He sank on to his haunches. There was a scab on his right kneecap, the skin was puckering and itchy. Mungo checked no one was watching. Then he put his lips to it, ran his tongue over it to soften it, and sucked it till his mouth filled with a metallic taste. Mungo knew he couldn’t be trusted not to lick his scab again so he covered his bare legs with his anorak and, pulling his knees to his chest, he hid them from the warmth-less sun. It had been such a rare sort of heat on the scheme that he hadn’t thought to bring more than his thin football shorts. Mo-Maw had given him no time to get his bag ready, and she hadn’t stopped him as he sloped, poorly dressed, out the door.
He pulled the thick Fair Isle jumper from his bag and slipped it on under his cagoule. The dry Shetland wool tickled as it came down over his face. Mungo checked the soaks were still lying in the gorse. Cupping the jumper up and over his nose, he ran his tongue along the inside of the knit. It still smelled of fresh air, sawdust, and the sour ammonia of the pissy doocot. It reminded him of home. Using his thumb, he stuffed the fabric into his open mouth and closed his eyes. He shoved it in until he gagged.
By the time the country bus arrived the men were deep in their drink. Mungo helped them aboard with their bags and fishing rods and then he waited patiently for St Christopher to pay the fare. The drunk man swayed and produced a handful of silver and copper shrapnel. Chapped-faced women huffed impatiently, their shopping defrosting at their feet, and Mungo felt his neck burn as he scraped the change from St Christopher’s curled palm and dropped coin after coin into the tray. The boy could feel his eyes twitch, and he was relieved when the driver finally said, “Okay, okay, stop. That’s plenty, son.” He had been embarrassed that he couldn’t add so fast. School had been scarce for him since Mo-Maw had taken sick on drink again.
The driver released the handbrake. Mungo couldn’t meet the eyes of the country women but he laughed as he heard St Christopher lollop after him and wish their sour faces a “glorious and happy afternoon.” Gallowgate was already sound asleep on the pile of tackle and plastic bags. Mungo sat on the seat in front and picked at the black rubber sealant around the window.
The fat bus bumped along the serpentine road. It stopped every so often, and dropped little white women outside their little white houses. The diesel engine thrummed a lullaby and the boy could feel his eyes grow heavy from the day. A copse of pine and yew trees began to encroach on the road, their leaves mottled the sunlight on his face. Mungo laid his head against the glass. He fell into a fitful sleep.
Hamish was there. His brother was lying in the single bed opposite his own. By how the daylight reflected off his thick glasses, Mungo could tell it was early evening. Hamish was scooping spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth as trails of chocolatey milk streamed down his hairless chest. Mungo lay still, quietly watching his brother. He always enjoyed moments like this, when the person didn’t know they were being observed. Hamish was smiling to himself. The left side of his face puckered in a dirty grin as he flicked through the pages of a magazine. Mungo could see the pained, painted faces of naked women, spread-eagled and grimacing back up at Hamish. Yet when Mungo brought his gaze back to his brother’s face, it was Hamish who was watching him. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “Tell me Mungo. Is it all my fault?”
Gallowgate shook the boy from his dream. His top lip was caught on the sticky film that had formed on his teeth and for a moment Mungo didn’t know if the man was smiling or snarling at him.
As they tumbled from the bus St Christopher rolled his ankle and fell into the grass verge. They were on a section of road where a thick canopy of alders made the air green and damp and slow. St Christopher writhed in the dirt, pulling his suit blazer tight across his pigeon chest. “How come youse didnae fuckin’ wake us!” There was angry spume in the corners of his mouth. “We’re miles out of our bastardin’ way.”
“I don’t know where we’re going. It all looks the same to me.”
Gallowgate stepped forward as if to strike the boy and Mungo instinctively flinched, his arms barricaded in front of him.
“Fuck’s sake.” His breath was sour with beer and sleep. “Calm down. It’s no come to that awready.” Gallowgate heaved some of the bags out of the dust and slung them over his shoulder. The man started walking in the direction the bus had come, sauntering down the middle of the road, daring any driver to hit him. “It’s miles back, so let’s get a fuckin’ move on.”
There were no cars travelling in either direction but Mungo and St Christopher struggled in the safety of the verge, their carrier bags snagging on bramble thorns. The boy fastened his blue anorak up to his throat and then continued up and over his mouth. He sank his head lower into the funnel and became a pair of downcast, twitching eyes.
They had been walking for forty minutes when St Christopher started to moan; the bags of supplies were cutting into his fingers, and his dress shoes were starting to rub at his papery heels. Gallowgate scowled at the pair of them like a father who could not get his children to behave. He yanked the boy’s arm and forced Mungo’s thumb out, and left him facing the non-existent traffic. Gallowgate slid down the embankment and the older man followed him, complaining all the way. They lay behind the drystane dyke as Mungo waited by the empty road and tried to hitch a lift. Nothing passed in either direction. Further along, the road was flooded with sheep.
Mungo didn’t know what time it was, but it was cold under the canopy of alders. His bare legs were speckled blue, so he made a game of removing his cagoule and slipping his legs through the sleeves. When his ribs became colder than his legs, he unzipped the windbreaker again and put it back over his chest. An hour passed, then two. No cars came. He could hear more cans of beer hiss open behind the stone dyke. St Christopher stood up every now and then to offer words of encouragement. “Aye ye’re doing a great job son. Really, truly, outstanding.”
* * *