by SJI Holliday
Even with the worst hangover in the world, there was barely a day when I didn’t want to go into work. Not many people could say that. Especially not Scott, who was one of the ‘7.10 Express Gang’. He detested his job in the bank, but he’d been there since he was seventeen and I couldn’t ever see him having the balls to leave the place. One thing I wouldn’t miss were his stuck-up colleagues who thought they were special because they spent all their wages on Next ‘office wear’. I’d always tried my hardest, but somehow I was never good enough for them.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought he’d done me a favour.
‘It’s just not working, Jo, is it?’ he’d said.
I’d just made the tea, which was a new chicken pasta thing that I’d discovered by flicking though the latest Jamie Oliver during a quiet spell. It’d taken twice as long as it was meant to, and the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a botched burglary. We were having it on trays and Hollyoaks was on – one of Scott’s guilty pleasures. It wasn’t my cup of tea, but I always gave in and let him watch what he wanted.
‘Mmm?’ I said, through a mouthful of pasta.
‘Us. This,’ he said, standing up and carrying the tray through to the kitchen.
‘Aren’t you eating that?’ I blurted, shocked at his sudden turn.
I heard him slam the plate into the sink, kick the door of the dishwasher. I went through and found him leaning on the worktop, head in his hands. I’d been ravenous while cooking, but suddenly it felt as if my insides were falling out, like when you drive too fast over a hill.
‘Is there someone else?’ I said. One of those questions that you don’t really want the answer to, but you find yourself asking anyway.
He stood up and rubbed his hands across his face. There was a slight bristling sound as his palms found the five o’clock shadow and I realised that he hadn’t even kissed me when he got in. I’d been so busy with the cooking that I’d been oblivious to his awful mood.
‘It’s not Kirsty, is it?’
I said this nervously, because I was sure I was right. Kirsty was his latest office obsession. There had been a few. Generally, I didn’t think he’d done anything apart from sniff around them like next door’s dog, but there was something different about Kirsty.
‘Scott?’
He sighed, stood up straight and put his hands on my shoulders. I stared up at him. My lip started to quiver, because I knew what was coming, even though it had come from nowhere. He hadn’t even eaten his tea, which wasn’t like him at all. He picked up his keys. ‘I’ll go to my mum’s tonight. Give you some space.’
I let him go without another word. I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. Noticed stringy drips of pasta sauce stuck to the side of the pot, already congealing.
3
Craig pulled into the parking space outside Harrison’s Pharmacy and killed the engine.
I frowned.
‘Aren’t we going to the flat?’
He pulled his keys out of the ignition.
‘Nope. Sharon’s in the shop on her own. Come on.’
I didn’t bother arguing. I glanced over at the back seat, littered with piles of clothes that I didn’t have enough bags for. The boot was jammed full of books and CDs and whatever other junk I thought was mine and not Scott’s. The last thing I wanted was the humiliation of going back round to collect anything else.
Bridie Goldstone’s curtains had twitched the entire time we’d dragged stuff out of the house and bundled it into Craig’s clapped-out ‘retro’ Fiat Panda.
His primary reason for keeping it, despite it breaking down at least once a month, was to wind up his partner. Rob drove a brand-new BMW and refused to set foot in Craig’s rust bucket in case he got his shiny suit trousers dirty. They’d met up town one night in the aptly named ManGrove, and despite their apparent opposing personalities they’d been together for nearly six years. I still wasn’t sure what Rob thought of me. We seemed to circle around each other like cats defending their territory. Craig was the scratching post in the middle.
We cut through the bollard-ended lane that connects the High Street with Monkton Road, locally known as ‘the Back Street’, which is the only place you can park in the town centre since they smothered the rest of it in drab block paving. One day, a town planner would come up with a different-coloured brick and there’d be a revolution, but until then we were stuck with ubiquitous orange spattered with dirty grey splurts of discarded chewing gum.
The town clock chimed half nine and the High Street was slowly waking up. Old biddies with wheelie bags on their way to the butchers. Men in dirty jeans, smoking outside the bookies. Later there’d be shuffling kids, nattering mummies with posh prams. The usual small town suspects.
And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t want to go to work. I wanted to curl up on Craig and Rob’s massive puffy sofa and drink hot chocolate and watch a load of those TV movies where they always have a happy ending.
A glance through the window revealed nobody in the book-shop, except Sharon, our part-time assistant. Craig had taken her on for the summer, but we both got the distinct impression that she didn’t want to leave. She seemed to like working there with us, even though I got the feeling it was more about the social aspect than doing any actual work.
She was standing behind the counter aggressively stabbing buttons on her mobile phone. The bell over the door tinkled as we walked in and she casually dropped her phone and looked up, hands scuffling about the counter as she tried to pretend she’d been tidying up the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ notebooks that were stacked up next to the till. The phrase was getting tired now and we were struggling to shift the things. She tossed a lock of hair as black and shiny as fresh tarmac away from her face. Her purple eyeliner was flicked up in a ‘V’; a silver ring stuck out of her right nostril. I preferred yesterday’s diamond stud. She had one of those small pin badges stuck to her black shirt. It said ‘Bite Me’.
Her eyes flitted from Craig to me.
‘Oh, sorry, I … Jo! What’s happened to your eyebrow?’
She had that way of sounding nosey, shocked and concerned at the same time. It was a common trait in this town, where no one could resist poking about in other people’s business. It was something I was used to, having lived here all my life – well, apart from the brief, miserable stint up town – but it was still irritating when you wanted to keep some things private. Oh well. She would find out about Scott and me soon enough. I hastily smoothed my fringe down over my left eye. ‘I’m tidying the stockroom today,’ I said, scurrying past the counter with my head down so she didn’t get the chance for another gawp.
Craig, who saw himself as an amateur psychologist, had told me once that my eyebrow-plucking thing was an indicator that I was about to have one of my turns. He used that phrase ironically, trying to laugh off the full extent of what could happen when my mood swung into a downer. I could tell when we were in the car that he was losing patience with me. He didn’t have time for this now. He had a wedding to plan.
So I tried to reassure him that I was fine, but I think I was trying to convince myself.
Craig was right, though. I hadn’t done the plucking thing in months. Oddly enough, I’d felt happy lately. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. It’d be less of an issue if I didn’t do something quite so noticeable. I stared at myself in the kettle as I waited for it to boil and the convex distortion made me look small and scared.
‘Fuck him.’
I spun round. ‘Jesus, you made me jump!’
Sharon stood at the door to the stockroom, hand on hip, her mouth curled in disgust. So Craig had told her, then.
‘I always thought he was a bit of a knob. Can I have ginger and lemon, please?’
She nodded towards the worktop, where seven kinds of tea were stacked up in little boxes. I only drank Nescafé, but Craig had given in to Sharon’s wanky New Age herbal thing, although every time he made his own tea he ‘accidentally’ used a bag
of PG Tips that he kept under the sink. I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress. Certainly not Rob, because he had one of those five-hundred-quid coffee machines that did everything except fly to Costa Rica to pick the stuff.
I dropped teabags into mugs of boiling water. ‘You hardly knew him, Shaz.’
She blew air through her nose and counted to three before she replied. It really wound her up when I called her ‘Shaz’, so she had to go through the breathing ritual before she could speak.
‘I knew him enough to know he had bad energy, Jo …’
I wanted to slap her. Who was she to tell me things about Scott? Instead I handed her the mug and she blew on it and gave me a patronising smile. Then she picked up Craig’s mug and headed back through to the shop.
‘Oh,’ she said, nodding towards a stack of books piled up behind the door, ‘can you bring that top one through, please. Customer’s here to collect it …’
I picked up the book. Javascript: The Good Parts. A website design manual. There was a Post-it on top that said ‘Gareth Maloney. Sat AM.’ I flipped the book over to read the back and pushed the door open with my foot. I had a mug in one hand, the book in the other. My head was down, so I didn’t notice who was in the shop, but I’d sensed that it still wasn’t busy.
A man stood bent over the counter, scribbling his details onto the little form for the loyalty card thing. I really didn’t pay much attention until he stood up straight and turned to face me.
I froze.
An image from a long time ago flashed in my mind … cold, dark eyes. I’d caught only the briefest glimpse that day, but it was him. I was sure of it.
I tried to blink the image away, but it stayed. A sudden wave of nausea washed over me.
‘Ah, here she is,’ Craig was saying. His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. ‘Jo, Mr Maloney’s a web designer. I was just telling him that you’re our resident design whizz …’
He let his sentence tail off.
I started shaking; my hand wobbling so much I was in danger of spilling coffee all over the book. I was only vaguely aware of Sharon at my elbow, lifting the mug out of my hand.
Gareth Maloney. After all these years, I finally had a name …
‘Jo? Are you OK? Maybe you should sit down—’
Maloney stared at me, his expression unreadable.
You don’t remember me, do you? I thought.
But how could either of us ever forget?
THE BOY
They wait until darkness falls. The house blanketed in black.
‘Will we get in trouble?’ the boy says. He already feels the pins and needles. The little bubbles dancing inside his stomach.
‘Not if you keep quiet. Stay close to me. Keep your gob shut.’
The boy follows. He wonders why they don’t take the car, but he doesn’t ask. They walk across fields, keeping tight to the trodden paths that line the edges.
By the time they reach the wood, he is panting slightly.
The man walks fast. He has longer strides than him. The man carries a bag on his shoulder. An old military thing. Soft canvas. Long.
Long enough for the shotgun.
The boy thinks about the other things in the bag. He shivers.
The boy has always been fascinated by the traps.
Strong circles of metal. Big sharp teeth.
He is not allowed to shoot. ‘When you’re older,’ the man says.
Each time they go, he is older than the last. But he is never old enough.
The man lays the bag on the bark-mulch floor. The zip makes a loud noise in the silent wood. The birds are sleeping. The crows, the sparrows, the finches. The noisy, happy birds.
Other birds are awake. The owls. The boy can feel their bright-eyed stares reaching him from their nests in the trees.
A solitary twhoo confirms their presence.
They are waiting to see what happens next. There is a scurrying in the undergrowth. Mice, voles. Maybe foxes. Rabbits? The man lifts the torch from the bag, flicks it on. He holds it under his chin.
‘Boo,’ he whispers.
The boy grins.
The man lifts the shotgun from the bag. Snaps it open. Checks the ammunition.
‘Come on then,’ he says.
The boy takes his cue. He lifts the traps from the bag. One. Two. Three.
‘Now remember …’
‘I know, I know,’ the boy says. He is not stupid. This is not his first time.
He takes the first trap, snaps it open. The man shines the torch and the gleaming metal teeth glow like a monster’s snarl in the dark.
He fastens the little clip at the side, careful not to put his fingers anywhere near the gaping maw.
He places the trap on the ground, at the base of a dark, rotting oak. Its drooping, diseased branches hang like tentacles. Ready to grab.
The man walks deeper into the woods. The shotgun cocked. Ready.
The boy lays two more traps.
Then follows.
‘How much further?’ the boy says. He is tired. The wood is still quiet. The inhabitants can sense the danger. They stay in their holes.
He follows the man deeper into the woods. There is no light. It has been sucked up into the ether. The only thing to guide them is the torch. The boy follows the beam up ahead. Listens to the sounds of their two sets of footsteps crunching on tiny twigs.
Snap. Snap. Like bones.
The man stops. ‘Ssh,’ he says, ‘see that?’
The boy follows the beam of the torch. It ends at shining dark eyes.
He sees the stripe, silhouetted in the spot of light.
A badger! They’ve never had a badger.
The man hands the torch to him. The shotgun is cocked and ready.
He shoots.
There is a low groan, a whimper. Then a fluhmp as the animal drops to the stinking, damp forest floor.
The metallic reek of blood, the smoky tang of fresh shot.
4
Sergeant Davie Gray rolled the centre pages of the Banktoun Mail and Post into a ball and launched it overarm towards the metal bin. It bounced off the rim and seemed to hover for a second before it fell to the floor.
‘Ooof! Close, but no cigar.’ PC Callum Beattie spun across the room on his wheelie chair and picked up the paper, then rolled back and seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to line up his shot.
‘Get on with it, man,’ Gray said. He was getting bored of the game now. He’d missed three in a row, the third being the only one to touch the bin at all. Beattie, of course, had managed to get all five of his goes bang on target.
The phone rang. Beattie flinched just as he released the paper ball and it went wide, bouncing on the worn navy carpet before coming to a stop. He swore.
Gray picked up the phone and held a quieting finger to his lips.
‘Banktoun Station. Sergeant Gray speaking. How can I help you?’
‘It’s me. Got a job for you. Hope you’re not too busy …’ The voice implied it knew they were anything but. Not for the first time, Gray wondered if his boss had the CCTV feed going direct to his BlackBerry. Luckily Beattie always remembered to reposition the camera that faced the area behind the counter when they were on the skive.
‘Oh, er, good morning, sir.’ Gray rolled his eyes at Beattie. Beattie stood up and mimed someone swinging a golf club. Inspector Gordon Hamilton jeopardising his Saturday-morning tee-off time to call the station? This must be good.
‘I’ve had a call from Martin about someone making a pest of themselves up at the Track. Nothing’s actually happened. Yet. Best go and take a look, though, eh? I said you’d call him. Right. Got to go.’ He hung up before Gray could reply.
Gray stared at the phone as if it was a poisonous snake, then placed it back in the cradle and sighed.
Councillor Martin Brotherstone was one of Hamilton’s cronies from the Rotary Club. He lived up at the new houses (the ones that Gray liked to call ‘Lego Mansions’) that bordered the old
railway line that the locals called ‘the Track’. There’d been no trains on it since the late sixties and now it was all marked trails and bark-mulch paths, the unruly trees and bushes stripped back. It was popular with dog walkers and joggers during the day. At night it was a haven for underage drinkers, the bushes rustling with the low sounds of couples looking for a ‘secret’ place to shag. It was just him and his son, Pete, who was one of those lads that the older folk liked to call ‘slow’. Gray wasn’t sure if it was autism or some other thing that affected the boy. It wasn’t something that people talked about. Brotherstone’s house directly overlooked the railway line and he spent most of his time spying on people who went about their daily business. This was part of his campaign to reinstate the line, arguing that by running trains again he could rid the town of the riffraff and delinquents who spent their time hanging about at its peripheries, just waiting to cause trouble. The fact that there rarely was any trouble up there was by the by. On a particularly slow evening, Gray would take a drive up there to scare away the underage drinkers, but most of the time he just let them be.
The crime rate in Banktoun was pathetically low.
Their current community objectives included managing antisocial behaviour in the Back Street, keeping an eye on the drug dealers that frequented Garlie Park (both of these, unsurprisingly, only occurred after pub closing time), and, Gray’s personal favourite, dishing out warnings to folk who parked for more than the allotted half-hour at the bottom end of the High Street where it led down to the river path. They’d once had a traffic warden to deal with that particular task, but she’d been deemed ‘economically non-viable’ in the last budget cut. Plus, she’d been a miserable, ticket-happy witch who’d had the cheek to ticket Gray’s car when he’d only nipped in to collect his Chinese.
It had been years since something of any significance had happened. The usual small town stuff. A missing husband who turned up days later with a stink of some other woman’s perfume and his tail between his legs.
