Bridge of Hope (3 page)

As I sat there drinking and reminiscing, I began to think about what Stella had suggested. Could I do it? Could I get up there in front of a live audience and play? What’s more, could I
sing
? My voice was okay I suppose, but I was no fucking Eddie Vedder, that’s for sure. I saw Pearl Jam live many years ago and let me tell you, the way he sang “Black” sent shivers down my spine and brought tears to my eyes, I don’t mind admitting it. Such raw fucking emotion oozed out of every syllable. I could
never
be that good.

Anyway, I picked up Rhiannon and began to think about the stuff I used to listen to with Mairi. Stella wanted uplifting, so I racked my brain for songs that took me back to happier times. I smiled as the perfect song sprang to mind and I began to play Semisonic’s “Closing Time”. Well, I potentially was going to be playing in a pub, so it was probably the most fitting song I could close a night with.

And the song made me think about Mairi.

We’d been at a club in Oban with some of her friends. It was a kind of indie-rock club that had an open mic night every so often. They were a loopy bunch, that’s for sure. I’d be leaving my car at the club, and we were staying with the crazy crowd that thankfully lived within staggering distance. They’d all had a bit to drink, and Mairi had told them that I had Rhiannon in the back of the Landy. So the group encouraged me to get up and sing a number. Luckily I’d had a fair few bevvies too, and so I was relaxed enough to think it was a fucking
great
idea! Anyways, I got up and played “Closing Time”. The whole place joined in at the chorus, but
I was aiming those particular words right at Mairi as she danced with her eyes locked on mine. It was such a buzz and I was all hyped up when I got off the stage. My performance had quite an effect on Mairi too, and she dragged me into what turned out to be a broom closet to ravage me. So as you can imagine, the song has a special place in my heart and always brings a smile to my face.

So I had one song.

Great.

But one song does
not a performance make. Placing Rhiannon down safely, I decided to go through my CD collection and pick out some more songs that I could play
if
I were to do a gig. Which I
wasn’t
, of course. I’d already decided not to. But it wouldn’t hurt to listen to some music, would it? And if I happened to learn a few more songs on the guitar, where would be the harm in that, eh?

An hour later I had the makings of a set list. I’d chosen “Trouble” by Ray Lamontagne, “Caledonia” by Dougie MacLean, and “Chasing Cars” by one of my favourite bands, Snow Patrol. Another hour and I’d found a few more songs that I could play fairly easily without much practising; a bit of Fleetwood Mac, some Oasis, and a few other tracks that made me smile. The more I played, the more I got lost in the music and the poetry of the lyrics. Maybe Stella was right after all. Maybe playing music in front of an audience whilst I was sober wasn’t such a bad idea. I resolved to give it some serious thought.

As I restrung the E that had snapped when I got a little overzealous—playing a la Jimmy Page and making rather a poor attempt at an acoustic version of “Dazed and Confused”—although I blamed the crap sound on the fact that the tuning was slipping—the landline rang. My brow furrowed in confusion. No one ever rang me. I placed Rhiannon down again, deciding that maybe she needed some work and that I’d have to take her in to get her looked at.

“Hello?” I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice at being disturbed on my evening off.

“Gregory?”

“Aye, that’s me. Who’s this?”

The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat. “It’s Duncan… Mairi’s father.”

My stomach dropped. The last time he had called me was to tell me that Mairi wasn’t coming home and that they’d called off the search.

I swallowed hard. Five months had passed since he had dropped that bombshell, and I was dreading the reason for his call. I inhaled a deep, cleansing breath as quietly as I could.

“Duncan… hi. What… what can I do for you?”

“I… erm… thought you’d want to know that some of the equipment belonging to Mairi’s expedition team has been recovered.”

Fuck!
“I see… I see. Anything else?” My heart was hammering so hard, I felt sure he could feel the vibration all the way down in Dumfries.

“Nothing else. Just some of their smaller items. Due to the location they were found in, it appears they may have fallen from higher up the mountain. There was no sign of—of bodies.”

The word
bodies
made my head swim, and suddenly I felt overcome with nausea. I had to lean on the windowsill and breathe deeply. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Duncan. I appreciate your call.”

“That’s okay. And Gregory?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… erm… very sorry about what Paula said to you last time we spoke. She knows deep down that none of this was your fault. She was just looking for someone to blame. Mairi was her only daughter and losing her”—he cleared his throat again—“was so very painful for her mother.”

My lower lip began to tremble as Paula’s words echoed in my mind and stabbed at my heart all over again. “
If you hadn’t encouraged her, she’d still be here. You should’ve stopped her from going. You obviously didn’t love her enough. And now she’s dead thanks to you!
”
I closed my eyes and chewed the inside of my cheek, fighting the despair tugging at my insides.

“Aye, Duncan. I know that. Thank you.”

“Right… well… if I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Duncan.” I ended the call and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. More shit had been found but still no sign of my Mairi.

The fact that Mairi’s mother had blamed me for the death of her daughter five months ago had saddled me with a heavy weight of guilt that I was struggling to shake. How could I move on with my life when things kept reminding me that I was doing so alone? Without her.

I needed some air.

I grabbed my iPod and my thick jacket. The sky looked heavy with snow, but I needed to get out and clear ma head. I pulled on my hat, scarf, and gloves and called to Angus. He’d go out whatever the weather.

We walked down the lane from my house toward the main part of the village. I stuck the buds into my ears and hit play. “Set Fire to The Third Bar” by Snow Patrol filled my head as I walked. The lyrics tugged at my heart and mind as they took on their own meaning just for me. Huge, glistening flakes of snow began to float to the ground, twisting and turning as they made their descent. Gazing up into the dark sky, I watched their journey. There would’ve been snow at the high altitude of Mairi’s climb. The fact that she would have been so frightened, cold, and maybe even physically hurt twisted at my gut. My eyes began to sting. Was it my fault? Could I have done anything to change her mind?

No.

And if I had stopped her, she’d have resented me, and I would’ve lost her anyway. It was a lose-lose situation whichever way I looked at it, and I knew I had to work on the blame I was piling onto myself.

Pulling the chilled air into my lungs, I hoped that I could somehow exhale all the anguish that I was holding on to. But instead when I reached the centre of the arched stone bridge, my legs almost gave way as I stopped and listened intently to the heartbreaking lyrics being played directly into my brain. Like a blade the words pierced me to the core, reminding me yet again that I was, in fact, without the woman that I loved and that the situation would never improve. I would
never
see her again.

She was gone forever, and forever was a hell of a long time.

Chapter Four

By the time I arrived back home, there was a thick covering of white over the road. The garden looked like an iced Christmas cake waiting for its holly and berry adornments. A veritable Christmas card scene in fact. The thought made me snort derisively.

That was another thing that irked me; Christmas had always been my favourite time of year. Mairi was such a kid when it came to gift giving, and she always went over the top. She never spent lots of money or anything, but you could hardly move in the house for bloody paper chains and tinsel. There was always the biggest tree we could find, taking up half the lounge and decorated in such a way that made it look liked we’d hired five-year-olds to do it.

We had every crass singing Santa figure she could find and a life-size inflatable snowman for the front yard. She was so thoughtful when it came to gifts too, and there were always lots of daft things for me. I’d received things like a key ring with a photo of the two of us in it, a guitar-shaped air freshener for the Landy—’cause she always said it stank of wet dog—charming, eh? There was always a T-shirt from one of my favourite bands and usually some chocolate novelty thing like a Santa or Reindeer. One time I got a photo collage she’d made of us in all our favourite places throughout the Highlands—that gift was my favourite. Aye, she never failed to make the festive season special.

We’d usually defy convention and have something completely different to most Scots at Christmas. There was no turkey, no haggis, and no stuffing. Instead we’d have something like curry or
kleftiko
—just because it was fun and different. My favourite was the Mexican food we had at Christmas 2009. She’d put too much chilli in the fajitas and they were almost inedible, but it was hilarious seeing the rainbow of colours our faces turned as we tried to get them down. I think we went through more beer in that one meal than we did the rest of the season put together.

This last Christmas, however, had passed me by in a kind of drunken blur. There had been no tinsel or inflatable snowmen. No tree and no gifts. I’d been holed up in the house, drinking whiskey and wallowing in self-pity with no intention of venturing outside at all if I could help it.

Stella and Ron had insisted on making the journey up the icy lane to bring me food and logs, despite my numerous protests. Stella had even warmed up a beef stew and stood over me to make sure I ate it. I had lost all the muscle definition that I’d spent time building up, and I was beginning to look anorexic. As a man who usually ate a tattie more than a pig does, I was very much aware that this was not
normal; nor was it healthy.

Since Christmas I’d been lifting the weights again in ma spare room. I’d always taken pride in my physique—and let’s face it, it was another great way to release some of the tension and anger lodged deep inside of me since Mairi disappeared on K2. I was carrying the pain, bottling up so much grief and anger that I made a decision that would stay with me permanently.

January 2011

Sitting in the plush waiting area of the tattoo parlour in Oban, surrounded by black leather and images of the most intricate ink work imaginable, I bounced my knee up and down as my nerves jangled and my heart did its best to vacate my ribcage. Some of those tats must’ve taken hours upon hours to complete, and I could only imagine the pain that these victims—erm, clients—went through. I was no wimp, but electing to have someone stab me with a needle a few thousand times was not something that ever really had appealed to me before this shit had happened in my life.

I’d been thinking long and hard about designs throughout the rest of January, and I’d settled on two. If I was going to go through the pain of permanent scarring, I figured fuck it, might as well get it all done at once.

One of the tattoos was to mark the biggest loss of my life. But in complete contrast, the other one was a Gaelic phrase which roughly translated as “Love Conquers All”. A
K2
wrapped in barbed wire would circle my bicep, and the Gaelic phrase would be printed across my chest in the hope that every time I saw it I’d be reminded not to fucking give up on love. I’d had shit luck with women in the past, that was certain. But I was still hopeful that one day, far off in the future—but not so far off that I was an old decrepit fart incapable of getting an erection—I’d meet someone who wouldn’t shag my best mate
or
die on a fucking mountain.

One day.

The artist called me over and I sat in the chair, bare chested and gritting my teeth. We’d discussed the designs and he’d shown me what he was going to do as soon as I arrived. To say I was shitting bricks was a major understatement. And
fuck
did it hurt. But a few hours later—and with my teeth surprisingly intact despite the fact that my jaws had been clenched the entire time—I was lathered in lotion, cling wrapped, and ready to go.

The tattoos looked
amazing
. It was definitely the right decision.

When I got home I stood in the bathroom, removed my T-shirt and the coverings, and stared in the mirror, focusing on the new ink. I had my permanent reminder. Not that I thought I would ever forget, but the memorial service her friends held had felt inconsequential and so this had felt necessary. It was cathartic somehow. It was my own personal tribute to Mairi and what we’d shared.