Monday 5th December
Sammy McBryde’s right hand landed, with a thud, on the top of the alarm clock, silencing it with one decisive blow. He yawned and stretched, before ruffling his tousled black curls with his fingers and scratching his scalp. In slow motion, he manoeuvred himself out of bed, trying not to disturb his still-sleeping girlfriend, and wandered into the kitchen in his T-shirt and pants to make their morning tea. By the time he returned, Shona’s eyes were open and he passed a chipped mug, silently, to her. Conversation before breakfast usually degenerated into argument, and they had both independently concluded that wordless communication was preferable to the daily bickering that had preceded it. They lay together, thighs just touching, relishing the first and best cup of the day, until Sammy, mug now drained, lit up a cigarette and passed the packet on to his companion. He took a deep drag, steeled himself to leave the comforting warmth of the bed, flung back the bedclothes and raced to their damp, unheated bathroom.
All of yesterday’s clothing lay in a muddled heap on the floor, a black bra snaked across the woolly bathmat and a pair of laddered tights lay, in the missionary position, on rumpled blue jeans. He extracted his work clothes as quickly as possible, noticing the goose pimples on his naked arms, and dressed in haste, rejecting only a jersey stiff with mud from the previous day’s work. The jeans would last one more day, they didn’t actually smell yet. Shona’s eyes were closed when he kissed her goodbye, brushing her cheek with his lips and delighting in the warmth and smooth texture of her skin. He double-locked the front door on the way out, feeling like a sultan protecting the treasure contained within.
The minute he stepped beyond the shelter of the porch he was assaulted by driving rain, blowing horizontally at him and turning the gutters into fast-flowing burns. He began to run, head bowed, through the downpour, splashing and soaking his trousers with every step, until he reached his battered old van. The pockets of his wet jeans stuck to his thighs, making it difficult for his cold hands to get a grip of the keys inside, never mind extract them. The van started, coughing thickly like an old smoker, and he rattled down the Medway in it towards Granton Road.
Davie was waiting for him huddled against the cold and rain, getting whatever inadequate shelter he could beneath the flapping awning of a grocer’s shop. He stank of rum, and his thick, tobacco stained fingers were clamped around a damp little roll-up. That the old fellow continued to cling onto life was, in itself, miraculous. He worked every day, Saturdays and Sundays included, often in the cold and wet, got the cash in hand he required and immediately converted it into rum at the Tarbat Inn. Any cheques he deigned to accept had to be made out to his drinking house, as it was also his bank. The state remained blissfully unaware of his existence: he claimed no benefits, paid no taxes and elected to cast no vote. Solid food, bar the odd pork chop grilled at midnight, rarely passed his lips, and he slept only for a few hours every evening. The remainder of the night was spent sitting upright in an armchair reading, devouring anything and everything in print, feasting equally happily on cowboy novels or cookery books.
As Davie hauled himself up into the van, Sammy noticed for the first time that the old fellow’s pale, cracked lips appeared to be tinged with blue, and his curranty eyes, largely obscured by his woolly bonnet, seemed duller than usual. Davie was the brains behind their partnership. The pair hired themselves out as jobbing gardeners, but they would turn their hands to whatever manual labour was requested by those desperate enough to employ them. Davie’s ability to work out the exact materials required for any job was prodigious, accurate to the last brick or nail, and none of their hard-earned profit was wasted on excess materials. Naturally, he paid himself an extra pound an hour out of their joint wage for his own managerial skills, and this was alright by Sammy; he wanted no responsibility anyway.
The van entered the leafy environs of Primrose Bank as the sun began to emerge from behind black, lowering clouds, and the rain dwindled into little more than drizzle before stopping altogether. They spent the morning, in their soggy clothes, laying sand and slabs for a frosty widow who monitored their every move from behind her net curtains, and remonstrated with them when they stopped, for ten minutes, for a tea break. Not on my time, if you please.
At twelve o’clock precisely they were paid in cash, as previously agreed, and rumbled off in the van along the glistening roads to the Tarbat for the first of Davie’s rums for the day. Sammy sat in the motor in the pub car park, eating the cheese sandwiches he’d made the night before and reading Principles of Practical Beekeeping, a good introduction to his new hobby. Tropical fish were too expensive nowadays, always dying and developing untreatable diseases. Anyway, he’d left the aquarium behind in the old flat, with his old life, and bees at least produced something, even if their stings might take a little getting used to. One day, one day soon, he and Shona would move into the country, somewhere on the Lammermuirs maybe, and she’d have her bed and breakfast and he’d keep bees.
‘When mating occurs, the drone not only gives the queen his passionate embrace, but also his life. The male organs are detached during coupling, the drone dying almost immediately and the queen returns to her hive with the proof of her meeting firmly implanted in her body.’
Involuntarily his mind flashed from bees to humans, and he stopped chewing his bread, almost choking on it at the sickening image suddenly and graphically appearing before his eyes. The unpleasant picture was dispelled by the sound of Davie rapping cheerily on the driver’s side window, signalling that their lunch hour was all but over. They travelled back to Primrose Bank in silence, Sammy trying to focus his mind on the site of his hives in the heather at Kidlaw and Davie busily calculating the number of slabs required for the spiral finish that the widow wanted near her pond.
The sound of the wheelbarrow tipping over, the bricks inside clattering onto the gravel path, alerted Sammy to Davie’s collapse. The old man lay on the grass, one leg trapped beneath the still half-full barrow. His eyes were closed, cap askew and he seemed to have wet himself. Sammy called his name, even slapped him lightly on the face as he’d seen done on television, but was unable to rouse his partner. He ran to the widow’s door and hammered on it. The door opened abruptly, and the woman stared at him as if he had no idea of his place and needed an immediate, unspoken reminder.
‘It’s ma pal, Davie, he’s collapsed. Ye’ll need tae phone fir an ambulance…’
Despite the entreaty in his voice her reply was cold.
‘Have you not got a mobile telephone like everyone else?’
For Sammy, patience was a commodity in short supply at the best of times, and the only explanation necessary had already been provided.
‘Fer fuck’s sake woman, jist phone the hospital will ye? I’ll need tae move him in here, oot o’ the rain. It’s pissin’ doon oan him.’ He turned round as if to go and collect the body, muttering obscenities at her under his breath.
‘Just a minute, if you don’t mind. I’d rather you just took him to the shed, he’ll be under shelter there. I don’t know either of you from Adam, and the box’s full of scare stories about ruses for getting into peoples houses… em… I’m not suggesting you… but all the same… I’d rather…’
‘Away tae fuck wi’ ye.’
By the time Sammy returned to Davy’s prostrate body, little moans were coming from his sodden form, and saliva appeared to be bubbling out of his mouth.
The ambulancemen were gentle, easing the slight body onto a stretcher and picking up the loose change as it fell from his pockets onto the soaked ground. Sammy knew he should tell them that Davie was an alcoholic. Even if he recovered he’d soon start suffering the DTs and it would be all too obvious. But he didn’t like to betray his friend, and if he did they might try to involve him in some way. Instead, he gave the men the old fellow’s address and provided a false one for himself, otherwise they might try to contact him to help with any recuperation or, God forbid, arrangements for a funeral, and, really, it was none of his business. Davie had a missus somewhere, shed years ago, but no doubt the authorities would be able, somehow, to contact her.
Sammy let himself into the house, luxuriating in its empty state, the welcome absence of any sulky wife, noisy children or screaming babies. Soon the taps were on, filling the pink bathtub and warming the cool air of the bathroom with steam. Soft music on the radio soothed him as he lay in the hot water, secure in the knowledge that no one was impatiently waiting to take his place, Shona would not be returning from her work as a barmaid until at least eleven-thirty pm. He had a good six hours all to himself. He washed his hair with her coconut-scented shampoo and scrubbed his fingernails vigorously to remove all the day’s grime. Looking around him he saw that all the clothing which had previously littered the floor had gone, and that Shona had laid out clean clothes for him on the bathroom chair. The ironed pile included the raspberry pink shirt, chosen by her before she understood his tastes, but no-one would see him in it in the house. Dressing, he felt an animal pleasure in his cleanliness, with the sweet smell of soap on his body and his crisp, freshly laundered kit.
In the kitchen he unwrapped the parcel of fish and chips that had been keeping warm in its brown paper in the oven. The hiss of the ring-pull on the Tennants can made for the perfect evening. He opened Principles of Practical Beekeeping and read on:
‘Towards the end of summer, rearing and mating of queens usually ceases and as a colony has no further use for its now redundant residents, the workers turn upon the drones in fury. First they gnaw their wing bases so that they are unable to fly, then forcibly eject them from their home, where they quickly perish from cold…’.
He thanked God that he hadn’t been born a bee, and closed the book hurriedly. Perhaps the TV would make for the truly perfect evening, so he flicked on the remote and was heartened to see the rugged features of Steve McQueen contort as he punched a cop on the jaw. Just as he felt himself slumping a few inches further into the easy chair he heard a knock on his front door. Steve was just about to land another punch, this time to the cop’s eye, so for a moment he considered ignoring the caller, but he had never been able to let a phone ring unanswered or disregard a doorbell. You never knew when such things might not signal an emergency: Shona might have been hurt or something. He pulled himself, reluctantly, to his feet, took a final swig of his lager and went to see who had come to call.