Stonemouth

People blamed Callum, partly, though he always swore he had been trying to think ahead and had shot Wee Malky purely so that George would accept that the game was over, and put down the sword. Those of us who knew Callum well thought this was plausible but unlikely. He’d never shown that sort of psychological acuity before and only arguably did afterwards. Still, Callum made it very clear he deeply resented any hint of an accusation that he’d done anything other than try to help, and try to help quite ingeniously, too, and over the ensuing years, if you listened to the way Callum told it, you might have thought the principal victim of the whole episode had been him.

Only Ferg and I really blamed Phelpie too, a bit. He must have seen George head off in the direction of the house but then told Hugo he’d gone in the opposite direction, uphill. He even changed his story; at first he claimed he’d sent Hugo in the right direction and Hugo must have got lost, then, after a week, when he must have worked out how preposterous that idea was, he said, no, actually he’d pointed towards the house but Hugo had raced off in the other direction because he must have assumed Phelpie was trying to trick him.

Anyway. This was all too much blame, too much detail, for most people, and in the end none of it would bring Wee Malky back or, for that matter, make George more or less culpable for a crime he still didn’t really understand he’d committed.

Phelpie works for Mike MacAvett now; he’s the chauffeur and home handyman, officially, but more Mike’s bagman and bodyguard, where needed.

We all got counselling. We pretty much all scorned it at the time, but it certainly seemed to help. I hate to think how bad my nightmares might have stayed without it.

Though, between us, Ferg and I did think of a way Wee Malky might have escaped, after all: as you were sliding down the slipway you’d have to give up on spreadeagling and trying to stop or slow yourself, and instead make yourself as narrow as possible and somehow steer yourself so that you sped between two of the stumpy stone pillars at the bottom. Take your chances that George would have missed you with his sword as you shot past him and that you’d get far enough away down the channel beyond on sheer momentum, so that by the time you got to your feet and started running, you’d have a chance of escaping.

Unlikely as it sounded even to us, we found this thought consoling, though somehow it never got incorporated into the nightmares. Their substance never really changed; they just became slowly less real, more faded, further away and less frequent.

Sue MacAvett’s scones, as donated by Jel, were gently reheated, and judged very good by Mum, Dad and myself. The jam, too.

I spent the evening with my parents; they wanted to congratulate me properly for joining the partnership. Mum drove us out to the Turrie Inn, near Roadside of Durrens on the Loanstoun road. Fine meal, fine wine. Place was busy on the strength of the chef’s word-of-mouth reputation, some magazine features and rumours of a Michelin star next year, maybe. Mum and Dad seemed happy and relaxed and glad to see me, and I had an almost surprisingly good time.

Quietly pissed, but feeling like a child again, I watched through the side window of the Audi as a waning moon like a paring from God’s big toenail flickered between the black trunks of sentry trees ridging lines of distant hills.

SUNDAY

10

‘Aye, but they still compete.’

‘I’m not saying the teams don’t compete, I’m simply seeking to contrast the cut-throat, evolutionary, highly competitive world of the European and particularly the English League system with the moribund, non-relegatory, survival-guaranteed world of US American so-called “Football”. Which is mostly handball, anyway. I think it’s instructive and ironic that the land of the free enterprise principle and unfettered Marketolatry has produced such stasis, while the decadent, communitarian Old World revels in such tooth-and-claw competition. It’s why people like the Glazers don’t get it. I don’t think they fully understand that if their team does badly enough it’ll end up relegated to a lower league and out of the big money.’ Ferg puts down his cards and slides a fiver into the centre of the table. ‘Talking of which; raise you five.’

‘You call that big money?’

‘No, just money. And I’m not calling you, I’m raising you.’

‘Okay. See you, then.’

‘Nines and fours.’

‘Jack high.’

‘Fuck. You bluffing bastard, Phelpie. I should have gone for bigger money.’

‘I’d have folded.’

‘You say that now,’ Ferg says, scooping the pot towards him.