The Museum of Doubt Page 27

  Sheena moaned and moved.

  Don’t you go waking up now, said Gordon. God, the selfishness of the lassie, and him an old man.

  The distance down the hallway was about thirty yards. Gordon lined Sheena up so her head was facing the fire. He squatted down with his back to her and reached for her upper arms. They were too big for his hands to span. He had to hook them. He puffed a bit like the weightlifters did, coughed, and hoisted the body up so that Sheena’s upper body lay on his shoulders, with her shoulders covering the back of his head and her head hanging down in front of him. He looked straight ahead. A tunnel of fire, like for police dogs and stunt cyclists, who had it easy, ’cause you never saw a dog carrying one of the cyclists on his back when it was jumping through the hoops, did you?

  Gordon drew in a long, slow, deep breath. He screamed, jerked himself and the immensity of Sheena upright, and hobbled forward under the burning beams. Twice her shoulder was scraped by a trailing brand, but Gordon was unharmed. His momentum carried him through a doorway at the far end of the hallway, down a carpeted ramp and on to the floor at the feet of two masked-up firemen.

  That’s a big lassie, said one of the firemen. She must weigh a ton.

  The old boy’s a hero, said the other. See the way he came tanking out of that collapsing structure? Like Carl fucking Lewis with a rocket up his arse. Sir! Take it easy, sir, we’ll get you some help. You’re a hero.

  They stretchered Gordon out through the Waterland foyer into the clean cold air and the rain of the night. They laid him down on a field of hoses in a half-circle of fire engines, told him the paramedics would be arriving shortly and called for the keyholder, who had sworn there was no-one in the building.

  Gordon stared into the sky and blinked as the rain, glittering blue in the fire engine lights, fell on his face. He heard footsteps scraping the tarmac close by and a wing of black fabric flapped and went taut over him. His brother’s narrow deepset eyes appeared under the umbrella.

  Bruce.

  Gordon. How you feeling?

  Fine.

  I don’t think so.

  Lost my gun. Thought you were suspended.

  They’re short-handed tonight. I’m here incognito. I’m the generic detective.

  Seen Charlie Sturrock? He was supposed to bring bakingtatties for the bonfire.

  Once we’ve charged the keyholder with setting a fire, we’ll check out the tattie situation, don’t worry.

  It was my fire, said Gordon.

  Don’t say that.

  Ask him about Catherine wheels.

  Don’t say it was your fire. It was Charlie’s fire, OK? Bruce put a cigarette in his mouth, and took it out. The girl’s got nasty burns on her back, probable skull and leg fractures and a bad case of smoke inhalation. She’s going to be fine. So that makes you an official hero. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Kenneth’s been remanded in custody over that incident with the boys. He was a bit bolshie in the cells, and he fell and cut himself. I can’t see him getting bail.

  You do what you think’s best, said Gordon.

  Don’t like to see my own nephew banged up, of course.

  Gordon laughed. Bruce joined in. You should have seen his face when I came in twirling the nightstick, he said. So for kicks, I say: Assume the position! And he goes down on the floor and curls up, hands over his head. I say: Not the fetal position! But he wouldn’t get up. Just kept banging against my toecap with his ribs.

  He’ll learn.

  Of course he will. Make a man of him. Or something. What can you do when the army’s given up the job?

  It was my fire.

  Gordon! Bruce leaned over his brother’s face. I told you not to say that. Listen, some more bad news. Mary’s been taken into the Royal Ed. We didn’t have a choice. After we took Kenneth away the second time she turned up at the station in her karate pyjamas, striking martial arts poses at the desk sergeant. She wouldn’t be told.

  Mm, said Gordon.

  Sure they’ll let her out soon enough. You don’t want to be cooking your own meals.

  Aye, said Gordon. What about Smithie?

  He’s dead, Gordon.

  Oh aye. The two brothers said nothing for a few moments. Bruce lit his cigarette. The flame of the detective’s lighter appeared for a fraction of a second before Gordon went blind. The world turned black.

  Gordon, he heard Bruce saying. What’s the matter?

  I’ve gone blind.

  You’ve got your hands over your eyes. Bruce pulled Gordon’s fingers away and the world reappeared. Bruce flicked the lighter again. Blind.

  Hn, grunted Bruce, making Gordon see again. He waved the lighter a few times in Gordon’s face and watched with interest as his brother slapped his hands violently over his eyes, then twisted his head away from the flame.

  It was my fire, said Gordon. It turned on me. It was fucking horrible.

  Gordon, Gordon, said Bruce, waving the lighter to and fro across his brother’s face, noting that, when the flame was very close, he not only covered his eyes, but began to whimper. Gordon, are you afraid of fire? That’s not good. Only animals are afraid of fire. Can you hear me? I said only animals are afraid of fire.

  About the Author

  The Museum of Doubt

  JAMES MEEK was born in London in 1962 and grew up in Dundee. He has published three novels, Mcfarlane Boils The Sea (1989), Drivetime (1995) and The People’s Act of Love (2005), and one other collection of short stories, Last Orders (1992). The Museum Of Doubt (2000) was shortlisted for a Macmillan Silver Pen award. Meek also contributed to the acclaimed Rebel Inc. anthologies Children Of Albion Rovers (1996) and Rovers Return (2001).

  He has worked as a newspaper reporter since 1985. He lived in the former Soviet Union from 1991 to 1999. He now lives in London, where he writes for the Guardian, and contributes to the London Review of Books and Granta. In 2004 his reporting from Iraq and about Guantanamo Bay won a number of British and international awards. The People’s Act of Love has been translated into twenty languages.

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by

  Rebel Inc, an imprint of

  Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,

  Edinburgh, EH1 1TE

  This digital edition first published in 2009

  by Canongate Books

  Copyright © James Meek, 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Stories in this collection have previously appeared

  in Ahead of Its Time, Billy Liar and Rovers Return

  Permission has been sought for the use of lyrics from

  ‘I Won’t Love You Anymore’ by Lesley Gore

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84767 700 6

  www.meetatthegate.com