The Dead Beat (14 page)

She sat alone in the Bull, a pint of Stella and a torn-up beer mat in front of her.

Ian was a selfish, thoughtless prick.

She’d been fixing her make-up forty minutes ago in her flat when the phone went. He was cancelling on her. Wasn’t the first time either. Claimed he had to work on at the paper. Didn’t mention Rose, but he didn’t need to. She had suspicions, but she didn’t want to be that girlfriend, accusing and paranoid. What was it Kurt sang? Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you. Or in her case, just because she was paranoid, didn’t mean Ian wasn’t fucking that big-titted bitch behind her back.

So, fuck him, she had come out on her own. None of her flatmates were around and there was no point asking Gordon and Sam, they never went out any more. She pulled the two tickets from her jacket pocket:

She looked at her watch, then glugged her pint. AC/DC on the jukebox, ‘Highway to Hell’. This was an old-school rock bar, full of leather and tassels. Not her scene, but there was something honest about it. She gulped the rest of her pint and left.

Outside she sparked up a joint as she headed down to the Venue. A whole joint in a oner was too much for her, so she nipped it halfway, waited for it to cool and stuck it in her pocket. Pulled out a wrap and dabbed speed on her gums. Ran her tongue round her mouth, sucked at her teeth.

She headed inside, nodding at Big Ian on the door. It was hot and sweaty inside, already three-quarters full. L7 were playing over the PA. She liked that an all-girl grunge band was getting somewhere, but if she was honest, she wasn’t mad about their tunes.

She got a can of Red Stripe at the bar, better than risking the watered-down draught.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’

She turned.

Johnny Lamb.

She felt a buzz go through her.

She’d met him twice since Soundgarden in February. After that first encounter, she teased Ian about never mentioning him, and Ian had clammed up. The times they’d met, it wasn’t intentional, Ian apparently set on keeping them apart. When she kept on asking, he mumbled something about Johnny having a dark past, being unhinged, but he never elaborated. Which only made her more interested.

She looked at him now, wondering what secrets lay behind that curly fringe, those sharp blue eyes. She was glad Ian was working late at the paper, tonight was going to be a good night.

She raised her Red Stripe. ‘Hello yourself.’

He took the can from her hand and drank, handed it back.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You cheeky shit, you owe me a drink.’

‘Fair enough.’ He leaned on the bar and got served straight away by a girl with a Black Flag tattoo on her arm.

Cracked the two cans and handed one to Elaine.

‘On your own?’ he said.

‘Yeah, your brother bailed out last minute. Had to work.’

Johnny shook his head. ‘He works too hard.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Very serious boy.’

‘Yeah.’ Elaine looked around. ‘You with people?’

Johnny followed her gaze. ‘I was,’ he said, waving vaguely.

‘Shouldn’t you get back to them?’

He threw a smile her way. ‘They won’t miss me. I’d rather stay here with you.’

She knew what he was doing and she let him, didn’t close it down. Why should she?

She nodded her head towards a dark corner and walked. He followed. She liked the simplicity of that, the power of having a man in her control. She pulled the speed wrap from her pocket and held it out.

‘Want some?’

He smiled again. He was full of smiles. She couldn’t picture him doing anything crazy.

He took it from her. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

He unfolded the paper triangle and dabbed at the speed, three quick movements, his tongue flicking in and out.

‘I owe you now,’ he said.

‘You don’t owe me anything.’

He held out his hand. ‘Here.’

Two pills.

Ecstasy.

‘I’ve never taken E before,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

She looked round at the crowd waiting for the band to come on. The Lemonheads were playing over the PA, not ‘My Drug Buddy’, that would be too perfect. ‘Stove’, from the album before, about getting a new stove and missing the old one. Except it wasn’t about stoves at all.

She took the pill and placed it on her tongue, washed it down with a swig of Red Stripe.

He grinned and threw the other pill into his mouth, then held his beer up to her.

‘Here’s to a good night,’ he said.

Afghan Whigs were so different from the other bands kicking around. For a start they wore suits and had short hair. They just seemed grown up, like men amongst the angsty boys of grunge. Greg Dulli’s concerns were a league above the teenage troubles of Soundgarden. And they had soul. They played a Prince song, covered ‘Heatwave’, then, for an encore, did a heartbreaking version of ‘Band of Gold’.

Elaine soaked all this up as the waves of euphoria swept over her. She knew it was chemically induced, but so what, weren’t all emotions just chemical reactions in the brain?

Johnny smiled at her as the band left the stage.

‘Amazing,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

He was talking about the band, but maybe something else too. She wanted him to be talking about her.

She wasn’t angry at Ian any more, he just wasn’t a concern. She couldn’t see how he could feature in her future.

Johnny, on the other hand.

She leaned in, grabbed his hair and kissed him hard. He kissed her back.

By the time they staggered out it was getting light.

The pill buzz had died down, but Elaine still had a warm glow in her stomach. They were arm in arm, laughing at nothing. She sparked up the half joint, took a deep drag and passed it to him.

Waverley Station was closed, so they couldn’t cut through. Instead, they headed down Calton Road then up New Street. Halfway up the road there was a turn-off into a derelict car park. Elaine grabbed Johnny and pulled him that way, into the muddy half-light. They were right next to the train tracks here, just over a flimsy mesh fence, the car park overlooked by East Market Street to their left. Above, towering over everything, the arches of North Bridge.

She pulled him into a dark corner under one of the arches. The flap of pigeon wings far above. She was giggling as she kissed him. He responded. She pulled him close, stumbled backwards till she felt her back against the stone wall. She grabbed his arse and felt his cock hard against his jeans. She ran her hand under his T-shirt, felt his muscles. Felt herself getting wet already. His hand was on her breast. She took it and slid it down to her crotch, then moved it up and down till he got the idea.

She pulled at her own belt and unbuttoned her jeans and he slid his hand inside her pants. She grabbed at his trousers and undid them, pushed them down past his skinny arse. Felt his cock press against her. Took it in her hand and stroked it a few times, then pushed her hips away from the wall and slid her own jeans down to her knees. She took his cock and guided it inside her. Pulled back from kissing to look at his face. He was smiling, a simple, cute smile. He started fucking her, slowly at first, then faster, both of them still looking in each other’s eyes. This wasn’t a drunken mistake, this was real, something she didn’t have with Ian.

She was close to coming. She wanted the release of it, the celebration of it. She felt it sweep from her crotch through her body, her legs shaky, her back arched, her mind empty. Then she felt him come inside her, his body rigid, breath held, eyelids flickering. She dug her nails into his buttocks and he shivered and placed his lips on her neck.

‘Wow,’ she said, out of breath.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

She laughed.

She ran a hand through his hair and looked over his shoulder. The glass roof of Waverley Station shimmered in the pre-dawn light. Above, the shape of North Bridge dwarfed everything.

They walked up the Royal Mile and South Bridge, past kebab shops and chippies, drunks drifting home. They didn’t talk about what had just happened. Elaine rested her head on his shoulder as they walked.

They turned into West Nicolson Street and stopped. Ian was sitting in the doorway of Avalanche Records, next door to Elaine’s flat. He had a bag of chips open on his lap, but he looked asleep.

Johnny turned to her. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fancy meeting you two here,’ Ian said, trying to push himself onto his feet. He was drunk. ‘Want a chip?’

Elaine looked at Johnny.

Ian did the same. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just walking Elaine home,’ Johnny said.

Ian looked confused. ‘How noble of you. I meant, why are you with my girlfriend?’

Johnny tilted his head. ‘We met at the gig, the one you bailed from.’

‘Ian, what are you doing here?’ Elaine said.

‘Came to find you,’ Ian said. ‘Work went on later than expected.’

‘But you had time to get drunk after.’

‘I didn’t know where you were after the gig. The guys from the paper were heading for a wee nightcap, so I went along.’

‘Was Rose there?’

‘Of course, she’s part of the team.’

Elaine imagined she could smell Rose’s perfume on him. But then what could Ian smell on her? ‘Go home, Ian.’

He frowned. ‘But I want to speak to you.’

Elaine shook her head. ‘Not like this.’

She got keys out her pocket and headed for her door. ‘Give me a call tomorrow if you remember.’ She turned to Johnny. ‘Thanks for walking me home.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said.

She went inside, her heart racing, and left the brothers behind her.

Martha felt Billy pressing gently against her arse. Morning glory and all that.

They were in Ian’s bed. Vague sunlight bled through the curtains.

Billy was spooning her, his hand on her upper arm, his breath on her back. She pushed her arse against him. A signal. She pulled her pants down and reached behind to stroke his buttock.

He got the message. She felt him slip inside her and move slowly in and out. She did likewise. She was still half asleep. Tried to remember last night.

Had they?

They were now, anyway.

Billy’s hand had slid down and was playing with her. She felt a warmth spreading over her as they moved in time. In rhythm. It felt good. Better than good. It felt like being home.

Billy kissed her back, her neck.

She tried not to think of her house, burnt to the ground.

Tried not to think of her dad, lying on platform 8.

Tried not to think of Gordon’s missing face.

Tried not to think of Johnny Lamb.

She wasn’t going to come.

Billy was.

She felt him come inside her, and she wriggled her arse in circular motions, the warmth still spreading through her body, but not quite there.

Next time, maybe.

She turned to face him.

‘Wow,’ he said.

She smiled, kissed him on the lips.

‘We need to get going,’ she said.

The smell was the worst thing.

Somehow the sight of her home in ruins didn’t hit Martha as much as the stench of the place, a charred oblivion that caught in her throat and made her gag. Wet charcoal mixed in with something nastier, the reek of smouldering manmade materials, melted plastics and fibres.

There were no wispy smoke trails bleeding up into the sky, just an oppressive blanket of slush-grey cloud reaching down from above, spread over everything, keeping the stink in.

A thin stretch of police tape was strung across their front path. When had the police been here?

Martha lifted it and went under, Billy and Cal behind her, all of them silent.

Her eyes were wet. From the fumes. Or maybe not.

The roof was a wreck. Black marks stretched upwards from every window frame, from the front door as well, the ghost of the flames that had reached for the sky.

No one else was around.

Martha went to the front door and stepped inside. She felt tears on her face and wiped them away. She never thought she would care about bricks and doors and windows, but this was too much.

The walls in the hall were black except for a few corners where the wallpaper had only bubbled and blistered.

Into the living room.

Burnt-out sofas and a charred television with a cracked screen. Melted cables running out the back.

The area where the gas fire had been was just blackened space.

She tried to remember. The blanket. Ian’s notebook. The fake coal fire. Her shivering. Finding out about Johnny and leaving in a hurry.

She turned away.

Cal and Billy stood behind her. Cal wrapped her in a hug as she felt her body shudder with sobs.

‘It’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘The insurance will pay for everything.’

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands.

‘Will they?’

‘Of course, that’s what insurance companies are for.’

Martha pulled away from him, went over to the window frame and looked out. From here, the garden looked normal. If she angled her head just right, she could pretend none of this had happened.

An edge of glass clung to the frame. She pressed her hand against it until a spot of blood appeared. She pressed some more.

Eventually she raised her hand to her mouth and sucked at the blood. All she could taste was charred wood from the window frame.

She turned back to Billy and Cal.

‘I’m going to find Johnny Lamb,’ she said. ‘You coming?’

Martha paid the taxi driver and followed Billy out the cab.

Outside the Andrew Duncan Clinic at the Royal again. Was it just yesterday she’d been here for ECT? Short-term memory blah.

She looked round, but didn’t know where to start. There was no obvious reception area to the hospital, the place seemed to have grown like a commune, lots of little self-interested departments, no overarching structure.

So she went to the place she knew.

‘You OK?’ Billy said.

Cal was on opening shift at The Basement again. Before he left, he’d told Billy to look out for Martha. She was insulted.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

She headed into the building, turned towards the ECT room, Billy behind her.

Got there. Lights off, door locked.

‘Shit.’

Turned and retraced her steps, to the exit of Recovery Room 2. Locked.

She squinted her mouth.

She headed back along the corridor, stopped at the entrance to a cafe and looked inside. Formica tables, plastic chairs, cheap coffee machine. Pockets of relatives, patients and staff all hunkered down against the early morning.

She spotted her. Got lucky. Colleen, the Irish nurse.

She walked over, Billy still traipsing behind her.

Pulled up a seat opposite the nurse. Billy did likewise.

Colleen looked up from the
Now
magazine she was flicking through, raised her eyebrows and smiled.

‘It’s yourself,’ she said. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘I’m fine.’

Colleen frowned. ‘You don’t have an appointment today, do you? I’ve nothing in the book.’

Martha shook her head. ‘It’s not that.’ She reached over and took Colleen’s hand, looked her in the eye, tried to put on her most serious face. ‘I need your help.’

‘I really shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘I know,’ Martha said. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘If I got found out, I could get in a lot of trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need to know.’

Colleen tapped away at the keyboard, sifting through the hospital’s filing system on the screen. A few clicks, some more typing into boxes. Martha looked at the screen but couldn’t make sense of the spreadsheet gibberish.

‘John Lamb, you say?’

Martha nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Do you have a date of birth?’

‘No. Wait, yes. They were twins. Thirteenth of February. Let me think of the year.’ She worked backwards in her head. ‘1970, I think.’

More tapping on the keyboard.

Martha sensed Billy to her left and wondered what he made of all this. The ECT, the house fire, the missing uncle.

‘Found him,’ Colleen said.

Martha leaned in to examine the screen. She wanted a picture of him, visual evidence that Johnny Lamb existed, but of course the screen was just full of database information, patient reference numbers, doctors’ notes.

‘It seems he’s no longer with us,’ Colleen said.

‘You mean dead?’ Martha said.

Colleen shook her head quickly. ‘No, no. I mean not a patient at the Royal any more.’

‘But he was sent here from Carstairs, wasn’t he?’

‘Oh yes, but he was only here for six weeks, it looks like.’

‘So where is he now?’

Colleen ran a finger along the screen, checking the details. She squinted at the small typeface.

‘He was released into the care of Ian Lamb,’ she said. ‘That ring any bells?’

Martha and Billy shared a look.

‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘My dad.’

‘Sure, I have an address here. Forty-two Drummond Street.’

The flat.

Martha couldn’t get her head round it.

‘And when was he released?’

Colleen raised a finger to the screen again. ‘Says here it was the fourteenth of March. So, what’s that, twenty days ago?’

‘Is that the last information you have for him?’ Billy asked. ‘No outpatient visits or anything?’

Colleen checked. ‘He was due for a meeting with the consultant last week, but it looks like he didn’t show up.’

‘Isn’t there some sort of protocol for that? Shouldn’t the police be informed?’

Colleen looked at him. ‘This isn’t a prison, son, it’s a hospital. If he was signed out of here, then he was judged fit to re-enter society. If he missed an appointment, there’s not much we can do.’

Martha was shaking her head. ‘Christ.’

‘Are we done now?’ Colleen said. ‘I’d like to shut this down, I don’t want to get in any bother.’

Martha rubbed at her temple, trying to think. ‘Yes, of course, thanks so much, Colleen.’

‘You’re welcome, pet. Try to take it easy, eh?’

‘Yeah, I will,’ Martha said.

‘So what now?’ Billy said.

Martha shook her head again. ‘I have no idea.’

Colleen’s finger was hovering over the mouse as she frowned at the screen. ‘There is one more note on his file,’ she said.

Martha turned. ‘Yeah?’

‘There’s mention of an information request pending.’

Billy shrugged. ‘What does that mean?’

‘The hospital has to release non-confidential patient information under the Freedom of Information Act if we get an enquiry. We had a request in writing on March eighteenth that’s still awaiting a reply.’

The day after Ian died.

Martha’s eyes widened. ‘Who from?’

‘Rose Brown.’ Colleen looked up from the screen. ‘Mean anything to either of you?’