The Dead Beat Read online

  The Dead Beat

  DOUG JOHNSTONE

  For Tricia

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Angus Cargill and all the team at Faber & Faber for their incredible dedication and support. Thanks to Allan Guthrie for his invaluable feedback. Thanks to Emma Coates and Ashley Davies for their knowledge of electroconvulsive therapy and obituary writing respectively. And the biggest thanks go to Tricia, Aidan and Amber for being the reason for it all.

  ‘If you’re so special, why aren’t you dead?’

  The Breeders, ‘I Just Wanna Get Along’

  1

  Martha was surrounded by death.

  She swallowed, trying to work up some saliva as she walked through the graveyard. She knew where she was headed. A bluster of wind made the leaves on the oaks rustle as the traffic noise from Portobello Road over the wall receded.

  She’d lived ten minutes from Piershill Cemetery her whole life, but it had barely made a blip on her radar until last week. Her dad’s funeral.

  The cemetery was huge, much bigger than there seemed to be room for in this forgotten corner of Edinburgh. The no-man’s land between Meadowbank and Portobello, the dead zone that didn’t seem to be part of the city’s consciousness, just a suburban sprawl round the back of Arthur’s Seat, a pebbledashed dream divvied up into slices with anonymous names like Northfield, Mountcastle, Abercorn. And Duddingston, her own neck of the woods.

  She walked past the old gravestones, heading for the newer, shinier plots. The grave markers got smaller and cheesier as she went, corny carvings of old men fishing or angels fluttering. Puky stuff. More fresh flowers as she went on and some other crap too, handwritten notes, a pair of worn slippers, a couple of cans of Tennent’s and a half bottle of rum at one grave.

  She read the inscriptions as she went past, and worked out the age that each person had been when they died. Eighty-seven, sixty-two, thirty-nine. Dead person bingo. The old-timers, fine. Twenties and thirties, ah well. One teenager, that made her think. She was older than a corpse.

  She walked past a gravestone with a carved baby elephant sleeping at the bottom. Looked at the inscription. ‘Our Wee Angel, Gemma Marie Davis, Born to Live on a Star’. Checked the dates. Three days old.

  Martha took a deep breath and moved on.

  And then there he was. Her dad. Simple grey granite slab. ‘Ian Lamb’. No ‘devoted husband’ or ‘loving father’. Just the name and the dates. 1970–2014. Forty-four years old. Younger than most in here, but still. Old enough to have two grown kids he hardly ever saw.

  There was a bunch of yellow carnations at the foot of the gravestone, already battered by the elements and wilted. She crouched down and fingered the stems, looking for a card. Nothing. She stood up, cricked her neck and rolled her shoulders. Stepped up to the stone and kicked it.

  ‘You arsehole,’ she said.

  She scuffed at the earth over the grave. There was grass seed scattered on top of the dirt, but it hadn’t bedded in yet.

  She sighed. ‘You stupid coward.’

  She hadn’t attended the funeral last week. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She’d been so furious with him that she’d worried she might break open his coffin and strangle his corpse in front of everyone. So she’d turned up late and hung about at the other end of the graveyard, the Jewish bit, lurking between gravestones like something out of a Hammer Horror, watching proceedings from a safe distance, not engaging with anyone.

  There had only been half a dozen people there. She couldn’t make out any of their faces from where she hid amongst the Hebrew carvings and Stars of David, but she knew anyway that she didn’t know any of them. Probably just a handful of colleagues. Elaine hadn’t gone. Calvin hadn’t gone. He had no other family. She didn’t know anything else about his life. She only knew about his death, and maybe the circumstances around that were why so few people had gone to his funeral.

  She’d waited until the ceremony was over and everyone had left. She walked round the cemetery, circling closer, but didn’t go to his grave. She couldn’t. She found herself back at the Jewish end, tracing her fingers along the strange, backward writing she couldn’t fathom. She left without visiting him that day.

  But she was here now.

  She looked around. The cemetery was flanked on two sides by busy roads. A number 5 bus went past along Northfield Broadway, the punters on the top deck gazing out in their own little dream worlds.

  The rest of the graveyard was surrounded by the same 1960s semi-detached breezeblock houses that were everywhere around here. Just about affordable slivers of homespun happiness. It must be cool, she thought, to have hundreds of dead bodies buried out the back of your home. How would it feel to wake up every morning, open the curtains and spy that mass of human decay? She noticed barbed wire running along the tops of the fences adjoining the cemetery. To keep the vandals out, or the zombies in?

  Along the path, two men in overalls were unloading gardening tools from the back of a flatbed truck. The everyday job of maintaining the dead. She turned back to her dad.

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  She pictured the end of Carrie, the hand rising out the dirt. She had watched it one night drunk with Cal, cosying into her brother at the scary bits, both of them laughing when she jumped. They’d watched that the same night as Pet Sematary, a Stephen King double bill. Cal was the horror fan, Martha just liked the company. She wondered if there was a pet cemetery around here. She could bury Ian there and have him reanimated as an evil, decomposing killer.

  She hunkered down by the grave again, stared at the ground. She wanted to see something, a sign.

  A wood pigeon flapped down and began pecking at the grass seed she’d kicked up. Almost close enough to grab its neck. Its glassy eyes were oblivious to her as it strutted across her father’s fresh grave. She thought about the bullshit of reincarnation. Maybe the wood pigeon would eat the grass seed and fly off, imbued with the spirit of Ian, the selfish, moronic spirit of her dead dad.

  She stood up and the wood pigeon flustered into the sky.

  ‘Well, today’s the day,’ she said to the gravestone. ‘You remember, right? You arranged it. My big chance at the Standard. Follow in Daddy’s footsteps and all that.’

  Her tone was aggressive, sarcastic.

  She unbuttoned her coat and held it open to show off the maroon blouse and neat black skirt.

  ‘Look, I even dressed like a grown-up.’

  With the tights and shoes she felt weird, not the jeans, T-shirts and Cons she was used to. But it also felt good, somehow. Empowering, like she was a real woman.

  She buttoned her coat and walked away from the grave, heading for the exit, purpose in her stride. As she crunched down the path, the wood pigeon coo-cooed at her from the branches of an oak. She smiled and doffed a pretend hat towards it.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she said to the bird.

  2

  Across the road from the bus stop two guys in Kappa stood outside the chemist, swigging methadone from tiny plastic cups. They walked to the empty playpark, slouched onto the swings and stared at Martha.

  She turned away and looked for her bus. She dug into her satchel, felt around, then pulled it out. A brick-red Sony Walkman, scraped around the edges, thick black buttons up the side, a built-in microphone at the top. The cassette player she’d liberated from Ian’s flat on the day of the funeral. She’d looked it up, it was first produced in 1990, three years before she was born.

  A teenage mum with a toddler in a Hibs top was waiting for a bus. She stared at the Walkman.

  ‘Where did you find that relic?’

  Martha shrugged. ‘It’s my dead father’s. Got a problem?’

  The girl pulled he
r son to the other end of the bus stop.

  Martha rummaged in her bag, her hand rattling around the cassette boxes inside. She grabbed one and eased the tape out, flipped the lid on the Walkman and put the tape in. She plugged her earphones into the socket and pressed the chunky Play button. Two seconds of fuzz and crackle then a burst of guitar riff, drums and bass clattering in after. She looked at the cassette box. It’s a Shame about Ray by The Lemonheads on side A, Last Splash by The Breeders on the other side. Neither meant anything to her. She’d look them up later. She was listening to The Lemonheads. Sounded good, kind of slack.

  This was like an archaeological dig, listening to stuff Ian was into before she was born. Stuff he might’ve listened to with Elaine, when they were together as young lovers. Maybe they went to see The Lemonheads or The Breeders live. Maybe they smoked grass beforehand, slammed tequilas later and danced all night. She tried to imagine her mum as a young woman.

  She still held the cassette box in her hand. The track listing was written by hand on the TDK insert card in untidy block capitals. She slid it out and rubbed her thumb over the ink. Tried to comprehend a time before she existed.

  The bus arrived. She got on and sat upstairs. The Lemonheads were singing about a ship without a rudder.

  She thought about being at Ian’s flat. After loitering at the cemetery she’d headed straight for Broughton Street, to The Basement where Cal worked. He was only doing the day shift, so she drank and kept him company, then he joined her at the other side of the bar when he finished.

  Things got messy, as always. They argued, as usual.

  Cal didn’t get his sister’s obsession with their biological dad. Ian hadn’t played any part in their lives growing up, so who the hell cared? Martha couldn’t explain it, but she needed more than that.

  She and Cal never agreed on anything, but she loved him to death.

  Twins.

  She dwelt on the past, Cal thought only about the present. She was motivated for the future, Cal drifted through life. She was straight, he was gay. She was short, he was tall, she was curvy, he was stocky. She was plain, he was beautiful. Cal would argue it the other way, but he was wrong.

  And they dealt with their depression in opposite ways. Soon after diagnosis as thirteen-year-olds, Cal was sorted on medication and counselling. Martha hadn’t settled on anything for years, yo-yoing in and out of darkness, the brutal, life-sapping crush of it. Until ECT last year. A few minutes under anaesthetic, a recharging of the batteries, and boom, she was back on solid ground. Which reminded her, she had sessions coming later this week.

  Couldn’t come soon enough. Everything with Ian and the work experience placement was pressing down on her, making it difficult to breathe. She tried to think of the relaxation thing she’d learned, but it was just breathing, right? How hard could it be to breathe? Very, it turned out.

  After The Basement closed that night they’d walked to the spot where it happened, North Bridge, on Martha’s insistence.

  Cal wasn’t impressed. ‘This is sick, Munchkin.’

  Martha stood on the east side of the bridge looking out. The Firth of Forth was flanked by Calton Hill and Arthur’s Seat. A lighthouse blinking somewhere out there. She looked straight down at Waverley Station. The workmen had been at it for years. She noticed that the glass roof nearest to the bridge had been replaced by metal.

  She couldn’t see properly, so she hoisted herself up onto the wall of the bridge.

  ‘Hey,’ Cal said. ‘What are you doing?’

  She looked at him. ‘It’s OK, I’m not my father’s daughter.’

  Nevertheless he stood next to her, his hand at her back, ready to grab her.

  She looked down again and realised. This was the best place to jump. Ian had slammed into platform 8, his body found at 3.40 a.m. by a security guard on a routine patrol. Martha looked along. At the north end of the bridge, the drop wasn’t enough onto the metal roof of the covered platforms. At the south end, the raised curve of Market Street underneath reduced the falling distance by half. So this little gap here, uncovered platform 8, was by far the biggest fall you could manage. Just to be sure you didn’t survive. How very considerate of him.

  Martha hopped down. ‘Come on.’

  They turned at Drummond Street, past the sex shop and the old barber’s, to number 42.

  Cal shook his head. ‘I haven’t been here since that time we visited drunk. How old were we?’

  ‘Thirteen. Same year as the diagnosis.’ Martha did the ‘mental’ finger loop at the side of her head and crossed her eyes. Cal laughed.

  Martha had been here since then, but not regularly. Ian was always crying off, too busy with work or other, vague stuff, just seemingly never the right time.

  She raised a boot and kicked at the stairwell door. It was after two in the morning.

  ‘Hey,’ Cal said.

  ‘I want to go in.’

  Cal pulled her aside. ‘Kicking down doors is man’s work.’

  He mugged being macho, showing off his muscles, then stepped back and placed a perfect heavy shoulder on the lock, which snapped open. That was another way they were different, Cal went to the gym most days, studied Taekwondo and played rugby. The nearest she got to a workout was lifting a pint to her lips.

  They busted the flat door just as easily and went in. The place was a tip. A bachelor pad for a man in his forties with nothing to show for life. Carry-out food cartons and beer cans. A PS3. Some mood-stabilising medication in the bathroom cabinet, the seal unbroken.

  On a low shelf Martha found the Walkman and the cassettes. Dozens of them, all with his scratchy handwriting. He had a tape deck on his hi-fi, so she slipped one in as Cal found a bottle of vodka in a cupboard and poured some into mugs. She looked at the cassette box. Ten by Pearl Jam.

  Cal handed her a drink. ‘So, this giving you the closure you need?’

  Martha clinked mugs. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘My poor, troubled sister.’

  ‘I said, fuck off.’

  They staggered out at five, the sun smudging the edges of rooftops, Martha with the Walkman and a handful of cassettes in her bag. Flagged a cab home to bed.

  Now she was headed the other way. The bus was on London Road, then past the Playhouse and up Leith Street. Her stomach tightened as they turned onto North Bridge. She looked west. Stared at the castle, then the Standard Hotel, converted from the old newspaper offices. That must’ve been where Ian began working for the paper. In a time before her, before Cal, before the internet and smartphones and apps. When news was printed on paper. As foreign to her as the Stone Age.

  She pressed the button and got off at the end of North Bridge. She pulled her coat tight and headed along the Royal Mile, past the tat shops and tourist trail, then down St Mary’s Street to Holyrood Road. The Lemonheads finished doing a cover of that Paul Simon song from an ancient movie she’d seen with Cal, then the tape went silent. She pressed Stop and bundled the Walkman into her bag.

  She was standing opposite the Standard’s office, the Crags looming behind. The sun was high in the sky, hazy behind thin cloud. The wind was fresh, rustling the leaves on the trees in front of the building. Spring had arrived. She checked her watch. Five to midday. Five minutes early. She took a big breath, widened her eyes, tried to shake the past and the darkness from her brain, and crossed the road to her new job.

  3

  ‘I’m here for work experience at the Standard, on the news desk. I’m supposed to report to the news editor.’

  The receptionist was the same age as Martha, peroxide hair extensions, push-up bra too tight and sticky lip-gloss. ‘Name?’

  ‘Martha Fluke.’

  ‘Fluke?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Take a seat.’

  She stalked around the reception area trying to look casual, trying to feel calm, trying to breathe. Not long ago, the news editor would’ve been Ian. She didn’t know if they’d replaced him yet. The plan had been that neither of them wo
uld reveal she was his daughter, didn’t want accusations of cronyism or nepotism, even though he’d never really been much of a part of her life. The different surnames helped. She would be treated like any other third-year journalism student on Easter placement, exploited as free labour for three weeks, doing all the shittiest jobs. Now, with Ian’s suicide, she was doubly sure about not revealing the connection. The last thing she wanted was to be connected to that stigma.

  She pulled a small mirror out her bag and checked her make-up. Infinitely better than Little Miss Trowel-Face behind reception. Just a thin layer of natural lippy, a little smoky eye shadow and mascara to offset the blue eyes and auburn hair. Her eyes were her best feature, easy. Lips not bad either, a natural pout. Couldn’t do anything about the stubby nose or the square jaw, but the spread of freckles across her cheeks helped a little. She tucked her hair behind one ear and put the mirror away.

  ‘Fluke?’

  Martha turned. A woman was swishing her pass on the security gate and waving her over. She was late twenties, black hair in a ponytail, and wore a Motörhead T-shirt with the cleavage and sleeves cut out. She had big tits, bigger biceps, a black eye and a cut lip.

  Martha walked over and held out a hand. ‘Martha.’

  She got a slap on the back.

  ‘I’m gonna call you Fluke cos it’s a cool name.’ The accent was American, somewhere Southern. ‘I’m V.’

  ‘V?’

  ‘For Virginia. My asshole parents are eternally disappointed in my lack of virginal status.’

  Martha stayed quiet.

  V pointed at her eye. ‘You’re wondering about the shiner, right? You should see the other bitch. I’m an amateur wrestler, helps let off steam after this stinking shitheap. Sorry, you’re probably full of journalistic principles, right? Forget I said what a backstreet abortion of a paper this is.’ V threw out a massive smile and nudged Martha’s back. ‘Come on, let’s walk and talk.’