Now she lived alone in the huge house in Ravelston, surrounded by the paintings of others — including a dozen of Allan’s, smartly framed — and a short walk from the Gallery of Modern Art, where they’d recently held a retrospective of her work. She had contrived an illness to excuse her from attending, then had gone in secret one day, only minutes past opening time when the place was dead, and had been shocked to find that thematic order had been placed on her work, an order she didn’t recognise.
‘They found a body, you know,’ Hugh Cordover was saying.
‘Hugh!’ Cammo piped up with mock cordiality. ‘You’re back with us!’
‘A body?’ Lorna asked.
‘It was on the news.’
‘I heard it was a skeleton actually,’ Seona said.
‘Found where?’ Alicia asked, pausing to take in the skyline of Salisbury Crags.
‘Hidden in a wall in Queensberry House.’ Seona pointed to the location. They were standing in front of its gates. They all stared at the building. ‘It used to be a hospital.’
‘Probably some poor old sod from the waiting list,’ Hugh Cordover said, but no one was listening.
4
‘Who do you think you are?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ Jayne Lister threw a cushion at her husband’s head. ‘Those dishes have been sitting since last night.’ Her head motioned towards the kitchen. ‘You said you were going to do them.’
‘I am going to do them!’
‘When?’
‘It’s Sunday, day of rest.’ He was trying to make a joke of it; didn’t want his whole day ruined.
‘The whole week’s a day of rest as far as you’re concerned. What time did you get in last night?’
He tried to see past her to where the TV was playing: some kids’ morning show; presenter was a bit of all right. He’d told Nic about her. She was there right now, talking on the telephone, waving a card. Imagine waking up of a morning and finding that beside you in the scratcher.
‘Move your arse,’ he told his wife.
‘You’ve taken the words out of my mouth.’ She turned and pushed the off button. Jerry was off the sofa with a speed which surprised her. He liked the look on her face: startled, and with a little bit of fear mixed in. He pushed her aside, reached for the button, but her hands were in his hair, yanking him back.
‘Out with that Nic Hughes till all hours,’ she was yelling. ‘Think you can come and go as you please, fucking pig!’
He grabbed one of her wrists, squeezed. ‘Let go!’
‘Think I’m going to put up with it?’ She seemed oblivious to the pain. He squeezed harder, wrenching the wrist round. Her grip on his hair tightened. His scalp felt like it was on fire. Threw his head back and caught her just above the nose. That did it. She shrieked and let go, and he half-turned, pushing her hard on to the sofa. Her foot sent the coffee table flying: ashtray, empty cans, Saturday’s paper. Whole lot hit the deck. A thumping noise on the ceiling — upstairs neighbours complaining again. Her forehead was reddening where he’d connected. Christ, she’d given him a headache, too: as if the hangover wasn’t enough to be going on with.
He’d done his arithmetic this morning: eight pints and two nips. That tallied with the small change in his pockets. Taxi had cost six quid. Nic had paid for the curry: lamb rogan josh, lovely. Nic had wanted to hit the clubs, but Jerry had said he wasn’t in the mood.
‘What if I’m in the mood, though?’ Nic had said. But after the curry he hadn’t seemed so keen. Two or three pubs... then a taxi for Jerry. Nic had said he’d walk. That was the clever thing about living in the middle of town: no need to worry over transport. Out here in the sticks, transport was always a problem. The buses weren’t to be relied on, and he could never remember when they stopped running anyway. Even taxi drivers, you had to lie to them, tell them you were bound for Gatehill. When you reached Gatehill, you could either get out and walk across the playing fields, or you could persuade the driver to take you the final half-mile into the Garibaldi Estate. One time, Jerry had been jumped while crossing the football pitch: four or five of them, and him too drunk to do anything but capitulate. Ever since, he would argue to be taken the distance.
‘You really are a bastard,’ Jayne was saying, rubbing her brow.
‘You started it. I’m lying there with a head like blazes. If you’d just held off a few hours...’ His voice was soothing. ‘I was going to do the dishes, cross my heart. I just need a bit of peace first.’ Opening his arms to her. Fact was, the little bout of sparring had given him a hard-on. Maybe Nic was right about sex and violence, about how they were pretty much the same thing.
Jayne pounced to her feet, seemed to have seen straight through him. ‘Forget it, pal.’ Stalked out of the room. Temper on her... and always quick to take the huff. Maybe Nic was right, maybe he really could do better. But then look at Nic with his good job and his clothes and everything. Mortgage and money, and still Catriona had left him. Jerry snorted: left him for someone she met at a singles night! Married woman, and off she trots to a singles night... and meets someone! Life could be cruel, all right; Jerry should be thankful for small mercies. Back on with the telly, lying down on the sofa. His beer can was on the floor, untouched. He lifted it. Cartoons now, but that was all right; he liked cartoons. Didn’t have any kids, which was just as welclass="underline" he was still a bit of a kid at heart himself. The ceiling thumpers upstairs, they had three... and had the gall to say he was noisy! And there it was on the floor, where it had fallen from the coffee table: the letter from the council. Complaints have reached us... powers to deal with problem neighbours... blah blah. Was it his fault they built the walls so thin? Bloody things would barely hold a Rawlplug. When the buggers upstairs were trying for kid number four, you felt like you were in the bed with them. One night, when they’d stopped he’d given them a round of applause. Deadly silence after, so he knew they’d heard.
He wondered if maybe that was why Jayne had gone off sex: fear of being heard. One day he’d ask her about it. Either that or he’d make her do it anyway. Make her cry out long and hard so they heard her upstairs, give them something to think about. That wee thing on the telly, he’d bet she was a noisy one. You’d have to clamp your hand over her mouth, but making sure she could still breathe.
Like Nic said, that was the important part.
‘You like football then?’
Derek Linford had taken Siobhan’s number at the Marina. Saturday, he’d left a message on her machine asking if she fancied a Sunday walk. So here they were in the Botanic Gardens, a crisp afternoon, couples all around, strolling just like them. But talking football.
‘I go most Saturdays,’ Siobhan confessed.
‘I thought there was a winter shutdown or something.’ Struggling to show some knowledge of the game.
She smiled at the effort he was making. ‘Only for the premier league. Last season, Hibs got knocked down to the first.’
‘Oh, right.’ They were coming to a signpost. ‘If you’re cold, we could go to the tropical house.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I don’t usually do much on a Sunday.’
‘No?’
‘Maybe a car boot sale. Mostly, I just stay home.’
‘No boyfriend then?’ She didn’t say anything. ‘Sorry I asked.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not a sin, is it?’
‘Career we’re in, how are we supposed to meet people?’
She looked at him. ‘Hence the singles club?’