Alex Gray - The Riverman

West towelled his hair slowly, feeling the ache in his skull. He hurt all over these days. It was as if his former level of fitness had suddenly deserted him, leaving him with a body that seemed unfamiliar, alien. Was this what happened when insanity took a hold of you? Did your physical self disintegrate along with your mental faculties? Get a grip, he told himself fiercely. This will all go away in time. Just ignore it. No one can hurt you. It’s only words.

But the words had become more and more menacing and West no longer knew whether he could take the risk of refusing to meet the demands of this person who used the name of a dead man.

‘He’s bitten!’ JJ’s glee could not be contained.

‘What d’you mean?’

JJ looked over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Your pal back in Scotland. He’s coming up with the goods.’

‘How?’

‘Banking on the net. Simple as taking candy from a baby,’ he crowed.‘My account’ll show a certain … increase in funds, then I take off for the good life,’ JJ told him.

What about me? Michael Turner wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat. That was a question that didn’t need any answer. Now that his usefulness was at an end, why should this thug bother to keep him alive?

‘Aunty Cath?’

‘Is that you, Philip? Are you home?’

‘I’ve been home for a few days, actually. Just got round to calling you, that’s all.’

Catherine Devoy listened to the catch in her godson’s throat. He was trying to sound grown up, be the man of the house, but the gruffness failed to mask the yearning in his voice. Whenever things went wrong Philip had always called her: exam results, the problems with Duncan over this gap year. Once he’d even asked her advice about girls. Catherine’s face softened as she imagined the boy standing in the hallway of Mansewood. She’d always been fond of Philip, especially as a baby. She had been happy to babysit for them in the days when Liz and Duncan had been enjoying themselves at all those corporate bashes, and the two Forbes children had always called her ‘Aunty’ as if she had really been one of the family.

That had been part of the trouble, Catherine acknowledged to herself; having a ready-made family and none of her own. Had that been the underlying reason why she’d never come to the marriage bed? Had her life been too convenient; a lover who was inaccessible and a career that gave her so much satisfaction?

‘Aunty Cath? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry, Philip,’ Catherine Devoy sighed. This was going to be difficult. ‘What can I do for you?’

There was a silence, then, ‘ Do for me? I didn’t ring you to ask for anything.’ The boy’s voice rose in irritation. ‘I just wanted to talk to you. About Dad,’ he added finally.

Catherine sighed again. ‘Of course you do, dear, but the phone’s maybe not the best way to have a discussion like this. How about meeting up? Can you come into town or would you like me to come over after work?’ She crossed her fingers. Say you’ll come in, she begged silently. Say you’ll come in.

‘Don’t mind, really. Mum and Janey are here all day with the baby. Wouldn’t mind getting out for a bit, to be honest.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. Catherine smiled. Philip wouldn’t want to offend his mother or sister by letting them hear his last words. How like Duncan he was in that respect: a decent, nice young man who only wanted to make his family happy and proud of him. Duncan had been just the same in the old days when she’d first known him.

‘Well, how about this afternoon? We could meet up town somewhere.’ She thought quickly. It would have to be somewhere private where the boy could open his heart to her. ‘Do you know Tchai-Ovna?’

‘Oh, that wee place off Gibson Street? The one where we heard that old poet?’

‘That’s the one. See you … about three o’clock, say?’

‘Okay,’ the boy replied, a new jauntiness in his tone. ‘It’ll be great to see you, Aunty Cath.’ There was another pause. ‘I’ve missed you.’

The woman put down the phone then slumped over her desk. God, she was weary! It took all her reserves of strength just to get up in the morning, go to work and remember that she would never see Duncan Forbes again. Now she had to face his son. How on earth would she find the answers to any questions he might ask when she was too afraid to confront them herself?

The different scented teas and home baking gave the place a warm and comforting feel, thought Philip Forbes as he ducked his head under the low entry. Tchai-Ovna had been a regular student hang-out for many of his female friends at Glasgow University; Philip could recall nights gathered around the mismatched tables and oriental couches where they’d spent hours putting the world to rights. And there had been that time with Aunty Cath when he’d listened to recitations from Edwin Morgan. He’d not understood everything but had picked up the gist of what was being read. Some of it had been unsettling and, remembering that, Philip suddenly felt the same emotion of unease wash over him.

There were several people in the tea room already so Philip chose an empty corner-table where he could watch the doorway to see his godmother arrive. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the posters advertising literary readings and musical events. Behind him was an elevated area consisting of squashy cushions. It had probably been a bed recess before the old tenement flat had been pulled about to make it interesting to its present-day clientele. The tiny kitchen was out of sight from where Philip sat but he could hear dishes clattering and voices taking orders for tchais of all descriptions. When Cath arrived they would sit here and drink from some of the weird cups and containers that the owners had accumulated over the years. That was part of the place’s charm, he admitted. His mother, with her preference for Royal Doulton china cups and side plates that matched, would have hated it.

‘Philip.’ Suddenly Cath was sitting opposite him and smiling. He wanted to stand up and hug her but he’d wedged his long frame behind the table and she was already reaching out for his hands.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said gruffly, squeezing her fingers. ‘Good of you to leave work and all that.’

‘Oh, you rescued me from a very tedious afternoon, I can assure you, Philip. It should be me thanking you,’ she retorted, noting how her words made him grin. ‘Well, tell me everything about Africa,’ she continued, releasing his hands and brushing back a stray lock of hair that had been blown forward in the wind outside. ‘I’m sure you’ve had lots of adventures.’

Philip Forbes smiled again, ‘Yeah, you could say. I’ll have some great photos when they’re developed. Though I didn’t take my digital camera in case it got nicked,’ he added. ‘I can tell you all my stories then and you’ll see the places and stuff …’ he tailed off. His eyes dropped from her gaze. ‘I really wanted to talk to you about Dad,’ he mumbled.

Catherine suppressed the mounting feeling of panic that was rising in her chest. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Forcing a smile, she picked up the menu. ‘How about ordering first?’ she asked. ‘Then we’ll have peace to talk.’

Across the table Philip Forbes nodded then watched as his godmother scanned the choices of exotic teas and cakes. There was something wrong. Her face bore signs of strain; lines that he’d never noticed before were etched deeply into her brow. The boy pressed his lips together. Nothing would ever be the same with Dad gone: Mum was in pieces, Janey went about like a cold hard icicle that might shatter if you pushed it too hard and now even Aunty Cath had changed. What had he expected? That she’d be untouched by his father’s death? She’d seen him day and daily, though, hadn’t she? Worked with him for years, been part of all their lives, so why had he expected Catherine Devoy to have been immune from all of this awfulness? Studying her face, Philip wondered. Had his father ever been more to Cath than just a good friend and colleague? There was something darker in her manner, he thought, something that told of a deeper sorrow.