The Low Road by A. D. Scott Read Free Book Online

Gerry,” at well over six feet tall, and looking like half of that wide, was carved from granite, and his obsidian eyes, which were fixed on his former childhood friend, were as animated as the stone itself. A folded cutthroat razor was keeking from the top pocket of his black suit, worn with a matching black shirt. Used to be black was only for funerals and existentialists, McAllister thought, then suppressed a smile, mocking himself for being so pretentious.
    â€œSomething funny, McAllister?” Gerry Dochery had a high voice, not in the least in keeping with his hard-man image.
    â€œNot at all, Gerry . . . just pleased to see an old childhood pal.”
    Gerry Dochery said nothing, not willing to pursue the subject in front of Mrs. McAllister.
    The razor was an unseemly declaration of his trade. McAllister didn’t immediately see that. His mother did.
    â€œI can’t be standing about for all the neighbors to see,” Mrs. McAllister said. “Come on, John, Gerry, I’ll put the kettle on.” She bustled down the close and had the door unlocked and open before either of them could find excuses to refuse her.
    â€œThanks all the same, but I have to be going.” Gerry Docherytried his best to get out of the offer of hospitality, but Mrs. McAllister was firm.
    â€œYou’ll do no such thing, Wee Gerry.” She was off down the hallway to the kitchen, not checking they were following her, knowing they would. She took off her coat, kept on her hat, put the kettle on, told her son to fetch the milk and the bacon from the outside meat safe. “A cup of tea with old friends,” she said, looking directly at him so Gerry had to look away. “Surely you’ve time for that.”
    And she didn’t like what she saw, and she too looked away. His father’s pronouncement that his son was lost to him now made sense. Remembering the times she had fed the boy, wiped his nose, cleaned him up when he fell off a high wall, carefully picking out the tiny stones stuck in the flesh of his knees and palms before dabbing the wounds in iodine, made her look again to see if there was anything of that lad left.
    He caught her eye. Seeing himself as she saw him—an altogether different Gerry—made him flush. And angry. But he knew he had to swallow it if he was to find out what he needed to know.
    It was the strangest of tea ceremonies, the three of them in the sitting room—it was Sunday, after all.
    She was using her best china wedding service, which she kept for visitors. “How’s your father?” she asked Gerry as she handed him a cup and saucer.
    â€œHe’s fine, thank you for asking, Mrs. McAllister.”
    â€œHe says he hasn’t seen much of you these past years,” she said.
    â€œYou know how it is,” Gerry replied. “You must miss seeing your John an’ all,” he countered, the reproach clear.
    â€œAye. But he writes me a right lovely letter. Regularly.” She bent over the table. “More tea, Gerry?”
    He handed back the teacup and saucer, terrified; the saucer was as thin as ice, and the handle of the cup too small for his sausage fingers. Funny he should be so clumsy, McAllister was thinking, he’s known as a razor artist, able to carve the deepest and most damaging scar in exactly the right part of the face for maximum effect.
    â€œRemember how, when you were wee, you used to call ma husband Uncle John?” Mrs. McAllister was relentless; a rat in a trap had more chance than Gerry. “Aye,” she continued, “one time—I think it was when we were all going for a day trip doon the water thon Fair Fortnight—you said, Thank you, Mr. McAllister , when he bought youse both an ice cream, and ma husband, he says, ‘Call me Uncle John.’ And I said, ‘Call me Mrs. McAllister.’ ”
    They all laughed more heartily than the remark warranted.
    Round three to my mother,