Gutted

Chapter 8

My story appeared. Rasher made good on his promise of the front-page byline. There was a photo next to my name — I hardly recognised myself. Hoped nobody else would.

I was wrong.

Phone went: ‘Hello, Mam.’

‘Angus, what happened to your face?’

‘My face?’

I could hear her taking breath. She said, ‘I saw you in the paper. You could plant potatoes in those hollows… You’re not eating properly.’

Not a mention of the corpse, the case. I shrugged. ‘Well, y’know, I’m a busy guy, Mam.’

She didn’t buy it; maybe she hadn’t read the story at all. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, Angus.’

‘Sorry, Mam, I’ve been meaning to-’

‘Well, you’re a busy man, like you say. Can’t expect you to keep up with my every move.’

I felt a wince. Flutters in my stomach. What could I say to that?

I didn’t get a chance. She said, ‘Are you back at the paper now, then?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I can still remember the days when we’d see you in a coat and tie

… Seems a long time ago now, since you had the job and Deborah and

… I’m sorry, son, my mouth’s running away; I just don’t think.’

‘Mam, it’s okay.’ I moved the talk along, went for enquiring after my sister and brother, said, ‘And how’s Catherine and Michael?’

‘Well. Both well.’

‘Good. Good. That’s, er, good.’ God, what else could I say? I felt myself involuntarily looking at the clock.

‘Anyway, I’m glad to catch you, son… I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.’

‘What’s that?’

She paused, another deep breath, said, ‘I wanted to ask you… how you might feel about me selling off some of your dad’s trophies and medals.’

I didn’t know how to feel. They were something I never looked at. But, brute that he was, I felt we’d all played a part in earning those trophies — my brother and me, sister too — with beatings and scoldings. My mother earned her share in a million and one more painful ways. I saw her face in my mind: it was a road map of lines and hurt. How could I object to anything she asked of me? I’d been little or no use to the woman, ever. And the way things looked I saw no change on that front. Certainly no good change. Maybe worse was an option, though.

I said, ‘Mam, whatever you want to do is fine by me… whatever makes you happy.’

Her voice trembled. ‘Oh, Gus, if only.’

‘Come on, Mam.’

She started to cry. ‘You must think I’m just a silly old fool.’

‘Mam, you’re nothing of the kind.’

I heard her reaching for tissues to dab her eyes. ‘Well, don’t you mind me, Gus.’

‘Mam, there’s no way I’m gonna stop minding you.’

‘No, seriously. Here’s me bawling away and you have your own problems to deal with… You’re a grown man with a life to lead and I have no right putting my cares on you. I’m sorry, son. Can you ever forgive me?’

I said, ‘Mam, if there’s anything I can-’

She cut me off: ‘I am absolutely fine, it’s just… well, just seeing you in the paper set me back and thinking about the trophies, it made me…’

She struggled for the words.

‘Mam, no need to explain. I know fine. Whatever you do, just take care.’

She said goodbye and hung up.

I put down the phone. There was a book nearby: Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. I fingered the pages. I always carry a book; something my father never understood. His learning came from an altogether different world. Our worlds were always destined to collide. What was God thinking giving a hard man like him a bookish little nyaff like me for a son? I knew that was the question he’d asked himself all his life. On his deathbed he was still asking it, but just sounding it differently. I knew I wasn’t ready to forgive my father for those years. Would I ever be?

I moved to the kitchen table, sat down and lit a Marlboro.

Rasher had sent on the cuttings from the Crawford child killing story. I’d been having difficulty reading them. Normally I have a strong stomach for this kind of thing but for some reason, lately I’d been going soft. Call it age; it certainly wasn’t maturity.

Little Christine Crawford had only been a tot, three years old. There were so many pictures of her splashed over the pages it was impossible not to become attached. I was press, I knew we always chose the cutest shots. The girl they called Chrissy was a sweetheart: blonde hair, blue eyes, the apple of every parent’s eye.

As I tried to read about Chrissy’s death my throat froze.

She had been in the Meadows — one of Edinburgh’s most popular parks — with her mother. Walking, just walking and playing on a bright spring day, when she’d run off behind a tree. Minutes, just seconds perhaps, out of her protector’s sight.

Passers-by described a scream, high-pitched, the kind only a very young child makes. No one saw the moment of death. Thank God. The first on the scene, a male passer-by and the child’s mother, were greeted with a sight of immense bloodletting.

Chrissy hadn’t stood a chance.

The dog’s owner, Thomas Fulton of Sighthill, was traced.

He’d claimed not to know that the dog, an illegal pit bull terrier, had escaped its enclosure.

I shut the folder. Kept a cutting out, one with an address in Sighthill.

My coat was hanging by the door. I knew what Mac and Hod would say about what I planned to do next, but it was something I just had to pursue.