The Walk Home (30 page)

But Stevie picked up his pace, because those were old thoughts and he meant to keep himself loose of them; all those grim stories Eric told him, more than half his life ago. He wasn’t a wee boy now, Stevie thought his life was his own, and he could do what he wanted. He could follow who he liked, or no one. Stevie didn’t even know if it was home he was going, or what, he was only at Kelvinhall, still on the wide road. And anyhow, the way he remembered the story, the stranger gave way at daybreak. Jacob had prevailed, that’s what the Bible said. Even if he was limping, the angel let him pass, into his brother’s waiting arms. Esau took him back, he was glad to see him home again, and Stevie ducked between cars, thinking how was it that Eric never drew that part?

He got over Partick Cross, and then he cut up the side roads. Still a long way from Drumchapel and his Gran’s house, but the way Stevie felt just now, he could keep going till nightfall, maybe beyond. See how far he got.

The next turning took him uphill, and he knew he was miles from Mount Florida and his bedroll, but he didn’t stop, Stevie broke into a jog along a parade of shops, all shut. The long street was quiet and empty in the half-light, and he didn’t know how late it was, but he kept passing close-mouths and lamp posts and corner pubs, thinking he’d soon enough pass a landmark that would set him on the right road.

He saw a fork up ahead: it was darker up there, and narrow, and still nothing he remembered. So then he didn’t feel right.

Stevie slowed up a touch, getting doubtful, thinking he should double back on himself, just to be on the safe side. Maybe try another road, or another night. He was coming to another turning, and he meant to cross when he got there, before he decided. Picking up speed again, glancing over his
shoulder to check for cars, he didn’t look where he was running. Stevie didn’t see the men coming.

There were three of them, and he hit the one in the middle. They just made the corner and smack. The middle guy was a solid mass; not tall, but wide, and it was like hitting a tree, wallop, full force, shoulder to chest. Stevie’s legs gave out, his face hit the man’s elbow as he went down, and then he was on the pavement. The man was still standing.

Stevie curled himself up by his feet, head pressed between his palms. His brain felt battered against his skull, and he could hear the other men laughing; they were pissing themselves about him. The solid guy was too, but he was leaning over Stevie as well.

“Okay, son?”

Stevie looked up at him, out from between his fingers. The man’s eyes swam a bit, and his smile; Stevie smelled his fags-and-beer breath, and then another voice came from behind him.

“Mon, Frank. Gonnae leavum. It’s nearly closin.”

One of the others was making to cross the road. He stepped off the kerb, and then Stevie took him in, his football shirt. Stevie looked up, quick, at the first man again: he wasn’t wearing green and white hoops, but the third one was. He was standing just a foot or two away and looking at Stevie’s legs. The first man held out a hand:

“I’ll just get the wee fella up.”

“He’s a dirty Orange cunt, Frankie. Leavum.”

The third one stepped forward and put a toe to Stevie’s knee, a sharp kick, just by the patch on his jeans. The first man straightened up, frowning. And then he laughed:

“Aw look, an he’s got his new shoes on.”

Stevie lashed out, he kicked, but they were fast, pulling off his trainers. He fought back, only he couldn’t stop them: they stood on his legs, and then there were just too many feet and fists to get past. Stevie had to keep his arms tight about his ears, his head shielded. If he lay quiet, then they hit less. They left him lying after they’d got his shoes off.

The men tied his laces together, Stevie saw them from between his elbows. How they stood and flung his trainers, high into the air above the road. They took it in turns, twice, three times, before they got them tangled, hanging over the telephone wires, stretched across the dark sky, two floors up between the tenements. The men cheered, arms raised, and then they walked, and Stevie lay and looked at his new trainers. Out of reach now, just like his Gran’s house.

One of the men, he didn’t see which, put his hand on Stevie’s head as he passed. Pushing it down, hard, mashing the side of his face against the tarmac.

Why the bloody hell did it have to be like this?

Glasgow.

Now, or thereabouts.

Graham pitched up at his Mum’s house after work, calling up the close to her open doorway:

“I swear I’ve seen Stevie, Maw. Down on the South Side.”

This wasn’t the only time he’d seen him, so Graham took the last flight fast, telling her:

“I was in the van, an it was him. There he was again. On the Cathcart Road, just at the crossin.”

Graham was doing out a shopfront by Mount Florida just now, with another two lined up to take him through the autumn. He’d been working back to back, ever since the Walk, not turning jobs down, or contracting out, even if his Mum kept
telling him he should. She told him so again this evening, while he kicked off his work boots on her doormat, when all he wanted to talk about was Stevie:

“He was standin at the lights, Maw. You hear me? Grey sweatshirt, big pair ae auld builders’ boots. Same stuff as last time.”

It was Graham’s third sighting in as many weeks, and even if he couldn’t be a hundred per cent, he’d still got to thinking his boy could be back now; maybe he was even sticking around for a bit. Only then his Mum said:

“Aw, son.”

Like she needed him to tread careful. And like she saw them all the time too, wee hoodies with freckles, only none of them had turned out to be Stevie yet.

So Graham took a breath, slowing up a bit again. Thinking maybe she was right: best not be leaping ahead of themselves. Wasn’t like he didn’t have doubts; the way Stevie was there and then gone again, soon as he’d parked up, all the cars behind beeping at his slammed brakes.

In his socks now, Graham stepped into the house, took the mug of tea his Mum was holding out; she’d stirred in two sugars to compensate. He let her bring him back down to earth again, gentle as she could.

“You eaten, son?”

“Naw.”

He’d been working round the clock, as per usual.

“I’ll get mysel somethin,” Graham told her. “You sit down, Maw.”

They were both still being careful, Graham and his mother, around each other. Graham’s Dad said that was all to the good. And he’d told him she liked the way he dropped round like this.

Graham did it most evenings just now: parking up for tea and talk before he drove the last of the home stretch. He’d taken to checking in on his Mum since Eric passed, just a few days after the Walk; it was coming up for a month ago, and it had come as such a shock to her as well. His Mum had been to see Eric only the evening before, and she said he’d been tired again, but still busy as he ever was.

She never said it in so many words, but Graham knew his uncle had been drawing.

Graham had been the one who found him.

He’d got in the habit of getting Eric dressed and breakfasted, because the old man had been neglecting himself too much over the summer, in favour of his pictures. Mugs sat unwashed all over the surfaces, and he missed out on meals entirely; Eric always was his own worst enemy, but Graham still found himself driving over there. Not that he could have explained himself. He just couldn’t stand by and let the old man slide, so he’d let himself in, just like most mornings, only Graham knew there was something amiss, soon as he couldn’t get the door to the living room open.

Eric had died on the floor. Except Graham didn’t tell his Mum that, when he’d called her. He’d figured the old man had stayed up too late at his desk, trying to get his new picture right, and then he’d been too tired to make it to his bed.

Graham had decided his Mum didn’t need to know that either, so before she got there, he’d already lifted Eric onto the sofa; laid his big limbs onto the cushions, curled over like he was sleeping. Graham had fetched a blanket too, from Eric’s bed, and put it over him, but not his face. So that’s how she saw him when she came in.

“You go on, Maw,” Graham told her now. She’d followed him into the kitchen, so he steered her out again, back towards her armchair. He cut himself a sandwich, and went to join her.

His Mum would sit there half the night, given half a chance; Graham’s Dad had told him how she dropped off some nights, there where she was, waking up hips stiff, neck cricked, when he came in from driving.

His Dad reckoned it was the shock, the loss of her brother; she needed time to do her grieving. But Graham had sat with his Mum these past few weeks, all these evenings, telly on in the corner, only he could see she wasn’t watching, and so sometimes it felt more like she was waiting. For he didn’t know what. Him to say something useful, or his Dad to come in the door. Or maybe even Stevie to call. Graham figured that would be about right: July was his last, which meant she was just about due another. So anyhow, Graham sat with his mother. And he’d got to thinking: maybe she hoped as much as he did, only she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

His own phone rang off the hook these days: guys he had working needing their orders, or suppliers wanting paid up front. Graham had had to get himself organised, and it had been some steep learning curve, taking on as much as he did, but he felt it levelling out. He’d even managed a drink with his Dad a couple of days ago, his first in however long; they’d met up at a place in town, after Graham finished up for the evening, just in time for last orders. No games at the snooker club, or practice nights, Graham had no time for anything but work and family just lately.

His Dad told him that’s what a man’s life should look like; he said he was rising to the task. Graham didn’t know if that’s what it was. But it was no bad thing anyhow, to feel broad-shouldered, do things you never thought you would.

He’d found his uncle, he’d lifted him and covered him; Graham had stayed with him too, until his Mum got there, and even after. It would have been wrong to just up and leave him, but it wasn’t only that, not for Graham. Eric’s dying had left him quiet. Like sleep taking him after a long day’s graft, or like he’d worked something out, even if he didn’t have the words. Graham never was much good at explaining himself, but in any case, sitting quiet with Eric was the last thing he’d have thought could happen. And so even now, sitting here with his Mum and thinking about his uncle being gone, Graham got that same ground-shifting-under-him feeling of life going on; full of surprises.

So much of life still to get on with.

“You should get tae your bed, son,” his Mum told him, soft, from her armchair: he had work again tomorrow.

“Aye so should you, but.”

Graham gave as good as he got. And got a smile from her.

This is what they did just now: they sat and kept each other right of an evening. Quiet, companionable. Graham thought that was no bad thing either.

But it was late now, his piece was eaten, about time he took his plate back into the kitchen. Graham wasn’t sleepy, he still had half a mind to drive back to the South Side, call his Dad on the way, see if they couldn’t comb the streets down there together. Him in his van, his Dad in his cab; both on the hands-free, windows rolled down, looking out for Stevie. Only Graham wanted his Mum in bed first.

“Mon now,” he told her. “Because you’ll only be up early.”

He knew what she was like: she might wait up late, but she didn’t spend her days sitting idle. She’d got them all to Eric’s
funeral, and now she had his flat to sort through: all those box files. What to hold on to?

“Aye, right you are, son.”

She made a show of being annoyed, rising stiff from her armchair, but Graham could see she liked it, him taking charge here, taking care of her.

“I’ll take it easy,” his Mum promised, as she went to get her face washed, teeth brushed. Graham laid odds she’d be up at Eric’s again tomorrow.