By the time they reached the sea it was hard to see where the land ended and the water began. Hamish parked on the tallest hill and they sat on the bonnet. Below them were constellations of evening lights, lonely farms, and tiny clusters of villages sitting snug against the frigid Irish Sea. Hamish put his arm around Mungo. He almost apologized. “Mibbe next time we’ll do this in the daylight, eh?”
Mungo didn’t mind. It was the quietest place he had ever been. “Can we turn the headlights off? Just for a wee minute.”
His brother did as he asked. Hamish finished his lager, and then he finished Mungo’s for him, as they sat together in the gloaming. After a while, he said, “Ah dinnae mean to be so hard on ye all the time.”
“I know.”
“I just feel a mental amount of pressure sometimes. You know, wi’ the Billies, wi’ baby Adrianna, and looking after you on top of it.”
“I don’t ask you to do that.”
“S’pose you’re the least of ma problems.” Hamish was pulling gently on Mungo’s earlobe. Mungo rarely heard his brother talk like this. At home, you couldn’t admit anything tender. It was foolish to say something sweet that the scheme could use against you later. “We’re in this the gether, Mungo. I’m just hard on you because ah cannae have ye turning out soft or nothing.” He tugged Mungo’s ear, then twisted it.
Mungo was sad that his real brother had crept back so soon. “I think something is wrong with Jodie. She’s no eating properly.”
“Aye?” Hamish sounded bored. “I bet none of the boys at school want to shag her.”
“Wait, I thought we were in this the gether? Three Musketeers?”
“That’s a laugh! It’s mair like the Godfather and his two useless wallopers.” Hamish crumpled his lager can, it sailed through the air. “C’mon. Want to see some braw magic?”
Hamish drove along a series of twisting roads. He drove fast and Mungo was reminded that his brother had been here before without him and the thought made him blue. The car banked around high hedges and farmers’ fences until it came to a stop facing up a small hill. In the last of the violet light Mungo could see about forty feet ahead of them.
“Right,” said Hamish. “What do you think happens if ye take the handbrake off on a hill?”
“That’s stupid,” said Mungo. “You would roll backwards.”
“Right enough.”
Hamish released the handbrake and Mungo braced himself, waited for the car to roll downhill backwards, away from the glow of its own headlights. Nothing happened for a while, then, very slowly, very surely, the car rolled uphill. Mungo could feel the heat of Hamish’s broad grin. “How crazy is that?”
It was strange indeed. The car was accelerating uphill of its own accord.
“It’s cursed or something. Anything ye put on this hill rolls upwards instead of downwards. It’s an electric current. Freaky right?” Hamish put the car into gear and continued up the hill, but Mungo wanted to do it again and again.
They stopped at a small harbour by the sullen sea. Hamish bought them a poke of chips to share. He didn’t complain when Mungo drowned it all in malt vinegar, he just said, “Don’t eat them now. I know where we should go.”
The soggy chips were still warm by the time they came to a long drystane dyke. Hamish pulled the car off the road and they scrambled over the high wall. It was pitch-black. Every so often, long ferns licked at their legs, and it made them dance with fear and delight. In the distance, about a mile away, was the faint glow of man-made light.
When they finally reached the glowing castle, Mungo had to ask what they were looking at because he had never seen anything like it. There was the Central Station Hotel, and the sooty sandstone of Glasgow Cathedral, but those places were built for the public or for day trippers. This house was all for one person. It was built for majesty and looked somewhere between a fortified castle and a grand, stately home. The main structure sat with its back to the breaking sea and the landscaping and crenelated walls wrapped around him as far as he could make out. The faint light from inside rippled against the mottled glass. The windows were generous, the rooms over-furnished, and Mungo could tell there was a world of beauty to look in and out upon.
“Smashin’ int it? Culzean Castle.” Hamish stood under the canopy of an ancient tree, his hands on his hips, proud as any laird. “Sammy-Jo wants to get married there.” He whistled. “Do ye know how many stolen motors it would take to pay for that?”
Hamish pointed towards a bridge that arched over a sunken garden. The bridge had guard turrets on either side, long since put out of use. “In there is a good place for pumping lassies,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Bring them up here wi’ a bottle of Buckie and show them this castle. They’ll let ye get both hauns up them after that.” He was smiling. His mouth was full of yellow chips.
Mungo was watching Hamish dangle from a thick bough and thinking how much he enjoyed this playful side of his brother. Hamish was far from Glasgow and the glare of the Protestant boys who expected so much from him, and the rest of the scheme who expected so little. Here, Mungo could remember the boy Hamish had once been, mischievous and brave, full of impetuous ideas and never afraid of falling, so long as he could fly first. In this moment it was as if he had not yet soured. To see him carry on like a wean again was almost too much for Mungo to bear.
“Hamey?” Mungo knew he was pushing his luck.
“Whut?”
“I love you.”
Mungo was watching his brother swing back and forth when he felt the hands on his collar. Why did they always grab you by the collar? The night watchman had slunk across the wet lawn, the dull churn of the sea had muffled all his footsteps. He slipped a tight arm under Mungo’s chin and tilted his head backwards.