"Isobel?"
She looked down at him as the north wind whistled through his ill-repaired breaches. Her smile exposed too many missing teeth. "The evil is in the water, Donald. It finds ye in the drift and ever it follows ye home."
The bird died fast in Donald's chest even as he still struggled to rise. "God I am tired, Bel. I am tired of it all."
His wife's beatific smile implied that she hardly cared. She pressed a fisted hand to her breast. "I need to feed the wean."
In the instant that she turned her back again upon him, she drew the knife across her throat, so that her sin might not touch either him or Nancy. Instead it sprayed dark crimson across the curtain and what little was yet exposed of the ben. Nancy's shrieks drowned out his own. But only for a moment.
*****
The sunrise was too brilliant a witness to his and Nancy's lumbering progress down to the shore. Lazy arcs of wisplike clouds, stretched so thin across the sky that they were almost transparent, drew the eye stubbornly away to the east: heralding the autumn yellow sun as it rose above the horizon. Hues of angry purple, mauve and indigo spread across those skies like bruises, framed by spans of golden light that undulated slowly, shiftless and resolute in their evasion of both cloud and cliff.
They set Isobel down upon the shale close to the harbour, and Donald left Nancy by her lifeless mother only for the time it took to release the skaffie from its mooring post. Before he turned back, he glanced once towards the misty moorland above the cliffs. The shadow still hung there, low above the headland and the home that they had left.
Another shadow suddenly moved out of the first, reaching towards them on mournful and crooked wings. Its feathers were hoar frost and wild thistle, its wingspan greater than ten feet across. As it soared towards the breakwater, the sea eagle's black throat caught the rising sun and glowed like shot-silk. Donald hid another sob as he returned to the shore and helped Nancy carry her mother to the boat.
When they were at least a mile out to sea, the silent raptor returned, following their progress as the sun rose above the Clynelish. Donald tried to smile for Nancy, and she tried to smile back. This morning there was no rain, no hail, no battering crosswind to drive them back toward the shore.
Once Brora had become little more than an ill-defined shape to portside, Donald dipped the sail and swallowed two fingers of scotch. Nancy looked to him and not to her dead mother as they both heaved Isobel over the curved stem and dropped her into the sea. Its eager waves lapped her scarred and still battered face before cold shadows drew her down into their depths. While Nancy sobbed, Donald watched his wife's white, wide eyes as they left him and dwindled into only memory.
The sun had climbed high above the horizon, and Donald had taken another few fingers of scotch before he found his courage again. Bent close to the stem, Nancy still sobbed, and Donald twisted around her bony shoulders, pulling her onto his lap as he had done so many times when she had been a child. The sea eagle gave only one mournful cry before heading out into the open ocean.
"There's no hiding frae them, Nancy," he whispered to her hair, while his shoulder grew damp with her tears. "They've had it all frae me. All of it." He drew back from the embrace, his gaze taking in the tarred hull and warped timbers of his boat before returning to his daughter. "This is all that I have left tae me."
Her fine fair hair slapped at his face and when he cupped her face in his hands, her cheeks were feverishly hot. He saw that she didn't understand even then. And was glad.
"I'll not give them ye, Nancy. Never ye."
He had already closed his hands around her throat and begun squeezing before she realised. Even then, it was still a few seconds more before she began to fight. Donald closed his eyes as she kicked and struggled against his will. His salvation. He thought of the thousands of herring that had ever swum into his nets; of how long and hard their bodies quivered and fought against the mesh trapped under their gills. Suffering should never have to be so relentlessly borne — not if the battle was always lost. With more strength than he had possessed in many, many years, Donald snapped his daughter's neck in two.
*****
It was only many hours later, when he had finally determined to throw Nancy overboard to join her mother that Donald began to feel doubt creep in. He tried not to look at his daughter at all as he hefted her onto the roll and balanced her there: too afraid to let her go and too afraid to hold her with him.
When finally he dropped her down, Nancy sunk like a stone. Donald's sobs were now more for himself than for her. Only when a shadow moved suddenly beneath the water, did Donald abandon his grief and remember his doubt.
His dead wife came for him in a vengeful rush: her hair wild and fanned around her bloated face like kelp, her fingers wrinkled and clawed as if in spasm. She drew ever closer, reaching out of those vertiginous depths, her mouth wide and whispering too close to his ear.
"The evil does not come from the water, Donald."
Donald's horror found another home. "Ye told me It did!"
From her watery grave, Isobel smiled wide and long. The gaps between her teeth became blurred caverns as she turned her head back and forth. "It is in you, Donald. Always you brought it back from the water. But it was only ever in you."
"Ye told me it did!" Donald screamed, stumbling back from the edge as Isobel, not this time looking like an old Lunan witch, but like the demon Tuatha Himself, swam up towards him — for him — her fury an ugly mask of wet earth and spent blood. Donald fell backward against the skaffie and hunkered down in its hull. He looked down at his old and calloused hands. "Ye told me it did," he whispered.
*****
Donald's hands had grown steadier as he turned the yard and tacked the lugsail. He pulled on the halyard and gathered his nets. As the sun winked behind darker coastal clouds, the sea eagle returned, its wings catching the same wind as Donald's old skaffie, a fat mackerel clasped between its claws.
Upon the distant horizon, the vast convoy of Herring Busses lumbered into view, heading finally for home. High above the grey swathe of Brora village, the bell-pit sounded its mournful call. The new villages of Gower and Helmsdale were no more than distant squat shadows in the northeast. Donald cast his nets and buoys, and tied the warp to his stern.
And waited for the drift.
I've Seen the Man
(Almost There)
Gary McMahon
I had to look twice to confirm what I thought I'd seen; just to be sure that I'd really seen the man. Moonlight silvered the tops of the conifers at the front edge of the garden: the grass was short and brown, mostly due to the fact that it was still winter but also because it was badly maintained. A small dog moved slowly across the road, going down on its belly to slide under a car on the opposite side of the street.
I closed my eyes and left them like that for a while. When I opened them he was still there, shuffling in the shadows by the old apple tree that had never borne fruit as long as I'd lived in the house — which was getting on for six years now.
The man moved gracefully, as if engrossed in some kind of ritualistic dance. His torso was bare, and he was wearing black shorts and low black boots. The boxing gloves on his hands were almost comically oversized and it was this single detail that made me realise what it was he looked like. A 1940s boxer; someone from an old sports clip you might see on television. He seemed melancholy and colourless, all washed-out greys and blacks, as if plucked directly from an old newsreel and dropped into my garden.
I stood there for over twenty minutes, transfixed by the sight of him shadow-boxing by the tree. It was almost four AM; the pubs and clubs had long since chucked out their boozy punters, and the street was quiet and empty — except for him: the sad, monochrome boxer.
Sally stirred in the other room. I heard a dull thud, as if she'd brushed against the dividing wall, followed by the soft murmur of her voice. We'd been sleeping apart for over a week now and I couldn't quite see how we were going to reconcile our differe
nces any time soon. In the meantime, the bed felt wide as an ocean and the house was like a battleground after the soldiers have all returned to barracks.
A police helicopter flew overhead, low enough that I could almost see the figures inside the cockpit. Light strafed the street, and when I glanced at the apple tree the boxer was gone, as if cleaved into fragments by blades of light. The helicopter hovered for a while, searching out some teenage car thieves, a masked burglar, or a neighbourhood prowler. Minutes later it moved slowly away, the sound of its rotors diminishing as it rose towards the heavy clouds and into the strangely-coloured gunmetal sky.
A sound behind me drew my attention and I turned to face the room. The bedroom door was ajar and Sally stood there, in the doorway, her pale fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. Her eyes glinted in the darkness; priceless gemstones. Her lips were poised as if she was about to speak, but no words came.
"Hi," I said.
She blinked, but held my gaze.
"You okay?"
The slightest of nods, and then she turned away. I heard her footsteps padding across the landing, the bathroom door closing, and a jet of liquid as she urinated. It seemed like a long time before the toilet flushed, the water taps squirted, and at last she emerged from the small room.
I stood in the darkness and listened to her through the wall: the creak of bedsprings as she climbed into the single bed; the single click as she switched off the lamp. I listened to the silence for even longer, wishing that I could break it with words of love, or at least of affection. But too much had already been said; we had reached an impasse and neither of us seemed capable of moving beyond it.
Too energised to sleep, I went downstairs. The kitchen light was still on, so I went inside and boiled the kettle. Coffee would have been a bad choice at that hour. I popped a teabag into a mug and waited for the water to boil.
I carried my drink into the cluttered living room and turned on the television. There was nothing much on worthy of my attention, so I found a channel showing old movies and half-watched Bogart and Hepburn arguing and falling in love during a wartime riverboat trip down the Congo.
My thoughts strayed back to the boxer and how this was the fifth time I'd seen him in so many days. I didn't know why he'd suddenly appeared, or for what purpose, but I did find it a disturbing sight. All he ever did was shadowbox, never straying from his position near the tree. His eyes remained open throughout, but he did not see me. He just stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on some imaginary horizon; his mouth was a grim line across the lower half of his square clean-shaven face, and his black hair barely moved as he threw punches and danced lightly from foot to foot.
The film finished and I tuned the television to a radio channel. Mozart guided me through the remainder of the small hours, and the dread evoked by the boxer slowly began to dissipate.
"Who are you?" I said, aware that I was talking to myself but not caring because I knew I wasn't mad, not these days. "What do you want?"
I stood and walked to the large front window, moved the curtain aside, and stared out into the garden; but of course, he was not there. Darkness spread like ink in water; the clouds seemed to lower as I watched, drawing a roof over my thoughts.
An hour later I heard Sally in the shower. When she came downstairs she was dressed for work, her brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Her work suit was slightly creased across the front, but still she looked smart and businesslike.
I smiled at her.
"Morning," she said. "Would you like a coffee?"
"Thanks." She left the room and entered the kitchen. She stayed there until the kettle boiled, and when she brought in my drink hers was almost finished. She stood by the television, watching the news, not exactly ignoring me but at the same time barely even registering my presence in the room.
"Did that helicopter wake you last night?"
"Yes," she said, not turning around. "There must've been a robbery, or something. Maybe some chavs from the estate causing trouble." Her eyes never left the screen; she gulped the remainder of her drink so fast that it must have burned her lips.
"I…"
"Bye, then," she said, and headed for the back door, leaving her cup on the work bench on her way out.
"Bye," I said, to the empty house, to the unseen boxer. "Bye."
*****
My father first taught me to box when I was nine years old; that was the age he deemed correct to begin proper combat training. After a short period teaching me the basics — how to punch, where to punch, combinations, footwork — he took me to a local gym and stuck me in the ring with a boy three years my senior. He was big, this boy, and possessed a considerable reach, but I beat him in five rounds by a knockout. I can still remember the feel of the knockout punch as it vibrated through my glove; the sound he made as he hit the canvas was like the best sad song I'd ever heard.
I fought in a few competitions after that, winning more fights than I lost. I never drew: it was always either win or lose with me, just the way my father had taught me. I got pretty good, and my father grew jealous. He'd never been able to maintain the discipline to be anything more than a scrapper. Where I developed refined fighting skills, my father had simply stood toe-to-toe and slugged it out with his opponents.
I kept up my training and fought a few bouts, always impressing with my hand speed, the variety of combinations I offered, and the accuracy of my punches. I could have gone pro, but that life wasn't for me. Instead, my father convinced me to join the family firm.
*****
The next night I found myself once again standing at the bedroom window. I didn't know what time it was, but midnight was long gone. This time Sally was with me, filling the room with her remorseless, unforgiving presence. I couldn't blame her; she was the victim here, and I was…well, what exactly was I? A liar? A fraud? A cheat?
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
This was the first time we'd discussed it in over a week, and I was unsure how to proceed. Knowing I was in the wrong only served to make me over-cautious. "I don't know. I wanted to, I really did…but the time was never right. Things kept getting in the way."
She laughed, and it was probably the bitterest sound I'd ever heard. I turned to face her, and had to restrain myself from walking over and taking her in my arms. "Would it help if I said I was sorry?"
The look on her face was answer enough: the way her lips curled, her eyes went big and round and hateful. She was sitting on the bed with her legs tucked up under her backside. Her hands lay flat on the mattress. She didn't look comfortable, and I doubted that she was.
"Our life together has been one big lie. How do you apologise for that?" I could tell she wanted to cry but refused to let me see the tears. She would weep later, in the spare room, cuddling the pillow and thinking of better times.
"Our life together is the only thing that was ever real. Everything that came before…all that shit. It was false, like a bad film. You were the one who made me read books, who convinced me to get an education, to go to all those night classes and prove to myself I had a brain. If I hadn't met you, I'd still have escaped the old life, but this new life would be empty, pointless."
She lowered her head and breathed deeply. The frame creaked as she slid her legs from under her and stretched them out on the bed. When she looked at me again, her eyes were flat, dull. "You still could've talked to me. Before we were married. I mean, do I even know your real name?"
"I didn't want to put you in danger, or worry you without any real need. I only told you when I did because of what happened with that car following you home."
She stood and took a step towards me, then halted, her fists balled up at her sides. I wished that she'd hit me: at least then she might betray the fact that she was feeling something other than disgust. "And what about that car? Who the hell was in it? Hired killers, tailing me before they move in to finish us off?"
I looked into her eyes, trying to connect, to show her that I'd never
meant to hurt her. "I don't know, Sally. I really don't know. All I do know is that my father was released a month ago, and since then I've felt as if someone's been watching me. I've been having bad dreams, nightmares; and then you were followed home. I don't have the luxury of thinking it might be some kind of coincidence."
Sally glared at me, raising her hands to her waist, the knuckles white as exposed bone. Her cheeks flushed red and she bared her teeth, then she turned on her heels and left the room, being careful not to slam the door behind her.
*****
My father was the head of a criminal family in a small town I won't name, situated somewhere in the north east of England. Nothing big, nothing flashy: just a small-scale firm specialising in protection rackets. He ran a number of ostensibly legitimate companies that supplied the in-front security for local bars and nightclubs; the owners of these establishments also had to pay a large retainer purely to stop their premises being burned down, or their staff being beaten up or involved in mysterious "road traffic accidents" on their way home from work.
My father never believed in favouritism; everyone was expected to start at the bottom, even his only son. So he put me to work on the doors, heading up the security teams in some of the roughest bars in town.
The boxing was going well. At the age of sixteen my father drove me to an old warehouse building where we both tied on our gloves. One of his friends acted as referee, and we went fifteen rounds. He tried every dirty trick in the book, but still I beat him on points. The truth of it is that I could have knocked him out at any time after the fifth, but I was too afraid of him to even try. So I allowed the fight to continue, stringing it out until the end, so he could retain at least a fraction of dignity.
I think it was the result of the fight that made him hate me: it burned inside him for years. If I'd let him win, everything would have been fine. He would not have gone to prison and I would still be a free man. It's funny how things work out. For example, the thing that changed my life was a single punch.
Scenes From the Second Storey Page 5
