Trackman Page 5

  I shake my head, pretend it's a snow globe, cover the thoughts under white flakes. I head past the waiting rooms into the cemetery. There's trees and hedges and bushes on either side, rabbits sit on the gravestones, not bothered that it's disrespectful.

  The gravestones here are all identical, small blocks of marble, raised slightly off the ground at an angle.

  Nobody's different, we're all identical in the eyes of the Lord. We also let you plant things in this cemetery, it's a unique place.

  People have really gone to town here. I bet all round Edinburgh there are neglected homes. Neglected gardens. Neglected families. People who spend all their time here making the graves look as beautiful as possible, trying to give something they maybe didn't give enough of when their loved ones were still around.

  A lot of the graves are cordoned off by tiny picket fences; flowers and plants growing inside them. They're decorated with garden gnomes, windmills and wind-chimes. When the breeze blows, a creepy whistling and jangling noise can be heard in all directions.

  You know they used to bury folk alive?

  Before medicine became so sophisticated, people were often mistakenly pronounced dead when they were just unconscious or in a coma. Coffins have been found with scratch marks on the inside.

  Is this supposed to be making me feel better? Davie thought.

  Sometimes they would hang a bell next to the grave with the rope going right down inside the coffin, then if someone did wake up they could ring the bell and hopefully someone would come and dig them out.

  I walk over to the far corner of the cemetery, the children's section; I find it slightly disturbing but totally fascinating at the same time. It's always my last stop before I go to Lewey. Once I've walked round here, I'm usually ready to see him. I can feel my heart rate beginning to slow down and my hands have stopped shaking now. The sweat on my back has evaporated and it chills me.

  It's scary the amount of kids who are buried here. This is just a small section of Edinburgh too, it's not even the whole city. It's mostly wee babies who didn't live to be more than a few days old. Born Sleeping: that's a favourite line on the headstones. There's a sweet smell around here: rotting flowers and talcum powder. The graves are surrounded by metal fences. They look like rows of cots laid out next to each other. Toys decorate the ground, hundreds of them. Winnie the Pooh leads as the most popular choice. Solar lights are stuck in the ground so there will always be light, the kids don't have to worry about being afraid of the dark.

  I walk past one grave which has an entire Subbuteo pitch set out, with the two Edinburgh teams represented by maroon and green Subbuteo figures. The baby was too wee to have even been to a football game. There are fresh flowers in one of the goalmouths and a tealight in the other. Nobody wins here.

  In a parallel universe all these kids are growing older somewhere, not lying under toys they'll never get a chance to play with.

  It's really sad but strange at the same time. I always feel weird walking through here and I leave it till last as it helps to take my mind off Lewey and why I'm really in the cemetery.

  Lewey is over in the opposite corner. It's a nice spot underneath a tree. It's quite simple compared to some of the other graves: just a single rose bush, planted by Susan.

  My tummy does its usual final summersaults as I approach him. My heart rate is back to normal and although the ache in my chest has shrunk, I can still feel it. It never completely leaves me. I'm always on a rollercoaster stuck on the edge of a steep drop.

  Drop. He dropped the orange juice. Her lips were on his, biting, urgent, her tongue stud tapped against teeth. His or hers? Davie pressed her against the stone wall outside the pub. He took out the orange juice. Dropped.

  Davie stood on his own by the grave, while everyone else wandered back to the cars. The hems of his trousers dragged in the fresh earth.

  What can I do? What can I do to make it up to you?

  Davie thought about his brother, all the things he'd never get to do. Never get to have sex, get drunk, drive a car. Never get to finish those bloody Harry Potter books he was always reading. Lewey with his Harry Potter obsession, but he'd only made it to book five out of seven.

  Davie patted the ground.

  I know it's shite compared to what I should have done, but I'll finish those books for you. I'll come out here and read them to you, so you know what happens at the end. I promise you'll get to know what happens. I know it's stupid, but it's all I can think to give you right now.

  Next to the grave there's a bin overflowing with dead flowers. I pull out a piece of cellophane and use it to sit on. I shelter under the umbrella and tug out a few weeds from around the rose bush; dirt collects under my fingernails and I gnaw it out with my teeth.

  Alfie clicked the kettle on, leant his elbows on the counter and picked dirt out from under his fingernails.

  I feel something dig into my arse as I let my whole weight relax onto the cellophane, and I remember the MP3 player is in my back pocket. I pull it out and rest it on my knee, can feel it humming against my skin. Every day it seems to be getting smoother and smoother, like a pebble inside a stonepolishing machine. It's changing colour too, it looks silver just now, flecks of glitter melded into the plastic. It's weird, I should be freaking out that it's changing like this, but it feels natural. Like it's supposed to happen.

  Lewey's stone has been soaking up the rain and looks greyer than usual.

  LEWIS WATTS

  JUNE 5TH 1992

  FEBRUARY 26TH 2005

  A MUCH LOVED SON

  Davie's mum and dad chose the words. Probably the last thing they agreed on.

  Simple but meaningful, his dad said.

  Davie felt like he should scratch the words 'and brother' on the end. They never thought to include it.

  'Hey, Lewey, I've got it.'

  I pull the book out from under my jumper and hold it up so he can see the cover.

  'I went and queued up for it. It's pissing down, but I'll try and read as much as I can.'

  I breathe in before opening the book, inhale fresh air. The pages of the book are damp and slightly warped. They feel thin and transparent, like greaseproof paper beneath my cold fingers.

  The tree above me creaks and groans; a leaf is blown from one of its branches and floats down in front of me as I begin to read aloud.

  5

  Susan's House

  He'd wanted to go though, as soon as he found out she would be there.

  Davie dropped the orange juice.

  I STOP READING after an hour or so. My hands are wet and numb and I fumble with the pages, hardly able to turn them anymore. I'm not the best reader, especially when I'm reading out loud. I stumble over words and after a while the text becomes scrambled, like ants crawling over blank sheets of paper.

  Davie couldn't read in the car: it made him feel sick. Lewis sat next to him in the backseat, reading The Hobbit. Davie watched his brother as he read, it was much more interesting than anything flashing by outside the car window. Lewey's eyes flickered as he followed the words on the page. His face kept changing, line by line, page by page. He would smile, screw up his nose, leave his mouth hanging open, suck the air in between his teeth. At one point he froze and stopped breathing altogether; Davie had to nudge him with his elbow to bring him back to life. Lewis was completely oblivious to anything outside his book.

  I shut the book and tuck it inside my jumper.

  'Sorry, Lewey, I'll need to stop for now.'

  I rub my throat as it's sticky with dry phlegm; I need a drink.

  'Aye, I know. I'll come back soon. I want to find out what happens too, you know.'

  I'm starting to forget what Lewis looked like, what he sounded like. I hate it, but it's getting harder to see him. His face is just that bit more blurry, his voice further away: a bad line. Fuck, I'd give anything to hear that voice just one more time.

  The MP3 player is still resting on my lap, so I fold up the headphones, wind them around the
player and slide it all in my back pocket. The hinges are starting to loosen up now, not as stiff as they used to be.

  My knees crack as I stand, and my legs ache from sitting in the same position for so long. I circle Lewey's headstone to bring my legs back to life. My arse is damp and the cellophane I've been sitting on has sunk into the grass.

  I bend over to pick up the cellophane and stay down, hunched over, my head leaning in towards the headstone.

  'See you later, heartbreaker.'

  Why does mum call me that? Lewis asked.

  Call you what? Davie replied.

  Heartbreaker. See you later, heartbreaker.

  It's after that old song, you know, See You Later, Alligator.

  But she calls me heartbreaker.

  When you were a baby, everyone kept saying you would grow up to be a heartbreaker. You had really dark eyes and long eyelashes, I thought you looked more like a lassie than a heartbreaker.

  I lay my palm flat against the part of the stone with Lewey's name on it.

  He never went back in there, but sometimes stood outside with his palms flat against the door.

  I pull the umbrella down over my head so it's just me and the headstone underneath it. Shut out everything else. I squeeze my eyes closed and concentrate on hearing Lewey's voice in my head.

  I'm a wild crocodile.

  I heard that song, Davie. I'm not a heartbreaker, I'm a wild crocodile.

  My Converse boots squelch and my cords flap around my ankles as I walk back along the driveway towards the main road. I need somewhere to dump the cellophane, but all the bins in the cemetery are crammed full of dead flowers. The rotting leaves and petals push their way out of the top of the bins and spill out onto the ground. The rain falls as perfume. It's only when I leave the cemetery that I escape the smell and find an empty bin to dump the cellophane.

  The rain patters off the roof of the bus shelter. I put my umbrella down. I'm in no hurry to go home. Happy to hang around. The thought of going back to the flat brings me down. I'll just sit in my dingy room all night trying to distract myself, keep myself busy. One finger, one thumb.

  A bus pulls up heading in the direction of Prestonpans, and on impulse I get on it. The thought of Susan's warm house trumps going back to my flat. I always feel like this after I've been to see Lewey. Flat. Deflated.

  I shut my eyes and lean my head against the bus window. My hair smears messy patterns in the condensation. Shapes and lights flash through my closed eyelids, and I focus on where I'm going. I imagine myself sitting in Susan's living room with a cup of tea; I don't think about where I've just been.

  I take out the MP3 player and hold it in my hands. It's weird, I just want to touch it all the time. Feel its smoothness, press it between my palms. I'm sure I can hear it chime inside, like Chinese medicine balls.

  You're so full of anger; it's not healthy to bottle things up like that.

  I'm still playing around with it when we reach Prestonpans.

  The Pans.

  The Pans has that run-down, shabby feel to it that all the old mining towns do. A glamorous movie icon grown old, who now wishes she'd died in her heyday.

  Only the good die young.

  Don't give me that cliché; that's bullshit.

  The bus drives past rows of identical looking council houses: dull brickwork, satellite dishes, net curtains. Most of the gardens have been slabbed over with crazy paving or scattered with orange chuckies. There's nothing green here.

  I can see smoke rising in the sky in front, puffing out from the twin chimneys of the power station.

  The smoke spewing out is my cue to hit the bell and make my way downstairs to the front of the bus. It stops in the town centre and I get out.

  A lawyer's. A Scotmid. A bookie's. The Jade Garden Chinese takeaway.

  Kurt Cobain, unplugged, sings in my head, only I amend the words ever so slightly.

  In the Pans, in the Pans…

  I wander over to the sea wall and lean on it, look out across the Forth towards Fife. The sea comes right up to the wall, the grey water breaks against the rocks below me.

  It's not much to write home about really, but it was my home for a while and that makes it alright by me.

  After the funeral Davie's mum wouldn't stop talking about Lewis. She became obsessed; she said talking about Lewis helped keep him alive. Davie's dad just stopped talking altogether, as if Lewis had never existed. Communication breakdown, said Dr Richmond. Davie ended up spending more and more time out at his cousin Susan's house. Pammy wasn't very old and Colin was out of the picture, so she needed a bit of support. Looking after a baby helped distract Davie from what was going on at home. He didn't sleep well anyway, and having someone else up and about in the middle of the night meant he wasn't left to his own thoughts. Days turned into weekends turned into weeks turned into months.

  I walk the familiar route toward Susan's. She lives about five minutes away, opposite the battle site.

  Davie looked at the tiny cairn with 1745 chiselled into it.

  What's that for? he asked Susan.

  You're not being serious are you? It's for the Battle.

  What battle?

  The Battle of Prestonpans, you must have heard of it.

  Sorry. Should I have, like?

  Come on, history lesson.

  Susan led the way, across the railway line and up the old slag heap covered in artificial grass.

  At the top of the man-made hill you could see down onto a park and a football pitch: the battlefield.

  There you go. Susan pointed at a couple of old information boards, weather-faded and covered in graffiti.

  Pans Youth Team. PYT. Don't fuck with the PYT.

  So who actually battled then? Davie asked.

  Susan had Pammy on reins like a horse's bridle and pulled on them as Pammy ran towards the edge of the slag heap.

  Have you not read it?

  Well, I worked out Bonnie Prince Charlie was involved, but that's about it.

  That's obvious from the date, Davie. 1745. The Jacobites. Culloden.

  Aye, well, obviously I've heard of that.

  The Battle of Prestonpans was before that. We actually won this one. The Corries sang about it. You must have heard it, it was one of Grandpa's favourite songs.

  Aye, probably. We won?

  Not that you'd notice. Typical Scotland for you. Culloden's a tourist attraction and this is a slag heap. You're in the Tartan Army, you know the deal: Scots love to revel in the glory of defeat.

  I crunch up the gravel of Susan's driveway. It doesn't look like anyone's in. I should have texted her to check. She works funny hours teaching fitness classes, I can never keep up with what she's doing.

  Halfway towards the front door I see the blinds move and Pammy's face pops up at the living room window. Before I get a chance to wave, she's disappeared out of sight again. I hear her shouting from behind the closed door.

  'Mummy, Uncle Davie's here.'

  A key rattles and, as I reach the front door, both Susan and Pammy are standing to welcome me.

  'God you're soaked, Davie. Come in and I'll get you a towel.'

  'You're soaked,' Pammy echoes and stands watching me as I step inside the house. Susan locks the door behind me as I kick off my shoes and dump them alongside the umbrella and the book. I follow Pammy along the hall. My trousers drag along the carpet, so I roll them up like I'm an old man paddling at the seaside. In the living room I lean against the radiator, even though the heating's not switched on. Force of habit. Susan appears with a towel which she wraps around my shoulders.

  'Honestly, Davie, I only let you move out because you said you'd look after yourself. Give me those socks and those trousers.'

  'I'm not as bad as all that.'

  'Come on, you're soaking. Off!'

  I peel off my wet socks, then wrap the towel around my waist before I take off my trousers.

  'Come on, you weren't so modest when you lived here. Remember that morning I foun
d you lying drunk in the toilet.'

  'No, I don't remember that. And anyway, Pammy was just a wee thing back then. It's not good for her if I'm standing here flashing.'

  'Stop being such a prude and give me your trousers. We're all family.'

  I take the MP3 player out of my pocket and hand the cords to Susan.

  'What's that?' Susan nods at the MP3 player as I rest it on the mantelpiece.

  'It's Alfie's.'

  The lie comes naturally. I don't even have time to ask myself why I'm not telling the truth.

  Susan passes me some old tracky bottoms and a pair of socks. The tracksuit bottoms are too small for me and only come down to my shins. My toes are wrinkled and blisterwhite, like I've been festering in the bath for hours. I rub at them with the towel, then put on the dry socks: black with pink spots.

  'What do you think?' I ask Pammy, and do a wee twirl.

  'You look silly,' she replies.

  My feet tingle with pins and needles as the blood starts to circulate.

  'Am I amusing you, teenybash?' I ask Pammy, who's staring at me.

  She's sitting in the corner, surrounded by what looks like her entire toy collection.

  'Here we go,' says Susan, appearing with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  'Cheers,' I say, and join her on the sofa.

  The black leather groans beneath me and I slide down into the cushions.

  I never noticed till I lived here how anal you are about stuff.

  What do you mean?

  Your rooms, the way they're all themed by colour. I bought you that nice vase and it's shoved in the cupboard because it doesn't match.