Stonemouth

Our school days felt an age away by the time Callum vaulted the safety railings on the road bridge but we still all knew one another, all kept in some sort of contact, so it had an effect on every one of us. Even me, the exile; even I heard almost immediately and — despite everything, despite the fact he’d been one of those who’d have severely fucked me up if they’d got their hands on me — I felt shocked.

At the time I thought maybe I’d be invited back to that funeral, but I wasn’t. Still too soon. Emotions too raw, my sins, or at least sin, unforgiven, the threats still hanging in the air.

The mist is still thickening, becoming what the locals call haar and threatening to turn into rain. I’m starting to wish I’d brought a thicker jacket with a hood, not this thin fashion item. What we call haar, I guess, if I’m being honest; I’m still a local, I suppose, even though it’s been a long five years. And I’m not contemplating suicide, though just coming back here might be a stupid and dangerous thing to do. I’m where I am right now so I can check out exactly how stupid and dangerous it might be.

And here comes a wee yellow bridge van, orange roof-light flashing and headlights twinkling through the mist as it drives up the grey-pink cycle track beside the grey-green pedestrian path.

I’m here to meet somebody, I think about telling whoever’s driving the van, as it approaches. I might even know them: an old school friend. The wipers flick once, slowly, clearing the moisture gathering on the van’s screen as it pulls up alongside. Two guys in it. Normally only one, I thought. In my current slightly paranoid state, that seems a little worrying. I get a tiny pulse of apprehension in my guts. The nearest man, the passenger, rolls down his window. A square, smooth, yet hard-looking face above a thick neck and bulky shoulders; bulky shoulders not clad in a high-visibility jacket, unlike the driver of the van. Small, recessed blue eyes, eyebrows darker than the buzz of lion-coloured hair covering his scalp.

It’s Powell Imrie, the man I’m here to meet. I’m still not sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

‘All right, Stu?’

I nod. I hate it when people call me Stu. ‘Powell.’

He looks up, grimaces. ‘Coming on to rain,’ he says, then jerks his head. ‘Jump in the back.’

I hesitate, then go to the rear of the van and open one of the doors. The yellow-painted metal floor has raised corrugations, scuffed a rust brown; I’ll be sharing the back with traffic cones and emergency-light clusters. The haar coats one side of my face with cold droplets and it’s getting chilly. It’s a ten-minute walk back to the viewing area where I parked the car; maybe more.

‘Jump in,’ Powell repeats, from inside. Pleasantly enough.

‘Aye, just shift stuff out the way,’ the van’s driver says. He’s older than me and Powell. I don’t recognise him. Powell was in my year at school, the biggest, toughest boy in the class, partly because he’d been held back a year. He was only ever casually a bully, as though even intimidating other kids was too easy, somewhat beneath him. He never actually hit me, though like everybody else I was certainly quite sufficiently intimidated, and always treated him with at least as much respect and deference as I did the more formidable teachers. Powell still commands respect and deference now; more, in fact. And he is one person I don’t want to get on the wrong side of, if this visit is either going to happen at all or be safe, be any sort of success.

On the other hand, the floor of the van is kind of grimy-looking and I’m wearing a decent pair of slate-grey Paul Smith jeans and an Armani jacket, plus, after I left this place — after I had to leave this place, after I was pretty much run out of this place — I swore I was done with being manipulated and told what to do.

Outside of work, obviously. And one or two relationships.

I don’t get in. I close the door again and look round the side of the van to Powell’s frowning face. ‘I’ll walk,’ I tell him, and start towards the south end of the bridge, retracing my steps. This could be really stupid. My mouth has gone dry. I hope my steps look steady.

After a moment the van whines backwards, reversing to keep pace with me. Powell’s face wears an expression somewhere between a sneer and a grin as he looks at me, taking in my clothes. ‘Too manky in there for ye, aye?’ Powell always had one of those deep, carrying, slightly gravelly voices. It’s gritty rather than gravelly now; he must have stopped smoking.

‘I need the exercise,’ I tell him, and keep on walking. I’m not looking at him but I hear what might be a snort. He says something to the driver and the van stops. I leave it behind as I keep on walking.

After a few moments I hear doors slamming. Three slams. Shit, I have time to think.