by SJI Holliday
Jenny’s garden was one of several that backed onto Alder’s Lane, a cut-through between the rows of houses that bordered the Track.
Jenny spent most Friday nights at the Track with her mates. This morning, it seemed as good a place as any to try to clear her head. She had an essay on Macbeth to finish before Monday and there was no way she could write that kind of shit with a fuzzy head.
She hugged in to the side to avoid a sweaty, panting jogger, before passing an old man walking a chocolate Lab that looked almost as old as him. As was usual along the Track, the old man nodded and said ‘Morning’ and she smiled back. By the time she’d walked under the second bridge, she was starting to feel a bit brighter.
It was peaceful there, at the second bridge. One of her favourite spots. Just far enough out of town to feel like you were really in the country, but actually not far at all if you wanted to get back. There was a worn path up the siding that took you onto the bridge, and from there you could walk back into town through the new estate where everyone in their thirties with their duos of toddlers seemed to live these days.
It was quiet. Just the occasional sound of a small animal or a bird rustling in the bushes. The faint hum of traffic from the bypass at the other side of the estate. She popped open the can of Coke, drank; the cold liquid fizzed as it ran down her chin.
Then another sound.
A twig cracking in the small copse of trees behind her.
She whirled round, and there, right in front of her, separated only by the low undergrowth at the edge of the path, stood a man in a black sports jacket. His face was obscured by a black balaclava, and her first thought was, No, this is not right. It’s July. A hot summer’s morning. No need for a hat.
Definitely no need for a balaclava.
He stepped out of the trees and she felt fear bubbling up inside her, mixing with the remnants of last night’s alcohol. She froze, unable to scream.
He took a step towards her. He held something in his hands. A stick?
She couldn’t understand what was happening, her brain a useless mush.
‘What … what are you doing in there?’ she stammered. She felt hot bile rise in her throat and gulped hard, swallowing it back.
The figure stared back at her, and although all she could see were slivers of eyes, she could tell he was smiling.
She took a step backwards, her eyes darting frantically from side to side, looking for a way out, somewhere to run to.
The man in the balaclava took a step towards her, and she could see now that it was a stick he was holding. He gripped it with both hands and stared straight at her as he snapped it clean in half.
She started to cry then; hot, salty tears ran over her top lip and into a mouth that was seemingly mute, at the only time she really needed it.
Then: another sound.
That panting, huffing she’d heard earlier. Rhythmic footsteps crunching on the bark. She stumbled backwards just as the jogger came to a stop right in front of her. He put his hands on his hips and sucked in air.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, the words separated with puffs as he tried to catch his breath. ‘Are you OK?’ She whimpered, raised a limp hand, and finally he realised what was going on. He turned towards the man in the balaclava. ‘Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?’
The man turned and fled back through the trees towards the cut-through, branches snapping. A flurry of wings and feathers as he disturbed a flock of watchful birds.
Jenny stared at the jogger through a blur of tears, felt her whole body start to shake. Then she lurched forwards and threw up all over his bright-green trainers.
8
Craig and Rob had bought the top floor flat in a converted maltings that was halfway between the town centre and Claire’s house. It had three bedrooms and a roof terrace, and Rob had insisted on getting the whole thing kitted out by a couple of interior designers who’d apparently worked on Ewan McGregor’s cousin’s place in Glasgow. The result was more New York’s Bowery than East Lothian’s Banktoun, and Craig had let it slip that the whole renovation had cost them close to a hundred grand. I say ‘them’, but clearly it’d been bankrolled by the ‘I charge five hundred quid just to speak to you’ Rob, unless Craig had been concealing a secret lottery win for the past four years.
They hadn’t rushed to move in together, which I secretly agreed with, despite the impulsiveness I tended to show when it came to men. I’d moved in with Scott after a month. I thought maybe we could make a go of it. Plus, his flat was nicer than the dingy little house I’d been renting and it was nice to feel like I had an actual home. It’d been a long time since I’d felt like I belonged anywhere.
I passed my old house on the way to Craig’s, sitting forlornly in the former car park behind Tesco’s garage. As I got closer I realised that the new tenants had taken down my black venetians and decorated the windows with flouncy floral curtains. Brightly coloured pots filled with smiling pansies sat beneath the window ledge.
It looked like a happier place now, without me in it.
Bugger Scott. Where was I going to go now? I couldn’t believe his decision to dump me had been so sudden. He must’ve known he was going to do it. Had he known last week? It wasn’t as if I’d done anything that week to annoy him any more than usual. I irritated him, but he was always patient with me. That’s why I loved him.
I let myself into Craig and Rob’s, kicking my shoes off behind the door. This was one of Rob’s requirements. He even provided slippers for guests in a little wicker basket behind the door. I reached into the basket, then changed my mind. My hot feet left sweaty little footprints on the polished walnut floor as I padded through to the kitchen.
I flipped the switch on Rob’s ridiculous coffee machine and took a silver pouch of coffee from the door of the fridge. Where did people learn to do things like put coffee in the fridge? All I knew was that you shouldn’t keep bananas in there because they go black, and you were supposed to empty leftovers from tins into non-metallic containers so you didn’t get aluminium poisoning. Or something like that. As usual it was something I’d read when the shop was quiet. I really was a mine of useless information.
While the machine spattered and bubbled and did its thing, I sat down at the kitchen table – a giant piece of moulded yellow Perspex that looked like it’d been reclaimed from a spaceship – and fired up Craig’s laptop. It was silver and paper-thin and ready to go in seconds, unlike my own one (still in Craig’s car), which was as thick as a brick and practically needed wound up to get it going. Craig was always on at me to buy a new one, but I didn’t see the need. It connected to the Internet and that was pretty much all I used it for.
I’d just filled up a mug with thick, treacly coffee and was contemplating tipping it straight down the sink when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I wasn’t a fan of ringtones.
‘Jo? Are you OK? Craig said you’ve left Scott; what’s happened?’
‘Oh, Claire …’ I drew out her name into a long sigh.
‘Jo? Will I come round? Or do you want to come round here? I’ve baked—’
I interrupted her. ‘Do you want to come to the pub later? I could do with a drink. I’d ask Craig, but …’
A pause. ‘I’ll see you at seven, OK? I’ll get Dad to drive me.’
‘Yup.’
I took the phone away from my ear and was about to end the call when I heard her voice again, far away and tinny through the phone. ‘And Jo?’ Another pause. ‘Don’t touch your bloody eyebrows.’ Click.
I laughed. ‘Too late,’ I said out loud. My voice echoed around the bare walls. Art was minimalist in the apartment, like everything else.
The laptop emanated a series of beeps and a little balloon popped up to tell me there was a new email. I ran my finger over the track pad, considered opening it.
No.
The temptation to read Craig’s emails was strong, but not as strong as the need to do what I was about to do.
I scrolled across the ico
ns on the desktop. Clicked on a green, rounded square – the Banktoun Books logo in a fancy font that I’d designed. The ‘Welcome’ screen popped up and I entered my username and password for the system.
Then I scrolled down the menu bar at the side until I found the link to the customer database.
Another screen popped up, followed by a cute animation of a little green book opening and closing. The front cover had a face and a little speech bubble floated out of its open mouth.
Hi! I’m BB! You’ve got new customers. Click here to edit settings.
I clicked.
A form appeared, with the customers’ names, addresses, emails, phone numbers and a series of tick boxes telling us which newsletters they wanted to receive. There were various options: Book News, Author News, Kids, Signings, Special Offers, Reading Group, Events.
There were three new customers since I’d last logged in.
Marion Jones.
Simon McKinness.
Gareth Maloney.
Marion was interested in Reading Groups and Book News. Simon was the same, plus Special Offers. Gareth had ticked all the boxes. Including Kids. He had kids? The thought made me shudder. I supposed he must have a wife too. Maybe a dog. A Volvo. A top-of-the-range Flymo. All that stuff that the thirty-somethings aspire to.
I felt sick.
What are you doing, Jo?
I clicked on ‘Edit’ and his address came up in full.
Gareth Maloney
Rose Cottage
Burndale Road
Banktoun
EH41 4NX
A lump seemed to have lodged itself in my throat, and I swallowed hard. I knew that cottage. It sat on its own next to the bridge that led down to the woods at the top of the burn. The bit where the water disappeared into a culvert and was hidden below the road. The bit where the drainage pipe crossed over to the banks of Riverview Gardens.
The bit where we met the boys.
THE WOODS
‘Well, well. Who’ve we got here then?’ The boy takes a step closer.
The girl in the red skirt stares at them defiantly.
‘Who the hell are you then?’ she says. ‘What’s with the stupid-looking masks? A bit early for Halloween is it not?’
The smaller girl clamps a hand over her mouth in shock at her friend’s harsh words.
He walks towards them. ‘Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it, doll?’
He’s right in front of her now. He’s only slightly taller than she is. He looks down at her and she looks up. Her mouth curls into a smirk.
‘We’re not scared of you,’ she says.
She turns and takes hold of her friend’s hand, and pulls her away from the edge of the water and further into the clearing, where a tyre-swing hangs down from the thick branch of a gnarly, ancient oak.
‘No,’ says the little girl. ‘No. I just want to go home now. Please?’
‘In a minute.’
The taller girl pushes her bare legs though the centre of the tyre. Her skirt catches on the edges of the rubber and it is pulled up almost to her waist, revealing more of that smooth, milk-white skin.
She looks over at him and gives him a dirty little smile.
He’s mesmerised.
The other boy pulls on his arm. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.
He turns, brought back with a jolt.
‘Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t want to do this.’
‘Do what? What’re we doing? We’re just chatting. We’re just watching them, for fuck’s sake. What did you think we were going to do?’ He holds his hands palms upwards and spreads out his arms. ‘We’re in a wood. We’re just playing.’ He turns back to the girls. ‘We’re just playing, aren’t we, girls? You don’t mind us being here, do you?’
The little one is swinging now. The taller one pushing her. She pushes her higher and higher, the rope creaking ominously. He glances up at the knot that secures the rope around the thick limb of the tree. He tied that rope. He used a sailor’s hitch. Secure. Jam-proof. One of the ones his dad taught him, from his years at the docks. Before they moved here. There was no way the rope could come loose, but the height they were swinging at, it might start to fray from the friction as it rubbed against the bark. If it snapped when she was swinging, it’d be a bad fall.
A bone-breaking fall, little girl like that.
He watches the little girl swing.
Back and forth.
Creak. Swish.
Creak. Swish.
He smiles at the thought, feels his erection stir again.
9
Beattie was waiting for him outside the station.
‘Where’ve you been? Beady-Eye’s doing his nut. I said you were on your way.’ He tossed him the car keys and Gray plucked them out of the air. Beattie gave him a low whistle.
‘I am on my way. Nice throw, by the way. I keep telling you to join that cricket team.’
Beattie snorted. ‘Oh aye. Get myself into the nationals, eh?’
‘Aye. Another sport this country’s no bloody good at.’ He jumped into the panda car, a two-year-old Vauxhall Corsa with various scratches along the paintwork, and shot out onto the street. He was tempted to turn on the flashers, just because he’d had no need to for so long that he was starting to miss them. No point drawing undue attention to himself, though. He wanted this nipped in the bud before the jungle drums started banging. Kids. It would just be bloody kids.
He drove up Western Road and onto Burndale. He took it at a leisurely pace, just below thirty, to piss off the bloke in the Merc that was hovering up his arse, desperate for him to turn off so he could give it a few revs. Gray slowed down further until he could see the guy’s face in his rear-view mirror. The guy backed off.
He turned right up Alder’s Road and noticed a car in the driveway of Rose Cottage at the junction. He wondered who’d finally bought the place. It’d lain empty for the last two years since Alan McAllister had lost his job and finally succumbed to the bank’s demands. It was a shame to see a place like that going to waste. The new owner had no doubt got a bargain at auction. Rumour had it the McAllisters had upped and left it with half their stuff still in it. Alan, apparently, had not handled his unemployment well. The wife had gone long before the repossession had taken place.
Gray turned into the entrance to Alder’s Close and was dismayed to find a small gathering outside Martin Brotherstone’s house. He took in the scene. Two women and a man. One of the women waving her arms about, the other with hands on hips and a miserable expression on her face. The man with arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Brotherstone waddled at an unexpectedly fast pace towards the car. His fat frame cast a shadow over it; his physical bulk prevented Gray from getting out.
‘Where the hell have you been, Gray? I called Gordon over an hour ago about this. That constable of yours was a fat lot of use too. Get lost on the drive up, did you?’
Gray tried not to roll his eyes. Brotherstone was being his usual officious self, it seemed. Well, two could play that game.
‘Could you step away from the car please, sir.’
Brotherstone’s jaw dropped, yet he complied. His face had turned puce. ‘Don’t you “sir” me, laddie. This is a serious matter. I’ve been saying for years that the Track has been cultivating an unsavoury type of behaviour, and what I saw this morning just confirms that.’
‘And what was that, exactly, Mr Brotherstone?’ Gray took his notepad and pen from his pocket. He wrote: Incident Report. The Track. Then the date. He glanced at his watch, then neatly wrote down the time. He looked at Brotherstone and had to suppress a smile. He took the phrase ‘hopping with rage’ to a whole new level.
‘Do you find this amusing, Sergeant Gray?’ He emphasised the rank, like it was a dirty word.
‘Not at all, sir. Maybe we should go inside?’
The small crowd parted as they neared the house, and Gray spotted Brotherstone’s son, Pete, hovering in the open
doorway. He was a thin streak of a lad, always slumped at the shoulders, trying to make himself disappear. He slunk back inside and vanished into the kitchen. Even if he hadn’t been in the house before, Gray would’ve known it was the kitchen, because all of the houses in the estate shared exactly the same layout. Once you’d been in one, you’d been in them all.
Brotherstone’s looked pretty much like it had when he’d bought it from the building firm. Neutral magnolia walls, bog-standard beige carpet. It was definitely lacking a woman’s touch. His wife had died not long after they’d moved in.
She’d been a quiet, mousey woman, from what Gray remembered. Even her illness had come and gone without much fanfare. Brotherstone’s obnoxiousness and waistline had increased in equal measure since the woman’s funeral. Brotherstone seemed to have taken a particular dislike to him after that. Gray suspected it was because the man knew that he understood his grief, but his stubbornness prevented him from accepting any support. Brotherstone didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. Yet Gray felt sorry for him, despite the slagging they gave him for his community nosiness. It couldn’t be easy bringing up a son like Pete with no mother around to help.
Brotherstone ushered him into the living room, which housed a brown leather sofa, a matching recliner and a TV of approximately the same size as Gray’s car. A single blown-up photograph hung on the wall behind the sofa: a grinning Mr and Mrs Brotherstone sandwiching a small, scowling boy. The whole room made Gray feel sad.
Gray sat on the sofa. Brotherstone perched on one arm of the recliner. He didn’t look comfortable and Gray fully expected the thing to topple over.
‘OK then, Mr … is it OK if I call you Martin?’
Martin nodded, waved a dismissive hand. He seemed to sag then, like the stuffing had been knocked out of him. ‘It was Pete who saw him first. His bedroom faces right out onto the Track. Our room’s at the front.’ He coughed. ‘My room, I mean.’
Gray nodded. ‘Can we bring Pete in? I’d like to hear this from him.’
