Dead And Buried

Twenty-one

Alex Skinner had spent much of her life worrying about her father, but she had never admitted it, not, at least, to a living soul. She never discussed him with anyone outside the family. Indeed, since his estrangement from Sarah had become obvious, the number of people to whom she could speak freely about him had dwindled to just one.

Her mother had been killed when she was a child, but she remained a constant presence in Alex’s life. Her grave was in a small cemetery a mile or two outside Gullane. It was neatly tended: daffodils flowered upon it in the spring, and the granite memorial was flanked by heather. When she was younger, still at school, she would go there often, sometimes on her bike, sometimes on foot. She was still a regular visitor even though she lived in the city: a wreath at Christmas, a bouquet on Myra’s birthday, in remembrance, one on her own, with love, another on the day she died, out of grief. On four or five mile-stone dates every year she would make the pilgrimage to Dirleton Toll, to the lair against the eastern wall; there she would stand, or sit on the grass if it was dry enough, and there she would tell her mum of the events in her life, the good, the bad and, on a couple of occasions, the downright ugly. But her talk would not be of herself alone, for she knew that Myra would want to know of Bob, and of the way his life was developing. As she had grown, she had told her of his years alone, ‘in exile from life’, as she had overheard him say to a friend at her grandfather’s funeral. Occasionally, she had told of female companions, but those had been very short stories, until finally she had been able to describe the arrival of Sarah in his life, the growth of their relationship and its flowering into marriage and new family. As she spoke Alex felt that there was a place inside her head that told her how her mother would have reacted to each new development. She knew that she would have loved the children, as Alex did, although she would have been ambivalent about Sarah from the start as Alex. . it was the only secret she had ever kept from her father. . had always been. And she would be worried about Bob now, she told herself.

She had gone to the grave that afternoon. Alone in the cemetery, wrapped in a parka against the winter cold, she had told Myra of the final split, of how he seemed to be taking it, and of the guilt that was lurking just beneath the surface. She had told her of the counterbalance of his friendship with Aileen de Marco; as she did so, she had felt a sudden wave of relief flow through her as if it had come from the ground on which she stood.

But there was something else, she knew it, something lying underneath it all, gnawing at him, something that had happened to him or was going to happen. She had seen it in his eyes the night before as they had dined: he had drunk more than usual; the bottle he had brought had gone quickly, and he had opened another. He had been restless, fidgety: the meal was barely over before he had insisted on taking her to a pub that he knew in Stockbridge, then to another. They had returned to the flat just before twelve and he had gone to bed, but she had heard him through the night, in the bathroom then in the kitchen. And yet, in the morning, he had been clear-eyed and clean-shaven. He had brought her cereal, orange juice and coffee on a tray, as she lay in bed struggling to focus from her disturbed night and the onset of what she had hoped was not a hangover. He had kissed her on the forehead, as he had always done, and he had left, for a golf tie at Gullane.

‘What is it, Mum?’ she found herself whispering, as she looked out at the night, as he had done twenty-four hours earlier.

‘Pardon?’ said her friend Gina, from the chair in which he had sat.

Alex had forgotten her presence. She had forgotten that it was Sunday, their girls’ night. ‘Sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘I was miles away there.’

‘I’ll say you were. You’ve been staring straight ahead for about five minutes now. Have you got a work problem?’

‘No.’

Gina’s face creased into a knowing grin. ‘Ah, a man problem, then?’

‘No.’ Alex hesitated. ‘Not in the sense you mean at any rate. It’s my dad. I’m a bit worried about him, that’s all.’

‘I’m not surprised, after all that happened to him last week.’

‘What?’

‘Are you kidding me? That stuff he was involved in, with those gunmen, the soldiers and everything. Like Nicolas Cage did in that movie, he saved the fucking day, but there were people killed there. If it was my dad I’d be more than a bit worried, I’d be pissing myself.’

Alex looked down at her, as the obvious hit her between the eyes. Of course, that had to be it. But why had she not realised from the start? She knew the answer at once. Her father had been involved in dangerous situations before: he had emerged more or less unscathed but not always. There had been that time, that awful time, when he had been stabbed and had almost died. She had seen him in the aftermath of all those things, but she had never seen him like that. Everyone has a best-before date: she had said that often enough herself. She identified her fear: it was that his might be behind him.

‘I suppose you’re right, G,’ she said. ‘It’s just that. . I’ve never had to worry about him before. Poor old bear: he has to face all that, plus, he’s getting divorced.’

Her friend gasped. ‘He’s not! You never told me that was happening.’

‘I didn’t know myself until last night, not for sure at any rate.’

‘Poor guy. No wonder you’re worried about him, you daft cow. But it’s down to you to help him out of it. He’s done the same for you in the past, when you and Mr Perfect split up.’

‘Don’t call Andy that: he wasn’t like that, not really.’

‘He expected you to be, though. Goose, gander, sauce, et cetera; he didn’t deserve you, girl.’

‘Well, he’s happy with what he’s got now, so that’s okay.’

‘I hope your dad will be too, one day.’

‘He will. I’m sure about that.’ She reached over and took an almost empty glass from her friend’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go along to Comely Bank and get those pizzas.’

She had her keys in her hand, one foot in the entrance hallway, one in the flat, when the phone rang. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered. ‘Hell, it can ring.’

‘No,’ said Gina. ‘Answer it: it might be your dad.’

‘True,’ she agreed, and ran back indoors, snatching the nearest phone, from the kitchen wall. ‘Alex,’ she announced brightly, hoping it would be him, calling to apologise for worrying her with his restlessness.

‘I know.’ The voice was a whisper, hoarse and faint, almost as if its owner was trying not to be overheard.

‘Oh, shit.’ She groaned. ‘Not you again. Listen, who are you and what do you want? Do I know you? Should I know you? Or are you just some fucking greasy pervert who gets his rocks off by phoning women?’

Silence, other than background noise on the line.

Alex was aware of Gina staring at her, but she remembered her father’s instruction to keep him on the line as long as she could. ‘Did I hit a raw nerve there?’ she challenged. ‘Are you standing there with the phone in one hand and your dick in the other?’

‘Not right now.’ The voice was clearer this time. It sounded accent-free; she tried to place it, but failed.

‘Ah, you need both hands for that, do you? Listen, fruit cup. You know my first name, do you know my surname?’

‘Ssskinner.’ The word sounded like a hiss.

‘Genius. In that case, I’ll assume you know who my father is. Let me ask you something: do you have a death wish? Or a high pain threshold?’

Silence.

‘Because if you have either, you’re hassling the right girl. Weirdo, I want you to think of me as a health and safety adviser: if you value either of those, don’t phone me any more. Well, do you get the message?’

‘Sure.’ The whisper again. ‘I like your friend.’ The words took her by surprise: she was still struggling for a reply, when there was a click and the line went dead.