Иэн Рэнкин - The Flood

‘Weather turned stormy today,’ said Matt Duncan.

‘Aye,’ said Patterson, ‘but not before time. It’s been a good few weeks since we had some rain. I could see the paper bags and rubbish blowing about outside, just like tumbleweeds in a Western.’

They both chuckled, sharing as they did a liking for old cowboy films. Duncan liked novels about the West, too, but George Patterson found them banal. They did not discuss these novels in case they should argue. Neither could afford to lose the other, though neither really knew why.

‘It was terrible. I got caught in the rain as I was going down to the bookie’s.’

‘Win anything today, Matt?’

Duncan’s face screwed in disgust. ‘Not a bloody thing,’ he said. ‘But Dod Mathieson, a man that’s not needing money, he won naturally.’ His voice was bitter. He hated the man who had won. ‘I’d like to know how he manages to win so bloody much and I lose. I think he’s in on some game with the manager of that shop. They’re always gassing together, yet the bugger would hardly give me the time of day. Aye, there’s something funny there all right. You take my word for it.’

Patterson shook his head in sympathy. Yes, the world seemed cruel to Matt Duncan. The grass was always greener. You lose a son, you lose your job. You’ve lost everything, and you’re bitter. Patterson was not himself a bitter man, not really. He fed on guilt instead. He was, he knew, worse off than Matt Duncan, for he could not reveal his guilt, though often he had come close. Poor Hugh. What good had it all been? He had to feed perpetually on his shame, with no one knowing. Well, hardly anyone.

‘Mind you, Matt Duncan’s not a man to go telling on people. If they’ve got shady dealings, it’s up to the shop owner to find out. He must be raking it in if he can afford to ignore a swindle like the nice one they’ve got going.’ The conspiracy was now an incontrovertible fact for Duncan. He drank his beer noisily, as if its flavour were the taste of his rage.

‘Are you sure there is a swindle, Matt?’ ventured Patterson hesitantly. ‘Couldn’t it all be luck?’

‘Of course I’m sure, George,’ snapped back the small, sharp-faced man. ‘What do you take me for? I ken what their game is. You can’t keep anything like that hidden from Matt Duncan. I’m too fly for them, you see. They think I’m dunnert.’ His mouth was a savage twist and his breath came short and noisily. Patterson kept quiet and drank his lager while the tumult continued. There were a lot of twisted men like Matt Duncan throughout the mining towns of Fife. Usually they were not the best workers, had lived bitter, ignorant married lives, and had been brought up in similar households. In other words, their hate was handed down to them from their parents, handed down through the generations like a christening shawl. It seemed an attitude peculiar to the working class. Patterson often mused over it. It appeared to him an easy way out, an excuse for not having done anything in life. If you succeeded you were “lucky”, or a crook; other factors did not enter into it. If you failed, you had never had a chance. Everything had been against you in the first place. A shiver went through Patterson. He had been living in this community for fifty-five years. Luckily, his father had been a professional person. That was regarded as his lucky beginning. Only once had he felt as Duncan felt all the time. Just that once. His mind recoiled from the self-hatred and the grotesque thought of that isolated time. He shook his can.

‘Empty?’ asked Duncan.

‘Yes, Matt. Very empty,’ said Patterson thoughtfully. ‘I’ll get my coat and we can go to the hotel for a proper drink.’

‘Fine,’ said Duncan, patting his pockets. ‘Ach,’ he said as always, ‘I’ve forgotten my wallet again, George, and that thief of a bookmaker cleaned me out. Shall I run up to the house and fetch it?’ Patterson, as always, shook his head.

‘No need for that, Matt. No need for that at all.’ He even smiled.

His mother had invited Andy Wallace round for an evening meal. They were planning to go to Kirkcaldy afterwards to see a film. The three of them sat around the seldom-used dining table and the only sound for a time was that of good cutlery against china.

‘Haven’t you had your results yet, Sandy?’ said Andy Wallace finally.

‘Got them this morning,’ replied Sandy, toying with a potato. His mother put down her fork. Her hands lay against either side of her plate as if she were about to ask for more.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Five As, a B, and a C.’

‘Well, well, well.’ Andy Wallace sat back in his chair, smiling, looking across at Mary. ‘That’s a very good performance. Better than your marks in your prelims.’

Mary Miller tried to squeeze her son’s hand, but he slid it away from her and scratched his nose.

‘With results like those,’ continued Andy Wallace, ‘you’d be daft to leave at Christmas. Why not stay on for your Highers?’

‘Yes, Sandy. Stay on.’

Sandy looked at his mother and his English teacher. He was surprised by the emotion in his mother’s voice. Andy Wallace, though trying not to show it, was astonished at himself. A little while ago he had been hoping that Sandy would leave school at the earliest opportunity. Now here he was telling the boy to stay on. He was pleased at his morality; he had the teaching reflex.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Sandy.

‘You do that,’ said Andy Wallace. Mary smiled at both of them. It was like being part of a family. Recently she had been worrying about Andy’s attitude towards her. For how long would he continue to be so patient? She could not know, but she sensed his growing frustration. If only she could make love, just the once, then it would be all right. If only.

‘You could go to university with marks like that if you were to stick in,’ said Andy, anxious not to let the table recede into another silence. He pronged four peas on to the end of his fork and grabbed them between his teeth. ‘They’re as good as I ever got,’ he said.

Sandy, however, had retreated back into his meal. He cut the meat delicately. He concentrated on his plate. He did not want this conversation to continue. His mother’s cheeks were a proud red. She looked more than ever like a princess trapped in a tower. Sandy remembered the poem he had written about Rian. It could have applied just as well to his mother. Her hair was tied simply behind her. Silver through black. Metal through water. She seemed to glimmer in the pale light. Sandy was looking forward to having the house to himself for the evening. He was going to invite Rian round to visit in his mother’s absence. He smiled at the thought. His mother noticed his smile and returned it. He had not the heart to turn away from her in her happiness.

It was quiet at the mansion. A cold breeze ruffled the ancient oaks and carried the cries of the golfers towards him from the first tee. He waited until they had moved off across the fairway before he climbed the pipe. He was an adventurer now. Nothing stood in his way. He only hoped Robbie was still at the caravan. It seemed a forlorn hope, but he would get Rian away despite any move made by her brother. He had to take her to neutral territory (or, if the bravado held up, to his home territory) in order to put certain questions to her.

He kicked in the shoddy piece of board, hoisted his legs over the sill, and was in. He walked quickly through the shadowy corridor, looking neither left nor right, and opened the door to her room. There was nobody there. He walked inside anyway, not believing his bad fortune.

‘Oh, it’s you.’

His heart missed a beat in fright. He turned. She had been hiding behind the door.