Chapter 26

 

I text Flynn to tell him I won’t be coming into the office. I also suggest he go home, to which he replies that he’s coming over to the house as he witters something about me having a brain tumour. I decide, as he’s coming over, to ask him to pick up Sorcha. Which, in turn, allows me to pull out a bottle of Talisker I’ve been saving for a special occasion. This might not be a special occasion, per se, but it is monumental in a kind of fucked-up way. And six shots in, this is where Agnes finds me an hour later. I’m in the dining room. The whisky was here, so I haven’t moved much farther since pulling it from the drinks cabinet.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she asks, placing her string shopping basket down on the dining table. She’s been using string bags since I was wee. I’ve no idea where she gets them from. They’re like something out of the annals of history.

‘Did you buy a job lot of these in the seventies?’ I ask, pulling out a packet of sausages and some milk and putting them on the oak table before wrapping my finger in the string.

‘What?’ Only, in her annoyance, her accent becomes a bit stronger, rendering the word whit?

‘These bags. Where do you get them?’

‘Out of a wee catalogue that comes out every year at Christmastide.’ She slaps my hand away before grabbing the bag, the sausages, and then milk, before bustling out of the dining room, returning almost immediately. ‘Why? Are you wanting a wee string baggy, too?’ she asks ridiculously.

I chuckle and take another slug of my drink. ‘No, hen. I was just reminiscing.’

‘Thinkin’ of the past is all well and good, but that’s not what’s bothering you,’ she asserts, swiping the whisky bottle from my reach.

‘Aye, you’re right. But I think I’ve fu—buggered everything up.’

‘Is this about the nice lassie you brought home the other day? The American one?’

‘Yes and no.’ I sigh protractedly.

‘I like her. And the bairn did, too. You can’t fool children into thinking you’re nice if you’re no’. Especially if they’re intuitive about such things, like Sorcha is.’

‘Better not introduce her to her mother then.’

‘What?’

‘I’m glad you liked Paisley. I’m sad because I liked her, too.’ Probably a bit too much.

‘Liking her made you sad? What’s with you today, and what’s with the mention of Jayne?’

‘She who shall not be named, mainly because she no longer goes by that name, is back in the country. And, sadly, I think Paisley and I have had our time in the sun.’

‘Has this got something to do with the stuff in the newspaper?’ she asks, pulling up a seat and sitting next to me.

‘You still like her after reading all that?’

Agnes harrumphs. ‘Anyone who believes what they read is a bampot—a daftie. Newspapers print a load of rubbish, and Paisley’s a nice lassie. Even if her parents must be a wee bit simple in the head,’ she says, touching her own head, ‘for naming such a bonny girl after a Scottish town.’

‘Paisley.’ I huff out a laugh.

‘Sure, there are nicer things to call your child, but it could’ve been worse, I suppose. They might’ve called her Auchtermuchty. Or Dull. I have a cousin who lives in Dull,’ she adds, ignoring my slightly shaking shoulders. ‘It’s no’ such a bad place, but it would make a stupid name.’

‘So,’ she then says, folding her arms under her cardigan-covered bosoms—bosoms, because women of Agnes’s ilk and measure have bosoms. Not breasts. If she had breasts, I wouldn’t be thinking about them, so it’s just as well she has this sort of battleship kind of shelf. Which is what I think bosoms are.

‘Keir.’ She raps on the French oak to gain my attention. ‘How much whisky have you drank?’

‘Ocht, I’m fine.’ Mostly. I shake my head, coming away from the contents of Agnes’s cardigan.

‘So the newspaper,’ she prompts.

‘It’s bullshit.’ Mostly.

‘Watch your language,’ she warns, then affirms, ‘but I thought as much myself. And most people will. What’s the problem? Not the singer, surely? Yon man couldn’t shout coal up a passage, by the way.’ Which is Agnes’s way of saying, He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. ‘And his songs?’ She tightens her arms across her chest, pursing her lips and shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen more exciting blancmange.’

‘He’s part of the problem.’ I don’t really feel like rehashing it all for Agnes’s benefit, but I know there’s no avoiding it. ‘He’s not really the reason I’ve taken to drink.’

‘I should hope not. The man seems as weak as his chin.’

‘But he’s still got me in the newspapers. And Sorcha, too,’ I add darkly. ‘And brought her mother back.’

‘Jayne’s in London?’ she yells. Fuck me, rolling pins at dawn. I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of this woman. ‘Don’t you worry. She’ll no’ get past me. And I’ll be callin’ her ma and tellin’ her so.’

‘Agnes, her parents don’t want anything to do with her. Not after last time.’

When Sorcha was four years old, Jayne fooled her parents into thinking she wanted to be in her daughter’s life. So they gave her a place to stay and money to take me back to court. I suppose they wanted to think the best of her. Regardless, there isn’t a court in the land that would change the current order we have. Jayne gave up all parental rights, even had counselling before doing so. That year, she took their money and more of mine, before pissing off back to the States without so much as a word of legal advice.

It took her parents and me a while to get back on good terms. But they’re Sorcha’s family, and I wouldn’t keep her away from them . . . even though I paid her mother to do exactly that. It was for the best even though I never thought in a million years she’d choose cash over her own flesh.

‘You’ll not be giving her money this time, though, surely?’

‘I already have,’ I reply, leaning back in my chair and rubbing both hands through my hair until it’s standing on end. ‘I gave her nearly twenty grand, yet I know she’ll have sold her story, such as it is, to the newspapers. It’s just a case of when it goes to print.’

It wasn’t until after I left the hotel that it had made sense. She didn’t want me to pay for the room because one of the tabloids will pay for it as part of the deal. Her story and its tenuous and probably twisted connection to Robin Reed, who appears to have disappeared into a treatment facility until the possibility of an investigation into a conviction for driving while off his face disappears.

‘Well, what’s there to tell.’ It’s not a question, though not quite the assurance she means it to be. ‘Who’d be interested in what she has to say? And what’s with all the sighing? This isn’t like you.’ Agnes’s frown is full of disapproval.

‘There are things Jayne will say that I rather she didn’t. Things that might or might not be true, but I don’t want Sorcha to hear them anyway.’

‘I’m no’ so green as I’m cabbage looking, lad.’ A burst of deep laughter breaks free from my chest at her words. ‘I wasn’t always old, you know.’

‘You’re not old now.’

‘Not too old,’ she says, ‘but once, I was young. And bonny. And in love. And I ’ken things that go on in a marriage bed are supposed to stay there.’

‘Exactly. But I guarantee that Jayne will have sold shi—stories to the newspapers. Sorcha doesn’t need that.’ I don’t need that.

‘No, true,’ she agrees, ‘but life isn’t ever perfect.’

‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ If my tone is harsh, she doesn’t bite. ‘For years, I’ve put my child first. And the first time I think of myself—think with my dick—I turn into my mother.’ I’m angry and embarrassed to be voicing the parts of my life I keep to myself, the things I only think of alone and in the darkness. I push back my chair and begin pacing the long room. ‘I sometimes think if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have probably gone the same way as her.’ Addiction, selfishness, and bad choices. ‘This just confirms it all. And fuck, if that doesn’t hurt.’

‘How so, lad? Tell me where you see the parallels.’

‘I came second to the blokes my mother was screwing. Second to drugs and to booze. I won’t—won’t—let the same happen to Sorcha.’

Agnes sighs. It sounds like disappointment and stops me in my tracks. I’m right—I’ve known all along. My mother didn’t love me like she should. I just couldn’t voice it aloud.

‘Your mother didn’t choose to make you second choice. That’s not how addiction goes. She loved you.’

Sliding my hands into my pant pockets, I snort derisively. How can she say that—say that to me? I was there. My psyche still bears the scars.

‘I know she did,’ she adds vehemently, ignoring my scorn. ‘When you were a wee lad, before we took you in, Alf used to say you had buckets of determination. That you would go far. And look around you—you have. You’re a good man, Keir. But you’re sometimes a hard one. Oh, you’re good to me, and you’re good to that wee girl. A good father and a grand friend. You even give that terror of an ex-wife far more than she deserves. But you’re not kind to yourself, and you’re not kind to the memory of your mother. You’d do well to remember that there are those in this world who aren’t as strong as you. And your mother was one of them.’

Agnes’s words strike me immediately, painfully, almost bringing my knees out from under me.

‘You think she loved me?’ I say, my palms hitting the table. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe she did love me, but not enough. I wasn’t her priority. Her drive. Her reason to live.’

Agnes stands, taking my face in her hands. ‘She did love you, and you’ve just proved my point with your own words. You are not your mother, and Sorcha will never live your life, but you must live it, son. Live it for you. You know, you didn’t get to be a child when you were wee, and you were barely twenty-five when you became a dad. You’ve grown so much. Learned so much. But you’ve denied yourself, too. Whatever the papers say, we’ll hold our heads high. We know what’s true, so bugger everyone else. But if you want that lovely girl to be a part of your life, you’d best move quick. Those kinds of women aren’t on the market too long. Just ask Alf,’ she says, her eyes glistening with tears.

‘I don’t know. I mean, can I?’ I collapse into the chair, my thoughts scattered but my heart hopeful. ‘You think I should give her a call?’

‘No!’ she says, frowning and slapping both of my cheeks. Twice at the same time. ‘I think you should get off your bahoochie and go see the girl!’

In the kitchen, I grab my wallet and keys from the worktop as the door into the house from the garage bangs shut.

‘Agnes,’ I say, turning to her. ‘I expect journalists will start to call.’

‘Ocht, they already have. I told the first one who called to go take a running shag at a rolling donut.’ I’d laugh if she wasn’t so blasé in her delivery. That has got to be the best—or worst, depending on the perspective—thing I’ve ever heard Agnes say. ‘Since then, I’ve had the house phone switched on silent. And I instructed the school to only contact us on our mobiles and explained why.’

‘What did the journalists have to say?

Agnes sniffs, her expression full of scorn. ‘I did’nae care to listen to them past their introduction. I just told them you weren’t available to speak.’

‘Good. Good idea.’

‘I sometimes have them,’ she answers wryly.

‘Listen, Keir.’ Without his usual and universal greeting of G’day, Flynn strides into the kitchen. ‘I had a thought on the way home. I reckon you’re worried about kids teasing Sorcha at school—you know—what with the shiii . . .’ His gaze slides to Agnes, and he moderates his language accordingly as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘What with the shizz printed in the newspaper. But listening to what Sorch said in the car? The scandal in your life is nothing, mate. Do you know her little friend’s dad has both her mum and her nanny up the duff?’

‘Would you stop shortening her name,’ Agnes chastises, taking the apple out of his hand.

‘Where is Sorcha anyway?’ I ask.

‘She’s gone to pet the furball.’ My expression must be confused as he adds, ‘Mate, you’re person-non-what’s-it compared to the new kitten.’

‘Persona non grata,’ I correct.

‘Whatevs, man. We’re all second-class citizens next to the thing with four legs.’

Shit, I forgot about the cat. ‘This MBA I’m paying you to study . . . ’

Flynn’s head turns slowly, his expression suspicious. ‘What about it? It’s tax deductable, isn’t it?’ he answers defensively.

‘I feel the need to protect my investment, and I think you need a few days at home. For study purposes.’

‘What’s your game?’

‘And for cat sitting.’

‘No way. No way, man.’

‘I’m at home,’ Agnes says. By her tone, she might as well have said, I wouldn’t leave him to look after the kippers I have stored in the freezer, especially with the look she’s giving him. But he’s not so bad, really. Just a bit overly familiar with the old girl sometimes.

‘Agnes. I need you to pack Sorcha a few things. And while you’re on, pack a few things for yourself.’ It’s a perfect plan. We’ll be away when whatever Jayne has to say goes to print. Plus, there’s something else I’d like to do. Like get Paisley naked. See her tan without lines. Live with her—have her live with us. Enjoy her in our alone time. Give her so many orgasms she can’t help but promise to move in permanently.

It’s mad and it’s out of character, sure, but I think it’s a fucking fantastic plan.

‘What? What are you talking about?’ Agnes demands.

‘We’re going on holiday,’ I announce, suddenly feeling incredibly light. Or maybe insane. ‘You’d better dig out your passport.’

‘Where are we going?’ She sounds aggrieved, but she can’t hide the accompanying smile.

‘Wherever he books for us,’ I say, pointing at Flynn as I walk backwards out of the room.’

‘I’m not looking after the cat,’ he calls back.

‘Yes, you are. And you’re staying here. In the guest room.’ When he smiles, I see exactly where his thoughts are going. ‘Alone.’ I fill the words with so much meaning, his expression falls. ‘And if you book us somewhere shitty, I’ll have your balls.’

‘And they said working for you would be an opportunity.’

‘It is. Ask Agnes,’ I crow.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Sorcha as I reach the hallway. ‘And can Princess come?’

‘Ah. No. She can’t.’ Before she begins to give me a hard time, I add, ‘Flynn’s going to stay here, plus you’re getting time off school.’

She seems to have decided that’s a fair trade-off as I open the door into the garage.