There's Only One Danny Garvey, page 24
‘Ah saw Raymond pull gloves on an’ then reach intae the old man’s jacket. He opened a wallet an’ it looked like he took some money from it.’
Mrs Reid makes this weird yelping noise. It shocks me. It sounds like a wee dog getting repeatedly kicked by someone with steel-capped boots. She’s started screaming. I keep going, unsure of what she’s hearing but this is for me now.
‘My brother examined the motor. We got back in, an’ he drove it back to this woman’s house. He told me tae go back tae where I’d been sleepin’ earlier. Ah just did what he told me to.’
I must sound like a child to her. I certainly feel like one again. I’d spoken like this a lot when we were young. Recounting an incident; blaming Raymond for the outcome. And then suddenly, and unexpectedly, her screeching stops. She isn’t making a sound. Her face is contorted, and I briefly think this must be what having a stroke is like. If she dies, I’ll still have atoned, right? It’ll still count. I’ll be able to look Nancy in the eye and know I’ve done the right thing. There will be no more secrets. No more running. No more hiding in fucking freezing Arbroath. I’ll be able to be normal. Not special, just normal. I’ll be fixed.
Minutes pass with no sound other than the metronomic pendulum of the tall mahogany clock in the hall. My heart beats in syncopated rhythm. I’m calmer than I expected I’d be. It’s because I now know I’m doing the right thing. That I’m the one fixing this. I notice her hands are trembling, and I wonder how long we’ll remain here, contemplating what comes next. I’m not telling her about the building site. About where wee Louise-Anne is, or might be. That’s someone else’s confession, not mine.
‘Get out!’ she screams suddenly. She’s not having a stroke. ‘Get out of my house now before ah phone the police.’
I stand and head to her living-room door. As I pass her, she hits me. It’s a weak, badly aimed slap and it neither connects with its intended target nor hurts. But I still wish she hadn’t done it. I move past the gallery of heartaches. I’ve caused her this pain she’s feeling. It’s only the start. When she hears – as she will any day now – that her granddaughter’s remains may lie under the foundations of a farm outbuilding less than half a mile from this house, my admission might hurt less. It might be seen in a different light. But I had to tell her first. For my conscience to be completely clear. Who knows, I’ll maybe be able to come back once she regains a bit of perspective. It would be nice to make sure she was okay before Nancy, Damo and I leave Barshaw.
I hear something landing at my feet. I turn from the front door. She has thrown the folder at me. All that work assembling a tribute to her husband. It’s now blowing gently in the breeze at my feet.
‘You should’ve gone tae prison along with your brother.’
I look around to see if anyone might’ve heard. Or if the woman from across the street is watching. Would she act more decisively this time? Or would she still consider this to be someone else’s business?
Mrs Reid is still crying. I didn’t think old people wept as much. The door slams shut in my face. I look around at the garden, up at the guttering. At the shadow moving away from the frosted glass. My handiwork. There’s nothing I can do about this situation now. I have apologised. Done what I came here to do. And I have tried to atone. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that in the weeks ahead.
I’m spending more and more time these days with Anne Macdonald. She’s the only person that understands me. We shouldn’t really get on – the class polarity between us. But there’s something magnetic about her. We’re the same age but her life experience is so much more expansive than mine. I’ve found it easy to open myself up to her fully, and the advice she’s been giving me lately has been invaluable.
She picks me up and we drive through the Ayrshire countryside. I made a second copy of Nancy’s mix tape and it sounds magnificent bursting through these fantastic speakers that she’s had installed.
We don’t converse, we just listen. Comet Gain, The Auteurs, Moose, The Go-Betweens. From her reaction, it’s clear she’s coming around to my way of thinking about music. I knew she would.
Don’t worry too much about Mrs Reid, says Anne, eventually. You did the right thing. She just needs time to come to terms with it. It’ll be a shock after all these years.
I know she’s right. She’s always been right.
We’ve driven to The Esplanade at Ayr. The car’s parked facing out and we can see the water over the top of the low wall separating the promenade from the sand.
Did you speak to Nancy? she asks.
‘No’ yet,’ I reply.
You need to, Danny. Soon.
‘Ah know. Ah’ve just got tae find the right time. It’s a big step, movin’ her away fae her ma’ an’ uprootin’ the wee yin fae the school.’
But, it’s not the school he should be in, she knows that now. You told her.
‘Ah know.’
And you need to do anything you can to get her away from your brother.
‘Aye.’ We get interrupted by the mobile phone. I put my finger to my lips to ensure her silence.
‘Hi.
…
Aye, it’s me.
…
Oh, how ye doin’, Alan?
…
Ah’m good, thanks.
…
Aw, man … that’s great. Just the right time, Alan.
…
Aye. We’ve got the final comin’ up but after that, I’m totally free. The chairman’s cool wi’ it tae.
…
What’s that?
…
Aye. Nae problem. Ah’ll phone him before ah’m headin’ up.
…
Thanks. Ah mean that, Alan. Ah’m really grateful.
…
Aw’right. Aw the best.
…
Aye.
…
See ye.’
Well? asks Anne.
‘Formal offer ae a job coachin’ the youth team at Ross County. Up in the Highlands.’
They were my local team, she says, excitedly. How great is that?
‘Well … haven’t got it officially yet, but y’know?’
Yes. I do. It’s great, Danny. Really. I’m so pleased it’s all working out for you. She kisses my cheek, like the sister I never had. Or the mother I wished I’d had.
She drives me back to The Barn. I have a meeting with the committee, and it’ll be an opportunity for me to give them the good news.
‘Come in, son,’ says Billy the Kidd. There’s a concerned look on his face, which is surprising given our achievements this year. He’s become a hard man to please, that’s for sure.
The full committee is assembled. Not sitting as formally as when I first met them. They all shake my hand. All mumble a word of encouragement about the two matches ahead; the last league game of the season and then the cup final itself.
‘Sit down, Danny,’ says Phil Dick, quietly.
‘Ye’ve done a brilliant job wi’ the team, this year, son … ye have,’ says Billy the Kidd. ‘But we’re no’ goin’ tae renew yer post for next season.’
He stands and approaches me. Puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s a good man, is Billy the Kidd. He cares for the club, and I’m sure he cares for me too.
‘We’ve ironed out that problem you had at the hotel, so ye dinnae need tae stress about that anymore, okay? An apology was enough.’
‘Well, if Anne’s okay wi’ it, Mr Kidd, then ah’m prepared tae forget all about it tae.’
The American was out of order, and someone like Anne shouldn’t have to put up with lecherous bastards like him when she’s doing her job. But if the chairman feels that it’s best swept under the carpet, for the greater good, then I’m not someone to bear a grudge.
He gives me a strange look. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned her by name.
‘Yer uncle asked about the remaining games … the final.’
‘Aye,’ I reply. ‘He cannae wait. It’s given him somethin’ tae live for after, y’know, my mam dyin’.’
‘Well, we’ve given this some thought. I’ve spoken to Harry Doyle tae. The squad … they’re keen for ye tae see it…’
‘Listen, Mr Kidd. There’s nae way ah’m walkin’ out on this club before its biggest game in thirteen years. Ah might’ve done it once but ah was young an’ daft back then.’
‘Aye,’ says Phil Dick. He rolls his eyes and I’m not sure what that means. Then again, he’s never liked me much.
‘So, after the final … win or lose, ah want ye tae promise us somethin’.’
‘Anythin’, Mr Kidd.’
‘Ye’ll go an’ see somebody, son. Get some help. Take a break. Get yerself in order.’
‘Aw in hand, Mr Chairman. Ah’ve got a place lined up. Up north again. Middle ae nowhere. Fresh, cold air … peace an’ quiet, y’know?’ I laugh nervously.
No-one from the committee responds. This is a serious business.
‘Okay son. Thanks for comin’ in. For makin’ this so easy on us.’
‘Listen, Mr Kidd, ah should be thankin’ you. Ah never wanted this job tae start wi’, tae come back tae Barshaw … tail between my legs, an’ that. But you’ve given me a bit ae self-respect back. A bit ae redemption.’
He escorts me to the door, as his colleagues exchange glances.
‘Ah need tae ask ye,’ I say.
‘What is it, son?’
‘How’s yer stepdaughter takin’ aw this, em, crap … wi’ the Yanks?’
He looks at me and sighs deeply. He puts his hand to his mouth. He’s disappointed. I can tell. Like I’ve just broken a code of honour.
‘Danny, son, ah don’t have a stepdaughter.’
As I ran this morning, I considered my unlikely season here; the personal achievements that it represented. Barshaw Bridge will finish fourth in the league, regardless of today’s result. We’re in a major cup final for the first time since 1983. Jock Reid’s name is back, chiselled in gold again on the wooden board in the committee room. I’ve acknowledged his death to his wife, and I’ve made reparations. Scud Meikle has benefitted from my return. It’s given him somewhere to be and a purpose that has stabilised his decline. I’ve outlined a much more positive future for my nephew, Damo, than his mother thought possible. And I’ve buried my mother, along with my memories of her. Deek Henderson is already dead. I can do no more with that one.
I’m at The Barn earlier than normal. Earlier than everyone else, other than the groundsman. I may well miss it next season; not something I had ever expected to feel. There are good people surrounding this club. People who deserve to have some of their passion and determination rewarded. When we won the semi-final, Billy the Kidd couldn’t speak to me for the tears. Higgy too … this club is in his blood. He remembers the days when the club kept the village spirit going. When the bypass came, when the pits started closing and the jobs disappeared, when all that the disenfranchised men had left to give direction and purpose to their lives was this club. A team filled with local men who’d grown up watching men exactly like them. Hoping – mostly in vain – for a win against local rivals like Auchinleck Talbot, or Cumnock, or a wee run to the edges of the Scottish Cup. All of this is now wrapped up in one vital game. The Ayrshire Cup Final. Our last of the season. My last of the season. The ghosts excised, I can finally leave here.
But before that, it’s our final home league game. Saltcoats Vics, who have somehow limped on through the worst of the season’s ravages, are the visitors. They are level at the bottom with Lugar Boswell Thistle. They’ll be desperate to win, despite the odds being against it. I’ve used this – and the competition for places for the cup final – as the motivation for our performance. No complacency.
The team are out warming up. All present and correct, except Tony McIntosh, who hasn’t even called to offer an excuse. It’s disappointing, but I’ve been expecting it. His mind’s not on it. His appearances at training are becoming scarcer and his weight is fluctuating wildly. Harry Doyle recently made everyone laugh by suggesting we send him to Edinburgh and have him cloned, like the sheep the scientists have named Dolly.
‘What? Then we’d have two fat, lazy cunts tae pick from,’ Gilhooly joked.
And then I’m on the pitch. That sixty- by one hundred-yard rectangle where no-one can touch me. I can’t remember crossing the touchline to get here. But I’m walking around, inspecting the turf. Watching Harry conduct the drills along with Andy Meikle, who has adapted well to a role as Harry’s assistant. I’m almost redundant, so polished is the routine now. I look over at the dugouts. I see Nancy in the van, serving food to Anne Macdonald, who is standing beside her. Both wave and I wave back. As does Higgy, standing to the side of it. And Damo. He waves too. And suddenly I’m in the centre circle. There’s a ball at my feet. And everyone is waving towards me. Billy the Kidd, his fellow committee members. They are there with the big Texan. He has brought a horse. Damo is feeding it hay. And there’s Mrs Reid. She came! But … how is that possible? She’s standing with Jock, her husband. And he’s waving at me too. Libby appears from behind him. Waving. Wishing me well. The only one not here is Raymond.
—I barely fucking touched him. Yet he went down like a sniper had shot him. He’s always been a bloody drama queen. But he more than deserves this, the devious wee cunt.
The pain in the back of my head. It’s hard to focus. But eventually he drifts into view.
‘Get up, ya wee prick,’ he tells me.
‘What the fuck happened there?’
‘Ah belted ye,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘Cos ah fucken felt like it!’ My brother stands over me. Shouting at me. We’re in the home dressing-room showers. I’m disorientated.
‘Fuck sake. What time is it?’
‘Fucken Hammer-time. What difference does it make?’
‘We’ve got a game … Jesus, Raymond. The team’ll be in here in a minute.’
‘It’s fucken by, son,’ he says. ‘An’ so’ll you be in a minute.’ His fist is clenched. He put me down. He’s waiting for me to get up so he can do it again. How sporting of him.
‘Wh-what are ye doin’ here?’ I stutter.
‘You an’ me, boy. We’ve got some real fucken shite tae sort out here.’ He’s prowling. Like a wild animal with its cornered prey.
‘Ah know,’ I say. It’s been a long time coming.
—Right back to when he was a wee boy, he could always compartmentalise the football; it was everything else that was the problem. Those years of me taking the rap for things he’d done. Everyone feeling sorry for him … ‘the wean wi’ nae da’. Well, I was the same. Nobody gave a fuck about me though. I was expected to be his da, his ma, his brother, his fucking guardian … all rolled into one.
‘Ye told that auld Reid woman an’ that fucken bastard journalist cunt that ah was drivin’ the car the killed auld Jock Reid,’ he yells. ‘An’ now he’s runnin’ a fucken story about it, sayin’ ah lifted money out his wallet while he’s lyin’ dead in the river.’
‘That’s what ah saw.’
‘Is it fuck, Danny! An’ you fucken know that. Why are ye doin’ this tae me? Ah got his address. Took you back tae that auld bag’s place tae fucken keep ye out the road. An’ ah went tae the polis. Ah’ve already done the time for it … for you! Or have ye fucken forgot that? Nine months for causin’ death by dangerous drivin’. Ah took that time for you! So you could get a clean break. Fucken make somethin’ ae yersel wi’ the fitba up in Aberdeen.’ His anger is ramping. ‘An’ ye couldnae even dae that! Fuck sake, the library books, the obsession with missing weans … Jesus Christ, Danny, you need fucken help, son. You’re fucken mental, you!’
And I summon up the strength to punch him. My knuckles connect with his mouth and my hand immediately stings. He takes the jab well. His boxer’s training coming to the fore. But he doesn’t retaliate as I’d hoped he would. He smiles at me, before pulling out a tooth that I’ve dislodged. He stares at it before a look crosses his face. It’s almost as if he’s finally proud of me. Proud of me for being like him. And then it dawns on me. He thinks he’s won. The cunt thinks he’s beaten me.
‘Finally, a wee bit ae backbone,’ he slurs.
‘Ah’m wi’ Nancy now,’ I say, hoping it hurts as much as I suspect he’s about to hurt me.
It shuts him up. Stuns him.
‘Wi’ slept wi’ each other. Her an’ Damo are comin’ away wi’ me. Away fae you!’
He laughs at this. As if I’ve just told him the funniest line he’s ever heard. Or maybe just the most unbelievable.
—She admitted she’d been spending time with him. Told me it was because she was worried about him. That he was unravelling. She only went with him the one night to get back at me. Because of what I’d reduced her to. Maybe I deserved it. I’ve not been a model of loyalty over the years. But that’s going to change. And this little prick isn’t getting away with it. Fuck it, I’m done with him.
‘Connivin’ wee cunt,’ he snarls at me. He spits blood from the missing tooth into my face. ‘Ah’m in the fucken jail, countin’ down the bastardin’ days, an’ aw the while, you’re out here shaggin’ ma missus…’
He kicks me hard in the stomach. The wind goes straight out of me. It makes me cough repeatedly and eventually some blood appears. Can’t remember if I told him about Damo hating him. Hating men with beards. Can’t remember anything.
‘After everythin’ ah’ve done for ye … aw the shit ah took tae protect ye when ye were a wee bastard? Ah looked after ye. Did what a brother should. Stopped aw they wee pricks bullyin’ ye, an’ got the fucken jail for that tae. It’s you that owes me, ya cunt!’ Ah, our obligations. Our deep desire to have them settled. ‘An’ now ye think ye can just fucken swan in … take ma place?’
He’s yelling at me. Punching my ribs repeatedly. Laughing like a maniac. The apologetic desperation of our last meeting has gone. Rage and aggression are back in the driving seat. ‘Yer ain wee family, eh? Aw sorted? Fuck off! Yer a fucken freak, son. A lucky fucken escape fae the abortion clinic. Everythin’ ye’ve ever had is down tae me. Every opportunity … every break … aw because ah created them for ye. An’ this is how ye fucken repay me? Ya snidey wee cunt, ye!’
