Page 51
“Seriously, if you’d seen it—”
“Don’t go filling in the blanks because you’re annoyed.”
I set down the bottle, pick up my gloves, and walk off.
“Gonnae murder the bag some more?” Niamh calls after me.
“Aye.”
“Good talk.”
I give her the finger over my shoulder, and her laugh follows me back onto the mats.
That afternoon, after another thrilling plate of chicken and rice back at the flat, I head out for a walk. I’ve no particular destination in mind, but the sun is blazing down, and I’m not going to stay cooped up indoors on the best day Glasgow’s managed all year.
It seems the rest of the West End has had a similar idea. Every outdoor café table is taken. Folk drift along in T-shirts and summer dresses, faces tilted towards the sky like they’re charging themselves after winter.
Reaching Dumbarton Road, I decide to head along it towards Kelvingrove Park. I cross the river and come to the museum at the park’s entrance, all red sandstone and turrets. I can’t help but remember the day Maw brought me here when I was wee. The Spitfire hanging over the main hall. The huge stuffed elephant beneath it.
The main thing I remember about that day, though? The way Maw was. Smiling and holding my hand, asking which of the exhibits I liked best, letting me lead her from one room to the next.
I didn’t understand then why some days she could be like that, when other days she could barely get off the sofa. I understand now: she must have been clean for a spell.
I don’t go into the museum but head past it and into the park. The place is mobbed. Blankets cover practically every patch of grass. Students pass cans around in the sun. Kids shriek and play. A few folk have disposable barbecues going.
MMA is still a pretty niche interest in this country. I’m not a footballer, and I’m certainly not a film star. But there are a few thousand people out here today, and someone is bound to recognise me, especially with the news of my next fight dropping yesterday—and a home fight too.
Normally, I don’t mind meeting fans. A photo, a handshake, a bit of chat—it comes with the job, and I’d be an ungrateful bastard to complain about it. Today, though, I’m not in the mood. That’s why I head down towards the river, where the path runs under the trees and it’s a wee bit quieter.
It’s cooler down here, out of the full sun. Dappled light shifts across the path, and the noise from the lawns fades. I follow the water for a few minutes, and my head finally begins to settle.
And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humour, I see her.
Briony, twenty metres ahead and coming my way, Penny trotting on one side of her, a lad in a powered wheelchair on the other.
Fuck. Of all the people to bump into.
I mean, sure, half the West End has emptied itself into the park today, and we both live nearby. But still, the universe really is taking the piss, isn’t it?
She’s in a pale yellow summer dress that sways around her knees as she walks. Her curls are back in their usual messy bun. She’s so busy chatting to the lad she’s with she’s not noticed me yet.
I’ve no way of avoiding her other than turning around and walking back the way I came. I’m seriously considering doing just that when Penny’s ears lift and she takes off towards me.
“Penny!” Briony calls. She looks up, sees me, and stops in her tracks.
Penny bounds the last few metres and launches herself at my shins, tail whipping back and forth.
“Aye, good to see you too.” I crouch to rub her ears. She tries to lick my chin. No chance. I catch her round the middle and hold her as she wriggles excitedly. By the time she’s finally calmed down a bit, Briony has reached me.
“Er, hi,” she says.
I straighten. “All right?”
Well, this is awkward. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had her pinned to her door, her legs wrapped around my waist. Judging by the way she’s not quite meeting my eye, I’d bet good money she’s replaying the exact same thing.
“Ryan, this is my brother, Innes. Innes, this is Ryan.”
“The Axe King,” Innes says. He’s sandy-haired, lean, probably in his late teens. “Good to meet you.”
