THERE WAS NO MOON, AND some of the streetlights were off. The wind was a cold hand trying to push Sam over.
When he reached the bridge he called Alasdair’s name. Although there was a chance Alasdair would run away, Sam didn’t want to sneak up on a man who had just committed a crime (not to mention been punched in the throat).
He went down the icy steps with care, but on the last he slipped and badly grazed his hand. He couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, just that it was bleeding. It hurt a lot, so he put it in the river, till there was no feeling.
It was even darker by the water. He had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he saw the narrow path that ran along the bank. When he reached the bridge he called out again. He told Alasdair he did not care about the window. He offered him a place to stay. Sam said this with conviction, but the echoes emptied his voice.
He went under the bridge and the sound of the river was magnified into a roar. Sam repeated his offer, then felt very stupid. He was standing under a bridge at night, talking to himself. Even if Alasdair could hear him, he would not trust Sam.
“Do you have a bath?” said a voice behind him. Sam was so startled he stepped off the path and into the river. The water came up to his knees; it was so cold that he swore.
“Good for the blood,” said Alasdair. “And very good for the brain.” He did not seem frightened.
“Did you know the human heart is twice as strong as that of an elephant? That isn’t in books, but it’s true. So do you have a bath?”
“Yes,” said Sam, and got out of the river.
“You’ll need to sit in warm water, then cold, or you’ll get sick.”
“I’ll be having a hot one.”
He heard Alasdair tut. “That would shock the blood, and you might get very depressed.”
“OK,” said Sam. “I’m going home. Are you coming?”
“I said I was. But if you try and take the album I’ll call the police. They’ll put you in prison with the other thieves.”
“I won’t take it away.”
“Fine. But you’ve been warned.”
Sam stayed close to the wall on his way out. From behind came sounds of breaking glass, laughter, bronchial coughing, spitting, more breakage, further coughing, then the sound of something heavy being dragged. Like a body, perhaps a human’s, maybe a sheep’s. Which was ludicrous, but then so was going under a bridge at night to invite a deranged homeless man to come and stay in your house. So was not having sex with beautiful women because they might end up having kids that he would fuck up.
They came out into the lighter dark where things at least had shapes. Alasdair was dragging a long, white sack. He was wearing stained yellow trousers, black tennis shoes, and at least four coats.
“Stabbing me in the back,” he said. He stopped, rummaged, pulled two golf clubs out of the sack, then threw them into the river. The sack was so heavy he needed Sam’s help to get it up the steps. That was when Alasdair noticed the wound on Sam’s hand, which was bleeding again. Most people would have recoiled at the sight of so much blood; Alasdair reached into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Without asking, he put it over Sam’s hand, then wrapped it several times around. He tied it with a complex knot that made Sam think of ropes on boats.
“Is that a sheepshank?”
Alasdair stared blankly at him. “What’s that?”
“A kind of knot. Where did you learn it?”
“It’s how I tie them. But you need to have strong fingers. Most people’s are too weak.”
“Yes, but did someone teach you?”
“I taught myself.”
When they reached the top of the stairs the wind tried to push them back down. It was a mark of how hostile the weather was that no one else was on the street. Traditionally during that time of year—just before Christmas—it was socially acceptable for people to drink until they passed out or told each other the truth. It was a time of staggering, shouting, kissing in doorways, weeping, begging for forgiveness or punches in the face.
They took turns dragging the sack. All the windows were dark.
Sam lived on his own in a two-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a tenement building. He did not think of it as home; most nights he slept on an inflatable bed in the back room of the shop. Although it wasn’t comfortable, he slept better there. He did not lie awake listening for the sound of a key in the lock.
They went in, and there was the relief of warmth. In the living room were only two chairs, simple wooden ones that were similar but not quite the same. The only other furniture was an old tin trunk that served as a table, on which there was a lamp. There was no carpet or curtains or pictures on the walls. The floorboards were not smooth and polished, as in Caitlin’s flat, but rough and paint splattered. They sat on the chairs.
Alasdair asked Sam if this was his new house. “It’s not mine,” he said, and Alasdair nodded in approval. He went to explore. The kitchen had a stove, a sink, two saucepans, a frying pan, a fridge, some knives, and a chopping board. There were no gadgets, not even a toaster; the cupboards contained only food.
The bedrooms were similarly plain. A bed, a wardrobe, a small table with a lamp; once again, no curtains or pictures, and a floor of bare boards. Even Trudy’s room for clients was better furnished. It was as if the flat had been looted by burglars so thorough they verged on the vindictive. They had taken everything that was personal.
“Very good,” said Alasdair when he came back in. “I will stay.”
“All right,” said Sam, who had not realised that this was in doubt. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Yes, I have my own.”
“What kind is it?”
Alasdair cocked his head. “It’s very rare. Very rare, and secret. It is Chinese medicine. If you drink it every day you cannot get cancer. No one who drinks it ever has unless they smoke cigarettes or come from a hot place.”
“I thought China was pretty hot.”
Alasdair tutted at him. “Only some of it.” He took a box from an inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Sam. On the box was a drawing of an old Chinese monk with a long white beard. It was a tea that Mr. Asham sold.
While Sam waited for the kettle to boil he removed the plastic bag from his hand. It was stuck to the blood, so he peeled it off slowly. The cut was not that deep. There was always far more blood than seemed appropriate.
Alasdair was asleep on the floor when Sam came back. He was using the photo album wrapped in a coat as a pillow. He looked exhausted. Sam sat and drank the tea and watched him twitch and groan. In sleep, Alasdair’s features seemed better arranged. Sam could imagine a time, perhaps ten, fifteen years ago, when the face had been softer, clean shaven, something presented in boardrooms, classrooms, operating theatres. Or perhaps this was wishful thinking. He could have come from a home where his parents kept him locked in a cellar. There was no way to know unless Alasdair remembered. Until then, Sam could believe whatever suited him.
* * *
SAM WOKE TO the sound of breaking glass. Which is to say he woke, gasped in a breath, and thought he had heard glass breaking; then, when all was quiet, he wondered whether that sound was only something he had dreamed. He decided it was the latter. He lay back and tried to remember his dream. He could recall several fragments—a rabbit in a cage; the circus; running upside down—but they did not add up.
He closed his eyes.
He drifted.
Something smashed.
Sam got out of bed and went into the living room. Alasdair was standing on one of the chairs. He wasn’t wearing trousers. He wasn’t wearing underwear either. The floor was covered in shards of china and glass. Alasdair pointed at what remained of the lamp. “It’s broken,” he said.
“What happened?”
“It fell off the table. And I had to break some bottles.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to sell them.”
“You didn’t have to break them inside.”
“I couldn’t wait. Will you pass me my shoes? There’s a lot of glass on the floor.”
Sam put Alasdair’s shoes by the chair. He looked away, out the window, as his guest pulled on his trousers. It had snowed heavily. Cars were crunching past.
When he turned, Alasdair was lacing up his tennis shoes. He seemed in a hurry to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To market.”
Alasdair hefted the white sack onto his shoulder. There was then a pause in which each expected the other to speak. Sam was waiting to be thanked. Alasdair was waiting for Sam to offer to help him. When neither did, Alasdair left; both felt aggrieved.
In the shop it took two hours for the glazier to put in a new window, during which the wind blew through the hole and knocked over books. The customers said accusingly, “It’s very cold in here.” All his volunteers cancelled, citing ill health or the weather, except for Spooky (aka Derrick), who was so inept he was worse than no volunteer. Spooky was thirty-five, had a terrible stammer, and loved volunteering in the shop. He spent the rest of his time looking after Lonnie, his vicious father who bullied him to the point where he imitated his stammer in front of other people.
Sam spent the morning apologising for the cold or correcting Spooky’s numerous mistakes on the till. Naturally, he blamed Alasdair, and with justification, but it was not entirely his fault. Yes, he had smashed the window, but perhaps Mr. Campbell was also to blame, as was whoever or whatever had caused the calamity that disturbed Alasdair’s mind. But even after the glass was replaced and the shop warmed up, Sam remained angry. Just because the man was a homeless amnesiac, that did not give him right to smash the window of a shop whose profits helped save children from cruelty.
And so Sam called the police. For this, we should not judge him too harshly. Blame can be very efficient. So many ills can shelter under one umbrella.
Sam was ready to tell the officer what Alasdair had done, and where they could find him. Fortunately, this was when Spooky spilt his tea on a baby. “You burnt him,” the mother shouted, but the tea was only lukewarm. She nonetheless threatened legal action and physical harm, then told Spooky he was a fucking idiot who should never have kids. It was unlikely that Spooky would ever have children, but that this was something he nonetheless wanted was clear from his reaction. He hunched, put his hands on his face, nodded his agreement.
“I want you to leave,” said Sam. Spooky stood up, but Sam wasn’t talking to him. He said it again to the mother.
“What?” she said.
“I want you to leave now.”
“Not after what he did.”
“What did he do? It was an accident. Your baby’s fine.”
“That’s not the point. He could have been burnt.”
“True. He also could have been kidnapped. He could have been taken by wolves. He could have, but he wasn’t. Derrick’s said he’s sorry. Maybe you should—”
He did not get a chance to finish. The woman swung her hand at his face, but only after bringing it so far back he had time to get out of the way.
“You’re banned,” he said. “Don’t come in here again.”
He had never said this to a customer before, and he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
“I won’t,” she said, and stormed out, and then it was very quiet except for a vibration in the air. The customers were shaking with the pleasurable knowledge that they had a good story to tell.
Sam went into the toilet and threw up. Then he made another cup of tea for Spooky. When Spooky took it he looked at Sam with such reverence that the mug was not a mug but a chalice brimming with holy liquid.
That evening Sam was actually glad to go home. He wanted to sit in a hot bath and drink a cold beer and maybe think of Sinead. He would submerge his head so his ears were covered. The only noise he’d hear would be the swish of water. If the floorboards shifted, he would not mistake this for a footstep. If the boiler squeaked, he would not mistake it for an old key twisting in the front door. If voices came from upstairs, or outside, he would not think they were discussing him, passing judgement, saying they had made the right choice.
He went home and ran a bath. It started snowing again. He wondered where Alasdair was, whether he was under the bridge or in someone else’s house, naked and breaking their lamps.
He got in and the water was perfect. The bath was big enough for two, especially if the people were lying on their sides, at first not moving, then gently pressing their bodies together. Things would quickly become more intense, but although he and Sinead would want to have sex, they’d stop themselves, because it wouldn’t be safe, and she would be fine with that. Instead they’d grind against each other, kiss in wonderful agony. Their heels and elbows would knock against the side of the bath, and the water would slosh out onto the floor, and some neighbours in the imaginary flat below would hammer on the ceiling with brooms because of the water coming through. When that failed, they’d use sledgehammers that made a booming sound when they struck. The hammers would be heavy, hard to swing, and so would strike the ceiling—his floor—at long, solemn intervals like the peals of a bell being rung to warn villagers that smoke had been seen on the horizon. Lives that seemed permanent, fixed, would be shattered by these chimes, and Sam was almost asleep. His eyes were closed; his nose was just above water. He was no longer having his fantasy of Sinead, the sub-fantasy of the village, but still the banging persisted. If anything, it had gotten louder, to the point where it could not be caused by a sledgehammer, but had to be some kind of projectile repeatedly fired at close range.
Unsurprisingly, the ceiling could not take such a sustained assault. It gave way, or sounded as if it had, and this was one of those dreams that did not seem like a dream because every detail—the sound of splintering wood and then a loud bang, as of a heavy door hitting a wall at speed—was vivid.
He raised his head from the water.
Heard a voice shout his name.
They were back.
They were back.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN almost two years since Sam had lost his temper. The last time was during the spring of 2015, when he saw two teenage girls shooting an air rifle at a swan from a window overlooking the river. The great bird hissed and flapped its wings, confused, frightened, and full of rage at the pain from above. Sam could have shouted at the girls to stop, rung on their door to see if their parents were home, or even taken several deep breaths and accepted that the swan would soon be out of range. Instead he bent and picked up stones and threw them at the window. Most were small, just pebbles, and if a few hit the girls—who were sixteen, or seventeen, barely children—they caused no more pain than the pellets caused the poor bird. There were, however, larger stones, what you could call rocks, and it was one of these that broke the window.
The girls with the air rifle screamed. So what if they were little sadists: He was hurting them.
It was the same with his honest, genuine response to finding Alasdair in the hallway, clutching his shoulder, glaring at the broken doorframe. When he shoved Alasdair against the wall, it felt very satisfying, even better than phoning the police. This was an unambiguous way to show Alasdair that he could not do something just because he wanted to (a precept Sam was breaking only to prove a point, and besides, it was different for him, he was not at all crazy). What seemed like a violent attack was actually a lesson.
But Alasdair did not seem improved as he collapsed on the floor. He was shaking and moaning, having some kind of fit, and this made Sam tremble too. Partly because he was naked and the door was open on a winter night. But the fact that he had lost control was what upset him more. He had been on his own for ten years, surely long enough to accept there would not be a knock on the door, a key in the lock, his parent’s voices saying they were home. He should have stopped being afraid. He should have given up hope.
He shut the door as best he could and got a blanket for Alasdair. He soon stopped shaking, but stayed curled in a ball. Sam got dressed, then made some of the Chinese tea. It was still too hot when Alasdair drank it, but he was obviously too cold to care. When he finished, he lay down, closed his eyes, and seemed to fall asleep. Sam was tiptoeing away when Alasdair said, “Why did you lock the door?”
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” said Sam without turning round.
“Where else can I go? It’s too cold for bears. And why did you do it?”
“Do what?” said Sam, but he knew.
“Why did you hurt me? Because of your door?”
“And the window. And the lamp.”
Alasdair made a hissing sound. “You can get new ones. They don’t matter.”
Sam turned around. “Not to you. But they matter to me.”
“But this is not your house. So it is not your door. Not your lamp.”
“Yes, but it belongs to someone.”
“Who?”
“My parents.”
“Are they alive?”
“I think so.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Africa.”
“When are they coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did they go?”
“When I was sixteen.”
“Why did you stay?”
“They didn’t want me to go. And they didn’t ask. They made it look like they were going on holiday. A week after they left, my grandmother got a letter saying they weren’t coming back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They said everything was wrong.”
Sam waited for Alasdair to say something about his parents not eating enough. Instead he pulled the blanket tight. He stared at the wall.
“There’s a bed if you want it,” said Sam. “You’d be more comfortable. It’s my parents’ room. I mean, it was.”
He wanted Alasdair to say something, no matter how insensitive. Even this would be a kind of acknowledgement. Once the secret was outside his head, it wasn’t such a weight.
It is the same with most Survivors. We do not expect consolation. We just need others to know.
Unfortunately, Sam found it hard to tell people. He had not told Caitlin or Mrs. Maclean; only Trudy knew. Even with her it was little discussed. She found it painful to talk about abandonment. While she doubted that her husband missed her (and certainly did not care if he did), many others had relied on her. Trudy’s mother needed her help on their farm, she looked after her nieces and nephews, her father only enjoyed food that she prepared.
Sam would not get over being abandoned by his parents while he lived in their house. It didn’t matter that he had emptied the place of almost all their possessions. So long as he remained, he could not forget.