Demo (26 page)

How d'you do that? she said. Her voice sounded slow, blurred.

It's in the genes. Right, if you can stand up, we'll rinse that soap out your eyes.

The eyes!

Yes, your eyes.

No, the eyes in the basin. They were all staring at me!

What? Look, are you OK to sit there? I'll get Julian.

No, don't leave me here. Please don't leave me.

Right, OK. There are no eyes in the basin. Do you hear me? Stand up and I'll show you.

He helped her to her feet and held her so that they both looked into the water in the sink. The bubbles were still there, still yellowed by the bare lightbulb, but there were no eyes.

See, no eyes, Jed said.

But I saw them. I was washing my hair and they were staring at me.

You imagined it. Must have been a reflection or somethin. He was keeping a firm grip on her. The front of her T-shirt was wet and it felt cold against her belly and thighs, pressed to the edge of the sink.

A reflection? She pulled off the towel, dropped it to the floor. Hold on to me, she said. Hold on to me here. And she pulled Jed's hands to her waist. He did as he was told, though she could feel his discomfort. She put her hands on top of her head, stretched her arms to the side. There they were again. The eyes staring. But her head was the iris, the curve of her arms the shape of the eyelid, her jutting elbows the corners. She could see now. It looked like an eye. Her reflection, repeated in a thousand bubbles, stared back at her.

It's me, she said. It was me. Oh, Jed, you're right. Thank God. Thank you. Thank you. She turned and looked at his face properly for the first time. His eyes had the slightly naked look of one used to wearing glasses; he was frowning with concern. It was only now she realized that she was shivering and tears were running down her face.

Don't tell, Julian, she said. I feel such a fool.

He took a lot of convincing, but finally, once she'd rinsed her hair, towel dried it, sneaked into the room, retrieved some warm clothes from her bag and put them on, made them both a cup of tea, perched on the bar stool in the kitchen to drink it – finally, finally, Jed was prepared to leave her and go to his work.

Well, if you can stay up on that stool, I guess you must be OK.

I hope I haven't made you late, she said.

He made a face and a dismissive movement of his hands.

Thank you, Jed.

But he was gone, clattering down the stairs.

The river was fat and brown and slick, moving slowly, with little rapids here and there, past islands of vegetation. Low bare branches of what she supposed must be willows stretched in some places half across the water. A pungent loamy smell rose from the bank. They walked upriver along a narrow path. Somewhere above to their left was a school; she could hear the voices of children raised in play.

It's wonderful to have this on your doorstep, she said.

They'd been walking in silence and her words sounded false, even though she meant them. Last night's tension still hung like a miasma between them, noxious, refusing to disperse; it had taken two long hours of skirting round the edges of it, before she could persuade Julian to go out with her.

Hmm, Julian said. The great consolation of Nature.

Well, doesn't it console you?

What, a murky brown river full of plastic bags and supermarket trolleys? That
flash upon the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude
.

She laughed. They were on familiar territory again. I don't see any supermarket trolleys.

That, my dear, is only because of the recent rain; the river is swollen now and mercifully covers the urban detritus. In summer, you'll discover all conceivable varieties of supermarketus trolleyus.

Now that he'd pointed it out, she noticed rags of coloured
plastic littering the banks, clinging to the rotting vegetation, and now and then a bag, snagged on a branch, bellying out whenever a breeze caught it. Through it all, the river flowed, ponderous and dark. But it was a bright day, fresh after yesterday's heavy rain, and it dispelled the vision of the eyes in the basin.

I decree the plastic bags shall be bunting and today a festival of… of… Of rubbish?

No… of renewal. It's good to be out with you like this, Julian. Blow away the cobwebs.

Cobwebs? You have cobwebs? You didn't tell me that. But he took her hand in his and kept it there when joggers or cyclists raced past and they had to flatten themselves against the railing.

They stopped by a weir where there was room to stand, out of the path of walkway traffic. At the bottom of the miniature falls, two footballs and a tennis ball bounced and whirled on the surface, prevented by the churning water from escaping downstream.

I think I may give up the PhD and do some research into Aunt Laetitia instead.

What, throw over Ginny and Gertie for Titty?

Yes. Is that a problem?

Will Daddy still finance you, if you do?

I don't know. Maybe I'll get a job.

A job? What kind of job?

I don't know. A call centre? A bar? A café? Something in publishing? There are plenty of wine and coffee bars in Glasgow. And Scotland
does
have one or two publishing houses. Doesn't it?

Julian said nothing. They watched the water rush over the weir. Towards the middle, a wooden spool for holding cable
had come to a halt on the lip. Behind it, twigs and branches collected. An island in the stream.

They had let go of the railing to walk on to the Botanic Gardens, when it came, a sudden darkening of the blue above. A heron. He landed on the wooden spool and folded big grey wings.

Julian looked at her, smiled, said nothing.

The heron stood and watched.

They blew up the high flats yesterday. I went wi my da to watch. Ma was at work, but she didny want to see it anyhow. A part of my past, she says. Our past. The family's past. Wild horses woudny drag me up that hill to watch them tearin down they buildins.

I don't remember it but, stayin in the high flats. We moved when I was eight months old. Danny remembers. He loved that place. Says his life changed for the worse when we moved to Kirbister Street. I think he blames me. Pardon me for bein born, I says to him, but he didny laugh. I told him he should come and watch the demolition, but he says, Will my da be there?

They've been preparin the explosives and that for the past couple a months. And they upped the security at night, in case anybody got any ideas. Such as settin fire tay the buildins afore they were ready. Or detonatin the explosives. Maybe even stealin them for – I don't know –
terrorist purposes
, like they're aye sayin on the news.

Anyhow, when we gets to the top a the hill, me an my da, there's already quite a crowd round the barrier. And polis keepin everybody back. Some folk are lookin up and pointin. That's where we lived. Fourteenth floor. See there. That wan wi the broken windie. I look up, but most of the windies are broken, as far as I can see. Right up to the top storey. I wonder who tanned them all in. Probably that's how they've decided to blow up baith blocks at once; stop any more vandalism. There's a right cold wind up here, even though it's no that
cold down in Kirbister Street. A boy standin next to us is chitterin. He's only wearin a wee thin jacket and he's got his hands stuffed in the pockets and his shoulders are up round his ears. I think I've saw him at the school, even though he doesny look old enough to be in secondary. His lips are pure blue. Just as well my ma's no here; she'd be takin him hame to our house for his tea and wrappin him up wi woolly scarfs an jumpers.

Somebody's singin. It sounds like a couple a they jakies that hang around the shops. I look back through all the folk. Aye, the pair a them are dancin, arm in arm, both wi a can a lager in the other hand, singin.
Start spreading the news…
Some a the boys are standin round clappin, eggin them on.
I'm leaving today…
My da looks ower his shoulder.

Walter Fairlie, he says to me. Aye, that's old Walter. Used to work wi me in Thomson's. A great guy, great workmate. Do anythin for you, for anybody. Couldny do it for himsel, but; couldny get hissel off the drink. Damn shame.

I look at them again and canny imagine either a they guys workin wi my da. They're aye at the shops wi their cans durin the day, drunk as skunks, till somebody phones the polis. Don't know where they go then but. I never make eye contact with them. You don't know what they might say to you.
These vagabond shoes…

What one's Walter? I says to my da, but he's no listenin.

I want to be a part of it, New York, New York…

There's more and more folk crowdin round the barrier. Somebody presses right up against me and I have to take my hands out my pockets and brace mysel against the railing. It's dead cold and for a wee minute I think my hands are goin to stick to the metal at the top. I'm glad I'm wi my da. He turns round and says, Here, nay shovin, pal; that's my lassie. His breath comes out in a big cloud. It's no dead aggressive, the
way he says it, but the guy behind me stops pushin. Naybody messes wi my da, even if he isny that big. He puts his arm across my shoulder and pulls me closer to him.

Tell me again what flat we stayed in, I says.

Seventh floor. He points up. Fourth window along. Used to have red curtains. I mind standin at that windie wi you in my arms lookin out to the hills in the distance. You could see right ower to the Campsies. I seem to remember they had snow on them, so it must've been no that long efter you were born.

Was Danny there?

My da looks up at the window again. Canny remember. Probably. I mind the day we took you hame fae the hospital. You were sleepin. Wrapped up like a parcel in a shawl your granny had knitted. Just your wee red napper pokin out the top. We stepped out the lift and…

I know, Da, I started yellin and everybody on the landin came out their doors to see what the racket was. You've telt me that hunners a times.

And Mrs O'Brien said, If that lassie can sing as well as she can greet, she'll be on stage at the Sydney Opera House some day.

Da, I know.
They can probably hear her in Australia the now.

Well, it's a good story, hen. Somethin about your life to tell your ain weans some day.

Aye right.

Good pair a lungs on you.

I squint up again at the block we lived in. The sky's that funny overcast way, grey but bright at the same time; you canny look at it for very long. Imagine stayin in they flats but. They look horrible. Big loomin towers, all grey wi sorta like darker grey bits where water's run down them. Broken windies. For the past year, there's been hardly anybody livin in them. Except some a the asylum seekers. Poor bastards, my
da says, sent up here to live in they conditions. They've survived persecution, wars and torture, and now they've to contend wi British hospitality. Fuckin scandal.

I wish they would get on with it; it's pure Baltic the day. There's guys goin about wi fluorescent jackets and hard hats on, but nothin seems to be happenin. Along the barrier a bit, I see Big May fae Skaill Street. I used to be dead scared of her. When we were wee, she was aye out on her veranda, especially if her Robert was wi us, goin her dinger, givin it,
You weans, get back to your ain bit, comin ower here makin trouble. Robert, get your arse up that stair right now
. But we wereny makin trouble; we were only playin. At the time my ma thought it was maybe cause we were Catholics. Tell her you're a communist, my da says. Tell her religion's the opium a the masses and sectarianism's a mortal sin. She'll do no such thing, my ma says. It's alright for you at your union meetings; the weans and me have tay survive in the scheme. That was years ago. Big May's no as big now, probably cause I'm taller. She's thinner too; doesny look that well.

People's voices are gettin louder; some a them seem to be excited. I suppose no much happens in the scheme. If you're stuck in the house all day, it must be deadead borin. My da's talkin to the guy next to him.

Aye, 'eighty-six we moved out. You could see the way the high flats were goin even then. We needed a bigger house anyhow, when the wean was born.

When's he gonny stop callin me
the wean
! I can't hear what the other guy's sayin, but when he leans forward on the barrier, I can see he's cryin. Tears are rollin down his face and he's no even tryin to hide them. He's got big bushy eyebrows, black wi flecks of grey, and bags under his eyes; he's about my da's age probably. He leans his arms on the top of the fence and hangs his head.

I tug my da's sleeve. He's went all quiet. Da, what's the matter with him? I whisper in close to his shoulder, so the man willny hear me.

Tell you later, darlin, he says, dead low. And then louder. They're away to start now.

And right enough, I've no noticed, but there's a guy wi a hard hat standin back holdin a thing a bit like a walkie-talkie wi a pink cable comin fae it. He presses a button and looks at the furthest away tower. Suddenly there's a crack and a low rumble, and the tower kinda sinks down on itself; grey dust billows out at the sides low down, like it's doin a curtsy and the dust is the skirts spreadin. Then the thunder gets louder and the whole thing collapses in slow motion into a pile a rubble wi the dust risin in a big cloud above it. I don't know what I expected. I think I thought there would be a man kneelin down at a square box wi a plunger, like in they old films, and the whole thing explodin intay the sky and flames shootin up.

Some people cheer. The man next my da turns away fae the barrier and starts to barge his way back through the crowd. He's still got tears streamin down his face. Watch where you're goin, pal! somebody says.

A woman's came into the space he's left. She's tryin to catch the attention of one of the guys in the hard hats, but he's ignorin her.