Page 12 of One for the Road
The bloody kid was in my front garden again.
Sitting cross-legged in denim dungarees. Long blonde pigtails that were already tangled. Her tongue poked between her lips as she slotted cubes of Lego together.
Nope. Not today. I didn’t have time for her distractions.
Pressing the fob for my Land Rover, it beeped to life. The kid immediately snapped her head up. “Hi, Ali.”
I hated that nickname.
“See this line here,” I said without preamble, pointing down the middle of the two properties. My half was neatly trimmed. A perfect patch of crisp green lawn that I clipped once a month without fail. Theirs made my eye twitch every time I looked at it. A mess of too-long grass and weeds I knew Isla Lang called “wildflowers” because she’d dumped the empty seed packets inmybin. “You’re supposed to stay on that side of it.”
The kid’s nearly translucent eyebrows pulled together. “Are you a policeman?” Her accent was a lilting mix of crisp English and Scottish, a rolling ‘r’ sneaking out here and there.
“No.”
She turned the Lego over in her fingers, a City Space Explorer I recalled seeing in the Lego shop on my last trip to Edinburgh. “Then I don’t think you can own grass.”
“Oh yeah, says who?”Realmature. Had I truly sunk so low I was picking fights with a kid?
“Me.”
Oh, wellin that case.“Look—” What was her name again? Her mum always called her “sunshine”. I had the pleasure of hearing it fifty times a day through my living-room wall. But was that her actual name? “Kid. You’re what, six? Respectfully, what the hell do you know?” I fully sounded like the Grinch.
It wasn’t that I hated kids. I had two nieces. A quarter of my patients were children. I just . . . they were unpredictable.I hated unpredictable. How was I supposed to comfortably converse with someone when I couldn’t even vaguely anticipate the next words out of their mouth?
“I’m seven.” She held up the correct number of digits. “And I’m super smart. The best in science class.”
Despite my annoyance, a huffed laugh slipped out of me.
She tilted her head, continuing to study me, nose wrinkling like she somehow found me lacking. “Mummy said I shouldn’t talk to you because you’re a grouchy old man, but you don’t lookthatold.”
Another huff. What else had my insufferable neighbour been spreading about me? That I kicked puppies? Howled at the moon once a month? “Your mummy is probably right; you shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
She continued as if I hadn’t repeated the age-old adage that was spouted to every child. She’d probably climb into a stranger’s van for a bag of sweets, too. “You aren’t a stranger; you’re a super spy.”
Fucking kids, man. I crossed my arms, finally accepting I was having a little fun. “What gave me away?” Her mum might be a nightmare, but at least the child was semi-entertaining.
“Your hairy face.” She rubbed her own chin. “Only a spy would have a chinthathairy. To hide your identity.”
“Oh yeah?” I brushed a hand over my jaw. My wee sister, Heather, lovingly called it my depression beard. Super spy felt infinitely better. “Does your dad have a beard too?” I absolutely had the personality of an internet stalker. As soon as something piqued my interest – or my annoyance – my brain demanded every scrap of information I could get my hands on.
In the case of Isla Lang, there was very little.
I’d learned her name from a misdelivered council bill. Iknew she worked at Brown’s, had been raised in the south of England if her accent was anything to go by. And everyone in Kinleith seemed to adore her.
I knew she drove a beat-up old car that was better suited to a scrapyard and dressed like an extra fromThe Brady Bunch– all bold prints, little skirts and sunset colours. A smile that could launch a canned laugh track.
I knew that she was messy and disorganised, always rushing from her house like she was late for something.
I knew that at least twice a week she sat on the rusted old patio furniture in her back garden and stared at the stars.
If I hadn’t seen her walking in daylight with my own eyes, I’d have begun whittling my furniture into stakes weeks ago, because the woman did not sleep.
She banged about in her kitchen until midnight, only for her alarm to blare through our shared bedroom wall at four a.m. Every day like clockwork.
At six a.m., she blow-dried her hair.
After that, I was granted fifteen minutes of blessed silence before the music started. Everything from Marvin Gaye to Fleetwood Mac. I felt like I’d poured an energy drink directly into my brain.
