Callum walks down to the North Beach and looks at the sky. The huge sky that once seemed so blue and so vast he believed he could never want for more. But now it is small. He feels it pressing down on him. Squeezing the air out of his lungs. Flattening him onto this rock of land that takes up no more than a pin point of space on an atlas. He runs up and down. Lies in the sand, face down, hoping the feeling will go away. But it doesn't. It intensifies.
Today is his birthday. It was supposed to be a happy day.
But it isn't.
It isn’t easy leaving a place like Iona either. It gets beneath your skin, digs way deep into blood and bones. Running through the generations until it is as much a part of you as your fingers or toes. Callum was born here and everyone, including Callum, imagines him living, marrying and dying here.
But Callum knows he will die if he stays. Nothing is enough; the one shop, one pub that closes in the winter, one street light that stands at the top of the jetty – or everything is too much – a night sky filled to bursting with stars and a searchlight moon, darkness so absolute Callum has bumped into cows and fallen in ditches walking home.
Days pass and he tries to be who he is. Helping on the farm, chatting with friends. But it doesn't work. He is haunted by the possibility of a future that is so radically different it makes him shake all over. At night in bed, he presses his arms and his legs into the mattress, holds his breath, but still he sways and churns as if he were out at sea. He can't sleep. He can't eat. He can hardly open his mouth and talk without all the words getting muddled up and coming out too fast and in the wrong order.
Concentrate, he says to himself over and over. Concentrate. Feet in black wellingtons walking across the yard to the milking shed. The tip of the biro as it slides across the page. Sound of the wind, wind whistling and whining around buildings, screeching through slits in the barn door. But it never lasts for long. Sooner or later he is in a city full of tall buildings, music, women in high-heeled shoes and dresses that cost more than a pedigree cow.
Every day he looks to the sea for answers. The sea where he has fished and swam and paddled since he was a baby. It taunts him with its constancy. Its ability to rise and fall, push and pull, contain contradictory currents. It talks to him with its waves. It's time to leave, it's time to stay Callum, they say. Over and over like a scratched record. Callum finds himself wishing for God's elbow to descend from the sky and nudge the ocean. To knock it out of its groove and make it lie perfectly calm. But nothing comes and so he hurls stones and rocks as big as he can carry into the slippery blueness.
The more he thinks about leaving, the more trapped he feels. The more trapped he feels, the more he wants to leave. He paces round and round his room. The collie-dog outside his door scratches her nails against the wood and whimpers. She senses the danger he brings to the order of things. Callum lets her in and kneels next to her. Holds her muzzle tight in his hand. Quiet, he says, be quiet. But as soon as he lets her go, she's in the corner of the room snarling. Baring her white teeth, the hair on her spine standing on end. Callum walks out and slams the door behind him.
He tells his best friend Jack first. Jack listens, then smiles. He says, You'll be back within the month just like all the others.
Then his father. He is in the hay barn, sitting on a bale, head in hands. Columns of sunlight falling from holes in the roof to the floor. Specks of dust and straw swirling and whirling in the yellow light.
What is it son? he says.
Callum can hardly breathe. His tongue is too big for his mouth and suddenly there are no words. He coughs and his father waits. Patiently waits, eyes pinned on his son, hazel eyes focused and sharp as a hawk's. Callum shifts his weight from foot to foot.
I'm going away, he says eventually. No-one can stop me, not you not anyone. You can say what you like but you won't change my mind. Callum folds his arms across his chest. He feels strong. He feels in control for the first time in weeks.
Fine, his father says, you can do whatever you want as long as it makes you happy.
Callum isn't sure if he's heard what his father said or what he wanted him to say. What? Callum says.
I said I won't try and stop you leaving. Callum's father points to the holes in the roof. But I'd like you to help me mend those before you go, he says, pushing his hands deep in his overall pockets, knuckles hard as stones against the soft, blue material.
Yes, Callum says, anything you want. Callum turns his back and starts to walk away.
His father calls after him. Callum.
Yes?
Have you told your mother yet?
Callum shakes his head. He's been secretly hoping he won't have to.
I'm not going to do it for you Callum, you'll have to do that yourself.
Callum nods. I know, he says.
His mother is sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine and drinking coffee. Terry Wogan is chattering away on the radio and there is the sickening smell of stew stewing in a large pot on the cooker. Sickening because it is so familiar, so homely. Callum suddenly doubts himself, his conviction melting away as quickly as butter left in the sun.
Dinner isn't ready yet, his mother says.
Callum sits down, drums his fingers on the table top.
Don't do that love, you know it annoys me.
I'm sorry, he says, knotting his fingers together and wishing she could read his mind and all the while his mother gluing her eyes to the magazine, wishing she couldn't read his mind because she doesn't want to hear what he has to tell her. What she has sensed brewing for a long time. Longer than Callum himself.
Mum, Callum says, his voice barely a whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. Mum, he says, louder this time.
Yes?
I've got something to tell you, Callum says.
Yes.
I'm leaving, he says. For good, leaving the island, leaving home, leaving you. I've got to go away. To the city. There's nothing here for me any more.
So this is all nothing is it? she says. Your home, your family, all suddenly nothing.
No, of course it's not. I don't mean that.
So what do you mean?
I want more.
There's always more work to do on the farm, there's plenty here to do if you're bored.
I'm not bored. But I need something different.
Callum suddenly feels stupid. Stupid idea. Stupid boy. He wants her to hug him and say, go, go with my blessing and find whatever it is you have to look for in this world.
And she does say go. Go, she says, but don't think you can come waltzing back when things go wrong. I'm not going to sit around waiting for you so that I can pick up the pieces when you come crawling back after some disaster.
The city isn't just full of disaster mum.
That's what you think.
Terry Wogan chuckles to himself. Introduces a song then carries on talking before playing it. Callum leaves the room, leaving his mother sitting there with a brass band playing the floral dance. She knew this day would come. There was something about Callum, her youngest son, something different about him from the moment he was conceived and spent months kicking and thumping at her belly. An impatience. An urgency that none of her other babies had shown. She wished she could beat him. Beat sense into him the way her own mother had beaten sense into her when she wanted to leave the island. But she can't. She prises herself out of her chair, lifts the lid off the pan and stirs the stew.
Callum buys one way tickets all the way. On the ferry, on the bus, on the train. One way. He is never going back. He looks at the island as the boat leaves the harbour and thinks this will be a memory soon. Jack and his father and his brother and sister waving goodbye. His mother too busy in the kitchen or the yard to come and see him off. He no longer feels scared. Fear has disappeared and now there is only the leaving. The fact of movement. Callum moving into a future where nothing is known except that he has to face it. Alone. Nearly ready yet for the strait-jacket of pressure that has been his constant companion over the last few months to release, allowing him to not only see but take in the different skies and different scales of land that are waiting for him.
Callum finds a seat on the train by the window. He's made this journey before, but it feels different now. Totally different. He grins. Rubs his hands together. Runs his hands through his short, black hair and stares at himself instead of the passing hills and lochs. His hands won't be still. There's an energy running through him, revving him up like a leashed dog with the scent of sheep in its nostrils. He goes to the toilet. He goes to the buffet car. He sits down again and wills himself still because some of the other passengers are starting to look worried. The constant grin on his face. The fidgeting and shifting and fidgeting. He can see them thinking he's a lunatic escaped from Lochgilpead. He can see them holding their children's hands tight and racking their brains to see if his face has appeared in the Daily Record with the words Dangerous! Do not approach, written beneath.
Callum closes his eyes. He may have a destination, but he doesn't know what’s lying in store for him there. No plans - the map is blank – he is erasing all the sure countries of his past that should have continued into the future with him. He will not become a farmer like his father and grandfather, will not marry and live like them on Iona for the rest of his life.
Callum takes a deep breath and relaxes back into his seat. If he isn't careful, he'll be up on the table singing and dancing and telling the whole carriage that this might be an ordinary journey for them, but for him, for Callum McLove, this journey is no less exciting or important than when the first man walked on the moon.
Everything happens quickly in the city. He finds a b. & b., books in, goes out. He runs across roads. Asks for directions from people who speak like their tongues are on fire. He buys a burger and eats it in the queue for the cinema. Every street is full of unknown faces and unknown places and every night he dreams enough crazy scenes to fill the heads of a thousand people. He walks everywhere. His feet hurt. His legs ache. His ears buzz with the shock of new sound. Sirens, traffic, voices.
After five days he phones home. His mother answers.
Are you alright? she asks him, her voice cautious.
Yes, I'm fine, he says.
Are you eating enough?
Of course I am.
And where are you staying?
In a small b. & b., nothing fancy, but it's alright.
Are the sheets clean?
Of course they're clean.
And do the windows open?
Yes.
That's good. You'll remember to let the fresh air in every morning won't you?
Callum wants to say I miss you. Not because he misses her, but because he thinks he should. That it might, in some small way, help soften the wounds he opened in her. But before he can say anything else, the beeps go, the money drops into the box and Callum hangs up. He cranks the door open and walks to the park finds a bench and sits on it. Watches the river. It is fast and full, dark as it rushes along. He lied about the window. It doesn't open. His room is on the ground floor and the windows are screwed in place. It hasn't bothered him until now; as soon as he gets up in the morning he goes out, as soon as he gets in at night he falls asleep. Why did she have to talk about the windows? Here he is in Glasgow. There are cinemas and theatres and bars and shops and at night the whole place buzzes with lights and people and the rumble of underground trains. Why didn't she ask him about any of those things? The things that he's come here to find? Callum balls his hand into a fist and punches his thigh. Then he does it again. Harder. And he keeps on doing it until he is sure the bruise will be fat and black and sore for days.
The park is bigger than he expected and when he eventually comes to an exit, he doesn't recognise the road or any of the buildings on it. He feels in his jacket pocket for the tiny street map he takes everywhere with him. It isn't there. He checks his other pockets and it isn't there either. He curses himself, feels a wave of panic in his belly. The money his father gave him before he left is running out and he doesn't want to waste it on a taxi. He looks for someone to ask, but they're all in a rush. Hard faces, hard feet clicking and clacking on pavements. He imagines his mother's face smiling. Smiling and nodding and smug. Callum has felt safe until this moment. And now he senses nothing but danger. In the people around him. The cars. The buildings themselves. The sun shines bright and hot. Callum starts to sweat. He crosses the road and goes into the first cafe he finds. Lil's Cafe. A dark, dingy chips with everything cafe smelling of grease and cigarette smoke.
There are three booths, benches covered in red vinyl. Callum sits in the middle one and rearranges the salt, pepper, and sugar as he waits for the waitress. The back of the seat opposite is ripped and white stuffing peeks out like the tiniest cloud. He orders sausages and chips and a mug of coffee. It's not what he wants to eat but it's safe in here and there's little else on the menu. The milk heater blasts into action, chips are lowered into boiling fat, bubbling and spitting and loud. When the coffee arrives, he stirs in three spoonfuls of sugar. Burns his tongue with the first sip. Asks for a glass of water and downs it in one. It doesn't make any difference. His dinner tastes of nothing and every mouthful hurts to eat.
Callum wonders what he is going to do. On Iona it had seemed simple; he would come to the city, find a job, find somewhere to live. But now he's here, he feels dwarfed by possibilities. He's walked past the art school a couple of times. Never daring to go in. Back home, it was the only thing he was any good at. Drawing and painting. The classroom walls were covered in his pictures, but he's sure that here they'd laugh at him. Laugh at the creased sketches and unframed pictures that are sitting in the bottom of his bag. Since speaking to his mother he feels like a No-one. A No-one lost in a city where he was convinced he was going to become a Someone. The waitress is coughing and looking at her watch. It's five o'clock and she wants to close. Callum knows that he should pay for his meal and go. That's what you do in a cafe. That's what any sane person does. He watches the waitress as she wipes the counter, the blue counter edged with silver. She is older than Callum, black hair loosely curled, skin the colour of cream. Callum knows he must leave. But the way she moves transfixes him. That and the cool air from the fan above his head, swirling around, quietly buzzing. The waitress disappears for a moment then comes back with a mop and bucket. She plonks them down next to Callum's table.
Haven't you got a home to go to? she asks.
Callum shrugs.
There are places in town if you haven't got anywhere to stay. We're not a hostel you know.
Callum looks up when she says that.
Christ, she says, you're just a boy. Then she sits down opposite him and lights a cigarette. Why me, she says. Why is it always me who gets sent the nut-cases?
I'm not a nut-case, Callum says.
Then would you mind telling me why you can't get up and walk out of this cafe like every other customer I've had today?
I don't know, he says. I don't know.
Alright, I heard you the first time. The waitress mashes her cigarette in the ashtray, goes over to the counter and returns with a pot of tea.
I can pay, Callum says.
Sure you can, she says.
Callum reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five pound note.
O.K. so I was wrong and you were right. But we're still on the same damn planet aren't we?
That makes Callum laugh. He doesn't know why, but he laughs all the same. The waitress pours tea and lights another cigarette.
Can I have one? Callum asks even though he doesn't smoke.
Help yourself.
Callum takes one from the packet and lights it. Tries not to cough as the smoke fills his mouth and throat. He likes the way it slips from his nostrils. White and silent, his breath made visible.
What's your name?
Callum.
Callum. You're not a city boy are you.
Callum shakes his head and takes a deeper draw on the cigarette. Sips his tea, takes a couple more puffs then puts the cigarette out.
Nor me, she said. City girl, that is. Left the highlands twenty two years ago today. I've never been back. Not once.
Why not?
No point. I'm not one for taking hikes in the hills when I can be in a cinema or bingo hall.
Callum wants to look at her face but doesn't dare. So he makes do with her fingers. Her slim fingers, long nails painted pearly pink, a large gold sovereign on her wedding finger. And her wrists. There is something about the way they just appear at the end of her arms. Something delicate and unexpected about them. The hands of a pianist perhaps.
I can't sit here all day, she says, lighting another cigarette. Callum reaches out and tentatively touches her hand. They are soft and warm. He feels as if all of him is in his finger-tips, sensing and stroking, the first human contact he's had since leaving the island.
Do you play the piano? he says.
She laughs. Once, she said, years ago. It sounded so goddam awful they never let me play again.
Do you paint? Callum says.
Listen, she said, I'm a waitress. I cook, I clean, I serve. Don't go putting your dreams onto me son.
I wasn't, I was just wondering, that's all.
No you weren't. What is it you're here for, hey? What is it you want?
I don't know.
Poor country boy, all lost and helpless, she says. But there is something in the tone of her voice. A barb. A sharp barb that hits Callum in the belly. He starts to cry.
Maybe I shouldn't have come here, maybe I should have stayed at home.
Don't give me that shit. Life's what you make it.
Callum's angry now. Don't speak to me like that, he says.
I'll speak however I want. This is my cafe and I'll say whatever the fuck I want to say.
Callum slams his fist down on the table. O.K., he says, so I want to paint. I want to go to art school. Me, that's what I want to do. That's why I'm here.
The waitress is smiling. That's better, she says.
Callum doesn't know himself like this. Breathless, angry, telling the one secret he's kept silent. But he's on a roll now and can't stop himself.
And you, he says, I want you.
The waitress laughs so much tears roll down her cheeks. That’ll be right, she says.
Callum leans across the table and kisses her hard on the mouth. That's as far as he's ever gone with anyone. He doesn't know what to do next. His arms and legs itching to move, but he doesn't know where to put them. The waitress sighs then locks the door and lowers the blinds. She takes Callum by the hand and leads him to the narrow space behind the counter.
On the red linoleum floor. Callum puts his hand inside her jumper and just the feel of her breast, the fullness of it, the unbelievable warmth of it, nearly makes him come.
Not yet, she whispers, pushing him away for a minute, not yet. She takes off his shirt and kisses his nipples. Runs her hands over his shoulders, his elbows, his belly. Takes off her bra and lets him disappear between her breasts. She opens her legs wide for him, unzips his zip and guides him inside.
Sitting on the floor, back resting against bottles of Coke and Irn-Bru. Callum's eyes stinging. Salt tears in his eyes, blurring the waitress and the room, and his body shivering. His body and the room shivering and moving like the sea. And Callum remembers being out in a tiny boat. Fishing for velvet crabs. And the storm coming and rocking the boat and him thinking he might never make it back to land but not being scared. Not being scared even when the waves were higher than his head and he thought this is how I am going to die.
Was it good for you? Callum whispers. It was what they said in the movies. It was what they said in books.
The waitress smiles. Worst fuck I ever had, she says.
She isn't meant to say that. It was my first time, he says.
So tell me something I don't know.
You're beautiful, Callum says.
And the Pope's a protestant I suppose.
I mean it, Callum says. And he does.
Go home, she says.
I don't want to.
Tough. She pushes him away and does up her blouse. I've got floors to mop.
Can I see you again? he says.
There's no law saying you can't, she says. But don't expect this for free again. Next time you pay.
Callum stands up. Takes a good look at the waitress. He wants to remember her. Wants to remember every line and curve of her body and face. What's your name? he says.
Why?
So that when I paint you I can give you a name.
Marlene.
Marlene. I'm going to make you famous Marlene.
Sure.
Her sarcasm can't touch him. He's made himself wide open and found a strength he would never have believed possible. Not the strength it takes to lift bales of hay or push a cow into a milking stall. But the strength to speak the truth as he knows it. He walks around the counter. Marlene is already mopping the floor and doesn't see him take a knife from the cutlery tray and slip it into his pocket.
Thank you, he says, then unlocks the door and leaves.
Somehow, he isn't sure how, he finds his way back to the b. & b. It's as if the streets lead him in the right direction and all he has to do is follow. The lobby is darker than he remembers and smells of disinfectant. The cheap sort that rankles and assaults the senses. He picks up a couple of things-to-do-and-see leaflets from reception and goes to his room. Kicks off his shoes and lies on the bed. Flicks through the leaflets then screws them into balls and aims for the lightshade. The sound of cars outside his window is constant. A constant whine broken by the occasional siren. He feels for the bruise on his leg, presses his fingers into the centre of it. So I'm real, he thinks, I'm not just dreaming. He tries to sleep but can't. He's too awake, too alive, too full of ideas.
Then he's up and packing. Putting his clothes in his bag. Stuffing them in as quickly as he can. He goes to leave, turns, checks that he's left nothing behind. Drops his bag to the floor and goes over to the window. Takes the knife from his pocket unscrews the screws then opens the window wide. Sticks his head out. Passers-by startled by his face suddenly bursting onto the street.
It's after nine o'clock. The sky is still light blue even though it's late. Callum looks at his map and heads back to the park. Climbs the hill. Climbs it all the way to the top and sits there. Watches lights come on. Car lights, bar lights, houselights. Notices how darkness rises up from the ground like steam, filling the spaces between blades of grass, trees, high-rise flats, then right on up into the sky until even the spaces between stars are filled with the comfort of darkness.