Stonemouth

I grin. Partner. This happened just last week and it’s still sinking in. The only people I’ve told here in Stonemouth are my mum and dad, by phone the evening I heard, and I’ve sworn them to secrecy. Fucking partner. I thought I’d be ancient by the time that happened. Fucking cool for me. I grin again. ‘Keeps the wolf from the door, Donald.’

He nods again, sucking his lips in. ‘I think I prefer “Mr M”,’ he tells me. I want to say that he smiles, but really he’s just revealing his teeth. He’s had his Hollywoodised, too. Only slightly frightening. ‘If that’s all right with you,’ he continues, throwing the towel back onto the recliner and crossing his arms. ‘Let’s not pretend everything’s hunky fuckin dory, eh? Or you’re still always welcome in this house, eh, Stewart? Not after what you did,’ he says.

Shit. That turned nasty bewilderingly quickly. I take a deep breath. ‘For whatever it’s worth, Mr M, I’m sorry,’ I tell him.

‘Uh-huh. Well, I’ll tell you straight, son: if it was up to me you still wouldn’t be back here. Be another five years, maybe more, before I’d be happy you showing your face around here.’

What would it be worth to tell him Fuck You; this is my home town too and I’ll come back any time I fucking want?

I’d be lucky to make it out of town alive. Well, a slight exaggeration, I suppose; I’d be lucky to make it out of town with a working pair of kneecaps, or hands that would ever play the violin again (not that I can now, but you know what I mean). Anyway, the sad thing is that he does have a point.

I don’t say anything, just look down a little, staring at the giant beetle on his T-shirt, and nod thoughtfully. I could say I’m sorry again, but I’ve already said it once. Wouldn’t want to devalue the sentiment.

‘You’ve Mrs M to thank for bein here,’ he tells me. ‘Put in a good word for you. Think yourself lucky I listen to her and no the boys.’

The tiniest frisson of hope — excitement, even — runs through me. Mrs Murston never really gave a damn about me either way, but she’s butter in her eldest daughter’s hands, so more likely the appeal for clemency came from Ellie, not Mrs M herself. It’s worth hoping so, anyway.

‘How is Ellie?’

Donald puts his head back, his expression cold. ‘How is Ellie?’ he repeats. I’ve got a quite different feeling running through my guts now. That repeating-what-the-other-person’s-just-said thing is not a good sign with Mr M. Fuck, why did I ask that?

‘She’s none of your fucking business, that’s how she is,’ he says. His voice is a grinding monotone, like two heavy plates of glass sliding over each other. He glances at the double doors leading back into the rest of the house. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

I look down at the floor, nod. Even less point saying any further Sorries, now. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Mr M,’ I mumble, and turn, walk.

As I draw level with the glazed ceramic cheetahs, he says, ‘Just here for the weekend.’ He says it like that; if there’s a question mark in there, I’m not hearing it.

‘Due to leave Tuesday morning,’ I tell him.

His eyes narrow just a fraction more. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Good.’ He turns and stamps on the corner of the dancing mat like he’s squashing an insect the size of a locust. The paused dragon on the plasma jerks into life.

I leave to the strains of early Take That. I don’t see Maria. By the side of the front door there’s a big photo of the late Callum, framed in black. I didn’t notice it on the way in. Callum — big-boned, prominent jaw and brow, with a shaved-sides haircut uncomfortably close to a mullet and wearing a padded check shirt that looks like it’s been ironed — stares out at me with a sort of leery scowl.

I let myself out.

Somewhere in the house, a tiny-sounding dog is barking hysterically.

3

It’s only ten minutes from Hill House to my mum and dad’s. I like driving the wee Ka, even though it does seem a bit small now; I passed my test in one of these all those years ago and it’s sort of nostalgic.

I say all those years; it’s eight going on nine, but while that feels like half my proper conscious life — you’re not fully formed when you’re a kid, are you? — it’s starting to feel like not all that long really. Maybe this is because I spend a lot of time around older people. Secretaries and office juniors aside, the other guys in the firm are all senior to me. Anyway, it’s funny how your perspective changes as you age.

There are some frankly embarrassing tears from my mum when I get to my parents’ place, and a fairly long hug from my dad. I am heartily congratulated on my promotion to partner level, though I make clear it’s just junior partner level, not equity. My folks — Al and Morven — live in Nisk, just outside the old town, in a granite semi somewhere between modest and comfortably off, on a leafy street largely the territory of Mercs and BMWs. Dad always used to drive a Saab — for the engineering, apparently — but these days he’s an Audi man.