9 Evie

9

I fall asleep watching the TV and wake to the sound of shouting in the street outside. I turn off the light and peer through the curtains, looking directly down onto the side gate of the guest house.

Two people are arguing in the pool of light beneath a lamppost. One of them is Addie. A man is standing over her. Older. Taller. He raises his hand, ready to strike her, but stops himself. Addie doesn't flinch. If anything, she leans forward and lifts her chin, as though daring him.

I'm moving, out of the door and down the stairs. When I arrive at the gate, Addie and the man have gone. He is dragging her along the footpath by her arm, away from the guest house. He could be her father. A kidnapper. A rapist. He could be anyone.

I follow them for several blocks, sticking to the shadows between the lampposts. I have the flick-knife in my back pocket, the bulge hidden by my untucked shirt. I don't know if I could use it, but I feel safer having a weapon. I try to call Cyrus. He doesn't answer. He promised to keep his phone on.

I lose sight of Addie near the Waterfront Inn. It's where she told me she worked in the kitchen. I pause outside, debating what to do. I don't like going into crowded places, but I steel myself and push through the heavy glass door into a cloakroom. To my left is a lounge with a low ceiling and round tables where people are finishing meals. To the right is a larger space with a curved wooden bar with beer taps and a mirrored wall lined with shelves holding bottles of spirits.

‘Are you lost?' asks the barman.

‘I'm looking for someone.'

‘A parent?'

‘I'm twenty-two.' I take out my driver's licence. He doesn't bother to check the birth date. ‘I'll have a rum and Coke.'

He scoops ice into a glass and pours a shot. I sit at a table, feeling self-conscious because men are looking at me like I'm a novelty or their next meal.

An old guy approaches, selling raffle tickets. He has a laminated photograph of the prize – a boat on a trailer.

‘It's for the local youth club,' he says, pronouncing it youf.

‘I don't need a boat,' I say.

‘Nobody needs a boat, but you could always sell it or give it away or donate it back to the club.'

‘I win and give it back to you?'

‘Aye, if yer want.'

‘That's crazy.'

‘You don't have any cash, do yer?'

‘No.'

He grunts and moves on. I collect my drink from the bar and ask if the kitchen is still open. The barman looks at the clock on the wall. ‘I doubt it, but I can check.'

He pushes through a swing door. I glimpse Addie before it closes. A woman is talking to her, using her hands, as though signing to someone who is deaf.

The barman returns. ‘Only cold stuff. They can do you a Scotch egg.'

I have no idea what that is but decide to pass. I want to talk to Addie, but I can't just stroll into the kitchen. A shadow falls across my table.

‘Where have you been all my life?' asks a nasally voice.

‘For most of it I wasn't born,' I reply.

The man laughs. He's twenty years older than me, with a fleshy face and gelled hair and a tattoo on his forearm of a cartoon character: Popeye the Sailor Man. I used to watch episodes after school and can remember the words to the theme song, but it didn't make me want to eat spinach.

The man next to him is younger and undersized with a blue-yellow bruise on his cheekbone and a droopy left eye.

‘Let us buy you a drink,' says Popeye.

‘I have one.'

He calls to the barman. ‘Fix her a cocktail, Stuey. Something she'd like.'

‘Don't bother, Stuey,' I say.

Already, he's opening a fridge and taking out different juices.

The men tell me their names, but I don't take any notice.

‘Are you visiting?' Droopy asks.

‘Yes.'

‘How long you here for?'

‘I'm leaving tomorrow.'

‘What do you think of the place?'

‘The locals are pushy.'

‘You're funny.' He turns to his mate. ‘Ain't she funny?'

They lean over me as they talk, smelling of alcohol and stale deodorant.

The barman sets a drink in front of me. It's pink and yellow in a tall straight glass, with a layer of foam on the top.

‘Try it,' says Droopy, popping in a straw.

‘I don't want a drink.'

‘C'mon now. Stuey made it especially for you.'

‘What's in it?'

‘Juice. Alcohol. Normal stuff.'

I put the straw to my lips. The cocktail explodes in my mouth, cold and sweet and sour all at once.

‘Good, aye? Drink up.'

The men lift their pint glasses and clink them against mine.

‘You here with anyone?' asks one.

‘With a friend.'

‘A boyfriend?'

‘No.'

‘A girlfriend?' He sniggers.

I don't bother answering.

‘Plenty of nice views around here,' says Popeye. ‘We could give yer a tour.'

He extends his finger and strokes the back of my hand. I pull it away. He grins. My cocktail has gone. I drank it quickly because I want to get away from this place, but now another one appears in front of me.

The pub seems busier and noisier than before. The men are talking about St Claire and places I should visit and bragging about themselves. One of them reaches into his shirt pocket and uncurls his fingers, showing me a joint with twisted paper ends.

‘We're going to smoke this outside. Want to come?'

I tell myself it's not a good idea, but the cocktails were nice and maybe they can tell me something about Angus Radford.

We leave through a rear door, which leads to a council car park. The temperature has dropped and I wish I'd worn a jacket. We're standing under a lamppost where moths kamikaze against the bulb. Popeye lights the joint and passes it around. I put the soggy tip between my lips. Inhale. Swallow. Smoke bites the back of my throat. I stifle the urge to cough.

A man appears at the pub door. He's the one I saw outside the guest house with Addie. He's wearing black jeans, Doc Martens and a brewery-sponsored T-shirt, acting like he owns the place. He seems to be staring at me with intense blue eyes. I look away and talk to Droopy and Popeye.

‘Are you fishermen?' I ask.

‘Aye,' they answer in unison.

‘Do you know Angus Radford?'

Popeye inhales, holds the smoke in his lungs, wheezing. ‘Why yer askin'?'

‘No reason.'

‘Must be a reason.'

‘I met his niece,' I say. ‘Addie Murdoch.'

The men both look towards the pub, but the blue-eyed man has gone. The joint has come back to me, but I don't want any more. Dizzy but relaxed, I tell myself that I'm making friends and gathering information. We return to the bar. A good song is playing on the jukebox. I start to dance. The men are watching. One of them joins me. Popeye puts his hand on my waist and twirls me around, tipping me over his arm and up again.

Again, I notice the man from the guest house, who is talking to the barman. I try to meet his gaze but can't stare into his blue eyes for more than a few seconds before looking away. It's like he can see straight through me. I don't mean that he's undressing me, or anything like that; it's more like X-ray vision, or that MRI scan I did at the hospital that showed my tumour.

The song changes to a ballad. Popeye wants to slow dance and pulls me closer, but I push him away and go back to the table. Another cocktail is waiting for me.

The blue-eyed man approaches and says something to the men.

‘We're just having a bit of fun with her,' says Popeye.

‘We saw her first,' says Droopy.

They seem to be arguing, but I can't make out the words because their accents are so heavy. Suddenly, the blue-eyed man swings his fist from low down and Popeye doesn't see it coming. It slams into his stomach and I hear the breath leave his lungs. He doubles over and has to be held up and lowered into a chair.

‘It was just a wee dance, Sean. No harm intended,' says Droopy, raising his hands.

Within moments the entire incident is over. Does one punch count as a brawl? Was it even a fight?

The blue-eyed man takes the seat next to me. His hands are large and uncalloused and one set of knuckles is red from where he landed the punch.

‘I believe ye've met mah daughter, Addie.'

‘I saw you almost hit her.'

He doesn't react. ‘My name is Sean, what's yours?'

‘Snow White.'

‘You look more like Little Red Riding Hood. And ye're a long way from yer grandma's hoose. You shouldn't be here. Not by yerself.'

Droopy and Popeye are watching from the far end of the bar, muttering darkly to one another.

‘They don't like you,' I say.

‘This is mah pub. They can always drink somewhere else.'

‘Are you going to buy me a drink?'

‘Nae, lass, yer've had enough.'

He's right, but I don't want to admit that. I feel drunk and stoned and nauseous.

‘Where is the bathroom?' I ask.

‘Through there. Second door on the left.'

Standing up, I try to walk as though I'm sober, but I feel like a puppet being controlled by strings, lifting each leg in exaggerated steps. Inside the Ladies, I lean over the sink and scoop water into my mouth, splashing my face and trying to stop the room from turning. The door opens. Addie slips inside. She's holding a large glass of orange juice mixed with soda water and has two small white tablets. Paracetamol.

‘Auntie Isla says you should drink this,' she says. ‘For the hangover.'

‘I don't have a hangover.'

‘You will.' She smiles, one dimple showing, and leans towards the mirror, checking out her pink hair where the roots are beginning to grow out.

‘Does your dad hit you?' I ask.

‘Nah. He's all bark and no bite.'

‘Why was he angry?'

‘The supermarket called the police, and the police called him.'

‘Are you in a lot of trouble?'

‘No more than usual.' She looks back at the door. ‘I can't stay. Auntie Isla is waiting for me.'

When I return to the bar, Sean is safeguarding my phone.

‘I'll walk you home,' he says.

‘No. I'll be fine.'

Before I can argue, he is steering me towards the main doors. Popeye and Droopy are smoking outside. For a moment, I think there'll be another fight, but they're scared of Sean or not drunk enough to be brave.

As we walk along the footpath, I pull loose from Sean's grasp and bend over, vomiting into the gutter. He holds me around the waist as the orange juice, cherries and alcohol gush out of my mouth and nose, splashing my sneakers.

The flick-knife falls from my jeans and bounces on the pavement. Sean picks it up and holds it in his palm. Finds the trigger. The blade snaps out.

‘Where did you get this?'

‘It's mine. Give it back.'

‘Who gave it to you?'

‘Nobody. I found it.' I try to snatch it, but he holds it out of reach.

‘It's an illegal weapon and it doesn't belong to you,' he says, slipping it into his pocket. I'm too tired and drunk to argue. I want to curl up in a doorway and fall asleep.

‘Come on, Snow White,' he says. ‘It's not far.'

How does he know where I'm staying? Addie must have told him.

The temperature has fallen further and I begin to shiver. Sean makes me wait and goes to a nearby car. Lights flash. Doors unlock. He takes a leather jacket from the front seat and puts it around my shoulders. It smells of something wild and drapes down to my knees.

‘Why did you come here?' he asks, as we walk under the lampposts.

‘I'm trying to find my memories.'

‘Good ones?'

‘No.'

‘You're too young to have bad memories.'

‘What would you know?'

We've reached the Belhaven Inn. I use the side gate. Sean watches as I fumble with the code.

‘Can I give you a piece of advice, Snow White? You should go back to Nottingham.'

‘How do you know where I live?'

‘Good night.'