Come to Harm (5 page)

“Oh,” said Keiko, and she tried hard not to smile. “How thoughtful, but I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm fine.”

“But I thought it was all Japanese people,” said the woman, crestfallen now.

“Not all,” said Keiko. “Not me. But thank you.”

“I'm sorry about that, pet,” said Mrs. Sangster, drilling a look at Keiko's saviour as she went back to her seat. “She doesn't come from Painchton.”

“Pamela Shand.”

“With the gift shop.”

“Glasgow.”

“We don't go in for all that here.”

“All what?” Keiko said, looking up. She was spooning the pudding into her mouth as fast as she could, not even following the voices as they came at her.

“Intolerances and what have you.”

“We're old-fashioned here.”

“Eat what's put in front of you and be thankful.”

“Never did me any harm.”

Mrs. Sangster leaned forward and stroked Keiko's hair, smoothing it back from her face, cupping her cheek in one warm palm. “You must come to supper with us as soon as soon can be and let me show you,” she said. The waiter whisked away her cleared plate and substituted another clean one. “Roast, glazed ham I'll make. I'm noted for my glazed ham.”

Keiko nodded, swallowing.

“We were supposed to take turns,” Mrs. McLuskie called over, hearing this. “Once we find out which evening Keiko prefers. And I've got a goose.”

“Crying out loud, Etta,” said Mrs. Watson. “She's not here on a catering course. She's a psychiatrist.”

“Psychologist,” said Keiko, but quietly, remembering what Craig had said to her.

“I thought it was physics,” someone added, a large woman wearing the same dress as Mrs. McLuskie, but in a different colour and without the provost's chain.

“She needs building up, whatever she is,” said Mrs. Sangster. “You'll be no good to anyone if you waste away, pet.” She gave Keiko one last pinch and sat back, picking up her own spoon again.

Keiko looked down at her plate and then looked away. “Is Mrs. McMaster here?” she asked, thinking that conversation would give her a break from eating. “I would so like to meet her.”

“Where
is
Pet tonight?” said Mrs. Watson, looking round.

“Off at one of her foster care meetings,” said Mrs. McLuskie.

“No!” said Mrs. Watson. “She's not at
that
again. She swore she'd never let herself in for more of that heartbreak.”

“Heartbreak?” said Keiko. “Fancy?”

“Aye, well her too at the time,” said the woman who thought Keiko was in physics. “But at least she came back. Not like the other one.”

“Tash,” said another woman Keiko didn't know, very well-groomed and wearing a mask of make-up.

“Tash!” said the larger version of Mrs. McLuskie, as if the word was impolite in some way.

The well-groomed woman frowned.

“Now, how do they organise fostering in Japan?” said Mrs. Watson after a hurried look at both of them.

“Well,” said Keiko, “families are more … Not so … I'm not sure.” Then, to get a break from talking, she had to eat again. Cheese and crackers this time, with Pamela Shand glowering. When the cheese was cleared, she hid mint chocolates in her bag, passed on the coffee, choked on the whisky, and eventually climbed the stairs to her flat again, holding her stomach in both hands.

She had forgotten about
for you
as the evening wore on and seeing it again as she slipped off her shoes, she groaned.
Put it in the trash,
Malcolm had said, so she picked it up and folded it into a paper plane, looking around for a wastebasket to fire it into. Just as she had told herself it would, the glue on the flap cracked and gave way. She hesitated for a second, then flattened the envelope again and lifted the flap open. Inside, there was a sheet of paper folded in half. She could poke it apart with a finger and see what was written there without even taking it out. She snapped on the overhead light, held the envelope up to it and squinted inside.

I know what you did. I saw you. I will tell them all

Keiko smacked her hands together to close it up again. For a moment she stood quite still, listening to the echo of the smack in the empty air. Then very slowly she turned to the shelf above the radiator and inserted one corner of the envelope behind it, wiggling it back and forward until it was almost all gone. She let go, heard it drop down, heard the tap of one edge hitting the plastic sheet, and leaned back against the front door again.

She was facing straight along the corridor into the living room and across to the dark windows on the other side of the street. She was standing here in bright electric light, against fresh white paint, with a big bay window and a wide open door between her and the outside. Anyone could have seen what she just did.

Then she shook herself and tutted, told herself not to be silly. No one was watching.

seven

It was in the
basket on the back of the door, hand delivered, hours before the post was due, the direction—
for you
—clearly visible through the wire. The dog had grown out of letter-chewing now, but they kept the basket because it was easier on the lumbar discs not to bend down to the floor every morning, even if clumsy morning fingers sometimes fumbled at the catch trying to open it. It took several attempts that day, and then several more to get hold of the loose edge on the flap in shaking fingers and tear it open.

I saw you again. You can't hide from me. I will tell them all.

And just like the first one, this one was taken straight to the fireplace in the lounge, crumpled up—envelope and all—and had a match held to it until it caught, flared, and died down in sheets of ash to be stirred away to nothing with the poker.

Wednesday, 9 October

Later in the afternoon she had an appointment with Dr. Bryant, her supervisor, her mentor, Socrates to her Plato, Plato to her Aristotle …

Well, she had an appointment anyway. But she wouldn't waste the morning. She set up her PC on the big table in the bay window and started typing.

Facts, Scams and Scares: the production of consensus in dense social networks
, she wrote, editing out the gossip right away.
Consensus as (arti)fact: scams and scares in the construction of knowledge
. A cup of coffee on her right and a cup of pens and pencils on her left made a neat arrangement.
Consensual knowledge in networks: scares, fads and density.
To be confirmed, she decided and typed:
Something with a colon: the title of a thesis in social psychology
. She put in a page break and started typing again.

The aim
intention objective of this thesis
project
research enquiry is to enquire discover explore develop provide an account mechanism model explanation theory hypothesis for the …

I will listen to people talking to find out …

She shut her laptop and took a sheet of paper instead, uncapped a pen.

Title

Introduction

Literature Review

Find subjects

Develop psych-test materials

Dry run

Organize group

Develop main test materials

Experiments (test, feedback, retest)

Analysis

Write thesis

Graduate & accept job at Oxford/Cambridge/Harvard or similar

And wondering what sort of job openings there would be if she were looking for one today, she opened her laptop instead and waited. Then she remembered she didn't have an Internet account yet. No wonder she felt so marooned and peculiar. No phone yet, no WiFi. But as she was thinking it, a dialogue box popped up telling of a connection, asking for a password. She typed the password she used for everything—
phdgirl
—and, looking at the red X denying her access, she had never felt so far from home.

_____

Murray was alone in the shop, standing not behind the counter but out in front, tidying the notices on a corkboard behind the door—
Brownies Barbie-Q night, firewood for sale, greenhouse wanted will collect
—lining them up and pushing pins into all four corners, stripping off the tattered ones as he went. His white coat and apron were freshly starched and dazzling, sticking out at the edges like the new blue oilcloth on the kitchen table upstairs.

“Day off already?” he said turning to her and smiling.

“Sorry?” said Keiko.

“I thought you'd be away into town.”

“Later.”

“I'm not complaining,” said Murray, his smile even wider. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, yes,” said Keiko. “I seem to have Internet upstairs but no one told me how to get onto it. I wondered if you knew. Or your mother maybe?”

“Mum?” said Murray, laughing. “She doesn't even use a calculator, never mind computers. It'll be Jimmy McKendrick that's set that up for you. He'll know.”

“I see,” said Keiko. “I thought because it was your flat …”

“Who told you that?” Murray said, giving her an exaggerated frown but still smiling.

“Mr. McKendrick did,” said Keiko, frowning herself, trying to remember. “I'm sure he said so. ‘Above the Pooles and they own it,' he said. And I remember most particularly because I didn't know it was a name at the time and ‘above the pools' sounded so refreshing.”

Murray laughed again then. “Yeah,” he said. “We own it.”

“And I'm very grateful for it,” Keiko said.

“You don't need to be
that
grateful,” he said. “Better than having it sit there empty.”

“But surely such a lovely flat can't have been empty for long?” said Keiko. “In Tokyo—” She bit this off. Her mother had told her to be careful not to say too much about Japan.
If they cared they could come and see for themselves, Keko-chan. Just as I could go to Sydney and take my own photographs of the opera house if I wanted them. My sister-in-law does not need to come home and share hers with me
.

“Well, it's a place to stay,” said Murray. “But you don't have to let yourself get sucked in.”

Keiko shook her head at him, but before she could ask what he meant, the bell dinged above the door.

“Afternoon, young man,” said a woman, hefting a shopping basket onto the counter and leaning against it. Murray had flitted round to his station behind the register when he saw her coming.

“Mrs. Glendinning,” he said.

“And how are you today, Keiko?” said the woman. Keiko bobbed her head and smiled. She couldn't remember ever seeing this woman before but supposed that she might have been at the feast in peach ruffles or turquoise satin. And her name did seem familiar.

“Right then,” Mrs. Glendinning said, peering into the display. “I'll take a pound of your steak mince for tonight.” She gave Murray a sharp look. “That's today's mince, eh?”

Murray nodded. He had pushed his hands into plastic gloves from the dispenser and had twitched a sheet of cellophane onto the bed of the scales.

“And a pound—no make it two pounds—of pork links and they'll do for his breakfasts too. Couple of gigot chops, maybe three, eh? They're no size. Another pound of mince—beef just, for meatballs—and, em, Friday, Friday, Friday … Well I'll take a good two pounds of Ayrshire back anyway and a wee tate of pudding slices for the weekend. Friday, Friday, Friday … Och, why not? That sirloin looks a bonny colour, two steaks'll do us fine.”

“Malc?” shouted Murray into the back of the shop.

Keiko cocked her head. Almost immediately, along the corridor that led from the back, came the sound of Malcolm moving, a low pounding, rubber boots squeaking, the chafing of cloth and slow breaths, until he appeared in the mouth of the passage. He wore the same clothes as his brother, but his apron was dark from work, his coat sleeves pushed back as far as they would go up his wrists. But still they were edged with rust colour.

Murray was weighing and wrapping, turning the waxed sheets into bags and sealing them, deft and precise, never touching their contents. He spoke without looking up. “Couple of sirloin for Mrs. Glendinning, pal.” Then he snapped open a carrier bag and began to stack the packages inside.

Malcolm turned away to where a wedge of meat sat like a rock on a high cutting board and bent over it. Although his hands must be moving, all Keiko could see was his back, a wide block of white broken by apron strings. There were two muffled thumps that made Malcolm's back judder, and then he turned around to face them, slapping the bricks of cut meat from his bare palms onto the scales.

“I've left the fat on, Mrs. Glendinning,” he said, his soft voice booming a little as he strained to be heard over the width of the counter and the sound of Murray rustling the carrier bag. “You don't have to eat it, but don't go trimming it before you fry them, because—”

“I'll manage from here, son,” said the woman, winking at Keiko. “It's like taking a chick from under a hen getting a steak out of Malcolm sometimes.”

Malcolm smiled but was already moving away again.

The shop bell sounded and a man strolled in. Fishing in his jacket pocket for his wallet, he joined the woman at the counter.

“Well, what's the damage, then?” he said. “What are you after from us today?” He looked at Keiko and chuckled. “Aye, they're doing all right are the Pooles.”

“We're managing, Mr. Glendinning,” said Murray, in a level voice. “The three of us.”

“Och away, I'm just havin' a laugh with you,” said the man. “Let's just hope this one lasts, eh?”

“Wheesht, Eric,” said his wife. She smiled tightly at Keiko. “Just ignore him, lovey.”

“Ignore what?” said her husband. “I'm saying I hope she stays. I'm hoping the luck's turned. Where the harm in that?” He grasped the bag that Murray held over the counter to him, groaned at the weight of it, and walked out. Mrs. Glendinning took the change with another tight smile and followed him.

“Tosser,” Murray said when they had left.

“What did he mean?” said Keiko.

“Nothing, he's just a stirrer,” Murray said.

“Did he mean me?
This one
? Is that me?”

“Now why would you think that?” Murray said, very still and staring at her.

“I—” She gulped. There was no reason, except jet lag and dreams she could not quite remember and just the strangeness of everything. Except …

“Girls leave,” she blurted out.
The weird niece, Dina
.

Murray's eyes widened.

“Do you cook?” said Malcolm's voice suddenly, making her jump. He had reappeared at the back of the shop, holding a tray. She composed herself and answered him gently.

“A little. Easy things Soup, noodles.”

“What about this?” Malcolm said, shuffling forward and showing her the tray. On it were three skewers threaded with pieces of chicken curved like little seashells, perfect white cubes of mushroom flesh, slices of garlic—sheer and glistening—and discs of baby sweet corn like the wheels of a toy car. The skewers were finished off at each end with tiny onions.

“Five ingredients,” said Malcolm, “because four is unlucky.”

“You made kebabs?” she said.

“They were supposed to be yakitori,” said Malcolm, looking down at them. “Off the Internet.”

“Well, you must come upstairs after work and help me eat them,” Keiko said, looking at Murray. “Both of you.”

“These were meant for you,” said Malcolm. “But I could make some more, I suppose.”

“Just a wee snack, eh?” said Murray. “From the king of portion control.”

Mrs. Poole had appeared in the doorway to the back shop and looked intently at Keiko before she spoke. “There's no need for you to be laying on catering up in the flat,” she said. Then with a visible effort she continued, “You should come to our house.”

“Thank you,” said Keiko. She had no phrases in her repertoire to help with such a reluctant invitation. She waited to see if Mrs. Poole would say any more, and it seemed to her that both sons were watching their mother too. The woman said nothing.
How
, thought Keiko,
do you leave in silence if you can't bow? I must ask or look it up
. Then with a flush of relief, she thought of something to say.

“The Internet!” She turned to Malcolm. “You have it here in the shop?” He nodded. “Ah! I think I'm picking up your connection in the flat then.”

All three of the Pooles looked up at the ceiling.

“What?” said Mrs. Poole. “What are you picking up? What have you seen?”

“Nothing,” said Keiko. “Goodness, no. Just a prompt. And I wouldn't— I don't know the password anyway. I'll get my own service, naturally.”

“No need for that,” Malcolm said. “Waste of money. I can set you up no problem with a password. It'll be nice. Sharing.”

“But—” said his mother.

“It's two different computers, Mum,” said Malcolm. “We'll all be safe as long as we wear our foil hats when we're emailing.”

Keiko snorted with laughter and turned to Murray, but his face was without expression, and his mother's might as well have been carved from stone.

“Well, thank you, Malcolm—for the yakitori,” she said, taking the tray.

She glanced at her watch as she left them. Almost time to go to the university, where she would be at home, among friends. Where she would know what people meant when they spoke. Where people would be like her. Her heart lifted and even returning to her flat up all those stone stairs couldn't lower it again.