Gutted (23 page)

I wasn’t either. I felt an inward wince that I’d raised the death of this woman’s daughter so abruptly. ‘I’m sorry . . . it must still be very painful for you.’

A weak smile. ‘No, it’s all right . . . I mean, yes, it’s still a fresh wound but I can talk about her. I loved my daughter.’

She seemed to suddenly tense up; her jawline firmed and tight muscles showed in her neck.

I said, ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

She turned to face me but I couldn’t hold her gaze. I dropped
my
eyes and ferreted for my cigarettes. I lit a tab, offered, but got a shake of the head.

‘We all know about loss, don’t we?’ I said.

‘After a certain age, Mr Dury . . . Christine was three years old when she was murdered.’ Katrina crossed her legs away from me, watched as a van from the SSPCA pulled up. Two workers got out and headed for the swans. It was business as usual whilst we delved into this woman’s hurt.

‘The man who killed Christine was a common criminal. How can you defend him?’ She put the emphasis on ‘common’. I didn’t like the way she used the word.

‘I’m not defending him. But if I was, I’d remind you murder is murder, Katrina . . . Your husband knows the law of this land better than me. Hasn’t he pointed that out to you?’

She looked offended, eyes widening. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that remark.’

I put a foot on the bench, leaned over her. ‘Well, let me spell it out for you . . . I saw Mark at the murder scene and I wasn’t the only one.’

‘What?’

‘The police had a witness, an old derelict who was living on the hill, who saw Mark there too. I found him and he was ready to make a statement when he was run down in the street like a dog. Someone killed him, and I’ve good reason to believe that someone is connected to your son.’

She turned on me; her eyes darkened. She spat, ‘That’s crap!’

I let down my foot, flicked the ash from my tab, said, ‘I think you and I both know it isn’t, Katrina. I think you and your husband should think very carefully about how you are protecting Mark.’ I showed her my back, started off in the direction I’d come from. The SSPCA lot had been joined by a pumping lorry from Scottish Water.

‘Wait,’ called out Katrina.

I halted.

She came running. ‘What do you mean by that?’

I looked down the road, then at my watch, said, ‘Time’s running out for your son . . . He’s up to his neck in the murder of two men and one way or another the truth is going to come out.’

Katrina lost some colour from her face, dropped her gaze, fiddled with the rings on her fingers, said, ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Well, let’s see.’

As I walked to the edge of the road I was stopped by one of the SSPCA guys. ‘Got a light, pal?’

I produced a box of matches, handed them over. ‘What’s with the loch?’

‘Some idiot’s dumped a load of car batteries in there. Killing off all the swans it is.’

Over his shoulder I could see a colleague bagging up a dead swan. Said, ‘Another casualty?’

‘That’s the fifth one . . . They’d all be dead if it wasn’t for that.’ He pointed to the palace. ‘Can’t have Herself looking out on piles of dead swans. That would never do.’

I KNOW WHY
my words with Katrina Crawford dredged all of this up, but I didn’t want to face it. Sometimes, though, there’s just no escaping the past. I guess there’s just no way I’m getting free of this stuff, ever . . .

We can’t afford anything flash, so it’s a register office do. Hod’s helping out: hired the kilts, put Debs in a decent dress. Nothing fancy – she doesn’t need it. I can hardly stop staring at her as she appears, walking down the row of cheap plastic chairs they’re still laying out in a makeshift aisle. They play ‘Teenage Kicks’ by the Undertones, our wee joke; it’s a moment like no other.

We’re too young for this. Everyone says so.

‘Should be playing the field, Gus,’ Hod tells me. He’s done this a million and one times already.

‘Debs is all I ever wanted,’ I tell him back. I see it doesn’t register. It’s my first inkling that this day isn’t exactly blessed.

My heart’s beating so hard I wonder if it’ll burst out my chest and onto the floor. As Debs reaches my side she smiles. Not a big smile. Not even a natural smile. Nervous. She’s trembling. I don’t know if I’m allowed to look, never mind touch her, but I want to scoop her up in my arms and say,
It’s okay. It’ll all be okay
.

I freeze as the registrar speaks. She’s an old woman, steel-grey
hair
and specs. Small round ones like John Lennon’s. I like them because the fashion right now is for great big ones in bright red or green. She looks – what’s the word? –
schoolmarmish
.

It’s a joy to hear Debs say ‘I do’.

I’m so choked I can hardly manage to get my own words out.

When the ceremony’s over there’re calls for Debs to throw her little bouquet into the crowd. She doesn’t want to, says, ‘I’d like to hold on to it.’

It’s only a £1.99 job from the garage at the supermarket.

‘Well, don’t do it then. Keep it,’ I say.

‘That wouldn’t be fair.’

I know this is Debs all over – putting others first. She turns her back, throws the little bunch over her shoulder. I’m so glad to see the scramble for the flowers, the smiles and the heartfelt joy. I look at Debs and she’s smiling too. Maybe everything will work out okay, I think.

Hod has a camera. We go into the street. We have sunshine, a rarity.

An old woman wrapped in a blue scarf walks past and puts her hand on Deborah’s elbow, says, ‘My, you’re a beautiful bride, love.’

Debs smiles, thanks her.

I see cars slowing down to check us all in our best gear, happy. Rice and confetti go up and Hod hollers on us to get in a row in front of the register office.

We line up; there’s joking and fun all about. Debs reveals her garter; people applaud.

‘Gus, what’s worn under that kilt?’

That I
don’t
reveal. An old joke: ‘Nothing, it’s all in perfect working order!’

Hod clicks away. I imagine we’ll have quite an album. I’m growing used to the idea that we’ve made the right decision. Even after all that’s happened, all the pain. The heartache. The tears. The bloodshed. I forget the days before, when Debs begged her parents to give her another chance, to come to the wedding, give their blessing. I forget what I know people will be saying about why
we
’re here. We want to show the ones who said we were just stupid kids. To show the ones who said I’d amount to nothing. To show the ones who called Debs a silly wee cow. A hing-oot who got what she deserved.

We made a mistake. We know it. But this is putting it right, isn’t it? This is showing them.

Hod yells, ‘That’ll do . . . It’s a wrap!’

There’re laughs all round. People applaud.

The old woman with the blue scarf has stayed to watch. ‘You’ll have some lovely, lovely pictures, dear!’

Debs smiles. ‘Thank you.’

The old woman has a tear in her eye, a croak in her voice when she says, ‘You can tell the ones that are in love, you know . . . You can tell, for sure you can.’

I take a hankie out of my sporran, hand it to her. ‘I hope they’re happy tears, now.’

She wipes her eyes, says, ‘Och yes, och yes . . . I’m just so happy to see a young couple so in love.’

Debs reaches in, places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Oh, that’s so sweet of you. I’ll remember this moment for ever.’

I’m so filled with pride. I know what we’ve done is right now. Not because of what the old woman said, but because I see Debs believes her. She knows what she said is true. We have something special.

The old woman dabs at her eyes and, as she turns, says, ‘Cherish each other.’

I watch Debs’s lip tremble. I believe we both see decades of life together for us. We see each other growing old and grey. I know I feel sad, but I know it’s because the situation is such a happy one. It’s a complex feeling that I can’t explain. And then it vanishes.

There’s a kerfuffle. A struggle in the crowd.

I see Hod put down his camera bag, drop the tripod. He’s running towards the crowd, but it’s too late. A figure has pushed through; people step away.

Deborah’s mother appears.

Her face is a war mask. Dark. Angry. Violent.

She moves quickly. Not a run. But a purposeful stride. I grab Debs’s hand, move in front of my wife. I know what’s coming.

There’re words yelled. I only pick up a few of the familiar ones. The hatred in her voice is drowning the others out.

She reaches over me, tries to claw at Debs. Her own mother, clawing. Not a slap. Not a punch. Real, vile hate. Directed at her daughter.

I hold her away. She doesn’t land a single blow.

She tires herself out and stands back.

I release my grasp.

‘Shame on you,’ she says.

I raise my arms.

She speaks again: ‘Don’t touch me, you fool boy.’

I hold firm.

Debs is shaking with fright, tears, her face a red mess.

‘Why, Mum? Why? . . . I’m still the same person.’

Her mother steps forward. I’m surprised by her strength, power. She says, ‘You’re no daughter of mine.’ She spits in Debs’s face: ‘You whore!’

That’s it for me. ‘You don’t talk to my wife like that.’ I’m ready to slap her. I’ll kill her, I know it. Hod sees the fire in my eyes, steps in. He puts an arm round the mad woman’s waist, carries her away, kicking and screaming.

I turn to Debs. She falls into my arms. I have to hold her up.

Over her shoulder I see the old woman with the blue scarf standing open-mouthed. As she walks away, she drops the hankie I gave her. I want to tell her, but I’m too far gone from this world for words now. I wonder: Will I ever come back?

I HAD MORE
pressing matters to attend to, but I couldn’t put this off a minute longer.

My mother’s street was crammed with cars. When I was a boy, I played kerbie here, raced bikes with my brother Michael. Now there wasn’t a single child. Hot-hatches lined both kerbs. The yuppie tideline had risen again.

My mother’s front lawn – if you could call it that; barely a patch, really – had grown to a depressing height. Some litter blowing about, old Maccy D’s boxes and kebab-shop containers. I’d never seen the place neglected like this. For a moment I wondered if I had the right house.

‘What a tip,’ I mouthed.

The window in the front door looked filthy. This was something my mother usually took such pride in. I could still remember her scrubbing the step the last time I visited. What the hell was up here?

I rapped on the door.

Nothing.

Another rap.

Movement, voices.

I opened the letter box. The place looked like a dosshouse. Three or four sets of dirty trainers lying in the hallway, a pile of mail and a new Yellow Pages stacked up on the telephone shelf.

I yelled in, ‘Hello . . . hello?’

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ came back.

I didn’t know that voice: a male, young.

I dropped the letter box, stepped back. What the hell was going on here? The place a cowp, a young lad cursing like a trooper – in my father’s house only one person was ever allowed to speak like that.

I stepped back from the door. My heart pounded ferociously. I was about to put a boot through the frosted glass but thought better of it. I edged up to the front window, peered through a gap in the filthy, stained-yellow net curtains. Inside two youths in Adidas trackies and baseball caps sat on the couch, one of them crouched over, trying to light the bong in his hand. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Who the hell were they? What the hell was going on here?

I ran back to the door. I was ready to kick the lock off. Had a boot aimed when suddenly a key turned.

My mother peered out through a slit of light.

‘Mam?’

A shriek.

She shut the door quickly. Slammed it on me.

I knocked on the glass. ‘Mam, it’s me . . . Gus.’

‘Angus, go away.’

I heard some voices raised – the youths’, carrying out into the street.

I thumped on the door. ‘Mam, what the hell’s going on?’

Behind me a neighbour appeared at her gate, lugging two bulging Iceland carriers. ‘Oh, it’s you . . . Hope you’re there to sort that pair of wee bastards out.’

I turned. ‘What?’

‘Those little shits have been nothing but trouble since they moved in. You should be ashamed to have your own mother live like that, drug dealers round every other night, police cars. It’s a disgrace!’ She scowled at me, then marched indoors.

I went back to the letter box.

‘Mam, open this door now or I’m putting my foot through it.’