Keeping Christopher

Chapter 1

A puffy body warmer, beanie hat and thick gloves kept the middle aged man warm as he scraped his rake across the small patch of lawn in carefully measured strokes, gathering leaves, twigs and an old bird’s nest into a neat pile. All he had to do now was get the accumulated heap into the open mouth of the sack waiting in the wheelbarrow before the wind could snatch them up and…

Bugger.

‘Stand to, soldier!’

Nathaniel Mackie looked up from the scattered heap to see his wife making her way along the path at the rear of the cottage, a mug in each hand, steam curling from them into the frigid air. He leaned the rake against the tree, tugged off his gloves and took one from her, his fingers grateful for the warmth.

‘Thanks hen.’ He pecked a kiss to her cheek, creaked down onto the low garden wall, and took a careful sip of hot milky coffee. ‘Ahhhhhhh. Needed that.’

‘Not going that well is it?’

‘Like the labours of sodding Sisyphus. Any biccies?'

Megan Mackie took a chocolate digestive from the pocket of her apron. Nat took it and bit into it.

'I've still got to prune the blackcurrant bushes, and then the roses. I was going to light a bonfire—'

'Well, let me take the washing in before you do,’ she said. ‘I don't want my sheets smelling of smoke. I'll put the chucks in too. If you frighten them into thinking they're about to get roasted—'

The sound of a vehicle in the lane made them both look around to see the unmistakeable red and gold livery of the Royal Mail van bobbing its way toward the cottage on one of its thrice weekly deliveries. It swept a wide circle in the spacious yard before coming to a halt in the shadow of the couple's substantial Overfinch Range Rover.

'We have got to get the lane resurfaced,' she murmured guiltily. 'It's in a shocking state. One of these days someone's car is going to be wrecked in one of those potholes.’ She hailed the postman. ‘Good morning, Dougie.’

'Mornin' Ms Mackie,' he said, gravel crunching under his boots. 'Crivens, I feel like I've jest ridden a roller coaster comin' doon theer. I've driven on worse...but no' many.'

‘I know. I'm so sorry. We'll get the potholes fixed just as soon as we can. Within the next month or so, I promise. What have you got for us today?'

'Jest the usual I'm afraid.’ He held up a bundle of mail secured with an elastic band. 'If ye'll sign for this 'un. It's recorded delivery for Mr Mackie.'

She scribbled her signature on his electronic pad.

'Ye has a couple of packages, too.' Dougie handed her two small white boxes. ‘He been ordering things he don’t need off t’interweb agin?’ He winked slyly.

'Probably. Have you time for a brew? Nat and I are just having one.'

'No' today, thankee, but the missus says to ask if you have any more of those lovely eggs. The last lot were braw. She said she'd never seen yolks sa orange. Half a dozen will do if you can spare 'em.'

'Of course I can. Come on in.'

She led him through the gate and around to the rear of the cottage to where Nat still sat enjoying his break. The two men exchanged greetings and she left them to chat while she took the bundle of mail indoors, placed it on top of the fridge, and cartoned up six eggs from the eight her 'girls' had so generously provided that morning.

'Those'll be smashing,' said Dougie, when she handed them over.

'Not before you get them home I hope.'

He barked out a short laugh and asked how much he owed her.

'One pound fifty should cover it.’

'Chicken feed, Ms Mackie! You'll never have enough to retire oan. It's nowhere near the price they are in the supermarket.'

'I'm not in it for the money, Dougie. Good food is worth its weight in gold.'

'And these certainly are good. They'll go down a treat wi' ma breakfast bacon.'

He fished in his pocket for coins and dropped them into her hand, thanked her on behalf of 'the missus' and returned to his van to continue with his round.

Nat drained his mug. ‘Hmmm. Breakfast bacon. I can't remember the last time I had proper bacon, all thick and fried and fatty...' He smacked and licked his lips.

Megan wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Play your cards right and today might just be your lucky day.’

Megan took the mail through to the comfortable sitting room, to where Nat, forced by fading daylight and falling temperatures to abandon his labours, was kneeling at the hearth preparing the fire for a cosy evening in.

'There's some post for you, Nat. Parcels, bills, and this…’ She waggled a blue envelope. 'Handwritten.' A sniff. 'Pongs a bit. Is it from your mother or have you got a secret admirer with a poor sense of smell?'

Nat got to his feet and wiped his sooty hands down the legs of his jeans, leaving dull black streaks, took the envelope and squinted at it.

'No, it's a local postmark and it's not Ma's writing. I don't recognise it.' He turned it over. 'No return address.' And back. 'I wonder who could be writing to me.'

'There's only one way to find out isn't there?’

Once he had the fire burning steadily, Nat settled into his chair to read his mail and examine his furtive purchases by the gentle glow of the ornate Tiffany lamp, leaving the mysterious blue envelope until last.

He sniffed it. A floral perfume; heavy, cheap - familiar.

He slit it open and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of paper in a matching shade of blue, also perfumed and covered with large, scrawled handwriting.

Dear Nathaniel Mackie,

You perhaps do not remember me. My name is Irana Petrova.

The name also had a horribly familiar ring to it.

Please forgive my writing being not so good, English is not my first language, but I think it will be well enough for you to understand if I keep it simple.

Last December we have drinks in a bar in town with your friend Mr Phil, and then we go to your house and have sex...

English may not have been her first language, but it didn't stop her from coming directly to the point, forcing the bell of recollection to ring out loud and clear.

A noisy crowded bar; a well-endowed bottle blonde with a pronounced Eastern European accent; driving her to his place; a session of meaningless animalistic sex and waking up next morning hugging the toilet bowl, stinking of vomit and in the grip of a gargantuan hangover.

Low ignoble episodes from almost a year ago. Ones best forgotten. Who was she to drag them back to the surface?

He read on.

There is no round about bushes way to put this, is best to be direct so I tell you. On 13 September this year, I gave birth to a little boy - I call him Tomasz, but you should know, the boy, he is your son. What to do, we need to discuss, so it would be good if you can phone me on the number given under and we can meet and talk.

Best wishes.

Irana Petrova.

He fell back into his chair, staring fixedly at the note, two words blazing from the page as if illuminated from within.

Your. Son.

Heart pounding; blood roaring in his ears; mouth as dry as sandpaper.

'Meg.' He could only manage a hoarse whisper, her name caught in his throat. A convulsive swallow loosened it and he pushed it out again, full volume. 'Meg!!'

She strolled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. 'There's no need to yell, I'm only—' One look at his eyes, huge and moist in his sweaty, ashen face, made her heart skip in its beat and she was by his side in two strides. 'Darling, what's wrong? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor? What's the matter? Is it the letter? Is it bad news? Let me see.'

He held up the creased and crumpled sheet of paper clutched in his trembling hand. She prised his fingers from it, straightened out the creases against her leg and read it for herself, lips moving silently as she lowered herself onto the footstool. A suffocating silence enshrouded them both, the slow and steady ticking of the mantle clock measuring out the seconds.

'Irana Petrova? I met her once didn't I? Blonde? Leggy? Big boobs?'

Nat, still too stunned to say anything, simply nodded.

'She was the woman you took home to Struan from that seedy bar in town? The one Phil McNeil introduced you to?'

He found a small, unsteady voice. 'Aye.'

'I remember, because she used some awful perfume...' Sniff. 'This perfume...and you let her use the best china, even though you would never let me touch it.'

'Aye.'

'And then you sneaked her out the front door because you were afraid I might say something and embarrass you.'

'Aye.'

'Is that all you have to say?'

'What else do you want me to say, Meg? Do you want me to lie, to deny I know her or that anything ever happened? What would be the point? You already know everything. You gave me a right royal bollocking if I remember, and took great pleasure in pointing out the error of my ways.'

'It wasn't a pleasure, believe me.' She cast her mind back for more details. 'I asked you at the time if you'd used protection.'

'Only because you knew I hadn't.'

'...and I may even have said something on the lines of, 'Let's hope you didn't get her pregnant'.'

'Aye, those words exactly.'

'Oddly prophetic wouldn't you say?'

'I only slept with her the once, if it warrants such a description, and it didn't mean anything.'

She twisted on the stool to face him squarely. 'Did no-one ever teach you the facts of life, Nat? If it's the right time, once is all it takes, whether it's done lying down, up against a wall or standing on your head, and it certainly doesn't matter whether it meant anything or not. Meaning doesn't create babies; biology does.'

'Alright,' he snapped. 'Don't get on your high horse, I don't need the lecture.' He immediately relented. 'I'm sorry, hen. You are absolutely right.' He dropped his head into his hands and swore.

'What do I do now, Meg?'

She read the letter through again in total silence, folded it into a small, neat square and handed it back to him.

‘I think you already know.’

Chapter 2

Nat sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the telephone extension on the bedside table, the letter with the crucial telephone number in his hand.

Megan, cross-legged in the middle of the duvet, watched his mirror image in the darkened window. Through the reflection their eyes met.

'Don't stare at me like that,' he said. 'You're making me nervous.'

She folded her hands into her lap and looked at them instead, keeping him in the periphery of her vision.

'Okay. Here we go.' He picked up the handset, paused, and then replaced it in its cradle. 'I'll do it tomorrow. It's too late now.'

'It's only half past five.’

'It's dark out. It will be better in the daylight.'

'What possible difference can it make whether it's day or night-time? You're just making excuses and pathetic ones at that.'

'No I'm not—'

'Yes you are. Do you want me to do it?'

'No.' He picked up the handset again. ‘I’m doing it, okay?’ He managed to stab out three numbers before slamming the handset down and falling back onto the bed, arm over his eyes. ‘God’s sake, Meg, this is insane. What the hell am I doing?'

'Trying to find out if you have a son.'

He sat up to read through the note again. ‘What if it’s some kind of wind up? A sick joke, or payback for what I did?'

‘For having a one night stand with her? She should be flattered.’

'No. Afterwards. When I took her home next morning, we were sitting in the car outside her place and I took out my wallet to give her some money to replace the dress I tore. Of course she jumped directly to the conclusion that I was going to give her money for...you know, for sex, like she was some common prostitute.’

'Well she was, wasn't she?'

'To be honest, Meg, I never have been sure. If she was, she would have taken the money wouldn't she? Instead she was all righteous indignation and a slap across the face. Bloody hurt that did. She stormed off and I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since. Phil McNeil only mentioned her once more, a few weeks later, offering to fix me up with her again, as if he were–?'

'Her pimp?'

'Aye, the concept did cross my mind at the time.'

'Do you think he was?'

'I wouldn't put it past him.'

'Did he ever ask you for money?'

'No, but he did seem rather keen to set me up with another date with her.'

'Maybe the first go was on the house, a sort of free sample try before you buy...like they do with cheese in the supermarket.'

'Well he didn't get anything out of me. I turned him down flat. Told him to bugger off.’

‘When was this?’

‘The day the lecherous bastard turned his attention to you.'

'And you smashed his face in for his trouble?'

'Aye.'

Another day Megan recalled all too well as her mind's eye conjured up McNeil's smarmy grin stretched wide across his pudgy face, and her backside relived the pain of his large clammy hand closing on it, pinching flesh between his clumsy fingers. The unwarranted manhandling of her broke the dam of Nat's barely restrained rage. He dragged McNeil through the kitchen by his lapels and tossed him out into the snow, before smashing a fury driven fist into the man's nose, breaking it badly.

It all went downhill from then on.

Nonetheless, McNeil could be a valuable source of information, and as repellent as contacting him might be, it could be worth a try.

'Maybe Phil's still in touch with her. Maybe he's seen her about,' she said. 'He might be able to tell you whether it's true or not. You could always give him a ring and ask him first, before you contact her.'

Nat grimaced and shook his head. 'No chance. If he doesn't know anything, merely asking the question will be enough to start him digging about, and then—'

He drew his fingers across his throat, knife like.

'Maybe not then.' Her brow rippled. 'Here's a long shot question for you. Do you think there is any possibility the baby could be his and he is exerting some kind of influence over her?'

'To what end?'

'To the worst case scenario my twisted suspicious mind can come up with.'

'I'm listening.'

She twiddled her hair into a pony tail at the back of her neck. 'Imagine this for a minute...McNeil, his luxury motor dealership suffering because of the recession, has branched out into a new line of business - hiring out Irana Petrova, and maybe some others, to whoever will pay for their most delightful company, and probably banging her on the side as a fringe benefit.'

'What a wonderful turn of phrase you have.'

'Shush.' Twiddle. 'Unfortunately his prize cash cow falls pregnant and has a baby - an inconvenience for everyone involved, yet an inconvenience from which a golden opportunity arises. He has always known about your desperate desire for a child. He is broke, his business is going down the pan; he needs cash to settle some debts. He persuades her to claim the baby is yours and to contact you – because it's only fair you should be paying some kind of child support for it. She'll demand a hefty amount naturally, from which he will take his cut.'

She sat up, straight backed, hair loose, awaiting his response.

Nat stared at her for a long moment. 'Incredible. You are absolutely right.'

'I am? Which bit?'

'About having a twisted suspicious mind. It is a fairy tale worthy of the brothers Grimm. I'm impressed. Well done.'

'Sarcy bugger.'

'There is, unfortunately, one fatal flaw with your theory.'

'Which is?'

'The baby can't be Phil McNeil's. He had a vasectomy years ago. I know because I picked him up from the hospital after he'd had it done. He was walking like John Wayne with piles and played bloody hell all the way home, accusing me of deliberately driving through every speed bump and pothole I could find just to make him suffer.'

'Were you?'

A brief smile of recollection touched his lips. 'My perverted sense of humour did derive a little comedic value from it at the time.' He fell serious again. 'No, the baby isn't his. It can't be. Unlike me, he never had any intention of being anyone's father. He always boasted about being able to have as many women as he liked, as often as he liked, and be able to walk away with a clean conscience - all of the fun without any of the consequences.'

'Why doesn't that surprise me?' She looked up at the ceiling as if looking for inspiration. 'So if he didn't father the child, and it wasn't an immaculate conception, then obviously somebody else did, which brings you back into the equation. You've done it once. There might be a chance you could have done it again.'

A fleeting shadow crossed his features, creasing his brow and hooding his eyes, the reminder of his losses still painful, even now.

'So far all we have is speculation,' she said. 'We don't have any facts, only her claim that there is a child at all, let alone that it's yours, but her word is simply not good enough. We need indisputable proof.'

'I don't understand. What makes you think there might not even be a child?'

'I'm reminded of something I read in one of those cheap supermarket magazines; an awful, cruel trick played on an unsuspecting chap, not unlike yourself, by a couple of scammers.'

Nat shrugged, his expression blank.

'There was no baby, at least not his. A woman he'd dumped got together with her current boyfriend and 'borrowed' her sister's baby. They contacted the first guy and pretended the baby was his. Smitten by the child, and probably wracked with conscience, he fell for it. They snagged him good and proper and he'd handed over thousands before the truth came out.'

Nat started to laugh. 'You don't really take that kind of sensationalist gutter journalism seriously do you? Stuff like that just doesn't happen in real life.'

Megan wasn't laughing. 'It was real life, Nat, it did happen, and it could be about to happen to you.'

'Bollocks!'

'You shouldn't be surprised at the wacky things people will do when money is involved. They can be ruthless.'

He gave her theory a few moments' silent consideration, and found he couldn't quite dismiss it.

'Let's assume there is a child, and it is hers,' he said. 'What then?'

She laid her hand on his leg. 'You call her bluff. You make it clear you will not pay a single penny for a child which is not yours and insist on DNA tests and regular visitation rights. If she refuses or makes any kind of excuses why you can't or shouldn't, you will know it's a scam. Report her to the police, turn and walk away and never think about it again. If she is lucky she might only get a few months in jail.'

'And what about the kid? If he's not mine, he's still somebody's. What happens to him?'

'I know it's going to sound heartless, darling, but it's not your problem. If his parents, especially his mother, are willing to use him to extort money for their own benefit, he is better off without them.'

Nat dragged his palms down his cheeks, over his mouth, pulling it down into a mask of theatrical tragedy.

‘Fuck’s sake!’

He let his head drop back, stared at the ceiling, dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed. ‘It's all too much to take in at once, Meg. I can't deal with this now.' He slid towards the edge of the bed. 'I need more time to think. I need a—'

He stopped, and looked into her eyes; bright blue orbs filled with love, concern, and that all too rare an element – common sense. They changed his mind for him. He didn't need the false courage of alcohol; he needed the true courage her holding him would instil.

Silent need etched itself in his rugged face, and she understood, she always did, and opened her arms to enfold him.

'Making this call may possibly be one of the hardest things you've ever done,' she said. 'But you know you have to do it, even if it comes to nothing. If you don't, the not knowing will eat away at you for the rest of your life. It will only take a few minutes to find out one way or another.'

She released him from the embrace, kissed his cheek and pressed her palms solidly against his face.

'This ball is entirely in your court, sweetheart, but know this - whatever you decide, whatever you want to do, I will support you every step of the way. You do know that, don't you?'

He nodded. 'Aye.'

'Do you want me to leave you alone while you make the call?'

He nodded again. 'It might be best, if you don't mind.’

She kissed him again and scrambled from the bed. 'I'll go and see to some dinner,' she said from the doorway. 'Come down when you're ready.'

When she had gone, closing the door behind her to give him privacy, he picked up the receiver again, took in a deep breath, and dialled the number on the crumpled note.

While it rang out, he never took his eyes off the photograph of himself and Megan on their wedding day, drawing strength from it, from her and her love for him.

After what seemed an eternity, a female voice came through the earpiece. 'Hello?'

When he replied, he found his voice shaking with nervous agitation. 'Hello, am I speaking to...erm...Irana Petrova?'

'You are. Who is this please?'

'This is Nathaniel Mackie. I got your letter today and I agree...we have something to discuss.'

Chapter 3

A creak on the step, and Megan looked up from her sewing to see her husband at the foot of the stairs. He looked pale and strained, yet managed a wan smile. She gestured for him to sit beside her on the sofa and tucked her work back into her sewing bag. 'What did she say?'

'She'll see us.’

'Both of us?'

'Aye.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow morning, ten thirty.'

'How did she sound?'

'Nervous at first, surprised her letter got here so quickly. We had a little chat. It went okay. She seemed more than happy for us both to go and see her. She didn't hold back at all. I think she might be on the level.'

'Did she tell you anything about the child, the boy? Did you hear anything in the background? Crying? Any clues at all?'

'Nothing different to what she wrote in the letter, and I couldn't hear anything. He could have been asleep. Babies do sleep a lot so I've been told. Or maybe she didn't want to give too much away while she tested out my...our level of commitment. I suppose I could give her the benefit of the doubt and say she's trying to protect him and doesn't want to expose him until she knows we are taking her seriously.'

'Are we?'

'I think we have to.' He dropped against the back of the sofa and scrubbed at his five o'clock shadow. 'When I got up this morning, all I had to worry about was whether to have soup or a boiled egg for lunch, and then ring round to get quotes for fixing the potholes in the lane. The next minute I'm on the phone to a virtual stranger trying to find out whether I've had a son for the last two months or not. Jesus, Meg, could the day get any more surreal.'

Megan leaned against him. He put his arm around her and pulled her to him, nuzzling and kissing her hair, needing her closeness and comfort, her warmth and her smell, and her reassurance that he still had contact with the real world, albeit tenuous.

Neither of them had any appetite for dinner. Instead they spent a quiet evening in front of the television snacking on popcorn, tortilla chips and ginger beer. When bedtime came, Megan went up first and lay in bed reading, waiting for Nat to join her. Midnight came and went and his side of the bed remained empty.

Past experience of his erratic behaviour and sudden mood swings, particularly when under stress, told her she had every right to be concerned.

She put on her dressing gown and slippers and went to find him, dearly hoping to see him in his favourite chair by the hearth, having dozed off while watching a late night sports event or a film. Instead the television played out to an empty room and an empty chair, her husband nowhere to be seen.

The bottles of spirits in the sideboard remained, thankfully, untouched.

A draught touched her bare legs and she followed it to where the kitchen door stood open, letting out precious heat into the cold night. Light spilling out fell on Nat, sitting on the wooden bench on the back porch, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere in the middle distance, withdrawn deep into himself.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, drawing him back to her.

'Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing out here? It's freezing cold; you'll catch a chill. Come to bed where it's warm.'

He looked round to her with tired, bloodshot eyes, in them an unspoken invitation for her to keep him company.

'You okay?' she said, sliding into place beside him.

A redundant question, yet essential to start conversation, else they sit there until the sun came up, saying nothing.

He drew his hands tensely over his cheeks, a gesture she had come to recognise well - the day's events had troubled him deeply and his thoughts had become jumbled and irrational.

'As I can be under the circumstances,' he said. 'I needed some time to mull things over.'

'And why couldn't you have done your mulling under a duvet in the warm with me?'

'You'll think it's crazy—'

Here we go.

'Probably, but tell me anyway.'

Silence; followed by a sharp brittle laugh.

'I don't want to go to bed,' he said.

'Why?'

'Because I don't want to go to sleep.'

'Why?'

He picked at his fingernails, another sign of uneasiness. 'Because I know if I do, I know I'll wake up tomorrow morning to find none of this ever happened. I never got a letter from Irana Petrova, I never spoke to her on the phone and I didn't arrange to meet with her to see whether I have a son or not, because in reality I’m chained to a bed in a mental hospital, having a full blown psychotic episode, and all this baby fantasy is either a result of being pumped full of hallucinogenic drugs or some impossible nonsensical poppycock cooked up by my booze addled brain as it self destructs and turns to jelly.'

She stared at him. ‘Well, I have to say, you truly have surpassed yourself in the talking bollocks stakes this time, and if that’s the best you can come up with, I’m going back to bed. No need for both of us to be sitting out here freezing our arses off.’

‘I’m having a crisis here, Meg!’

‘I know, and you’re getting yourself into a state and not thinking straight. You