The Pure Land Read Free Page A

gaslight, its mantle damaged, the light an eerie sputtering flare. Her red hair was piled up on top of her head, but tousled, coming undone, and her blouse was part unfastened, pulled back, her throat and shoulders bare. She leered at him, the only word for it, part mockery part invitation. He felt exposed and vulnerable, open to her gaze, a wee boy pale and naked. But she kept looking at him, that way, and her look made him hard, a man. It was all right to feel like this, it was fine, no shame in it at all.
    The woman stood with her hands on her hips, tossed back her head.
    ‘Looking for business, big fella?’
    But before he could reply, another figure came out of the dark behind her, a gaunt, hardfaced man who put his thin arms round the woman’s waist, pulled her to him, nuzzled her neck and whispered something in her ear.
    She let out a harsh screech of a laugh. The man glared at Glover, the look pure spite, dismissal. He spat.
    The woman threw Glover a look of regret that said Maybe another time. They faded back into the darkness, left him yearning and foolish and limp.
    ‘For God’s sake, man!’ a voice shouted. ‘Put that away! You’ll catch your death!’
    Robertson had come back to see what was keeping him.
    ‘Consorting with the ladies of the night, Tom?’
    ‘Not quite consorting,’ said Glover. ‘A mere flirtation. A dalliance.’ He buttoned himself up again. ‘She did give me the eye, though.’
    ‘Dog!’ said Robertson.
    They hurried to catch up with the others. The night was full of possibilities and demons.
    Robertson chanted. ‘ The night drave on wi sangs and clatter! ’
    Now they were scuffing along King Street, bawling out music-hall songs. Now they were stumbling along the beach, laughingas they sank in the sand, feet splayed at every step. Now they were passing St Machar’s Cathedral, its twin squat steeples like granite minarets, silhouetted against the deeper dark of the sky. And in spite of themselves they shooshed and hushed each other, affected sobriety, walked upright and respectful past the graveyard, the dead in their long sleep. Now they had reached Brig o’ Balgownie, the old stone bridge over the Don, and Glover was climbing up on the parapet for no good reason other than the sheer doing of it, because he could. And he made his way, step by slow step, on and up to the crest, arms out for balance, the river slithering fifteen feet below. He’d done this as a boy, heedless, padded quick and barefoot along the wall, dived off head-first to splash down into the chill waters. He felt some of that fearless ness now, but had to move steady, tightrope walker in a circus, feet in his muckle boots feeling for purchase. Robertson was full of himself, shouted out, ‘ And win the key-stane of the brig! ’
    One more step and Glover was there, stretched his arms out wide. ‘Yes!’
    One of the others threw him up a bottle of ale and he caught it, slugged it down. Then he jumped back down onto the cobbled pathway of the bridge, bowed as they cheered and clapped. Robertson joined in, then drew himself up, rolled his shoulders.
    ‘I could do that. Easy.’ The drink talking.
    The others howled, started a rhythmic handclap.
    ‘ Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! …’
    He heaved himself onto the wall, arms shaky, not as easy as it looked, stood carefully up and swayed there till he found some centre of balance. For a moment he didn’t dare move, for fear of falling.
    Then he lurched forward …
    ‘ Yes! ’
    one step, then stood there rigid, hunched over, wanting to crouch down and kneel, inch forward like that, but no, he would swing the other foot, take one more step …
    ‘ Yes! ’
    Arms flung back he almost toppled …
    ‘ Yes! ’
    edged inch by inch, rigid and sweating, then rushed it three-steps-in-a-row and made it to the top, stood unsteady but triumphant.
    ‘ Yes! ’
    Glover handed him the bottle and he raised it to his lips, suddenly flailed his arms, gaped one frozen startled