Standing in another's man grave

28

It was two a.m. when Darryl Christie got back to the house in Lochend. His mother had dozed off in front of one of the TV shopping channels. He roused her and sent her to bed, though she’d demanded a hug first. The hug had been forthcoming, in exchange for a promise to take things easy with the booze and the pills.

Joseph and Cal had tidied the kitchen and washed up after dinner. Darryl checked the fridge — plenty of ready meals and milk. He’d placed a twenty-pound note on the table for groceries, and it was still there. Upstairs his brothers were in their bunk beds, but the small TV was warm to the touch and there were video games strewn across the floor. Some of them looked like they belonged to Annette. Joseph had asked permission to borrow one or two, and Darryl had agreed.

‘I hope you two are asleep,’ he warned them, though they weren’t about to open their eyes and give up the pretence. Closing the door, he slipped into his sister’s room and switched on the light. The walls had been painted black, but then decorated with posters and stickers. There were little stars and planets on the ceiling that glowed in the dark — those had been a Christmas present from Darryl. He sat for a moment on her single bed. He could smell her perfume, reckoned it was coming from the pillow. He lifted it and sniffed. There was no real sense of absence — at any moment she could come bounding in, demanding to know what he was doing there. They’d been competitive when younger, landed a few slaps, kicks and bites. But not recently, having come to inhabit different worlds.

‘Just come home, you silly bitch,’ Darryl said quietly, rising to his feet and heading back downstairs. He lay down fully dressed on his narrow bed, leaving the lights off in the conservatory so he didn’t need to close the blinds. Then he tapped a name into his phone and waited until his father picked up.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Any news?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s been two weeks.’

‘I know.’

‘How’s your mum?’

‘Not great.’

‘I can’t come back, Darryl.’

‘Why not? Hammell wouldn’t dare touch you.’

‘This is my life now.’

Darryl Christie stared at his faint reflection in the glass panels overhead. Light pollution again: no stars visible.

‘We miss you,’ he told his father.

‘You miss me,’ Derek corrected him. ‘Is Frank still treating you right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Cal and Joe?’

‘They’re okay.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘Is Frank there tonight?’

‘Not since Annette went missing.’

‘His choice or your mum’s?’

‘I’m not sure.’

They spoke for a few more minutes, until Derek Christie reminded his son how much the call was costing.

‘I keep telling you,’ Darryl said, ‘it’s Frank’s tab.’

‘Even so. .’

And that was that — goodbyes and talk of the trip to Australia Darryl would someday make. Afterwards he swung his feet on to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He had been lying to his father: he did have a phone paid for by Frank Hammell, but this wasn’t it. This belonged to Darryl, which was why he used it to send a text message to Cafferty. He reckoned the old boy would be sound asleep. Maybe it would wake him and maybe it wouldn’t. He punched it in anyway and hit ‘send’.

Your pal Rebus has taken a shine to Hammell. He was at Jo-Jo’s tonight.

Proper spelling and punctuation — only the best for Mr Cafferty. Darryl switched to his other phone to send one final text. Afterwards he might manage a few hours’ sleep. A few hours seemed to be all he ever needed. By six or six thirty he’d be on his laptop, at the start of a new working day. He checked the wording of the message and made sure it was going to the right number, then pressed ‘send’ and lay back on his bed again, eyes open. He reached for the remote and used it to close the blinds around and above him. The system had cost a fortune — more than three times what he’d told his mother — even after Frank Hammell had negotiated a hefty discount. Darryl started to unbutton his shirt. Judging by the illuminated screen, a message had arrived already on one of his phones. .