There was some familial consternation within the MacAvett household af terwards. I got to hear about that even before Jel came to stay for that awkward weekend at my flat in Stepney, though then she provided more details. It was the quiet, restrained sort of ticking off you’d expect from Mike and Sue: You’ve-let-us-down-you’ve-let-yourself-down-etc. Anyway she was nineteen, beautiful and popular and spending most of her time at university in Sheffield. Frankly the girl just wasn’t that bothered.
The greater familial shame seemed to be — by acclaim — attached to the Murston clan.
Apparently I’d been granted the status of an honorary Murston even before Ellie and I were due to be married, and my cheating on Ellie had been taken as an insult to the whole family. I suppose I couldn’t claim that I hadn’t been warned; that very first talking-to from the boys in Fraser’s new four-by-four while it sat in the Hill House garage had kind of set the tone.
Would I have buggered off, left Stonemouth, if I hadn’t had to? Yes; I was all ready to. I had that job offer and I was going to accept it. I was London-bound regardless before I got run out of town.
I turn the corner into Dabroch Drive and realise that I haven’t even thought about my balls since I left the Formantine — they haven’t hurt at all. Also, there’s a green Mini parked outside Mum and Dad’s house, sitting just behind my little hired Ka. It’s Ellie’s.
Or at least it was Ellie’s. That was five years ago. The Murstons never keep a car longer than three years. She must have sold it; it must belong to somebody else. It’s just a coincidence, or I’m remembering the number plate wrong. She’ll have something else by now, bound to. (Dad’s Audi is sitting in the drive, so they’re back.) Yeah, it can’t be hers. No way. Probably not even somebody else come to see us either. There’s hardly any free spaces on the street and it’s just chance some random parked their car right outside our house even though they’re visiting somebody else.
Still, my legs are feeling a bit shaky as I reach the gate. I glance into the car, sitting right outside. Can’t see any distinguishing belongings or stuff that would mark the car as Ellie’s or not. Walking up the path, there’s nobody visible sitting in the front lounge.
I catch my reflection in the inner door of the porch, and run a hand through my hair, pull myself up as upright as I can. If I had a tie I’d straighten it.
Jeez, I really am thirteen again.
Still staring at my half-reflection in the inside door, in the semi-darkness of the front porch, still outside the house.
This is my place, my folks’ place. But that might be Ellie’s car there at the kerbside and if it is, then she might be in there and if she is in there, then…What was it her brothers were saying? Oh yes: Don’t fucking talk to her. And if she approaches you to talk to you, walk away. Or else.
But this is my territory. This is Al and Morven’s home. Mike Mac wouldn’t let anything happen here, would he? The time that Donald, Callum and Fraser broke in, looking for me, five years ago, words were exchanged regarding this breakdown in protocol, and — according to Dad and Mike Mac — Donald apologised. Even then they didn’t trash the place or take anything; they just wanted to find me if I was there and left immediately when they realised I wasn’t.
And, gathered round the wee hole in the middle of the bridge today, Murdo and Norrie only mentioned tomorrow, at the funeral and the hotel afterwards; that was when they were talking about, that was when I was supposed to keep well away from their sister, not now, not here in what is still sort of my own home. Only this is a kind of lawyerly point, the sort of detail or loophole that, in school, always appealed to the smart kids like me and Ferg, and meant — you rapidly discovered — nothing at all to the kids who thought with their fists. So I doubt the distinction would mean much to the Murston brothers if they found out.
Maybe I should just turn around, head back into town. Phone somebody. Drag Ferg out of his resumed snooze: whoever, whatever. Bar or café, or just go for a drive or a walk by myself; maybe phone Mum and Dad, and if El’s there tell them I don’t want to meet her — call me when she’s gone.
I stare at my reflection. All this has gone through my mind in a couple of seconds at most.
Listen to yourself, Gilmour. And look at yourself. This is the family home. This is still where you belong. Maybe more so than that pleasant but soulless designer apartment in Stepney. If she chooses to come here, that’s her business, not Murdo’s or Norrie’s or Donald’s or anybody else’s. You really going to let the Murston boys frighten you away from your own crib, your own people?
I shake my head at my reflection. Do I
