The Museum of Doubt (24 page)

All right Gordon, said Charlie Sturrock, coming out the garden centre after him with two petrol canisters and a coil of thin clear plastic tubing. How you doing? Good, eh? Fine with me too. Couldn’t be better, aye. Turnover aye, got to watch the turnover, don’t want to be in a cash negative situation, no worries, no worries. Aye terrible weather, eh, terrible weather. No, it’s fine, really, great. You eh, you eh, haven’t seen you down the club house for a wee while, you eh, everything all right? All right? Aye? Good ’cause you don’t want to let these things get you down do you, no, they happen, and they say his books were in a terrible state.

All right Charlie, said Gordon. How’s it going with you?

Oh, it’s great, fantastic, cash positive, cash positive. In the black every time. Up on every deal, uhuh. Uhuh. It’s a shame to take their money from them but it’s their lookout if they don’t know what to do with it. No we’re feeling really good about it, expanding soon, got to put some of the profits back, you know.

We? said Gordon. I thought it was just you.

Just me? Oh there’s a massive payroll, there’s Liz and the office manager and the accountant and the bar staff and the bouncers. It’s a big operation, Gordon, and the spondulicks keep rolling in, you can’t stop them. It’s like, you’ve heard of these cash mountains, that’s what it’s like. A cash mountain.

I’d like to get to the top of that mountain, said Gordon. Any chance of a lift?

Not got the car? No problem. The company limo’s standing by.

Got a new car?

Only a Jag.

You always had a Jag.

It’s not the car, it’s the running costs, said Charlie. Any flash
arsehole can buy a new Jaguar but you need to be loaded to run a vintage one.

Gordon put his goods in the boot and settled down in the worn leather seats. The rain slashed across the windows and drummed on the roof. The car even creaked a little in the wind. Vintage. Another word for old. Vintage wine. Vintage fish heads. Vintage men. Gordon and Charlie and the farmer, vintage men. Vintage bastards. Vintage fools.

Look at that poor lassie from the garden centre running out into the rain, said Charlie, watching in the rear mirror as the Jag moved away. Some poor bastard must have gone off without paying. Bad news for the boss, eh? The cash flow is paramount.

Weather, said Gordon, shaking his head. Never get a fire going for the leaves at this rate.

I don’t know, said Charlie. Depends where you light it. He cleared his throat and put his foot down.

Park here, said Gordon. I don’t want them seeing you. I’ll be two seconds. Wee recce.

Don’t be long, said Charlie. Just get the eh, get the girls on the blower, eh. Up for it? Up for it? That’s my man. He winked and his big thumb foraged daintily for numbers on his mobile keypad.

Gordon got out of the car and walked over to the house. The rain had stopped. He unlatched the gate as quietly as he could and went into the garden. He bent over, scurried to the lounge window, bobbed his head up and keeked inside. Darkness and stillness. He stood up straight. No fire. Water drops hung from the leaves of the hedge. Gordon walked to the hedge and put both hands in among the leaves. He ran his wet palms over his face. Was it good for you? That was dew. Dew for lassies, rain for men. It had acid in it, cleaned out your pores maybe. That was what it reminded him of! That drop hanging there off the end of that wee leaf, it was like that time Smithie started greeting in Bangkok. He’d sat there shaking and the tears pouring out of his eyes like leaky guttering in a storm and Gordon’d stared at him. And a drop hanging off the end of his nose. It’d been a roasting day and he wondered if it was cooling Smithie down.
In fact he’d asked him whether his tears were hot or cold and that was when Smithie’d walked away from him and lost him, the shit. Aye and having to fly back on his own and trying to make them stop the plane because he’d left something behind. He had, too, if only he’d known what it was, but if he’d known, he wouldn’t have left it. They never did stop. It’d been a 747. Hard to turn round, right enough.

Gordon ducked down again and ran at a crouch round the house to the kitchen side. He knelt under the window ledge and raised his head. There they were, the schemers. Kenneth in Gordon’s chair with a big tumbler of Scotch, laying down the law with a vertical finger stabbing the upholstery and a silent mouth snapping away like a lizard after midges. That was an impressive growth he had on him, he’d look better with a beard, and it didn’t look like he’d slept too well. And Julie was back! Julie of the legs! For a second he was about to jump up and collar his neck with the double glazing and scream Treachery! Whore! when he realised she just had her head on his son’s lap and wasn’t moving. Smithie, ach what d’you mean, Mary, was moving up and down the carpet, doing the karate moves. She had the gear on for it, the white pyjamas, and it was a one, a two with the hands like axe blades and then hup! you beauty, the leg above the head and the flying kick. That was Gordon’s jaw, no doubt about it, spinning up into the air in slow motion like the bone in
2001:
A Space Odyssey
, and him standing there chinless, stunned.

He laughed. Oh – too loud. Smithery snapped her head round and Julie was up like a bloodhound and Kenneth, he was rising out of the chair, they’d heard him. He ran back round the house and was out the gate and into the Jag. Charlie was gabbing away on the mobile.

Let’s get going, said Gordon urgently, shrinking down into the seat and checking the wing mirror. Come on.

Right, fine hen, tattie bye, see you there, aye, best behaviour now, guide’s honour, remember we’re respectable men, Charlie said into the phone, nodding and winking and grinning at Gordon.

Come on, said Gordon. In the mirror he saw Kenneth poking his head out from behind the hedge, still holding the glass. Kenneth stepped out onto the pavement and stood there looking at the Jag, one hand in his pocket. He raised the glass and emptied it slowly, rinsed the whisky round his mouth, swallowed, drew in breath between his teeth, put the glass down on the ground, hitched up his trousers and began to move towards the car with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Charlie, it’s time to go, said Gordon. I’ve been spending too much time with the family lately. Could you not talk and drive at the same time, eh?

Kenneth was trotting towards them now. Charlie started the car and pulled away, still havering to the lassie on the phone. Aye, I know you’re respectable too, I know that, uhuh, but eh, not too respectable, eh? Oh that’s a lovely laugh you’ve got, aye, no, really, absolutely sincerely, I’ve never heard anyone laugh like that. I didn’t mean that, of course I’ve heard you laugh before, I have, aye, uhuh. No no. No no no. Never. Not with the clients, hen, never with the clients, I don’t know who’s been saying that to you, they’re too young, they’re just wee lassies, that’d be bad business, conflict of interest, aye. No, that’s not true, not true, I couldn’t. Who’s been telling you that? I couldn’t. No hen, I don’t mean couldn’t like that, I could, I’ve had offers, don’t get me wrong, of course I’ve had offers, I mean I couldn’t take advantage of them, they’re too young, aye, aye. They’re not like us, d’you understand what I’m saying, not like us, aye. It’s not different ages it’s different speeds, different speeds hen, we just
walk, right, see what I mean, we just breathe like normal people, but they don’t, they move awful slow sometimes, awful slow, aye, for the ambient, it’s too slow for me, and they move awful fast when the techno’s on, it’s terrible, terrible, like a tape that’s gone wonky, slow, fast, asleep, double time, slow, fast, asleep, triple time. It’s the drugs. No of course not, of course not, drugs, aye, you can’t stop them coming in, they’re awful small, oh yes, yes, awful small, you can’t search everyone, I’m telling you you can’t. OK. OK. Aye. Of course. Of course. Me too. Me neither. Aye. Run and get your knickers on hen else we’ll still be talking and I’ll already be there. Aye. Me too. Bye.

The Jaguar slipped without friction through the black wet afternoon. Gordon settled back. Kenneth running in the mirror was far behind. Maybe he was still running. Running was good. Gordon’d done a lot of running when he was wee, running for the sake of running. Look at all those poor drenched folk walking and looking in shop windows. Don’t walk: don’t look – run! Run! Run back! Run back and find the thing you left before they take it!

So how’s eh, how’s eh, how’s Kenneth? said Charlie.

Not so good. Had a run in with the boys in blue.

Never! He never did. What the eh, the police, aye? Never.

Assault.

Tsh. That’s terrible. Was there, I mean, was there no way your eh, your eh, brother could he maybe sort something out, keep it quiet, aye, ’cause when it’s family and all that you need to don’t you, as long as it wasn’t serious, the law’s the law, aye, right enough.

Right enough.

Aye, right, right enough.

Gordon fidgeted with the ventilation and heating controls. He said: Do you ever feel like you’ve broken into your own mind to
try and steal something and then you find it’s a terrible place, but you can’t get out of it?

Sounds a bit deep, Gordon m’man, said Charlie.

Deep. Gordon didn’t want to be deep. Deep was when your feet didn’t touch the bottom and you were treading water and getting tired. Shallow wasn’t good either. That was you standing there like a prat with the water lapping round your knees and the wee kids flapping round you with their water wings. Gordon wasn’t deep or shallow. He was in it just up to his neck.

They pulled up in a side street on the edge of the zone parking area. Charlie led him to a place called Muriel’s Tea Shop. In the window were chintz curtains and two white-haired old women practising octogenarian fellatio with slices of cake.

Always one for the high life, eh, Charlie, said Gordon as they went inside. A bell tinkled when they opened the door and Gordon had to duck his head.

Not to worry, not to worry, your Charlie man’s got the old flask, aye, the magic flask, and eh the crumpet you sometimes see in here, the crumpet it’s something else, you’d be amazed Gordon, and I’m not meaning the eh the cakes with butter on, no. There they are.

One of the women looked hellish familiar. She was in black. A black dress and a serious face even though she was smiling. The other one he didn’t know at all. She was a looker in an old kind of way. Better than the one in black, who couldn’t be his wife, the wifeness was elsewhere, and his mother died a long while back. She’d been better looking.

Hi Gordon, said the one in black, smiling but looking as if she was about to greet. Haven’t seen you since the funeral.

Aye, said Gordon, sitting down opposite her. Gordon Stanefield. He put out his hand. The woman took it in her dry smooth palm and squeezed it. I know, she said, I know who you are. Gordon
opened his mouth in wonder. It was like the harder she squeezed his hand, the more tears fell from her eyes, like juice from a lemon. Better to stop.

Here now, here now, come on, let’s not have this, said Charlie. No tears, hen, come on, we’re all friends, aye, it’s eh, it’s right you’re upset but it’s happened now, it’s all over, you’ve got to move on, move on and look forward, it’s what he would have wanted.

It’s good to cry, said the other woman.

Aye Betty but not all the time, eh.

Smithie grat, said Gordon.

Part of him he didn’t control came up with the solution: he remembered.

Smithie. Your brother. Jean.

Yes, he did cry, said Jean. More after he came back from that trip to Bangkok with you. Thought his heart was broken. She sniffed and touched her face with a hankie clenched in her fist. I don’t understand.

The heat was too much for him, said Gordon. Lot of spicy food out there. Chillis. Make your eyes water.

My brother loved a curry, said Jean.

Look now, let’s eh, let’s eh, draw a line, said Charlie. Aye, a line. Here’s your tea and we’ll have a toast. Toast everyone. There you go. He poured whisky into their cups. Here’s to Cedric Smith. Lovely man, great golfer, top salesman, Jean’s favourite wee brother, our friend, liked a drink and a laugh. Here’s to him. They drank. Charlie aaaahed and winked at Betty. Life’s short, hen, he said.

I hope you’re not short, said Betty.

No, I’m not short. I’m not short at all. He drawled. I’m longgggg.

Betty laughed. Getting longer, she said.

Could be, said Charlie, getting up. The two of them shuffled off through a set of curtains. A door opened and closed.

Jean sniffed and smiled, looked over the way they’d gone and looked back at Gordon. She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. You men, eh, she said.

What men?

All you men, Gordon, said Jean. She took one of his hands in hers and laid it palm up on the table. She traced his life line with the blade of her index fingernail.

Aye, all us men, said Gordon. What men are we? Jean was writing circles on his palm. Her hands were cool like the inside of a fresh bed. What men were they. It was the club he belonged to, the club of men, only he was forgetting the rules, and there were rules. It was men only, that was for sure. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a good night out at the club of men. Aye he could. That Asian lassie. She’d punched his ticket. What’d been good was she’d been the rules. No need to know the book by heart, or even find where it was kept. The Thai girl’d been the regulations come to life. When she’d taken him by the hand and led him into another shape of light and sat him down and released his flies and begun to suck, he hadn’t had to do anything: he was only entering the rules of the club of men. He was deep inside the clubhouse and the other men were all around, glad, deserving and taken care of. Then it turned out Smithie’d never known the rules at all and hadn’t been a member of the club of men. He’d been sneaking in all that time and never paid his subs, never got his card. Like he was trying to get Gordon kicked out as well. Like he knew Gordon was already getting lost in the club, not knowing anyone there any more. Here was Smithie’s sister working the same plan, stroking his hand, saying You and Mary, you were never swingers, were you. Jean wasn’t like the Thai girl. She was a hell of a lot older for a start. She had him
by the hand and was wanting to drag him out of the club of men where he was lost already and into some more difficult world. When she was doing the gypsy doodling on his palm the tearoom sharpened, grew and brightened. The stainless steel teapot shone like chrome at noon and the white china teacups were surely about to melt, the sugar lumps took on the span of sea defences, every stalk and seed in the bunches of dried flowers pinned to the walls could be numbered. Jean’s eyes, they were terrible, finding him in the peaceful murk of himself like sun intruding on a midnight room. He knew fine he couldn’t find his way any more, he’d lost the measure of other beings and all the scales of life, but he didn’t want to be found by her, he didn’t want to be found by anyone. Best to doze in the shadows. Except to be fetched by Thai girls and Julie for a session in the club of men under red lampshades, with romps on velvety wall seats.

You’ve got a long line of life, Gordon, said Jean. Still stroking his hand she looked over her shoulder at the curtains. They’ve been gone a while, eh. She giggled. Wonder what they’re up to.

Must be penetration, said Gordon.

Jean opened her mouth, boggled eyes at him and bowed into the table in mute heaves of laughter. You’re the devil.

I am not.

We’ve got to spend less time thinking about Cedric, bless’m.

Did Smithie have a long line of life?

I never did my brother’s fortune.

Did he?

Yeah, I think he did.

What happened to him?

You know what happened. He shot himself.

Aye, I forgot.

How could you forget, said Jean, eyebrows sliding all over the
place. You were the first there after the police. They had to stop you putting your fingers in the blood. You were asking if you could have the gun since he wouldn’t be needing it any more. You were in shock, Gordon.

It’s OK now, said Gordon.

I know.

I bought one up at the garden centre.

Jean took a packet of Benson & Hedges out of her bag and lit up. She flooded her bronchi with smoke, touched her hair.

How are things at home? she said.

Fine.

How’s Mary?

I couldn’t tell you.

That doesn’t surprise me, Gordon, said Jean. She folded her left arm under her bosom and leaned forward, cigarette standing to attention in her other hand. You’ve been through a hard time what with your best friend, and your brother, and your Kenneth, and Mary’s not helped you, has she? She smiled, blinking, put her hand on Gordon’s and squeezed it. I haven’t helped you either. I’m sorry I was suspicious. Would you look at me when I’m talking to you?