no ropes, dangling by toes and wiry, horny fingers from sheer, wet rock. One time in the Cairngorms he fell thirty feet off a rock face, landed in a drift of soft snow, laughed and dusted himself off and walked away unscathed.

  Maybe we all thought we were superheroes for a while, but Mitch had a kind of golden, bullet-proof radiance about him that made you almost believe he was immortal. Sometimes I think even he believed it, and maybe that’s why now he won’t give in and accept that he’s dead.

  I shower, then clear a patch on the steamed up mirror and stare at my pink skin and wet, shaggy hair. Sometimes you just have to face up to the ugliness of a situation; it’s time for the beard to go. It’s hard to remember exactly what my face looks like underneath, but it’s got to be better than this. I trim it as short as I can with Janet’s nail scissors, then set to work with the razor, watching the sink fill with foamy, slimy bits of scruff. I have to go carefully around the flack scars in front of my ear and down the side of my jaw, but the redness has mostly gone out of them. They don’t look like much now, considering how they got there.

  Ten minutes later I’m shovelling snow from the path at the front of the house, creating a dense bank at the edge of the lawn. The wind pushes at me, raw across my bare face, and the sky hangs heavy and smoke-smudged over the rooftops, thick with the smells of coal and snow. There aren’t many people about; the usual scurry of old women with their shopping bags and young mums with their buggies and clicky-heeled boots has been replaced by the careful trudge of boots on ice. In the distance, I hear the scrape of shovels and the rev of engines, the chatter of crows and the raking cough of some old bugger with a chest full of black dust.

  I reach the end of our path and keep going along the pavement that wraps round our gable-end and onto the street. The work feels good and soon I am sweating enough to pull off my jumper. The wind has subsided, I realise, and a weak sun is filtering through the cloud.

  Four houses along, a door opens and a petite woman with bobbed dark hair emerges, steps carefully over the icy ground, then hesitates as she notices me.

  I straighten up and run my fingers through my hair as she approaches me. Paula Fairbairn was as good a friend as I had as a kid, until the age of fourteen and a bout of childish fumbling under her duvet one day while her parents were at work. Things became too uncomfortable after that and we retreated to a position of polite civility, as though the years we had spent mucking about in the field, making dens of branches and leaves or hunting fictional lions, had never existed.

  The last time I saw her was at Mum’s funeral five years ago, but we never exchanged more than pleasantries.

  She raises her hand and smiles, and as she approaches I notice that she is pregnant and quite heavily so. Her belly is round as a plum under a woolly tunic, her long coat hanging unbuttoned at her sides. Immediately I envy the man who planted that seed in her. I know she married some university boyfriend, but that was years ago now.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says softly, little creases forming around the corners of her eyes as her smile widens. ‘Hiya stranger.’ She steps right up to me and places her hands on my arms, raises herself onto her toes and kisses my cheek in that cosmopolitan way I’ve never really got used to. ‘Mum told me you were back.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Ehm . . . yeah . . . for a while. So . . . wow . . . how are you?’

  She laughs and looks down at her bump, gives it a wee rub. ‘I’m jammy. Fit to burst, but.’

  ‘So I see. Congratulations.’

  Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes as rich and dark as I remember them. ‘Thanks. Jesus, Sean, I heard what happened in Afghanistan. Are you alright?’

  ‘A wee bit bruised and battered, that’s all. Deaf in my left ear, but I’ll live.’

  Thankfully the shadow of pity doesn’t cross her face. Instead, she laughs. ‘Indestructible as ever, thank God. It’s good to see you home. So, is that you back out on Civvy Street, then?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You working?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I’ve got a wee gig shifting furniture for the recycling project down the High Street.’

  ‘It’s a job, don’t knock it.’

  ‘No. It’s taken me long enough to get one.’

  ‘So, it’s good, right? You playing rugby?’

  ‘I played a bit in the Marines, but not for a while. You still teaching?’

  ‘Aye. Just started my maternity leave.’

  ‘Still in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Ehm . . . yeah. Tollcross. But I’ve been staying with Mum the last couple of nights. Her hips are knackered and she needs bit of help sometimes. You know Dad died a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Janet told me. I was just shipping out to Afghanistan or I’d have come to the funeral. I was sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Thanks. I remember you sent a card.’ Her eyes flicker away from me and she nods. ‘I still haven’t got used to him being gone.’

  ‘Yeah . . . I know about that one.’

  She pushes her hands down into her coat pockets. ‘It’s really fucking crap, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty crap.’ The cold begins to bite again, so I plant my shovel and untie my hoodie from around my waist, pull it over my head.

  Paula steps past me and examines the snow around the wheels of a little purple Ford Fiesta. She kicks the icy drift against the front wheel, then stands there pressing her fingers into her lower back.

  ‘I wanted to get the messages in for Mum.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d bother with the car today.’

  She sniffs and rubs her hands together. ‘Pain in the arse, this weather. Everything’s a pain in the arse when you’re the size of a beached whale, mind.’

  ‘I’ll walk down to the Co-op and pick some things up for you. And you’re not, by the way.’

  Paula turns back toward me. ‘Sean, you’re a diamond, you know that? Would you really?’

  ‘Aye, sure. It’s fine. What do you need?’

  ‘Just some milk and bread and a few tins of soup to keep her going for a day or two. I’d go with you but this bloody baby’s squashing my lungs; I can’t walk the length of myself either just now. I just hope I don’t have to make a dash to hospital before the snow’s away.’

  ‘You don’t fancy giving birth in a blizzard at the side of the road?’

  ‘Oh fuck, no.’ She laughs. ‘I don’t fancy giving birth at all now you mention it, but seeing as I’ve got myself into this situation, I guess I’ll have to go through with it.’

  ‘Not much else for it,’ I reply, feeling my eyes settling on the curve of her belly. I’ve never spent much time around pregnant women, so it surprises me how delicious she looks.

  I clear my throat. ‘So . . . ehm . . . give me a wee list and I’ll nip down the road.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Aye, I said so.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, earnestly. ‘I’ll just pop in and get Mum to write a list.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and watch her pick her way back along the icy path. While she’s inside, I clear the path from her mother’s front door out to the pavement and scrape away as much of the underlying ice as possible.

  Several minutes later, the door opens again and Paula’s mother Brenda peers out, leaning heavily on a stick. She has the same dark, bobbed hair as her daughter, but it’s dyed and her once plump cheeks are ravaged by years of smoking. There is no chocolaty softness in her eyes,
just something flinty and hard and disappointed. She’s what Paula might have become if she hadn’t made her escape.

  Paula and I maintained our friendship as long as we could in pure defiance of Brenda, who disapproved of me without really knowing me. She knew my mother, and that was enough to convince her that I was destined for a life of drugs and criminal behaviour. She was one of the gaggle of mums who never bothered to lower their voices when they gossiped in the schoolyard. Warning me to stay away from their daughters without wanting to speak to me directly.

  I wonder why Paula hasn’t come back to the door, but I refuse to let my face advertise my disappointment. Instead, I summon a grin and offer a snappy ‘Morning, Brenda.’ A salute is tempting, just to rile the old cow.

  It’s safe to say the dislike is mutual. Her eyes flicker over me and she takes a long breath, as though the idea of actually speaking to me causes her pain. ‘Sean, dinnae worry aboot the messages. I’ve got enough and it’s dangerous goan oot in this. Yer no exactly fit yersel.’

  I glance down at my boots, lifting one foot and then the other. ‘All still in working order, as far as can tell.’ Then I raise an eyebrow at her. ‘Or did you mean something else?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, son.’

  ‘In that case, I think I can manage the Co-op and back.’

  Another long pause as she assesses me, mouth crumpling into a tight, colourless line. Eventually she shrugs. ‘Ach well, Paula’s nae much cope in her condition, so I suppose I’ll have tae let ye. I’ll have tae pay ye back later though, I’ve no got any cash on me.’

  ‘Nae bother, pop it in whenever. Did you write a list for me?’ Evil woman probably thinks I’ll nick it.

  ‘Here.’ She lifts her hand and holds out a small piece of white paper, arm outstretched as though offering a scrap of meat to an animal.

  I take it and fold it into my pocket. ‘Good news about the baby, eh?’

  She sniffs. ‘If you say so. Mind and get us the iceberg lettuce, eh, no that leafy kind. That’s if it can be had in this weather.’

  ‘Right.’ I look up at a sky the colour of a week-old bruise. A single disorientated pigeon swirls across it. ‘I’m not back in three days, send out a search party, eh?’

  Her eyes are humourless. ‘Aye.’ She lights a cigarette and leans on her stick. ‘See ye, Sean.’

  ‘No bother, Brenda. You’re welcome.’

  She puts her bulk into reverse and shuts the door on me. Hackit auld bitch, as my Ma would no doubt have said. In general and usually unfairly, Mum hated other women. But in this particular case, her judgement was spot on; Brenda’s only redeeming feature is that she produced Paula.

  You’re the one who offered.

  ‘For Paula’s sake, not hers,’ I reply as I crunch through the snow on my way down the road. ‘The poor girl’s about to drop.’

  The poor girl’s about to drop and you want to bed her. I’m just a dead guy, Nic, so feel free to disregard me, but . . . possibly not the best move, tactically speaking.

  ‘I do not want to bed her, Mitch, and I will disregard you.’

  Go on, then.

  ‘How can I when you keep fucking talking?’

  Look around, buddy boy. You’re the only one talking here.

  VIII

  There has been a thaw and a freeze again overnight. Cars skite drunkenly on black ice, mouths forming the shapes of curses behind closed windows. Harry grounds the van again and brings me into the shop to help Al with some of the repairs and refurbishment. He sets Emma and Dawn on cleaning detail and asks Billy to rotate some stock. The minute he disappears into his office, the girls flop onto sofas and start in on yet another of their epic bitch-fests, this time about one of Dawn’s ex boyfriends. Billy brings a couple of settees out from the storeroom and leaves them in an unceremonious queue before sloping off somewhere to light up.

  Al and I work well enough together. We sand out scratches and knife scores from table-tops, re-glue shoogly legs, stitch the torn undersides of sofas, stain and polish. Al watches me critically but doesn’t talk much, and when he does it is usually only a word or two. A noun and a verb, enough to let me know where to put the glue or what type of sandpaper to use. It seems to cost him a huge effort to string a sentence together. But as I watch him, I begin to notice the fluency with which his hands grasp the tools and move over the wood, as though they understand their work without any real input from his brain.

  ‘You’re good at this,’ I say to him after a couple of hours.

  He shrugs. ‘Doddle. Cabinet maker to trade. Had ma ain business before.’

  Before what, I want to ask.

  ‘You mairrit, son?’ he asks me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Nah.’

  He laughs, nods. ‘Keep it that way. Mair trouble than they’re worth.’

  ‘Ken what I think?’ This is from Emma, on the sofa behind us. She nudges my backside with her toe. ‘I think he’s a poof. They’re all faggots on they ships.’

  ‘Unoriginal,’ I say, then blow away a thin layer of sawdust and run my hand along the sleek, fresh surface.

  ‘So why don’t you have a girlfriend, then?’ asks Dawn. Her voice is more capable of kindness, but I think all the more dangerous for it.

  Why? You want to screw him, do you, darling? Knock yourself out, eh? You won’t get very far. But then, maybe that’s for the best. There’s enough little bastards in this town already.

  ‘Because I don’t.’

  Dawn crosses her arms and tilts her head at me. ‘My ma kent yer ma, Sean. Diana McNicol. I mind her tae. Used tae drink down the Miners Club. Pisshead, aye? My ma said she was a tart an’ all. Bet ye dinnae ken yer da, eh, Sean. I bet ye dinnae.’

  Emma squeals. ‘Oh my God, Dawn, that’s a bit harsh.’

  Al says nothing, but looks from me to Dawn and back again. I keep sanding and can’t think of anything to say. Denying the truth in a town this size is a hide into nothing.

  Well, you’ve got something in common with her boys then, Nic. You could always tell her that.

  I could. Another crazy, freaked out guy might do more than that. Still kneeling, I spread my dusty hands on my thighs, stare at them and allow myself three or four seconds to think about what they could do to her. Then I wipe them on my trousers and stand up. ‘Dawn, you’ve got the social skills of a fucking amoeba.’

  Al gives a bark of laughter and Dawn looks to Emma for reassurance. She doesn’t actually ask out loud what an amoeba is, but I can hear her think it.

  ‘D’you think I’m caring?’

  ‘Nah. That’s your problem.’

  I walk away and head into the staff room to make a coffee. I fill the kettle, then grab a carton of milk from the fridge. It splats into my cup in a congealed lump.

  ‘For fucksake,’ I mutter. I chuck the week-old carton into the bin and wash the rancid curds down the sink.

  All the way through school I lived in terror of someone saying what Dawn has just said. And sometimes I think I joined the Marines so I could reinvent myself as a legitimate person: someone more than the cast off result of a drunken accident.

  The kettle starts to rumble and steam, so I switch it off and pour the water into my mug, watching it swirl into the instant coffee crystals and begin to froth. Al shuffles in as I’m digging in the fridge for usable milk.

  ‘Are ye alright?’ he asks, laying a broad hand on my shoulder. ‘That wis terrible. Wee bitch.’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s no big deal.’

  He sits heavily and his lips move silently for a moment. ‘I kent your ma as well, fae ma school days. And ma drinkin days. Bonny lassie, she was. Kind. Wasted wi’ the drink, aye, but . . . kind. Tragic, really.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you slept with her. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Nah. Nah, I didnae.’ He waves his hand in front of his chest. ‘She came tae the hospital tae see me aifter ma accident. Ah wis . . .’ he stumbles over the words and his lips
work away silently for a moment, ‘Ah wis . . . right sorry to hear she’d passed.’

  I sit down across from him and stare into my mug for a moment. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Wrecked the car in Roslin Glen. Mornin’ aifter a big session, ye ken. Lynn, ma wife, wis killed. Ah killed her, son, wi’ ma drinkin. Only reason I didnae go to the jail was I spent near a year in hospital. Shouldae been me, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Al.’

  His pink-stained blue eyes fill with tears so he looks away out the window. ‘Dinnae ken what Ah’d dae wi’oot this place. Nae reason tae get up in the morn. See if it goes doon the pan . . .’

  ‘Why? You think it will?’

  He shrugs. ‘Harry’s worrit. Yon government cuts.’

  ‘Yon government cuts,’ I repeat slowly. Words that carry the whiff of shit travelling in the direction of a very large fan. ‘Yon government cuts have a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Aye . . . ach . . . it could pick up. They lazy bounders oot there dinnae help.’ He pauses for a moment, mouth half open, then shakes his head sharply. ‘Ah can see ye’re a good lad. Stick in and make somethin’ o’yersel. Dinnae let this stop you.’ He pats his left ear. ‘War wounds. Badge o’ honour, son.’

  ‘Badge of honour, aye?’ I ask softly.

  Al’s eyes open with curiosity. ‘You think it’s no?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How?’

  How can a wound gained as an accessory to a muddled and potentially never-ending war be a badge of honour? Maybe it’s just evidence of your own stupidity for taking the bullshit they fed you to get you there in the first place.

  People seem to need to say these things to you. You learn to let them because it makes them feel like they understand the significance of what’s happened to you. But the joke’s on them, because there is no significance. It’s just an event, the logical outcome of putting yourself into a situation of violence. A situation no more honourable or significant than a rammy between opposing gangs of chavs after an Old Firm game, just scaled up a little.

  It seems unkind to say this to him.

  ‘I don’t know, Al.’ I drain my coffee, stand up.