The mouths of the tartan-clad observers swelled into perfect pink Os as Squidgy McMidge broke the ranks of the massed pipe marching band, picked up Callum the Caber and prepared to fling him in the great Scottish tradition, scraping his front two legs into the ground like a bull ready to charge.
Squidgy tottered and teetered, his eyes scrunched into walnuts, as he began his run-up. As the midge’s six little legs gained speed, they whirled like Formula One wheels, first in mid-air and getting nowhere then, as they made contact with the ground, he hurtled along and punted the Caber high into the air.
As Callum upended, so did Squidgy.
Completely airborne, Squidgy McMidge posed in a vast expanse of cloudless powder-blue sky. A fat little insect with a cheeky grin, six legs akimbo, his wings as useless as a neatly folded parachute, he drifted and ran out of pages.
Eve Calloway eased her body weight to the back of her wheelchair and smiled. She was pleased. It worked – Squidgy worked. On each page of a series of little notebooks shoplifted from the local supermarket was a simple drawing, almost identical to the ones before and after, but as she ran her thumb down the free edge and flicked them Squidgy McMidge, with his evil beady little eyes and his dangerous grin, came alive. Squidgy McMidge, the new face of Andy’s Appeal for the victims of the earthquake in Pakistan. But the midge needed a little more colour. Maybe a little purple kilt… She ran her thumb a second time across the ends of the pages, and as Squidgy took the run-up again and tossed Callum the Caber high in the air, the faces in the crowd left the page in a series of hurried lines.
Eve rubbed the tension from her eyes and glanced at the clock. Midday. She had been drawing for over an hour, losing herself in giving life to her cartoon. Squidgy was a difficult child, demanding his life on the page. She picked up the furry purple midge, a prototype for a kiddie’s soft toy, and looked into his beady little eyes. He looked happy – well, as happy as he ever looked.
Eve arched her back; she was sore, and her bum was numb. She needed sugar. She reached forward and made an assault on a family bag of Maltesers. Stuffing her mouth full of chocolate, she caressed the midge gently with the fleshy part of her thumb, saying goodbye for the moment, and sighed. The vinyl cover of the chair squeaked beneath her weight as she pressed the remote control, turning up the sound as the TV returned to the news coverage.
A UN spokesperson was talking about the threat of hypothermia hanging over the victims of the earthquake. ‘The death toll is rising every hour, and will rise with every further hour that passes,’ she declaimed. ‘Many of these deaths are preventable, but there’s a desperate need for blankets, tents and warm clothes –’ Eve picked up the remote ready to kill the sound, but paused. ‘Eight-year-old Andy Ibrahim, who flew from Glasgow to stay with his cousins two days ago, is known to be among the survivors…’ A news agency photograph of a traumatized child tied up in a filthy blanket appeared on the screen. ‘… his grandparents are still listed as missing. His friends in Scotland have set up an appeal in his name to help all those affected by this terrible human tragedy. If you want to help, donations can be –’
Eve zapped the sound impatiently. ‘Ah, bless them; it fairly brings it home, Squidgy, doesn’t it? One minute the wee guy is on the terraces watching Rangers getting gubbed, the next he’s under a pile of rubble with his dead granny. There but for the grace, et cetera.’ Squidgy’s piercing black pinhead of an eye watched as Eve stared into the middle distance, whispering to him. ‘And while our hearts bleed for them, Squidgy, we can’t deny it has propelled us into the big time. You were in the right place at the right time.’
Squidgy remained silent in the belief that his genius would have taken him to the top anyway.
‘You’ll be worth a bloody fortune if we play our cards right – one hundred thousand Squidgy McMidge car aerial decorations are hitting the shops tomorrow, at a quid a time… A quid a midge… and if you want to fork out a fiver, you can have a Squash-a-Squidgy.’
Squidgy’s eye caught her own, demanding an explanation.
‘It’s a soft midge that you throw at the wall and it squeals with demonic laughter.’ She tossed a Malteser in the air, catching it expertly in her mouth.
Unimpressed, Squidgy remained silent.
‘And by the time Madam Tightarse has finished her interview at Radio Scotland, you might be heading up the entire appeal.’
Squidgy showed his total lack of appreciation by falling off the table, and bouncing silently on the carpet. Eve sighed, wondering whether to pick him up with her grabber, or leave him lying there with his purple legs in the air until Lynne-the-Tightarse came home. She turned back to the TV, her attention pricked by a face she knew. And there he was, Rogan O’Neill, flying into Glasgow with his perfect smile, with his perfect girlfriend and their perfect life. She grabbed the remote to turn up the sound, and the slow seductive strains of the opening bars of ‘Tambourine Girl’ underscored the emotional tableau as Rogan kissed his super-young bimbo supermodel before kneeling down to kiss the tarmac of the runway.
‘Arse!’ muttered Eve, leaning forward in her seat slightly, listening intently as Jackie Bird’s voice-over announced, ‘… Rogan O’Neill is donating all the profits from his New Year concert at Hampden Park to Andy’s Appeal. And, twenty years after it was first recorded…’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘… the re-release of “Tambourine Girl” is storming up the charts and is hotly tipped to be the Christmas Number One. So, go out and buy your copy now. It’s all for a good cause.’ The CD cover appeared on the screen, with the image of his girlfriend Lauren McCrae, lying in a tambourine. Eve pointed the remote at the screen, pressed Off with her podgy thumb, and watched Rogan fade to black. For a minute she was quiet. She stared out the window at the ever-falling rain, her pretty face frozen in thought.
‘Bastard,’ she said quietly.