Mungo opened his eyes; the water was so clear that he could see the strain on Gallowgate’s face, the roped muscles protruding on his inked neck as he tried to drown him. He felt the air inside his cagoule buoy him up to the surface, only to be countered by the force of Gallowgate’s fist punching down into his belly, into his heart. He had the sensation of being alone again, the desire to float away into the quietness of the loch, his pockets filled with wildflowers.
Mungo remembered the disposable camera in his pocket – it was a foolish thing to think of but it had been stupid of him to forget to take it out. Now he would never be able to show Jodie the beautiful castle, he could never show James the bleached ram’s bones. James. He wanted to go home so badly then. He didn’t care about Hamish or Mo-Maw or Gallowgate; he wanted to see the oil rigger’s son one last time and kiss the pink softness behind his sticky-out ears.
That was a thing that could never happen.
Gallowgate stopped punching into the boy. His hands clamped around his throat again as he choked the last of the air out of him. Mungo was barely aware that his own hands were flailing, grabbing for the sky. He was grabbing for Gallowgate’s face, but he couldn’t reach, his arms were too short. He saw St Christopher in his last moments and knew now how much drowning burned. Funny that. He saw the Catholic boy and his beatific smile as he marched the length of him.
With Gallowgate’s hands on his throat the last air pockets in his clothes tilted his body till it was inverted and his feet were skyward. He felt the disposable camera and Gallowgate’s discarded lager can slide out of the kangaroo pouch. It was all shifting inside him, turning upside down, Jodie’s school photograph, James’s birthday bear. Then something came to his mind, something he had forgotten.
He fumbled the blade Hamish had given him. He gripped it tightly and swung it into Gallowgate’s stomach. His hand stuck there, pinned to the man, and he had to tug hard to pull it out before he could swing it again into his ribs. The loch water was freezing cold, but he could swear he felt the warmth of the man’s blood pump over his fingers. He swung wildly, again and again, until the hands released his throat and he floated out into the loch.
Mungo was out beyond his depth by the time he regained a normal breath. He was way beyond St Christopher’s body and he couldn’t feel the bottom. There was a sucking current and several times he was pulled under the surface. He could imagine the sightless saint reaching up from the depths and wrapping his long fingers around his ankles. It took the last of his energy to tread the water. Everything felt like it would be better if he just sank. If he just gave in.
As he was struggling up and down, he caught brief glimpses of Gallowgate. The man stumbled from the loch. He was clutching his side and his good Italian denims were ruined with a black inky liquid. Gallowgate made it to knee-depth before he sat down in the water. He plonked down on his backside like a toddler. He searched his pockets for cigarettes, and finding them ruined, he tossed them into the loch. Then he tipped over.
It could be another trick.
Mungo treaded water as long as he could and then he doggy-paddled to the shallows. He gave Gallowgate a wide berth as he struggled to reach the shore. It took him some time to come near. He was circling and dripping and shivering, inching closer and closer by degrees.
The tide was a pretty pink colour. The man’s face was half-in, half-out of the water. Gallowgate’s green eyes were open and his right hand gripped a boulder, like he could rise up at any moment. It took a long time, but eventually Mungo summoned enough courage to come close enough to read the ink on his knuckles. Evan. He wondered if that was Gallowgate’s real name. He prodded the man with his toe. Then he stepped back and waited.
Gallowgate was still bleeding into the water. His blood was unfurling in scarlet swirls. It looked like the man was being consumed by medieval flames. Mungo picked at his cheek and watched him burn for a while.
In his search for cigarettes, Gallowgate’s wallet must have fallen out of his pocket. Mungo fished it out of the shallows. It was almost empty of money – there were no bank cards or credit cards – but in the plastic identification sleeve was a monthly bus pass. Mungo studied the scowling picture. He read the name out loud: “Angus Bell.”
Tucked into the billfold was a single postcard. It was a photo of Angus Bell in ill-fitting prison gear standing before an artificial Christmas tree. In the bottom right corner it was decorated with holly and bells, and stamped in a Victorian script: “Thinking of you at Christmastime.” Mungo turned it over. There was a second-class stamp attached, but no address, no festive message.
TWENTY-SIX
May evenings were bright enough that they did away with the need for the flickering fluorescent lighting. The natural light gave an unnatural glow of health to the fellowship. The top table called the meeting to order, and as the alcoholics took to their chairs and began with their announcements and affirmations, Mo-Maw sat in the very front and centre, stiff and upright and earnest, a teacher’s pet. She was trying hard to show Mungo that anybody could change.
Mungo stood in his usual place by the hot tea urn, only half-listening as the top table ran through the Twelve Steps with unusual gusto. They were cheered by the turn in the weather and encouraged by the half-dozen new faces and the high amount of returning fellowship. Their good mood was not contagious. Mungo filled six polystyrene cups to the brim with scalding black tea. He organized the cups, balanced them precariously along the edge of the folding table.
Skrriit, skriiit, skrriiit, skrit, skrriiiitt, skrit.
He ran his thumbnail along the polystyrene about a centimetre from the bottom of each cup. Slicing his nail into one, he moved to the next and when he had sliced along all six cups, he started again into the groove he had made in the first. The anticipation distracted him, gave him something to look forward to; waiting to see which cup would fail first and burn his legs with hot liquid.