Stonemouth

It sounds like a mantra, like something he’s learned to say, to convince himself or to reassure other people: oh, well, if it wasn’t meant to be, if the universe or God or something so decreed that it wasn’t part of the great officially approved master plan, that makes it all right somehow.

This sounds like complete shit to me, but then I’m not in Ryan’s position — thank fuck — trying to reconcile whatever shambolic beliefs I might hold with a simple twist of fate, just one more random outcome spat forth by a universe breezily incapable of caring.

‘Anyway,’ he says quietly. ‘She’s not seeing anyone. Fairly sure of that.’ He sighs. ‘Not that you can ever be sure of anything with Ellie.’ He has another drink, glances at me. ‘But I mean if you want to see her, there’s nobody in the way.’

I open my mouth to say, I’m still not sure she wants to see me, but Ryan concludes with, ‘Least of all me.’

He taps me on the knee with his bottle of Bud as he gets up. He goes to where the others are tearing up Sydney on the big plasma screen and announces he’d better be going. Goodbyes are exchanged.

I get a sort of half-wave, half-salute as he heads for the stairs.

11

When I leave, maybe half an hour later — it’s just gone four — the rain has stopped but the streets are still glistening under a hurried grey sky of small ragged clouds. I stick my earbuds in and put the iPhone’s tunes on shuffle. The earbuds are Ultimate Ears LEs: an Xmas present to myself last year. Expensive, but worth the improvement in sound, assuming you can afford to spend more on them than most people do on an MP3 player in the first place. The LEs are quite chunky. They’re sort of shiny blue, not white, and I use them with the grey, earplug-material, in-ear fixings. This provides really good sound insulation; you properly have to use your eyes when you cross a road.

It also means when somebody comes up behind you, you get no audible warning at all and so they can grab your arm out of your jacket pocket, push it so far up your back you have to go up on tiptoes because otherwise it feels like the bone’s going to break, and the two of them can bundle you into the back of a suddenly appeared Transit van and get the doors closed again before you’ve even had time to cry out.

Fuck, I think. This is really happening.

I’m face down on a grubby floor, dimly lit, staring at white-painted metal ridges scuffed to thin rust. I’ve seen this before recently but I can’t think where immediately. The van’s moving, engine roaring at first then settling. At least they’ve let go of my arm. I push down, start to rise, and what feels like a pair of boots on my back forces me back down again. I lie on my front, breathing hard, terrified. Sobering up fast here. I look to the side, where I can see the legs that are attached to the boots resting on my back.

‘Just you stay where you are,’ a voice says.

The boots come off my back and I can see the person who spoke. It’s Murdo Murston, on a bench seat along the side wall. He’s dressed in workman’s dungarees, sitting on a hi-vis jacket. I look round and Norrie is sitting on the bench on the other side, just taking off a hoodie. He’s wearing well-used dungarees too. Just the two Murstons in here. It’s one of the bigger Transits so there’s no way through to the cab, just a third wall of plywood. I’m guessing Fraser might be doing the driving. Given his reputation for unhinged violence, this may actually be a good sign.

‘Guys,’ I say, trying to sound reasonable. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Comfy there, Stewie?’ Murdo asks. Murdo hasn’t changed much; a little heavier maybe. Beard a bit thinner, darker, more sculpted and trimmed. Norrie now sports something between designer stubble and a thin beard; as he’s ginger it’s hard to gauge.

‘Aye, comfy?’ Norrie says, and I’m tapped hard on the side of my head with something solid. I look round again to see the business end of a baseball bat, just retreating. Norrie’s holding it one-handed, smiling.

‘Ouch?’ I say to him. I can still feel the place on the side of my head where he tapped me. On the other side, I can feel Murdo taking my phone out of my jacket pocket. Following the earbud wires. Well, that made that nice and easy. I turn my head again to look at Murdo, who’s detaching the earbud cables and inspecting the iPhone.

Murdo looks at Norrie. ‘You know how you take the batteries out of these?’ he asks.

‘Naw.’

The van’s swinging this way and that, not going especially fast. It stops, idling, every now and again before continuing. Just driving through the streets of the town, not doing anything further to attract any attention.

‘Guys, what’s going on?’ I ask. ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake! I saw Donald on Friday. I checked in with Powell first, on Friday, and I saw him again yesterday. They both said it was okay I stayed here till Tuesday morning so I can pay my respects to Joe.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Murdo says.