California Read online

  Jarvis let that one sit with the group for a few seconds before he glanced at his watch and leaned back in his chair.

  “Okay,” he said, “I think that’s about all we have time for this session. For next time, though, I want you to have a good long think about what your goal might be, okay? I want you to think of something, some kind of ambition, that might give you pause the next time your temper threatens to get the better of you. Really give it some thought, because we’ll be sharing with the group, okay?”

  Shug did as he was told. He thought about Fiona, but that didn’t work. By that time, she didn’t want anything to do with him. So for the first time in a long time he thought beyond her. He thought about his home town, and the name made him tinker with the restricted internet access in the library.

  That was when he found Captain Robert Dollar. A random click, a search on Falkirk, and there he was. Dollar was a Falkirk lad, made his fortune in logging and freight, established the Falkirk Cultural Center, which were three words you didn’t often see in such close proximity. He was also connected to Bohemian Grove which, if you wanted to talk about a hotbed of political intrigue and power, that was the place to be. The richest of the rich paid a lot of money to dick about in costumes up there, and Dollar was the man with the deed.

  So, if you had to pick a role model, thought Shug, you could do a lot worse.

  The Falkirk Cultural Center was in San Rafael, California. There was even an Inverness around there somewhere further to the west. The more Shug played with Google Maps, the more he felt that he was reaching the first strikes of an idea. He had pictures of California in his head, beaches and palm trees, Hollywood and orange juice. More than that, crystallizing now, becoming something that he never knew he wanted before. And he never knew it because it wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about. It wasn’t something he’d ever been expected to think about. But looking through those pictures, he realised what his goal was.

  Wine.

  Never drank a glass of it in his life that hadn’t come from either a box or a litre bottle, but there it was, like someone tweaking a switch in the back of his head.

  Sonoma, Napa, the vineyards, the sunshine, the rolling hills. It came to him in a rush, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He shook with envy at the photos of tourist wandering blithely through the wineries. For the first time in his life, he had a dream, and it made him want to laugh until he cried.

  He wasn’t the only one. Colin Knox laughed when Shug mentioned it in the next session. Shug wanted to pan his face in with the chair. But he didn’t. There was a sunkissed future ahead of him if he played his cards right. And the more he thought about it, the more his plans began to seem concrete. So by the time his date came round and his probation officer signed him off, Shug had planned his itinerary to the second.

  But now, thanks to Charlie’s shitty motor, that itinerary was well out of the window.

  Still, Shug refused to let it get to him, just as he refused to let the rain wear him down or the cold wind him up. He’d be fine soon enough, just had to keep walking. He nodded to himself. Rain ran down the bridge of his nose, and he sniffed it.

  The sign up ahead read two miles to California.

  If only it was that bloody simple.

  3

  When he got to California, it was pitch black and pouring. On a wall behind the Sunshine Village sign were two lads in slick hoodies and shiny puffer jackets. One had a large bottle of blue WKD, the other a fat roll-up that sent a sweet smell into the rain and illuminated the inside of his hands every time he puffed on it. They both watched Shug as he approached, swapping the bottle with the spliff. The one with the bottle raised it to his lips with both hands, a baby in a boiler jacket, sucking on booze.

  Shug's internal alarm went off. They would say something if he went past them, and no matter what that something was, the way he was feeling, it wouldn’t take much to get him raging.

  Another thing he’d learned – when you see a situation that’s liable to make you lose your temper, take charge of it up front.

  “Y’alright, son?” said Shug.

  The one with the spliff hawked and spat into a puddle.

  “Good weather for ducks, eh?”

  No reply.

  “You fellas ken Fiona Paterson?”

  The spliff hoodie blew smoke. It didn’t drift far before it was beaten into nothing by the rain. The lads swapped drink and smoke.

  “Used to live up this way,” said Shug, still watching them. “Forty-three.”

  “Eh?” said the drinker.

  “I’m asking youse, d’you ken Fiona Paterson?”

  The sound of booze sloshing back into the bottle. The hoodie with the blue moustache said, “Fuck you on?”

  “So you don’t know her.”

  “Fuck dae ah fuckin’ ken yer fuckin’ wumman, eh?”

  “Alright, then,” said Shug. “Nice talking to you. Have a good night.”

  He turned away, braced himself for the bottle thrown at his back. Didn’t happen, probably because there was still a good swallie or two left in it and these boys had to make it last. Part of him still wanting them to try something, just to see if he could sidestep the conflict when he was wet through and sick to fucking death of walking. But they weren’t playing it. Which was fine. Shug was positive there’d be something else to test his resolve. He just hoped Fiona was where he left her. If she wasn’t, that would put a crimp in his plans that no amount of deep breathing and visualisation would help. He needed her to be there. He needed a constant. And if she wasn’t, then these lads could expect a return visit.

  That wasn’t healthy. Had to stop that. Had to focus on the long-term.

  Shug hadn’t told her he was getting out. Didn’t think it was necessary at the time. Forewarned was forearmed, and he had to catch her off-guard, see her as she really was now. After all, the last time they talked, she ended it by storming off in a huff, and he didn’t exactly go chasing after her. Couldn’t go chasing after her without a couple of fucking screws putting him to the lino. He’d been six months into the stretch, the group work still in its early stages, and while he didn’t remember now what they’d been fighting about, it was probably enough for him to threaten her with a smack in the mouth. Because that was the way he used to talk to her in those days. It was the way he used to talk to everyone.

  He arrived at the front gate. No lights in the windows. Curtains were pulled back, too. He brushed water off his watch, pressed the glow button. Wasn’t seven yet. Back in the day, she’d be home and on with the tea by now. He looked back down the road, saw the edge of the sign, the glow of a mobile phone and thought he heard laughter.

  He pushed open the gate. It bounced off the fence. He leaned on the doorbell.

  Waited.

  Nothing.

  Tried it again. And then again. The fourth time was shorter, an urge to lean on it until it stuck caught and discarded.

  She wasn’t in. Not a problem. Didn’t know where she was, but that didn’t matter.

  He looked up, caught a face full of rain. Then he blinked the water away and headed for the side of the house, followed the path round. He stumbled over what looked like off-cuts of wood, kicked them idly with one foot before he continued to the back of the house. There he looked up at the windows again. Still no light.

  He remembered a different back door round here. Wooden, rickety, easy to kick down. Instead there were two brand new UPVC French doors. Shug put two hands up on the glass, looked inside. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn this was someone else’s place. The ratty old lino had gone from the kitchen floor, replaced by a light-coloured laminate.

  Shug stepped back and chewed on his bottom lip. He weighed up his options quickly and calmly. He was extensive, rational. Then he went back round to the side of the house, picked up a length of wood and put it through the glass in one of the French doors. An almighty crash that the whole street must’ve heard, but Shug didn’t care
. He put his hand through, felt around for the key that he knew would be sticking out the lock.

  He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. Moved away from the shrill, wet breeze that came in through the hole. He dripped onto the laminate, part of him still convinced that he’d broken into the wrong house. Then he saw the photo of Fi on the fridge. He plucked it out from under the cheeseburger magnet, held it up to the light. She was smiling. Her hair was a lighter colour, sun-bleached. She was with an ugly woman, big nose and squinty eyes, probably one of her mates down the kindergarten. He sniffed rain, then put the photo back where he’d found it.

  He squelched through to the front room and turned on the light. It was laminate in here, too. New chrome-looking fire in the fireplace. New telly, flat and black, in the corner. Modern, hard-edged sofa. Not Fiona’s taste. Not the taste she used to have, anyway. Everything looked wipe-clean. Shug wiped an itch from his nose. He noticed some brightly coloured plastic toys in the corner of the room, looked like they’d belong to a dog. He went over, picked up a blue and red rubber microphone. He shook it; it rattled. He blinked at it.

  Didn’t know what to think. His brain had frozen. He stood staring at the dog toy for a good minute until the hum of the fridge made him shake it off.

  No distractions. Couldn’t waste time standing here like a twat when there was work to do.

  Shug tossed the microphone onto the sofa and made for the stairs. He took them two at a time and when he hit the landing, he went straight for the main bedroom. He opened the door to his own reflection, drowned rat, staring at him from mirrored wardrobes that ran the length of one wall. Shug turned on a bedside lamp as he walked round to the right hand side of the bed – his side of the bed – then he got down on his knees, started tugging at the corner of the carpet.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Tugged at it again, but there wasn’t much give. He kept at it until he felt fabric rip under his aching fingers. Once he pulled up the corner, he tore it right across.

  Underneath, he saw the large gap between the floorboards, the crack in one of them that meant Shug hadn’t lost his fucking mind. He pried up the board, stuck one hand into the hole.

  He felt around far longer than needed to, then brought his hand up empty bar the dust and fluff. He sat back against the side of the bed and wiped his dirty hand across his nose.

  Okay. Fine.

  It was gone.

  Course it was.

  Downstairs, the sound of a key in the front door. He got to his feet, killed the bedside lamp, and listened.

  The door closed. There was a voice, female. Could’ve been Fiona, but Shug wasn’t sure. She was struggling with something.

  Shug moved to the bedroom door.

  Another voice. At least, he thought it was. Either a voice, or a small animal making a noise. Might’ve been a dog. That would explain the toys. He watched the light click on in the hall downstairs. Some movement, some more animal noises. Something plastic knocked against the wall. Another light went on, probably the kitchen.

  When he heard her swear – “Oh, fuck’s sake” – he knew it was Fiona.

  Shug went downstairs as coolly as he could. She heard him, and rattled through the cutlery drawer. When he hit the ground floor and turned to the kitchen, he saw her braced and ready to attack, a large triangular knife in both hands.

  She didn’t, mind. Didn’t attack, didn’t do much of anything. Just stood there staring at him.

  “Hullo, Fi,” he said.

  She shuffled her feet. Breathed through her mouth. He thought for a second she didn’t recognise, or maybe she did and thought he’d gone prison soft. It happened. He waited for her. No hurry.

  “Shug,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Shuggie, Jesus.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m ...” She lowered the knife, swallowed. “You’re ...”

  “I’m home.”

  “You’re out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What d’you want?”

  “What d’you think?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know.”

  Shug smiled. “Where is it, Fiona?”

  “Where’s what?”

  He looked at the knife. The tip shook. “You know what.”

  Fiona opened her mouth to say something, but there was that small animal noise again. A whimpering sound, somewhere behind him in the front room. It was followed by a rattle.

  “You get a dog?” he said.

  “What?”

  He moved back down the hall, stuck his head round the door.

  A toddler sat strapped into a pushchair. He had the microphone in one hand and was busy shaking it. He stopped when he saw Shug, raised the toy to his mouth and chewed on it. His face was open, his eyes wide. He removed the microphone and rattled it at Shug before it fell out of his hand onto the floor.

  Shug looked back at Fiona. Her face was grey in the light from the strip directly above her. The knife hung loosely from one hand.

  He swallowed against a rush of anger, counted slowly to ten.

  Fiona said, “Shug, I meant to –“

  “Put the kettle on,” he said, digging around in his pocket for his Lamberts. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  4

  Shug blew smoke and said, “I’ll tell you, Fi, I’m a changed man. Well, mostly. It’s not that easy, like, when stuff keeps happening, y’know?”

  “You want another tea?”

  “Nah, it’s fine. It’s okay.” He picked up his third mug of tea in an hour and drained it. Thoughts of the chippy up the road made his gut gurgle, but this had to be dealt with first.

  “Won’t take a second.”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Fiona sat down slowly.

  Sad to say, but it was better to let Fiona think that he was still the kind of man who could kick back his chair and plant a hard right on her if she gave him lip. Better to play like it was back in the day, back when he was a bastard. Sad he had to do that, but sometimes people didn’t believe in the capacity for change. They saw what they wanted to see. And what Fiona saw right now was a man who’d reddened her cheek more than once. If he thought about it for long enough, he’d feel guilty.

  No. Acceptance without guilt.

  It was fine. That was the past. He’d forgiven himself for it. Now was different. Now was acting. He smiled at the end of his cigarette.

  “How was it?” she said.

  “Okay once I got settled in, like. Got to know the place a bit. Not as much as some people would’ve liked, mind, but well enough.”

  “You’re out early.”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought it was seven years they gave you.”

  “It was. But if you keep your nose clean –“

  “Oh aye?” she said.

  “Aye.” Shug tapped ash from the Lambert into the saucer beside him, its bottom already laced with ash and one screwed up filter. He’d offered Fi, but she didn’t smoke. Bad for the bairn. Shug didn’t give a fuck. He breathed out. “Don’t blame you thinking I’d do every one of ‘em. Things change, though, eh?”

  “Do they?”

  “Changed here.”

  Fiona raised her eyebrows.

  “Done up nice,” said Shug. “New floors, new telly. Must’ve set you back.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Telling us you saved up.”

  She sipped her tea. If it was anything like Shug’s it’d gone cold about ten minutes back, but Fiona pretended like it was still hot, both hands around the mug, held high in front of her face. He wanted to knock it out of her grip, but he stayed still.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Don’t blame you. A bairn running around, working all the hours, you got to treat yourself every now and then.” He sniffed. “Life’s hard enough. You need some creature comforts, something to look forward to, something to come home
to. You know that’s what they told us inside? You’ve got to have something to come home to. Something to live for.” He pointed into some intangible future. “Long-term.”

  He stared at her. She stared at the table.

  “So,” he said. “You know I checked.”

  She nodded.

  “So it’s not there.”

  Another nod.

  “Going to tell us where it is?”

  Fiona rubbed at her cheek, showed teeth. “Not here.”

  “Listen, if you spent the money, I’m not going to get angry. Some people out there probably reckon you deserve it for putting up with us all those years, maybes even see it as my way of providing for you while I was away –“

  “I didn’t take your money.”

  He tapped the side of his mug. It didn’t make much of a sound. “Then where is it?”

  There was some snuffling in the front room, turned into a whimper. The bairn crying for his mother. Shug heard the first stuttered breaths of a crying jag. Course she hadn’t taken any money. She didn’t need it. She had a job, and the bairn’s father would be chipping in, most likely. He watched her for a few seconds, trying to connect the women in front of him with the one who stormed out of a visiting room three and a half years back. That woman was a girl, spoiled and lippy. This one seemed different, harder. It was probably the bairn. Kids changed people.

  The bairn started crying. Fiona stood.

  “Where you going?” he said.

  “See the bairn,” she said, and didn’t wait for permission.

  He twisted round in his chair, watched her leave. He smoked his cigarette down to the filter, then ground it out. Reached for another one, but it was too wet to light. He left it broken in the saucer and smacked his lips. His mouth was dry. Should’ve had that extra cup.