The Storm Without (6 page)

'
That
'
s better. Carry on.
'

Veitch rubbed at the stubble on his chin.
'
But he
'
s not exactly what you
'
d call a mate these days
…'

I dipped my head, towards his face. It was enough.

'
Well, look what do you want to know?
'

'
Everything, Veitchy. Everything
…'

My mother was just coming round as I dropped the holdall on the living room floor. The noise the bag made was louder than I had intended; the normal reaction for someone waking from sleep would have been a flinch but she didn
'
t stir. A moment or two passed and then suddenly a dim flicker of recognition entered her eyes.

'
You
'
re back,
'
she said.

I didn
'
t know what she meant: back from my walk? Back from Ulster? There was no way of telling what stage of addled she was in. I made a long stare towards the bottle of port, registered grim disapproval on my face, said,
'
So, how long have you been hitting the bottle like this?
'

Headshakes.
'
Oh, spare me
…'
She sat upright, leaned forward balancing her elbows on her knees. My mother started to gouge at her eyeballs with her knuckles.

'
Well?
'
I dropped in enough intonation to let my feelings sing.

'
Don
'
t start on me, son.
'
The word son was a starter for ten, designed to put me in my place, designed to let me know she had some rank on me. I knew all about rank and it didn
'
t faze me now.

I pointed a finger.
'
Look, Mam, I
'
ve dived to the bottom of many a bottle myself and I know there
'
s no answers there.
'

She let out a laugh.
'
Answers
…
what makes you think I
'
m looking for them.
'

I felt my pulse quicken for an instant, then as quickly as it had risen, it subsided. An immense calm settled over me. It was one of those moments, not quite déjà vu, but in the ballpark, as the Americans say. It takes a drinker to fully comprehend the kind of wisdom she was imparting and it struck me like a hammer blow: my mother
'
s problems were worse than I thought. She wasn
'
t drinking to forget, or to find something; she was drinking for the release of oblivion, an escape from life. I knew this because I had been there; I also knew there was only one escape from this life and alcohol was a poor substitute for it.

I picked up my bag.
'
I
'
ll be in touch.
'

My mother waved a hand over her head. It was a desultory gesture. I stood staring at her for a moment longer, hunched and broken before me, but it scalded my heart too much. I raised the holdall on my shoulder and headed for the car.

The air outside was crisp and fresh, a low winter sun sitting in the pale-blue sky. The leaves clogging the streets were coated in a grey dusting of frost; they huddled against the house fronts and garden walls like jagged buttresses. When I was a boy, I liked this time of year; it signalled the run-up to Christmas, to presents and parties. It had been a long time since I had remembered those feelings of untrammelled joy; I knew they were still in me, but today they seemed buried beyond any evisceration I could imagine.

I unlocked the Audi, got in and started the engine. The TT purred as I pumped the pedal and pulled out onto the road. I drove towards the A77; the car needed a short burn to let out some grunt. The road was busy, lots of 4x4 Doonfoot tractors on the school run. I spotted one with an Ayr number plate, had a little smile to myself: it was heading back towards Alloway — but weren
'
t they all?

At the Whittlets Roundabout I exited at the gym and followed the road back into town on auto-pilot. I knew where I was headed, knew what I had to do. I had driven past the guest houses on Queens Terrace a couple of times on this visit already; was I subconsciously planning to hole up there at the time? I didn
'
t doubt it — so many of my choices seemed to be pre-programmed these days that I felt like an actor in my own life.

I had picked out the place I wanted to stay; it was at the far end, next to the court. As I pulled up I noticed a sign on the outside wall which read: licensed to residents. I didn
'
t think I had seen this before; at least, I hadn
'
t registered it. Still, it dug at my conscience after the lecture I
'
d given my mother.

I made my way inside, lowered my bag at the front desk and looked about. A woman in her bad fifties wearing a tabard was at work with a Henry hoover. She spotted me and made her way over to the front desk with a slow gait.

'
Yes?
'
she said.

'
I
'
d like a room.
'

'
Long or short stay?
'

I didn
'
t know the answer to that, shrugged.

She put on a pair of glasses that sat round her neck on a chain, looked me up and down.
'
We don
'
t take people on benefits
…'

'
I
'
ll pay cash.
'

She twisted her mouth, seemed to doubt me.
'
Name?
'

'
Doug Michie.
'

As she scratched my details in a big brown ledger I watched the Biro
'
s nib execute her intricate copper-plate.

'
You have beautiful handwriting.
'

She never turned a hair; handed me a key attached to a long plastic slab that could have doubled as a doorstop.
'
Room 7
…
upstairs on the left.
'

'
Is there a view?
'

She sneered. I went for broke.
'
There wouldn
'
t be a Jacuzzi on the premises?
'

The glasses came off, the hoover went on. I didn
'
t get an answer.

I carried my bag up to my room by myself. The view was of the back close; if I raised myself on tiptoes I could see the sometime crazy golf course. I opened the window, let out the musty air. My test of the bedsprings was answered with a rusty squeak. I patted the back of the room
'
s one chair and evacuated a cloud of dusty effluvia that started me coughing. I grabbed a glass from the side of the sink; it was wrapped in hard white tissue paper, the kind we used to trace with at school. The glass inside — after a million washes — was almost opaque with scratches. I filled it with water and took a slow draft. My throat soothed instantly and I felt my mind still.

I looked around the grim room. Registered the Nylon bedspread. The Gideon
'
s Bible. The patched carpet. The faded print of a crying girl being comforted by a Lassie dog. So, this was home for the short term. I shook my head and lowered myself slowly onto the bed.

If this was home, then I was here for a reason and I knew what that was. I removed my mobile phone from my pocket and opened my email. A list of names I
'
d requested had come in. I scanned them; none meant anything to me, but they might soon. Glaring by their absence, however, were some names that I definitely had to query.

I closed down the email. Dialled a number.

Ringing.

'
Hello
…'

'
Hello, Lyn
…'

'
Doug.
'
Her voice was high, hopeful.
'
Have you heard anything?
'

I felt the edges of my mouth tighten into a grimace.
'
You
'
d be the first to know.
'

A pause, reality flooding back in. Then,
'
I take it you got the list I sent.
'

'
I did, yeah
…
but why aren
'
t Kirsty
'
s parents on there?
'

Her voice trembled,
'
I want to let sleeping dog
'
s lie.
'

I didn
'
t buy it, not for a second.
'
Lyn, their daughter has been killed. There
'
s no way I can conduct an investigation into Kirsty
'
s death without talking to her parents.
'

'
I just want to leave them be
…'

I registered the emotion behind her chant.
'
Lyn, it
'
s in their benefit to speak to me too, you know that.
'

'
I know! But, I just want them left alone. Please, Doug, you have to understand
…'

I understood.

'
When we last spoke about Kirsty
'
s people you said you had something to tell me
…'

She cleared her throat.
'
I know
…'

'
And?
'

Her tone changed, became lighter. It was as if she had practiced a response.
'
Where are you?
'

I straightened my back.
'
I
'
m in Ayr
…
in a guest house.
'

'
Where?
'

'
Down the front
…
Queens Terrace.
'

'
I know it. I
'
ll meet you at the Horizon Hotel in an hour. Can you make that?
'

I stood up, walked towards the window. It was raining again.

'
One hour
…
with answers, Lyn.
'

The rain was back. That familiar, insidious drizzle that felt light enough to sit on the air. I walked a few steps down Queens Terrace towards the port with my head dipped to the pavement. By the end of the street I was brushing a heavy layer of moisture from my shoulders. The wind seemed to be soughing out at sea, whispering across the sand. I turned my ear to catch the ghost of a voice drifting up from the beach — it was a haunting roar — but as I stalled I caught sight of a walker. She was roaring after a runaway dog.

I felt on edge, and I knew why.

I
'
d taken on a case, my first since leaving the force. But it wasn
'
t any case; it wasn
'
t a missing persons or an errant husband playing away from home. I
'
d agreed to look into a murder. As the days stretched out, however, I had started to wonder what I was really doing.

It wasn
'
t the simple fact that I was back in Ayr, my old home town, where there were ghosts everywhere, it was the unshakeable fear that all was not as it seemed. I
'
d learned to trust the nagging, gnawing voices that accompanied an investigation: they were there for a reason, but right now they were being bawled out by an opposing set of voices. Auld Ayr meant more to me than I had assumed. It was more than the town of my childhood, my youth. I had grown up here, there was a part of the place that I carried with me wherever I went: the town, its people — they had formed me. I couldn
'
t escape that. It was a visceral identification and it stirred deep inside me. I wondered if Lyn saw this.

I reached the end of the terrace, turned the corner, bracing myself against a blast of sand-filled wind. I stepped on some blue mussel shells dropped by the circling gulls. They cracked like gunshots underfoot.

The Horizon Hotel had changed since I last saw it, but so had a lot of the town. I stepped inside. Soft furnishings and mood lighting greeted me. The smooth-lined fixtures and fittings looked neat and clean, too clinical for the purpose of my visit. I spotted Lyn seated on a leather sofa by the wall; she seemed distant. I nodded to the barman and made my way towards the other side of the friendly room.

'
Hello, Lyn.
'

She started.
'
Oh, hi.
'

The barman came. I ordered a coffee.
'
Are you okay, Lyn?
'

She smiled.
'
Yes, fine.
'
She was lying. In my racket, you learn the cues early.

Lyn reached into her bag, removed a few sheaves of paper.
'
I thought I
'
d print out the list you wanted.
'

I took the contacts of Glenn
'
s known associates, turned it over. It felt too soon to bring up what I had on my mind, but I
'
d never been very good at keeping a lid on things.
'
And, Kirsty
'
s parents: are they on there now?
'