McPherson
Colby McPherson tugged off his trainers. The run in the crisp sea air had exhilarated him, pumped his veins with oxygen. The dog – fat and unaccustomed to exercise – lay panting on the hearthrug.
‘Och, will you look at Hamish.’ Aunt Irene laughed and set down the tray. ‘He’s jiggered.’ She settled in her armchair, making a sighing sound as if she, too, had chased McPherson three miles along the coastal path and back. She picked up the teapot. ‘So you’ve plenty of building work, aye?’
He’d already explained what he did but she still seemed to think he was a bricky – not McPherson PLC, “Starter Homes with Style”.
‘Yeah, I’m doing OK.’
‘You’ve no plans tae go back tae Australia then?’
‘Nup.’ He took the cup and saucer she offered him. She’d got her “best china” out in his honour, but the cups were too small for his big hands.
‘Don’t you miss it, though? All that lovely sunshine?’
He thought of the furnace heat hammering down like a punishment. The dusty drive to Billonga, the sea too warm to soothe the mosquito bites on his legs. ‘It must be my Scottish heritage, but I prefer the cold.’
‘Och, and you’ve done your mother proud. She keeps sending me photos of her new bungalow. And banana trees, can you imagine?’
He’d gone back to see his mum last June. Given her the keys. She had walked barefoot – dreamlike – across the carpet of grass, her toes curling like a small child experiencing a new sensation. She’d washed his clothes by hand in the kitchen sink, thin red-raw arms pounding, rubbing. Was she too scared to use the machine he’d bought for her, or was this her way of scrubbing out the past?
His aunt paused, her cup half-way to her lips. ‘Sometimes, over the years, I had this feeling that your mum could’ve done wi’ my help…’
McPherson stayed silent.
‘And your dad? What’s he doing?’
He leant forward and picked up a stick of shortbread. He’d anticipated the question – even so, it twisted a knot in his guts. ‘Dunno.’
‘Pity about the drinking. Your mum said it was the heat.’
The heat? McPherson bit back a laugh. That was a new one.
His aunt reached for the teapot. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Last year, when I went to visit mum.’
His old man must’ve got news of the bungalow because he was there in the main street, standing by the car like he was a stray waiting to be adopted and taken home. ‘Son!’ He made it sound like he’d found something he’d been searching for. He smelt of mustard. And piss. He smiled, showing yellow stumps. The eyes, red-veined, had lost something that made you human. He reached out, but McPherson stepped back. ‘It’s too late, dad.’ As he drove away, he waited to feel that fuck-you revenge, instead he had to restrain the impulse to smash his fist through the windshield, angry that the road was blurred by tears.
He drained his cup. The dog had stopped panting and now lay still as if it had been shot with a tranquiliser dart. Out in the street, the neighbourhood boys stood around his Porsche, studying it with the air of professional car dealers. His aunt saw the direction he was looking.
‘Are you wanting kids?’
Never. ‘Maybe,’ he lied. McPherson was scared of only one thing in his life: turning out like his old man. Was it hereditary? That blind rage? Was he capable of swinging a punch at a kid?
‘Your mother said something about a … Lucy?’
His mind went back. Lucy had been, what, four years ago? There had been many more since - all docile and compliant. That’s how he liked his women.
‘We broke up.’
‘Och, well. And your next job? Will that be in England?’
‘Yeah, the Cotswolds. I start the first of next month.’
‘Plenty o’ time for you tae get Hamish as thin as a whippet.’
He laughed. When his cell rang, the dog rolled a pained eye. The ringing tone was Zuzu singing I Will Love You Forever – a legacy from McPherson’s last girlfriend – which he hadn’t got round to changing. He put the phone to his ear.
It was Ryland Arthur, his development manager, right-hand man and friend.
‘We have a problem,’ Ryland said. ‘It’s Beech Wood Rise.
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