3

My mobile phone rang, echoing through the dust and dark of the loft space. Without looking at the screen I answered it.

‘How’s it hanging, big guy?’ A voice said. It took a moment for the owner to register.

‘Paul,’ I said. ‘How the hell are you?’

‘A wee bird tells me you’re in town. Fancy a pint down at The Lion?’

‘How did you—?’

‘My mum misses nothing, mate. You should know that.’

I laughed. Paul’s mother lived in a house at the far end of our street, on the opposite side of the road.

‘She was on the phone to me seconds after you arrived.’

Paul’s mum never quite took to me and didn’t bother to hide the fact, so I was surprised to hear she’d alerted him.

‘The call did come with a government health warning,’ Paul said, clearly reading my pause. ‘“That Docherty boy is at his mother’s”,’ he added in a falsetto. We both laughed, a noise that felt good among the murk and secrets of the attic.

We arranged a time and with a sense of pleasure, I hung up. Paul had been one of the casualties of my move up to Glasgow. I really should have made more of an effort to keep up with him.

The photograph had fallen from my hand when I answered the phone. I picked it up, looked around me at the mess and with a sigh decided there was no rush. I could sort this all out some other time.

Paul watched from his stool at the far end of the bar as his old friend ducked inside the door and then looked around the room for him.

He stood up and gave a wave. ‘John,’ he shouted over the music. ‘Over here.’

John gave a sharp nod, flicked a smile and walked towards him, meeting him at the bar, hand out. They shook, and with his free hand Paul clasped his friend by the shoulder.

‘Been a while since you’ve been in here, eh?’

John’s face bloomed into a smile and Paul thought, there he is, the guy who had been by his side as he negotiated the world of boyhood. His face was puffier, his belly was pushing his shirt out, but the boy peeped out of that smile, and Paul found himself feeling the years since he’d seen his old friend. John’s smile was full of warmth, but its edges were traced in sadness. Paul wondered what John had been through since they last spoke.

‘Years, mate,’ John answered Paul’s question with a nod. ‘Years.’

With that he took the stool beside Paul at the bar, looking around himself as he did so. It would be, Paul guessed, as if time had frozen. More than likely it was the same music – Whitesnake – bouncing from the tiny speakers in the ceiling; the same copper-topped bar at their elbows, and if not exactly the same people, similar figures were dotted around the room as if part of some colourful but ageing frieze. The walls covered in murals depicting scenes from the poems of Robert Burns.

‘Will we grab a table up the back?’ Paul asked after they’d both ordered a drink, trying not to cast a judgemental expression when he heard John order a pint and a double whisky chaser.

A few people gave the men a nod as they walked across the low-ceilinged room towards a small table in the far corner, just by the dartboard.

‘Good to see you, man. You’re looking well,’ John said as he sat, stealing a glance at the pale two-inch scar that ran across his cheek below his left eye. Paul gave the skin there a scratch. His scar was ancient history, at least to him, but he could see a flare of guilt when John’s eyes strayed there.

‘How’s your mum?’ Paul asked, recalling what his mother had told him.

‘She’s not looking quite so poorly as the last time I saw her.’ John replied.

‘Getting old’s rubbish, eh?’ Paul commiserated. ‘How are you dealing with it?’

John took a long drink and after he swallowed gave a long, slow sigh as if that was his best moment of the day. ‘Man, I’d forgotten how shitty that road is down from Glasgow.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Paul replied, thinking if his friend didn’t want to talk about his mother that was fine by him.

For the next few minutes they caught up on the machinery of their everyday lives – work and relationships. Surprised at how easily they slipped back into each other’s company, Paul heard himself tell John that he and his wife were considering fertility treatment, something he’d not even told his mother.

‘I don’t mind kids,’ John said. ‘But more than one in a burger is a bit too chewy.’

‘Says the teacher,’ replied Paul with a grin.

‘Spend all day with the wee shits and that would soon cure you of your desire to procreate.’

‘But weren’t you promoted to head of department last year?’ Paul asked crossing his arms with mock outrage.

John laughed. ‘How did you hear about that?’

‘Your mum told my mum soon as it happened,’ Paul answered. ‘You must be doing something right to be moving up the ladder.’

‘To be fair, most of the kids are cool. They speak my language.’

‘Aye, cos you never really grew up.’

John gave a nod of recognition. ‘Maybe that’s why I don’t want any. I’m still just a big wean myself.’

They both took a drink, mirroring each other’s actions and Paul smiled.

‘What?’ John asked, his cheeks plump with a grin. And Paul was back on day one, year one in primary school. A boy, his dark hair cut in almost exactly the same short style it was today, was sitting on his own by the school wall, chewing the strap of his backpack, his eyes heavy with tears. Paul had already been going to nursery for a couple of years so leaving his parents and going to school didn’t faze him, but something in him recognised the emotion the other boy was battling to hide. Then an older boy walked over, kicked John’s foot. ‘Poof,’ he snarled.

John was up in the bigger boy’s face. ‘Shut it,’ he shouted and pushed out.

The older boy didn’t expect the speed of John’s response and fell back. Then in the manner of all bullies who are called out on their actions, he scurried off. Paul decided there and then that this was a boy he would like to be his friend.

‘What?’ John asked again.

‘Just remembering that first day in primary school.’

They both chuckled. Then John grew sombre and looked to Paul as if he was trying to come to a decision.

‘When I was over at Mum’s I found this in the loft.’ John pulled what looked like a photograph out of his pocket.

Paul picked it up. ‘Look at you with the weird haircut.’ He looked at John. ‘I don’t remember your hair ever being like this.’

John looked like he couldn’t either and moved the subject on. ‘What’s strange is it says on the back “the boys”. That was always how Dad referred to me and Chris – who’s only two years younger than me, whereas this child is little more than a toddler. Who the hell is he?’

After two hours in which we’d almost talked ourselves dry, while drinking too much, we left the pub and walked the first hundred yards in companionable silence. The cool night air brushed my cheeks as I examined my shoes scuffing along the pavement.

‘I’d forgotten how good it was to talk to you, John. You always seemed to be able to draw me out of myself.’ Paul’s voice slurred slightly into the night air, and I realised he’d probably drunk more tonight than he had in a long while.

‘Aye,’ I said, while thinking, I did?

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, John. I can’t help feeling that I could have been a better mate to you.’

‘Yeah,’ I said and punched out at his arm. ‘Twat.’ We both giggled. ‘Don’t worry about it, buddy,’ I said. ‘You can hardly help if I don’t let you know when you’re needed.’

‘True, but I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch.’ Paul stopped as if unsure of himself. ‘Ever since you went away to uni we’ve let things slip.’ He paused. ‘Women are much better at this friendship shit, eh?’

‘I was in such a hurry to get away from this place, and coming home was like admitting I hadn’t made a success of leaving.’ I wasn’t sure this even made sense. My mind knew what I wanted to say but the connection to my tongue was frayed by booze.

‘I never understood the big rush to get away. What’s so awful about this place?’

‘And you know,’ I said as I looked up at the stars. ‘It was a total waste of time. Wherever I go, there I am.’ I rubbed at my forehead. ‘Who said that? Some eejit probably.’ Eyes up, looking ahead, I saw the green telephone junction box at the end of the street. There was one of these at the end of the street where we grew up, and we’d arrange to meet there almost nightly after dinner. ‘Green box at seven’ was the cry.

‘Look,’ I shouted. ‘Let’s go and sit on the green box.’

I ran across the road, jumped up onto the box and promptly fell over the other side. Laughing, Paul helped me up.

‘You’re a clown, Docherty.’

Several clumsy attempts later we managed to perch on our improvised seat. There we sat, with legs kicking the side. The years fell away and we were twelve years old again. We looked at one another and an unspoken message passed between us. A message of mutual affection, one we both understood but felt too constrained to acknowledge.

‘Shame about your mum, mate,’ Paul said, momentarily lost in reverie. ‘I had a massive thing about her when I was a kid.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said and punched his arm again.

He grinned. ‘All the guys did.’

‘No way,’ I said in disbelief. ‘You sure you’re talking about my mum?’ That wasn’t how I remembered her at all.

‘If the term MILF had been coined back then she was it. She was always happy to buy cigs and drink for kids loitering outside the Co-op. Always winking at the lads. Connor Davidson said she felt his arse one day and was totally up for it.’

‘As if,’ I replied. ‘Connor Davidson was always saying women liked him.’ Then I withdrew from Paul’s comment. It felt like we were moving into disrespectful territory.

Paul read the shift in my mood and apologised.

‘That was the drink. Ignore me,’ he slurred. ‘Jesus, I’ve got no class.’

We were silent for a while as if we were both wondering how to shift back into a more agreeable mindset.

‘So, what now?’ Paul asked.

‘I’m going home to sleep. I’m absolutely knackered,’ I answered as I brushed dirt from my knees.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Paul studied me. ‘One shoe in a box in the attic, and it’s covered in blood? That’s weird.’

I looked off into the distance. From above pockets of diffuse electric light illuminated a series of cars, hedges and houses all the way down the street. But I saw nothing, my mind held by the mystery.

‘And I’m too tired to think about it anymore.’

We hopped off the green box and began the last leg of the journey towards Mum’s house. I stopped at the gate before I pushed it open.

‘Want to come in? One for the road?’ I hoped he was going to say yes. I didn’t want to carry on drinking into the night on my own.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Paul grinned. ‘I’m too old for this shit. I’m practically craving my bed.’

‘Bollocks. We’re still youngsters. And so is the night.’

Paul snorted. ‘Thirty is the new eighteen.’ He stepped into the space I had studiously kept between us and wrapped me in a bear hug.

‘Cheers, Paul,’ I said into his neck, at last trusting myself to speak.

‘Aye,’ he said, his throat sounding as if it was too tight. He let me go, and stepped back. ‘You’d better keep in touch, Docherty.’

I looked at him, my eyes straying down towards his scar.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve never stopped being sorry.’ And I braced myself for any recriminations.

‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s why I still love you, man.’

And we were back in that moment. Two fourteen-year-olds walking home from school, arguing about a football game. We’d been on opposing sides. Paul was convinced I’d handled the ball before scoring. I hadn’t, and he wouldn’t shut up about it.

Instead of laughing it off, which I usually did when faced with Paul’s keen competitive streak, I grew angrier and angrier. And angrier. The next few moments were a blur, but I came to with him at my feet, a large stick in my hand and Paul holding his face.

Thankfully, giving vent to my anger in such way left an indelible mark on my conscience, and I never again lost my temper to such a degree.

‘He could have lost an eye,’ both my mother and Paul’s shouted at me after he’d been stitched up at the local hospital.

‘I forgave you a long time ago,’ Paul repeated now.

Unable to meet his gaze, I reached across and patted his shoulder.

‘That anger,’ his voice raised in a question, ‘had to come from somewhere – did your dad ever … hurt you?’

‘What?’

‘You always seemed so angry at him. Always complaining about him.’

‘I was?’

He nodded.

I turned to my memory but there was nothing.

‘He was a good man. Mostly,’ I said, hearing a strange note in my voice. What was it? Denial? ‘He loved us. Would have done anything for us.’

The photos of Chris and I in the bath imposed themselves in my mind. The clear skin, freshly painted trust in our eyes…

‘Anything,’ I repeated, wondering who I was trying to convince. ‘He would have done anything for us.’