“What are those?”
Her eyes turn cold. “I can’t say. And you wouldn’t be interested anyway. You, with your little Scottish army. What’ve you been doing anyway? Helping the English in some desert somewhere?”
She’s pretty much spot on, but I’m not telling her that. I can’t tell her that.
I’m more than just a wee soldier being given orders. Somewhere, someone along the line saw something in me and I stopped being cannon fodder.
I had other skills. And a sense of survival.
“Wherever they send me.”
“So you can die for your country? Pathetic little Scotland.”
Those aren’t Majken’s words. Scotland is the country where we – or at least she – thrived. It’s our father’s nation and would’ve been our mother’s.
“Why do you say that?”
“I just think Scotland is better under someone else’s governance.” Her eyes narrow, her water now finished.
“Like England’s?” I poke the bear.
“Never.” She stands up. “I have to go. Have a date.”
“With Iain?”
“Maybe.”
“Isn’t he married?” I don’t actually know but it’s a worth saying just for the look on Majjie’s face.
“His wife has moved out. She’s never home.”
I raise a brow. “Can’t be both. If she’s moved out, she’ll have a different home.”
“You always were a little fucking pedant. Have you phoned our aunt recently? I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”
“I’m pretty sure she’d like to see me too, but we all know that’s not going to happen unless it’s in a funeral parlour.” I down the last of my drink and stand up.
“Lovely. Should’ve left you in England.” She walks off, not looking back and instead glancing at her watch.
I throw a note on the table and make brief eye contact with the bar tender.
Then I follow her.
* * *
I’m actually looking for a gift in a back street bookshop in Bristol. I’m not a gift giver. Not a giver of much apart from the occasional orgasm, so this is something of a one off, but Blair told me something last night that made me remember something good from my childhood and I wanted her to have something of me that was good.
A bit of research and I knew where to find it, the small bookshop where I’m now standing in the shadows of a shelf with long forgotten books ornamenting it, watching the two people at the desk.
“My father collects these editions.”
“What an amazing hobby.” The woman strokes the cover of the book as if it’s someone’s skin. “Why this book though?”
Because the man’s a weird, power hungry dick who thinks that reading Machiavelli’s The Prince justifies all the shit things he’s done.
“I’m not sure. He made me and my brother read it countless times even before we started secondary school.” William Goldsmith’s accent sounds even more stilted than usual.
“Will you do the same with your children?” Elise’s voice contains a giggle that Goldsmith seems to enjoy, placing his hand on the small of her back.
