‘So where are we going?’ He looked down at her, drawing heavily on his cigarette. She hated him smoking around the kid. She looked about to say something but he got in first. ‘Everyone’s allowed one vice, right?’
Her sudden smile caught him off balance. ‘True.’
He grinned back. ‘So what’s yours then?’
‘Oh, I’m still looking for mine.’ The way she said it, the way she caught his eye and looked away quickly, made his heart twist. Whoa. Was she flirting with him? He frowned. No, he must have imagined it.
‘We’re going to Tea ’n’ Flea,’ William announced with an edge of triumph. This time Walt paused and stared at him. ‘Tea and what?’
‘It’s a café and flea market,’ Mouse explained.
Walt picked up the pace again. ‘Kid’s a bit of a squirrel, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a nightmare. Most boys buy sweets. He spends his pocket money on stamps and coins and . . . rubbish!’
Walt felt in his pocket for the silver button and rubbed his thumb over the design.
The shop was painted bright blue. He supposed he’d passed it before, that night he’d gone out with a drink in him and ended up at the park gates, staring at the trees until the safe, clichéd smell of pizza nudged him away like the nose of a family dog. The shop had been closed that night, like all the other shops. Now there were trestle tables outside, defying the weather, stacked with old books and comics. Every time the door opened a bell rang.
Inside were actually two shops, sharing a damp lobby. Through a glass door to the left lay a labyrinth of dusty bookcases, packing crates and cardboard boxes stuffed with collectibles, curios and junk. To the right was the café, long and narrow, popular with the blue-rinse brigade. A refrigerated cabinet of quiche and salad took up most of one end, and along the length of the side wall a giant chalkboard advertised the specials in meticulous handwriting: mackerel and walnut salad; boiled egg and rocket panini; pastrami picnic loaf, whatever the hell that was. The place smelled of peppers and basil, overlaid with coffee. Sharp hisses of steam from the espresso machine competed with the soothing tones of Radio 4.
William chose a table by the window and they squeezed themselves in, Walt feeling like a giant on the spindly chair, the bistro table sagging under his elbows. The old ladies competed with each other, a torrent of voices with occasional crystal clear bubbles rising to the surface: ‘Did you see that rain?’ . . . ‘It’s not cold though, for April.’ . . . ‘That’s Scotland for you – four seasons in one day!’
Send them out to the desert; see how they like the weather there.
Mouse caught his eye. ‘What do you think?’
He looked about him, at the organic veg rack and the herb prints on the wall. It was a pine-nuts-and-sundried-tomatoes sort of place.
‘It’s okay. Reeks of vegetarianism.’
‘You don’t like vegetarians?’
‘Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like kebabs.’
‘Walt!’ She didn’t know how to take him and it made him smile. There was so much warmth about her: her hair and her cosy jumpers, the way the tip of her nose went rosy in the cold, the glint in her eye when she was amused. She looked good when she thawed out.
The waitress came over, a student type with cropped brown hair and an Australian accent. Walt liked waitresses, shop assistants, nurses. With a bit of banter and his crooked grin, he could hold their attention for as long as it took to remember the man he used to be. But this girl didn’t even look at him. The kid had her explaining all the soft drinks to him like he was ordering wine at Claridge’s.
‘What’s cream soda like?’
‘It’s sort of creamy. Sweet. Hint of vanilla.’
‘What about ginger beer?’
‘You might not like that, honey. Ginger can be a bit sour.’
‘Maybe I should . . .’
‘Jesus, give him an Irn-Bru,’ Walt said, rocking back in his chair. ‘And coffee for us. And cake.’
The waitress and Mouse glared at him as if he’d just bitten the head off a hamster. He shrugged. ‘We’ll be here all day otherwise.’
They had cappuccinos and carrot cake, which was good: moist with a hint of cinnamon and butter cream so sweet it made his teeth ache. The waitress incident hadn’t done much to lift the black mood. He could feel it tightening his jaw; Mouse was giving him the silent treatment. It hadn’t been like this in his head. When he’d invited her to do something normal he’d imagined easy conversation in a cosy diner, just the two of them. He hadn’t really taken into account her situation. She focused entirely on her son, leaning in to brush the floppy hair from his eyes, listening to his chatter about school and telly programmes. He envied how they were with each other, communicating without words in the way families do: a nod, a lift of the shoulder, a look.
It reminded him he’d had all that, and he’d fucked it up.
Sipping his coffee, he said, ‘Has it always been just you and him?’ Mouse looked affronted and he rushed on: ‘I just wondered . . . You’re very tight, the two of you.’
Her eyebrows shot up. William sucked up the last of his drink through a straw, breaking the tension with a noise like a bathtub emptying.
‘William! If you’re finished you can go through and look in the shop.’
He didn’t need telling twice. He jumped up, almost knocking over his empty glass and disappeared.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s a bit sensitive about the father issue. He’s curious, and I can’t always deal with it.’
‘Oh aye. I’m sorry about . . . before. I didn’t mean to get in a bad mood. It happens. It just happens.’
‘Walt. Stop apologising.’ She leaned closer, put her elbows on the table and smiled at him. She had a wide smile when she used it, one that made you feel good inside, warm. ‘I phoned that number you gave me, the one for the MoD. You never told me you’d been medically discharged.’
‘We all have things we don’t want to talk about, don’t we?’
They shared a moment of perfect understanding, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Edinburgh he felt a measure of peace. He broke the silence first.
‘So tell me, who’s the daddy?’
That made her laugh, as he knew it would.
‘Oh God.’ She heaved a sigh, jammed her fingers into the sides of her hair and stared at the table. ‘We were students, and he freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He wanted to run a mile, so I let him.’
‘What were you studying?’
‘Nursing. My mum was a nurse in Inverness, before she met my father. I kind of always wanted to be a nurse too. I remember she kept her old uniform and we used to try it on, Alys and me. We’d put on grown-up shoes and bandage up our dolls. The hat was all lacy . . . Alys snatched it off me once and tore it and Mum gave the whole lot to the charity shop.’ She was looking out of the window. He watched the memories play out behind her eyes. ‘Alys wasn’t interested in anything, but Mum taught me how to make beds, you know, with hospital corners?’
He nodded. He knew about hospital beds.
‘She used to say, “Fitted sheets and duvets – fiddlesticks! It’s lazy bed-making, like you don’t care enough. You want a smooth sheet, Maura. Not a wrinkle in the sheet. Wrinkles cause redness, leading to bedsores. Skin is everything – you must keep it in tip-top condition. Look after a patient’s skin and you’re half way to winning the battle.”’ Mouse gave a little laugh. ‘I never really knew what the battle was.’
‘Skin keeps us together, lass,’ he said. Even when we’re coming undone inside.
‘I suppose it does. I never thought of it like that.’
‘When did she die?’
His bluntness shook her out of the past; she sat up straighter. ‘Just before William was born.’
There wasn’t much he could say to that. Sympathy was overused and pointless. Instead he said, ‘You’d make a good nurse.’
She bl
ushed. ‘You don’t even know me!’
‘I just meant you’d look good in the uniform.’
This time she laughed out loud, and the old lady at the next table looked up and smiled. She was starting to get him; that was progress.
‘I’d better go and see what William is up to,’ she sighed. ‘He’ll have spent all his pocket money on Victorian thimbles or something!’ She started to get up and paused. ‘You know, he goes round the house searching for things, like kids do at Christmas – prying into cupboards and drawers, going where he shouldn’t go. And now he’s checking up on my Facebook page! I sometimes think he’s looking for evidence of who he is. Like he wants to fill in the gaps, the things I can’t tell him.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you in a minute.’
Walt drained his coffee, suddenly thoughtful. He felt for the button in his pocket. Rain was beginning to collect on the window, and he sat for a few minutes, watching the passers-by trudging along, bundled up in coats and hats. Eventually, he got up from the table and wandered across the lobby to the flea market. Edging past a middle-aged guy in black biker leathers who was sorting through a box of vinyl LPs, Walt spotted William and his mother at the far end of the shop. On impulse, Walt flipped the button from his pocket and approached the counter, where Mr Flea ’n’ Tea was leafing through an old theatre programme. He looked up when Walt approached.
‘Can you identify this?’
The guy didn’t really fit the shop. He had the look of the outdoors about him, slightly weathered, with a sturdy physique. His hair was strangely brassy, like the wedding ring on his third finger; both looked fake. Walt offered the button on his palm, like a sugar cube, and the man gazed at it. ‘I don’t buy one-offs any more. If you had a set I might . . .’
‘I’m not selling,’ said Walt. ‘I just want to know what it is. Quickly.’ He was conscious that the kid could appear at any moment and that he had, in effect, stolen the thing. He still didn’t know why he was being so secretive about it. The man was raking behind the till for a pair of cheap reading glasses. He put them on and held the button up to the light.
‘Mmm.’ He checked the reverse. ‘I see.’
‘What?’ Walt could feel irritation storming in from somewhere. ‘What is it?’
‘That’s the Imperial Eagle. German. World War Two. Probably from a tunic or a greatcoat. You don’t have the greatcoat?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Pity. I would have taken that off you. Very collectible. Nazi memorabilia is very sellable just now.’
Walt took the button back. Mouse was on her phone and she didn’t look very happy. ‘Okay, thanks, mate. Just wondered.’
Mouse was coming towards him, towing William along behind her. ‘Walt! We have to go.’
‘What’s wrong?’
She was clearly distressed. ‘Mrs Petrauska just called. Alys is sitting on the pavement crying.’
17
Alys was sitting on the pavement with her back to the railings, hugging her knees. Her hair hung forward and he couldn’t see much of her face, but the sobs were raw and hoarse, like she’d been at it for a while. Mrs Petrauska was standing guard. Her face bore two camouflage streaks of mascara, and her palms were pressed together as if she was thinking about praying. Her relief at seeing back-up was explosive. She started gabbling, seizing Walt’s arm as Mouse went into some kind of smooth choreography, handing the key to William and scooping an arm around her sister’s heaving shoulders. It all looked too well rehearsed.
‘This the second time this month, Maura!’ Mrs Petrauska said. ‘That poor girl, she need the gydytojas!’
‘Doctor,’ William translated. He’d developed a sudden air of confidence, racing up the steps, flashing the keys, swinging open the big heavy door.
Mouse was thanking Mrs Petrauska, bundling Alys towards the house. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping.’
‘But you must get help!’
Walt detached himself, patted the woman’s shoulder. ‘We will. Thank you. Good night.’
And then they were in the hall and he was closing the door, with a last glance at Mrs Petrauska’s mascara stains, like the shadows of the basement railings.
Alys had stopped sobbing. Her voice was now a nasally whine. ‘You weren’t there. You left me to do it all by myself.’
Mouse was looking at him pointedly. He realised the remarks were aimed at him. He stood with his back to the closed door and lifted his hand to his chest in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Me?’
‘I needed you, Walt!’ The sobbing started again.
Walt hated women crying. He’d grown up around boys; when tears cropped up it was for a good reason – a fist fight, someone giving you a wedgie or stealing your new bike – and always the result of anger or frustration. As men the tears were quiet, hidden. Female tears were deeper, darker.
He appealed to Mouse. ‘She said she wanted to be alone, to get on with her stuff!’
‘When was this?’ Mouse hugged Alys to her, smoothed her hair.
‘Wednesday or Thursday, I guess. That’s why I suggested we go out this morning. I’ve been bored off me tits for days. I can’t stand having nothing to do, I . . .’
But Mouse wasn’t listening. ‘When did you last sleep, Alys? Have you eaten anything?’
Alys pulled away from her and staggered up the hall. ‘I can’t! It’s all going wrong. I had this vision in my head but I can’t make it work!’ The backside of her jeans and her white sweater were snagged with the outside: dust and twigs and tiny leaves.
Mouse was biting her lower lip, the way William did. ‘You can’t work without any sleep. You’re burned out, Alys. You need to go to bed.’
‘I can’t sleep, you idiot! You don’t understand. The ideas won’t let go of me! They’re in my head all the time . . .’ There began a fresh storm of weeping. Alys collapsed against the great polar bear, dissolving into his yellowy fur. William peered out from behind the kitchen door.
‘Why don’t you just go and have a little lie down.’ Mouse followed Alys and took her by the thin shoulders. ‘Come on. I’ll change your pillowcases, that always helps you sleep. I’ll sprinkle lavender oil on them, like Mum used to do. And I’ll bring you up some hot milk.’
‘No, no, no! The birds are all out! The birds are all out and I need to sort them!’ She flung Mouse off violently. There was a noise like a slap, but Walt was guiding William back into the kitchen and didn’t see what had happened. He could hear Mouse repeating her sister’s words: ‘The birds are all out? The birds are all out?’
‘They are. Look.’ The kid was pulling at Walt’s sleeve. ‘Look.’
‘Shit.’
Alys kept all her roadkill in an upright freezer in the back corner of the kitchen. She’d given him the guided tour early on, explaining her filing system, demonstrating how each plastic drawer held different creatures: birds in the top, then rodents, then small furries such as rabbits and guinea pigs (maybe even kittens). Each specimen was bagged and tagged, her own personal morgue. Walt had felt physically sick. Now, the door of the freezer was standing open.
‘Christ, is it empty? It is. It’s empty. How much stuff did she have in here?’ He crossed the room in a few strides and checked all the drawers.
Mouse spoke, right behind him. She sounded weary. ‘It’s always full, because people keep handing stuff in, like we’re a bloody charity shop or something. She can’t have stuffed them all. How big is this thing she’s working on?’
Walt slammed the freezer door and turned around. ‘Coffin-sized.’
‘Oh God. I’ll get her settled. You go down to the basement, Walt. See what she’s done. William, get yourself some supper.’
‘Can I have biscuits?’
‘Yes.’
‘Chocolate ones?’
‘William!’
Walt made the short downward spiral to the basement. It meant going outside, of course, and it was still raining. It was a bad design flaw, not including an inside staircase. He tried to
make the two-minute journey last, filling his lungs with fresh air, like a prisoner waiting for the cell door to clang shut. His heart was already racing, anticipating the dark.
It was the weeping, Mrs Petrauska’s mascara stripes, the violence of Alys’s reactions. It could all be superimposed on some other time, some other land. His base instincts refused to give up on him. Re-experiencing is the most typical symptom of PTSD. This is when a person involuntarily and vividly relives the traumatic event in the form of flashbacks, nightmares or repetitive and distressing images or sensations. This can even include physical sensations such as pain, sweating and trembling. NHS website, memorised.
The stench hit him when he opened the door. The little shop was clogged with it. Glassy eyes looked on in horror as he went behind the till and brushed aside the curtain. The only light was from the huge display case; it fanned out across the slate floor, interrupted by a hundred little speed bumps.
A hundred little bird corpses, laid out in neat rows like herring on a dock, and smelling just as bad. Defrosted, they were beginning to rot, tiny pools of liquid congealing under each one.
He started to shake. It began in his knees and travelled upwards, grabbing his guts. He was still rooted to the spot when Mouse came in.
‘Oh my God.’ She pressed the back of her hand to her nose. ‘They must have been defrosting for days. Some of them are half rotten when we get them. What do we do? Can you refreeze them?’ When he didn’t speak she nudged his arm. ‘Walt? It’s not like meat, is it? Maybe we can refreeze them? Walt, what’s wrong?’
‘I need to get out of here.’ His voice came out weird, strangled.
‘You can’t leave me with this! Look.’ She seemed to sense his panic, hauled over a stool and pushed him down onto it. ‘Breathe slowly. You look like you’ve seen a ghost . . .’ She bit her lip and swung her gaze back to the corpses. ‘Actually, I can sort this out myself. I’ve seen it all before. Why don’t you go up and–’
Beneath the Skin Page 7
