Mel, it’s obviously not my job to jump to conclusions. I’m telling you this in confidence as a friend, he says, then pauses, looking hopefully at her.
Melanie is grateful, without knowing just how indebted he expects her to be. — I appreciate it, Harry.
— But I’m also being candid because I know that I can discuss this rationally with you, given your experience of men like those . . . and he pauses again, as Melanie feels a ringing in her ears, — . . . through your work.
— Thanks . . .
— Anyway, those guys are no great loss, Harry says cheerfully, folding up the documents, — two very dangerous individuals, and he rises to his feet.
Melanie stands up too. — Yes, that was apparant by their behaviour.
— There’s another theory, he nods, scrutinising her reaction, — that Coover might be dead as well. So while these guys are dangerous, they were maybe not as dangerous as whoever took them out. If anybody did.
— Right, Melanie says. She can feel her mind starting to tumble, and knows that Harry is trying to read her again. She attempts to switch her thoughts to Devereux Slough, the marine life and those nesting terns that so interested Jim.
— So how is Jim? Harry sings breezily.
— Back in Scotland. A family bereavement, and she heads through the hall to the front porch, compelling him to follow. Hoping, for once, that he would be distracted with his eyes on her ass.
— Sorry to hear it. Anybody close? She hears his disembodied voice behind her, thin and metallic.
Melanie opens the front door and turns to face him. — Thankfully, no, she says, unflinchingly. It was easier to say than it should have been. But she has told Harry more than enough. — Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick the kids up.
— Of course, he smiles, sauntering out. — Good to see you. I’ll keep you posted, and he gives her a little salute before he heads off down the driveway.
10
THE BROTHER
The best way to go to Leith is on foot, right down the Walk from the city centre. Franco had been determined to savour every step of the descending trek, but stopped at a couple of cut-price electrical stores. Neither had a UK-to-US power adaptor, or a UK lead for the iPhone. Instead they had tried to sell him almost every other electrical or phone-related product or service imaginable. He’d declined, and headed back outside.
The rain has started to fall, so he jumps on a bus down Leith Walk. By the time he gets to Pilrig it has eased off, so he disembarks after a couple of stops, striding to the Foot of the Walk, along Junction Street, down Ferry Road, to Fort House. The imposing building, a monument to sixties muni-cipal architecture, is now eerily empty, but they haven’t yet pulled it down. He looks at the huge walls that surround the scheme, and casts an eye over the flats. There was the Rentons’ old house, Keasbo’s, Matty’s . . . but there really is nothing left any more. A melancholia descends upon him, and he heads towards the Firth, following the cries of the gulls. He soon finds himself traversing through a saturated new-build housing development at Newhaven. It has rendered the area unrecognisable to him.
Elspeth had no number for their brother Joe, just an address he’d left her when he’d turned up around a fortnight past, drunk and looking to borrow cash. It seemed a long shot that he’d still be at the same place. Joe was an established couch-surfing jakey, staggering from one insecure Housing Association tenancy or the beneficence of an old pal on to the next, burning down organisations and friendships as he went.
This area had been designated part of the new Leith for urban professionals, but the flats had been constructed with poor building materials, and with no social amenities around the recession had rendered them unsaleable. The developers cut their losses and handed them over to the Housing Association who rented them to breadline council tenants, often those evicted from
Melanie is grateful, without knowing just how indebted he expects her to be. — I appreciate it, Harry.
— But I’m also being candid because I know that I can discuss this rationally with you, given your experience of men like those . . . and he pauses again, as Melanie feels a ringing in her ears, — . . . through your work.
— Thanks . . .
— Anyway, those guys are no great loss, Harry says cheerfully, folding up the documents, — two very dangerous individuals, and he rises to his feet.
Melanie stands up too. — Yes, that was apparant by their behaviour.
— There’s another theory, he nods, scrutinising her reaction, — that Coover might be dead as well. So while these guys are dangerous, they were maybe not as dangerous as whoever took them out. If anybody did.
— Right, Melanie says. She can feel her mind starting to tumble, and knows that Harry is trying to read her again. She attempts to switch her thoughts to Devereux Slough, the marine life and those nesting terns that so interested Jim.
— So how is Jim? Harry sings breezily.
— Back in Scotland. A family bereavement, and she heads through the hall to the front porch, compelling him to follow. Hoping, for once, that he would be distracted with his eyes on her ass.
— Sorry to hear it. Anybody close? She hears his disembodied voice behind her, thin and metallic.
Melanie opens the front door and turns to face him. — Thankfully, no, she says, unflinchingly. It was easier to say than it should have been. But she has told Harry more than enough. — Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick the kids up.
— Of course, he smiles, sauntering out. — Good to see you. I’ll keep you posted, and he gives her a little salute before he heads off down the driveway.
10
THE BROTHER
The best way to go to Leith is on foot, right down the Walk from the city centre. Franco had been determined to savour every step of the descending trek, but stopped at a couple of cut-price electrical stores. Neither had a UK-to-US power adaptor, or a UK lead for the iPhone. Instead they had tried to sell him almost every other electrical or phone-related product or service imaginable. He’d declined, and headed back outside.
The rain has started to fall, so he jumps on a bus down Leith Walk. By the time he gets to Pilrig it has eased off, so he disembarks after a couple of stops, striding to the Foot of the Walk, along Junction Street, down Ferry Road, to Fort House. The imposing building, a monument to sixties muni-cipal architecture, is now eerily empty, but they haven’t yet pulled it down. He looks at the huge walls that surround the scheme, and casts an eye over the flats. There was the Rentons’ old house, Keasbo’s, Matty’s . . . but there really is nothing left any more. A melancholia descends upon him, and he heads towards the Firth, following the cries of the gulls. He soon finds himself traversing through a saturated new-build housing development at Newhaven. It has rendered the area unrecognisable to him.
Elspeth had no number for their brother Joe, just an address he’d left her when he’d turned up around a fortnight past, drunk and looking to borrow cash. It seemed a long shot that he’d still be at the same place. Joe was an established couch-surfing jakey, staggering from one insecure Housing Association tenancy or the beneficence of an old pal on to the next, burning down organisations and friendships as he went.
This area had been designated part of the new Leith for urban professionals, but the flats had been constructed with poor building materials, and with no social amenities around the recession had rendered them unsaleable. The developers cut their losses and handed them over to the Housing Association who rented them to breadline council tenants, often those evicted from
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