Part 18 (2/2)

So they just stayed there, both of them. And they stood up when Stevie's Dad moved, like a two-man greeting party or something. He walked down the path until he was above them.

”That's twice this past week you've been tae see him.”

He must have seen them last time as well; might not be the only times he'd followed. He was looking at Stevie, only not in the eye. He didn't look right.

”He's tae be in school. You no tellt him?”

Stevie's Dad didn't sound right either. He turned to the old man: ”You reckon you're bettern me an aw, at takin care ae my son?”

”Leave him be.”

Stevie spoke up, wanting this to stop, before it got out of hand.

”It was me came lookin. Eric never asked.”

”Aye.” His Dad nodded. ”That'd be about right.”

And then: ”She used tae go an see him, aw the time.”

The she came out harsh, like it had to be forced from his mouth, and Stevie didn't know if his Dad had been drinking, or what had set him off. He wasn't shouting, but his eyes were red, and it was like he couldn't look him square in the face, just at the old man.

”You never asked Lindsey tae come neither?” he sneered. ”You never put ideas intae her head?”

He was still up on the path, and Eric was down on the sh.o.r.e, but Stevie got to thinking he should put himself between them. His Dad would have to cover a bit of s.p.a.ce before he could hit the old man: two, three metres of rocky slope and tree root, but still.

Eric said: ”Lindsey was glad tae come. She knew I was aye glad tae see her.”

And then it was too late: Stevie's Dad was already upon them.

He made a grab for the board, wrenching it from Eric's hands, raising it, high, like to bring it down, and Eric had to curl his arms over his bare head, to s.h.i.+eld himself, braced for the blow.

Stevie's Dad hurled the board. Hard. But at the stones, not at Eric: he couldn't do it.

There was a crack as it hit a rock and the rubber bands split, and then Stevie saw how his Dad shouted out, in rage, out of breath, before he slumped a bit, head bent, shoulders slack.

Stevie looked away from him; he had to. And his eyes fell on all the pages, scattered across the stones now. Eric was already down there, on his hands and knees, grabbing at all that were within reach. Some had been caught by the breeze, they were over by the water's edge, and his Dad made a dive for those.

So then Stevie glanced about himself, thinking this was his chance, he could go now while the other two were distracted. He turned to the bridge again: that must be the Great Western Road, and there'd be plenty of buses up there he could jump on. He didn't even have to call his Gran and risk a bawling, he could just get himself away from here; right the other side of Glasgow if need be. Only he still had Eric to think about. What would his Dad do to him?

Stevie looked at his father, up to his ankles in the water, chasing a bit of paper. And then he stepped over to Eric and started to pull him, off his hands and knees, up to the path. But his uncle resisted, reaching beyond Stevie's feet for one of his drawings.

It was of the same two men fighting that Eric had shown him earlier, only closer up this time: just one picture of both, and in savage detail. Not just a fight, it looked like a murder now, still in progress. And his uncle had made everything look so raw, all vein and sinew and clawing fingers, but the worst thing was, he'd given them faces Stevie recognised. The man on the ground, he could see his uncle had drawn that one as himself; held down and kept there. And so that big man standing over him, the one with the torn s.h.i.+rt, Stevie thought that must be Papa Robert. He'd have been sure of it were it not for the feathers.

He kicked away the picture, pulling harder at his uncle, wanting to get him far from here and his morbid drawings. But the old man shook him off, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the crumpled paper and two or three others. Stevie hissed at him, urgent.

”Mon now, just leave them.”

And then his Dad shouted from mid-stream: ”f.u.c.k you talkin tae him for?”

His fists were full of sodden pages.

”f.u.c.k you daen? He's a nutter.”

He crashed about a bit in the water, then he held up all that he'd grabbed, above his head, like he meant to tear the whole lot into shreds.

”f.u.c.k him. f.u.c.k Eric an his f.u.c.kin pencils. His f.u.c.kin Bible an aw.”

Stevie saw the front one, before it ripped. Papa Robert, big and brutal, no mistake. His wings free now, majestic; all his dark plumage on show. The pencil Eric looked as if he might be done for, though.

Stevie's Dad pulled the picture apart, he threw his handfuls into the river. And then Stevie watched the sc.r.a.ps, carried off by the flow; some getting caught in the eddies by the old bike, others swooping and diving into the deeper waters, away under the bridge.

There were people up there now, stopped and watching the spectacle. A few girls among them were laughing, pointing at Stevie's Dad, mid-stream and freeing shreds of paper from the bike frame. But one was shouting, a man, he was leaning over: ”Yous all right? Yous needin help?”

Stevie's Dad stood up, chest out, his arms spread and dripping. He roared: ”Get tae f.u.c.k!”

”Aye, pal. You an aw.”

The man shoved himself back from the railing, gone again, leaving just the jeering girls.

Eric was still on the stones, just next to Stevie, fumbling with his papers, the ones that were left: he was smoothing and checking through them. His uncle was in a bad way, Stevie had known that for ages, but he hadn't guessed how far gone until now; his old face set, like he wouldn't listen to reason, fixated on his pictures, all more of the same. Not Jacob's homecoming at all, but the night before, when he'd stopped at the river, needing time to brace himself before he faced his brother. Only then it got dark, and a stranger came out of nowhere, no warning; he just flew at Jacob, and Jacob had no help. Stevie thought that must be how Eric felt. The stranger looked so strong in his drawings: sure of his force. He never said his name in the story, not even when Jacob asked him, he just fought him down, on and on, and Eric's pictures had Stevie frightened, thinking his uncle must have hit some new low if he could draw himself beaten. And Papa Robert like some great, dark angel sent to do him in.

It was too much for Stevie. What could he do? He looked up to the bridge, but there was n.o.body there now, no one he could turn to.

Only his Dad, slos.h.i.+ng his way back towards them.

Stevie stepped between Eric and the water, keeping himself between the two men this time, thinking to guard his uncle from harm, but it seemed like his Dad wasn't in the mood for a fight any more.

He just turned his back to them and sat down, taking his boots off and emptying them out. He was looking at the river, but he spoke to Stevie: ”He's twisted. Eric's a bitter auld c.u.n.t. Dinnae be feelin sorry for him. The old guy's meant tae have a good brain. The best in the faimly? Well if that's what clever looks like, he can keep it.”

Eric had got to his feet, just behind Stevie, stooping over his board and his remaining pages, and he held them closer when Stevie's Dad pointed towards him: ”Nae mair messin wae my faimly. You hear me? Dae what you f.u.c.kin like, but me an mine, we're out ae bounds.”

Eric shook his head, like Stevie's Dad was the one who'd lost it, and then he turned to go, at last, so Stevie made to hurry him. Only then the old man said: ”Lindsey wanted tae go home.”

He muttered it, like he was talking to himself, but Stevie's Dad heard it. He snorted: ”Aye, well. That just shows what you know. No much.”

Eric stood up, straight, in response; he'd been about to leave, but now he stopped, and Stevie did too. His Dad was still looking at the water, but he knew they were listening: he had them. His trousers dark to the knees, fingers dripping, smell of the river rising off him, he said: ”Lindsey never went back tae her Da.”

”She did,” Eric countered.

But Stevie's Dad just waved a wet hand: ”Naw. She never even went back tae Ireland.”

Eric crouched down when he heard that.

He bent forward, over his board and papers, like he was in pain, and Stevie saw his Dad's head flick round to look at the old man, satisfied at what he'd done. He gave a tight smile: ”London, her uncles reckoned. Or Liverpool mebbe. It's emdy's guess. Land's f.u.c.kin End.”

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