The Damselfly

by SJI Holliday

  ‘You had a ritual, right? She told me,’ Lucas says. ‘You took it in turns to buy them. You met in the park. You scratched them together, and you talked about your plans for when you became millionaires . . .’

  We can travel for a year, then buy houses in London and New York and . . . Cambodia? Why the fuck would you want a house in Cambodia? It’d be hot, it’d be fun . . . they have great food there! Can I get a Ferrari? Ha ha, no way . . . too expensive. We need to live on this forever, you idiot. I think we should blow it, Kates, no one lives forever, do they? Me and you do. Always. In our hearts. You soppy cow . . . I love you, Neil. I love you too, Kates . . . forever.

  ‘It’s yours now, Neil. Take it. Go to London. Live the life you were supposed to. I can’t imagine that Katie would want anything else, can you?’

  He closes his eyes, lets the tears run down his face. Realises that’s he’s still gripping the scratch card, and that Lucas’s hand is resting gently on his.

  49

  Louise

  Louise lets Davie pour tea into her cup. It’s been an eventful week. There is still a stack of paperwork to be done, but for now they are taking a break.

  ‘It’s quite nice, this place,’ she says, glancing around at the white stucco walls, the red leather booth seats. ‘Has it been here long?’

  ‘Landucci’s has been here since the dawn of time. Well, maybe since the Fifties. Always been my favourite café in the town,’ Davie says. ‘Cake?’

  He’s bought a huge slab of Victoria sponge. It looks far too big to be a single slice, but, judging by the grin on the face of the little old lady behind the counter, Davie might be in receipt of some special treatment.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘if you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have said that Banktoun was one of those quiet, sleepy towns where nothing ever happens. Where everyone is trapped by their own dull, boring lives. I got that a bit wrong, eh?’

  He takes a huge bite of cake and seems to swallow it whole. ‘Not sure boring is the right word. It’s always been a good place to live, you know. A solid community. Peaceful. That’s not to say that nothing ever happens.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Before that murder at Black Wood last summer, and then that awful thing at Willow Walk, what actually happened here, Davie? Anything? Ever?’

  He smiles. ‘I’ve always liked it here.’ He looks into his teacup. ‘But things have changed. It’s like a darkness has fallen on the town. I don’t know why . . . something triggered it, and then it’s taken hold. People are more wary now. Wondering what other secrets are about to be unearthed.’

  ‘That thing with Martin Brotherstone. Mandy. She was only a kid when she got pregnant with Katie, wasn’t she? Do you think . . .’

  ‘Do I think he raped her? I hope not. I don’t think so, if I’m honest. Mandy was a firecracker when she was young. I think she knew what she was doing. Although Martin should’ve known better. Twenty years isn’t much if you’re older, but a fifteen-year-old with a thirty-six-year-old man? There aren’t many who’d be OK about that. It explains a few things, though, to be fair. Why Mandy was never completely desperate for cash over the years. She always worked, but she never seemed to struggle, if that makes sense.’

  ‘And Quinn? Where does he fit in?’

  ‘He and Mandy got together when she was eighteen or nineteen. He was with her a long time. Helped bring those kids up. Until the drugs took hold and she threw him out. I’d never have put him and Polly McAllister together though, not in a million years. Just shows you, eh? You can never tell who might end up with who . . .’

  He winks at her, and she feels a fluttering in her stomach. Jesus, Lou – this is your chance. Say something, will you?

  ‘Er, Davie?’

  He slurps tea. Picks up his Blackberry and scrolls through his messages. He’s not looking at her.

  ‘I was wondering if you might like to come out with me sometime? In Edinburgh, maybe? Away from here . . . just for a drink or something?’

  His silence unnerves her, and she starts to regret asking.

  ‘Davie?’

  ‘Sorry . . . I was miles away. I just got an email from one of my old mates at the Police Training College. They’ve asked me if I want a job. To be honest, it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while. When the station was on the verge of shutting down, it was early retirement, transfer to CID or do something completely different – like this. I sent an email months ago, but there was nothing going . . . That’s him just saying there’s a training post available now. I might be able to do something on the physical side too, self-defence . . .’ His voice trails off. He has finally noticed her expression. ‘Sorry, Lou. What did you ask me?’

  She hesitates. Thinks about whether she wants to say it again or not. This is your chance to back out, Lou-Lou. Forget you said it, forget him. He’s going to move away anyway, if he takes this job. You don’t need this. Don’t set yourself up for heartache, ’cause that’s what you always seem to do, isn’t it?

  He leans across the table and puts a hand under her chin. ‘Lou? Ask me again. Please.’

  She blows out a long sigh, feels a smirk pulling on the side of her mouth. He’s playing with her.

  ‘Do you want to go out for a drink with me, Davie?’

  Her heart thumps. It’s going to be OK. That heavy feeling she’d had before, that feeling of fear . . . dread. It’s gone now. Her smirk turns into a wide grin. She can’t stop it. Feels like a kid at Christmas.

  He takes his hand away from her chin. He’s still looking into her eyes. He picks up her hand, kisses it. His lips are soft, so soft. She holds her breath.

  ‘That’d be lovely, Lou. I think I’d like that very much.’

  50

  Polly

  ‘Well, well, well. You’re probably the last person I imagined seeing on my doorstep today. Or any day, in fact. How did you find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly hard, Claire. You’ve only moved next door.’ Polly smiles at her old friend. ‘So, can I come in?’

  Claire wheels herself closer to the open door, looks up and down the street. ‘Are you leaving him outside? I thought he was housetrained these days . . .’ She nods at Quinn, who is sitting on the low wall at the end of the garden.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Thought you two needed a wee while to yourselves.’

  ‘You’ll freeze to death.’

  He has already taken a packet of tobacco from his coat pocket. He winks at her.

  ‘You’d better come in then,’ Claire says. She spins the chair around and disappears back inside. Polly follows.

  ‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ she says, taking in the low units, the various handrails that are dotted around the place.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Claire says. ‘I see you haven’t changed much, eh?’

  ‘I was kidding. It’s great. I mean—’

  ‘I know what you mean. Tea?’ she calls through from the kitchen. Polly takes her time, taking in the collections of framed photographs on the walls.

  ‘Did you take these?’

  ‘Yep. How do you take it?’

  ‘Milk and one,’ she says. The photographs are stunning. Eerie. Most of them are in black and white, grouped into various collections: animals, birds, buildings, gravestones. Woodland. Polly shudders. The town is surrounded by woodland. So many opportunities for photographs. She is surprised, though. Not just about the logistics – it must be difficult for Claire to get in and out of the woods, unless someone takes her there – but more that she is happy to have photographs of the woods. Of the burn. Even the culvert, and the pipe crossing into the dark part of the woods, the part to which Polly vowed she’d never return, after what happened to Claire and Jo in there. And she hasn’t returned, not once. She is reaching out, her hand on the edge of the frame of a beautiful shot of the water running over the weir, just past Digby’s Deathhole. Hayley. Poor Hayley.

  Claire appears at her side, hands her a mug. ‘You like them?’ />
  ‘Jesus, Claire. These are brilliant. Really brilliant. I hope you, I don’t know, have you entered them in competitions or anything? I mean, they are so good . . .’ She lets her sentence trail off. Claire is holding a square hardback book. She offers it to Polly.

  Beautiful Banktoun. Claire Millar.

  ‘I sent a couple of photos into one of the big papers a few years back. Ended up commissioning me to do this book. Didn’t pay much, but it was a nice experience. It’s always cool when I go into a bookshop and see it there in the local section. They’ve asked me to do another. People this time. I’m not so sure, though.’ She turns and disappears down the hallway. Polly follows her into the living room. Out the back window, the garden is protected by a high fence. Exactly the same as her parents’ fence in the house next door. The same as this whole street. A thousand memories rush into her head. Playing in the garden. Playing in the burn. Having fun, until she ruined it all for herself, for everyone. Being a nasty little bitch. What had she been thinking, acting like that? She’s ashamed, thinking about it. She has been for a long time.

  ‘I’m sorry, Claire,’ she blurts. Her voice sounds thick. The tears are ready to break free, the dam about to burst.

  Claire laughs. ‘What for, Polly? It wasn’t you who pushed me in that bloody burn.’

  ‘No. I know. I wasn’t even there, was I? But . . . but if I hadn’t been such a bitch to Jo, she wouldn’t have made you leave like that. She practically dragged you out of the house. I can still picture it.’

  Claire sighs. ‘I felt bad too. We were so mean to her. But I shouldn’t have let her take me down to the woods. That was a stupid thing to do. And what happened . . . well, it happened. No point thinking about it now, is there?’

  ‘I admire you, you know. How you’ve got past all that . . . how you haven’t let it affect you—’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Polly. But, you know. It’s life. You cope. Sometimes it’s not even that shit! I mean, look at you, you look like you’ve found a penny and lost a pound. What’s wrong?’

  Polly gives her a small smile. ‘You’re right. I’ve no reason to be miserable, not really. I’ve been so scared to come back to this place, and then when I did, well . . . It’s been a bit of a challenging week, that’s all. An awful week, actually. You must’ve heard everything that’s gone on.’

  ‘Of course I have. I’m not trying to be insensitive to that. Those poor girls. Their families. That poor teacher! None of it has really sunk in yet, to be honest. But I’m asking about you . . . and him, outside . . . You could’ve brought him in, you know. ’

  Polly places a hand on her belly. ‘He’s my new beginning, Claire.’

  Claire holds up her mug, chinks it against Polly’s. ‘I’ll drink to that. So . . . does he know?’ She nods towards Polly’s stomach.

  Polly walks back to the front door and lifts the net that covers the small pane of glass. He’s still sitting there, looking quite content. He’s rolling a cigarette. He lifts his head and spots her peering at him through the window. He smirks. Blows her a kiss.

  ‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘But I think he might be just about to find out.’

  Epilogue

  Friday, 20 January

  Davie stops to take his gloves out of his pockets next to the Tron Kirk and Louise takes the opportunity to check her phone. They’re more than halfway up the High Street; what the tourists call the Royal Mile. There are plenty of people about – the last of the shoppers heading into the pubs to reward themselves and soak up the atmosphere. The early evening revellers crawling out of their holes ready to start their next night out. There is a nice buzz about Edinburgh tonight, despite the cold weather and the inky skies. It’s taken him a long time, but Davie is beginning to wonder if he might be outgrowing Banktoun at long last.

  ‘I don’t know the last time I had a night up town, just strolling about.’

  Louise drops her phone back into her bag. ‘Yeah, well, maybe it’s about time you started thinking about yourself for a change. It’s not like you’re getting any younger.’

  ‘Oi you. You’re one to talk after your shock confession the other day . . .’

  ‘It was hardly a confession. I never pretended to be younger than I am. I’m not ashamed of my age. It’s not my fault you assumed my youthful good looks meant I was only thirty-one. I’m flattered. I can assure you, though, the paintwork might be in good nick, but there’s still a forty-three-year-old engine purring away inside.’

  ‘Purring, eh? I like that. Maybe you should purr more often.’

  She spins him round to face her and looks up into his eyes. She kisses him, hard, and he doesn’t hesitate. He holds her tight, and they stand there under the monument, snogging like teenagers. She tastes of spearmint, with an underlying hint of Earl Grey tea.

  ‘Oi, yous old bastards, get a room, eh?’

  Laughter.

  They pull apart, catching sight of the small rabble of teens that are jostling their way up the street, shoving each other, laughing. Being young.

  ‘Maybe you could—’

  ‘Let’s get chips,’ Davie says, cutting her off. He grins. Touches her cheek. A squally blast of wind lifts her hair, whipping it around her face. She puts her hands to her face, pulls hair away from her mouth. Very carefully, he lifts a few remaining strands and tucks them behind her ear. He knows what she’s going to say. She’s going to invite him back to hers, and he’s more than happy with that idea. But just for a wee while longer he wants to enjoy the courtship.

  He wants to ask her if she knows the legend of the wee boy’s ghost trapped under the old church, but decides it’s maybe not a story for now. Too morbid. With everything that’s happened recently.

  They walk arm in arm up the street. They’ll get a bag of chips, then maybe a quick pint in Deacon Brodie’s, then he’ll let her seduce him. Any way she likes.

  He steers her by the arm into the Clamshell. Best chippy in town. It used to be anyway. Back in the day. Davie’s pleased to see it’s still open and busy and not been struck down by the curse of high rents or the influx of the health police. The Old Town seems to have more juice bars and salad places now than pubs and chippies.

  ‘What you having?’

  She’s staring up at the menu board, which has everything on it from fish to sausages to chicken to pies, plus a few things he’s never heard of. It’s all fried. Even the pizzas. On the other side, there’s a list of burgers and oven-baked pizzas. This is a new thing. Chippies never used to have things like that. When he was young, if it wasn’t fried, it wasn’t an option. He glances across at Louise, reads the frown as the battle between good and evil going on inside her head. He knows she’s on a diet, but he knows she likes food too.

  ‘Go on, treat yourself,’ he says, nudging her. ‘You only live once.’

  ‘Not very long, eating this stuff,’ she says, but her voice is light. ‘I’ll have a smoked sausage supper,’ she tells the white-overalled woman behind the counter. ‘Just salt, please.’

  ‘Mince pie supper for me,’ Davie says. ‘A pickled onion. Salt and sauce. Loads of sauce.’

  They grin at each other as they sit down at one of the Formica tables, waiting for Davie’s pie to be cooked fresh. Louise picks up a paper and starts to flick through. Davie’s happy to sit there people-watching for a bit. An old man in a long coat that’s seen better days has been handed a wrapped parcel and he smiles in anticipation, giving Davie a small nod as he passes. Davie hadn’t realised at first, but he looks homeless. He’s about to get up, give him a few quid, but as the old man approaches the door, a gang of teens push their way in. Davie recognises one of them as the lad who shouted at him and Lou earlier.

  ‘Mince pie supper, smoked sausage supper.’ The woman behind the counter shouts in her usual foghorn way, despite the fact that Davie is sitting mere feet away from her. He stands up, picks the parcel from the counter. Behind him, he can hear the start of something down at the door. Louise has put the paper d
own now and she’s standing up, a frown on her face.

  ‘Get oot the way, ye stinkin’ auld shite.’

  ‘Oi, Lenny – grab his chips. This is the dirty old goat who tried to feel up my Pauline the other night, mind?’

  ‘So it is! He’s no sae pissed the night, though. Early yet. De ye no’ ken eatin’s cheatin’?’

  One of them pushes the old man out of the door, onto the street. One of the others, the one they called Lenny, tries to grab hold of the chips, but the old man is refusing to let go.

  ‘Gerroff me. Leave me alone, ye wee bastards.’

  They’re outside now, and the pushing and shoving continues on the street. People are walking in an arc to avoid the scuffling. No one wants to get involved.

  Davie hands the parcels of chips to Louise and heads for the door.

  ‘Davie,’ she says, a warning. What is it, though? Leave them be? Don’t get involved? You’re meant to be off duty? All of those, but he can’t stand about watching this man get pushed around, no matter if he did feel up Pauline, which is highly unlikely, unless she had a bottle of vodka going spare.

  ‘All right, lads, that’s enough, eh?’

  At that, one of the lads grabs the old man and shoves him hard. The parcel of chips flies from his hands, landing with a soft thud on the pavement. One of them kicks at the chips, while another lad shoves the old man again. The old man, who probably weighs half of the youngest of the gang, falls hard against the post box on the edge of the pavement, his head colliding with the cast iron with a sickening crunch.

  ‘Aww fuck, see what you’ve done now,’ one of the lads shouts.

  Several of them back away, but the one who pushed him is standing in the middle of the pavement, hands balled tight into fists. ‘Old bastard deserved it.’

  Louise sprints out of the shop and crouches down beside the old man. A long, slow moan seems to be escaping from his chest. Blood runs down the side of his head.