The Walk Home (27 page)

Stevie whistled, leaning out over the railing, and Eric looked up and about, head darting worried, like a bird’s. His uncle ducked when he saw him, but then he beckoned too, and when Stevie came level, Eric was waiting to pull him off the path:

“You’re no tae draw attention.”

He gestured with his head, further downstream, to a high road bridge that crossed the water. Stevie hadn’t seen it before, it had been hidden by the steep banks and the bend in the river, but anyone crossing that could see them, if they were looking down here. Heads went past at a workday clip, hair blown back off faces, but none turned to the water.

Eric crouched down again, among the tree roots, and he motioned for Stevie to do the same, pointing to the branches that would cover them. Stevie didn’t know why Eric was so keen on hiding, but it suited him to stay out of sight on a school day, so he got down on his hunkers next to him.

Eric’s pencils were laid out on a stone, and his papers were there too, on their board, strapped down. There were just a few lines on the top one: just a rock, Stevie thought, with water flowing over the top.

The two of them stayed there for a while, Stevie following his uncle’s eyeline while he drew, or while he tried to anyhow; the old man kept on stopping, looking out over the rushing water, and the steep bank beyond. There was no path on the far side, just a few trees clinging to the rock, with a couple of plastic bags snagged in the twigs, billowing now and then as the wind got up. The water got shallower further on, towards the bridge. Faster too, because the river level dropped as it curved, and Stevie could make out what looked like an old bicycle in mid-flow, minus the wheels; cold splashes leaping over the handlebars.

Eric said:

“He that is able tae receive it.”

Quiet, but Stevie just about heard it. The old man took a breath and then he held it in, like it hurt.

“I cannae dae this.”

He dropped his chin to his chest, talking into his coat, and Stevie had to lean in close to hear when his uncle spoke.

“I can feel it. Aw the time. Cannae see it, but.”

He was talking about his picture, as per usual, but Eric’s eyes were squinty, his forehead puckered. He said:

“I feel it. In my bed, at night-time. Gies me nae rest. I get up tae draw. An it’s lost.”

Eric swiped an angry hand at his pencils, and set them rolling onto the pebbles. It gave Stevie a jolt.

“Things I draw, I draw them aw wrong.”

Eric sounded like he might cry, or something worse, and then Stevie thought he should maybe get him home. But the old man wouldn’t like it, being bundled back to his flat, so Stevie asked:

“Gonnae show us?”

Nodding at the papers, thinking if he kept him chatting, his
uncle might calm down a bit, and then he could talk him into going.

Eric looked at the board by his feet, reluctant. But he picked it up, and peeled back the rubber bands. He angled the pages into his chest like they were shameful, and his face was painful, flicking through what he’d done.

“Just cannae get it down.”

Stevie thought he was looking out the best. His worst would be better than anything Stevie could manage, but the old man was still ashamed. Eric pulled out a sheet and handed it over.

“See?”

He sounded disgusted.

“Cannae make it work. Cannae make my mind up.”

The page was covered with figures, corner to corner, full of limbs. It took Stevie a couple of minutes to make it out: masses of tiny pictures, but all of the same thing.

A fight. On a riverbank at night. Two men, one clearly winning; both laying into each other. The bigger man was forcing the other one down onto the stones, the one on the ground wasn’t giving up though. He was much smaller, and taking a battering, but his head was always up, and sometimes his arms as well, hands clutching at the big man’s hair or face or neck.

“Cannae take charge.”

Eric’s hands were fists, clenched at his shins. He had his knees pulled into himself, and Stevie could see his ankles, under the dusty cuffs of his trousers. He had shoes on, but not socks. That and his clatty old coat made him look mad, like some old jakey. Stevie knew he should get him back to the house. Call his Gran maybe; he could do with her here now. She’d give him a row for not being at school, Stevie knew she would, but if she could just see what Eric was drawing.

What sort of homecoming was that? Seemed more like an attack. And it got worse the further down the page he looked. There was something creepy too, about the big man: he wore a suit, dark cloth, but there were sketches where his jacket was off, and then his shirt seemed like it was ripped at the back, maybe from the smaller one’s tearing fingers. Except when Stevie looked closer, at the slits in the fabric, it wasn’t skin he saw there, but feathers.

“Put it back.”

Stevie looked up, confused, and Eric repeated:

“Put it back, son. Or gies it here. Quick.”

He pointed back along the path, and then Stevie saw his Dad.

Elbows on the railing. How long had he been there? Had he been following? Stevie thought his Dad must have been watching as he left the house this morning.

Eric pulled the paper from his hands, pressing it back with the others, under the bands, face down. Stevie kept his eyes on his father. He hadn’t moved yet, but he was nodding, so he knew they’d seen him.

Stevie tried to work it out: how quick could he get away from him? Up the steps onto the high bridge, maybe; he could call his Gran up there from a phone box, even if she shouted. Stevie took a checking look, over his shoulder, only the steps were steep. He could manage them fast enough by himself, but he couldn’t leave the old man behind.

So they just stayed there, both of them. And they stood up when Stevie’s Dad moved, like a two-man greeting party or something. He walked down the path until he was above them.

“That’s twice this past week you’ve been tae see him.”

He must have seen them last time as well; might not be the only times he’d followed. He was looking at Stevie, only not in the eye. He didn’t look right.

“He’s tae be in school. You no tellt him?”

Stevie’s Dad didn’t sound right either. He turned to the old man:

“You reckon you’re bettern me an aw, at takin care ae my son?”

“Leave him be.”

Stevie spoke up, wanting this to stop, before it got out of hand.

“It was me came lookin. Eric never asked.”

“Aye.” His Dad nodded. “That’d be about right.”

And then:

“She used tae go an see him, aw the time.”

The
she
came out harsh, like it had to be forced from his mouth, and Stevie didn’t know if his Dad had been drinking, or what had set him off. He wasn’t shouting, but his eyes were red, and it was like he couldn’t look him square in the face, just at the old man.

“You never asked Lindsey tae come neither?” he sneered. “You never put ideas intae her head?”

He was still up on the path, and Eric was down on the shore, but Stevie got to thinking he should put himself between them. His Dad would have to cover a bit of space before he could hit the old man: two, three metres of rocky slope and tree root, but still.

Eric said:

“Lindsey was glad tae come. She knew I was aye glad tae see her.”

And then it was too late: Stevie’s Dad was already upon them.

He made a grab for the board, wrenching it from Eric’s hands, raising it, high, like to bring it down, and Eric had to curl his arms over his bare head, to shield himself, braced for the blow.

Stevie’s Dad hurled the board. Hard. But at the stones, not at Eric: he couldn’t do it.

There was a crack as it hit a rock and the rubber bands split, and then Stevie saw how his Dad shouted out, in rage, out of breath, before he slumped a bit, head bent, shoulders slack.

Stevie looked away from him; he had to. And his eyes fell on all the pages, scattered across the stones now. Eric was already down there, on his hands and knees, grabbing at all that were within reach. Some had been caught by the breeze, they were over by the water’s edge, and his Dad made a dive for those.

So then Stevie glanced about himself, thinking this was his chance, he could go now while the other two were distracted. He turned to the bridge again: that must be the Great Western Road, and there’d be plenty of buses up there he could jump on. He didn’t even have to call his Gran and risk a bawling, he could just get himself away from here; right the other side of Glasgow if need be. Only he still had Eric to think about. What would his Dad do to him?

Stevie looked at his father, up to his ankles in the water, chasing a bit of paper. And then he stepped over to Eric and started to pull him, off his hands and knees, up to the path. But his uncle resisted, reaching beyond Stevie’s feet for one of his drawings.

It was of the same two men fighting that Eric had shown him earlier, only closer up this time: just one picture of both, and in savage detail. Not just a fight, it looked like a murder now, still in progress. And his uncle had made everything look so raw, all vein and sinew and clawing fingers, but the worst thing was, he’d given them faces Stevie recognised. The man on the ground, he could see his uncle had drawn that one as himself; held down and kept there. And so that big man standing over him, the one with the torn shirt, Stevie thought that must be Papa Robert. He’d have been sure of it were it not for the feathers.

He kicked away the picture, pulling harder at his uncle, wanting to get him far from here and his morbid drawings. But the old man shook him off, snatching at the crumpled paper and two or three others. Stevie hissed at him, urgent.

“Mon now, just leave them.”

And then his Dad shouted from mid-stream:

“Fuck you talkin tae him for?”

His fists were full of sodden pages.

“Fuck you daen? He’s a nutter.”

He crashed about a bit in the water, then he held up all that he’d grabbed, above his head, like he meant to tear the whole lot into shreds.

“Fuck him. Fuck Eric an his fuckin pencils. His fuckin Bible an aw.”

Stevie saw the front one, before it ripped. Papa Robert, big and brutal, no mistake. His wings free now, majestic; all his dark plumage on show. The pencil Eric looked as if he might be done for, though.

Stevie’s Dad pulled the picture apart, he threw his handfuls into the river. And then Stevie watched the scraps, carried off by the flow; some getting caught in the eddies by the old bike, others swooping and diving into the deeper waters, away under the bridge.

There were people up there now, stopped and watching the spectacle. A few girls among them were laughing, pointing at Stevie’s Dad, mid-stream and freeing shreds of paper from the bike frame. But one was shouting, a man, he was leaning over:

“Yous all right? Yous needin help?”

Stevie’s Dad stood up, chest out, his arms spread and dripping. He roared:

“Get tae fuck!”

“Aye, pal. You an aw.”

The man shoved himself back from the railing, gone again, leaving just the jeering girls.

Eric was still on the stones, just next to Stevie, fumbling with his papers, the ones that were left: he was smoothing and checking through them. His uncle was in a bad way, Stevie had known that for ages, but he hadn’t guessed how far gone until now; his old face set, like he wouldn’t listen to reason, fixated on his pictures, all more of the same. Not Jacob’s homecoming at all, but the night before, when he’d stopped at the river, needing time to brace himself before he faced his brother. Only then it got dark, and a stranger came out of nowhere, no warning; he just flew at Jacob, and Jacob had no help. Stevie thought that must be how Eric felt. The stranger looked so strong in his drawings: sure of his force. He never said his name in the story, not even when Jacob asked him, he just fought him down, on and on, and Eric’s pictures had Stevie frightened, thinking his uncle must have hit some new low if he could draw himself beaten. And Papa Robert like some great, dark angel sent to do him in.

It was too much for Stevie. What could he do? He looked up to the bridge, but there was nobody there now, no one he could turn to.

Only his Dad, sloshing his way back towards them.

Stevie stepped between Eric and the water, keeping himself between the two men this time, thinking to guard his uncle from harm, but it seemed like his Dad wasn’t in the mood for a fight any more.

He just turned his back to them and sat down, taking his boots off and emptying them out. He was looking at the river, but he spoke to Stevie:

“He’s twisted. Eric’s a bitter auld cunt. Dinnae be feelin sorry
for him. The old guy’s meant tae have a good brain. The best in the faimly? Well if that’s what clever looks like, he can keep it.”

Eric had got to his feet, just behind Stevie, stooping over his board and his remaining pages, and he held them closer when Stevie’s Dad pointed towards him:

“Nae mair messin wae my faimly. You hear me? Dae what you fuckin like, but me an mine, we’re out ae bounds.”

Eric shook his head, like Stevie’s Dad was the one who’d lost it, and then he turned to go, at last, so Stevie made to hurry him. Only then the old man said:

“Lindsey wanted tae go home.”

He muttered it, like he was talking to himself, but Stevie’s Dad heard it. He snorted:

“Aye, well. That just shows what you know. No much.”

Eric stood up, straight, in response; he’d been about to leave, but now he stopped, and Stevie did too. His Dad was still looking at the water, but he knew they were listening: he had them. His trousers dark to the knees, fingers dripping, smell of the river rising off him, he said:

“Lindsey never went back tae her Da.”

“She did,” Eric countered.

But Stevie’s Dad just waved a wet hand:

“Naw. She never even went back tae Ireland.”

Eric crouched down when he heard that.

He bent forward, over his board and papers, like he was in pain, and Stevie saw his Dad’s head flick round to look at the old man, satisfied at what he’d done. He gave a tight smile:

“London, her uncles reckoned. Or Liverpool mebbe. It’s emdy’s guess. Land’s fuckin End.”