Gallowgate answered with a sad laugh. “Naebody will put his picture in the paper. Naebody will miss him.” The man swirled the last of the lager cans, but they were empty. He sat staring at Mungo for a time, a darkening glower, before he asked. “So how long exactly have ye been lying tae yer maw?”
Mungo was confused. “I don’t lie.”
“Come on.” Gallowgate seemed suddenly irritated. He rubbed his temples, his head was surely louping, crying out for one more drink. “Ye’ve been lying about that Fenian. Ye’ve been lying about being a wee bender.”
“I’m no—”
“See! Ye’re lying now.”
Mungo’s hips had seized in the cold and he stood up with a wince. He moved further away from the man and crouched closer to the weak fire. “A minute ago you wanted me to lie.”
Gallowgate snorted. All the syrup in his voice had evaporated. “Aye, yer guid at it. Ah’ll gie ye that.”
He wasn’t a good liar, but he didn’t feel like fighting anymore. He gave in, like he always did, and he shrugged.
Gallowgate tossed a mossed stone at his feet. “So, will ye keep yer story straight?”
Mungo hesitated, not because he felt defiant – he knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach the look on Mo-Maw’s face if he ever told her the truth – he only hesitated because he was tired. Gallowgate’s mercurial mind moved too quickly for him. He was tired of his leash being jerked by this man as though he was a dog that couldn’t keep up. He was tired of the damp cold that rose off the loch, tired of the pathetic, worn brogues that were sticking out of the tent. Mungo met Gallowgate’s eyes for the first time that afternoon and there, in the centre of his brow, was a slight knotting, the first flicker of doubt, fear perhaps. Mungo was glad to see it. He paused and savoured it a half-second longer. “I’ll no tell anyone. Promise.”
“Oh, Mungo.” He sighed. The man’s face changed again, and now he looked at the boy with profound sadness. “Ah telt ye, there’s no fuckin’ way ah’m going back in that jail.”
Gallowgate forced the last of the ravioli into his mouth and smeared the red sauce across the back of his hand. Then he spent a time licking his palm and smoothing his short, straight fringe against his forehead. His eyes fell out of focus and he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. Mungo sat in a daze until Gallowgate leapt to his feet. “Right. Ah need ye to make a pile of stones, heavy ones but small enough so we can fit them into pockets and the lining of his coat.” Gallowgate pointed out into the silent water. “About five or six metres out, the edge drops off in a shelf, from there the loch could be a hunner thousand metres or so deep.” Mungo must have looked reticent, because the man added, “Dinnae worry, there’s nae monster in this loch.”
Mungo didn’t believe him. He was glad to turn his back to Gallowgate. Scotland was made of splintered rock and he soon gathered a large pile of heavy stones. Gallowgate dragged the dead man from the tent, then he carried him to the water and waded out into the deep as if he was going to baptize him. Mungo followed almost reverentially, head bowed and with an armful of offerings. Gallowgate waded out about six metres into the water before he had to tilt his head backwards to breath. “Hurry up,” he spat, “fill his pockets as fast as ye can.”
Mungo took the stones and stuffed them into St Christopher’s waistband, into his jacket pocket, into his trousers. Gallowgate motioned to him for more and he waded back to the shore for another armful. He slid the last pebble into the saint’s open mouth.
Gallowgate showed a great strain on his face, his lips were bloodless and blue. The dead man must have been heavy with all the rocks. Suddenly Gallowgate dropped below the water and Mungo imagined him giving the body one last shove into the nothingness. There were some bubbles and then it was still again. Mungo could picture the glimmering cataracts receding into the dark.
Gallowgate surfaced with empty arms, sputtering and huffing from the cold. His teeth were chittering as they waded back towards the shore. When the water was between his chest and his waist, Mungo felt Gallowgate’s hand grab his wrist. “Wait. Do ye know any prayers?”
“Naw.”
He pulled the boy back towards him and held him in his arms like he wanted to steal all his warmth. Mungo braced his hands against Gallowgate’s chest. He didn’t want the man’s affection. But Gallowgate held him tight. Then he tried to kiss him.
“Please, just let me go home.”
Gallowgate was looking deep into his eyes. His sincerity was unsettling. “Mungo, ah want ye to know, wee Maureen didnae say bad things about ye. What ah said the other day, it wisnae true.”
Mungo was too empty to care now.
“She said she named ye after a saint. That after she did, ye never once made her regret that. She said that you were the softest, sweetest boy she had ever known.”
Mungo felt his feet leave the ground as Gallowgate embraced him. The man clung to him and began to kiss his neck. He was sobbing and muttering that he was sorry as his lips searched Mungo’s chin then his cheek for the softness of his lips. Mungo thought he was apologizing for the bad things that had happened, for the pain in his gut, for the dead body. But then the man forced his kiss on Mungo, his hands shifted to his throat and he pushed him under the water.
It was incredibly still beneath the surface of the loch.
Mungo opened his eyes; the water was so clear that he could see the strain on Gallowgate’s face, the roped muscles protruding on his inked neck as he tried to drown him. He felt the air inside his cagoule buoy him up to the surface, only to be countered by the force of Gallowgate’s fist punching down into his belly, into his heart. He had the sensation of being alone again, the desire to float away into the quietness of the loch, his pockets filled with wildflowers.
Mungo remembered the disposable camera in his pocket – it was a foolish thing to think of but it had been stupid of him to forget to take it out. Now he would never be able to show Jodie the beautiful castle, he could never show James the bleached ram’s bones. James. He wanted to go home so badly then. He didn’t care about Hamish or Mo-Maw or Gallowgate; he wanted to see the oil rigger’s son one last time and kiss the pink softness behind his sticky-out ears.
That was a thing that could never happen.
Gallowgate stopped punching into the boy. His hands clamped around his throat again as he choked the last of the air out of him. Mungo was barely aware that his own hands were flailing, grabbing for the sky. He was grabbing for Gallowgate’s face, but he couldn’t reach, his arms were too short. He saw St Christopher in his last moments and knew now how much drowning burned. Funny that. He saw the Catholic boy and his beatific smile as he marched the length of him.
With Gallowgate’s hands on his throat the last air pockets in his clothes tilted his body till it was inverted and his feet were skyward. He felt the disposable camera and Gallowgate’s discarded lager can slide out of the kangaroo pouch. It was all shifting inside him, turning upside down, Jodie’s school photograph, James’s birthday bear. Then something came to his mind, something he had forgotten.
He fumbled the blade Hamish had given him. He gripped it tightly and swung it into Gallowgate’s stomach. His hand stuck there, pinned to the man, and he had to tug hard to pull it out before he could swing it again into his ribs. The loch water was freezing cold, but he could swear he felt the warmth of the man’s blood pump over his fingers. He swung wildly, again and again, until the hands released his throat and he floated out into the loch.