One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘Something like that, aye.’

  ‘You surprised?’

  ‘Disappointed, for purely selfish reasons. And please take that as a compliment.’

  ‘No bother.’

  ‘I must admit,’ he confided, ‘drivin’ up here, it went through my – admittedly prurient – mind to do the arithmetic and figure out that, statistically speaking, there ought to be at least two or three of our peer-group who are in the queer-group. I was thinking more of the guys, right enough.’

  ‘Ha!’ Lisa said with a sneer. ‘In a town like Auchenlea? Forget it. Not out, anyway. There’ll be a few trapped-in-a-loveless-marriage tragedies, the poor wife wonderin’ why he never comes near her, but I don’t think there’s any danger of a Pride march up Harelaw Street.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Good line. I’ll probably steal it. So anyway, what you doin’ with yourself? You went off to do law. Strathclyde, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m working in Edinburgh for the PF’s office now …’

  Matt listened attentatively as she chatted, ironically able to steal the occasional glimpse at that sleek, yellow-clad form now that it had been so unequivocally ruled out of bounds. Inside, he was laughing, sufficiently self-aware these days to appreciate when the joke was on him. He’d been daft enough to indulge in ‘what if’ retro-teen fantasies, and reality was deservedly ripping the piss out of him for it. Fate was on killer form tonight, just banging out the gags. Lisa turning out to be gay was a brammer of a punchline, but you had to give credit for the build-up, too: she was the third and final of his one-time crushes to be declared unattainable tonight.

  Time to grow up.

  He’d seen Eileen Stewart pass by on a balding hubby’s arm about ten minutes before, chubbily up-the-stick and babbling vacuously about her other two spawn. The image of her outside that exam hall was erased forever then and there, though the phrase ‘Simple Minds’ would probably continue to chime. But fate had kicked off the routine well before that, before the party even started, in fact.

  He’d been early, one of the first to arrive at the pick-up point. His plan had been to stop and hang out in Inverness for a while, then set off fairly punctually for the last leg of the drive. Unfortunately, the ‘Capital of the Highlands’ didn’t prove sufficiently enticing to spend more than about twenty minutes in, enough for a pee and a hastily drunk cup of coffee. The place was heaving with blimp-like American tourists, en route to the Loch Ness Monster exhibition at Drumnadrochit, where they’d be ripped off for the privilege of looking at some blurred photos of ducks, old tyres and dead trees, snared by the greatest scam in the history of Scottish tourism, maybe even world tourism. Matt decided just to proceed directly to Kilwhateveritwas. Floating or not, there was still a hotel room waiting for him, an environment in which he was massively experienced at killing time.

  He was flown across to the Floating Island Paradise Resort by helicopter in the company of six other early arrivals. He recognised a few of them, but there was little in the way of greeting, just a few shy smiles and hullos. Everybody was a little nervous and awkward, all correctly guessing that it would be poor etiquette to get gregarious before context sanctioned it. After they touched down they were greeted by two smiling young female staff in matching blue Delta Leisure t-shirts and beach shorts. The group was then led from the landing pad, through the Lido swimming-pool complex and up to the Laguna Hotel’s lobby. Matt knew he should have been more horrified by the place. Either it was the jet lag or he’d been spending too much time in California.

  He’d loitered a few yards back as the the rest of the group approached reception and were assigned rooms. A man and a woman were waiting by the desk, shaking hands, smiling and chatting with the new arrivals. He couldn’t see the woman’s face because the bloke was standing just in front of her. He was wearing a designer suit that looked more like it was wearing him and was thinking of trading up. That was one thing you couldn’t get sensitised to in LA: people who thought spending a fortune on their clothes absolved them from the consideration of whether they looked any good. Matt assumed that this must be the manager of the joint, then did the equation and worked out that it was, in fact, Gavin Hutchison.

  Gavin’s face became increasingly familiar the longer Matt looked at it, though he couldn’t remember much more about him than that. No incident or anecdote sprang to mind; Matt didn’t even remember him being beaten up by Dilithium Davie. He’d obviously risen to a good bit more prominence these days, though, and it was Matt’s guess that he wanted everyone to know it, too. He could make out the ungainly G-shaped face of a gold Gucci watch on Gavin’s wrist, then as the man stepped back a pace, Matt noticed that it wasn’t the only trapping of success he had on display: the woman with him was, unmistakably, Catherine O’Rourke.

  In time they made their way along the informal queue and reached Matt. Catherine seemed pleasantly surprised to see him, but then she’d seemed pleasantly surprised to see everybody. Either she was overcome by the occasion or she worked in PR. However, if she seemed surprised, Gavin looked astonished. He flapped a little, then recovered enough to manage a thin smile, trade some small-talk and say, unconvincingly, how glad he was that Matt had come.

  ‘I suppose you’re one guest who won’t be short of a party piece,’ he added with a polite laugh, which Matt translated to mean ‘I think you’re a smart-arse and you’ll be escorted from the building if you even attempt to go near a microphone’. Gavin then latched on to the couple in front once again, leaving Matt facing Catherine.

  ‘So, how long have you and Gavin been together?’ he asked, surprising himself with how friendly he sounded. He felt unexpectedly anxious to please her. Partly this was because he was worried his new-found disdain for Gavin might have been as obvious as Gavin’s more deep-seated antipathy towards himself; but mainly, Matt suspected, it was because he was talking to Catherine O’Rourke and the teenager he used to be was desperate for his older self to make a good impression. He’d really have to watch that, he warned himself. There was a long night ahead.

  ‘Oh, Gavin and I aren’t “together”,’ Catherine said, gesturing the quote marks with her fingers. ‘Although we are friends. The company I work for are doing the resort’s PR and we organised the party, so I’m here half as a guest and half on duty. But don’t worry, I’m still allowed to drink!’

  ‘So you can get half cut,’ Matt said, wincing at the line. It was hard to be nice and funny. Catherine laughed anyway, but then that was her job.

  ‘I’ll tell you who Gavin is together with,’ she said. ‘Do you remember Simone? Simone Draper?’

  Did he remember Simone Draper? Did Pelagia remember Captain Corelli?

  ‘Vaguely, I think.’

  ‘Well, Gavin and her have been married for years. They were friends since childhood. Two daughters: twins. Simone’s here just now. Upstairs getting dressed for battle! So what about you? I see you haven’t brought anyone along, but is there perhaps someone …’

  Talking now to Lisa in the ballroom, somewhere beyond her left ear Matt could see Gavin doing the rounds. He’d noticed him a few times, in fact, with Catherine always at his side. Matt was starting to wonder about the ‘professional capacity’ aspect, particularly as he was aware of not having spotted Simone yet. Sure, there was an argument for the PR representative (even only half of one) escorting the host, but he’d have expected the host’s wife to be somewhere in the immediate vicinity too. Unless, of course, she was being co-host elsewhere in the ballroom, in the company of another PR bod, but such a possibility wasn’t putting the brakes on Matt’s relentlessly carnal imagination. At the very least, he guessed his initial impression regarding Catherine’s ornamental value – particularly in this context – had been right on the money, wife or no wife. This, of course, had consequences for how Simone must have turned out – which thought made it an unfortunate moment for Eileen Stewart to bumble back into his line of sight.

  He could see Eileen notice Lisa out of the corner of h
er eye, and a tap on the shoulder later there was another high-voiced kiss-hello greeting. The incidence of such squeakiness was starting to grate: so many of them were acting like it was the biggest surprise in the world to run into people they used to know. Hadn’t they appreciated the significance of the word ‘reunion’ on the invites? Lisa in retreat gave him roughly the same look Ally had, and turned away.

  Matt was alone for the first time since walking in, and only appreciated how long that had been when he finally managed a sip from his champagne and found it to be halfway flat. He was looking for a place to put it down when a hand appeared and took it from him.

  ‘Can I relieve you of that, Mr Black?’ said a female voice.

  Matt looked from the hand, along the bare arm and upwards at her face, powerless to resist taking in a few microseconds of chest and neck en route. It took effort not to gape, swallow or just burst into tears. Eileen Stewart turning into Mrs Mothercare, he realised now, was a mercy; this was crushing. Jennifer Jason Leigh had grown up into Kristin Scott Thomas.

  ‘You didn’t look like you were enjoying it,’ she added, handing the glass to a nearby waiter. ‘The drink, I mean. As opposed to the party.’ Her voice dripped a smiling scorn as she surveyed the room, looking away from him. Matt took the opportunity to study her features, a brightness about her eyes belying some of the years, but experience had etched a sly keenness too. Her face wore precisely the look of ironic detachment from proceedings that he’d vowed to keep off his own. He wanted to throw himself at her feet.

  ‘The artist formerly known as Simone Draper,’ he said, channelling his stage-act cool into hiding the nervous teenager from view. ‘I’d say how good you look, but I think Sir Walter Scott would be struggling to do you justice tonight.’

  ‘Must be the wonderbra,’ she replied, her eyes flitting busily away from him and back again. ‘It said on the packaging it would have men invoking dead poets.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not normally so flowery. I think it’s the occasion. There’s so much overwrought emotion goin’ round and they’re not even pissed yet. But that notwithstanding, it’s great to see you.’

  ‘To see me? I’m surprised you even remember me. We hardly said a word to each other in school.’

  ‘You still made an indelible impression. Anyway, at that age it was more my style to worship from afar.’

  Now she trained her gaze on him, undistracted. The aloofnes had softened, but he couldn’t read her look. His slight panic at maybe having said the wrong thing wasn’t conducive to his judgement.

  ‘No point pulling the I-used-to-fancy-you-at-school line with me, Matthew. I’m a married woman, remember.’ Her tone creaked with ambiguities. She sounded far from flirty, but even further from sincere.

  ‘I know,’ he assured her. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything otherwise. But I’m not making it up; I’m surprised you don’t have burn marks on your left cheek from me starin’ at you in Chemistry. You’re probably the reason I failed the Higher.’

  She laughed. Relief swept through him, greater than had his audience been in the thousands.

  ‘Aye, that’ll be the reason,’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with that answer you wrote about … what was it? Name three properties compound A and compound B have in common? Neither of them can drive a tractor, neither of them shot JFK, and neither ever turned out for Accrington Stanley.’

  Matt had harboured no hopes of Simone telling him ‘I used to fancy you too’ (well, maybe a very small one), but this was worth much more.

  ‘I still think that was a grave injustice,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘I’ll admit it wasn’t the three properties they were looking for, but my answer was factually correct. I’m very impressed at you remembering.’

  ‘Well, it stood out. There weren’t many laughs to be had in Mrs Deacon’s class.’

  ‘God, Mrs Deacon. That was her name. I can picture her now that you’ve mentioned that. You know, I took a walk round the old school this morning; I know, what the fuck was I doing, you’re thinking. Some kind of preparatory exercise for this, I don’t know. It brought so much back, though. You don’t realise how near the surface the memories are until you actually have a wee delve.’ Matt realised he was rambling. Simone still looked attentive, however, and it sent a wave rippling through him every time he looked in her eyes and found them sparkling back. He couldn’t credit how good it was making him feel to be standing there talking to her, making her smile, making her laugh. If it was down to emotional immaturity, then emotional immaturity had received a bad press.

  ‘I thought about what we were all like back then,’ he told her. ‘I thought about the fact that, as you said, we didn’t really talk to each other, boys to girls – all wee shy Catholics – and I thought that was a shame. When I said it was great to see you, I meant … I was hoping you’d be here tonight, you know, now that we’re grown up enough to actually have an intelligent conversation. That make any sense?’

  ‘Yes. Although if we have an intelligent conversation, we’ll be the first tonight.’ The mocking look returned to Simone’s face, a malevolent smile creeping across her mouth. ‘No one else seems to have got past how amazed they are to see each other after all these years.’

  ‘Well, I suppose nobody knew for sure who’d turn up tonight,’ Matt mitigated, wondering at the same time where he’d mislaid his misanthropy. ‘Things’ll settle down once everyone’s over the element of surprise. Then they’ll remember they didnae actually like each other and we can all go home.’

  Simone laughed.

  ‘So, did you meet Gavin?’ she asked. Matt couldn’t help but analyse the association. He noticed her eyes flitting away again towards the throng. He couldn’t see Gavin himself, but Simone had a wider view of the room.

  ‘Aye, he was welcoming us all aboard when we arrived.’ Matt was conscious of specifically not mentioning Catherine.

  ‘He and Catherine O’Rourke,’ Simone stated, not quite neutrally.

  ‘Yeah, she’s the PR person,’ Matt added, trying to neutralise for her.

  ‘Gavin surprised you made it?’

  ‘Eh, yeah. He seemed pretty taken aback. I suppose he thought if I was in America, it was a long way to come for one party.’ Matt was impressed with his own diplomacy.

  ‘No, I think it was probably more to do with the fact that he didn’t invite you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m serious. He didn’t invite you.’

  His feelings of confusion and disorientation were tempered to the point of irrelevance by the look of delicious disdain in Simone’s eyes.

  ‘This isn’t a party,’ she said, the twinkling scorn remaining, though her eyes were now trained somewhere in the crowd. ‘This is a contest. This is the night we count up the scores and see who did best in the game of life.’

  He understood. He said nothing, but Simone looked at him again and it was obvious she knew that. They both laughed.

  There was a squeal of feedback and a bassy clatter through the PA system. Every head turned to see the head waiter adjusting a mike stand at the far end of the ballroom, in front of where the as-yet-untouched buffet was impressively laid out. The head waiter asked for the room’s attention and began introducing their host, who stood a few feet away, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

  ‘And now’s the part when Gavin crowns himself champion,’ Simone concluded. The applause rang around their ears as Gavin took hold of the mike. In Simone’s eyes Matt could see the vivacious scorn fading, replaced by a weariness, a sadness and not a little hatred. He watched her take a determined step forward, as though she was about to march away from him, then she stopped and sighed. She turned to face Matt, everyone else staring towards the front.

  ‘I don’t think I want to witness this,’ she said. ‘I’m going outside for a walk. Care to join me?’

  Matt nodded, struggling to restrain the size of his grin.

  A walk. On a summer’s night. With Simone Draper. It might be fifteen yea
rs late, but what the hell, it was here now.

  19:51 beneath fipr column 4.9 and turning

  Jackson cut off the outboard and they coasted in silently over the last thirty or forty yards. It still wasn’t quite as dark as he’d have liked. None of them had ever operated this far north before, and the problem wasn’t just how late it got dark but how long it took for the night to descend. Down near the equator it was like ‘lights out, ten seconds’ – zap. Here, the twilight seemed to hang around to the point of loitering. Still, nobody up top would be watching the water, and even if they were, what were they going to see? Three guys in a dinghy – so what. Connor was right about that much. This would be the least-defended place they’d ever gone into. Way out here, the revellers wouldn’t even be worried about gatecrashers.

  The dinghy ran out of puff as it drifted beneath the titanic structure. The legs of the installation were like medieval towers, austere and formidable keeps, at each base a sub-aquatic oubliette. Jackson lifted the paddle from the fibreglass floor and with a few firm strokes, eased them towards the jetty at the centre. The scale of the thing was unsettling, making him feel like a gnat preparing to attack an elephant, but he had to stop thinking in military terms. It wasn’t a fortress, it was a holiday resort, and he wasn’t attacking the elephant, he was attacking other gnats who happened to be on its back. Unarmed and unsuspecting gnats, he didn’t have to remind himself, the thought spinning, spinning, spinning, ceaseless like the ringing in his ear.

  The dinghy bumped against the buffered jetty. Gaghen clambered out first, crouching down and doing a quick 360, scanning the spider deck above before he tied the boat to an aluminium mooring. The landing platform ran in a wide square around the central of the installation’s five giant legs. The jetty was made up of five wooden sections per side, each linked to a coupling system that allowed it to move with the waves independently of its neighbour. A flexible mesh surrounded these sutures to prevent careless feet slipping through the gaps, where they might be ground between the segments. On two sides, further floor sections led right up to the central leg, cushioned by rolling buffers where they met bare wall. Ten or twelve feet above these buffers were two large rectangular panels: entrances to the elevators, but currently inoperable because the water was correspondingly deeper at the resort’s intended destination. The entire floating square was secured to the platform’s central leg by a hydraulic suspension system, steel arms absorbing all movement up or down. According to Connor, the hydraulics could also lift the thing right out of the drink as a precaution against storms, and for the purposes of moving the rig. It wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight, but there was definitely a storm on the way.