Nathan threw a look at Fisher and Blue.
‘Are the bad men dead, Daddy?’
Mark wasn’t sure about Blue, but it was too complicated to go into.
‘Yes, they’re dead.’
‘Did Gran shoot one of them?’
Mark looked at Ruth, still dazed, gun held loose in her hand. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘Just like I shot the man at home?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But it wasn’t bad, what we did, was it?’
Mark knelt down and put a hand to the boy’s cheek. Tears and snot there, his eyes red. Mark thought about what those eyes had seen, what had soaked into the boy’s mind. Unbearable, like everything else.
‘Listen to me, Big Guy. What you did wasn’t bad at all. You saved Daddy, remember that. And Gran did the same thing. She saved both of us from the bad men, OK?’
Nathan looked unsure for a moment, then nodded, but there wasn’t much conviction in it.
‘Jesus.’ It was Ferguson, out of breath, feet slapping up to them.
She stopped and got her breath back, bent over with her hands on her thighs.
She looked round and took in the scene. After a while she spoke.
‘Armed response unit is on its way.’
‘Where’s the kid cop?’ said Mark.
Ferguson pointed towards Marlborough Street. ‘He’s got Mr Taylor.’
Mark nodded.
Ferguson approached Ruth and put a hand out for the gun. ‘I’ll take that, Mrs Bell.’
Ruth handed it over.
Ferguson scouted round and spotted Fisher’s gun. Picked it up by the barrel. Then went over to Mark and looked at his shoulder and face.
‘We’d better get an ambulance.’
There was a moan. Blue raised a hand to his mashed face, then the hand dropped on to the sand. His eyes remained closed.
‘For him as well.’
Mark was still holding on to Nathan, the boy’s shivering body against his chest.
‘Can I take him away from here?’
Ferguson nodded. ‘I’ll call an ambulance, you three wait on the prom.’
Mark, Nathan and Ruth trudged across the sand, not looking back.
Behind them, Ferguson sighed. ‘Christ, what a mess.’
40
The armed response unit turned up in a bluster of flashing lights and shouting, guys in bulletproof gear clumping around and pointing rifles.
Mark was slumped against the wall next to Ruth, his good arm pulling Nathan close. He pointed a thumb in the direction of the beach, then heard a crackle on one officer’s walkie-talkie, Ferguson’s tinny voice saying something he couldn’t make out.
Mark felt Nathan tense at the sight of all the police, and held on tight.
The officers stomped across the sand, leaving one silent guy watching over the three of them, rifle at ease.
After a few minutes, another police van trundled along the prom. Guys in white overalls jumped out with bags of gear and headed for the beach.
Where the hell was the ambulance?
With the adrenalin ebbing away, Mark started to feel faint from the pain in his shoulder. Should he press something against it, stop the bleeding? That’s what they did in the movies.
He breathed through clenched teeth, concentrated on the molecules of air coming and going, mingling with his bloodstream and keeping him alive.
Then at last an ambulance.
‘Thank fuck.’ Under his breath so Nathan didn’t hear.
Two paramedics checked him out, gave him a painkilling injection and fussed him into the back of the ambulance.
‘These two come as well,’ he said.
Ruth and Nathan clambered up and sat next to him. Mark held on to Nathan and looked at Ruth. She put on a weak smile. She still hadn’t spoken since she’d shot Fisher.
Ferguson came over as a second ambulance appeared, and she pointed the medical team towards the beach, where Blue was lying. The paramedics scuttled off with a stretcher and an oxygen mask.
Ferguson turned to Mark. She had a thin smile on her face.
‘When you’re sorted, DI Green and I will need to talk to you at the station.’
‘Fine.’
‘All three of you.’
Mark sighed. ‘I want to keep Nathan out of it as much as possible.’
Ferguson nodded and closed the ambulance doors.
41
‘Can I get a story, Daddy?’
All those years of sticking to the bedtime book routine. Even now, with the afternoon sun bleaching in through closed curtains.
Mark tucked Nathan up into his and Lauren’s bed and stroked the boy’s mess of hair.
‘Sure, Big Guy, what would you like?’
‘What Was I Scared Of?, please.’
Still saying please and thank you, despite it all. A polite, well-balanced boy. We done good with this one, Lauren, we done good. Another little joke between them, a line they trotted out in a hokey hillbilly accent every time they took a cute photo of him. Another little joke lost to the world.
Mark reached the same bit in the story that always got to him – large, dark double page, a bleak, apocalyptic landscape. Two frightened white eyes staring out. Those insistent words‚ the ones that killed him‚ about being truly afraid and lying about it.
Nathan’s eyes were already closed. Not quite asleep, but on the way. Mark was struck again by the resilience of kids, of his boy in particular. The elasticity of them, stretching and bending with whatever the world hurled at them, not letting it break them. He felt brittle in contrast, like an ancient tomb ready to crumble into dust at the slightest touch.
He stroked Nathan’s head for a few minutes, then noticed the dry lips. Reached for the Vaseline and rubbed some on. Thought about Lauren’s lips. Always thinking about that beneath it all.
He rose slowly from the bed then snuck out the door. The boy hadn’t slept since the break-in. Mark hoped he would have good dreams, but didn’t know if there was much chance of that.
He left the room and went to the kitchen. Ruth sat at the table, a cup of tea gone cold in front of her, untouched. She was staring out the window. The clutter of beech trees was still, their leaves soaking in the sunshine. The wind had finally given up, the storm blowing itself out.
Mark sat down and placed a hand on top of Ruth’s. Felt the looseness of her skin again. He would never feel Lauren’s hand like that, slack on the bone with age.
Ruth turned to him. The mundanity of the last few hours had seen the shock ebb away, replaced by deep sadness and resignation on her face.
‘Will we be all right?’ she said.
She meant with the police, not anything else. There was no answer to that other question.
They had told the truth. No point trying to cover up for Nathan and the corpse in the flat. Mark had explained everything – the break-in, the brothel, Taylor, Fisher. Thankfully, Taylor was backing up Mark’s version of events, more or less. With Fisher dead, he wasn’t scared for his life any more. He was playing down his role in it all, obviously, and was playing up the getting shot in the shoulder part. Mark wondered what would happen to Taylor, if he would be punished enough. He wondered what Taylor’s wife would make of it all.
And he wondered about himself, whether he was going to go to prison for what he’d done. Always more stuff to worry about, it was never-ending. His son and mother-in-law had both shot and killed people to save his life. Ferguson’s boss couldn’t say for now if either of them would end up in court. If they did, they could claim self-defence, surely. But then Mark had read plenty of newspaper stories about people who shot burglars and did time for it. And of course, things were worse for Mark. He had shot someone, plain and simple, no self-defence about it. DI Green thought there might be scope for a deal with Taylor, but that was up in the air.
Mark had used a laptop at the police station to download the files Lauren had emailed to herself, passed them on to the cops. They had specialists
looking at them. What they found would have a bearing on Taylor and everything else, but that would take time to work out.
In the meantime social services would have to investigate. Mark still had that playground assault charge hanging over him. Christ.
He realised he hadn’t answered Ruth.
‘We’ll be fine, we’ll look out for each other.’
He squeezed her hand, but it didn’t feel like a comforting gesture, more like he was the one seeking reassurance.
He got up and went through to the living room. Forensics had removed the body after several hours fussing over the scene. Left behind was a huge pool of congealing blood. Ferguson had explained at the station that it wasn’t the police’s job to clear up. There was a specialist company they could hire in, but they cost £300 an hour. No chance. He’d have to do it himself. Towels, bucket, bleach, mop.
The imprint of the dead guy’s body was still at the centre of the pool. The blood had run all the way to the skirting boards. Soaked in between the floorboards. They were never going to get it all out, it would haunt them as long as they stayed here, along with everything else.
‘Should we make a start on it?’ It was Ruth behind him. ‘It’ll only be harder to clean up later if we leave it.’
Mark rubbed at his swollen eye. Then stroked his shoulder, now wrapped in tight bandages. Apparently the wound was simple and clean, didn’t take much at the hospital to patch it up. They’d given him three blister packs of codeine, and he’d swallowed four pills on the way to the police station with Nathan and Ruth.
He looked at the time. Almost three o’clock. School would be coming out soon.
‘I’ll get some things,’ Ruth said.
And so they cleaned. As Nathan slept, Ruth worked the mop and Mark spread old towels out to soak everything up. Slow going for him with only one functioning arm, but after an hour or so they were down to scrubbing the floorboards and bleaching everything. They had the windows wide open to get rid of the smell. There had been some shit and piss as well, the guy’s body slackening as he decomposed. The man had broken into their home, beaten Mark, threatened to kill him, tried to hurt Nathan, and here they were cleaning up his shit.
After another hour most signs were gone. There was nothing they could do about the gaps between the floorboards. Their eyes and hands were stinging from the bleach. They’d done enough for now.
Mark carried the cleaning stuff through to the kitchen and put it away. When he came back Ruth was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed and her hand on her forehead.
‘I might just have forty winks,’ she said.
Mark got a blanket and spread it over her, then he looked out the window at the old church across the road. It was a beautiful day outside, crisp and warm, one of those late spring days that give you a taste of approaching summer.
‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ he said.
Ruth opened her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘I need some air.’
‘Don’t be long. Nathan might wake up.’
He went to the front door.
‘Daddy?’
He turned and saw Nathan at the bedroom door in another pair of those jammies that were too small for him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just out for a walk, Big Guy.’
‘I want to come.’
‘No, go back to sleep.’
‘I want to go and see the whales,’ Nathan said. ‘Can we?’
Mark leaned against the door. ‘Sure. Go and get dressed.’
He fingered the broken lock on the front door while he waited. Something else on the list of things to fix.
42
The beach was chaos.
Environmental health vans, coastguard vehicles, police cars and fire engines were all on the prom. Three news-crew vans were parked further along. Mark could see one reporter interviewing someone in a luminous yellow jacket, while the BBC woman was doing a piece to camera, the backdrop of the beach behind.
The whales were the story.
Mark, Ruth and Nathan’s little adventure hadn’t made it to the news yet. Ferguson said forensics had done a quick, clean job down on the sand, and it was assumed by early dog walkers and joggers that the police cordon was for the whales.
But their story would get out soon. Two men killed in Portobello on a single night. Two more with gunshot wounds. Another one in intensive care. The guy in the blue hoodie was alive. He was still heavily sedated because of his injuries. Mark might well be charged for that too, depending on what the guy had to say when he came round. Mark wondered if he was really the one who killed Lauren, like his partner had said. For all it mattered now.
For the moment, Mark, Ruth and Nathan had all been released without charge, but they’d been warned the situation might change. Just another thing to deal with in the coming days and weeks. For the rest of their lives. There would be press intrusion. He thought about the Daily Record journalist from yesterday. There might be court cases. There would be a funeral and counselling and grief and horror and nightmares and sorrow.
But not just now.
For now the beached whales were the story.
A crowd had gathered around the cordon, swollen by schoolkids let out of Towerbank, their red uniforms flashing between the grown-ups as they jostled to see.
Mark traipsed on to the sand and joined them, Nathan gripping his hand tight, staying close. There were forty-two whales, he heard an official saying to a reporter. The largest mass beaching ever recorded on Scottish shores. No one knew why. People never knew why. Sometimes bad things just happened.
Someone next to Mark mentioned the stench. All Mark could smell was bleach and blood.
How do you get rid of forty-two whales?
Mark thought about himself and Ruth scrubbing away at the floorboards in the flat.
He guided Nathan to a different part of the crowd, drifting round the outside. He spotted someone from the picture desk at the Standard snapping away. One of the new kids, eager to please and willing to work for next to nothing. He looked at the shot the guy was taking, it was all wrong, you’d get much better depth and contrast from further round. He tried to imagine taking pictures again, going back to work.
Mark and Nathan stood looking at the whales for a long time.
Eventually Nathan spoke.
‘Where was Mummy found?’
Mark looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Where did they find Mummy?’
Mark turned and pointed in the other direction. ‘Over there.’
‘Can we go?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see.’
‘There’s nothing to see.’
Nathan shrugged. ‘I just want to.’
Mark thought for a long moment, looking at Nathan. Then he shrugged too.
‘Come on.’
They walked away from the dead whales and the people and the noise and headed along the beach.
They climbed across a groyne, Mark lifting Nathan up and over the weathered wood, the pair of them heading for where Lauren had been washed up.
Mark saw her face clearly, marbled blue skin, pale lips, straggly hair.
They got to where it was and stopped.
‘Here?’ Nathan said.
Mark nodded. ‘I think so.’
He glanced the way they’d come. The whales looked like little rocks from here, nothing more.
He turned back. They were close to the water’s edge, ten feet. It was calm out in the firth, the sun bouncing on the flat surface like hammered tin.
Nathan was scuffing in the sand with his shoe. Mark wondered what was going through his head.
The boy went into his pocket and took something out. It was the piece of sea glass. He sat down on the sand and dug a small hole. Put the glass in the hole and covered it over.
‘Don’t you want to keep that?’ Mark said.
Nathan shook his head. ‘I’m showing it to Mummy like I wanted to.’
Mark sat
down next to Nathan and pulled him into a hug.
‘I’m sure Mummy loves it,’ he said.
He sat there holding the boy, looking out to sea, trying not to think of anything at all.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Angus Cargill‚ Katherine Armstrong‚ Eleanor Rees‚ Hannah Griffiths‚ Alex Holroyd‚ Lisa Baker‚ Sam Brown‚ John McColgan and everyone else at Faber for their continued belief and support. Thanks also to fellow writers Allan Guthrie and Helen FitzGerald for inspiration and sound advice. And the biggest thanks to Trish‚ for putting up with it all.
About the Author
Doug Johnstone (@doug_johnstone) is the author of four previous novels‚ most recently Hit and Run (2012)‚ described by Ian Rankin as ‘a great slice of noir’ and by Irvine Welsh as ‘a grisly parable for our times’. Writer-in-residence at the University of Strathclyde from 2010–2012‚ he is also a freelance journalist‚ a songwriter and musician‚ and has a PhD in nuclear physics. He lives in Edinburgh.
www.dougjohnstone.wordpress.com
Praise for Doug Johnstone:
‘Doug Johnstone hits YOU and then HE runs‚ and you never catch him until the last word of the last sentence. Cracking stuff.’ Alan Glynn on Hit and Run
‘A hugely atmospheric thriller soaked in the spirit of life . . . sip and savour.’ The Times on Smokeheads
‘A counter clockwise‚ state of the nation rock’n’roll tour which captures where we're at better than any modern novel I’ve read.’ Irvine Welsh on The Ossians
‘A seductive and thrilling evocation of what lurks beneath the surface of small-town Scotland – or indeed small-town anywhere.’ Christopher Brookmyre on Tombstoning
Also by Doug Johnstone
Hit and Run
Smokeheads
The Ossians
Tombstoning
For Aidan and Amber
First published in 2013
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Gone Again Page 19
