wasn’t damaged?
On the turntable, the guy was shouting about the devil and God and a monkey going to heaven.
She downed the last of her schnapps.
‘I need to go home,’ she said.
18
Martha stood over her mum asleep on the sofa. Light from the television flickered over Elaine’s face. She looked drugged.
Cal came in the living room. ‘Zonked?’
Martha nodded. ‘As always.’
Elaine took a couple of sleeping pills every night. Cal and Martha could’ve been having an orgy with a herd of elephants and she wouldn’t have woken up.
Martha tried to imagine Elaine at a Pixies gig with Ian. Couldn’t. Elaine now was frumpy and dull. Maybe that was Martha’s future, watching late-night television alone and drugging herself to sleep.
She got a blanket and put it over Elaine. There was always a blanket handy, Elaine more often than not slept down here. She said she liked the noise of the television to go to sleep to. Martha thought it was maybe the double bed was the problem. Too big and too lonely. She felt a shiver as she imagined that in her future as well. Then she thought of Billy.
They’d left him outside Ian’s flat, heading in the other direction. She didn’t know what he was expecting, or what she wanted either, but whatever it was, it wasn’t happening tonight.
She and Cal jumped on the night bus, then got off a stop early so Martha could drunkenly commune with her heron. That’s how Cal put it. The boy had no sense of nature. They walked the extra distance through Figgate Park. It was unlit, and they stumbled round the pond to the boardwalk. From there you could see right over to Arthur’s Seat. The heron was usually somewhere on the island. Of course, it would be sleeping now. The best time to catch it was at sunrise when it would sit on a small outcrop of rock at the edge of the island and soak up the new light with its wings hanging out, as if solar-powered. Martha imagined the bird now. It was an elegant thing, but Cal just laughed at her obsession with it, like he did most things.
Cal had a bottle of red wine in his hand. ‘Nightcap?’
Martha looked at the clock. Ten past three. Shook her head.
‘I’m off to bed,’ she said.
Cal gave her a hug and they both headed upstairs.
She went to her room and threw herself on her bed. Exhausted. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the notebook. Put the bedside light on and tried to focus, but still couldn’t concentrate on the words spilling all over the page. She pulled out the printouts from the office, the stuff about Billy, Ian’s obit, but she couldn’t focus on that either. She stared at the picture of her dad for a while.
She got an interview cassette out her bag and slid it into the Walkman, plugged the headphones in. There was crackle and hiss, then her dad’s voice in her head. It was an interview about a proposal to build a new school somewhere. Boring. The woman Ian was talking to was posh, complaining that the new school would ruin the area where she lived, that’s why she’d organised an appeal against the decision. Local politics.
She found herself yearning for the small snippets of Ian’s voice in between the woman’s blether. Methodical, workmanlike questions, attentive and functional.
And still alive.
She pressed Stop and removed the cassette. Raked through her bag for the other tape, today’s tape. Found it, put it in and rewound to the start.
‘Go ahead.’ Her voice.
‘Gordon Harris died this week in tragic circumstances at his home, aged forty-five.’
Her body tensed up as she listened, waiting for the gunshot. She flinched when it came. Kept listening, her shouts, then Billy’s. Then kept listening. The sound of a man half alive, the hiss and flutter and crackle of the tape.
Then something else.
A thud. Something in the background.
She was drunk. Maybe she imagined it. She pressed Rewind and Play. Listened again. Not sure. Just noise. Maybe a car door closing in the street. Or a million
On the turntable, the guy was shouting about the devil and God and a monkey going to heaven.
She downed the last of her schnapps.
‘I need to go home,’ she said.
18
Martha stood over her mum asleep on the sofa. Light from the television flickered over Elaine’s face. She looked drugged.
Cal came in the living room. ‘Zonked?’
Martha nodded. ‘As always.’
Elaine took a couple of sleeping pills every night. Cal and Martha could’ve been having an orgy with a herd of elephants and she wouldn’t have woken up.
Martha tried to imagine Elaine at a Pixies gig with Ian. Couldn’t. Elaine now was frumpy and dull. Maybe that was Martha’s future, watching late-night television alone and drugging herself to sleep.
She got a blanket and put it over Elaine. There was always a blanket handy, Elaine more often than not slept down here. She said she liked the noise of the television to go to sleep to. Martha thought it was maybe the double bed was the problem. Too big and too lonely. She felt a shiver as she imagined that in her future as well. Then she thought of Billy.
They’d left him outside Ian’s flat, heading in the other direction. She didn’t know what he was expecting, or what she wanted either, but whatever it was, it wasn’t happening tonight.
She and Cal jumped on the night bus, then got off a stop early so Martha could drunkenly commune with her heron. That’s how Cal put it. The boy had no sense of nature. They walked the extra distance through Figgate Park. It was unlit, and they stumbled round the pond to the boardwalk. From there you could see right over to Arthur’s Seat. The heron was usually somewhere on the island. Of course, it would be sleeping now. The best time to catch it was at sunrise when it would sit on a small outcrop of rock at the edge of the island and soak up the new light with its wings hanging out, as if solar-powered. Martha imagined the bird now. It was an elegant thing, but Cal just laughed at her obsession with it, like he did most things.
Cal had a bottle of red wine in his hand. ‘Nightcap?’
Martha looked at the clock. Ten past three. Shook her head.
‘I’m off to bed,’ she said.
Cal gave her a hug and they both headed upstairs.
She went to her room and threw herself on her bed. Exhausted. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the notebook. Put the bedside light on and tried to focus, but still couldn’t concentrate on the words spilling all over the page. She pulled out the printouts from the office, the stuff about Billy, Ian’s obit, but she couldn’t focus on that either. She stared at the picture of her dad for a while.
She got an interview cassette out her bag and slid it into the Walkman, plugged the headphones in. There was crackle and hiss, then her dad’s voice in her head. It was an interview about a proposal to build a new school somewhere. Boring. The woman Ian was talking to was posh, complaining that the new school would ruin the area where she lived, that’s why she’d organised an appeal against the decision. Local politics.
She found herself yearning for the small snippets of Ian’s voice in between the woman’s blether. Methodical, workmanlike questions, attentive and functional.
And still alive.
She pressed Stop and removed the cassette. Raked through her bag for the other tape, today’s tape. Found it, put it in and rewound to the start.
‘Go ahead.’ Her voice.
‘Gordon Harris died this week in tragic circumstances at his home, aged forty-five.’
Her body tensed up as she listened, waiting for the gunshot. She flinched when it came. Kept listening, her shouts, then Billy’s. Then kept listening. The sound of a man half alive, the hiss and flutter and crackle of the tape.
Then something else.
A thud. Something in the background.
She was drunk. Maybe she imagined it. She pressed Rewind and Play. Listened again. Not sure. Just noise. Maybe a car door closing in the street. Or a million
Similar Books
