The Storm Without (2 page)

At every low point in my life, there was one common denominator. Beyond the despairs, the hurts, and the let-downs was the wisdom of our national poet, Burns.

Rabbie had been there when my marriage finally ended, reminding me of my stupidity with those lines from Tam O'Shanter implanted in my youth:

Ah, gentle dames it gars me greet, to think how mony counsels sweet. How mony lengthened, sage advices, the husband frae the wife despises

I remember returning to an empty, wifeless home. There was a car sitting outside. I tensed, the old alarm bells ringing. The Glock pistol I kept in the glove box came out; I dropped the revs and swept past the parked car with a damp finger on the trigger. My heart rate ramped, then dropped when I spotted Old Tommy sitting behind the wheel of the parked Cavalier.

'
What are you doing here?
'
I said, braking hard.

He wound down the window, leaned out a little.
'
I thought you could do with a friend.
'

He
'
d never been more right. And Tommy was always right. Had always kept me right.

We trashed a bottle of Bushmills, and whatever else I had in the house. I don
'
t know what we spoke about; football maybe, the price of bread. It didn
'
t matter. Blokes don
'
t do personal. We do distraction. So when Tommy hit me with a blast of wisdom on his way home it near winded me. He said,
'
Doug, she was only passing through
…
'

'
You what?
'

'
Angela
…'

The way he said my ex-wife
'
s name, the jolt it put in my heart, made me feel like I
'
d never heard the word before.

He went on,
'
Some people, mate, they
'
re only in your life for a limited time. They pass through, they teach you something, maybe you teach them something too. When the lessons are over, they leave.
'

I looked at him, sad Irish eyes intoning me to pull myself out of the spiral I was tangled up in.
'
And are you passing through, Tommy?
'

He smiled, leaned forward and planted the broad heel of his hand on my shoulder.
'
Some of us stick around
…
you can
'
t get rid of me so easy.
'

I closed the door on him and went back to the bottle.

I knew I was drawing on all kinds of past memories now; it could have been my age. It could have been part of the healing process. A new mindset maybe, the onset of melancholia. There was very little I knew about myself now; maybe that
'
s why I was reaching for the past, for familiarity.

In the final steps towards the bus shelter the rain kicked up, came down in heavy stair-rods that leapt a foot-and-a-half off the pavement. I jogged over the flags towards cover. Under the shelter the rain pounded a rough percussion on the roof. I watched the lonely figure before me; she fingered at the hem of her coat. I started to wipe my shoulders dry, moved forward. As I stood beside her, I was crouched over slightly, my head tipped to the side.

She turned,
'
Oh
…'

I stepped back. I
'
d startled her.
'
Sorry
…'

I took a step away; I was in her space, it seemed.

A headshake,
'
It
'
s okay.
'

I raised a palm, directed it towards her.
'
It
'
s Lyn, isn
'
t it?
'

I knew she
recognised
me too, but for reasons of her own she was playing coy. Squinting her eyes and tightening her jaw. Pretending to search her memory banks for the label on my photograph. Closer now, I could pinpoint miniscule changes I
'
d missed from the car. Her hair was darker than I remembered, probably dyed. Laughter lines sat in faint rows at the corner of her eyes. She smiled less; she smiled a lot less.

'
Doug
…
Doug Michie. God, it must be I don
'
t know how many years.
'

'
Too many probably.
'

Now a smile.
'
Best not to count, you mean?
'

'
Too right!
'

We chatted, found some common ground. Old ground. She seemed to be, if not chilling, relaxing slightly. I watched odd glimpses of the girl I
'
d known come and go. But the heavy air of despair that seemed to surround her clung, never left her. It was as if any burst of laughter, a brief smile even, had to be shut down quickly. She was never far from whatever it was that burdened her. She wore it like a pall.

'
Look, I don
'
t see much sign of a bus. Can I give you a run anywhere?
'
I said.

'
Well, where are you going?
'

I hadn
'
t given that much thought.
'
The town, I guess
…'

'
Are you staying?
'

I shrugged.
'
Yeah, for a time.
'

'
Well, where?
'

I hadn
'
t given that much thought either.
'
We
'
ll see.
'

She thinned her eyes, turned her neat chin towards her shoulder and frowned over the bridge of her nose.
'
Doug Michie
…
you haven
'
t changed!
'

'
Let
'
s get out the rain anyway, warmed up
…
how about I shout you a coffee?
'

She looked unsure, gripped the strap of her bag and held her hand there. I was confident a rejection followed, but she surprised me:
'
Okay. I know a place.
'

Lyn sheltered under her bag as we ran through the rain towards the car. My breath was still heavy when we got inside; the windows steamed. I turned on the heater, cleared the windscreen and pulled out. I stared towards the rain-pelted old racecourse and had a smile to myself.

'
I remember playing footy out there
…
in weather like that.
'

Lyn leaned her head forward, eyed the grey sky.
'
No-one playing today though.
'

'
They wouldn
'
t let kids play in that these days
…
there
'
d be a court case.
'

Lyn
'
s face changed, grew darker than the sky above. I felt my throat constrict; an urge to correct myself appeared, but I didn
'
t know what I had said to upset her. I tried to lock it down, stared front. I planted the foot to beat the lights. At Wellington Square the rain was bucketing down. I hit the roundabout, took the exit after the Sandgate, and followed the road round the bus station.

I wanted to speak now, say something, anything. But I couldn
'
t find the words. I watched Lyn
'
s pained expression as she stared out the window and felt grateful for the noise of the heater — I wondered if it had stopped the atmosphere inside the car from freezing over completely.

'
The coffee shop
'
s round there, past the club.
'

'
In the wee arcade?
'

'
Aye, the Lorne Arcade.
'

I nodded. The name of the place registered at once — I felt myself settling back into Auld Ayr, if not settling over what I
'
d said to upset Lyn.

'
I
'
ll park at the old Tesco.
'

She smiled.
'
The old Tesco?
…
Haven
'
t heard it called that for donkey
'
s.
'

I was glad for the ice-breaker, smiled back.
'
I could tell you a story about that joint — nearly cost me my place in the force.
'

'
Really?
'

'
Yeah, it was one of my schoolboy pranks. Shoplifting a pack of Tunnock
'
s caramel wafers and a bottle of ginger!
'

She ventured a little laugh.
'
And you got caught, I take it?
'

'
Oh aye. Marched into the manager
'
s office and made to stare at my shoes for half an hour while he threatened to call my parents.
'
I was grinning at the memory.
'
Think it was then I decided I wasn
'
t cut out for a life of crime.
'

I collected my ticket for the car park, spotted a space and parked up. Lyn seemed to have returned to silence once more. I prattled on.
'
Aye, I was lucky the manager didn
'
t call in the police, might have put me off joining up. Contact with uniform is never a good thing for boys that age, unsettles them.
'

Tears suddenly burst from Lyn. She lunged forward, dropping her head in her hands.

'
Lyn
…'

Her shoulders shook as she wailed in hurt.

'
Lyn
…
what is it?
'
I felt lost, saddened for her. But confused. I knew she was weighed down, worried, though I
'
d no clue what about. She seemed broken.

I placed a hand on her trembling frame,
'
What
'
s the matter?
'

She turned round; her eyes were lined with red, her cheeks now streamed with rivers of black mascara. I watched her mouth twist into a rictus as she struggled for a jumble of words.
'
It
'
s Glenn
…
they
'
ve taken him.
'

Something stirred in me, an old instinct. A bit of police training perhaps. I turned in my seat to face her.
'
Who
'
s Glenn?
'

She spluttered,
'
My boy
…
my son.
'

She buried her face in her hands once more and rocked to and fro. Her tears were choking her as she tried to grasp for breath.

I took her hands in mine, motioned her to straighten herself and take some air. She was hysterical, stripped of all dignity.

'
Lyn, look at me.
'

She turned.

I lowered my tone.
'
Now tell me, who has taken your son?
'

Her lips started to quiver as she tried to speak.

The coffee couldn
'
t come quickly enough. I sat with my back to the counter, turning every few moments to check the waiter
'
s progress at the machine. I was glad to be out of the rain, indoors. When I had last been in Ayr, coffee came in a mug, was instant, and strong. The taste made you wince, near stripped the enamel off your teeth. Now even the Auld Toun had become part of the coffee revolution; it was a welcome change, but right now, the process was taking too long.

In front of me, my former school friend sat meddling with the corner of a cardboard menu. I smiled at her, tried to insinuate some sense of normality into the proceedings but I knew what she was about to reveal would be a heartscald. Likely, to both of us. I wondered if I was really the person for her to be unburdening herself to; I had enough troubles of my own to contend with. Something told me she needed help though, and I
'
d always been a sucker for a friend in need.

I leaned back in my chair, eyed the soft furnishings and chi-chi décor.
'
Nice place.
'

Lyn
'
s eyes brightened; she looked around her.
'
Yeah, good coffee too.
'

I smiled.
'
It
'
s a step up on the old greasy spoons I remember about the town.
'

'
Oh, they
'
re still there
…
you just have to know where to look for them.
'

Lyn dropped the menu. I drummed a finger on the surface.
'
No roll
'
n
'
slice?
'

Almost a laugh.
'
No there is not!
…
I bet you
'
re still a pie and beans man.
'

'
You cannae beat a good cow-brain pie, Lyn.
'

We were laughing now, both thawed.