Driftnet (15 page)

They had been
emailing each other for weeks. Jonathan felt he’d told him just
about everything he could about what he felt, what he thought. He’d
made some stuff up as well. It was easy to talk big on email. Easy
to say you’d done this and that, laugh about what really frightened
or upset you. Simon always understood. Unlike his family, he
thought.

Jonathan
pressed his face to the window, fixing his gaze on the pillars and
front steps, looking for Simon, thinking he could always sail on by
if he changed his mind. But he didn’t.

He stood up and
pinged the bell. The driver hit the brakes, throwing Jonathan
forward.

‘Make your mind
up sooner next time, son,’ he shouted after him.

A group of
goths were sprawled on the steps, soaking up the sunshine. He
looked up and down the street. He was dead on time but Simon wasn’t
there. Disappointment swept over him. Then a tall handsome figure
emerged from behind a pillar. The figure called his name. Jonathan
smiled and stepped forward.

When Jonathan
woke next morning, Amy had already arrived. He could hear the sound
of the hoover droning across the hall carpet. Amy had the radio
turned up and she was singing loudly and tunelessly along.

Jonathan rolled
out of bed, waiting for the familiar stab in his head from too much
drink, then remembered he hadn’t drunk much, after all. Simon
hadn’t been into getting smashed.

He headed for
the shower, thinking he would borrow the Hoover after Amy was
finished and tidy his room. He would even open the window and let
in some fresh air.

He stood in the
shower, letting the water pound on his head, allowing the pleasure
to soak through him. Last night had been great. For once he felt
like he was actually in the right place, with the right person,
saying the right things.

He turned off
the shower and rubbed himself dry. When his mum and dad came back
they would find him out in the garden, mowing the lawn. That should
be good enough for a fiver. As he got dressed, what he would email
Mark. Mark should get a life. There might even be an email from
Simon. Jonathan’s chest tightened at the thought. Simon was
cool.

When the car
purred into the drive an hour later, Jonathan had started on the
lawn. The effort was definitely worthwhile. His father’s face was a
picture when the chauffeur opened the car door to let him out.

‘Well I never.
What’s got into you?’

‘Mum said the
grass needed cut. So...’

‘Your mother’s
always talking about the length of the grass. It’s never spurred
you on before.’

‘Edward. Don’t
discourage Jonathan.’

‘Oh and Mum.
I’ve cleaned my room. I borrowed the Hoover from Amy.’

‘My God. Now I
have had a perfect weekend,’ said Edward.

‘Nice time
then?’

‘Very nice. Is
your sister about?’ Edward glanced about as if Morag would suddenly
emerge from the shrubbery.

‘She’s out with
Anthony,’ said Jonathan, thinking he’d have to extract a little
working capital from Morag later, for not telling them she’d never
been ‘in’ since they’d left.

His father
grunted and went inside while his mum slipped him a ten pound note
for cutting the grass.

‘I hope you had
a nice weekend, Jonathan,’ she said, and he wondered if she was
going to ask him what he’d done. It didn’t matter if she did. He
had his story ready.

After dinner,
Jonathan took himself off to his den. He’d endured his father’s
endless anecdotes long enough. Sir James said this, Sir James said
that. Who cared?

Now he was
lying, his head propped against the grassy slope, having a
cigarette. He watched the smoke rise and dissipate in the thick
foliage. He was thinking about what had happened.

They’d talked
for hours. Jonathan was amazed at how much they’d found to say to
one another, especially after all the emails. Simon was older than
he’d expected but it didn’t matter. He was funny. They’d had a good
laugh about school and girls and Jonathan’s family. Talking with
Simon seemed to stop him feeling so angry about everything.

They’d gone to
three different clubs. Everyone seemed to know Simon. Lots of
people called out ‘Hi’ and asked to be introduced. Some came over
and sat at their table for a while.

Back at Simon’s
flat it had been a bit awkward. Simon had asked outright if
Jonathan wanted to go home and offered to call a taxi right away.
But he didn’t want to go home.

Jonathan
stubbed out the cigarette. He raised his hips and upzipped himself,
pulling down his jeans and pants to circle his hips. His cock,
released, sprang up. He rolled over, pressing himself hard into the
earth. His cock fattened, fighting the pressure. His brain was
filling with images of fucking. He drove himself up and down
against the ground, breathing heavily in time to the rhythm. He
imagined he was shoving it into Shona Seaton. She was shouting to
make it harder, deeper, faster. Now he was watching the soft blonde
hairs of Simon’s hand as it lightly brushed his knee and slipped
between his legs, cupping his crotch. He burrowed his face in the
fallen leaves, sucking the hardness of Shona’s nipples even as
Simon sucked at the straining shaft of his cock. Then it came,
spurt after spurt exploding. His long groan of pleasure died in the
earth and his nostrils filled with the smell of rotting vegetation,
sweat and spunk.

When Simon had
finally called a taxi around midnight, he’d thrust two twenty pound
notes into Jonathan’s hand and told him to buy himself a new CD
with the change from the taxi.

‘I’ll email you
tomorrow. That is, if you want us to meet up again?’

Jonathan had
nodded, his heart leaping with the thought that Simon wanted to see
him again.

Jonathan sat up
and wiped himself with some grass. He pulled up his pants, then
wriggled out of the den, brushing the dead grass from his clothes,
and headed back to the house to check his mailbox.

When Jonathan
pushed open the front door, the good-natured atmosphere had
evaporated. He could hear his father’s voice in the study, sharp
with annoyance, and his mother’s replies were tense and short.
Morag threw him a warning look from the top of the stairs. Jonathan
felt sick. What if his father had found his vodka bottle, or worse,
the pictures he’d hidden in the jotter?

He stood like a
rabbit caught in the headlights. Should he go upstairs and pretend
to be out, or just go out again? Then he realised it couldn’t be
anything to do with him, or his father would have been out in the
garden yelling for him before now.

Something else
had happened. Something serious, by the sound of things. He looked
up. Morag was leaning over the banister melodramatically mouthing
‘phone’ at him. He looked over at the hall table. The green message
light was flashing on the ansaphone. Fuck! What if Mark had phoned
and left one of his stupid messages?

Jonathan went
over and quietly shut the sitting room door. The study was off the
sitting room and his parents wouldn’t hear anything. He pressed the
play button.There was a buzzing silence, then a woman cleared her
throat and began to speak in a voice that cracked like she was
angry, or had been crying. She was asking his father to phone her
immediately about the paperwork he’d given her. She needed to
discuss it with him as soon as possible. The only other thing was
Amy saying she would be back on Tuesday. Nothing else.

They were still
at it, his father trying to cajole or explain. Jonathan crept
through the sitting room and stood motionless behind the partially
open study door and listened.

That was how he
found out that somewhere out there, he had a brother.

Jonathan could
tell that his father was shaking with rage inwardly, although
outwardly he looked calm. He watched through the crack as the tall
blonde figure walked slowly to the drinks cabinet, opened it,
poured two whiskies and handed one to his mother.

She took the
glass.

‘Can we rely on
this woman to keep her mouth shut?’ she said.

‘Yes. Rhona has
principles.’

‘And I don’t?’
Fiona came back sharply.

‘I didn’t
mean...’

She cut through
his apology.

‘Why contact
you now?’

‘It was that
murder. Rhona was the Forensic Scientist on the case. She said the
boy looked incredibly like her.’

‘God!’ Fiona
was really rattled. ‘You don’t think...?’

Edward shook
his head vehemently. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then where is
the child?’

‘I told you, I
don’t know. But that wasn’t him.’

‘How do you
know?’

‘The dead boy
has been identified.’

‘Then why did
this Rhona phone again?’

Edward walked
over to the window, leaving Jonathan’s line of sight.

‘Well?’ Fiona’s
voice was impatient.

‘She has
decided to try and make contact with... her son.’

Jonathan heard
his mother’s intake of breath.

‘That would be
a bad idea, especially now.’

‘Do you think
I’m not aware of that?’ Edward sounded furious. ‘I thought I’d
capped this, but it seems I haven’t.’

Fiona mother
digested that for a moment, ‘If she were to go to the
papers...’

‘You don’t have
to spell it out. Connelly could blow the election for me.’

‘That won’t
happen.’ His mother’s voice had taken on the decided tone Jonathan
knew so well.

‘What do you
mean?’

‘If necessary,
I will speak to... this woman. I’ll explain that our son would be
seriously distressed to find out he has a half brother. I’ll ask
for her support, woman to woman.’

Chapter
22

A low mist
flirted with the waters of the loch, swirling upwards in a
freshening breeze. At the far end of the loch, the Cobbler dozed
on, his outline sharp against the blue sky.

It would be
easy to believe they were safe here. Too easy. The breeze was chill
on Chrissy’s face. She shivered and pulled the tartan rug tighter
round her shoulders.

She was sitting
near the water’s edge, her back to the shore as it rose towards the
grass of the camp site, a straggle of touring caravans and small
tents spaced well apart. Their tent was pitched on a carpet of
springy grass around an old rowan.

She went back
to it and fetched the can, filled it with water and stood it on the
fire.

She saw Neil
top the grassy edge then duck quickly down the bank. When he saw
her the troubled look left his face. He’d got a loaf and some bacon
from the camp shop.

He fetched the
frying pan and settled it beside the water can.

She watched him
as he foutered about, laying the bacon carefully in strips, poking
wee sticks in to build the fire; checking the water, then dropping
in two teabags.

When he handed
her a mug of tea, their hands met. He stroked her fingers.

‘Alright?’ he
said, sitting beside her. She nodded. ‘After breakfast, I’ll take
you for a walk.’

While they sat
and ate in silence, the sun broke through the mist.

After getting
Neil’s things from the flat, Chrissy had gone straight to the bus
station. The waiting room was empty apart from a drunk sleeping
with his head twisted at sixty degrees. He was going to suffer when
he woke up.

Chrissy’s bus
was at half past seven. It was empty except for a woman with two
weans, who went up the back and sat with her in the middle to keep
the peace. Chrissy sank into the front seat, rolled her jacket up
for a cushion, and went straight to sleep. When she woke, Glasgow
had gone.

‘Are you right
then?’

Neil had taken
the dishes down to the water’s edge and washed them. He brought
them back up and stacked them to dry near the fire, put on a couple
of big pieces of wood and moved his refilled water can to one side.
Now he was ready to go.

‘Come on.’

He pulled her
up, squeezing her hand, ‘We’ll head up the way. There’s a rare
view.’

The path
skirted the loch for ten minutes, then they took a left up through
the trees. All Chrissy could see for a while was the steep path
ahead and the back of Neil’s tee-shirt, where tiny wee flies clung
on, grabbing a lift up the hill. Several times he stopped and
waited for her to catch him up. Then suddenly the trees were gone
and the air freshened. The path moved among boulders and clumps of
heather. They jumped a burn and followed the path round a curve in
the hill, and there it was. The vast expanse of the loch stretched
beneath them, sparkling into the distance.

‘Fucking
magic.’ He was grinning at her. ‘Well?’

‘It’s
fantastic,’ she said.

‘Aye. Fucking
fantastic.’

He pulled her
down beside him and pointed round the landmarks and gave them their
names. He was talking to her but his eyes were on the loch,
caressing each curve of the water, each change of shoreline.

‘I used to come
here whenever my dad threw a wobbler. I would hitch a lift up and
go back when the money was done.’

‘I didn’t know
you liked all this.’

‘Aye well. A
tent’s a great place for a shag.’

‘Don’t joke
about it.’ Her voice was tense.

‘I wasn’t
joking.’

When he kissed
her, his mouth was still salty from the bacon.

‘D’you want to
walk further up or go back down?’‘Maybe we should work out what to
do,’ she said seriously.

He shook his
head, his face stubborn.

‘I know what
I’m going to do.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to
take off all your clothes and I’m going to stare at you until you
beg me to shag you.’

‘Then you’ll
wait forever,’ she said.

‘Some things
are worth waiting for.’

On the way back
down they passed two men on the track. They were kitted up with
climbing boots and rucksacks.