The look on the American guy’s face is also a picture. He looks like he’d happily give up a kidney too, just to avoid spending another minute in my company. I flush again, and stand up tall. The wind whips my hair into a cloud, and I muster as much dignity as I can behind my flailing curtain.
‘That’s okay, thank you. I’ll walk.’
‘Ye cannae walk!’ the cabbie proclaims, looking confused. ‘It’s an awful long way, you ken?’
I don’t ken. In fact I have no idea where I am, or what I’m doing – but I do know that I don’t want to get into that cab, with that man. I shake my head firmly, and stride away.
‘That’s the wrong direction!’ the driver shouts. I do an about-turn, and follow his pointing finger, aware that he’s looking at me like I’m a lunatic. It’s a look I’m well used to by this stage of my life, and it bothers me less than it probably should.
I set off down the road, my suitcase bumping and wobbling with every step, hoping I look determined rather than demented. Predictably, the heavens choose that precise moment to open,and the rain lashes down on me.I will not cry, I repeat to myself as I walk.I will not cry.
I’m crying, obviously. But nobody can see me, so it doesn’t matter. I’ve made it about ten staggering steps when the cab drives up beside me. The rear window rolls down, and the American man leans his head out.
‘Get in!’ he shouts. ‘You can’t walk in this!’
‘I can, and I will!’ I reply, dragging the case down a kerb. It lands on my toe and I swear silently. Water is dripping down the back of my collar, cold fingers on my neck like a ghostly sense of dread.
The car comes to a stop, and he gets out, towering above me. He takes hold of my case, and hefts it effortlessly up. Within seconds it’s stashed in the boot, and he stands there, glowering at me and gesturing at the open door. I glower back at him, wanting to argue, or possibly to punch him in the face. I’m soaked through already, and now so is he.
‘Please, I’m begging you,’ he growls, his voice gravelly and low. ‘Just get in the damn cab – I don’t do well in rain!’
I suck in some air, and squeeze the remaining tears from my eyes. Defeated, I get into the car.
Leap of faith my arse.
FOUR
BRODY
I’m in so much pain I can barely breathe. It gets like this sometimes, especially when I’ve been sitting for extended periods. Walking I can do, lying flat is fine, but anything in between? That can be torture. This whole journey has been a battle of wills between me and my nerve endings, and all I want to do is get horizontal. Or possibly drunk. That helps, as it does with most things – that or a massage from my PT, but that ain’t gonna happen here.
The damn cab ride seems to take forever, and I can tell the woman I’ve picked up is as tense as I am. Her long dark hair is wild from the rain, a stray strand striping her cheek in a way that drives me mad. I want to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, but she looks so highly strung she might scream. I can’t say that I blame her. I just kidnapped her, even if it was with the best of intentions.
I know I was rude to her on the train. I know I could have made more effort to be civilised. But it’s hard to be civilised when you’re in constant pain. In my own way, I was trying to make up for it by giving her a ride – but I know how I can come across. How years as a cop left me with this bullish attitude, the misguided belief that people should always do what I say. I don’thave the badge or the gun now, but it seems I still think I’m in charge. How would Shannon have reacted, if some strange guy threw her luggage in the trunk without her permission?
Shannon would have kicked him in the balls – but this woman? This woman is struggling to hold herself together. I can see the stress in her clenched fists, her delicate pale skin, hazel eyes that are beautiful but currently gazing nervously around her. Her lips are trembling, and her foot is tapping incessantly on the floor of the car. Maybe she’s had a bad day. Maybe she’s had a bad life. Maybe she’s fresh out of an institution. Any one of these could be true, and now I’ve somehow gone and made her my problem.Shit.
I ignore her, and look out the window. It’s a good distraction, one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. The road is rolling and tumbling through the countryside, through dense woods of pine trees, velvet-green hillsides, fields filled with sturdy-looking sheep. Every now and then we plummet towards the coastline, sometimes so close it feels like we’re heading straight into the sea.
The sunshine is back, the sky clear blue and traced with soaring gulls. I concentrate on the birds, on the way they float on the wind currents. So free and graceful and at one with their world. I kinda wish I was a gull right now, not a guy with a back injury wondering if he should give in, and take a goddamn pill. Shannon says I should, that they’re there to be used, but for some messed-up macho bullshit reason I see it as a weakness. I try to relax my taut muscles.
The car winds through the scenery, the driver yapping on. I grunt in response when I need to, half tempted to open the door and do a duck and roll out onto the hillside. What the hell am I doing here? I should be back in Chicago, cracking open a beer and settling down into my BarcaLounger in front of the big screen.
My phone beeps, and a message lands from Shannon.
How goes the great adventure? Looks like you’re nearly there. I’m so proud of you Dad – have a great time!
Huh, I think, I’ve really got to get that tracking app disabled. At least at my end. If I do give up and fly straight home, I don’t want her to know. I don’t want to disappoint her. I’ve got to remember I’m not just doing this for myself, I’m doing it for her – and I would do anything for her. I’d tear down the whole world just to see her smile. She’s proud of me, and that makes it all worthwhile.
The woman I’m with hasn’t looked at her phone once, I realise. No messages to or from anybody else, which in this day and age is unusual. Maybe she doesn’t want to be tracked either. Maybe I can add ‘on the run from Interpol’ to my list of guesses about her. She glances across at me, as though she senses my scrutiny, and bites her lip so hard a bubble of blood oozes out. She has terrific lips, I can’t help noticing. Sweet and plump, the kind most men dream of kissing. Not me, though. No sirree, not me – those days are gone.
She looks away, and I wonder what I can do to make her less nervous. Maybe talk, like an actual person.
‘So,’ I try out, my voice croaky from the extended silence. ‘You come here often?’
It’s lame, an attempt at a joke that nobody in their right mind would find funny. She immediately lets out a laugh, then holds her hands over her mouth, as though she’s embarrassed at her own reaction.
‘No!’ she replies after a few moments. ‘I’ve never even been to Scotland before. It’s amazing, isn’t it?’
