One Good Turn

24

There was nothing like a night in the cells to give you an appetite. Jackson was starving, but raking round the cupboards of the tiny kitchen, he could find only dried-up instant gravy granules and some perforated tea bags that smelled herbal and repellent. That was something useful he could do today, find a supermarket or, preferably, a good deli, stock up on decent stuff, and cook something for them to eat tonight, something wholesome. Jackson’s culinary repertoire consisted of five dishes that he could cook well, which were five more than Julia could cook.

He imagined how his local market in France would look this morning, overflowing with tomatoes, basil, cheeses, figs, and big, fat French peaches, ripe enough to burst. No wonder northerners were miserable buggers, evolving for thousands of years on har-vests of wet grains and thin gruels.

Julia hadn’t looked as though she’d eaten at all yesterday, she’d had a “drink” with Richard Mott at lunchtime. Still, having seen him, Jackson now felt relatively safe from any rivalry with him, no way would Julia be attracted to anyone that untalented. The guy had died onstage.

Propped up against the kettle was a note from Julia. Her bold hand announced simply, See you later, love J. Her initial was accompanied by only one kiss and no exclamation points, she was a person who used exclamation points liberally, she said they made everything seem more friendly. Jackson thought they made every-thing seem startling but found that he missed them when they weren’t there. He was being overanalytical, there wasn’t much you could read into See you later, love J. Was there? The absence of ex-clamation points, the paucity of Xs, the initial rather than a name, the vagaries of time and place of “see you later”-see him later where?

She’d had a preview (but had she?) and then he remembered her saying that Tobias was giving them “notes,”he was sure she had nothing this evening. He could cook her penne pasta with pesto, a good salad, strawberries-no, she preferred raspberries. Some Gorgonzola, she liked that, he couldn’t abide it. A bottle of champagne. Or would champagne feel too celebratory? Would it high-light the fact that they had very little to celebrate? When had he started thinking so much?

He had a shower, a shave, changed his clothes. He didn’t quite feel like a new man, but he looked a lot better than the shabby criminal who had stood up in court. His face was unmarked, which was something to be grateful for. He would have liked to strap his hand up-more for aesthetic reasons than anything else- but it wasn’t a good idea to compress bruises. He’d done enough first aid in the field courses to know a few things about fixing peo-ple up. He flexed his hand a few times-agonizing, but it still worked. He would have known by now if there’d been any bro-ken bones.

His boots were still damp from yesterday, but there was not much he could do about that, he’d experienced worse. At least the boots and the bruises were hard evidence of the fight with Honda Man. The girl in the water, on the other hand, hadn’t left a trace in his life. He was beginning to doubt his own experience. Maybe he had hallucinated the whole incident out at Cramond. Maybe he had wanted something to happen, something interesting, so he had fabricated it. Who knew what weird things the brain was ca-pable of? But no, he had touched her pale skin, he had looked into her sightless sea-green eyes. He had to believe the evidence of his senses. She was real and she was dead, and she was out there somewhere.

After fueling up on coffee and a proper breakfast at Toast round the corner from the flat, he set off to walk in to town across the Meadows.

There were a lot of people on the Meadows, none of them doing anything that could be called useful. Didn’t any of these people have jobs to go to? There were Japanese drummers, a group of mostly middle-aged people (Scots, by their pallor) doing tai chi-Jackson didn’t get tai chi, it looked okay on television when you saw people doing it in China, but in Scotland it looked, let’s face it, arsy. There were some people dressed like extras from Braveheart, lolling around on the grass in a way that would have made William Wallace shudder. “Reenacters”-he knew that’s what they were called. Julia had done reenactments for a couple of weeks last summer, playing Nell Gwyn for some National Trust place (“for a pittance and the oranges”). Julia “rented herself out by the hour” (her words) on any number of mundane jobs, from banqueting wench to bingo caller. All jobs were acting, she claimed, whether you were a prostitute or a shopgirl, you were in a role. “And what about when you’re being Julia?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s the greatest show on earth, sweetie.”

He had another cup of coffee as he walked, dispensed from a kiosk that used to be a blue police box, a Tardis. It was a strange world, Jackson thought. Yes, siree.

Edinburgh was like a city where no one worked, where every-one spent their time playing. And so many young people, not one of them more than twenty-five, looking carefree and careless in a way that irritated him. He wanted to tell them that no matter how golden they were feeling now, life was going to disappoint them on a daily basis. It was going to wipe the smiles off their faces. Jack-son was alarmed by this surge of something bitter, the black bile of envy, if he wasn’t mistaken. It wasn’t his, it belonged to his father. He could hardly claim it as his when his own life consisted of nothing more taxing than doing laps in his turquoise swimming pool.

A young guy in one of those idiotic jester’s hats was blocking the path in front of Jackson. He was practicing juggling with three oranges, almost as if Jackson had conjured him up by thinking of Nell Gwyn. Julia was perfect for Nell Gwyn, of course, her curvy, busty figure, her compulsion to flirt. She sent him a photograph of her in costume, her tightly corseted breasts, as round as oranges, although considerably bigger, being offered up to the camera in a way that was extraordinarily provocative. Jackson wondered who took the photograph. “What do you do when you’re Nell Gwyn?” he’d asked, and she put on a kind of yokel accent, Devon or Somerset, and said, “Oranges, who’ll buy my lovely oranges?

“Nell Gwyn wasn’t really an orange seller,” Julia said, “she was actually a bona fide actress.”

“Just like you,” Jackson said. It had possibly sounded more sar-castic than he’d intended. Or perhaps it had sounded as exactly as sarcastic as he’d intended. Julia would have made a perfect mistress for a king, a perfect mistress for any man. And a terrible wife. He knew that in his heart, that was what made it worse.

Stifling a desire to shoulder Juggling Boy off the path, Jackson scowled at him and said, “Excuse me,” in a pointed, sarcastic tone. It would have been no trouble for Jackson to have simply walked round the boy on the grass like everyone else, but it was the principle of the thing. Paths were for people to walk on, not for idiots in hats to juggle on.

Juggling Boy said nothing but moved slowly to the side, his eyes never leaving the oranges. Jackson bumped into him as he walked past, catching his elbow, and the oranges went rolling in three different directions across the grass. “Sorry about that,” Jackson said, unable to keep the pleasure off his face.

“Wanker,” the boy muttered after him. Jackson turned on his heel and marched back, planting himself on the path. “What did you say?” he asked, sticking his face menacingly near the boy’s. Adrenaline chased the bile in his bloodstream, a little voice in his head accompanied it, saying, Bring it on. He had an uncomfortable flashback to last night, to Terence Smith’s jeering, ugly features.

The boy took a step back in alarm and whined, “Nothing, man. I didn’t say anything.” He looked cowed and sullen, and Jackson realized that the boy couldn’t be more than sixteen or sev-enteen, almost a child (although Jackson had joined the army at that age, a boy soldier who thought he was a real man). He remembered Terence Smith yesterday, stepping out of the car with his baseball bat swinging in anger. This is what road rage felt like. Path rage. Jackson laughed, a sudden unexpected harshness that made the boy flinch. Sheepishly, Jackson chased after the oranges, picked them up, and handed them back. The boy took them gingerly, as if they might be hand grenades. “Sorry,” Jackson said, and he walked away quickly to spare the boy any more humiliation. You bastard, Jackson said to himself, you total fucking bastard. He was turning into his enemy, his own worst version of himself.