Читать книгу The Watcher - Grace Monroe - Страница 10

Chapter Four

The Meadows, Edinburgh Saturday 22 December, 2 p.m.

There was no escape from the relentless weather. Snow lay on the ground and the driving rain was turning it to slush. My face was numb and the shoes I was wearing were soaking wet. This was, quite undoubtedly, a huge mistake. What the hell was I thinking of when I agreed to spending a Saturday afternoon at a football match? Not even a proper one at that?

It was barely noticeable, but Glasgow Joe seemed to nod in my direction. Lavender elbowed me in the ribs. ‘See,’ she hissed, giving him an extravagant wave, ‘he’s willing to make up.’ Ignoring her, I turned my head to the wooden pavilion where a ragtag bunch of girls was snaking out of the dressing rooms. Their legs were already purple by the time they reached the touchline where, jumping up and down, they tried to get warm. They all seemed to shout towards Glasgow Joe, clamouring for his attention. The clever ones gave up and turned to Eddie instead. A wise move if they were trying to get tips – Eddie could educate them on every Scottish football move ever seen, whereas Joe, well, I’d seen Joe play. Even as a boy he was reminiscent of a giant redwood on the pitch, although he was handy to have in defence as long as you didn’t expect him to actually run with the ball. Eddie was the soccer coach for this bunch. He’d learnt early on that if he wanted to pretend he was coaching Inter Milan rather than this lot, then he’d have to supply doughnuts to keep their attention.

I dragged my thoughts away from Eddie and Joe to look at the kids on the pitch. To me it seemed obvious – there was one girl who was different, one girl who drew your eyes towards her. Thirteen years old and with the look of Bambi; she could have been made out of pipe cleaners. She appeared to have brought her own valet, Malcolm. He lied about his age. I reckon he was pushing sixty, and he was my mother’s ‘Girl Friday’. He looked after Kailash, he looked after me, and now it seemed he had another chick under his wing.

Her silver sparkly laces were untied; on cue, Malcolm came mincing to the rescue. The girl ignored him – but the opposition didn’t. Jeering, they laughed and pointed, as a wave of panic came over me. I knew what was going to happen. The Penicuik girls were strong and sturdy – even in a fair fight, Eddie wouldn’t stand a chance, and they had the girl with the Lurex laces in their sight.

‘God, it’s cold; doesn’t she feel it?’ Lavender shivered as she dragged me round to the other side of the football pitch. They were all there by now – Glasgow Joe, Kailash, Eddie, Malcolm, even Grandad, sitting on his shooting stick drinking hot coffee from a flask. As soon as I sniffed the caffeine I increased my pace. We all stood there, mesmerized, as the girl moved into action. As expected, she was captain of her team – unsurprising, because it was she who supplied the manager, the coach, and the strips, courtesy of Lothian and St Clair. The Penicuik captain towered over her as they tossed the coin, shorts flapping around the waif’s thin legs as she watched the coin spin – and won. Placing her boot on top of the ball, she ‘sorted’ her long hair; it was the most beautiful shade of auburn you could get outside of a bottle. I was only a little jealous. Holding it in place was one over-the-top pink fabric rose; I suspected Malcolm’s influence. I caught Kailash’s eye and we both shuddered. The girl wasn’t going to last two minutes.

We were wrong.

She ran in and out between the legs of the larger girls like a whippet. Taking them by surprise, she made a break and ran down the wing, scoring within the first minute. Grandad was on his feet screaming with pride – and probably heading for a heart attack at this rate. Who would give Lavender away then? The girl was running down the pitch, punching the air in victory; she lifted up her shirt to kiss it, revealing to everyone her thermal vest. Malcolm’s doing again, I thought. I could see the Penicuik girls looking, conferring, deciding how to get her. This time there would be no mistakes, no mercy.

My little sister, Connie Coutts, was going down.

Kailash was chewing on gum, her jaws mashing together furiously. I had never seen my immaculate birth mother indulge in anything so common. She caught me watching her out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s hellish,’ she whispered. ‘I hate watching her – I’m a bag of nerves,’ she shrugged, as if being here, this whole scene, was the most natural thing in the world, but I knew her history and how much it had taken to get us all here.

Connie was berating her team-mates for not passing the ball, her face red with indignation, exertion and the energy of being a thirteen-year-old. My heart almost stopped as soon as I had the thought and made the connection. Kailash had been thirteen when she had given birth to me. Uncharacteristically, I placed my arm around her.

‘It would have been harder to watch me when I was that age.’ I squeezed her tightly to me, trying to make light of what had kept us apart since the day I was born and for many, many years afterwards. ‘I was shit.’

‘And selfish,’ butted in Glasgow Joe. ‘Always really selfish.’ He looked at me. ‘With the ball, I mean.’ I knew exactly what he meant.

‘Deciding to talk now, are you? Well, don’t bother sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’ I bridled, instinctively raising my chin. All the mothers were ogling him so we had an audience. He was wearing his kilt. The wind swung it round his legs, and the mums who’d seen the size of his feet were praying the wind would blow it higher.

‘Aw ref – are you fucking blind?’ Eddie shouted. I turned, following his line of vision, and, surprisingly, my attention was instantly there. Connie was down. Mud spattered her face and was mixed with the blood pouring from her nose. It looked like it must hurt like hell. She clenched her teeth around her mouth guard, keeping the hot tears away. Kailash started to run, but Malcolm placed an arm in front of her chest, barring her. She watched him run onto the pitch instead, healing bag in hand. Kailash remained quiet and a deep furrow creased her brow.

‘He spoils her, you know,’ I said to Kailash.

‘He’s allowed to. He raised her. Anyway, look who’s talking. I hope you haven’t gone overboard with a Christmas present? I’ve already warned Moses and Joe.’

‘Connie has enough stuff without getting more of it in a couple of days,’ I said, keeping an eye on what was happening on the pitch as I spoke. Relief washed over me. Connie’s Christmas present was a worry. It was too late for eBay and there were only two and a half shopping days left. I suspected that Joe and the crew were well organized, but I wanted to get her something special too. Perhaps now I could just pretend that I was more thoughtful by getting her a chocolate Santa and a bag of satsumas, making sure she didn’t get all materialistic. On the pitch, Connie was shrugging Malcolm off, back on her feet with a glint in her eye that suggested revenge was going to be sweet.

I could see Joe standing on the sideline like a silent assassin, giving the ref one of his special looks. I had come to know that look well over the last six months – it was unpleasant, to say the least. It told you in no uncertain terms you had fallen short of the mark, and no one blamed the ref when he succumbed to crowd pressure and pulled out a belated red card.

When I say no one, I’m not being strictly accurate. The girl’s father made a move to complain but backed down shamefully quickly when Joe pulled himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. Glasgow Joe’s creed was written all over his face – no one messed with his girls. Kailash, Connie and Lavender are certainly in the gang; I’m not sure about myself these days.

Eddie and Joe ran along the pitch shouting tactics, encouragement – and taunts – when necessary. I’d seen managers and coaches receive touchline bans for less in the real world, but the officials here turned a deaf ear in spite of opposition protests. I wondered if Connie knew what was going on. She seemed oblivious, running herself ragged chasing a dirty ball on a muddy field; the enjoyment she was obviously getting was a mystery to me.

‘Joe’s got the trike,’ Lavender said, sidling up to me with the last of the coffee in the top of the thermos flask to warm my frozen fingers. ‘Connie and Joe are going Christmas shopping. I wish I’d thought of that … I still don’t know what to get her. I want it to be special – the first time that she really has everyone around her.’

I was always touched by the way Lavender had adopted my family as her own. Even Connie, the ‘newest’ member, was to be her flower girl.

Kailash had kept the existence of my half-sister Connie (then at boarding school in Switzerland) in the dark until she was sure that she and I had a chance of a relationship. I think she was right to do that really – apparently, most mother and adult-child reunions don’t have fairytale endings. Our bond is not one you’d find in a Disney movie but we rub along – although sometimes it feels more like grating. When Connie was finally brought into the picture, it actually made things easier. I had more of a family now than I’d ever dreamed of, even when I still thought that my adopted parent Mary McLennan was my birth mother and Kailash Coutts was just another pain-in-the-arse client I had to defend.

Joe edged nearer to us as his eyes scanned the skyline. In the distance, the hill of Arthur’s Seat was barely visible because of the low-lying cloud. He huddled into us close before pulling a rolled-up newspaper from his pocket. ‘Brodie, it’s time to stop being so daft,’ he said. I raised my eyebrow – in my mind, he was the one to blame and I most certainly hadn’t been in on any daftness. ‘Seriously, Brodie, there’s things going on that … well, things just don’t feel right.’ If I’d expected an emotional outpouring, I was disappointed. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, going back to the newspaper. It was the afternoon edition of the one we’d discussed in the office; the dead girl stared out at us from the front page, demanding justice.

‘Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?’ Joe asked, staring over his shoulder.

‘Joe – you might have red hair but you’re not the Ripper’s type: your family jewels rule you out,’ I replied.

‘I’m glad you remember, Brodie, but I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever feel you’re being watched?’ he asked again. His face was weary and I no longer wanted to laugh. A cold trickle of sweat dribbled down my spine.

A primeval sense of wariness had me on edge. Joe was still scanning the horizon, and he wasn’t looking at the weather. I knew better than to laugh at him or dismiss his instincts. He held on to my arms, pinning them down at my side. The cold wind carried his scent to me and, as always, I cursed myself for responding. He noticed me involuntarily pressing up against him but said nothing. If I needed any convincing he was serious, that was it.

Pride comes before a fall, I know, but I shrugged him off. I didn’t know how to handle the new Glasgow Joe, the one who could resist me. I stomped round to the other side of the pitch; I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know Joe was watching me.

My smile fell.

Joe wasn’t staring at me – he was scouting the Meadows.

Hunting for the bogeyman.