Beyond All Evil

by June Thomson

  ‘Pig!’ she mouthed silently.

  I laughed, the sound drowned by a wall of Pink Floyd. The young man skipped between the dancers. I knew him. In this town there were no strangers. He was a well-known ‘bad boy’. He dispensed with words and I received the tap. He turned and walked to a gap on the floor. I followed. He hadn’t doubted that I would.

  From the moment Rab Thomson chose me, he took control.

  Giselle: As innocent as I was, I knew he had chosen me …

  It was stifling hot. It always was on pension day. The majority of people in Royston, a district in the north of Glasgow, are not well off, least of all the elderly. In the tiny post office section of the corner shop, the old folk had gathered to gossip, catch up with friends and pick up their meagre benefits entitlement. Strong summer sunshine flooded through the window behind me, transforming the security glass on the post office counter into a white, impenetrable wall.

  ‘Hot!’ I said to my mother. We were in a snaking queue.

  ‘Not half,’ Ma replied, adding, ‘Won’t be long, though.’

  I took Ma shopping every day. They were outings rather than spending sprees. Ma loved looking at things she would never own. She rarely bought anything for herself, but she delighted in choosing ‘mindings’ for her grandchildren. When we got out of here we were going to Ma’s favourite shopping centre at the Parkhead Forge. There she would make her slow and stately progress along the shop fronts, halting every few steps to allow friends and old neighbours to pay their respects. If my identity was not apparent, Ma would introduce me by saying, ‘This is my baby, Giselle!’

  I was 32 years old.

  I say that without rancour. Never for one minute did I fall into the trap of believing that I was somehow missing out. How could I, with so much love around me? I had always been content and happy, and I could not conceive of any other way of life.

  ‘Not long now,’ said Ma, dragging me back from my reverie.

  The queue in front of us had been reduced to three people. The glare on the glass had dissipated and I saw a stranger behind the counter. Dark, handsome, a gentle face, a shock of luxuriant hair. Must be a new guy, I thought, feeling self-conscious for no reason I could explain. It was such an odd feeling. He looked up from what he was doing, caught my eye and smiled. My hand flew instinctively to my hair and I pushed wisps behind my ears. Did I look nice? I thought. Thank God, I had on lip gloss and mascara.

  I was suddenly taken aback. Such thoughts? Where were they coming from? What the hell did I care what I looked like? What was happening? This was new territory. I was bothering about my looks for the first time in years. I had long since come to terms with the mirror in my bedroom. I was still searching for an answer when I realised the queue had cleared and we were at the counter.

  The handsome man spoke. ‘Next, please,’ he said to my mother, who handed him her pension book. He was looking at me. The old and familiar crimson flush reached from my breastbone to my forehead.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ I stuttered, turning away quickly.

  A rack of newspapers to my right had become utterly fascinating. I stole a glance at him and he was still looking, his smile full of the knowledge of the effect that he was having. I was discomfited. I had never had a boyfriend and I had given up the notion that I ever would. But there was just something about this man that touched me in a way I had not experienced – something in the way he looked at me. I knew instinctively that he was ‘interested’. He was good looking. Why would he be attracted to me? I must be misreading the signs, I thought.

  I tried to shrug off the feeling that secret signals were passing between us. But when I looked at him again, I could still feel the tension. I wasn’t mistaken. If I had been required to speak at that moment, I don’t think I could have. I would have babbled like an idiot. I was torn between emotions. One half of me wanted to tell my mother to hurry up and get out of here; the other wanted this moment to last. The spell was broken by the thump of his stamp validating her pension book. She was, as usual, chattering away as if she had known him all of her life.

  ‘You’re new, son, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Ash,’ he said, to me as much as to her.

  ‘Ashley,’ she replied.

  ‘Close enough,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘See you next week, son,’ Ma said, gathering up the cash and pushing it into her purse.

  ‘See you,’ he said. He was talking to me.

  I managed somehow to utter a strangulated ‘cheerio’ and fled. As we left the shop, Ma took my hand. My sense of regressing into a love-struck schoolgirl was complete.

  ‘Seems nice, that boy,’ said Ma, adding, ‘Ashley’s such a lovely name.’

  There was a moment’s silence, no more than a heartbeat, and then she said, ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’

  Nothing much gets by you, Ma, I thought. Is it possible to keep a secret from your mother? I went an even deeper shade of crimson. Was I really so transparent? I looked over my shoulder. Ash’s eyes were still on me. He smiled.

  As innocent and naïve as I was in the rules of courtship and love, I knew that he had chosen me.

  June: This wasn’t going to be any Mills & Boon romance.

  ‘I’m Rab!’ he said.

  Pink Floyd was silent now, replaced by Tavares. ‘Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel’ flowed sweetly from the speakers.

  ‘I know who you are,’ I said.

  ‘Hate this disco shite,’ he bawled.

  ‘Me, too.’

  I didn’t know why I had automatically agreed. I didn’t ‘hate this disco shite’, but he had spoken the words with such confidence that they defied disagreement. For some reason, which I had yet to fathom, I so wanted to please this young man. With his long hair, he might have looked like all of the others, but, unlike them, there was about him an alluring air of menace that set him apart from the crowd. I did not fear him – not yet – but I sensed that the anger in him simmered close to the surface.

  Wilma had retreated to the wall opposite where Rab’s friends were congregated. She was scowling. She did not like Rab. That was clear. I shrugged in her direction and she stomped off towards the cloakroom. I didn’t need to tell her that I would be leaving with him. It had been a foregone conclusion from the moment he tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered.

  I obeyed. He strode off, giving a thumbs-up to his mates. They smirked, acknowledging the signal that Rab had ‘clicked’. I tottered behind him on my Saturday-night heels. The peremptory nature of this encounter might surprise some women, but where I came from there were no hearts and flowers, no softly spoken words of romance. You were chosen and you were taken. That was the way it was. No Mills & Boon novel has ever been set in Kilbirnie.

  ‘See you outside,’ he said, walking to the dance-hall door. I was left to retrieve my coat. Wilma was in the cloakroom, waiting for me.

  ‘What are you doing with him? You know he’s a pig.’

  ‘He’s lovely,’ I said.

  ‘He’s trouble!’

  The truth was that everyone knew Rab was trouble, but Wilma realised that the more she protested, the more I would dig in my heels. In those days I rarely listened to anyone, an attitude that had got me into more than a few scrapes. I always knew best. I didn’t, of course, but such are the follies of youth. And anyway, I reasoned, what did I have to lose? London beckoned. The more bad things said about Rab, the more I was determined to have him, if only for a short time. He had a reputation for fighting, stretching back to his schooldays. He was fearless, a hard case who wore his aggression like a badge of honour. Scrapping was a rite of passage where we grew up and it had won him the ‘respect’ of his peers.

  Wilma was of course right, but I couldn’t countenance that anyone could know better than I did. I was contrary. I hate to admit it now, but the fact that my best friend disliked him was precisely what made Rab even more attractive.

  �
��Everyone hates him. They think he’s a thug,’ Wilma said.

  ‘I don’t care what everyone thinks,’ I told her.

  ‘They’ve got good reason,’ she warned.

  ‘Well, I don’t care. I like him, and what does it matter anyway? I’m going to London.’

  I terminated the conversation by turning on my heel and walking away. I would defy them all. I’d show them. In the years to come I would be haunted by that conversation – and by my recalcitrance. If only I had listened. But I didn’t. I left her that evening, determined to prove everyone wrong.

  Rab was waiting for me on the pavement, his blond hair shining in the light of a street lamp. I walked into his arms.

  ‘Chips!’ he said. No Mills & Boon hero.

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, as if he had just suggested that we fly to Paris for the weekend.

  ‘I hate salt and vinegar on chips.’

  Another unequivocal statement that brooked no argument. I liked salt and vinegar, but I said, ‘Me, too!’

  Once again, I had fallen into step behind him. I couldn’t analyse why. I just had.

  ‘The car’s over there,’ he said.

  I was impressed. I didn’t know any other teenager who had a car. Rab jumped into the driver’s seat of the Ford Cortina. I still remember the registration number – TAG 350J. The things you remember. It didn’t occur to him to open the passenger door for me, but it didn’t matter. I slid in beside him as the engine roared into life, breaking the stillness of the night.

  My friends, who were either walking home from the dance or waiting for the late-night bus, turned in the direction of the noise. As we drove past them, I could see envy in their eyes. I knew then that this was what I had been missing, what I had longed for. I felt different, important … special. I stole a glance at Rab’s profile. He was looking straight ahead. His face was set, free of doubt or uncertainty.

  Even if I did go to London, I was his.

  Giselle: It was as if I were under siege. They call it love-bombing these days.

  ‘Giselle!’ Ash beamed.

  He knew my name now. It had been weeks since that first excruciatingly embarrassing encounter. Now, when I saw him, I only flushed pink instead of deep crimson. I was a grown woman, but the emotions that crowded in on me made me feel as if I had returned to childhood.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, with a great deal more confidence than I had shown on the day I first set eyes on him.

  We had not progressed beyond the relationship of shopkeeper and customer, but in recent weeks he had grown bolder, making little jokes, complimenting me on the way I looked. It was an innocent intimacy. I was conscious that he treated me differently from the other customers. I learned that he had a reputation for brusqueness, and few of the people from the neighbourhood had a good word for this new and ‘superior’ sub-postmaster. Ash’s manner was a talking point. One of our neighbours was having tea with Ma when my dear old mother revealed that ‘Ashley had a fancy’ for me.

  ‘Ma! I said in a tone of voice my mother was no stranger to.

  ‘He’s a bit snooty,’ said our neighbour, between mouthfuls of biscuit.

  ‘He’s always nice to the baby,’ replied Ma, looking at me.

  She was incorrigible.

  ‘I get the impression he doesn’t think much of the folk around here,’ our neighbour went on. ‘He can be a bit sharp, as if he can’t get you away from the counter quickly enough.’

  ‘He’s not like that with our Giselle,’ Ma told her.

  ‘Ma!’ I said again.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘He’s got a fancy for the baby. He’s not sharp with her.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said our neighbour. ‘But he’s a bit of a cold fish with the rest of us.’

  I had been replaying that conversation in my head when I was brought back to the present by Ash speaking again.

  ‘What can I do for you today, Giselle?’ he asked.

  Ash had escaped from behind the glass screen of the post office and was serving in the main shop.

  ‘A loaf, thanks,’ I replied, my heart beating hard against my chest.

  ‘You must like your bread; you buy enough of it,’ he said, smiling, and reaching behind to a shelf packed with baker’s goods.

  Looking back, it is astounding how many loaves were in Ma’s bread bin during that period. I had been finding more and more reasons to go into the shop. Everyone needs bread, after all. I took the loaf and stuffed it into my shopping bag. Ash came around the counter and escorted me to the door. He held it open, and I was exhilarated by a combination of cold air and his presence. I looked up at him shyly and muttered a sheepish ‘Thank you’.

  He said, ‘Well, when are you going to come out with me, then?’

  I laughed, as I always did. It was not the first time he had asked me out. It had become something of a ritual. Part of me regarded it as polite banter. A secret side of me hoped that he meant it. I lacked the courage to take it seriously. I was in so many ways still that little schoolgirl standing in front of the mirror. I was walking out of the shop when he said, ‘Oh, well, maybe next time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, playing the game.

  ‘One of these days you’ll say “Yes”,’ he replied.

  I floated off, back to my secure and safe little home, where Ma and Da were waiting. I had just closed the door of the flat when I heard Ma asking, ‘Is that you, darlin’?’

  Da was in the kitchen and I found Ma in the living room.

  ‘Did you see Ashley?’ she asked, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Ma-aa!’ I said.

  ‘He ask you out again?’

  ‘Maa-aaa!’

  ‘One of these days, you’re going to have to say “Yes”,’ said Ma.

  ‘Say “Yes” to what?’ asked Da, returning from the kitchen.

  ‘Our baby …’ began Ma.

  ‘Maaaaa!’ I said, interrupting her before she could say any more. ‘Nothing, Da. She’s pulling your leg.’

  My angry eyes ordered Ma to be silent. Her serene eyes danced. She loved this.

  ‘I’ll get the tea,’ I said.

  ‘Is there enough bread?’ Ma asked.

  I glared at her.

  Chapter 3

  Moths to a Flame

  ‘Rab the brute sensed June’s neediness; Ash the clever charmer savoured Giselle’s innocence … they are two sides of the same coin.’

  Ian Stephen

  June: I was drawn back like a moth to a flame …

  ‘That’s you back, then?’ Rab said.

  Another night, the same dance hall. Kilbirnie on a wet weekend. He was unchanged, still with the long blond hair, the attitude, and the knowledge in his voice that sooner or later I was bound to return, drawn irresistibly back into his orbit. It was as if he had known it was inevitable from the moment I stepped off the bus from London. In my heart, I did too.

  London had failed to excise Kilbirnie. In spite of all my childlike dreams and the desperation to get away, the city lights had paled. It was good to be home, where familiarity, however banal, offered a sense of comfort and safety. I know it will sound crazy to Londoners – and to all those who have deserted their little home towns to make their life in the capital ­– but I couldn’t settle. I had arrived with such high hopes, but very quickly – and like so many before me – I had made three salient discoveries. The first was that the streets were not paved with gold. The second was that glamorous destinations may be wonderful to visit, but when you have to make a living the daily grind wears you down. The third discovery was perhaps the most telling and curious of the three. I was homesick.

  Don’t ask me why, but I couldn’t get back to Ayrshire quickly enough. My sojourn had been a great adventure, but it’s difficult to overcome small-town bones.

  For the first few months I had worked in a hotel alongside a great bunch of girls, most of them from places other than London. We decided we would share a flat. We had really great times, four young women not yet grown
up, finding their feet far from home. I soon moved on from the hotel and got another job with a clothing manufacturer. My job was to make the clothes, but after a while the boss approached me.

  ‘You’re tall and slim, June,’ he said. ‘How would you like to show off the clothes to the buyers?’

  I was taken from the assembly line and sent on to the catwalk – ‘showing off’ the new designs at trade shows. I had stumbled into modelling, of all things. To a girl like me, it was glamorous – but with a small ‘g’. However, there are only so many parties you can throw; only so many places you can go. When most of your time is spent trying to pay the bills, it doesn’t matter where you are: the most exciting city in the world or a windswept corner of north Ayrshire.

  It was time to go home.

  And here I was, peering through the half-light of the dance hall, with Whitesnake blasting my eardrums, and Rab trying his best to look ‘cool’ and indifferent. I realised again that he had played a big part in my decision to return home. I knew it hadn’t been a conscious element in my thinking, but while I was absent I had replayed in my mind our first encounter in this dance hall.

  We were back where we began. I looked at Rab.

  ‘Love Whitesnake!’ he shouted.

  ‘Me, too,’ I lied.

  A moth to a flame …

  Giselle: I thought … so this is what they mean by fate.

  The wipers beat away incessant rain. The world, as seen through the windscreen of my car, was drenched, the wet streets illuminated by large rectangles of light from the display windows of shops that would soon be closing. Passers-by, reduced to the evanescent substance of shadows, flitted across my path and disappeared into the gloom. If I hadn’t been slowing down I wouldn’t have seen the figure at the bus stop. I was on my way to a late-night pharmacy to pick up a prescription for Ma.

  The figure was indistinct but familiar.

  ‘Ash?’ I said to myself.

  I leaned closer to the windscreen and dropped down into second gear.

  ‘Ash,’ I said again, certain now that it was him, huddled against the downpour.