Ross Raisin - Waterline

He has brought it on himself but, he knows it fine well. No like he’s made such a big effort to talk to the boy; ever, actually. All they years of sitting in the living room when Craig’s come round to visit, leaving him and his maw to have their patter in the kitchen. It adds up sooner than you’d think, all that time. You start no to see that she’s the one holding it together, and that without her, what kind of a relationship is there between you? Plus as well the boy as good as thinks that he killed her, which could prove a wee conversational stumbling block.

Alan gets up, asking if anybody is wanting anything from the kitchen. He goes out the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. In a moment — during which the bald uncle gets the spotlight took off him having pure disgraced himself as the family expert on geography matters — Mick follows him. He steps in the lobby just as Lynn is reminding everybody that she had known two of the answers.

Alan is bent inside the fridge. Mick comes in the room and he glances up at him as he pulls out a bottle of wine and sticks it on the counter.

‘Would you like a glass, Mick?’

‘I’m okay, thanks. No much of a wine drinker.’ He stays by the counter, shuffling the great dump of post into more of a tidy pile.

Alan fetches himself a glass from the cupboard, pulls open a drawer for the corkscrew and gets opening his wine. Mick loiters over in the corner. He feels like a bloody houseguest. Alan takes a sip of wine and puts the bottle back in the fridge.

‘You get to many Rangers games these days, Mick?’

‘No much. Cathy being ill, it’s —’

‘No, sorry, I don’t imagine you have.’

He has another drink of his wine. Mick fingers the envelopes. In truth, it’s almost ten years, after Robbie left, since he was going to the games. And as well the season ticket increases. He slots the post in by the mini television. That’s another thing will need seeing to before long. Brown envelopes. Some of these are from the same senders. Council. Housing Association. Her name is still on most of them. What happens about that, well? Is it the register office that wires it to all the relevant parties? Your computer tells my computer that such and such is to be wiped from the account. See the way it is with these bastards though, you more likely have to tell them yourself. Ten minutes waiting on the line to tell some poor bored hen in a call centre in East Kilbride that you want to advise a change in circumstances: I’m just ringing up to inform ye that my wife’s died. Duly noted, Mr Little, I’ll log it in the system for you.

Alan is staring away into the dark outside the window, drinking his wine. Then he turns round to him.

‘How’s work these days?’

There’s a genuine unexpected topic of conversation between the two of them.

‘It’s a while since I’ve been driving, actually.’

‘When do you think you might go back?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Soon enough. They said take as long as I want.’

‘That’s good of them.’

‘Well. See they’re no too busy.’

He should have said about the money earlier. Quick and simple.

‘You know, Mick, you mustn’t think that Cathy’s family aren’t here for you. They are. It’s been hard for everybody.’

‘I’m sure it has.’

‘It’s a really tough blow.’ He makes it sound like a post office closure. ‘You know any time you want to come up and stay at ours you’re more than welcome. Have some dinner. Go out on the boat.’

‘Right, thanks.’

Alan is stroking the stem of his wine glass. He turns again to look out at the small crap garden.

‘Look, all this shopping,’ Mick begins. ‘Will ye let me give you something for it?’

Alan turns toward him. ‘No, Mick, you don’t need to.’

‘No, I will. I won’t have us not paying our way.’ He glances up the corridor to the living room door, as though he’s been sent to represent the others, the family shop steward.

‘I won’t take it. It came to a lot, anyway. I wouldn’t want you to.’

‘Wait here a moment just, will ye?’ He leaves Alan fingering his wine glass while he goes from the room.

When he returns, Alan is stood where he was.

‘Here.’ He holds out the crumpled tenner. ‘I’m going the cash machine in the morning, but here’s this for now.’

The brother-in-law looks at the note a moment. ‘Okay, then, Mick.’ With a slow movement, he takes it from him. ‘Thank you.’

He puts his glass down on the side and takes his wallet out the trouser pocket. As he flips it open, slipping the note in the back, there’s an identity card, the top of his head poking out of one of the slots. A company card. How’s he still carrying one of those? He’s retired more than five years now. They must have kept him on, well — a consultant or something. An adviser. What I advise you is this: we’ve no enough orders for new ships and the yard isn’t making enough profit, so get out the dunny money packets and lay the buggers off.

He is picking up his glass, and walks by Mick to the door. ‘There’s beers in the fridge if you want one,’ he says over the shoulder.

Mick watches him away, the cards down the corridor flapping in the draught as his great back moves past them.

He stays in the kitchen a while, staring down toward the lobby. Then he opens the fridge and gets out a can. He drinks half of it in a single drain. Puts it down and wipes his lips.

Wanker.

It is hot and he can’t sleep. The alarm clock across the way getting on for three o’clock. It’s been pure stifling like this the last few nights and by now the heat is gathered in the upstairs rooms, no wind to blow it out. Earlier, Robbie and Jenna had went for a bit of air before bed, and came back saying it’s near as muggy outside as it is in. Then Craig went out too, on his own, as he’d done the other nights. To the pub; you could smell it on him when he got back in. Mick had waited up after the others were away to their beds, but Craig was later back than usual, and in the end he decided it felt the wrong moment and he gave it a swerve.

He gets up and opens the other window. No difference. He leaves it open anyway and climbs back in the bed. She wouldn’t’ve let him have it open. Breeze or no breeze. She hated a chill that much, grumbling on next to him with the covers pulled up to her chin, cauled tight around her. A soft familiar lump there in the bed. He stares at the alarm clock, waiting for the minute to switch over. This room, it’s no like the other rooms. She has a say here still: the mirror with its collection of receipts and holiday competition cuttings wedged in the frame; the clutter of magazines by the wall; the electric heater on the other side of the bed with its broken outer bars.

He gets up again and goes out the room, needing the toilet. Afterwards, he goes down into the kitchen, where he turns the mini television on quiet, sits down at the table. Another quiz show. A young girl hosting it. She’s got on this lunatic smile as she picks up the phone, waiting for the caller to guess the blank. The first word is Iron . The guy on the line seems pretty sure he’s got it. ‘ Statue ,’ he says. The girl turns to look at the giant screen behind her in mock excitement. ‘Let’s see if it’s there. . No!’ She slaps her thigh. ‘Not this time, Terry.’

It’s fair obvious the people ringing up to do this at half three in the morning are either blootered or they’re no the full ticket. The next one, a shrill woman called Christie, could be either way. ‘Is it board ?’ she asks. It isn’t. ‘Unlucky, Christie. Better luck next time.’ There is what looks like a flicker of desperation on the girl’s face. I hope they pay ye well for this, hen. He turns it off and gets up to go back to bed.