Chicken Soup
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A visit to the past descends into farce.
_____________________________________________________________________
The path outside the station was a sheet of ice set at forty five degrees. A ski slope. Andy kept well into the side, planting his feet firmly in the flattened mounds of snow near the wall. He managed to get down to the road without breaking any bones. The area hadn’t changed, the detached houses were still affluent, although the college was further away than he remembered. The razor wire along the top of the fence was a surprise. He watched the padlock on the gate gleam larger as he approached. He’d been expecting the security to be tight, it was the Christmas holidays, but not like this, like a prison. There was a pillbox. A man in a dark blue bomber jacket stepped out of it. His head was shaved completely bald. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ said Andy. ‘I used to be a student here. Years ago. I was hoping I could come in for a look around. You know, memory lane and all that.’
The guard examined him.
Andy was so close. Through the gate he could see street lamps in the driveway. A camera was fixed to each one.
‘Sorry,’ said the guard.
‘I’m a writer,’ said Andy. He wasn’t going to let it end like this, just as it was starting. ‘Google me. I’m doing research for a book. I’m sure you can keep an eye on me if you let me inside.’
The guard thought about it then asked for details. He went back into the pillbox and tapped his little computer. He murmured as he read the information on the screen. ‘Have you written all this stuff?’ he said.
‘Yes, I have,’ said Andy. ‘I’m not a criminal or anything.’
The campus was entirely blanketed in snow, abandoned, in abeyance, waiting for something to happen. He stopped short of the main building. The two green-topped towers, capped in white. And all those windows, hundreds of them, pockmarks in the dirty stonework. He used to call it the Happy House, because it had been anything but. Sarcasm. Never mind a prison, it looked more like a mental hospital than a seat of learning. He turned into the alleyway at the corner. There was a shorter route to where he was going, but he had needed to come this way first. A warm feeling – happiness? – at the sight of the Club, a dark basement behind dark panes of glass at the bottom of a flight of steps. He couldn’t see the steps at all, they were completely buried, even though he knew they must be there.
The Club was where it all began.
The first draft was done. His latest. Ninety thousand words. Whence the inspiration? It was irrelevant. When inspiration calls, you grab it, you don’t waste time on polite conversation. Making things up was what he did for a living, and to stay sane, but there was nothing made up in this story. Everything was already there, in his memory. He was wary of nostalgia, however, he knew how to call a spade a spade. At least, he hoped he did. He was worried he was being too hard on himself. Overcompensating. Who knows, maybe that was what it was all about, painting himself into a corner, surely that said something about his psychology, about where he was now as a person. As a writer. The draft had taken a matter of days to complete, it had poured out of him once he got his head into the right place. Strangely for him, it was a love story. Even more strangely, it had a happy ending, although that had only come with hindsight. Everything, as they say, had turned out for the best. It hadn’t been a happy ending at all, not back then, not in real life, but that ending, the not-happy one, was the only one on offer at the time. Memories, unrefined, can be so limiting. So can timeframes. The trick is to take control of them, to use them. But something was missing, not just local colour. It was something central, something fundamental; the answer to a question.
If you tempt fate, you might be rewarded with an epiphany.
He knew this would be his masterpiece.
He reached the Halls just as the sun was setting.
The car park, an undulating carpet of greys and blues, flowed to the horizon. He looked up at the window on the second floor. He had found, after hours of searching, a photograph on the Internet, and in this photograph there was a light on in the room, as if the photograph was meant for him, telling him something. He tried not to read too much into it. It was a photograph, after all, nothing else. It was her room, or used to be. The girl in the story. As soon as he finished the draft, he got in touch with her. She had been easier to find than the photograph. Was he looking for her blessing, her seal of approval? If he was, he didn’t get it. She claimed to have little memory of him. Of them. Her response left him stunned, confused. He didn’t pursue it, not with her, but it started playing on his mind. Had he been so unremarkable? They had been together for months. He had loved her. Perhaps he still did. Not the woman she was now, but the girl she had been then, the teenage student. He used to come here in the evenings after the Club and throw stones at that window, the one on the second floor, the one with the light on. But the window was dark now. There was no one there.
It had been romantic.
The railings. What was it about the railings, set so close like that to the wall? There were small stones at the base, little stones, stones that wouldn’t break glass. He moved in for a closer look and something shoved him in the back, a gust of wind, although it may have been premeditated. It shoved him again and his feet gave way. He groped blindly for support – his knuckles rapped hardness. He managed to grab the bars. They were freezing. His palms burned. Still falling. He tightened his grip, he had to, but it was too late to stop his knees cracking through ice. The sharp stab of stones, little ones, puncturing
Lights flashed on.
Breathing. His breath. Clouds. The dull hiss of a window opening; a set of keys landed at his side. He regarded them silently. Two keys. The fob had dug itself
‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ said a voice behind him.
He tried to see who was there, but he couldn’t turn round. Trapped, on his knees. His hands. The railings. Skin had fused to metal.
‘You’re looking for an epiphany?’ said the voice. It was a man’s voice. It was familiar. He was a friend. Sometimes he wasn’t. ‘Forget about photographs. Do you want to see? Do you want to see yourself? Do you want to see her?’
‘.....’
‘Oh, Andy,’ said the voice. ‘Why did you come back?’
It is a happy ending, he told himself. It is happy. It is. The way it worked out, it was best for everyone. Time is a healer. There was just one thing left, one elusive thing. He felt heat in his eyes. Tears for the girl he loved, for the girl he left behind.
‘Tears for yourself,’ said the voice. ‘The usual.’
‘But I need to know,’ said Andy.
‘Emotion is good,’ said the voice. ‘As long as it’s honest. You wonder why she doesn’t remember you?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘That’s laudable,’ said the voice.
‘Thanks,’ said Andy. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘All right,’ said the voice. ‘She does remember you. She remembers everything.’
A muscle twitched in Andy’s throat. A reflex. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘It goes like this,’ said the voice. ‘If you don’t think about it, you forget it. Most people do it unconsciously, because the past is unimportant, but there are others who are forced into it. It takes quite an effort. They will themselves not to remember.’
There was something, Andy knew, a seed. He couldn’t stop himself. ‘Why do they do that?’ he said.
‘They put the memory in a lead-lined box,’ said the voice. ‘They lock it and bury it. They bury it deep. That’s how they forget. But the box, and the memory in it, is still there. If they’re unlucky, you, or folk like you come along and exhume it. She didn’t remember you because she didn’t want to. She buried you along with the memory years ago. She remembers you now, though. She remembers the memory. I’m sure she won’t thank you for digging it up.’
Andy was shaking. It wasn’t on account of the weather. ‘What memory?’ he said, eventually.
The voice was silent.
‘But this isn’t about her,’ said Andy, like a man trying to save something when he knows he’s gone too far. ‘It’s about me. I have to remember.’ His mouth was almost touching the bars. He could see patterns in the bricks. ‘It is part of who I am.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’ said the voice. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’
Andy thought about it, a true mercenary, or a fool. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.
He closed his eyes. He was in her room, up on the second floor. The light was on, but it was dim. Warm. The thick aroma of her perfume. He was inside the head of a younger version of himself. His skinny arms and legs. He placed the keys on the table. He remembered other scenes like this, he had written them in his book, but he could tell this one was going to be different.
He sat next to her on the bed. He wanted to caress her face. She was beautiful, a painting come to life. He loved her, he felt it welling up, consuming him. Losing himself. But then there was another smell, more overpowering than perfume. He recognised it immediately. Beer. Stale. In her room, but how? It was his smell. He smelled of stale beer. He stank of it. The stench of it, of him, filled his nose, her room, the world.
Imprisoned in another man’s body, he reached between
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘It wasn’t like that! I didn’t do that – you’re making this up.’
‘You chose to bury it,’ said the voice. ‘Perhaps it was unimportant?’
‘No!’ he said. ‘I’m not… It didn’t happen.’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘No.’
‘It did. That’s the way it was. It wasn’t romantic for long. You made sure of that.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No. Not lying. Helping.’
‘Helping?’
‘Oh, come on, Andy. Who are you trying to kid?’
Bright lights, moving, through his eyelids. The slow crunch of approaching tyres. It had been a matter of time before they came for him. He closed his eyes more tightly. It was no use. The scene was always the same. Memory lane was a one-way street, a dead end, but he’d asked for it.
A handbrake’s ratchet and the grate of a door hinge. ‘What’s going on?’ said a voice. A real voice. Young.
‘I’m stuck,’ said Andy. He opened his eyes. His hands. The bars. The wall. His knees.
He heard the other door open. ‘What’s going on?’ This voice was older.
‘I think he said he’s stuck.’
‘Aye,’ said the older voice. ‘It’s funny how fingers get stuck to things that don’t belong to them. I hope you’re taking notes, Constable.’
Andy tried to look up at the window, but it was impossible. He looked at the ground. The keys were no longer there. He knew they never had been. He decided to keep this to himself.
The clump of boots. ‘I asked you what’s going on.’ The older voice. It must have been the Sergeant. He was close, but chose to remain invisible.
‘I’m a writer,’ said Andy.
‘He’s a writer,’ said the Sergeant, loudly, presumably to the Constable. Perhaps the Constable was still over at the car; it may have been sarcasm. ‘But you’re not writing anything now, eh?’
‘Ooh, kind of difficult, Sergeant,’ said the Constable. He wasn’t over at the car. ‘The way I see it, his hands are frozen to the railings. The ice…’
‘Perhaps the writer can describe how his hands feel?’ said the Sergeant.
‘Numb but cold,’ said Andy.
‘Numb but cold!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Did you hear that, Constable Mackay?’
‘I did, aye,’ said the Constable. ‘Sounds like a contradiction.’
‘Indeed it does,’ said the Sergeant. ‘What we have here is a man who likes to hedge his bets. A man who wants it both ways. Get your Thermos.’
‘Eh?’ said the Constable.
‘Your Thermos. Away and get it.’
The Constable took a moment. ‘My soup, Sergeant?’ he said.
The Sergeant’s boots made a dumb sound in the snow.
Something touched Andy’s shoulder. It was the Constable. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but his stab vest made him look older. He smiled. ‘With croutons,’ he said.
‘It’ll still be lukewarm,’ said the Sergeant. ‘You were complaining earlier.’
‘I can see where your boss is going with this,’ said Andy. His hands had begun to throb. So much for numb. Maybe it was anticipation. ‘The croutons are a side issue.’
‘Get the soup,’ said the Sergeant. His radio crackled. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’re round the back of Douglas House. Some joker’s got himself into a bit of bother.’ A short silence. ‘No, it’s nothing serious.’
Andy opened his mouth. He was going to say something about criminals, about not being one, but thought better of it.
His tongue betrayed him.
‘No,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Yez never are.’
‘I believe him,’ said the Constable. He had returned to the scene with his flask.
‘See?’ said Andy. He badly wanted to look at the Sergeant. ‘He believes me.’
‘Sometimes the boy talks too much,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Ignore him. He’s a learner.’
Steam. It smelled of chicken, wholesome, healthy. It smelled of something you would give to a sick man. The Constable’s smile. Andy watched the soup being poured gently, caringly, over his fingers, which were slowly infused with warmth. Soon he was free. He tried to stand up, to straighten his legs, and heard bones crack into place. The knees of his trousers were soaking, shredded. ‘It would do you well to have the faith of a Constable Mackay,’ he said.
‘You think so?’ said the Sergeant, who was older than Andy, but younger than he had expected.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Andy. A crouton was wedged under his wedding ring. He dislodged it and rubbed his hands together. They were sticky. ‘You wouldn’t have a bottle of water in the car, would you?’ he said.
The Constable produced something from the side of his stab vest. ‘De-icer?’ he said.
‘That would do the job,’ said Andy. He hadn’t been expecting things to descend into this much farce, but he welcomed it. He was all for taking part. It was light relief. It gave him the chance to distance himself from
‘To business,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Name and address.’
Andy squirted chemicals onto his palms. He divulged the information. It was no secret. ‘You won’t find me in your files,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away for years. Try Google.’ He had the Sergeant down as dangerous, a mindreader, but no one was that good. Some things were private. Until you started gabbing, or scribbling.
The Constable was back in the car, doing something. The sound of ripping. A piece of paper flapped.
The Sergeant took it. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Greece.’
‘I told you that,’ said Andy.
‘You’re registered at the British Embassy? That’s a good start.’
‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘They do my passport…’
‘BA 2643 Thessaloniki to Gatwick, 28th December. You spent the night at the Sofitel in the airport. 29th December, BA2946. Gatwick to Edinburgh. The Dollar Guest House in Haymarket. Right so far?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘7th January,’ said the Sergeant. He looked at his watch. ‘Two days hence. BA2644 Edinburgh to Thessaloniki. That’ll be your flight back?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘I’m wondering,’ said the Sergeant, ‘why you split your journey on the way over?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Andy.
‘A long story?’ said the Sergeant. ‘I haven’t got time for them.’
‘Well, if you don’t want the details…’
‘American Express, last used at 13.18 this afternoon. Queen Street to Jordanhill off peak day return.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘You’ve been here for seven hours? It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death.’
‘Using a credit card for a two pound ticket’s a bit large,’ said the Constable.
Andy ignored him. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.
‘Aye, you should be,’ said the Sergeant. ‘We don’t need Google. And we don’t need to be mindreaders. We’ve got the gen on everybody. Even folk like you.’
‘Especially folk like you,’ said the Constable.
‘So I…’
‘We’re all done here,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Get in the car.’
The Constable peeped his horn. A man stepped out of the pillbox. It was a different man to the one who had been there before. He had hair. Same jacket, though. He opened the gate. Andy mouthed ‘Thank you’. He didn’t know why, but suspected it would come to him.
They turned right at the traffic lights. A computer was set in the dashboard. The Sergeant was tapping things into it. Routine things, probably – not a masterpiece. Certainly not a failed one. ‘Pull over,’ he said. He twisted round in his seat. ‘This is where you get out. Oh, and one more thing.’
‘What?’ said Andy.
‘See that BA2644?’
‘Aye?’
‘Make sure you’re on it.’
‘I will,’ said Andy.
He made his way up the path, keeping well into the side. He remembered the ice. It was good to remember some things. They saved you from doing yourself an injury, although they might not save you from yourself. It was so quiet. He turned when he got to the top. A slight breeze nipped his fingers as he adjusted his collar. He could do nothing about the pain in his knees.
The policemen were still there, down on the road, watching from the passenger door window, the Sergeant’s arm on the sill and his apprentice bent double, craning his neck.
There was a danger of it turning into a contest.
Andy decided to finish it. He raised a hand and waved. It was only then that the car pulled out into the traffic.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A visit to the past descends into farce.
_____________________________________________________________________
The path outside the station was a sheet of ice set at forty five degrees. A ski slope. Andy kept well into the side, planting his feet firmly in the flattened mounds of snow near the wall. He managed to get down to the road without breaking any bones. The area hadn’t changed, the detached houses were still affluent, although the college was further away than he remembered. The razor wire along the top of the fence was a surprise. He watched the padlock on the gate gleam larger as he approached. He’d been expecting the security to be tight, it was the Christmas holidays, but not like this, like a prison. There was a pillbox. A man in a dark blue bomber jacket stepped out of it. His head was shaved completely bald. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ said Andy. ‘I used to be a student here. Years ago. I was hoping I could come in for a look around. You know, memory lane and all that.’
The guard examined him.
Andy was so close. Through the gate he could see street lamps in the driveway. A camera was fixed to each one.
‘Sorry,’ said the guard.
‘I’m a writer,’ said Andy. He wasn’t going to let it end like this, just as it was starting. ‘Google me. I’m doing research for a book. I’m sure you can keep an eye on me if you let me inside.’
The guard thought about it then asked for details. He went back into the pillbox and tapped his little computer. He murmured as he read the information on the screen. ‘Have you written all this stuff?’ he said.
‘Yes, I have,’ said Andy. ‘I’m not a criminal or anything.’
The campus was entirely blanketed in snow, abandoned, in abeyance, waiting for something to happen. He stopped short of the main building. The two green-topped towers, capped in white. And all those windows, hundreds of them, pockmarks in the dirty stonework. He used to call it the Happy House, because it had been anything but. Sarcasm. Never mind a prison, it looked more like a mental hospital than a seat of learning. He turned into the alleyway at the corner. There was a shorter route to where he was going, but he had needed to come this way first. A warm feeling – happiness? – at the sight of the Club, a dark basement behind dark panes of glass at the bottom of a flight of steps. He couldn’t see the steps at all, they were completely buried, even though he knew they must be there.
The Club was where it all began.
The first draft was done. His latest. Ninety thousand words. Whence the inspiration? It was irrelevant. When inspiration calls, you grab it, you don’t waste time on polite conversation. Making things up was what he did for a living, and to stay sane, but there was nothing made up in this story. Everything was already there, in his memory. He was wary of nostalgia, however, he knew how to call a spade a spade. At least, he hoped he did. He was worried he was being too hard on himself. Overcompensating. Who knows, maybe that was what it was all about, painting himself into a corner, surely that said something about his psychology, about where he was now as a person. As a writer. The draft had taken a matter of days to complete, it had poured out of him once he got his head into the right place. Strangely for him, it was a love story. Even more strangely, it had a happy ending, although that had only come with hindsight. Everything, as they say, had turned out for the best. It hadn’t been a happy ending at all, not back then, not in real life, but that ending, the not-happy one, was the only one on offer at the time. Memories, unrefined, can be so limiting. So can timeframes. The trick is to take control of them, to use them. But something was missing, not just local colour. It was something central, something fundamental; the answer to a question.
If you tempt fate, you might be rewarded with an epiphany.
He knew this would be his masterpiece.
He reached the Halls just as the sun was setting.
The car park, an undulating carpet of greys and blues, flowed to the horizon. He looked up at the window on the second floor. He had found, after hours of searching, a photograph on the Internet, and in this photograph there was a light on in the room, as if the photograph was meant for him, telling him something. He tried not to read too much into it. It was a photograph, after all, nothing else. It was her room, or used to be. The girl in the story. As soon as he finished the draft, he got in touch with her. She had been easier to find than the photograph. Was he looking for her blessing, her seal of approval? If he was, he didn’t get it. She claimed to have little memory of him. Of them. Her response left him stunned, confused. He didn’t pursue it, not with her, but it started playing on his mind. Had he been so unremarkable? They had been together for months. He had loved her. Perhaps he still did. Not the woman she was now, but the girl she had been then, the teenage student. He used to come here in the evenings after the Club and throw stones at that window, the one on the second floor, the one with the light on. But the window was dark now. There was no one there.
It had been romantic.
The railings. What was it about the railings, set so close like that to the wall? There were small stones at the base, little stones, stones that wouldn’t break glass. He moved in for a closer look and something shoved him in the back, a gust of wind, although it may have been premeditated. It shoved him again and his feet gave way. He groped blindly for support – his knuckles rapped hardness. He managed to grab the bars. They were freezing. His palms burned. Still falling. He tightened his grip, he had to, but it was too late to stop his knees cracking through ice. The sharp stab of stones, little ones, puncturing
Lights flashed on.
Breathing. His breath. Clouds. The dull hiss of a window opening; a set of keys landed at his side. He regarded them silently. Two keys. The fob had dug itself
‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ said a voice behind him.
He tried to see who was there, but he couldn’t turn round. Trapped, on his knees. His hands. The railings. Skin had fused to metal.
‘You’re looking for an epiphany?’ said the voice. It was a man’s voice. It was familiar. He was a friend. Sometimes he wasn’t. ‘Forget about photographs. Do you want to see? Do you want to see yourself? Do you want to see her?’
‘.....’
‘Oh, Andy,’ said the voice. ‘Why did you come back?’
It is a happy ending, he told himself. It is happy. It is. The way it worked out, it was best for everyone. Time is a healer. There was just one thing left, one elusive thing. He felt heat in his eyes. Tears for the girl he loved, for the girl he left behind.
‘Tears for yourself,’ said the voice. ‘The usual.’
‘But I need to know,’ said Andy.
‘Emotion is good,’ said the voice. ‘As long as it’s honest. You wonder why she doesn’t remember you?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘That’s laudable,’ said the voice.
‘Thanks,’ said Andy. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘All right,’ said the voice. ‘She does remember you. She remembers everything.’
A muscle twitched in Andy’s throat. A reflex. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘It goes like this,’ said the voice. ‘If you don’t think about it, you forget it. Most people do it unconsciously, because the past is unimportant, but there are others who are forced into it. It takes quite an effort. They will themselves not to remember.’
There was something, Andy knew, a seed. He couldn’t stop himself. ‘Why do they do that?’ he said.
‘They put the memory in a lead-lined box,’ said the voice. ‘They lock it and bury it. They bury it deep. That’s how they forget. But the box, and the memory in it, is still there. If they’re unlucky, you, or folk like you come along and exhume it. She didn’t remember you because she didn’t want to. She buried you along with the memory years ago. She remembers you now, though. She remembers the memory. I’m sure she won’t thank you for digging it up.’
Andy was shaking. It wasn’t on account of the weather. ‘What memory?’ he said, eventually.
The voice was silent.
‘But this isn’t about her,’ said Andy, like a man trying to save something when he knows he’s gone too far. ‘It’s about me. I have to remember.’ His mouth was almost touching the bars. He could see patterns in the bricks. ‘It is part of who I am.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’ said the voice. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’
Andy thought about it, a true mercenary, or a fool. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.
He closed his eyes. He was in her room, up on the second floor. The light was on, but it was dim. Warm. The thick aroma of her perfume. He was inside the head of a younger version of himself. His skinny arms and legs. He placed the keys on the table. He remembered other scenes like this, he had written them in his book, but he could tell this one was going to be different.
He sat next to her on the bed. He wanted to caress her face. She was beautiful, a painting come to life. He loved her, he felt it welling up, consuming him. Losing himself. But then there was another smell, more overpowering than perfume. He recognised it immediately. Beer. Stale. In her room, but how? It was his smell. He smelled of stale beer. He stank of it. The stench of it, of him, filled his nose, her room, the world.
Imprisoned in another man’s body, he reached between
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘It wasn’t like that! I didn’t do that – you’re making this up.’
‘You chose to bury it,’ said the voice. ‘Perhaps it was unimportant?’
‘No!’ he said. ‘I’m not… It didn’t happen.’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘No.’
‘It did. That’s the way it was. It wasn’t romantic for long. You made sure of that.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No. Not lying. Helping.’
‘Helping?’
‘Oh, come on, Andy. Who are you trying to kid?’
Bright lights, moving, through his eyelids. The slow crunch of approaching tyres. It had been a matter of time before they came for him. He closed his eyes more tightly. It was no use. The scene was always the same. Memory lane was a one-way street, a dead end, but he’d asked for it.
A handbrake’s ratchet and the grate of a door hinge. ‘What’s going on?’ said a voice. A real voice. Young.
‘I’m stuck,’ said Andy. He opened his eyes. His hands. The bars. The wall. His knees.
He heard the other door open. ‘What’s going on?’ This voice was older.
‘I think he said he’s stuck.’
‘Aye,’ said the older voice. ‘It’s funny how fingers get stuck to things that don’t belong to them. I hope you’re taking notes, Constable.’
Andy tried to look up at the window, but it was impossible. He looked at the ground. The keys were no longer there. He knew they never had been. He decided to keep this to himself.
The clump of boots. ‘I asked you what’s going on.’ The older voice. It must have been the Sergeant. He was close, but chose to remain invisible.
‘I’m a writer,’ said Andy.
‘He’s a writer,’ said the Sergeant, loudly, presumably to the Constable. Perhaps the Constable was still over at the car; it may have been sarcasm. ‘But you’re not writing anything now, eh?’
‘Ooh, kind of difficult, Sergeant,’ said the Constable. He wasn’t over at the car. ‘The way I see it, his hands are frozen to the railings. The ice…’
‘Perhaps the writer can describe how his hands feel?’ said the Sergeant.
‘Numb but cold,’ said Andy.
‘Numb but cold!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Did you hear that, Constable Mackay?’
‘I did, aye,’ said the Constable. ‘Sounds like a contradiction.’
‘Indeed it does,’ said the Sergeant. ‘What we have here is a man who likes to hedge his bets. A man who wants it both ways. Get your Thermos.’
‘Eh?’ said the Constable.
‘Your Thermos. Away and get it.’
The Constable took a moment. ‘My soup, Sergeant?’ he said.
The Sergeant’s boots made a dumb sound in the snow.
Something touched Andy’s shoulder. It was the Constable. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but his stab vest made him look older. He smiled. ‘With croutons,’ he said.
‘It’ll still be lukewarm,’ said the Sergeant. ‘You were complaining earlier.’
‘I can see where your boss is going with this,’ said Andy. His hands had begun to throb. So much for numb. Maybe it was anticipation. ‘The croutons are a side issue.’
‘Get the soup,’ said the Sergeant. His radio crackled. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’re round the back of Douglas House. Some joker’s got himself into a bit of bother.’ A short silence. ‘No, it’s nothing serious.’
Andy opened his mouth. He was going to say something about criminals, about not being one, but thought better of it.
His tongue betrayed him.
‘No,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Yez never are.’
‘I believe him,’ said the Constable. He had returned to the scene with his flask.
‘See?’ said Andy. He badly wanted to look at the Sergeant. ‘He believes me.’
‘Sometimes the boy talks too much,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Ignore him. He’s a learner.’
Steam. It smelled of chicken, wholesome, healthy. It smelled of something you would give to a sick man. The Constable’s smile. Andy watched the soup being poured gently, caringly, over his fingers, which were slowly infused with warmth. Soon he was free. He tried to stand up, to straighten his legs, and heard bones crack into place. The knees of his trousers were soaking, shredded. ‘It would do you well to have the faith of a Constable Mackay,’ he said.
‘You think so?’ said the Sergeant, who was older than Andy, but younger than he had expected.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Andy. A crouton was wedged under his wedding ring. He dislodged it and rubbed his hands together. They were sticky. ‘You wouldn’t have a bottle of water in the car, would you?’ he said.
The Constable produced something from the side of his stab vest. ‘De-icer?’ he said.
‘That would do the job,’ said Andy. He hadn’t been expecting things to descend into this much farce, but he welcomed it. He was all for taking part. It was light relief. It gave him the chance to distance himself from
‘To business,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Name and address.’
Andy squirted chemicals onto his palms. He divulged the information. It was no secret. ‘You won’t find me in your files,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away for years. Try Google.’ He had the Sergeant down as dangerous, a mindreader, but no one was that good. Some things were private. Until you started gabbing, or scribbling.
The Constable was back in the car, doing something. The sound of ripping. A piece of paper flapped.
The Sergeant took it. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Greece.’
‘I told you that,’ said Andy.
‘You’re registered at the British Embassy? That’s a good start.’
‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘They do my passport…’
‘BA 2643 Thessaloniki to Gatwick, 28th December. You spent the night at the Sofitel in the airport. 29th December, BA2946. Gatwick to Edinburgh. The Dollar Guest House in Haymarket. Right so far?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘7th January,’ said the Sergeant. He looked at his watch. ‘Two days hence. BA2644 Edinburgh to Thessaloniki. That’ll be your flight back?’
‘Yes,’ said Andy.
‘I’m wondering,’ said the Sergeant, ‘why you split your journey on the way over?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Andy.
‘A long story?’ said the Sergeant. ‘I haven’t got time for them.’
‘Well, if you don’t want the details…’
‘American Express, last used at 13.18 this afternoon. Queen Street to Jordanhill off peak day return.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘You’ve been here for seven hours? It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death.’
‘Using a credit card for a two pound ticket’s a bit large,’ said the Constable.
Andy ignored him. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.
‘Aye, you should be,’ said the Sergeant. ‘We don’t need Google. And we don’t need to be mindreaders. We’ve got the gen on everybody. Even folk like you.’
‘Especially folk like you,’ said the Constable.
‘So I…’
‘We’re all done here,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Get in the car.’
The Constable peeped his horn. A man stepped out of the pillbox. It was a different man to the one who had been there before. He had hair. Same jacket, though. He opened the gate. Andy mouthed ‘Thank you’. He didn’t know why, but suspected it would come to him.
They turned right at the traffic lights. A computer was set in the dashboard. The Sergeant was tapping things into it. Routine things, probably – not a masterpiece. Certainly not a failed one. ‘Pull over,’ he said. He twisted round in his seat. ‘This is where you get out. Oh, and one more thing.’
‘What?’ said Andy.
‘See that BA2644?’
‘Aye?’
‘Make sure you’re on it.’
‘I will,’ said Andy.
He made his way up the path, keeping well into the side. He remembered the ice. It was good to remember some things. They saved you from doing yourself an injury, although they might not save you from yourself. It was so quiet. He turned when he got to the top. A slight breeze nipped his fingers as he adjusted his collar. He could do nothing about the pain in his knees.
The policemen were still there, down on the road, watching from the passenger door window, the Sergeant’s arm on the sill and his apprentice bent double, craning his neck.
There was a danger of it turning into a contest.
Andy decided to finish it. He raised a hand and waved. It was only then that the car pulled out into the traffic.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty
publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The
Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first
novel, Drive!, was published in
2010. He has also written two
collections of short stories, The Next
Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.