Текст книги "Guilt Tripper"

Автор книги: Geoff Small

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

CHAPTER: 15

 The morning after Bob’s revelation, Judith woke to loud arguing. Running down to the kitchen in her nightshirt, she found the whole college standing over Hamish, who was lying unconscious on the flagstone floor, after trying to prevent Ryan from assaulting other students. Overnight, while they’d all been sleeping outside the byre, someone had taken the young author’s computer and the back-up discs containing his book, leaving him to suspect, accuse and then physically attack those closest.

Remembering that Danny had told a certain somebody about Ryan’s work, Judith rushed back upstairs and burst into the room where Bob was supposed to be staying, only to find an empty, undisturbed bed. Heart sunken, she put on a grey hooded sweat top and jeans, then jogged back downstairs, herding Danny and Ryan to the minibus, which she drove at high speed towards Glasgow. Virtually catatonic with depression from the previous night’s bombshell, Danny sat on the farthest back seat, saying not a word until they arrived five hours later and then only to mutter something about Bob’s parents living in Bearsden.

 Bearsden is an affluent, residential suburb on the northwest outskirts of the city, containing a significant number of million pound mansions along its leafy avenues. The Fitzgerald’s home, however, was a more modest affair – a whitewashed bungalow, beyond a low, granite stoned boundary wall and a small rectangle of lawn. The family had escaped here from the council tenements of Maryhill back in the nineteen-seventies, thanks to Mr. Fitzgerald’s earnings as a welder on the North Sea oil rigs. In accordance with her new middle class status – achieved by working class means – Mrs. Fitzgerald had sent her only child to Glasgow Academy, the city’s oldest public school, in the West End. Mixing among the real middle classes hadn’t come naturally to Bob though, and, despite achieving decent exam results, he’d grown into a self-absorbed teenager. But for meeting Danny, he’d probably still be hiding in his bedroom to this day, writing stories only for himself.

 Unfortunately, there was no sign of Bob’s car when they pulled up outside the bungalow, and Ryan’s frantic banging on the front door didn’t even get a response. While he investigated the back of the property, Judith stayed in the minibus, trying to elicit more information from Danny. .

 “Danny! You’ve got to think. Is there anywhere else that bastard might be?”

 “I don’t know!” he yelled back, at his wits end.

 On Ryan’s return, Judith drove aimlessly, suppressed tears of frustration twinkling in her eyes. She’d only gone about a mile, when she suddenly spotted a grey Datsun parked up ahead, outside a black, iron security gate. Either side of the gate was an eight-foot high, brick boundary wall overhung by sycamore trees, with CCTV cameras peeping out from steel poles among the foliage. Judith and Ryan jumped out the minibus, but before the former could press the buzzer on the intercom in the wall, Danny had caught up, snatching her hand away.

 “What the hell are you doing woman? This is Rex McLeod’s place.”

 “And? You’re quick enough to condemn others for not standing up to the capitalists. Well, here’s your opportunity to show us all how it’s done…oh, I’m sorry, I forgot, you’d rather paint his portrait wouldn’t you?”

 Just then, the intercom crackled and a whining, nasal, Glaswegian voice seeped out.

 “Tut. Tut. Tut. Is that you causing a song and dance outside my property Danny White?”

 “Aye Rex, it is.”

 “Ha, ha, ha,” McLeod had a surprisingly genial laugh. “You and your pals had best come on in.”

 The gate slid open with a humming noise, revealing a white, eight-bedroom mansion, set back beyond a small field of manicured front lawn. Across this bowling green, five barking Dobermans came bounding, before a middle aged blonde woman in a peppermint green, velvet jogging suit appeared, calling them back. Rex McLeod’s wife, Janine had heavily lined sun-bed orange skin and lank, peroxide hair, but she conveyed the arrogance of an aristocratic supermodel, surveying her visitors with disdain. In a dry, boozy voice she directed them to an oak panelled lounge where three men stood around a large granite-stone fireplace, drinking whisky beneath one of Danny’s portrait paintings of the gangster. To the left – as viewed by the visitors on entering – Fergus Baxter was in full tartan splendour, while on the right, a shaven headed Bob looked conspicuously uncomfortable in his shabby, navy-blue Adidas tracksuit. In the middle was a dumpy, pug faced, squinty eyed, smirking fellow in his late fifties. What remained of his grey hair was combed back over a red pate and his jowls were hanging either side of a triple chin. He wore a yellow Lyle and Scott polo T-shirt – tightly stretched like cling film round his paunch – brown trousers and matching golf shoes. Judith actually laughed when he introduced himself to her as Rex McLeod. She couldn’t believe it. The legendary ‘Big Man’ was even smaller than Fergus Baxter, who could only have been five-foot seven, if that.

 “So what can I do for you then folks?” the gangster asked, mockingly.

 Danny stepped forward from his position between Judith and Ryan.

 “As it happens, we’ve intruded upon you quite by accident. It’s Mr Fitzgerald we need to speak with.” He turned to face Bob. “Could I have a quick word in private please?”

 Bob smiled slyly. “There’s no need for that. Nothing you’re going to say will shock anybody here.”

 “Ok. In that case…err…how can I put this? Ryan here has lost a very important disc. You wouldn’t happen to know where that might…”

 “Just give us our things back you rat!” Judith exploded.

 At this moment McLeod stepped forward, placing a pacifying hand on her forearm.

 “It’s me you need to talk with about the disc darling. I own it now.”

 “Rex,” Danny implored, “the lad here has worked day and night on that book for the past two years. He’s only nineteen. It’s his way out – please don’t block him.”

 McLeod turned to face Danny. “Danny boy, if you’d come and asked for that disc two years ago, you’d already be walking out the door with it in your hand, and…and,” he pointed backwards over one shoulder with a thumb, towards Bob, “…that worm there would be eating out of a straw, for offending someone I respected.” He gulped the remainder of his scotch before continuing. “I actually liked you…worse, I trusted you…and I make it my business to trust nobody. I really enjoyed our little chats whenever I sat for you. We talked about Marx and Christianity, do you remember?” McLeod smiled nostalgically at this recollection. “I found you refreshingly naïve. I could see right through you, or so I thought, and there was absolutely nothing harmful there. I don’t think I could say that about a single other soul I’ve encountered. As a result, you became a little indulgence of mine…an escape from the cynical world I inhabit. That’s why I was always giving you painting jobs – so we could talk some more. So you can imagine how betrayed I felt, learning that you’re actually a scheming blackmailer.”

 Flushing, Danny cast a quick glance at Ryan, who was oblivious to the dishonourable means by which Gairloch College had come about. Desperate to avert an adverse revelation, he interrupted McLeod.

 “But this isn’t about me.”

 “Oh but it is. Everything I do these days is influenced by you. Thanks to your sublime disingenuousness, I no longer have faith in my own judgement. Consequently, I have to be ruthless with everyone in order to feel secure. So let’s hear no more about this disc. It’s mine, OK.”

 Judith erupted again. “This isn’t some crappy Squeaky Kirk album!” Bob raised his chin by forty-five degrees, head twitching indignantly. “It’s a really good book.”

 McLeod turned to Ryan. “We need this book on the shelves as quick as possible. If you want to sign up with us for three-hundred quid a week, so be it. It’ll save us the bother of having to find a front man and an editor to change names and places.”

 Judith was beside herself with rage now. “He’s got a London publisher ready to print – and you’re offering him three hundred quid a week!”

 “Darlin, the lad’s a drop in the ocean down there. If he’s really, really lucky, he’ll get a ten-grand advance against royalties. No matter how good a yarn he’s written, though, he’ll be at the bottom of the pile when it comes to promotion. The celebrity biographers and Oxbridge in crowd will eat up the entire publicity budget, and no one will even know he existed. Deemed a liability, he’ll be sacked on his debut and never entertained by another publisher again. But if he comes with me, he’ll get every piece of work published, have a guaranteed fourteen grand a year coming in and the Scottish press eating out of his hand. Sometimes the best way to take London is indirectly. If he creates a ripple up here, your big publishers will come sniffing, don’t you worry…and they’ll treat him with the respect he deserves if he’s already a proven earner.” McLeod turned to Danny, who was standing with his arms folded, shaking his head dejectedly. “You shouldn’t be pulling faces. You should be encouraging the boy to do the right thing. How many folk do you know who’ve been published in London?”

 “Quite a few,” Danny muttered.

 “Aye and how many of them are wealthy as a result? Honestly now.”

 “None that I know of.”

 “Exactly. They’re all doing shitty jobs during the day and then they’re too tired in the evenings to write anything decent. Ryan, on the other hand, will have a guaranteed income and all the time in the world to produce a masterpiece, if he wishes.” McLeod had grown quite passionate during this exposition. “Three hundred quid a week’s about a hundred pound more than this kid can ever hope to earn.” He turned to Ryan. “I’ll bet my balls you’ve got a criminal record, eh son?”

 “Aye, for assault when I was sixteen and two raps for shoplifting.”

 “Then you’re minimum wage, warehouse fodder till the day you die I’m afraid…just like I was at your age. No different to a black man in Apartheid South-Africa or an untouchable in India. I was forced to carve my own path, outside of the system.” He looked at Judith as if expecting admiration or sympathy, before returning his attention to Ryan, now nodding in accord with what was being said. “And remember, there’s nothing to stop you getting a day job if you wanted. You’d be on five hundred quid a week then, twenty-two, maybe twenty-three grand a year! When you walked in here you were underclass. I’m giving you the opportunity to leave middle class.”

 At this point Danny finally intervened. “Ryan, we have to have a word in private.”

 “Oh no,” McLeod interjected smugly, “there’ll be no whispering round corners. I like complete transparency when I do business, so if you’ve something to say, say it here.”

 “Complete transparency eh? In that case, he’s going to use you Ryan, as a vehicle to launder money…money from heroin dealing!”

 McLeod turned to Bob and glared, yellow teeth snarling like a rabid dog, eyes as dead as great white shark’s, before facing Ryan again and raising his voice impatiently.

 “Right son, it’s make your mind up time. If you’re interested Fergus will take you into town to sign the necessary documents. If not, get the hell out of here.”

 Ryan turned to Danny as if imploring his advice.

 “I’ve told you what I know,” Danny said, dejectedly. “Armed with such information, I personally wouldn’t get involved. But I can’t impose my principles on you…and I’m certainly in no position to judge.”

 Next, Ryan looked at Judith. She didn’t want to hurt Danny, but her maternal feelings towards the youngster won the day. Making sure he got credit and at least some reward for his work was her main concern, so she strained a smile of encouragement.

 “Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks sweetheart, just get on and do what’s right for you.”

 When Ryan agreed to accompany Baxter, Danny marched out, looking ashen. During the distraction, no one had noticed Bob slip away, escaping Rex McLeod’s wrath at his indiscretion over the money laundering scam. It transpired he’d received nothing for procuring Ryan’s book. His only reward had been the knowledge that he’d hurt Danny some more.

 After being escorted off McLeod’s property, Judith found the minibus gone, leaving her all alone in Glasgow. She booked into a hotel for the night then returned to Gairloch by public transport the following day. When she finally arrived, after an eight hour bus journey, the kids told her there’d been no sign of Danny and that Hamish had packed his bags and left with Angie, citing Ryan’s assault as the final straw.

 All week, Judith agonised over whether to stay, but, in the end, decided it was futile. She knew Danny would never return, and Ryan worked for Rex McLeod now anyway. So, realizing that Gairloch College was over, she left Fin with the students and drove back to England, where she’d soon be working as an assistant curator again, only this time at Birmingham’s City Art Gallery.

PART FOUR

 

CHAPTER: 16

 The following summer, Judith took a well-deserved walking holiday in Iceland. To get there though, she had to catch a plane from Glasgow, where she arrived by train the day before her flight. While queuing for a taxi outside Central Station with her luggage, she spotted a familiar face approaching, smoking a roll up, accompanied by a shell-suited, teenage brunette, pushing a baby in a pram. It was Dickens. He stopped to talk, telling her that he was living back at the Great Eastern Hotel, but would soon be moving, with his girlfriend and nine-month-old child, to a brand new housing association pad in Possil.

 “That’s were Danny used to live,” Judith exclaimed, smiling genially towards the skinny young mother, who was either nodding at everything Dickens said or laughing nervously.

 “I know, he’s told me all about the place,” Dickens declared proudly.

 Judith was taken aback by this statement. “When did you see Danny then?”

 “Didn’t you know? We’re next door neighbours over at the Great Eastern. I apologised to him for my behaviour that Christmas night up in the Highlands…he was really good about it.”

 “Yes, he’s like that. He’s a good man,” Judith said, trying to maintain a veneer of normality, but her veins were pulsating with shock at the news about Danny’s lowly accommodation. That aside, she was delighted to see Dickens so happy, but, knowing how sensitive and prone to violence he could be, worried about what might happen if his young girlfriend ever decided to leave him.

 After dropping her luggage at a bed and breakfast, Judith took a cab to the Great Eastern Hotel. Here, Danny lived in one of twenty-four white, wooden cubicles which faced one another along a narrow, chlorine smelling corridor. He was sitting on a bed wearing his blue overalls when she arrived, after being shown up to the fourth floor by a masculine looking female warden with tattooed forearms.

 “I’m surprised you want to see me,” he said, forlornly.

 Embarrassed by Danny’s self-deprecation, Judith’s eyes wandered from the single bed at the centre of the cubicle to his mother’s portrait painting, now nailed to the wooden wall behind. Looking down again, her attention was grabbed by a hardback book on the pillow behind him. Staring up from its glossy flysheet, against a backdrop of iron shuttered, concrete tenements was Ryan, head turned just enough to flaunt his battle scar.

 “Why are you here Danny?” She regained eye contact. “Is it because you feel guilty about being happy that year up at Gairloch? Are you ashamed that your contentment was funded by McLeod’s drug money?”

 “How do you know about that?” Danny exclaimed, his eyes following Judith as she approached the bed and picked Ryan’s book up.

 “I overheard your conversation with Bob.”

 Danny looked relieved not to have to explain everything. In the meantime Judith perused the item in her hands. Published by another Rex McLeod front called Highly Educated Delinquent, it went under the title ‘Toi’s Are Us’ – Toi being the name of the ‘team’ which Ryan had led around his housing scheme.

 “I stole it from Waterstone’s,” Danny confessed. “Somehow, shoplifting seemed more moral than subsidising a heroin dealer.” This elicited an exasperated sigh from Judith.

“Ryan really disappointed me when he accepted McLeod’s proposition. My own corruption was bad enough, but his fall was like the end of all hope. It was as if everything me and him had discussed over that past twelve months meant nothing. After he let me down like that, I didn’t want to be near human beings ever again.”

 “But you let him down first Danny…can’t you even see that! By being all nice things to all men, you allowed the bad to prosper at the expense of the good. You should have been protecting Ryan and all those other kids from spiteful weirdos such as Bob Fitzgerald, but instead you allowed him to sleep under the same roof…you even invited him to stay permanently! You were too blinded by those damned egalitarian beliefs to notice the danger you were putting everyone in. The fact is Danny, there are people who are always going to be bad, no matter what, and they don’t deserve our compassion. Those types have to be expelled from society otherwise it just isn’t worth living in.”

 “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but, because of my upbringing, it isn’t easy for me to think like that.”

 “What’s that toe-rag up to these days anyway?”

 “Bob? He’s avoiding Rex McLeod full-time, odd jobbing his way round the world and restricting himself to remote places. The last I heard, he was supposed to be working at a fish canning factory, somewhere north of the Arctic Circle in Norway. I just hope to God he manages to evade that filth peddling bastard for ever more.”

 “Why?”

 “Why? Well, mainly, because if anything terrible happens to Bob then it’ll be all my fault, for making McLeod aware that he’d been sharing trade secrets with me.”

 “But if McLeod does catch up with Bob, then you’ll at least have achieved some justice for that poor girl Carina…what’s her name?”

 “Curran.”

 “Yes.”

 “Well, first of all, I’ve learnt that there isn’t any justice and, secondly, if it was wrong of Bob to have inflicted violence upon Carina, then it would be no less wrong for Rex McLeod or anybody else to inflict violence upon Bob. An act of barbarism shouldn’t suddenly become palatable simply because it’s supported by a moral argument. I’m not having a pop at you Judith, but frankly, there’s nothing more sinister than a sadist in search of legitimisation. As far as I’m concerned, you either enjoy violence or you don’t.”

 Judith stood in silence, wracking her brains for a counter argument. But at heart she felt Danny was right.

 “So, apart from festering in this hole, what else have you been up to these past ten months? What’s happened to the college for God’s sake?”

 As Danny’s explanation gained steam, Judith sat down on the bed, listening intently.

 It transpired that he’d never returned north, being unable to set foot in a house financed by heroin. However, he had spent his final fifty grand employing qualified teachers to get the kids through their diplomas. But, according to Katy – who visited him regularly at the hostel – it had been a miserable place thereon. The new employees did only as much as they were paid for and eschewed the students when outside the classroom. The big communal dinners became a thing of the past, and the kids were discouraged from the house altogether. Instead, they were expected to prepare their own individual meals back at the byre, in a tiny kitchen which occupied the room vacated by Ryan.

 With all the joy removed, only six of the original twelve Glaswegians had completed their second year. Thanks to the foundations laid by Danny, Hamish, Judith and Angie, though, they all achieved high grades that summer – most notably Belinda, who passed English with distinction, despite being heartbroken over Ryan’s departure.

 Once the place had been deserted – around mid-May – Danny had put the house and byre on the market for less than he’d paid for them derelict, so desperate was he to be cleansed of any association with Rex McLeod’s money. It sold within days. The only problem was, his charity owned Gairloch College and so he had to conduct the absurd charade of selling a painting to it for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, in order to get his hands on the cash. At first he’d been more than happy paying the Capital Gains Tax to the government, until he learnt that Rex McLeod’s security firm had just won a large government contract. There seemed to be no escape – he was either being paid by or paying for the drug dealer.

 Carrying the remaining money in a holdall, Danny had walked through some of the city’s most deprived areas, during the early hours, redistributing it as he went. First off, he’d revisited North Glasgow, where Katy and her parent’s now lived in an even worse and older building than their original tenement, which had been demolished for private houses. Not only was it a far cry from the home with front and back doors that the housing association had promised, but it too would soon be torn down. Here, he’d posted ten thousand pounds through the letter box, as thanks for the girl’s unstinting dedication to his ill mother, and to help finance the creative writing degree she was embarking on that autumn, down in East Anglia. Then he’d hit the daunting, thirty floor, Springburn high rises. Despite the elevators not working, he dropped twenty grand at a fourteenth floor apartment, home to a guy called Brucie Cruickshanks, who was dying from Mesothelioma after years working with asbestos in the Govan shipyards. The poor bastard had been denied compensation and Danny hoped his donation might lessen the stress, if not for Brucie then maybe for Mrs. Cruickshanks. After this, he’d returned to the East End, pushing a similar amount through the door of a football club for recovering drug addicts, before crossing the M8 footbridge and walking several miles to a new, semi-detached house in the redeveloped Blackhill area, where he posted a manila envelope containing fifty thousand pounds. He hadn’t quite made it back down the path though, when a squat, moustachioed fellow aged about fifty came out, wanting to know what was going on. Danny could not have imagined a worse situation. He’d been left with two choices: run or finally confess his sins to the person he’d exploited most. In the name of decency, he’d felt compelled to introduce himself.

 The man had invited Danny inside, where a thin, dark haired woman lay on the couch watching TV – it was Carina Curran. Having spent months semi-comatose, followed by years in a deep, appetite suppressing depression, she’d shed much of her former weight. She’d made a steady recovery in the three years since the attack, and even regained her ability to walk, but only over short distances and then very slowly.

 Having taken the armchair opposite Mr. Curran, Danny had wasted no time with his revelation, maniacally spewing it up without commas or full stops. He’d been prepared for hysterics from Carina and even physical violence from her dad, but instead they’d just sat in silence, depriving him of any distraction from his shame. Confession over, the eight foot walk to the front door had seemed like a mile.

 Three days later, the Currans had turned up at the Great Eastern Hotel, returning Danny’s money. He’d tried to convince Carina that, as a victim of both Bob Fitzgerald’s violence and Rex McLeod’s drug dealing, she was entitled to some compensation. But she’d said she abhorred the compensation culture and believed all money should be in the hands of communities, not individuals.

 “Individuals waste money on phone ringtones, cocaine and furry dice to hang from their rear view mirrors,” she’d said. “Whereas communities, at their best, spend it on brain surgeons and special needs education. As a beneficiary of both, how can I legitimise taking any more money out of the pot? Without a Health Service, fifty thousand pounds wouldn’t even have paid for my bed and breakfast in a private hospital.”

 When Carina spoke, her brain damage had made itself apparent. She’d had to pause every so often to remember a simple word or regain a train of thought and occasionally she’d slurred her words. Apart from this handicap she’d been remarkably eloquent – especially for someone having to relearn how to read and write.

 Carina said that closing a college for twenty kids in order to make one individual wealthy was absurd. If he really wanted to make amends for what he’d done, she’d told Danny, he could teach her how to paint.

 After the first drawing lesson round at the house, Carina had taken a nap, leaving Danny and Mr. Curran alone together. Mr. Curran had explained how the be all and end all of his daughter’s life had been playing the cello, until Mrs. Curran died, following a protracted illness. It was at this time that she’d become close friends with a wealthy violin player from her orchestra, called Cordellia Henderson. This elegant lady – the wife of a merchant banker – had been smoking heroin in Carina’s company after shows for years without any apparent adverse effects. As a consequence, the young girl had seen no harm accepting an invitation to a toot one evening, as a distraction from her grief. The banker’s wife had enjoyed having a partner in crime and Carina smoked heroin gratis on fourteen consecutive nights before that particular run of shows ended. The following week, she’d been ringing on the Henderson’s doorbell at their West End townhouse, lusting after another toot. But the visit had been ill received, with Carina being scolded for her indiscretion and warned never to visit the house again, under any circumstances. If she hadn’t just inherited three thousand pounds the teenager would have been blissfully broke, as always, and gone straight home, perhaps never touching heroin again. Instead, she’d hit the East End, enquiring for dealers among the street corner gangs, until someone directed her to a Gallowgate apartment. Within a month all her money had been smoked away and her life was spiralling out of control. Having been sacked from the orchestra for falling asleep during a performance, she’d sold the cello her father had worked double shifts for at the Tennents Brewery, before taking up prostitution and the hypodermic needle. The rest, as they say, is history. Fortunately, Carina’s injuries had erased all memory of heroin. Unfortunately, though, they’d also stolen her musical talent.

 “So how are the lessons going then?” Judith asked.

 “I’ve been round at the Currans house every other day for the past month. Like a fool, I actually forgot that I was round there to be punished, until last week.”

 “Why, what happened last week?”

 “Carina was struggling to get a grasp of a sketching technique I was showing her and then she erupted. She said she had more contempt for me than for Bob Fitzgerald, and that she’d only asked me to teach her how to paint so that she could see just how far I’d crawl for absolution. She reckons that the fact I even want forgiveness indicates that I’m not really contrite at all. In her opinion, a truly contrite man would accept his guilt as just rewards and suffer in silence, not go trying to buy peace of mind by dropping money through people’s letterboxes. She said that the only person I was really concerned about was myself, and even though she’s since apologised, she’s right. I used her tragic situation to get cash and never gave her another thought. Then, when I learnt where it came from I tried to use her to get rid of it. Just as Bob and other men exploited Carina for sex, I’ve been exploiting the poor girl for my own salvation.”

 “So what happens now?”

 “Well, I either suffer in silence like Carina says, or I put myself in the same misery as those I’ve profited from. I think the latter is probably the only way my remorse can ever be seen as sincere.”

 “Or, you could just forget all this nonsense and start living like a normal human being.” Judith jumped up from the bed, turning to face Danny. “Bob Fitzgerald’s right. What makes you think you’re so bloody special? That you’re entitled to a life of virtue? You’re fast enough to forgive everyone else’s sins, why not your own? Can’t you see how arrogant that is? I mean, why’s it wrong for you to spend McLeod’s money, but ok for Katy and the Cruickshanks to have it? I’ve as much to feel guilty about as you. I was complicit in the blackmail and I enjoyed the proceeds of drugs money.”

 “No, no…it’s not the same.”

 Judith laughed, flabbergasted. “You think you’re better than me don’t you.”

 “Eh?”

 “It’s ok for me and everyone else to sin because, we know not what we do. But you, you’re a superior being. There’s no excuse for you.”

 “That’s because of my Christian, socialist upbringing! Have you still not got that? It’s all about caring for others while flagellating yourself. Remember what I told you about Crazy Ferguson hitting me with a bottle? How my mother said it had served me right for defending the enemy against my own? Well, it would have been the same had I just stood back and allowed him to slash Bob. Then she’d he have recited the story of the Good Samaritan and condemned me for being a poor Christian. And that’s how my life’s been for the past forty three years Judith, looking for the best in everyone else and the worst in myself… stopping during every experience and wondering: what would mum think of this? Am I a true socialist? Am I good Christian?”

 “You can shake it off! I saw the change in you at Gairloch…it was amazing!”

 “I must admit, I had started enjoying things without constantly consulting her in my head. I could still hear her talking, but she had to compete with the kids’ voices. In the end they were having far more of an influence over me than I ever could have had over them. Thanks to Hamish, Ryan, Angie and yourself, their intellects were expanding, exposing my own mind as stagnant by contrast. They had myriad points of view to offer at the dinner table debates, where as I was trotting out the same tired old Marxist mantras, like a priest performing his thousandth communion. To keep up, I had to become more flexible in my thinking and consequently felt much lighter as a person. I thought that glass of Haut-Brion I drank was symbolic of the great change which had taken place within me. But then Bob turned up, almost as if my mother had sent him to remind me that in a capitalist world, one man’s pleasure is always at the expense of other men’s misery.” Danny poked a forefinger against his temple. “And now she’s the only voice in there again, shouting louder than ever, each second of the day.”