‘Whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean anything by it,’ said Kate, waving her hands as if trying to stop a runaway train. ‘Sorry. Look, I really didn’t mean that. Forget it. Fuck.’
There was a long, angry silence.
‘I guess we’re all a bit stressed,’ said Kate eventually. ‘This whole tour is a bit of a farce, isn’t it? We haven’t had any decent sleep and the gigs have mostly been terrible. Christ knows what we’ll be like by the time we hit Glasgow. Wasn’t the whole point to get up to speed for King Tut’s? No one’s even talked about that for days, it feels like we’re just trying to stay alive, you know? I’m not even sure the band’s going to hold together much longer. It feels like we’re disintegrating.’
Hannah thought about it. She’d been feeling bad about the band, too. Now that someone else had voiced the opinion, it seemed a real possibility they might split up. The Ossians had always been Con’s baby, and the more he lost the plot, the less chance they had of keeping their shit together as a band. As for Connor’s state of mind, Hannah didn’t even want to think about it. She knew she should try talking to him, but it seemed like such a huge effort, and she was busy trying to keep herself together. She didn’t need to be sorting out his head as well. But then wasn’t that what couples did for each other? And weren’t they a couple? It didn’t feel much like they were at the moment. She loved him but she was tired, so bloody tired of all the bullshit that came along with their relationship, the band, their lives. She just wanted to go to bed and forget about it. If only it was that easy. The next best thing to sleep, of course, was getting drunk. She downed what was left of her vodka and made for the bar, feeling Kate’s disapproving look and not giving two shits.
Connor and Danny sat in their room at the hostel. Danny had been heading for the gig when he spotted Connor sitting on his own in the rain outside the Lochalsh. When he reached him, Connor was in a trance. He dragged him back to the hostel and got him out of his wet clothes, slinging them on the radiator, creating a humid stench in the room, like wet dog.
‘Have you got any spare clothes?’ he asked, but Connor didn’t answer. Danny headed over to the bag Connor had with him outside – he seemed to be carrying that thing everywhere. As he knelt down and unzipped it, Connor came to life.
‘Wait!’ He was sitting in just his pants, a damp patch spreading on the duvet under his arse. ‘I’ll get that.’ He moved quickly over to where Danny was kneeling and took the bag from him. Danny stood and watched him rummage through the bag for a while. Eventually he spoke.
‘Is this something to do with me and Kate?’ he said quietly.
Connor looked up from his bag like a fox caught raking through bins.
‘What?’
‘The way you’re acting. Is it because of me and Kate?’
Connor looked confused. ‘How am I acting?’
‘Weird. Fucked up. Seriously fucked up.’
‘I might be fucked up, but it’s got nothing to do with you and Kate.’
‘Why were you sitting out in the rain?’
‘Getting some fresh air.’
‘Don’t be an arsehole. When was the last time you slept? Or ate anything?’
‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?’
Danny sighed and sat down as Connor carefully pulled a T-shirt and jeans out the bag and put them on, almost falling over as he stuck one leg then the other into the trouser legs. As he was zipping up, they both heard Connor’s phone going in his coat pocket.
‘Who keeps phoning you?’
‘Probably just Paul wondering where we are.’ He took the phone out his coat pocket. It was Nick. He switched it off with a furtive thumb press, then held it to his ear and made a face at Danny.
‘No one there,’ he shrugged. ‘Must’ve rung off.’
Danny watched as Connor put the phone away.
‘Con, what the hell’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean with you. You keep disappearing, and getting weird calls. You don’t want me near that bag of yours, and Hannah said you were talking bollocks about angels yesterday.’
‘I fucking hate that Robbie Williams song.’
‘Very funny.’
‘It’s no joke. I really do hate that song.’
‘Connor…’
But Danny didn’t know what to say. Connor looked at him with a kind of mugging clown face, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. Danny could see he was fucked up, worse than he’d ever been before. They only had two days and two gigs to go before Glasgow, but turning up there with Connor in this shape seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. He felt helpless.
‘Come on, we should get to the gig,’ he said, pulling his jacket on.
‘Need to freshen up a bit. I’ll catch you up in a minute.’
Danny looked at him. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘I’m not a fucking baby, I can make my own way to the gig. Go get the pints in.’
Danny eyed him a final time, then reluctantly headed out the door.
When he was sure Danny was downstairs, Connor phoned Nick.
‘Did you just switch the phone off when I called?’
‘No.’
‘Fucking liar. How did it go?’
‘What?’
‘The meeting with Susie, dickhead.’
Connor stood thinking about what happened outside earlier, the static of the phone line in his ear.
‘Well?’
‘Nick…’
‘Oh, Jesus. Tell me it went OK. Please. For everyone’s sake.’
‘She got the package, but didn’t hand over an envelope.’
Silence.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Connor talked him through it, the state of Susie, the handover, the interruption by the bus-stop bitches, Susie bolting it.
‘So what you’re saying is you let a couple of little girls get in your way, then Susie ran off.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Why the fuck should I believe you?’
‘I don’t know. Why the fuck should you believe Susie?’
‘How do you know I’ve talked to her?’
‘I don’t, but if you haven’t already, you will soon, and she’ll tell you that she gave me the money, then it’s down to who you trust more.’
‘I don’t trust you, that’s for fucking sure.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Welcome. But I don’t trust that fucking slut either.’
‘Well, then.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I guess you’re in a bit of a situation, aren’t you?’
‘You’re really pushing it, Connor. If I were you I’d keep my fucking mouth shut.’ There was a deep sigh in Connor’s ear. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, I knew this was a bad idea.’
‘Working with me, or dealing with Susie?’
‘Both.’ Another sigh. ‘Look, just bring back what you’ve got. Two envelopes and a package, right?’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll see you when you get back to Edinburgh. And I’ll think about whether to break your legs in the meantime.’
‘Great. One other thing.’
‘What?’
‘I’m being followed.’
‘What?’
‘I told you before I thought I was being followed – well, I was right. I am.’
‘Who by?’
‘Some kid, a fan of the band, maybe.’
‘Jesus, you gave me the shitters, there, Connor. I thought it was something important.’
‘Thing is, I think he ran away from home.’
‘Boo hoo.’
‘You don’t get it. The police are looking for him. He took his folks’ car. Some expensive shit. It’s been in the news. He’s following us, and the police are looking for him. Which means the police are indirectly following me.’
‘Can’t you shake this kid off?’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Tell him to fuck off hom
e.’
Connor didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to tell Martin that. He wanted Martin to stick around and look out for him.
‘Look, Connor, just keep cool. The cops have no reason to suspect anything unless you give them one.’ Connor thought about the unlicensed gun in his pocket. ‘They don’t have any reason to nail you on anything else, do they?’
‘Of course not.’
‘If you’re lying to me…’
‘I’m not.’
‘Just try and hold your sorry arse together until you get back to Edinburgh, OK?’
‘Sure.’
Connor hung up and pulled his coat on. He felt the gun in his pocket, took a hit of speed and a random pill, and headed out the door to face the music.
The gig passed without incident. Connor was blind drunk but the speed kept him upright. He felt like he was sleepwalking through the tunes. His legs were made of stone, his heart was full of lead and he regularly had to take big, deep breaths to make sure he was still getting air into his iron lungs. He clung to the mic stand, missing out most of his guitar parts as a result. As soon as they finished he slumped on a stool next to the stage with his hands on his thighs, his head bowed and his lank hair pointing at the floor.
Around fifty folk had turned up, an odd mix of clueless teenagers and older weirdos. Connor suspected this was just the usual turnout in the Kyle Hotel on a Wednesday night – it was Wednesday, wasn’t it? He couldn’t even raise his head to look around, it seemed too heavy to lift by willpower alone. He was in a fucking mess and he knew it, but he felt helpless. He sat feeling like shit with his eyes closed, listening to dizzying sounds all around him, voices incessantly chattering, the television in the corner now blasting out football commentary.
‘You all right?’
It was Kate sitting next to him, rubbing his back. With a monumental effort, he lifted his head to look at her, his eyes taking a couple of seconds to focus.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said with a gentle laugh. ‘Just a bit fucked. Not much of a crowd tonight. Not enough songs from The Commitments soundtrack for their liking, probably.’
Kate was staring at him with what seemed a mixture of pity and anger.
‘I think you should talk to Hannah,’ said Kate, with the look of a schoolteacher reprimanding a pupil. Connor nodded. He did have to speak to her. About all sorts of stuff. About how he loved her but he was so tired he could hardly keep his head up. About how he wanted to stop drinking, but didn’t know where to start. How he’d been blackmailed into being a bungling, half-arsed drug courier. How he was almost out of speed, and that put the fear into him more than anything. He tried to shake his head, shake it free of alcohol and speed and pills and hash and worry. With another struggle, he spoke.
‘You’re right,’ he said, Kate going in and out of focus in front of him. ‘I need to speak to Hannah. You’re right. I love her, you know. I really do. I love you, too.’
‘That’s beautiful, really it is. Now try telling her that,’ said Kate, as Hannah sat down at the table and Kate left to start packing away the gear.
The sight of Hannah produced a kind of clarity in Connor’s head, an anchor for his thoughts.
‘Kate says I should tell you I love you,’ he said, trying to sit up. ‘But I realise I’m absolutely fucked, and you’ll just think I’m saying it because I’m drunk.’ He was rambling a bit, and maybe slurring a little, but it was going OK. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I know I’m drunk, and I know you think I’m just saying I love you because I’m drunk but I’m not, because I really do love you, you know, and I am drunk, and that’s maybe making it easier to say, but it’s not the reason I’m saying it, the reason I’m saying it is the fact I love you to bits and I always will and you’re beautiful and kind and generous and all the things I’m not and I love you.’
He felt like his lungs were collapsing. There was a burning in his chest that he tried to ignore, and pain in his stomach and face and head and his aching legs and he wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he knew he never could. Hannah was looking at him, but he couldn’t work out what the look on her face meant.
‘I know you love me,’ she said. ‘And I can see you’re fucked.’ She let out a little laugh. Connor thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. She was shaking her head and smiling. ‘What a fuck-up of a boyfriend I’ve gone and got myself, eh?’ She reached across and stroked his hair gently out of his eyes. ‘What did I do to deserve you, Connor Alexander? What did I do?’
Connor wanted to say so much to her, stuff he couldn’t untangle, feelings he couldn’t unjumble, long threads of meaning and purpose that might always remain mixed up.
‘No,’ he said, swaying towards her. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’
He tried to reach out to her face but she cut him off, taking his hand and holding it across the table. Then he suddenly remembered something important. Kate had gone to get drinks, hadn’t she? She was taking her time. Where was she with his drink? He looked around but couldn’t spot her, then turned back to Hannah. She was scanning the pub, too, and Connor thought at first she was searching for Kate as well. But then it seemed she was miles away, lost in her thoughts. She wasn’t smiling any more and looked sad. He wanted to tell her it would be OK, that everything would be OK, but he didn’t know how. So he just sat there in silence, holding her hand and wondering where the hell his drink had got to.
12
Fort William
‘Brother we’re in trouble now
We are lost and cold
Brother we are dead and gone
Welcome to the fold’
The Ossians, ‘Justified Sinner’
‘It says this is the most popular film location in Scotland,’ said Danny. He wiped snow off the sign. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie, Highlander, Loch Ness, The Master of Ballantrae, The World is Not Enough and many others,’ he read out in a corny American voice-over voice. ‘Jesus. Highlander. What a pile of shite.’
‘A Frenchman playing a Scot and Sean Connery as a Spaniard,’ said Paul. ‘What the hell were they thinking? Mind you, it’s still better than Loch Ness. Some schmaltzy Ted Danson crap about finding love in the Highlands with Nessie in the background. Christ.’
‘Why didn’t they just use Loch Ness?’ said Danny. ‘Why film this place pretending it’s somewhere else?’
‘It’s probably the ideal of what Americans think Scotland looks like,’ said Paul.
‘Imagine they’d filmed it in Kyle of Lochalsh,’ said Danny. ‘That would decimate the tourist industry at a stroke.’
The five of them stood in the gentle snowfall looking at Eilean Donan castle. It perched on a rocky outcrop jutting into Loch Duich, connected to the mainland by a small stone bridge. They were in a large gravel car park by the side of the road, on their way to Fort William. Four large tour buses and a handful of cars were parked and gangs of tourists in lurid waterproofs and backpacks swarmed over the area. The castle stood impervious to it all, its small, high windows peaking slivers of light out into the afternoon gloom. Connor had never seen this place in real life before but he recognised it from films, television and tourist brochures. It seemed unreal that this was actually a place in Scotland, a place where people had presumably once lived, but which had been reduced to a caricature, tailor-made for tourists and their two-dimensional idea of the country.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Danny, reading to the bottom of the sign. ‘The current castle was built in the nineteen twenties. Here was me thinking this was some proper old place. Why don’t they just paint the thing tartan and be done with it.’
Connor thought he’d quite like to see it painted tartan. And maybe wrapped up in a big ribbon. At least that would be more honest. Here’s your Scotland, delivered just the way you like it, straight off a fucking shortbread tin or postcard, with snow-peaked turrets, a bridge and the lapping waters of the loch, and only eighty years old. In Scotland, you either had this piece of twee tourist bollocks, or y
ou had Kyle of Lochalsh up the road – nasty, ugly and depressing. You either had Edinburgh Castle and Brigadoon or you had Trainspotting. But then Trainspotting had become another version of the same thing, hadn’t it? They ran Trainspotting tours of Leith, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t that just misrepresent the country as much as Highlander? But then what the hell was the answer? Parts of Scotland are beautiful, and people like to look at beautiful things – where’s the crime in that? Why not show a beautiful castle in a James Bond film, what the fuck does it matter if it was only built eighty years ago? Would it have been better to leave an eighteenth-century ruin? Or a twelfth-century one? How far back do you have to go before you have something authentic? What the fuck does ‘authentic’ even mean?
Connor couldn’t really remember last night’s gig, only tiny snapshots of being onstage, then arguing with Hannah back at the hostel, and Kate’s angry face in front of him as he skinned up. Then it was morning. Had he slept at all? The fat, wet flakes of snow seemed to soak straight into him today, waterlogging his bones and making it almost impossible to put one leg in front of the other. He imagined what it would be like to pull the gun out his pocket and start shooting at the castle, trying to make those lit windows blink out of existence with each bullet.
They passed a couple of lochs then turned right at some two-bit village and headed south to Fort William. A few miles down the road Connor, sitting up front with Paul, spotted a figure walking along the roadside. He was tall but hunched in the snowfall, white patches collecting on his shoulders and hair, and he had his thumb sticking out.
‘Pull over.’
‘We’re not picking up hitch-hikers,’ said Paul.
‘I know this guy,’ said Connor, grabbing Paul’s arm. ‘Pull the fuck over.’
‘All right, Jesus. Take it easy.’
The rest of them looked at one another as Paul pulled in alongside the hitcher. Connor watched as the figure turned to look at the van. There was a moment of simple pleasure on the stalker’s face as he saw he’d snared a lift, a look which turned to a fevered kind of panic when he realised who was in the front seat, and who the van belonged to. He stood there, eyes wide.
The Ossians Page 24
