The Waves Burn Bright

by Iain Maloney

  ‘Marcus,’ said Hannah, a venomous hiss.

  ‘We’re celebrating.’ He was fighting it now. For all his bluster the terror and the anger were still there, in his eyes. I wanted to hold him and I wanted to punch him.

  ‘Hannah,’ I hissed back, turning on her. ‘Not the time, not the place.’ The waitress was still there, unsure. ‘Please bring the drinks. He’ll be quieter now. Won’t you, Dad?’

  ‘As long as you’re happy, I’m happy,’ he slurred.

  ‘You got fired? I knew it, I—’

  ‘Hannah. I’m warning you. Let’s just finish our drinks and leave.’

  If only nature were as predictably explosive as the Frasers. The drinks came. Hannah and I drank ours as fast as we could, barely touching the sides, the ice rattling into my teeth. Dad savoured his, finishing the wine before moving on to the brandy. Hannah was ready to blow and I just wanted out. That cheque in my pocket. Half a semi-detached two-bedroomed house at current Aberdeen prices. I’d give it back. I had a job, two to choose from. He’d lost his. I was amazed it had taken this long. Sympathy and loyalty only get you so far. But the house was gone. The last relic of our family, sold. My surname the only tangible souvenir. The thick Baileys coated my stomach like oil. I felt sick. The waitress was talking to one of the owners, and pointing at our table. I made the universal symbol for the bill.

  ‘I’ll get this,’ said Hannah.

  ‘It’s on me,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ve just come into some money,’ I said, ‘it’s my treat.’ I thrust my card at the waitress, ‘please.’ She understood the pleading tone in my voice, took the card. I pulled my coat on, my faculty scarf.

  ‘Carrie, it’s your day, here take this.’ Hannah waved notes at me.

  ‘Look, if you pay, he’ll be upset. If he pays, you’ll be upset. If I pay none of us will be happy. That’s the fairest way. The Fraser way. Equal pain for all.’ As I walked by her towards the door I felt her stuff the notes in my pocket. I changed direction, pulled them out without looking and handed them to the waitress. ‘Sorry about that. Divorced parents. Can’t take them anywhere.’

  Outside, Hannah looked shocked. ‘Do you know how much that was? Jesus, Carrie.’

  ‘She deserved it. You’re very quiet,’ I said to Dad.

  ‘Seemed safest.’

  ‘Your job, Marcus? The house? Your car?’ Hannah said.

  ‘The oil industry giveth and the oil industry taketh away.’

  ‘You’re going to kill yourself, Marcus. Look at me. I know you don’t want to hear it, least of all from me, but if you don’t stop you’re going to die. Who knows what state your liver and kidneys are in? You need to get help.’

  He looked at her, and it was like all support had been taken from him. His face sagged, shoulders hunched, his body a strange mix of bloated fat and malnourished hollows. ‘Not. Your. Fucking. Problem.’

  ‘Dad…’

  ‘Carrie. I’m sorry. We’ve ruined your day. We’ve ruined everything. By Christ that Larkin was right. You enjoy the night. If her and I stay around each other much longer… I need a pub. Hannah, congratulations. Don’t worry about me. I’m a survivor, remember?’

  ‘Dad, wait,’ I followed him for a few steps, stopped. Watched him go.

  I turned back to Hannah standing under the streetlight, hands in her pockets. ‘What did he mean, congratulations?’

  ‘We can talk about it tomorrow. You should go after him.’

  ‘There’s a pub around the corner. He’ll be fine in there.’

  ‘He won’t be fine.’

  Something snapped. ‘You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t known that for ten years?’ I could hear my voice echoing back in the narrow street, shrill, just like hers. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  For a minute we stared at each other in the hellish glow under the lamppost, then she stepped forward and hugged me, crying, her head on my shoulder. I clenched all my muscles, blocked the tears, bottled the emotion. I wouldn’t cry. Not with her.

  ‘I know, Carrie. You think I don’t know what I did? A mother wants to protect her children and I couldn’t protect you from any of this. It was too big. It still is.’

  A distant ambulance siren. Laughter from inside the restaurant. ‘Congratulations for what?’

  She wiped her eyes, folded the tissue and replaced it in her pocket. ‘Frank and I are getting married.’

  Aberdeen, January 1999

  For Marcus, January was the best time to drink in Under The Hammer. The weeks after Hogmanay were miserable, rain or snow, freezing winds whipping off the North Sea, low skies and short days. Where better to hibernate than in a basement? Once you were down the stairs and into the warm, candlelit room beneath the auction house the climate could do what it liked. The pub itself in January felt like a battlefield recovering from December wars, the last Friday before Christmas, the worst night to be in a pub, all those work nights out. No idea of bar etiquette, waving tenners, tapping coins on the counter. But they were all gone and the place could get back to normal.

  Under The Hammer was in the centre of Aberdeen but just far enough from Union Street and Belmont Street to be left alone by the passing cattle. Surrounded by offices, legal firms and oil companies, the main clientele were those who went straight from work to the bar, students of a more sophisticated taste, and artists. Marcus had ensconced himself in the corner by the bar, back against the wall, with the other regulars, all men in their late forties or fifties who drank there every day. Some were married, most for the second or third time. Some had little to go home to. Women occasionally joined the group, girlfriends or colleagues, but none had the commitment of these men. Isobel was, a solicitor with an office off Golden Square, and Marcus was hoping she’d be in later.

  They’d first met on Christmas Eve eight years ago, her Shetland accent catching his ear. They had kissed under the mistletoe before he’d taken his impromptu camping trip on the west coast. He shook his head remembering that, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, a whisky haar, listening to the wind batter the canvas. He’d stay over at hers tonight, listen to Miles Davis and fuck the stress away.

  He called the new girl, Siobhan, over, got a round in, handed Keith his pint.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Keith. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘This morning, first train.’ He’d stayed out in Durham until five, some casino he’d never be able to find again, then gone back to the hotel for his bags. His hangover kicked in around Edinburgh. The look on the trolley bitch’s face when he ordered alcohol.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘You know these things, robes and all that shite, fucking Latin fest. In Durham Cathedral though. Beautiful building that. A thousand years old.’

  ‘When a thousand years old, look so good you will not.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Accountancy is as accountancy does.’ Keith came from somewhere in Wales originally. Marcus had asked but hadn’t bothered with the answer. His accent was warped after decades in Aberdeen but you could still hear it around the vowels. He was bald apart from a horseshoe of thin dark hair. He should shave it off, Marcus thought, and accept his disability, but Keith claimed it made him look like Julius Caesar.

  ‘Boring as fuck then?’

  Bill came back from the toilet, reached between them for his pint. ‘Cheers. Is this right, Marcus? Keith was saying you’ve lost your job?’

  ‘Told them where to stick it.’

  Bill worked for Shell and there were no secrets in the oil industry. He’d know the whole story. Marcus had been keeping it as quiet as he could, but word always got out. Most had the courtesy to keep their noses out of it. He knew they gossiped about him behind his back, a bunch of old women, the lot of them, but Bill had never learned any tact or diplomacy. Think it, say it, was his motto. ‘You’re better off. What are your plans?’

  ‘Take a fucking holiday for a start. I fancy getting into the mountains, maybe lie on a beach.’ With the house and car so
ld, the flat on George Street paid outright, the savings and shares that had survived Hannah’s divorce lawyer, he didn’t have to worry about money for a while.

  ‘The mountains in January?’ Keith lit a cigarette. ‘Doesn’t sound like fun.’

  ‘That’s when it’s the most fun. Me against nature.’

  ‘Well watch nature doesn’t kick your teeth in.’

  ‘You looking for another job?’ Bill glanced around for a spare stool.

  ‘No rush. Why, you got anything?’

  ‘You could try consulting. You know Barry McLean? He’s setting up a consultancy. Contract stuff, so you can pick your hours. Wish I could just pack it in,’ said Bill. ‘Tell the boss to shove it.’

  ‘What would you do with yourself?’ Keith swirled his pint around the glass, washing off the foamy residue. ‘Retirement sounds great every Monday morning, but I’d need something to do otherwise I’d just sit in here from opening time to chucking out time.’

  ‘You do that anyway.’

  In the opposite corner, beside the door, the bar manager Simon was moving tables and chairs out of the way, making an open space.

  ‘What’s going on there?’ said Marcus.

  ‘Open mic night.’

  ‘Fuck. Thought that was last night. Thought I’d missed it.’

  The open mic night was a new invention concocted by the bar staff, all of whom were arts students of one stripe or another. Simon was a performance poet, whatever the fuck that was, and had convinced the owner to let him and his hippy friends hold this event once a month on a quiet evening. The regulars resented it at first and still pretended to, although they had to admit it livened up their evening. Every week would be too much, but once a month was okay. Besides, which of them would honestly say they’d rather all these nineteen, twenty, twenty-one-year-old girls didn’t come into the bar? It was all right as long as the music outweighed the poetry. There’s a time and a place for poetry, Marcus had said to Simon, and it’s the past. Some of the regulars even got up and did a turn. Bill did Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side every time without fail.

  Marcus had thrown up when he got back to the flat from Durham, then slept until three. He was feeling good now though, the Guinness sitting well. His nose was twitching as if it could already smell the Bunnahabhain he’d have in two pints’ time. When would Isobel get here? He could phone her but he didn’t want to come across as needy. He’d tried to sound casual the week before when he told her about going down to Durham, about seeing Hannah again, but he figured she wasn’t fooled. The parts of his story he hadn’t told her she’d have got from the gossips in the bar. He had no idea what she saw in him. While he was still technically employed, if pushed sideways and surviving on the understanding of old friendships, he thought he could fool her: just another heavy drinker in the oil industry. Aberdeen had more of those than seagulls. But now he was an unemployed drunk, albeit a financially comfortable one, what would she do?

  The pub was filling up and Simon had to leave the setting up to a friend in order to help Siobhan out behind the bar. From his perch in the corner Marcus got a good view of her arse every time she bent over the sink to rinse a glass. It did nothing for him. What had happened? He was getting old. Ten years earlier he’d have been flirting with her, trying to see down her top. He might think about her while having a wank but it would be without passion. Age. He was falling apart. Was this all that was left? This, until death?

  The PA was tested, one, two, and an acoustic guitar tuned. Marcus stretched to see over the people at the bar. ‘It’s that lad, Kenny is it?’

  ‘Aye,’ Simon pulled a pint of Red Cuillin next to them.

  ‘He’s good. Is he going to do Baba O’Reilly?’

  ‘No idea. Do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘Please. And a whisky when you’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Kenny started. He had a loop pedal so his songs always took a minute to get going as he sampled riffs and rhythms, building up a band just by himself. The first time he’d played Marcus had his back to him and assumed it was three or four guys. When Kenny did The Who, managing both Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey’s parts, Marcus became a fan. It had been a long time since new music had made any kind of an impression on him. Maybe that’s something he could do with his time. Rediscover rock music. All his favourite albums were ones he’d bought as a teenager. Surely something not shite had been made since then.

  During Kenny’s first song, he saw Isobel coming down the stairs. ‘Simon, large glass of red.’ She made her way over to him, weaving around tables and students, greeting people she knew. He watched her, feeling like a teenager himself. She had short hair, thick and black, that reminded him of a female rock star though he’d never worked out who. She was from Shetland originally but had been in Aberdeen since university, married twice. The first had been violent, the second ran off with her best friend. She fitted in well.

  She took off her coat and hung it up on the wall on top of Marcus’s. He gave up his stool for her. ‘Cheers,’ she took a sip of her wine.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. I got loads done today. I need this. You? How was it?’

  ‘Yeah, you know.’

  ‘That good?’

  The chat swirled around, people coming and going, the fluidity of social interaction, the grease of alcohol.

  ‘So you’ve got some time on your hands?’ Isobel padded an eyelash off his cheek.

  He studied her expression hoping for a clue. Was this a test? Was she gearing up to chuck him? ‘Aye. Bill mentioned some work that might be going. Contract stuff. But I was thinking about a holiday. Getting up into the mountains. Or maybe a beach.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Aye. Have you ever been to Up Helly Aa?’

  ‘Is that the Viking festival in Shetland? They burn a Viking longship and get hammered.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, but generally, yes. I haven’t been home since my mum passed away. I thought I could get a week or so off work and we could head off together.’

  He couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Guinness, please, Simon, and a wine, and a Bunnahabhain, a pint for Bill, one for Keith, Matthew? One for yourself and for Siobhan. No bother.’

  The music was good, the warmth of the people around him. He could feel himself reviving. A plan. The love of a good woman. Love. The word stopped him. Eight years since they’d first met, a growing closeness over the years, nights together, weekends away, definite affection, concrete feelings. And she was a good woman, too good for the likes of him. But love? He’d thought he was done with that.

  Seeing Hannah again. First time for four years, since Carrie graduated from Aberdeen. When would be the next time he’d have to see her? Carrie’s wedding? He couldn’t imagine Carrie having a big do, white dress and speeches. No doubt he’d get a phone call one day telling him she was married to some academic, a registry office job, two co-workers as witnesses and back to work. Well, good on her. Marcus and Hannah had done the traditional, kilts and meringues, dancing and throwing bouquets, and look where that had got them. He couldn’t blame Piper Alpha for that. Not really. She was fucking Frank Carpenter, Marcus was balls-deep by the first night of every business trip, and there’d been a lot of business trips back then, a lot of hotel bars. The best thing Carrie could do was stay single.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Sorry, out of it.’

  He necked his whisky, waved the glass at Siobhan. ‘Something for yourself.’

  There it was, the intro to Baba O’Reilly looped, the bar chords ringing out. He’d seen The Who back in the day, touring Who’s Next. 1971 it must have been, maybe 1972, the year Carrie was born. His last gig before becoming a father. This song, it was his song of freedom. He felt the adrenaline surge those chords always gave him. They’d gone to that gig together, him and Hannah. She might have been pregnant already, but he didn’t know it, didn’t know the
changes coming, just a young couple with ringing ears having sweaty sex in the back of his car in a lay-by on the way home.

  He leaned over to Isobel, whispered in her ear, ‘take me home tonight.’ She smiled at him, gave him a quick kiss on the lips. He got another Guinness, a gin and tonic to chase it down, he’d missed dinner so got some dry-roasted peanuts and crisps, ripped open the bags on the bar so anyone could help themselves.

  The door opened and a group of lads came in, not regulars, not the usual kind of customer. Lads. Five of them. Shoes. Trousers. Club clothes, bouncer-compliant. Laughing, shouting. They were midway towards the bar when the one at the front noticed everyone staring at them.

  ‘Fuck’s going on here?’

  ‘Open mic night,’ said Simon.

  ‘Aye? Gies us a song? Do you know Wonderwall? Five pints of Stella and five tequilas.’

  ‘No tequila,’ said Simon, starting the pints.

  ‘Jesus, what kind of bar has no tequila? Sambuca then.’

  ‘No Sambuca either.’

  ‘Fuck sake. We want to do shots. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Brandy. Whisky. Gin. Baileys.’

  ‘Drambuie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Five Drambuies.’

  The regulars’ corner was full of muttering. Kenny played on but no one was listening now. At the other end of the bar they set the Drambuies on fire, hands over the glass to kill the flame and on the count of three they downed them. Flame shot out of one of the boys and everyone jumped back, the top of the bar on fire, ashtray and peanut packets. Simon, the fastest to react, dipped a towel in the sink and smothered it. Siobhan looked shaken.

  ‘Fuck sake Ryan, what the fuck was that?’ Ryan was coughing, bent over. ‘You’re supposed to put the fucking fire out, you spastic.’

  Marcus saw the flames, the rush of it, the flash, and was over before Isobel noticed he’d moved, had the boy by the collar, marching him across the pub, opening the door and pushing him up the stairs. ‘Come on, you’re fucking out of here.’ The lad’s mates saw what was going on and rushed after them, the regulars right behind. Out in the street a melee of pushing, Marcus and Ryan grappling, a punch, another, two groups squaring up between the railings and the parked cars. ‘Fucking come on.’ ‘Why don’t you piss off boys, it’s way past your bedtimes.’ Keith tried to get in between them. ‘Easy boys, come on now.’ Ryan landed a punch, another, and Marcus went back, lost his footing on the top step and went down like a sack of tatties a step at a time, on that hard perpendicular granite. He lay at the bottom, not moving.