still the same place, still the street that he grew up in, still the place he had spent the most time in his life. And now he was back.
4
The Cliffs
‘Please, call me Gillian.’
She pronounced it with a hard ‘G’, but that was about the only thing hard about Gillian Swankie, thought David. She was a short, voluptuous woman somewhere in her forties with an easy-going, bright red smile and a body made of flamboyant curves. She greeted David at the door with a strangely intimate handshake and a brace of air kisses, making him reel a little. She was certainly attractive, although she wore too much make-up. She was nothing like the lonely old widow he had imagined. The inside of the house didn’t match up to his expectations either – there were no toy dolls, lace curtains, frilly cushions, flowery patterned wallpaper or carpets. Instead the place was done out in neutral show-home colours, with exposed floorboards covered by simple rugs. There were no pictures of graduating children (she was probably too young for that, right enough) or tiny grandchildren – a staple of most B&Bs he’d stayed in around the country, the owners turning their now-empty family home into a pension-boosting money-spinner, the men taking a back seat, the women enjoying the company of strangers to fill the mothering void in their lives. But the Fairport felt different. Gillian with a hard ‘G’ seemed altogether younger, more vivacious and more dangerous than his image of a B&B owner, and although she was Mrs Swankie he couldn’t picture her as a doting wife. Was she alone or married or divorced? Did she have kids? What business was it of his what the hell she’d done with her life?
‘We don’t get many single visitors through Fairport, are you here on business?’
‘Not exactly,’ was all David could think of to say. She looked at him and a crafty smile came across her comfortable, worn-in, handsome face. She seemed to know something David didn’t. She turned to head up the stairs and David followed, his eyes trained on her impressively large arse which swung from side to side as she pulled on the banister. ‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. David glanced up with a start, shifting his eyes from her arse to her face a moment too late. Rumbled.
The room was standard issue, no-nonsense B&B – small telly mounted on the wall in a corner, plain double bed, small en suite toilet and shower and a tray next to the bed with a kettle, sachets of instant coffee, biscuits and two cups. Genuine Scottish hospitality. He got the spiel about breakfast (served until a surprisingly late eleven o’clock) and the front door (stayed unlocked through the night) from Gillian, who locked eyes with him throughout, smiling in a knowing way. Were the two of them alone in the house?
Gillian left and he got settled in, but a couple of minutes later he heard a phone ring and she called up to him. It must be Nicola, he thought, why hadn’t she tried his mobile? He went downstairs and picked up the receiver.
‘Alright, droopy drawers, ready for some reunion action?’
‘David?’ It was a male voice and he recognized it.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Gary. Spink. From school.’
The first thing David thought was how the fuck does he know I’m here? Some sort of small-town telepathy thing going on? Jungle drums? An announcement in the Arbroath Herald ?
‘Hey, Gary. How the hell are you? Long time no see, and all that.’
‘I’m fine.’ He didn’t sound fine, thought David. He sounded nervy, or timid, or something similar. But then he’d always been a little shy of life, thought David, always acting as if something was about to jump out from behind a tree and scare seven shades of shite out of him. Maybe sometime in the last fifteen years, something had done just that.
‘How did you know I was staying here?’
‘I ran into Sonia the other day and she mentioned it.’ Sonia? Who the hell was she? And how did she
4
The Cliffs
‘Please, call me Gillian.’
She pronounced it with a hard ‘G’, but that was about the only thing hard about Gillian Swankie, thought David. She was a short, voluptuous woman somewhere in her forties with an easy-going, bright red smile and a body made of flamboyant curves. She greeted David at the door with a strangely intimate handshake and a brace of air kisses, making him reel a little. She was certainly attractive, although she wore too much make-up. She was nothing like the lonely old widow he had imagined. The inside of the house didn’t match up to his expectations either – there were no toy dolls, lace curtains, frilly cushions, flowery patterned wallpaper or carpets. Instead the place was done out in neutral show-home colours, with exposed floorboards covered by simple rugs. There were no pictures of graduating children (she was probably too young for that, right enough) or tiny grandchildren – a staple of most B&Bs he’d stayed in around the country, the owners turning their now-empty family home into a pension-boosting money-spinner, the men taking a back seat, the women enjoying the company of strangers to fill the mothering void in their lives. But the Fairport felt different. Gillian with a hard ‘G’ seemed altogether younger, more vivacious and more dangerous than his image of a B&B owner, and although she was Mrs Swankie he couldn’t picture her as a doting wife. Was she alone or married or divorced? Did she have kids? What business was it of his what the hell she’d done with her life?
‘We don’t get many single visitors through Fairport, are you here on business?’
‘Not exactly,’ was all David could think of to say. She looked at him and a crafty smile came across her comfortable, worn-in, handsome face. She seemed to know something David didn’t. She turned to head up the stairs and David followed, his eyes trained on her impressively large arse which swung from side to side as she pulled on the banister. ‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. David glanced up with a start, shifting his eyes from her arse to her face a moment too late. Rumbled.
The room was standard issue, no-nonsense B&B – small telly mounted on the wall in a corner, plain double bed, small en suite toilet and shower and a tray next to the bed with a kettle, sachets of instant coffee, biscuits and two cups. Genuine Scottish hospitality. He got the spiel about breakfast (served until a surprisingly late eleven o’clock) and the front door (stayed unlocked through the night) from Gillian, who locked eyes with him throughout, smiling in a knowing way. Were the two of them alone in the house?
Gillian left and he got settled in, but a couple of minutes later he heard a phone ring and she called up to him. It must be Nicola, he thought, why hadn’t she tried his mobile? He went downstairs and picked up the receiver.
‘Alright, droopy drawers, ready for some reunion action?’
‘David?’ It was a male voice and he recognized it.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Gary. Spink. From school.’
The first thing David thought was how the fuck does he know I’m here? Some sort of small-town telepathy thing going on? Jungle drums? An announcement in the Arbroath Herald ?
‘Hey, Gary. How the hell are you? Long time no see, and all that.’
‘I’m fine.’ He didn’t sound fine, thought David. He sounded nervy, or timid, or something similar. But then he’d always been a little shy of life, thought David, always acting as if something was about to jump out from behind a tree and scare seven shades of shite out of him. Maybe sometime in the last fifteen years, something had done just that.
‘How did you know I was staying here?’
‘I ran into Sonia the other day and she mentioned it.’ Sonia? Who the hell was she? And how did she
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