2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (41 page)

This is hopeless. She’s tried to trip him up by seeing if she can get him to betray some knowledge of the video footage or the cameras, things that haven’t been mentioned to him by the police and that he only ought to know about if he was indeed in cahoots with McGeechy or even with Johnny Turner. Nothing. Not a glimmer. Either he’s a lot smarter than she ever gave him credit for or he really knows nothing about this stuff.

Okay, Karen girl, Occam’s Razor time.

Noodsy was never smart. He might be shrewder and more streetwise these days, but not smart. Armed with this much information, she’s wheedled plenty out of far brighter guys than him. If it yet turns out he did outwit her, she’s resigning forthwith, because it would mean she can’t do this job any more.

She hears a knock at the interview-room door and turns around to see Tom peering through the narrow window. He beckons with his fingers. She stops the tape and excuses herself. Noodsy just glowers as she exits into the corridor.

“Save me, Tom, I’m sinking here.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“What?”

“Just got a call from the Southern General. Robbie Turner is awake and off his ventilator.”

“Thank Christ. On every possible level, thank Christ.”

“Got those CCTV captures I was waiting for as well; email came in about ten minutes ago.”

“And?”

Tom just nods.

“How’s the quality?”

“Good enough. Shall we?” he asks, gesticulating towards the exit.

“One minute,” she says. “I’m going to pass on the good news first.”

She opens the door. Noodsy has his head in his hands as she walks in. He does that any time he’s left alone; it’s like he’s scared it’ll fall off and roll away. He glances up and sighs. He looks knackered, but he’s mustering whatever he’s got left for repelling one more assault.

She doesn’t turn on the tape just yet. It can’t record what he’s about to tell her anyway; it’s his expression that is going to say it all.

“Robbie’s awake,” she says. “And talking.”

Noodsy’s eyes brighten, the way she imagines they must have when Martin Jackson walked in.

“Thank Christ,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, too.”

T
his is fuckin yes. Best time Robbie has had since he can remember. He was nervous as fuck about coming, wasn’t sure until right up to the last minute whether he’d even bother in case he ended up standing about like a tool, as welcome as diarrhoea in a bedpan, but no, it’s well worth it. The dance floor is kind of wee and the function suite’s a bit cramped for this many folk, but the atmosphere is brilliant. Folk are being really cool for a change. He’s been talking away to everybody, lassies as well, and he’s even dancing with them. He’s up on the floor right now, dancing with Zoe Lawson, and that’s as well as dancing with Alison Taylor, Karen Gillespie and even Samantha Gerrity.
It
’s not like that means he’s in with a shout of getting off with any of them, especially not a pure doll like Samantha, but that’s the whole point. That’s what’s brilliant about it. It’s dead friendly.

He wishes it had always been more like this. Look at Zoe there, for instance. He can remember her from their very first day at primary, when she burst a carton of milk, but he can’t remember having a conversation with her in the whole twelve years since. That’s probably true of just about every lassie here for most of the guys, but it’s not the lassies that are making him feel kind of regretful. He’s had plenty of conversations with the guys here, but he’s starting to wish he’d been less of a cunt during most of them. Not be long until they all move on, and that’ll be that, all over. Then what chance has he of seeing half of them again? Martin Jackson’s leaving this year, away to uni. Not much odds of seeing him again, that’s for sure, and Martin’ll not give him the time of day if he ever does. Can’t blame him, right enough. Martin never did anything bad to any cunt, but he still got given a lot of shite.

One more year and then that’ll be
everybody
away. Robbie’s not very sure he’ll be staying on after the summer, either. It’s been hard enough at home over him staying on for Fifth Year. Can’t see the old man wearing it if he says he wants a sixth.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and find a job. That way he could move out the house, get away from the family. It’s been fucking murder lately. Ma and Da fighting all the time, and what makes it worse is he now knows what it is they’ve always been fighting about. It all came out last summer, when he said he wanted to stay on and do Higher History because he got a ‘B’ for his O Grade. He didn’t let on to anybody, in case they made out he was a poof, but he was well chuffed at getting a ‘B’. He also got ‘C’s in Arith and Geography.

Da—aye, right: “Da”—said no chance. Wanted him out the house soon as he was sixteen, never mind out the school. Said it was time for him to support himself. Ma pointed out there was no way of supporting himself if there were no fucking jobs, and he’d be in with a better shout of getting one later if he’d more exams. And that’s when Da lost the place and said it: “I’ve supported that useless wee cunt for sixteen fuckin years an he’s no even mine.”

Aye, that was a champagne fucking moment.

However, tell the truth, when Da finally came out with it, Robbie realised it was something he’d suspected deep down for a long, long time. Just never got round to admitting it to himself. Not as if there hadn’t been plenty of fucking clues down the years. But there you are, that was it finally in the open.

He’d since asked his ma millions of times who his real da was, but she wouldn’t tell him. “Just leave it,” she’d always say.
Leave it?
This was his fucking father he was talking about. Did she really expect him to shrug his shoulders and quit asking? Probably not, but she wasn’t fucking telling, that was for sure, and she got really upset if he pushed it too hard. Da leathered him for it once, absolutely knocked fuck out him. He saw’Ma was upset, and even though she wouldn’t say what was wrong, Da guessed. Told Robbie never to ask her again, so that was always the risk he was running.

Atmosphere in the house has been fucking awful ever since; worse than usual recently. He can’t see himself getting his Higher history. He didn’t think he did well in either paper. Hardly studied in the run-up because he couldn’t bear to be in the house. Realistically, he can’t see himself being able to come back and resit it next year. That’s why he’s lapping this up the now: he knows it’s the end.

Scot Connolly appears alongside him, dancing with Helen Dunn. Robbie might end up dancing with Helen in a minute, because there’s a lot of that been happening: you just swap over and dance with whoever. That’s how he ended up getting a dance off Samantha. Mind you, he might not get a swap off Scotty, as now he thinks about it, he’s not seen either of this pair dancing with anybody else since really early on.

The song changes and Zoe starts dancing with big Tico Hughes, who was behind Robbie dancing with Margaret-Anne. This leaves Robbie with her as a partner, and it kind of says it all about tonight that she just smiles and gets on with it. Margaret-Anne can be a right torn-faced bitch, and if anybody was going to give him a knock-back, she’d be the one. Well, maybe not just her. There’s Eleanor as well. That would be the ultimate test, wouldn’t it? He can see her close by, now that he’s facing the other way. She’s with Kenny Langton, and she’s smiling, probably because Kenny’s coming out with all his jokes as usual. Robbie’s glad she’s smiling, but. It’s a fucking sin for her, what happened. Her ma killed herself. Took a fucking overdose. Left a note, they said, then washed down a bottle of sleeping tablets with a half-bottle of vodka. It was about a month ago. Eleanor’s not been back at school since. Missed her exams and everything. Nobody knew whether she’d come along tonight, but maybe it’s a way of breaking herself back in gently. He’s tried not to look out for her, because he knows everybody’!! be doing that, and he of all folk understands what it feels like to be the subject of their fascination.

He’d like to talk to her, but, to let her know he’s been there as well, and that he knows how hard it is when every cunt’s tiptoeing round you but unable to keep their eyes off you.

He wants to say sorry as well. All that shite between them, it was fuck-all to do with him and her. It was all about fucking Boma and Joe—mostly Boma—and how much they hated the Fenwick boys. He and Eleanor were just caught in the middle, and he feels like he ought to say something about it. This feels like the kind of night for things like that. Everybody’s getting on, acting like adults, treating each other with a wee bit of respect. Tempo’s still acting like Charlie Big Balls, because it’s his da’s gaff, but other than that, nobody’s holding any grudges.

Aye, he thinks. That’s what times like this are for.

He moves along a bit as he dances, Margaret-Anne staying close, following his lead, then he positions himself so that he’s got his back to Kenny.

The record starts fading and another one begins. He taps Kenny’s shoulder and he turns round.

“Awright, Robbie?” Kenny says with a big grin, then flashes his gnashers at Margaret-Anne, stepping in to be her new partner.

Robbie side-steps to let him pass, then finds himself face-to-face with Eleanor in the centre of the dance floor. Linda Ogilvie’s to his left, dancing with Matt Cannon; and Big Tempo’s on the right, dancing with Jojo.

§

Colin is getting a semi here, which is a worry. He knows these trousers with the double pleat look cool-as, because he saw Don Johnson wearing a pair just like them on
Miami Vice
, but if his cock doesn’t cool the jets in a minute, it’s going to be really fucking obvious. Would have been all right if he’d just worn Ys instead of these boxer shorts, but the boxers look a sight more sexy if they’re all you’ve got on, and he’s set fair to be seen in just that condition not too many hours from now. That’s why he’s getting a semi, in fact. It’s quite a bouncy record that’s on—
Waterfront
(the DJ’s been told: plenty Simple Minds and Bowie or he’ll not be getting another gig at the Bleachfield)—and between the sight of Jojo’s tits jiggling about in that low-cut dress and his own unsupported tackle swinging free, it’s difficult to think about anything else.

He’s been buttering up Jojo for a few weeks now, and this is when it’s all planned to pay off. He’s the main man here tonight, everybody knows it; it’s practically his party, and he’s got a room ready upstairs.

Embarrassing to relate, Tempo’s never done it, and that seriously needs to be put right, which is why he’s been working hard and carefully on this. Ideally, he’d have lined up somebody that’s definitely done it already, because that would be a surer bet. Unfortunately, most of the ones who he knows have done it are either spoken for or total dogs. He doesn’t know whether Jojo’s done it or not, but she always talks big about sex, so he reckoned she would be a good shout. If she hasn’t done it, then it’ll probably be a worry to her that most of her pals have, because Jojo always likes to be the one in the know. Plus, she’s not the bonniest of that crowd, still a bit on the plump side, so he’s accurately predicted she’d be flattered he was paying her so much attention; in fact, semi-officially going out together. So far he’s had a finger up her and she’s given him a wank, so he’s betting that now she’s the one on the arm of the star of the show tonight, she’ll reckon her ship’s come in. And he’ll be sailing that ship right upstairs and on to that king-size.

§

Robbie smiles at Eleanor, trying to look apologetic, trying to look friendly.

Eleanor smiles too, for about a second, the second it takes for it to register who she’s dancing with, who she’s looking at. Then her face just sort of crumbles. She stares at him, not dancing, not moving. He’s expecting a mouthful, or her to turn away, but she just stands there, looking at him, staring at him, and there’s this look in her eyes, this sadness.

He sees her mouth start to tremble. She raises her arms. For a fraction of a second he thinks, incredibly, that she’s about to hug him, but then she collapses into tears. And he means collapses. She puts her hands to her face, then her legs go wobbly and she slumps to the floor on her knees.

Jojo’s right in there like a shot, helping her up and leading her away, right out the room. Robbie should have been the one to lift her, to help her, but he felt unable to move, like he was stuck in a silent glass box with everything still going on around it. He was paralysed in the moment because he saw exactly what Eleanor saw, saw what had knocked her down, what her dead ma must have told her in that note before she went.

Did Boma and Joe know as well, all this time, he wonders? No. Specially not Boma. Cunt would never have been able to keep his mouth shut. All he’d have known was that his da hated the Fenwicks, was never done slagging them and especially their no-good father who walked out on the whole sorry bunch.

§

“I took her out to the car park for some air,” says Jojo. “Took her to the toilets first, but they were mobbed. We sat on the steps to the fire escape and she just poured it all out. We weren’t big pals or anythin back then—no enemies either, we got on okay—but no exactly confidantes, you know? I think it just needed to come out. She needed to tell somebody, and I was the first person on hand to take an interest.”

“I had no idea,” Martin says. “I don’t think anybody did. We all just assumed she broke down because it was too big an occasion for her to be in the middle of after her mum died. I don’t think anyone thought Robbie’s part was anything more than incidental. In fact, I don’t think anybody else today would have been able to tell me who Eleanor was dancing with when it happened.”

“And that’s where you’d be wrong again, Professor.”

§

Colin stands next to Jojo as she helps Eleanor to her feet. He’s offering an arm to help support the lassie, but Jojo shakes her head and puts out a hand, gesturing him to leave them alone. “I’m takin her oot,” Jojo says. “Just leave us the now.” He nods and steps out of the way. Around him there are couples and groups still dancing, oblivious to what just happened, or maybe in some cases politely pretending they never saw it. There’s plenty more being less sensitive or discreet: heads turned, fingers tapping shoulders, hands cupped to ears. And then there’s Robbie: standing like it’s a massive game of sticky statues and he’s the only one who thinks the music’s stopped.