Exile (22 page)

“Will — ye — fuck — ing — chuck — it?” he screamed. The boys on the chair lowered their voices for a couple of minutes and then carried on.

“Mr. Harris,” said Williams, noticing how soft his accent sounded by comparison, “can’t you get the boys to go upstairs? We need to ask you about your wife.”

Harris’s response was bizarre. He opened his red eyes as wide as they would go and shook his head. “No,” he murmured, but the boys on the chair had heard.

“Mum?” said the oldest one, clambering down from the chair and coming to stand by them in the doorway.

“Is Mammy coming home soon?” said his brother, coming over too.

The babies stopped throwing spaghetti at their faces and looked up. Williams couldn’t believe it. The bastard hadn’t told them. Bunyan opened her mouth to speak, but Williams stepped in front of her. “All right now,” he said, speaking slowly and with great authority. “I’ve heard that you two boys are very good at drawing.” He opened his notebook and ripped out two blank pages from the back. “I have two sheets of paper. One for each of you.”

Williams held them above the boys’ heads and they looked up at them. The longer the sheets of paper were out of their reach the more the boys were certain that drawing on these pieces of paper was the one thing they had been looking forward to for ages.

“What we need now,” he said, “is for two very quiet, calm boys to tiptoe around the room and find one pen each.”

They scurried away.

“Tiptoe in a calm way,” ordered Williams loudly.

The babies were mesmerized. They didn’t care about their dinner anymore, they wanted to do what the big boys were doing. They wanted to walk slowly around the room looking at the floor. The older boy ran back waving a Biro —

“Got mine!” he screamed.

“Calmly,” emphasized Williams.

The younger boy came back clutching a purple felt-tip with a broken nib. Williams gave them the paper, laying it on the floor in front of them. “I want you both to draw a house and some children playing. Take your time. Start now.”

The boys sat on the floor, leaning over their bits of paper so enthusiastically it was as if they’d never had an organized task before. Williams turned back to Harris.

“How did ye do that?” said Harris, staring at the boys. “I cannae control them at all.”

“Mr. Harris,” said Williams, speaking with an adult voice, “we need to speak to ye and it would be better if we were alone. Will the boys be at school tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“Good, we’ll come and talk to you then.”

They turned to leave but Harris put his hand across the door to stop them. “What, um”—he licked his lips—”what time will ye be coming?”

“About two? Does that suit you?”

“Aye, two’s fine.” He lifted his arm away. “I’ll see ye then.”

Williams stepped onto the concrete veranda but Bunyan was holding back. “Shouldn’t we … ?” She thumbed back into the room.

“What is it?” demanded Williams, losing patience.

“The boys are drawing for you,” said Bunyan.

The oldest boy stood up, holding his drawing in the air, and shouted that he’d finished. He almost caused a fight by half stepping onto his brother’s picture as he tried to get to the door and hand it to Bunyan. He had drawn a house with a roof and a boy standing in an upstairs window, waving out.

“That’s great,” said Bunyan, in the indulgent, singsong voice she spoke to her three-year-old daughter in. “He’s giving us a little wave, isn’t he?”

“Aye.”

His little brother followed him and handed her a big purple square mess. “I colored mine in,” he said.

“This is lovely,” cooed Bunyan. “Look at that beautiful house. I should like to live there.”

“We’re off,” said Williams curtly.

Bunyan had no option but to follow him, waving back to the little boys standing on the windy veranda in their pajamas. The smell of urine in the lift was disgusting.

“God,” said Bunyan, looking at the drawings. “Those poor little bastards.”

“Why would the man not tell his children that their mother is dead?”

“Guilt,” said Bunyan, and Williams agreed with her. “Where did you learn to talk to children like that?”

“Used to be a teacher,” said Williams, “before I got onto the fast track.”

Bunyan thought it made sense. Williams never listened to anyone and he was a bossy bastard as well.

Chapter 25

ALAN

The wind took on a shrill new vigor at the bus station, hurtling down the low streets, converging in the waiting area in front of the ticket building. The station was a solid concrete enclosure fenced in by a high brick wall. Until recently it had been a deserted corner of the town. The redevelopment had begun a few years before but already a big shopping center, a multistory carpark, and a concert hall had been built. The bus station had been upgraded too. Glass walls had been erected at every bus stop around the square, designed to prevent pedestrians from wandering about in front of the double-deckers. The ticket center had been redecorated and the renovations were reported to have cost a fortune but the bus station was still bleak. Most of the passengers were poor enough to be smokers and the new lobby was a smoke-free zone. Everyone likely to take the bus had to stand outside the brand-new structure, keeping it good for visiting dignitaries.

They waited for twenty minutes in the winding queue to buy the return ticket to London, leaving on the night bus at ten thirty. The return passage was open-ended. “But you cannae just turn up, do ye understand?” The man behind the window spoke slowly, as if he was used to dealing with children. He had tapered hairs sticking straight out of his nose, as if an insect had been about to step out of his nostril, heard a scary noise and froze.

“I understand that fully,” said Maureen. “I need to book.”

“Ye need to book, that’s right, ye need to book.” He took her cash and handed her the ticket, tugging it back a little when her hand was on it. “There’s the number”—he pointed to a phone number printed in red on the back—”for when ye need to book.”

“I need to book,” nodded Maureen.

“Ye need to book,” grinned Leslie.

“That’s right,” said the man. “Ye need to book.”

As they left the bus station Leslie said she didn’t like the idea of Maureen going away without being in touch. It was Thursday, the shops were open late, and she wanted her to buy a mobile phone, but Maureen said she’d rather eat her own still-beating heart. They compromised and Maureen agreed to buy a pager, promising to phone back any time Leslie sent her a message. She picked the most expensive one and said she’d take it but the salesman wouldn’t stop his pitch.

“I’ll take it.”

“It can be used in a variety of ways and comes with free batteries.”

“I’ll take it.”

“It can also be put to a different setting so that you won’t be interrupted during important business meetings.”

“I’ll take it.”

“The one-year guarantee comes with a full parts and replacement clause and costs next to—”

Leslie leaned across the counter. “Hoi, Mr. Branson,” she said loudly, “put it in a fucking poke and take her money.”

Within three minutes they were out of the shop and into the windy confusion in Sauchiehall Street. “You’re a cheeky cow, Leslie.”

“I know.”

Maureen stopped walking and looked at her. “We’re five minutes away from the house and ye can’t put it off anymore.” “I know.”

Jimmy opened the door wide at the fourth knock. His tired pallor was exacerbated by his wet eyes and slack despair. He stood, afraid to raise his head to look and see who they were, resigned to whatever was going to happen now.

“Jimmy,” said Maureen, dipping at the knees and bending down to make him look at her, “it’s me.”

He looked at Leslie. “Jimmy, this is your cousin Leslie. She’s Isa’s girl. They want to help you.”

“Isa? Isa?” Jimmy repeated the name, remembering a time long ago and unfamiliar kindness.

“Yeah,” said Leslie gingerly, “Isa’s my mum.”

Jimmy left the door open and wandered back into the living room. It was still early but the kids were already in bed; tiny clothes and shoes lay scattered on the bare floor. A bottle of MadMan, a cheap, sweet alcohol drink made to appeal to the under-twelves, sat on the floor by the chair. The bright bare bulb did Jimmy no favors. His skin was graying at the temples and jawline, as if he were dying from the outside in. He sat down in his only chair, lifting an old photograph of Ann off the arm, holding it carefully by the corner.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” said Maureen. “Did ye tell the weans yet?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Did the police tell ye what happened to her?”

“She’s dead,” he breathed, as if that were the all and all of it.

Leslie settled against the far wall, staying near the door, and lit a fag.

“Did they tell ye she was killed?” asked Maureen, crouching down by the chair, afraid to speak loudly in case Jimmy shattered in front of her.

He nodded, bent over slowly and lifted the bottle to his mouth, sucking on it and swallowing hard. He was shaking: the tip of Ann’s photo flickered like an insect wing. “It’s the only picture I’ve got.” He grinned at Maureen, displaying his vicious yellow teeth, and his eyes began to bleed tears. Jimmy covered his face with a taloned hand and sobbed silently, the sinews on his neck standing out like tent ropes, strings of saliva hinging his mouth open.

He stayed still for a long time and Maureen watched him, feeling she would hold him and pet him if she had been a better person and didn’t find him so repulsive. She lit two cigarettes and slipped one between the fingers of Jimmy’s hand on the arm of the chair. It was half ash before his neck went limp. He shuddered, taking his hand from his wet face, lifting the cigarette to his mouth. He took a long, deep draw. The ash spine dropped onto his lap and he brushed it slowly to the floor as he exhaled. “The police were here,” said Jimmy. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Just tell them the truth,” said Maureen, thinking how it would sound to Leslie. She took the Polaroid out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Do you know who this guy is?”

Jimmy wiped the tears from his face and looked at the well-fed, brutish man holding his son’s hand. “Nut. The wean told me. You asked about a picture.”

“I didn’t want to ask you. I thought he might be Ann’s boyfriend.”

“Aye,” said Jimmy, not giving a fuck about infidelity. He pointed at the man in the photo. “He told the wean he needed a picture to send to his ma.” His chest trembled as he breathed in. He looked at the picture of his dead wife and his red eyes throbbed tears. He grinned, desolate again.

“Jimmy,” she said, pressing on, “why would Ann want a photo of that particular boy? Was she especially fond of him?”

“Nut.”

He stood up slowly, holding his hand under his cigarette to catch the ash. He brought a cracked saucer in from the kitchen for them to use as an ashtray. Maureen took it from him and squashed her fag out, slipping Vik’s lighter under the leg of his chair and out of sight. “Did the boy tell ye when the picture was taken?” she said.

Jimmy sat back down. “It was the day the Christmas holidays started. Look, ye can see his wee card that he made for me.” He pointed to the red fluffy card in the child’s hand.

“Last day of school? What would that be, the twenty-first of December? “

“Aye.”

“Jimmy, will ye do me a favor? I want ye to ask at the post office tomorrow and find out if the child-benefit book was cashed today. Could ye do that?”

“Aye.”

“This is my pager number.” She copied it from the booklet onto the back of a bus ticket and gave it to him. “Will ye phone and leave a message if they tell ye anything? A woman will ask ye what message ye want to leave and you tell her and it comes up as writing on this.” She showed him the pager and put the Polaroid back in her pocket.

Leslie stepped forward with a phone number written on the inside of a fag packet. “That’s my mum’s number.” She handed it to him and Maureen noticed she didn’t give him her own.

“Isa’s wee girl, eh?” said Jimmy.

“Aye.”

“You’re her pride and joy I like your mum. Isa. Nice person. Kind.”

Jimmy was speaking faster and higher, speeding towards another crying fit. A series of small thumps on the bare stairs drew their attention. Jimmy cleaned his face, scrubbing away the tears and smearing his thin hair back from his face. His oldest boy appeared at the living-room door, wearing a sweatshirt over his ragged pajamas. Little gray school socks trailed from his feet. Leslie recoiled against the door frame as if the sleepy boy had frightened her.

“Who is it, Da?” said the boy, not bothering to look at Leslie or Maureen, wanting his dad to tell him it would be all right.

Jimmy held his arms out. “It’s all right, son,” he said dutifully, and the boy ran over to him, climbing onto his knee, wrapping his arms around Jimmy’s neck. The boy was nine. The last time Maureen had seen him he was acting like a hard man and he was too old to climb about on his daddy’s knee. He was doing it for Maureen and Leslie, in case they had come to hurt Jimmy. Maureen imagined him sitting upstairs, listening to the knock on the door, trying to make out the conversation until the tension and worry reached a pitch and he had to come down and act like a child of half his age. She thought of her stepdad, George, at his cousin Betsy’s wedding. George had been appalled to find out that Maureen had never been danced. He took her onto the dance floor and let her stand on his feet while he waltzed her around the room. He made her feel like a tiny child, coddled and precious, but she wasn’t, she was twelve, weighed about six stone, and, in hindsight, it must have been murder on George’s feet. She remembered him sweating and grunting as he lifted his feet for the next turn. He was making up for Michael, always making up for Michael. Jimmy Harris stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer, pulled the boy’s legs round and sat him up in his lap. “See this lady here?” He pointed to Leslie, hovering reluctantly at the door. “This is your cousin Leslie. Leslie, this is Alan.”

“Hello, Alan,” said Leslie, looking revolted.