Slip of the Knife

The man with the shopping bag was cutting across the car park, coming towards them. A gray bomber jacket, too short at the cuffs, a sweatshirt with “Wrangler” written on it, a crease across the front where it had been folded in the packet, brand-new, and dark blue denims, creased across at the knee. It was a strange look, all new clothes, like a costume.

Paddy recognized the hair first. Black and wavy, a little long over the ears. And then his face: heavy black eyebrows, a broad nose, gray skin, features more square than she remembered them. His jaw was solid, muscular from the habit of being clenched tightly. What she didn’t recognize was his height and the width of his shoulders: he was six three at least and built like a dray horse.

It was Callum Ogilvy.

She leaned over and threw open the driver’s door, catching Sean on the thigh.

“It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.”

“All right,” he said, jumpy because she was. “Calm down.”

And he turned to meet his cousin.

II

Fifty-three steps so far, another eight to get to the side of the car, nine maybe. The distances between cars, sky and ground were too far, everything spaced out so much that there was nothing to cling to. In nine years he hadn’t been farther than twenty feet from a wall; even the exercise yard was narrow. The wind that had ruffled his hair when he was inside walls now skirled unkindly around his face, jagged, sharp. Here it was unbridled, unstoppable. He felt he might blow out to sea at the next gust, drown, salt water flooding his sorrowful lungs while people watched from the shore, happy to see him go. And who could blame them.

His toe hit a break in the concrete and he stopped, the plastic bag containing everything he owned slapping against his leg. Dizzy suddenly, he stood still, staring at the ground, calculating whether it would be less painful to move again or just wait here to die. The muscles on his arms and legs were so taut that he was twitching.

The mind can only hold one conscious thought at a time.

Fifty-three steps so far, fifty-four, fifty-five. He looked up and saw Sean at the side of the car, his cousin, his family. A woman was with him. He’d said there would be a woman with him. A friend of the family. Their family.

The woman had seen him now, he could tell by the way she moved in her seat, sitting up tall, straining to catch a glimpse when he lost them behind a car. She reached over and opened the driver’s door, talking to Sean, keeping her eyes on Callum.

Sean looked up.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine. They stared straight at him. Not the way screws looked: screws saw you, looked away, and then looked back again, thinking about you and what a bad person you were, muttering to each other. Killed a baby. Quiet. Weirdo. But Sean and the woman looked straight at him, their expectations drawing him in like a tractor beam.

Sean turned to meet him, the vicious wind blowing his hair flat. He looked small outside the visitors’ room.

Sean’s face was open and his arms rose from his sides in greeting. He was smiling hard but his eyes were full of reservations.

Callum didn’t know what to do. He stood stiff while Sean put his arms around his shoulders and hugged him. He was smaller than Callum, not as wide. When Callum tried to respond he twitched a big nod, accidentally butting the side of Sean’s face. Touch. Sean’s arms were tight around him, his cheek brushed Callum’s briefly and the warmth stung his skin.

When Sean let go, Callum wanted to grab on to him, make him do it again, but the woman was beside him, hands rising, expecting a hug as well. A woman. Callum blushed at the thought that her tits might press into his chest like when he masturbated, that he might hold her low on her waist. Ashamed, he cast his eyes downwards and she saw what he was thinking. She extended a hand.

Nice to see you again.

He looked at her. Big arse on her and a coldness in her eyes like the nurse in the infirmary. He knew her, remembered a cold room a long time ago, before the dark night, ripped wallpaper hanging off walls, and feeling ashamed that everything in the house was dirty. Ashamed of his mother, drinking. Clean people sitting around, wondering when they could leave.

“You were at my dad’s funeral.”

“I was.” She looked kinder then. “And I met you in hospital, Callum, d’ye remember? Your wrists were bandaged.”

He didn’t want to remember that time. It was after the night in the grass, before the trial, and no one had ever talked to him about it. It was a time that belonged only to him, his footprints were alone through that. The grass from that time was up to his chest. When he went there in his head he felt it suck the breath from his lungs.

He found himself looking at the prison. It was OK now he was next to a car. The big gray wall blocked the view of the sea. For the first time he felt glad to be out of prison.

Let’s get in out of this wind.

Sean smiled up at him, hopeful, nervous. He held the door open for him, and dipped down to look at Callum after he got in.

I’m awful glad to see you out, pal. Come on, we’ll go home.

The car had a phone in it and room for his legs. He hadn’t been in a car for nine years, not since the dark night. It was always vans after that, prison vans, police vans. The last time he was in a car his feet hardly touched the floor.

The woman got into the front passenger seat, Sean in the driver’s. Sean started the engine and they rolled slowly out of the car park.

Callum was watching them, looking at the sides of their faces. Sean opened his mouth a couple of times before they hit the main road, as if he was going to say something but decided not to. The woman was looking out of the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand over her mouth. She didn’t look happy. When they got to the junction she turned to Sean.

That went well, anyway.

Sean nodded and looked to the left for cars coming down the road.

“What went well?” Callum couldn’t quite believe he’d said it so casual and normal.

“Well, to be honest,” she turned to look at him, “we thought there might be other journalists in the car park. Hiding, you know, waiting for you.”

“Why?” He’d done it again, normal, real.

“They’d be looking for a photo of you. It could be worth a lot of money so there’s going to be a bit of a competition. You should be ready for that in the coming weeks. I don’t think there’s any way of stopping them from getting close to you. Most of them have guessed you’ll be at Sean’s house so they’ll probably stake that out. You should be careful who you talk to.”

She ran out of breath and looked away for a moment. But Callum hadn’t been listening to her. He was still back at the first thing she’d said.

“Other journalists?”

The woman shut her eyes, blinking too long, shuttering him out. She cleared her throat. “Um, aye. Other journalists.” She looked at Sean but he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m a journalist. Don’t you remember, we spoke in the hospital?”

She was Paddy. He had met her before.

“You have a SON,” he said, too loud at the end.

She turned her head quickly towards him, angry.

“PETER.”

She looked furious and turned away.

He swung his head at the window. They were traveling down a wide road, few cars on it, flat fields on either side, a tractor in one of them, a long way away. Sean’s eyes were reflected in the rearview mirror, narrow, hiding something. The skin on his cheek twitched.

Callum looked back at the prison, a speck now on the horizon. Panic rose in his chest. Sean had brought a journalist with him. Was that normal? Was he taking money? Act normal. Behave normal.

My wife made sandwiches.

Still keeping his eyes on the road, Sean leaned over the back of the car seat and showed him a plastic box with bread and an apple in it. Callum lifted it and found a can of fizzy juice on the floor under his feet.