Stonemouth (37 page)

I still have a vague feeling that there might be more to existence than can be experienced with our surface senses, so technically I guess I’m an agnostic, but nothing’s more guaranteed to bring out my inner atheist than listening to the witterings of a holy man who thinks all the answers are already there in some book, whether it was written millennia ago or last week.

However, lesson over. The Murstons have stood up again and I can see Ellie once more. Could I really have gone through with our own wedding ceremony, the whole religious performance, in a church and everything? Now I’m kind of stunned I even contemplated it, but at the time I remember thinking that, precisely because the religious side of it was meaningless, it was okay to go along with it. And if there was any sacrifice of principles involved, I was making that sacrifice for Ellie, and to keep her family sweet; not because I was frightened of them or anything, but to convince them that I was a man of substance and moral fibre, that I did indeed love their daughter, I took my responsibilities seriously and I could be relied upon to do the right thing.

Obviously my minutes-long dalliance in a loo with the lovely Jel slightly worked against the wholesome image I was trying to project.

Jel’s here too, with Josh and Mike and Sue. Mrs Mac actually seems to be crying. Anjelica appears plain and severe, in a very dark grey suit with a knee-length skirt. She catches me looking at her and gives me the smallest of smiles. I nod back and we glance away again, pretending to listen to what the witch doctor’s gibbering on about now.

I think I catch the sparse, hollow sound of the first handfuls of earth hitting the coffin lid. It’s the most genuinely affecting part
of the whole ceremony. Perhaps the only one, apart from just the sight of two generations of Murston hard men shouldering the burden of a third.

The family troop back down to the ancient Daimlers and stretch Fords and Volvos, and the rest of us disperse amongst the gravestones to find our own highly scattered cars and minibuses, while the sky above us teases out its cloudy wisps from gold to streaked and filmy blue, as a light breeze picks up off the sea.

We’re back to the Mearnside Hotel (and Spa) for the post-funeral-ceremony cold collation, as it is so charmingly entitled. The old place rises resplendently above its green-smooth lawns, clipped topiary and sculpted, surgeoned trees, its towers and turrets looking like they’re trying to snag the last departing traces of the low cloud, reluctant to let it go. A hazy roll of mist, full banked along the coast, reveals beneath its hem the glowing white waves breaking on the sands in the middle distance, but obscures the sea itself.

Dad and I get here last because we had to drop Mum at her school: hardly en route, but better than trying to take more than one car to the vehicle-unfriendly cemetery. Similar problem here. We have to park on the driveway down to the car park.

‘Aye, bloody good turnout,’ Dad says, loosening his tie as we walk down to the main doors and the usual huddle of smokers. ‘Doubt mine’ll be as packed.’

‘Al, please,’ I say to him.

‘Think I’ll get buried at sea,’ he says gruffly, though he’s grinning.

‘Fine. I’ll expect a discount on the hire of the dredger.’ Dad chuckles wheezily.

The
funereal equivalent of the reception-line thing they do at weddings had been set up at the doors into the rather grand, east-facing, firstfloor reception room where the after-funeral drinks and munchies are being dispensed; however, by the time Dad and I arrive the line of mourning Murstons has dispersed, which comes as a mighty relief, though it does mean we’ll need to seek out the family and do something similar impromptu later. For the moment they’re up at the buffet tables, progressing with plates, so probably best to wait a bit.

Anyway, Dad has nipped to the loo. He does this rather often these days, apparently, though he claims to see no need to invoke medical opinion on this new development; Mum’s a lot more worried than he seems to be and has told him she’s going to start timing the intervals between toilet visits if he doesn’t go to the doc’s soon.

I make my way through the reception room; the place is set out with large round tables, laid for a light lunch and busy with people sitting chatting, already stuffing their gobs or still standing socialising. About a dozen staff are bringing tea and coffee and taking orders for drinks, plus the bar near the main doors is open. The Murstons have a reserved table of their own in the centre but everybody else just has to find their own place. The room’s pretty big: a first-floor image of the Mearnside’s main dining room, one storey below.

Ferg inspects me when we meet up in the giant bay window that forms most of the reception room’s eastern edge.

‘If it was beauty sleep you were after last night, I’d ask for your money back.’

‘Good to see you too, Ferg.’ I’m holding a whisky from the welcome table by the doors. Ferg, naturally, has two. ‘Who was that girl you were plying with drinks in the graveyard?’

‘Plying,’ Ferg says thoughtfully. ‘Plying. There’s a word one hears all too seldom these days, don’t you think?’

‘Avoiding the question. There’s a phrase one hears all too freq—’

‘Name’s Charlene. Used to cut what was left of the late Mr Murston Senior’s hair in the local tonsorial emporium. Emotional child. Probably cries after a good fuck. I hope to find out.’

I
look round. ‘She still here?’

‘Back to work, but we sort of have a date afterwards, so I’m pacing myself, or will be once the grand behind the bar and the free bottles on the tables run out. Cheers.’

We clink glasses. ‘To Joe,’ I say.

‘Hmm?’

I sigh. ‘The deceased?’

‘Well, absolutely,’ Ferg says. We re-clink. ‘To the late Mr M.’ We knock back a whisky each like it’s cheap vodka. Splendid idea at this time of day on an empty stomach. We stash the empty glasses on the window ledge.

‘So…How was your quiet, or early, night, last night?’ Ferg asks. One of his eyebrows has bowed to an arch; this is almost enough to distract you from what is basically a leer filling the rest of his face.

‘Okay, what?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing. A friend said they saw you in El’s car yesterday evening, latish.’

I shake my head. ‘Fuck me,’ I breathe, ‘you get away with nothing in this town.’

‘Yeaah,’ Ferg drawls. ‘Tell that to the lady’s family.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Indeed I do. One reason I left. So?’

‘Experienced a visit from El’s brothers after I left Lee’s place yesterday.’

Ferg nods knowingly. ‘Thought you seemed a bit rattled yesterday, in the Formartine. They rough you up?’

‘A little.’

‘Fuck. I’m amazed you only look as rubbish as you do.’

‘Ta. Ellie heard and came calling just to mess with them.’

‘Retaliation. That the only way you can get a date these days?’

‘Wasn’t a date. We had a very pleasant drive, we talked a lot, she put together some dinner at hers and then drove me home. I was in her car and she was about to drop me off when you rang.’

‘What
did you talk about? Anything salacious?’

‘Some interesting stuff; can’t divulge.’

‘Of course not,’ Ferg says, rolling his eyes. ‘You are a sort of bilge of last resort for interesting information, aren’t you, Stewart? You’re like one of these people who offer to accept the kind of chain-letter emails and texts that cretins think it’ll be unlucky to break: gossip gets to you and dies.’

‘One does one’s best,’ I murmur modestly in my best Prince Charles, tugging at a shirt cuff.

‘So you didn’t fuck?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny—’

‘Oh, for—’

‘But no.’

‘Bodie!’ Dad says, arriving holding a whisky; he transfers it from one hand to the other to shake Ferg’s hand. ‘How’s it hingin?’

‘Little left of true, as usual, Stewart’s dad,’ Ferg says. Dad looks at him, puzzled. ‘
Please
call me Ferg, Al,’ Ferg asks.

Dad laughs. ‘What you two hatching? Looked deep in conversation there.’

‘Ferg is far too shallow to have a deep conversation with,’ I tell Dad.

‘Your son hits the nail on the cuticle as ever, Al,’ Ferg says with a sigh. ‘I’m only deep on the surface. Inside, I’m shallow to the core.’

‘Thank you, friend of Dorothy. Parker,’ I say, smiling.

Al sports a tolerant frown. ‘Okay,’ he says, tapping Ferg on one elbow. ‘I’m going to leave you two to it. Stewart; couple of minutes, then we’ll go over to pay our respects, aye?’

‘Sure thing, Paw.’

‘Okay; I’ll be over at Mike and Sue’s table. See you, Bodie,’ he calls as he turns away.

‘Cheers, Mr G,’ Ferg says, then swivels back to me. ‘So, how
do
things stand between you and Ellie?’

‘They stand erect, Ferg. Actually, they don’t; they more…recline.’ He looks at me. ‘You were expecting a straight answer, Bodie?’

Ferg
looks at me for a bit longer, then finishes his second whisky.

‘You know, we ought to eat something. I mean, we ought to drink something, too, but we should line our stomachs or we could suffer later.’

‘You may have a point.’

‘Shall we to the groaning buffet tables?’

‘Yes, I suppose we—’

‘Stewart,’ a deep, purposeful voice says. ‘Ferg.’

‘Pow, hello,’ Ferg says, shaking the impressive mitt of Powell Imrie as he arrives to loom over us. Another visitor. My, we’re popular, or at least conspicuous. Teach us to stand in the middle of the window recess.

Dressed in formal black, Powell looks even more like a high-class bouncer than usual. He even stands – once he’s shaken our hands – with his hands clasped just above his crotch. Powell has a way of looking at a person – a sort of polite but tight, You still here? smile – that works on all known types of human.

Ferg takes the hint, holds my upper arm briefly. ‘See you at the comestibles.’

Powell watches him go, turns back to me. ‘Heard Murd and Norrie came to see you yesterday.’

‘That’s right,’ I agree.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Wasn’t anything to do with me, just want you to know that.’

‘Didn’t think it was, Powell.’

He glances smoothly round towards the centre of the room and the Murston family table. ‘I’ve had a wee word. Shouldn’t happen again,’ he says. And, as he says it, I completely believe him. Then, after a short pause, he adds, ‘…Aye.’

And just the way he says this – says that single, innocent-sounding, seemingly affirmative little word – suddenly it’s like there’s this sliver of fear sliding deep inside me. Powell glanced over at the Murston table again as he pronounced the word and there’s
something about both his voice and his body language that shrieks uncertainty, even worry.

‘Thanks,’ I tell him. I think my voice sounds hollow, but Powell doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Just don’t mention it to Mr M, eh?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of,’ I tell him.

Powell is smiling. It’s a good, believable smile; I’m already starting to convince myself I was reading far too much into a single word.

‘Aye. Right.’ He nods sideways. ‘You coming over to say hello?’

‘Just about to; Al and I missed the receiving line at the start – taking Mum back to her school. We were waiting for people to finish their food.’

‘Ah, they’re mostly just picking. Apart from the boys, of course. Come on over.’

‘Be with you momentarily.’

‘Hunky McDory,’ Powell says, nodding. ‘See you shortly.’

He heads off, still smiling. I’m thinking I definitely need to be a bit less fucking paranoid. I go to the buffet, right behind Ferg, pick up a sausage roll and stuff it in my mouth. ‘Off to pay my respects,’ I tell him, with a degree of flakiness.

Ferg has assembled an impressive plateful. ‘Okay. Play nice with the big boys.’

I go to get Dad, say hi to Mike Mac, Sue and Phelpie, and cheekkiss Jel. She looks…very controlled. A girl with a tight rein on herself. I’m sort of getting inevitable resonances about this place and this occasion, this size of gathering; maybe they’re getting to Jel, too. However, I think I can guarantee that she and I will not be getting up to any toilet-cubicle-related shenanigans, not this time.