#320: Saturday Nights In Leith

We don’t go out on Saturdays anymore. In Leith, Saturday nights are overrated. Saturated with scum-of-the-earth, who won’t think twice about dropping a pill in your drink when you’re not looking, hammering you on the shoulder with one hand while the other sneaks into your pocket, or in the case of my Greta, worse.

If I was her, I don’t think I’d bother with men at all. I don’t know why she bothers with me. I met her at 18, and by then she’d already had enough bad experiences to last a lifetime. A trainee nurse would see at least 20 patients a day. A female trainee nurse would be molested by at least one of those patients. I used to find excuses to do the rounds with her, cover the same wards. I was desperate for one of them to say something, try something, so I could step in and sort them out. Play the hero. It happened soon enough, and when it did, she exploded in a torrent of whispered threats. I didn’t say a word. All I could do was think how much I loved her: that and take the syringe out of her hand.

I think she’s asleep now. Dark hair’s tangled in my lap, her breath’s warming my pyjamas. I wasn’t one for pyjamas before I met her. I’m still not one for pyjamas now, to be frank. But she says that if I’m to be the father of her child, I need to dress like a respectable adult. Da always said fatherhood meant sacrifices. I stroke her back absent mindedly, running my hands through the soft fur of her dressing gown. My baby’s in there somewhere, waiting, growing. Thinking about it makes my head swim.

There’s a colossal bang. Greta jerks awake, thudding her head against my jaw.

The fuck was that? She whispers. My first thought: explosion. Bomb. Terrorist attack.

Another bang. Books shake. I feel it through the sofa. My second thought: demolition. They’re knocking down the apartment block and we’re the only ones left inside.

A third. Followed by a howl:

MARTHAAAAAAAAAGH.

Greta’s eyes are wide enough to reflect the TV screen. She rises slowly, her hand on my chest.

The door? she says.

Aye. I say.

But first, into the bedroom. In the cupboard are my golf clubs. Used to go on the weekends before I found out Donald Trump owns the local course. I fish out a good driver. As I do, I hear another muffled scream.

Greta’s in the hallway. He’s shouting a name. He’s shouting, Martha.

Well, isnae the postman, I say. I swallow.

She doesn’t laugh. Get me one too.

Armed golfers, we stalk down the hallway to the front door, which shudders visibly as it’s hit again.

Open tae fucking door, you bitch. Let me in.

I’m in front of Greta, both of us holding our sticks up high. I’m defending her, like I always wanted. I’ll tell you for free, it’s not as empowering as you expect.

I clear my throat, lower my voice. Who the fuck are you?

A pause from outside. I could ask you the same question.

Sorry pal, you’re not getting any fucking info from us. What tae fuck d’you think you’re doing?

Martha, let me in. I need to talk to ye.

There’s no Martha here, you mad cunt. Now fuck off.

The menace returns to his voice. Who’s this lad then, Martha? Are you fucking him? You found another one?

Greta’s voice tends to monotone when she’s scared. There’s no-one called Martha here. If you keep breaking down our door, we’ll call the police, or we’ll knock your teeth down your throat. So take some advice, and git tae fuck.

You — The voice beyond the door falters.

But, I don’t — I recognise the stumbling tempo of the substantially inebriated.

You’re fucked, mate. I try to speak with an air of finality. Go home.

Wait. How long have you lived here?

What’s it to you?

When did you move in?

I snap again. I think I made it quite clear that you ought to —

Greta cuts in. Three months.

A long silence.

Three months. Three months, aye. He’s mumbling to himself, barely audible. Then we hear a groan of floorboards, and a lurching gait back down the corridor. A thud of the distant door to the stairs.

Greta unlocks the door and sticks her head out. Then she slams it shut, drops the club, and wraps her arms around me. One of us is shaking. I think it’s me.

The fuck just happened. I whisper into her hair.

He was looking for her, from the — Greta chokes on tears.

I break apart and grasp her shoulders. Hey. Hey, it’s over now. He’s fucked off.

Isnae over. Where d’you think he’s going?

I don’t know, who gives a fuck? He’s going, that’s what’s important. He’s going to find his Martha, or whoever.

Greta’s jaw is clenched tight. Exactly, Dan. The girl who lived here, remember?

I step back. Of course.

Fucking hell, of course. Martha. We met her on the day we moved in. I carried her suitcase down the stairs while she was holding…

She had the bairn, I murmur. She was tiny, can’t’ve been three months old then. I can’t think, overwhelmed by apprehension.

Cos her husband went to jail! Greta squeezes my wrist tight. She said she was moving in with her parents. So they could help look after him.

But you reckon…she wanted to get away from him?

She never said, but who else could that’ve been?

Greta ran to the kitchen window, and yanked it open. She stuck her head into the night.

Greta, it’s fucking freezing.

Who gives a fuck? She snaps. D’you think he’ll know where her parents live?

I don’t know, do I? Guess it depends — I stutter. Greta’s over by the window, peering down into the concrete courtyard.

Depends on whether they’re local or not. Ah, what if he’s going there now? He sounded like he wis gonna attack her.

Ah fuck, fuck, fuck —

There! She shouts. There’s the bastard.

I run to the window and cram my neck out next to hers. It’s unmistakable. He stumbles and meanders towards the security light, five floors beneath us. Lurching into its path, we see the shadow of —

Dan, that’s a bat, a fucking baseball bat.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck it is. Shite, Greta…

We’ve got to follow him. We’ve got to help.

You can’t go following him. You can’t go running, it could harm the bairn.

Aye, and if we don’t do something, what d’you think’ll happen to Martha’s bairn?

I look at Greta. Her eyes are fire.

Alright, I’ll go and see where he’s off to. I pick up the golf club once more. You shut the door, lock it, and call the police.

The police? Dan —

She squeezes my hand and tries to kiss me but misses in my clumsy haste.

Be careful Dan, you daft fuck. Don’t go anywhere near him. And call the police too, when you know where he’s going.

I thunder down the stairs after him, surely waking half our neighbours. As I emerge from the stairwell into the brooding parking lot, a memory surfaces of the day we moved in. Standing here, loading Martha’s things into a taxi.

Are you heading to the station? I asked.

No, isnae far. She said.

I spot a lopsided silhouette illuminated by a distant streetlamp. Isnae far.

Through the orange-drenched suburbs I track him, second-guessing every step, should a scuff of my shoe alert him to my presence. Boyne Street, Fern Avenue, Fenwick Street, Portside. Eventually I stop trying to be quiet. He’s in the solitary plane of the drunkard. I wonder if I should catch up to him and try to knock him out, but it seems risky. Besides, he’s moving with astonishing speed, all things considered.

He cuts right down an alleyway. In the cloak of dark, I suddenly feel much more vulnerable. I feel in my pocket for my phone, but these fucking pyjamas don’t have any pockets. I’m on my own.

The alley opens up on a street I don’t recognize. The houses here are bigger, facing towards the seafront. Facing away from the tower blocks. Our man is nowhere to be seen.

I step out into the road, conscious for the first time of the golf club resting on my shoulder. A Neighbourhood Watch poster frowns at me from a lamppost. The road stretches on in both directions, silent.

Thirty seconds turn into a minute. I jog a few paces one direction, a few paces another. I’ve got to choose one now, otherwise he’s lost for certain. But how am I supposed to know? I’ve got nothing to go on.

It’s only now I’ve stopped that I realise what a mad situation I’m in. Fuck me, half an hour back I was falling asleep on the sofa, thinking about how bloody content I am. Now my heart’s having a tug-of-war with my ribs, and I’m shaking like it’s my first day on the ward.

I get out my phone. It’s been five minutes. Only thing for now is to report to the polis, hope they don’t arrest me while I’m at it. I swipe through Greta’s nervous messages, and start dialling.

Then, distant glass smashes.

I’m running before I’ve even registered what it means. The house is just over the hill, the only one on the street still with its lights on. I stop in front of it for a second, the phone still in my hand. Fear claws at my capillaries, and I don’t know if I can go any further. I only know I don’t want to. But the door’s ajar. It hangs open, like a tooth punched out of a mouth.

I step over the threshold silently. The hallway is bright, assaulting my dilated eyes. Creeping down the hallway, my club stuck in front of me like a blind man. The door at the end has a dent at head height, only visible from a certain angle. I push it open.

She lies with one leg still stuck over an armchair, and her arm curled around the foot of a coffee table. The arm has long gouges in it, where she’s tried to defend herself. Her head is tucked awkwardly behind the arm. Even from the doorway I can tell it has an unusual shape.

Behind her body, a large window has been smashed. The lights pour into an empty garden. He’s gone. I don’t know why, but I know he’s not coming back. I turn back to her, and check her wrist for a pulse. Second month of medical school, they taught us that. I remember thinking, I couldn’t believe it took so long. I stand up and step back, way back, unable to look away, unable to comprehend.

She is not beautiful in death, she is no fallen angel. She has not gone to a better place. She has had her life snatched from her, and there is no way of framing it which is not tragic, which is not an affront to everything good and wholesome that we use as psychological armour to protect us from the reality of things like this. She is dead, she is gone, and she is dead.

I don’t remember making the decision to leave. I am merely aware of my limbs pumping harder and more efficiently than they ever have done, the golf club flailing beside me, as I sprint back through the alleyway and into familiar streets. Back through the barrier of poverty and wealth, through the barrier of horror and reality. And once I’m through, I know that I will not go back. I will not indulge the horror. I will not bring horror into my life, if I have the choice. Not into Greta.

I turn the corner, breathing ragged, sucking in air like I’ve been winded. There she is. Greta on the street corner, beneath the security light.

Dan! Dan, are y’alright, Dan, are you ok?

Aye, fine. I’m sorry, Greta.

Sorry? No, sorry for what? Dan, I couldn’t get hold of the police, what happened?

I don’t know Greta. I lost him.

You don’t know where he went?

I couldn’t see, love. He could’ve gone anywhere.

Shit, shit, shite.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be ridiculous, I should never have made you go. And what the polis are so fucking busy doing, I don’t know. I’ll try calling again when we’re inside.

I follow her into the cold, draughty stairwell.

No, Greta, don’t.

Don’t what?

Don’t call them. We don’t have any way to prove anything. You know what the police’ll say.

She turns to me, face somewhere between tears and anger, brow crumpled, mouth grimacing.

Greta, they see we live here, they won’t listen to us. You know how it is. Remember —

But I don’t need to remind her. She’s already thinking of October last year, the last night out she had in Leith. What had happened, what she’d told the police. What they’d said. That’s Your Problem, Not Ours, Love. Shouldn’t Dress Like That, Then. Out On The Town While You’re Pregnant, Some Mother You’ll Be.

As I follow her up the weary stairs and bolt the door behind us, all I know is that she needs protecting from everything out there. Her and our little one. And I’m all they’ve got.

I know I should feel horrified, I know I should be fighting to get Martha’s pale face from my head. But truth be told, I can’t picture exactly how she looked. My mind draws a blank. I climb into bed and Greta pushes her nose into the back of my neck, and a few stray tears wet its nape. I shift onto my other shoulder, and put an arm around her, letting her know she’s safe.