Strange Loyalties Read Online Free PDF

– too late to hide.
    I went round the one-way system until I saw a phone-box. Then I had to find a parking place. I had decided that, before I spoke to Anna, I would get in touch with John Strachan. He had told me at the funeral that he had been with Scott before he died. I think I was taking out insurance against the possibility of Anna’s monosyllabic responses. If she didn’t want to tell me anything, I could defy her silence and still make my journey worthwhile. I phoned Scott’s school.
    â€˜Good afternoon. Glebe Academy.’
    There was a typewriter in the background and a voice saying something I couldn’t hear – those delicious sounds of normalcy that are sweets in the shop-window to an obsessive and he’s a boy again, only able to stare in, without the currency to purchase.
    â€˜Glebe Academy. Yes?’
    â€˜Good afternoon. Could I speak to Mr Strachan, please?’
    â€˜Who’s calling, please?’
    â€˜My name’s Laidlaw. Jack Laidlaw. I’m Scott’s brother.’
    I had nearly said, ‘I was Scott’s brother.’ Grief is often so mannerly that it ties itself in knots. I heard a silence I didn’t understand at the other end.
    â€˜Oh, Mr Laidlaw.’ Then she said something that stuck to my chest like a badge. ‘You had one terrific brother, Mr Laidlaw. A lot of us miss him. Pupils and staff alike.’
    I loved not just the statement. I loved the breathlessness of her voice, the spontaneity with which she said it, the breaking through the barrier of her own embarrassment. It wasn’t something she had said by rote.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said.
    â€˜I’ll get Mr Strachan for you.’
    When he came, I didn’t recognise the voice and I realised I might not know him if I saw him.
    â€˜Hullo. Mr Laidlaw?’
    â€˜Mr Strachan. I’m sorry to disturb your day. I know you must be busy. But I’m in Graithnock today. And I just wondered. Would it be possible to talk to you? About Scott. I just would like to understand it better. I’m sorry to impose on you. But could I see you sometime? Even just for half-an-hour?’
    He hardly paused.
    â€˜You could come to the house tonight,’ he said.
    â€˜You sure?’
    â€˜I’m sure. You’ll still be around later on?’
    â€˜Definitely.’
    â€˜Okay. I’m sorry I haven’t time to warn Mhairi. Or you could eat with us. But you could come after that. If that’s all right.’
    â€˜That’s great.’
    He gave me the address. I was relieved. That meant I was bound to recognise him.
    â€˜Say about seven o’clock. Let’s hope we’ve got the kids down by about then.’
    â€˜That’s great. I’ll see you then. I appreciate this.’
    â€˜It’s no problem. Scott’s worth talking about.’
    His words and those of the secretary were ointment on my mind. Two people agreed with the feeling in me. I felt as if I was a member of a cadre against the indifference to Scott’s death. I was ready to talk to Anna now, invested with more authority than my own mania. I went back to the car.

5
    S cott and Anna’s house was the end one in a street of terraced houses. There were trees in the street, emerging from the buckling asphalt defiantly. As I parked between two of the trees, I noticed the sign. It was stuck in the sandstone chips of the front garden. It said ‘For Sale’.
    I got out and went up the path and rang the bell. It was one of those rings you know will never be answered, tirling into hollow silence. It was, appropriately enough, like calling at a mausoleum. I looked in the curtainless front window. The room was completely denuded. There were lighter patches on the walls where Scott’s paintings had been hanging.
    My memory rehung one of them. It was a big canvas dominated by a kitchen window. In the foreground on the draining board there were dishes, pans, cooking