by Pat Young
Joe cradled his mug, trying to get some heat back into his hands after standing out there on the hillside. The boys had been solemn. He’d said a few quick words of tribute then each boy took his turn to shake the canister. They’d stood silent as the remains of their friend swirled in the wind and blew away towards the loch.
Feeling sorry for them, and to make sure they left, Joe had taken them to the main road where they could get the bus or thumb a lift. He was draining his coffee when Marty let out a yelp then clamped her hand over her mouth. With her other hand she pointed to their makeshift screen, a white bedsheet pinned to the wall.
The picture was dark, but clear enough for them to see Smeaton lying motionless.
‘What is it?’ asked Joe.
‘I thought he moved.’
‘It’s too early.’
Marty whispered in a voice so quiet it was more of a mime, ‘You’re sure he can’t hear us?’
Joe shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not. We tested it, didn’t we, with Sheila shouting at the top of her voice? There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Nothing carries through the thickness of these old walls.’
‘And what about sounds from outside? Can he hear those?’
Joe tapped his phone. ‘Not over the white noise. I’ve got it playing quite loud.’
‘I still can’t believe those boys turned up here.’
‘I can,’ said Joe. ‘If I lived in Bankside, I’d want to escape up here too.’
‘You must be touched, Joe, that this is where they wanted to bring their friend.’
Joe couldn’t answer.
‘Look,’ said Marty, pointing again, ‘I was right. He is moving.’
‘Can you see if his eyes are still closed?’
‘I can’t see his eyes at all. I wonder if we should have had more light in there, but that would defeat the purpose.’
‘It’s perfect. We can watch him, but he can see very little.’
‘Do you think he’s starting to regain consciousness?’
Joe checked the time. ‘Doubt it. He might be starting to swim slowly back towards the surface, I suppose, but he’s expected to be out for a good six hours.’
***
CHAPTER 57
Thomas Smeaton moved his arm. Tried to find a more comfortable position and failed, but went back to sleep anyway.
When he surfaced again, he lay with his eyes closed, working out why he was so cold. The duvet must have slipped off in the night. He reached for it and touched a hard surface where his mattress should be. Made a mental note to buy a softer bed. Sleep swallowed him. Drowned him in weird, disturbing dreams full of demons.
He opened his eyes, relieved to escape. Rubbed at his eyelids, to clear his vision. His room was murky. It must be early. He reached again for the duvet. Still missing. His pillows had gone too. He closed his eyes again but this time sleep didn’t re-claim him and he lay, trying to make sense of things. Trying to remember how much he’d had to drink the night before. Too much, obviously. Nobody woke with a head like this after a night’s sobriety.
Where was he? Clearly, not where he should be. In his own bed. Or any bed.
He rolled onto his back and scratched his groin. Froze. Then coiled in on himself, foetus-like. He was naked.
Another naked dream. He knew the routine. Any minute now he’d walk into council chambers and address the elected representatives, stark naked.
If only he had a fiver for every naked dream he’d ever had.
He drifted in and out of sleep. Each time he came to, he checked. Still no bed, no duvet, no clothes.
Finally, he could delude himself no longer. Whatever was happening, it was no dream. He was awake. And naked as the day he was born.
How was that possible? Where could he have lost every stitch of clothing?
He racked his brain for what he’d been wearing yesterday but couldn’t remember. He thought of his wardrobe. Imagined opening the door. Ran his mind’s eye along the rail. Nothing rang a bell. Until he got to his camel coat. Finest cashmere, cost a fortune. It seemed familiar, but nothing else did. He was trying to picture what he usually wore with his camel coat when it hit him like a kick in the guts.
This was it.
The illness he’d been secretly dreading for years.
He would turn out like his mother, living in a home. Maybe the same one she was in.
Steady on. He was far too young to suddenly lose his marbles. And far too intelligent to not be aware of it happening.
He indulged in a few minutes of self-pity, before reminding himself that a clever man like him should be able to use his brain to work out where he was. Terrifying though dementia might be, he knew it did not come on quite so fast.
Concentrate, Tom. Concentrate. Analyse the situation. Find a solution. It’s what you do best.
He pictured himself in the camel coat. Tried to recall the last time he had seen it. He had a strong feeling he had worn it recently. Going to work perhaps? It must be winter. That would explain why he was so cold. Right, it’s a winter’s day.
Suddenly he saw his mother, also in a winter coat.
***
CHAPTER 58
Sheila had dropped a very animated and excited Ruby back at Briargrove, making her promise not to breathe a word. Ruby had pointed to the carer advancing towards them from the end of the hall and started singing.
Sheila smiled at the old lady and bent to offer a hug.
‘Ah, you back now, Ruby,’ boomed the carer. ‘You have good time, yes?’
In response, Ruby glared at the woman and continued to sing. Sheila watched her friend being led away like a docile child. Before she disappeared into the lounge, Ruby turned and gave Sheila a huge, theatrical wink.
Tempting though it was to take Smeaton’s Mercedes for a run along the M8, Sheila stuck to the plan. She drove straight into town to the car park by the shopping centre and kept rising, tyres squeaking on the painted floors, till she reached the uppermost level. She was pleased to note that hers, or rather, Smeaton’s would be the only car parked there.
Before she got out, Sheila checked the car carefully, then checked again. It was vitally important she leave no evidence whatsoever. Trying to look relaxed, despite feeling like a coiled spring, she closed the car, locked it and checked it was locked before she walked away. Hoping any CCTV cameras had been dealt with by Dykesy and team, Sheila moved swiftly to the stairwell and stopped on the first landing to catch her breath and steady her nerves. There was no camera to be seen so she quickly took off her old-lady anorak and her leather driving gloves, rolled them into a tight bundle and hid it under her arm. She snatched off the grey wig and re-tied her head-square, Queen-style, over her hair. She walked through to the lift to make her descent to Level Two where she’d left her wee Micra. She grabbed a bag of her new, trendy clothes from the boot and hurried off to mingle with shoppers and disappear into Debenhams.
She selected a rather frumpy blouse from a rail of beige garments and took it into a changing room. The girl on duty barely gave her a glance. Ten minutes later Sheila had dressed in her stylish, modern clothes, slapped on some make-up and Violet was gone for ever.
Sheila handed the blouse back, saying, ‘No thanks, not my style,’ and left the store. She found the nearest café and was reviving herself with a double espresso when her phone rang. She was thrilled to see Marty’s name displayed then worried, in case something had gone wrong. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine. You did a great job. We’re really proud of you.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘You can stop worrying. It’s all going according to plan. He’s starting to come round and seems fine.’
‘So he’s going to be okay?’
‘Looks that way.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Millie’s. I needed a caffeine rush and a sugar top-up. I dropped the car off, got changed and am now wearing lipstick in a colour that Miss Violet McNish would consider most unsuitable
.’
Marty laughed. ‘Wait till I tell you what happened. You’ll never believe it. Some of Joe’s boys appeared, wanting to visit the bothy.’
‘You’re kidding me. How did you get round that one?’
‘It’s a long story and quite sad really. See you very soon.’
‘I hope so. Take care.’ She paused, then said, ‘Marty?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for doing this. For Liz.’
Sheila hung up, not trusting her voice any longer and looked around the coffee shop, which was quietening down. No one was paying her any attention. She gave her eyes a quick dab with a paper tissue and gathered her things.
***
CHAPTER 59
Something to do with his mother.
He could see her.
Dressed up, coat on, ready to go somewhere.
She didn’t go out much these days. Unless he took her and he didn’t have a lot of time for that sort of thing. Special occasions only. Christmas panto at the King’s. In the summer a wee run down to Largs for an ice-cream at Nardini’s. Her birthday. That was it, her birthday. He always tried to keep it free in his diary. Got Carole to send her a bouquet, or booky, as his mother insisted on calling it. To annoy him, he thought.
When was her birthday? February, yes.
That would explain the cold. He wrapped his arms around his body, shocked again to feel bare skin. What in God’s name was going on here?
‘Mother?’
His voice echoed back to him, his only answer in this weird, dark place, apart from a shooshing noise.
‘Mother? You there?’ Was he slurring his words?
He was picking up his mother. Taking her somewhere. For her birthday treat. It was coming back to him now. Drive down to Trump Turnberry, take the old dear for a slap-up lunch. Give the car a good run down the A77. His memory snagged on the mental picture of his car. Something wrong there.
It was so hard to think. He had a pounding headache. Like a hangover, only worse. And yet he never took a drink if he had the car. He despised drink drivers.
Had he been driving? It was so hard to remember. He was going to have to get his memory checked, before it got any worse. Yes, he’d definitely been in the car, yes. A new one. That’s right. He’d just collected it from the dealership. Always fancied a Mercedes. Finally decided to treat himself. Top of the range.
Was that it? Had someone fancied his flashy new Merc? Had he been car-jacked and dumped?
Come on. Concentrate. Re-wind. Back to the point where he picked up his mother at Briargrove. Not just his mother. Somebody else. A carer? No. They were always in uniform. Another old dear like his mother. That’s right. He hadn’t wanted to take her but Mother had insisted she come for lunch too.
They didn’t make it though, did they? He knows that big drive that sweeps up from the road. The huge hotel, all white and sparkling, looking out over the sea towards Ailsa Craig. Round the back a concierge in a kilt greets you. You hand him your keys and he calls a valet to park your car. None of that was ringing a bell.
If only he could think clearly. Work out where he was. Then he’d know what to do about it.
He moved. Tried to get comfortable. Big ask on a hard surface like this. Not a floor. Bare stone. Like in a cave. No wonder he was freezing.
Why the hell did they have to take his clothes? Camel coat he could understand. Whoever stole the car maybe fancied the coat to go with it. But to take the lot? Leave a man without his underpants? Out of order.
Nothing about this was making sense.
His last memory was of driving off with his mother and some other old biddy in the back seat.
A car accident. They must have been in a smash. He started to examine his body. All limbs intact, and moving. No blood. He was breathing okay. He ran his fingers over his arms and torso. His skin rose in goose bumps at his touch but he couldn’t find so much as a scratch. There must be some damage, somewhere. Nobody was ever lucky enough to survive a road crash uninjured. Not even in a Merc.
And yet he appeared to be unscathed. He stopped checking. He’d worked it out.
Hospital. In a coma. He’d read about this stuff. Patients carried on thinking and processing. Brainwaves proved it, unless they were brain dead of course, which, clearly, he was not. Cogno, ergo sum. If he was thinking, he was alive. And as long as he could keep thinking, no one was going to switch him off.
Okay, naked. Fine. On a bed in ICU somewhere, Ayr, perhaps. Or that private place on the South Side. He hoped it was one of the private hospitals. He was paying a fortune for health insurance. It would be ironic if he’d ended up in that huge new NHS place, lying on a trolley in a corridor, while they searched for a bed.
Wherever he was, they would take good care of him. That weird whishing noise must be some sort of medical machine, life-support maybe, keeping him alive.
He could relax. Give in. Let sleep carry him off.
***
CHAPTER 60
Marty woke with a jolt. Her neck hurt and it took her a moment to realise where she was.
‘Hello, sleeping beauty.’
‘Sorry, Joe. Didn’t get much sleep last night. I think might have nodded off for a minute.’
‘Nodded off? I thought you were never going to wake up.’
‘Is he okay? He’s gained consciousness?’
‘Yeah, yeah. He came to earlier. Right on schedule. He’s woken and fallen asleep a couple of times.’
‘That’s normal, right?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘See for yourself. He’s just lying there. Doesn’t look very comfortable.’
‘Good. He’s here to suffer.’ She yawned, stretched. ‘I could murder another cuppa. Want one?’
‘No, thanks. Watch this. He’s moving.’
She looked at the white sheet pinned to the far wall. Easy to tear down and throw over the tech equipment if, by the slimmest of chances, someone came to the door.
All she could see was a dark space with a paler, rough outline of a person. It looked more like an ultrasound scan of a baby in the womb than a fully grown man lying on the stone floor of a bothy. She rubbed her eyes and watched as he curled into a foetal position and wrapped his arms around himself.
‘He’s cold.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shouldn’t it be hot?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You’re sure he won’t come to any harm?’
‘Are you serious? We get this far and you ask me if I’m sure he won’t come to any harm?’ He laughed, a bitter, mocking sound, lacking any vestige of humour.
‘You know what I mean. We don’t want him dying of hypothermia before we get what we want.’
‘Trust me. I know about hypothermia.’
‘Your army training, you mean?’
‘That, and years of bringing kids out onto these hills.’ He gestured behind him, as if she could see the hills from here. ‘Some of the lads I work with don’t have a jacket or a jumper to their name. They turn up, summer and winter, in wee thin tee shirts or cheap tracky tops.’
‘I know. My son goes out clubbing in just a shirt sometimes.’
‘Poverty’s not a style choice, Marty. It’s to do with having nobody that gives enough of a shit to buy you a decent jacket when they can spend the Giro on smack. It’s to do with kids living in a house where nobody ever says, “Son, it’s freezing out there. Put your sweatshirt on.”’ He poked his finger towards the screen, the gesture violent. ‘And that bastard there is determined to take away the only decent thing these kids have got going for them.’ He shook his head. ‘Christ, I hate him!’
As if he knew he was being talked about, Smeaton raised himself on one arm and looked around. He tilted his head, listening, but they knew he could hear nothing but white noise. He pushed himself into a seated position. His head slumped and then jerked up again as he caught sight of his bare legs. He checked his genitals and brought his k
nees towards his body to hide them. The sudden movement almost tipped him over and he planted both hands on the floor to steady himself. He looked towards the faint source of light high above his head.
They watched him trying to make sense of his surroundings. He rubbed a hand over his chest. As though the tactile reminder he was naked had made him feel colder, he sat up and folded his arms around himself in a hug.
‘Yuk,’ she said, covering her eyes. ‘My old boss naked. There’s a sight I never wanted to see.’
‘Me neither, but you’re the one who insisted it had to be done.’
‘We come into the world naked …’
‘Aye, and we go out, blah-de-blah. Got it.’
From a kneeling position, Smeaton rose slowly to his feet. He staggered a little and leaned forward, hands on knees.
‘Do you feel sorry for him?’ asked Joe.
‘Not one bit,’ said Marty. ‘I could douse him in petrol and sit here enjoying the blaze.’
‘That’s harsh.’
‘Think so?’
On screen, Smeaton was taking small, tentative steps around his new home. He reached out a very cautious arm like a blind man feeling for a wall. They watched his reaction as the black cloth yielded to his touch. He poked at it again and they saw his hand disappear into the material and reappear. Marty had tried it herself. It was like touching the sides of a floppy tent.
He dropped to his knees and scrabbled on the floor, like a dog digging a hole. Joe had made sure there was no escape route and he soon gave up.
‘Has he said anything, Joe?’
‘Give him time. When he wakes again and finds he’s still here, he might be inclined to take things a bit more seriously.’
‘I wonder if we’re being too clever here. Maybe we should have gone for the obvious. Heat turned up full, a bit of hellfire special effects and Smeaton would have worked out the damnation part for himself. A whiff of brimstone wafting in and he’d have got the message by now. I’m a bit worried we’re being too subtle.’
