Stonemouth

Callum was never far from throwing a punch when he thought people were taking the piss. Which, to be fair, we were all prone to do, though not quite as often as Callum assumed we were. Almost any other kid in school would long since have been kicked into a less hair-trigger attitude, but Callum was a Murston (a fact we’d known since primary school meant something serious in Stonemouth), his elder brother Murdo was the biggest kid in sixth year — even if he rarely resorted to blows — and Powell Imrie — Stonemouth High School’s very own Weapon of Mass Destruction — had already sort of aligned himself with the Murston clan. That made Callum pretty much untouchable, even when he was in the wrong. Unless a teacher got involved, of course; Callum had already been suspended once for violent behaviour and was on verbal warnings almost constantly. And he really did look like he was winding up to belt me.

So I backed off immediately, smiling and holding up both hands. ‘Sorry, Cal. Chill.’

He still looked angry but he let me walk away.

Just another Callum Murston WTF? moment.

By that time I’d come to accept that the place was the Murston family gaff and I just assumed he was denying it to fuck with me or because he was oddly embarrassed at coming from what was obviously a very large house, but it turned out later he honestly didn’t recognise it from that angle, and his in-head sat-nav couldn’t do the maths required to work it out. Callum never was the sharpest chiv in the amnesty box.

All the same, it was largely because of the house glimpsed through the trees that I persevered in getting to know Callum and becoming one of his friends, and it was largely through Callum — and the just-deceased Joe — that I got to know the rest of the family: Mr M himself (a bit), Mrs M (a slighter bit), Murdo (a bit more), Fraser and Norrie, the twins from the year below (fairly well) and, of course, Ellie. And Grier, her kid sister; I got to know her too and we even became sort of friends. But Ellie, mostly. Ellie more than all the rest, Ellie more than anybody ever, until I fucked it all up.

The cloud is clearing a little as I swing the Ka between the tall, ornate gateposts of the Murston house, high on the hill. It’s called Hill House, so no prizes for imagination there. A still-clinging haze to the east obscures the North Sea, and to the west the clouds glow yellow-orange and hide the north-eastern tip of the Cairngorms. The wrought-iron gates stay open these days, though they are electric and there is an intercom. The driveway snakes down through a broad slope of striped lawn studded with ornamental bushes and life-size statues of stags. I park between a sleekly silver four-door AMG Merc and a spanking-new green Range Rover.

The triple garage I remember has been joined by an added-on-looking fourth. There’s a wee boxy Japanese van parked outside it. The van’s filled with equipment and a compressor of some sort, hoses snaking into the open garage doorway. There’s a big foamy wet patch on the forecourt and inside there’s a monstrous pick-up truck. Its bonnet — hood — is as high as my shoulders. The badge says it’s a Dodge. The machine is truly vast; the new garage is wider and taller than the other three, as if built to contain the thing. The truck is gleaming: all massive chrome bull bars and deep, sparkling, flaked crimson paint with a rack of extra lights on a bar across the roof. Inside the four-door cab I can just see a Confederate flag stretched across the back. A guy in blue overalls appears from behind the truck and comes out, holding a duster. He frowns, then grins when he sees me. It’s Stevie Ross, from the year above me at school.

‘Hiya, stranger,’ he says, and comes up and shakes my hand. There’s some fast catching up — yes, me doing okay, thanks, him with this cleaning business, still playing in the band at weekends — and then I ask if the mega pick-up is Donald’s new toy or one of the boys’.

‘Nah, this was Callum’s,’ Stevie says, crossing his arms and staring at the thing. The registration plate reads RE8E1. Stevie looks proud and sort of reverent at the same time. ‘Hasnae moved for two years, apart from me pulling it out to clean it every few months and then rolling it back in again.’ He frowns at me. ‘You know about Callum, eh?’

‘Off the bridge,’ I say, nodding.

‘Aye,’ he says, voice a little quieter. ‘Well, this was his. This is what he left sitting on the bridge, night he jumped. Mr M had it brought up here, built this new garage for it. Keeps it nice.’ He nods approvingly. He glances back at the house, looks at me. ‘You okay to be here, aye?’

‘Yeah. Yeah; come to pay my respects.’

He looks at his watch. ‘Aye, well. Time to go. Got a stretch limo to clean for Party Wagons.’ He shakes his head. ‘Ye wouldnae believe the mess a bunch of fourteen-year-old girls can leave one of those things in.’

‘Don’t envy you.’

‘Aye, well, still; it’s dependable work. Every other fucker’s economising. Never mind. Good to see you, Stewart.’