table, a full, cold mugof tea by my head, a small pool of drool on the table surface wetting my cheek and a grey dawn hazing the window panes.
I head upstairs for more sleep in a room and bed still familiar even after five years away.
Home.
5
She drove me to the station. That night, that warm night when it all went sour, when the world collapsed around me, five years back; still, despite it all, it was her.
‘Is there anything I can say?’
‘Stewart, no. Just be quiet. It’s not far. Do you have everything?’
‘I don’t know. How can I know?’
‘Well, if you don’t, I’m sure your mum and—’
‘What are we doing?’ I shake my head. There is a hastily filled bag on my lap, one of those long bags with two handles my dad would call a grip. I clutch it to my chest. ‘What have I done? What the fuck—’
‘Stewart, stop. There’s no point.’
I look at her, tears in my eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter that there’s no point,’ I tell her. ‘Sometimes—’
Suddenly she stabs at my seat-belt release button, throwing the buckle past me, clunking loud off the door window. ‘Duck,’ she says urgently. ‘Right down.’
‘What?’ I say, but I’m already ducking, pressing my chest into the badly packed bag, then quickly pulling it out to the side, getting in the way of her hand as she grasps the gear lever, stuffing the baginto the footwell and ducking down further, my chest against my thighs, my chin on my knees. ‘It’s them, isn’t it?’ I wheeze. Something’s thrown over me – her jacket, I can tell, just from the smell of her perfume on it. The orange streetlight glow dims to almost nothing. I’m shaking. I can feel myself shaking.
‘Hnn,’ she says, and her voice is turned-away quiet, not-facing-me quiet, as her window whines down. The sound of outside comes in: traffic and engine and just that late-night urban rumble and buzz.
‘Whit
you
doin?’
‘You awright, hen?’ two male voices say almost at once.
Oh, Jesus, it’s them. Her brothers. They’re out looking for me. I could die here.
‘I’m fine. I’m just driving.’
‘How are ye no answerin yer phone?’
‘Where to though but?’
‘Just driving,’ she says, after a tiny pause, her voice deep, calming.
‘Have you seen that cunt?’ one of them says.
‘Norrie, fuck’s sake!’ The other one.
‘Well, fuckin hell!’ says the first one. It’s Norrie, obviously, and Murdo, I think. It doesn’t matter.
‘Anyway.’
‘… What?’
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s my jacket.’
‘… says it’s her jacket.’
‘And you two?’ she asks.
‘What?’
‘Eh?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Told you! Lookin for that fuckin two-timing bastart.’
‘Aye, hen, you don’t want to know what we’re going to—’
‘Go home,’ she tells them.
‘Eh?’
‘Naw!
You
go home. You go back home to Mum an Da, where they’re waitin fur ye, worryin.’
‘Aye, worryin.’
‘I just want to drive around a bit, guys, okay? It’s just what I need to do right now. I’ll be fine. Everything’s cool.’
‘… Eh? Aye. Aye, right. Shift over, hen, I’ll drive—’
I hear a car door opening, then another, there’s a sharp clang and the Mini shakes; feels like one door hit another.
‘Aw, El! Come oan!’
‘Ye’ll chip the paint! Whit are ye doin?’
The Mini trembles again. ‘
Stoap
that! Will ye just—’
‘Go home. Tell Mum and Dad I’ll be back in an hour. Now just leave me, okay?’
The door shuts, the window whines, I’m thrown forward, then to the side, then back, all in a roar of engine and a brief screech of tyres. There’s a wild swerve and another chirp from the tyres as we shimmy down the road.
Maybe half a minute later the jacket’s pulled away. The lights overhead are strobing past.
‘Safe to surface,’ I hear her say. She sounds calm, even amused. I bring my head up in time to have it banged off the window as we make the turn into Station Road, fast. ‘Sorry,’ she
I head upstairs for more sleep in a room and bed still familiar even after five years away.
Home.
5
She drove me to the station. That night, that warm night when it all went sour, when the world collapsed around me, five years back; still, despite it all, it was her.
‘Is there anything I can say?’
‘Stewart, no. Just be quiet. It’s not far. Do you have everything?’
‘I don’t know. How can I know?’
‘Well, if you don’t, I’m sure your mum and—’
‘What are we doing?’ I shake my head. There is a hastily filled bag on my lap, one of those long bags with two handles my dad would call a grip. I clutch it to my chest. ‘What have I done? What the fuck—’
‘Stewart, stop. There’s no point.’
I look at her, tears in my eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter that there’s no point,’ I tell her. ‘Sometimes—’
Suddenly she stabs at my seat-belt release button, throwing the buckle past me, clunking loud off the door window. ‘Duck,’ she says urgently. ‘Right down.’
‘What?’ I say, but I’m already ducking, pressing my chest into the badly packed bag, then quickly pulling it out to the side, getting in the way of her hand as she grasps the gear lever, stuffing the baginto the footwell and ducking down further, my chest against my thighs, my chin on my knees. ‘It’s them, isn’t it?’ I wheeze. Something’s thrown over me – her jacket, I can tell, just from the smell of her perfume on it. The orange streetlight glow dims to almost nothing. I’m shaking. I can feel myself shaking.
‘Hnn,’ she says, and her voice is turned-away quiet, not-facing-me quiet, as her window whines down. The sound of outside comes in: traffic and engine and just that late-night urban rumble and buzz.
‘Whit
you
doin?’
‘You awright, hen?’ two male voices say almost at once.
Oh, Jesus, it’s them. Her brothers. They’re out looking for me. I could die here.
‘I’m fine. I’m just driving.’
‘How are ye no answerin yer phone?’
‘Where to though but?’
‘Just driving,’ she says, after a tiny pause, her voice deep, calming.
‘Have you seen that cunt?’ one of them says.
‘Norrie, fuck’s sake!’ The other one.
‘Well, fuckin hell!’ says the first one. It’s Norrie, obviously, and Murdo, I think. It doesn’t matter.
‘Anyway.’
‘… What?’
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s my jacket.’
‘… says it’s her jacket.’
‘And you two?’ she asks.
‘What?’
‘Eh?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Told you! Lookin for that fuckin two-timing bastart.’
‘Aye, hen, you don’t want to know what we’re going to—’
‘Go home,’ she tells them.
‘Eh?’
‘Naw!
You
go home. You go back home to Mum an Da, where they’re waitin fur ye, worryin.’
‘Aye, worryin.’
‘I just want to drive around a bit, guys, okay? It’s just what I need to do right now. I’ll be fine. Everything’s cool.’
‘… Eh? Aye. Aye, right. Shift over, hen, I’ll drive—’
I hear a car door opening, then another, there’s a sharp clang and the Mini shakes; feels like one door hit another.
‘Aw, El! Come oan!’
‘Ye’ll chip the paint! Whit are ye doin?’
The Mini trembles again. ‘
Stoap
that! Will ye just—’
‘Go home. Tell Mum and Dad I’ll be back in an hour. Now just leave me, okay?’
The door shuts, the window whines, I’m thrown forward, then to the side, then back, all in a roar of engine and a brief screech of tyres. There’s a wild swerve and another chirp from the tyres as we shimmy down the road.
Maybe half a minute later the jacket’s pulled away. The lights overhead are strobing past.
‘Safe to surface,’ I hear her say. She sounds calm, even amused. I bring my head up in time to have it banged off the window as we make the turn into Station Road, fast. ‘Sorry,’ she
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