‘I really don’t know where you get this complex from,’ Jean was saying. ‘I obviously love you and Connor equally, as does your father.’
‘You know that isn’t true.’ Kate was exasperated. She looked at Connor, pleading. ‘Back me up here.’
Connor sighed heavily as he picked up a fork and pushed some rice around his plate.
‘Kate’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘Mummy’s boy and Daddy’s girl, that’s always the way it’s been around here. Dad’s got no more time for me than you have for Kate, Mum. But for some reason the pair of us can do no wrong in the other parent’s eyes. Just your average family set-up, I wouldn’t get too worked up about it.’
Silence hung in the air like fog.
‘Why don’t we talk about something else,’ said Danny eventually, with little conviction. The pain in Connor’s head was dissipating a little, spreading itself thinner and thinner as it moved to his skin’s wafer-thin surface then floated away into the flickering candlelight.
Conversations started up again tentatively, as if everyone were walking on ricepaper. Connor poured another glass of wine. He tried to remember the first time he ever got drunk, but couldn’t get the dates right in his head. There was the time he’d mixed up a little of everything from his folks’ drinks cabinet into an old Irn-Bru bottle, then got wasted on it with two mates – Christ, he couldn’t even remember their names – up at the Water Tower one summer afternoon. When he tried to cycle home he fell off several times. He would have been about ten years old. Or there was the time on holiday in Brittany, when he and a girl from Cornwall – what the hell was her name? – smuggled some cider away from their parents’ party and got legless on the beach, holding hands and looking at the stars. Was that the same summer? Or the one before? Or after? How the hell did anyone ever write memoirs, thought Connor, without making it all up? He couldn’t even remember people he’d met a month ago, let alone his first kiss, his first pet, or who used to beat him up most at school. Then there was the Hogmanay where he sneaked a bottle of Malibu upstairs to his room and shared swigs with the Henderson girls from next door. At least he could remember their names. Emma and Louise – neither particularly pretty, looking back, but he was besotted with one or other of them for two years. An infatuation which was completely one-sided, he found out after embarrassing himself by asking first one then the other to be his girlfriend without really knowing what it meant. Was that the same year as the French summer or the mixy at the Water Tower? If only he’d kept a diary then he’d know his exact drinking history – a saga of pukings, fumblings, fights, dares, games and humiliations. Probably just as well he never kept a diary.
It was strange that, despite being twins, he and Kate never really hung out together much at school. Maybe it was because they were twins, and sick of the sight of each other twenty-four hours a day. People always assumed they had a sixth sense, and were disappointed when they revealed they were just like any other brother and sister. They argued, they had a laugh, they knew far too much about each other and they sometimes used that knowledge to get their own way. Despite the hapless slacker image his folks had of him, and their impression of Kate as a proper grown-up, they were secretly quite alike, thought Connor. Kate had a whole history of fuck-ups and disappointments and minor triumphs and pathetic weaknesses, like his, that their parents would never know about or understand. They were the same age and grew up in the same house, that was enough to keep them close to each other, looking out for each other. No telepathy, no sixth sense, no magical powers, just proximity of age, place and family. What else was there?
Everyone else had finished their food. Connor hadn’t touched his. Kate was clearly itching to leave, although she remained tight-lipped. Hannah looked at Connor and motioned at Kate’s fidgeting. Connor got the hint and stood up.
‘Anyone fancy a pint?’ he said.
‘Why can’t we do a cover of “Ally’s Tartan Army”?’
The tension of earlier had gone, or at least they’d all drunk enough to forget it for now. They were in the bar of the Thistle Hotel, a skanky old place dumped in the middle of smart, detached houses, with a gravel car park made for handbrake turns. The bar was filled with long-haired, thirty-something metalheads and pubescent nu-metal skate kids, all getting primed for the appearance of an AC/DC tribute band in the function room down the hall. The Thistle was one of those small-town hotels that wouldn’t know what to do if you actually asked for a room. An easy scam for a late licence, it was no more a working hotel than Holyrood Palace. They were on the edge of east central Scotland now, and there were Export and Special taps on the bar instead of 80 Shilling pumps. The lager was the same shit wherever you went.
The Ossians didn’t restrict themselves to beer. Their table was full of empty shooter glasses, tumblers, pints, discarded lemon wedges and salt cellars.
‘It’s the best fucking football song ever written,’ Connor declared to hoots of derision. ‘All right, maybe “I Have A Dream” is up there, too. But “Ally’s Tartan Army” makes a much better point, even if it’s sung by Andy fucking Cameron.’
‘You weren’t even born when it was out,’ said Paul, laughing.
‘So what? It’s still a cracking tune.’ Connor started singing loud enough to attract looks from surrounding punters. ‘We’re on the march wi’ Ally’s Army, We’re going tae the Argentine, And we’ll really shake them up, When we win the World Cup, Cos Scotland is the greatest football team.’ He waved his drink around. ‘Conjures up images of Archie’s goal and all that. Better than sex, just like they said in Trainspotting. No wait, it was heroin that was better than sex, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t know, I could never watch it cos of that Blur song on the soundtrack,’ said Paul.
‘Ewan McGregor was fit as fuck, though, for a supposed junkie,’ said Hannah.
‘Hey, watch it,’ said Connor, laughing.
She gave him an innocent look. ‘Don’t worry, love, that heroin chic thing is so ten years ago. Ah, the good old days, when Edinburgh was exposed as the smack capital of Europe.’
‘Wasn’t it the AIDS capital as well?’ said Connor, downing a whisky.
‘And, of course, Scotland is the heart-attack capital, the alcoholic capital and the dumb-as-fuck capital of Europe,’ said Paul. ‘Seems like the only thing you don’t top the table at is football.’
‘And music,’ said Connor, wagging a finger at him. ‘But The Ossians are going to do something about that, aren’t we kids!’ The rest of the table let out a half-hearted cheer. ‘But only if we get to do a cover of “Ally’s Tartan Army”!’ Connor was up out his seat and singing again. ‘And England cannae dae it, Cos they didnae qualify, oh!’
‘Sit down,’ said Hannah, grabbing him. He stumbled and landed on her lap.
‘You trying to tell me something?’ he said.
‘Yeah, you’re pished. Now come here and give me a kiss.’
Connor smacked an exaggerated kiss on her lips then turned to the table.
‘How about a round of flaming Drambuies, then?’
Without waiting for a reply he got up like a shot, causing Hannah to make a heavy oofing sound.
‘You pair seem to have sorted things out,’ said Danny to Hannah.
Hannah ruffled his beard with her hand.
‘Unlike your good self,’ she said, ‘Connor can be a complete arsehole at times, as I’m sure you’re only too aware. A self-centred little shit, wrapped up in his own manic, demented, sick little world.’
‘Is there a “but” coming?’
Hannah laughed.
‘But his heart is in the right place. Deep down, he’s one of the good guys. As you are, big man, the main difference being that you’re able to take care of yourself, something His Highness over there seems thoroughly incapable of doing.’
‘What do you pair think?’ interrupted Paul.
‘About what?’ asked Danny.
‘I thought “Tomorrow” from the Annie sound track would be a good s
ong to cover, Kate thinks maybe something from The Wizard of Oz.’
‘Going for the gay market, are we?’ said Danny.
‘I don’t mind either,’ said Hannah. ‘As long as we don’t have to listen to Con singing “Ally’s Tartan Army” any more.’
Connor clunked a handful of nip glasses on the table and got a lighter out. They poured the Drambuies into their mouths, swilled them round, then tipped their heads back and opened their mouths. Connor went round with the lighter, sparking a cool blue flame into life in each mouth, then his own. They sat there for a few seconds, the flames flickering in their open mouths like pyres on a windy hillside before Connor made a noise in his throat, and they shut their mouths and swallowed the hot, sickly sweet liquid. They smiled at each other. Connor rubbed his hands together and leant forwards.
‘So, back to this “Ally’s Tartan Army” cover we’re thinking of doing.’
Outside the Thistle, thick snow fluttered down from a heavy sky, straight out of White Christmas. They piled outside having spent the last two hours heckling the AC/DC tribute band to play a series of decidedly non-AC/DC songs including, naturally, ‘Ally’s Tartan Army’.
They started a snowball fight, buoyed by booze and memories of childhood winters. Bikers and metalheads joined in as they drifted out the hotel. Pretty soon thirty people were shouting, swearing and pelting each other with snowballs. Danny grabbed Connor several times and shoved snow down his collar, getting a fistful of snow in the face in return. After ten minutes everyone was knackered and they all gradually slipped away, the bikers making the most dramatic exit on low-slung roadsters with souped-up engines and silencers removed.
Shivering as they walked home, Connor and Hannah hugged each other so close they had difficulty moving forwards.
‘Wish we weren’t going back to my folks’ house,’ said Connor.
‘They’re not so bad,’ said Hannah. ‘Besides, they’ll be in bed, won’t they?’
‘Hopefully. The less we see of them the better.’
‘What a drama queen you are.’
They came round the corner and saw the inky ripples of the Keptie Pond.
‘Han, did I tell you about the games we used to play on the pond when it iced over?’
‘Yeah,’ said Hannah, pretending to yawn, ‘Sieg Heil, chicken runs round the edge, etcetera, etcetera.’ She laughed as he tried to pull away, faking a huff.
‘You know, if you weren’t so cute, I could hate you,’ he said.
‘No you couldn’t,’ she said in a babyish voice, ‘you could only wuv me vewwy much, honey-woney.’
‘Yeah, and don’t you know it.’
She looked him in the eye for a moment.
‘Yes,’ she said and hugged him closer. ‘I know it.’
The Alexanders were still up. The Ossians tumbled in drunk and cheery and set about the drinks cabinet with a vengeance. All the arguing of earlier was forgotten as Alan and Jean – both seriously drunk by this point as well – played their old records to a barrage of ridicule.
This was all role-playing. It was Jean and Alan’s job now to be ageing hippies living in the past, even if that’s not what they felt like. Equally, the rest of them were obliged to be the mocking younger generation. Everyone played their role well enough, happy to go along with it. It beat having a real conversation. They’d tried that earlier and ended up fighting like toddlers, so wasn’t this better?
Every time another slice of the faded hippy dream came on the turntable (still playing vinyl for fuck’s sake, thought Connor), Paul did his best impression of Harry Enfield doing his impression of Dave Lee Travis. A third-hand joke they all laughed at for the simple reason that they all recognised it. The past was eating them all up, it was eating everything up in the world around them. Nostalgia was a joke, but a highly lucrative and popular joke. Television programmes reminded people what sweets and crisps they used to eat, what television programmes they used to watch and what toys they used to play with. Fashion was recycled with barely any new twist at all.
They listened to The Doors. Connor wondered whether it had always been this way. Had people in 1890 harked back to the days of 1870? What about the eighteenth century? Or the Stone Age? Were kids always embarrassed by the elderly, just as the old were disappointed in the young? Was any of it even unhealthy? You have to push things forward, he was always saying in interviews about The Ossians’ music. But wasn’t their stuff just a blend of all the bands they liked, a rebranding of bits of musical heritage? There was nothing new in rock ’n’ roll, someone had once said, but didn’t that just mean everything was new? Isn’t that what James Macpherson had done with Ossian? Taken scraps of oral storytelling, myths and legends that he discovered on his travels, and knocked them into a shape palatable for the times he lived in? Wasn’t that all anyone did in music or literature?
He felt his headache returning, mixed with a buzzing feeling in his stomach from what he guessed was a speed comedown. He reached into his pocket and dabbed some white powder on to his finger then into his mouth. Nobody noticed. Then he remembered the pills he’d stolen. He put his hand in his other pocket, feeling the folded-up note from last night next to the pile of pills. Your secrets are safe with me. No, he wasn’t going to think about that shit, not tonight. He took a random pill from his pocket and popped it, washing it down from a pint of gin and grapefruit. He felt better instantly. Psychosomatic, he knew, but hey, feeling better was feeling better, right?
His folks were dancing now – more of a drunken stagger, really – to what sounded like Jimi Hendrix. Certainly wanky enough guitar-playing, thought Connor. That hippy thing was so fucking fake, just guys with guitars for dicks, spreading it around and pretending it was part of some new free-love bollocks. Did women really fall for that shite back then?
Part of him thought his folks looked kind of sweet, grins plastered across their faces, and part of him was disgusted by the sight. A joint was going round, and Jean and Alan took a small toke each, then had to sit down.
‘I’m not used to this,’ said Alan, out of breath.
‘Aye, we’re not as young as we used to be,’ said Jean.
‘There you go with the clichés again,’ said Connor.
‘Connor, dear,’ said Jean, slurping from a wine glass. ‘The older you get, the more you realise that life is made up of clichés and precious little else. That’s why they’re clichés.’
‘Not my life,’ said Connor.
Jean let out a laugh and stroked her son’s face.
‘We’ll see,’ she said.
Hannah woke at six. She and Connor had stumbled into bed at half four, haphazardly removing each other’s clothes and licking, kissing and gently biting each other’s exposed flesh. As Connor lay on top of her, sucking her nipples, Hannah could feel that his cock was only half-heartedly stirring between her thighs. He moved downwards, kissing her belly, then her pubes before settling in down there, licking and kissing with his mouth and rubbing with his fingers. She pulled at his hair, playing with it as he flicked his tongue in and out of her until eventually she came, tensing her whole body as her legs shook and her hands gripped at his scalp. After a few moments he emerged smiling above her. She playfully pushed him over on to his back. ‘Your turn,’ she said as she started moving his semi-erect cock in and out of her mouth, stroking his balls as she did. His dick became properly hard for only a few brief moments, then almost immediately softened again as he came in her mouth. She swallowed the warm, salty stickiness then lay on top of him, kissing him on the mouth, letting him taste his own spunk. She got off him and they both lay there breathing in the darkness before dropping off to sleep in each other’s arms.
Now, she was on her own. Something had disturbed her. Connor wasn’t there. Nothing unusual in that – he’d hardly slept at all recently – but there was something else troubling her that she couldn’t put her finger on. She heard the sound of breaking glass from downstairs. She got up, blood pulsing in her ears, pulled her jeans o
n and walked slowly downstairs.
The kitchen light was on and the back door was open. She moved cautiously into the room and noticed pieces of broken pint glass on the floor. No one was about. She stepped carefully over the glass and looked out the back door, folding her arms against the cold. Outside, the moon hung low and heavy in a clear sky spangled with stars. Light from the kitchen spilt gently out the door and window, making the snow-covered grass look like soft cotton sheets on the earth.
A noise came from the bottom of the garden. In the moonlight she could just make out a low, four-legged silhouette that seemed to be pawing at the frozen earth. As she got closer she realised it was Connor on his hands and knees, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts and digging in the dirt.
‘Connor, what the hell are you doing?’ she asked. He didn’t respond. His movements seemed robotic, like he was receiving instructions. She called out again, but he just kept clawing at the earth, getting precious little purchase on the rock-hard soil. She walked up next to him and saw that his eyes were closed. He was sleepwalking.
She didn’t know what to do. She’d read somewhere that waking sleepwalkers was a very bad idea, it could psychologically disturb them or something. But here he was in the moonlight trying to bury a bloody bone in the back garden, so surely he was disturbed already? Plus his fingernails were beginning to bleed, an inky dribble coming from his hands. She couldn’t let him continue.
Alan appeared at the back door and came over.
‘What the hell?’ he said. ‘Connor?’
He looked at Hannah, confused.
‘He’s sleepwalking,’ she said. ‘Well, sleepdigging. What should we do? You’re not supposed to wake them, isn’t that right?’
‘So I’ve heard.’
They just stood there watching Connor, his ridged spine visible beneath his taut, pale skin, without a clue what to do.
‘Has he done anything like this before?’ said Hannah.
‘The odd bit of sleepwalking when he was little, but most kids go through that.’ Alan stood with his hands on his hips. ‘This used to be our dog’s favourite spot for digging,’ he said after a while. ‘Damn thing used to bury all sorts of crap down here. Connor would’ve seen him do it hundreds of times. Maybe he’s dreaming about that.’
The Ossians Page 11
