Three. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two

When Shuggie came home from school on his eleventh birthday there was a shoebox sat on the top step and a black hackney parked outside. Eugene had been cooler towards her since the party, so much so that even Leek had noticed. On the nights she didn’t work at the petrol station Agnes had taken to chain-smoking by the phone and underlining pages from her twelve-step book. Shuggie and Leek had lain awake those nights. In the dark their eyes locked together as they listened to her sighing in front of the late-night television, knowing she wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

Shuggie missed school for three days. He faked constipation cramps and followed her around the house reading aloud from Danny, the Champion of the World. He believed if he could fill her every moment with noise then maybe she would stay away from the drink. He had stood outside the bathroom as she peed and told her of the pheasants that Danny tricked with sleeping pills. He climbed into her cold bed at night and read non-stop as she lay awake. When she could take no more, Agnes filled him full of milk of magnesia and was relieved when he was loosened up enough to go back to class.

Shuggie sat on the doorstep and lifted the strange box on to his lap. Nestled inside, in clouds of white tissue paper, was a pair of black football boots. Shuggie slipped out of his shiny school shoes and into the studded boots. He clacked up and down the path. The boots were easily two sizes too big for him, but they looked like the same kind the boys at school wore. As he clacked around in circles he wondered whether they made him more normal.

The milk of magnesia grumbled inside, loosening his bowels. He pulled on the front door handle, but it was locked. He understood that well enough. As he waited in the shadows of the house he was just glad that Eugene had come back around; even a McAvennie for a father was better than his mother on the drink. He rested his ear against the door and prayed for Eugene to stay, prayed that his mother would find strength to stay off the drink and be at peace. Then he prayed for God to make him normal for his birthday.

His stomach flipped again. He was cupping one hand over his grumbling backside and with the other he pulled violently at the door. A key turned inside the lock, and the handle jerked from his grasp.

It wasn’t Eugene. In the doorway stood his father. He was flattening his hair back over his pink head, and he looked down at the boy in shock. “You home from school already? ” was all he said, after all this time.

Shuggie, wide-eyed, nodded like he was simple. He hadn’t seen Shug since that afternoon at Rascal’s three years ago. Shug tucked the back of his dress shirt into his strained trouser band and nodded at the boy’s feet, “So, you like your present? ” Shuggie looked down at his feet and realized the black football boots were not from Eugene after all. Before he could answer, his father grabbed at his face and said, “Fuck me. You’re no half getting that big old Fenian nose. ”

Shuggie’s hand flew defensively to his Campbell nose. He traced the little horse bone, the rudder-like bump that was growing there.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Shug pulled out the change dispenser he used in the taxi. With a flick of his thumb he slid out two twenty-pence pieces. “Here, mibbe if you take up the boxing somebody’ll break it for ye. ”

Shuggie looked at the coins for a while, feeling more shocked than ungrateful. Shug took it the wrong way and reluctantly pumped out four fifty-pence pieces. “Don’t ask for mair! ” Grudgingly, he dropped the money into the boy’s hand. “So, are you chasing the lassies yet? ”

The boy had never been asked that before. He shrugged.

Shug thought of himself at eleven and took that as false modesty. “Aye, well, mibbe you’re a Bain man after alls, eh? ” His tongue wet his bottom lip. “It’s a grand age to be sticking yersel into a lassie’s bread bin, seeing as ye’ve got a couple mair years afore any real harm can come of it. ”

Shuggie could think only of Granny Lizzie’s bread bin and the thick-crusted loaf she had always kept in there. The way she had cut away the crusts for him and then slathered them with butter and ate them herself.

“Well, I cannae stay talking aw day. You are spending my money quicker than I can make it. ” Shug stepped around his son and groaned as he got back into the hackney. The boy watched it sink and sigh under his weight. “Be sure and look after your mammy. Try and stop her from taking up with any Catholics, ye hear? ” His father turned the engine over and drove off without a goodbye.

Shuggie turned towards the quiet darkness of the house. He stepped clean out of the new boots, and with a high kick sent them flying towards the peatbogs. He went inside and found her there, sat on the edge of his single bed. The covers were rumpled behind her, and at her feet sat a bag full of Special Brew. They looked at each other with the same dazed look, like they had both woken up from the same peaceful nap, like it would be a while before they felt like they had the will to form words and speak.

He had heard she was doing well, or rather, he hadn’t heard anything, and that was the point. It had been over a year since she had called the taxi rank. Fourteen months since she had screamed blue murder down the phone at the dispatcher or since she had threatened to stick a knife in the boy and then gas herself. It had been over a year that he hadn’t heard.

The boy’s birthday was coming up, and that would be as good a time as any to see for himself. One of the other drivers had gotten a shitload of black football boots off the back of a lorry. They had pulled up a rental van next to the articulated truck, and while it was unloading, they stole six dozen pairs right there in the middle of Sauchiehall Street, as nice as you like, in broad daylight.

What boy didn’t like football? If Agnes had a new man, he could just drop off the boots. No harm in that. If she didn’t have a man then he wanted to know why she had stopped bothering him. She had hurt his ego in an unexpected way, so into the birthday bag he had slipped six cans of Special Brew.

Shug slid down the window of the hackney and leaned his arm on the hot black metal. He watched the light catch the gold of his rings and thought how his hands looked better after a week in the sun at Joanie’s caravan. Everything looked better when he had a bit of colour on him. As he raced along the carriageway he wondered if Agnes was still as beautiful as he remembered. He appreciated Joanie, but she was no looker when held up next to Agnes Campbell. Joanie was peace and quiet. She was even and steady and not a bit of bother. She took a drink but never got drunk, and she never cared for the bingo or fancy carpets or dreaming. Joanie was a hard grafter and was content with her lot. She had little personality but was dirty and grateful in bed in the way that he knew plain women often were. Still, he had to admit that in the looks department Agnes Campbell was a prize mare and Joanie was only a scrapmonger’s pony.

As he turned off into the colliery town he wondered if she’d ruined her looks with the drink yet. He’d seen it before. There was a type, especially in Glasgow, women who froze and withered at the same time. Their faces shrank, sucked dry by the drink, red lines bloomed on bony cheeks, sagging bags of sadness bloated under watery eyes. They tried to cover it all up, but they were stuck, and their faces became a museum to outdated hairstyles and heavy make-up. He wondered if she still had the light Irish eyes and the high cheeks, that soft pinkness that always smelled so clean and sweet. In the hot taxi he smiled and felt his blood rise for her. He found himself thinking about what he would say to be able to fuck her one last time. He was glad he had taken a bath the night before.

Shug had not been out this way in years. A look in the phone book confirmed it was still the exact same address. She still took his name. Bain. He smiled, thinking her too proud to go back to being a dirty, common Mick. He found the house easily, the glorious garden of roses, too conspicuous and too showy for the shabby Pit town. The door was a different colour to the others, freshly painted in a red gloss; it looked confident, and it made him happy to see that. He knocked on the door and waited there for her to answer. From inside he could hear the roar of a hoover. He knocked again, and the machine went dead. He heard doors opening and cracked his best smile as the red swung inwards.

Agnes always kept the windows open in summer, and the opening door sent a wind rushing through Shug’s long, thin hair. As she looked down on him, she caught him trying to hold it vainly back in place over his shiny skull. The lecherous smile slipped from his face.

There was no make-up on her face, and although older she looked as fresh as when they had first met. On her cheeks were thin broken lines, but the eyes still shone, and Shug thought how she looked as if she had just been out for a brisk walk. Her hair, dark as night, sat soft and curly on her head. It made him angry that she was looking down on his own baldness.

“There she is. The love of my life. ”

Agnes looked blankly down at him, her tongue rammed into the roof of her mouth.

“Well, don’t look so bloody surprised. ” As soon as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t win her over like that. He wanted to sound light and easy, remind her of what she had been missing. “It’s been a while. Have ye no missed me? ”

“You’ve gotten fatter. ”

His hand went from his hair to his belly. “Oh, aye, mibbe. She’s a good cook, that Joanie. ”

Agnes winced. “A well-rounded hoor then. ”

“Look, I didn’t come here to fight at your front door. I brought the wean a present for his birthday. ” He held up the cheap plastic bag. “Can I no come in? ”

Agnes folded her arms across her chest like a blockade. Then she folded her face closed. “My boy needs nothing from you. ”

Shug studied her for a minute and worried he might have lost her forever. He wondered, how does a fish free itself of a hook? He reached into the bag and pulled out the football boot box. He held it out to her. She would not uncross her arms to take it, so he laid it, like an offering to the gods, down on the top step at her feet. “You know you’ve always been the love of my life. ” It was true, and it was a shame. “Here, this is for you. ” He offered the bag of lager as he retreated backwards.

“Those days are gone, ” she said coolly.

“Oh! ” His lips pursed in admiration. “How long has it been this time? ”

“Long enough to matter. ”

He gave her small round of applause. “I thought I hadn’t been hearing from you. ”

“So you came for a look at the ruins. Just to check? ”

“S’pose you cannae kid a kidder. ” He held his palms up in admission. “Can I no come in, Missus Bain? ” He wielded her name as softly as he could.

She didn’t say yes, and she didn’t say no. She just turned and walked up the hallway into the kitchen. She heard the door close behind her, heard the key turn in the lock and the heavy footsteps of Shug at her back.

“I like what you have done with the place. ” Shug sat down at the little folding table; he was studying the corner where the damp still peeled the paper from the wall.

Agnes could see him looking at the fridge and the big freezer and wondering how she could afford any of it. Single parent with a raging drink problem. Without a word she put the kettle on and opened the bread bin. From the paper wrapper she took out two thick slices of white plain loaf and smeared thick yellow butter on them. She cut each in half and put it on a small tea plate. She slid the plate towards him, and he thanked her.

He took up a buttery slice and crammed the edge into his mouth; the butter was sweet and thick. “I hear Caff is enjoying South Africa. ”

“Catherine? So I hear. ” Agnes sounded tired.

“Do you no hear from her? ” he asked.

“Not often. ”

“Aye, well, you’re to be a granny now. ”

Her hand grasped the edge of the worktop. The air blew out of her. “So I heard. ”

“Wee Peggy Bain is flying out there, you know. To support her when the bairn comes. Times like this, ” he added cruelly, “you need your mammy, even if a mother-in-law is all you have. ”

“Where would I get the money for that? ” Agnes turned to hide her face from him. She tried to busy herself in making two mugs of dark tea. She hoped he wouldn’t see how her hand was shaking.

“Donald Junior is sure it’s to be a boy. I telt him I’d buy the pram if he named it Hugh, after his favourite uncle. ”

When she could control the heat in her face, she turned and brought the stewed tea to the table. Into his she spooned three sugars and added a big splash of milk. “I was trying to cut back on the sugars, but what the hell. ”

“Your scabby heart? ”

“Aye, still plays up from time to time. At least when it stutters, I know it’s still there. ” He laughed and finished off a slice of buttery bread, folding the crust and shoving it under his moustache in one piece. “How is my boy? Is he anything like his old man? ”

“Dear God. I should hope not. ”

Agnes got up from the table quietly and left the room. She wanted to process the news about Catherine in peace. She didn’t say where she was going. Shug sat at the table and ate another slice of the buttered bread, and in his mind’s eye he tallied the cost of the new appliances in his head. She has a man, he thought. He sat forward in the chair and craned his neck around the door to see if he could see her. Wiping his buttery fingers on his trousers he wondered if she had slipped off into the bedroom. With a grin he picked up the carry-out and started around the unfamiliar house looking for where she’d gone. Sticking his head round some of the half-open doors he noted how neat and clean everything was. He thought about Joanie, her cat-hair-covered couch, her dirty drawers on the bedroom floor, and he could picture her now, carelessly brushing toast crumbs off their mismatched bedcovers.

As Shug went slowly down the hall peering into rooms, her sad glass-eyed ornaments stared back at him. She wasn’t in any of these rooms. He stopped outside one of the last doors before the front door and found her there with her back to him. It was a boy’s room with two narrow single beds. On a low table by the door Shuggie had placed some robot toys, and in the spaces between them he had written out on neat little cards the names of those that were missing, ones that he didn’t yet own. It reminded him of Agnes. He had forgotten how much she had wanted and wanted and wanted.

“Take a good look around, ” she said quietly, “and then go. ”

“Where are all the fitba posters? ” he asked, looking at the empty walls.

“Hugh doesn’t like football. Actually, he doesn’t like posters much. He thinks they look common. ”

Shug looked at his son’s side of the small, fussy room. The only sign of childhood was the neatly arranged robots. He looked at them and then realized what they were. They were a mantelpiece of sad glass-eyed ornaments.

“Seen enough? ” Agnes seemed in that moment like a tired docent.

“I suppose. ” He sneered slightly.

“Good, ” said Agnes with a taut smile. She held her hand out towards the door. “Now you can fuck off. ”

Agnes was worried about her whites. All that summer the news was about Chernobyl and the nuclear explosion that had happened there. It had been a sad but distant worry until a man on the news warned about a light nuclear rain that was falling over the west of Scotland as it headed on to Ireland. As Shuggie helped her bring in the washing from the back line she asked him whether nuclear fallout might actually help get out stubborn stains. The boy shook his head; no, it wouldn’t be like a bleach. He told her about the depressing nuclear war cartoons they had been made to watch by Father Barry, and he said it might just eat the bed sheet whole. They had just carried in the last basket of still-damp sheets when the smirr started. From the front window the bouncing drops looked like every other kind of Scottish spit. As it splashed off the empty street they made a great game of things they would like to see burnt away by it:

“Double football! ”

“Jinty McClinchy! ”

“Dirty Mouse McAvennie! ”

“This whole bastarding scheme! ”

“Snap! ”

Shuggie lay in front of the three-bar fire and watched Agnes iron the last of the dampness out of the washing. The rising steam meant she had to keep wiping her face on an old piece of toilet roll she kept up her sleeve. She took out her top teeth and pulled funny faces at him through the hissing steam. It was unlike her to lower her vanity like this. But there, in the close heat of the fire, Shuggie dreamt of how he never wanted this burning rain to end. How it would be better if they were stuck inside alone, where he could keep her safe forever.

Big Shug had tried to bring her low. Neither of them spoke about his father or his sudden visit. To spite him, Agnes and Shuggie had made a grand gesture of delivering all the Special Brew to Jinty. They dressed in their matching best and slowly promenaded around to the McClinchys’ door. Jinty had opened the door with a confused frown covering a thin veneer of disdain. They smiled up at her as if they were the most faithful of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Only upon seeing the plastic bag did Jinty herself soften; at the dull clang of the lager bells she beamed in wonder like an apostle after the Resurrection.

Eugene had phoned on that very same day.

Agnes had heard from him less and less since her first AA birthday. Since he was a good man, she expected he would let her down gradually, very gently, and then she would never hear from him again.

Eugene called for her in the taxi. It looked shiny, as if it had been washed especially for the occasion. He honked the horn once, but when she went out into the street, he didn’t get out and open the passenger door for her, as he had done the times before.

Colleen and the other women were lined up against the wooden fence opposite. Bridie held a half-dry potato pot and a grey tea towel. They looked as if they had been interrupted from their routine by the growl of Eugene’s diesel engine. Colleen looked livid as Agnes left with her prized possession.

As the hackney pulled away Eugene didn’t speak. They had just passed the chapel when he pulled the taxi off the Pit Road and stopped it a few feet from the wide iron gateway of the closed colliery. He turned off the engine, and like a living beast the taxi stopping shaking below them. It was pitch-black and silent outside. He reached up and turned on the little yellow interior light.

Agnes had been here a time before, with another taxi driver, a face she couldn’t remember. It made her feel cold inside. She watched Eugene’s kind eyes in the mirror. If she spoke first it would be clumsy and hurt-sounding, so she fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes and waited for him to say his piece and set the tone.

“I wisnae gonnae keep this going, ” he said quietly, without turning round in his seat. “I suppose I got a fright. ”

“I’m that scary? ”

“It was all they alcoholics and their, eh, disease. ”

Agnes closed the neck of her coat defensively. “Well. Don’t worry yourself. It’s not catching. ”

She heard his lips open and close, and then eventually he spoke again. “I know it sounds stupid, right. It’s just they people. The ones at your party. They were that. Ye know. Pitiful. ”

She took the blow without a wince, and then she surprised herself. “Eugene, you should know that, ‘they people, ’ well, I am one of them. ”

His face moved in such a way that she knew this wasn’t at all what he had wanted to hear. “I didn’t mean any offence. It’s just that, well, ye seem so normal. ”

“That word again. ” Agnes finished her cigarette and rolled her tongue around the inside of her teeth. “Eugene, listen, no hard feelings, OK. Just please take me home. ”

He was quiet for a long time, and then he slid the partition between them closed. The taxi shuddered to life. The bright headlights picked out the broken gates of the mine. Red paint, already faded, read: No Coal, No Soul, Only Dole.

The taxi swung out on to the road, but instead of the short distance back into the scheme, it turned in the direction of the main road, towards life. Agnes leaned forward and rapped her ring on the partition, from curiosity more than annoyance. “I asked you to take me home. ” He didn’t answer, and sinking back into her seat, she didn’t push. The thought of getting out of the house for even a single hour had hung before her like a sweet dream since he had telephoned.

They didn’t go very far. The taxi reached the bright street lights of the main road and took a left on to the carriageway. Almost as soon as it picked up speed to join the faster traffic, it slowed again and pulled off on to a dark gravel driveway.

Agnes had seen the golfers’ hotel before but had never been inside. It sat on the side of the dual carriageway, and because it was accessible only by car, it said it didn’t want the likes of her. From her seat on the bus she would watch the Jaguars pull up, fancy cars from fancy estates, far away from here. She would watch the smooth-faced men take their golf clubs out of the car boots while their wives would stand by, with their small purses and low heels, wrapped in Scottish Woollen Mill jumpers.

It was true that the ring of green around Glasgow held the new slums of the urban resettlement, these forgotten, remote housing schemes. It seemed cruel to Agnes that these green fields also held some of the fanciest hotels and private clubs she had ever seen. The two different worlds didn’t like to look on each other.

“We are not going here, are we? ”

“How no? ” he said, pulling the fat black hack between two fancy saloon cars.

Agnes gazed out at the garden lanterns leading the way to the white doors of the club. “Would you look at it? It’s not meant for the likes of us. ”

Eugene laughed. “Ah’m offended by that. ”

The pride rose in her. Her hand pulled the hem of her skirt. “Oh, Eugene, I can’t. I’m not dressed for it. ”

Without saying any more, Eugene stepped out of the taxi and opened her door. He had to reach all the way into the back of the cab to take her hand. In his warm paw hers was suddenly small and cold. She was proud, and she was frightened, and he was suddenly sorry for the words he had spoken before.

The dining room of the golf club was simple, but to Agnes it was the height of class. It was a big open room that faced a wall of glass doors that overlooked the green lawn of the eighteenth hole. The room was carpeted in thick paisley carpet the colour of gold and parsley, and the walls had panelling laid in to waist-height, and above this were photos of club members and famous patrons. Agnes didn’t recognize any of them, and she didn’t like to squint in front of strangers.

A young girl in a long tartan skirt led them to a seat in the back of the smoking section. Agnes almost died with shame when Eugene asked for a table nearer the glass doors and the lit fairway beyond. The girl only smiled and led them to a table closer to the front. As they sat down, Eugene said a loud hello to the tables on either side. The people politely nodded back.

It had a fancy Gaelic name, but she recognized it as chicken. Agnes was going to have only this chicken and chips, but Eugene wouldn’t let the waiter take the menus until she ordered a starter, a main, and a dessert. She would have liked to have sat alone with the menu for days. She didn’t know what all the things were, but to suddenly see it all laid before her and to know she could have her pick of it made her feel light-headed. It was like a Freemans catalogue, only better. She ordered what she understood, and then she sat there worrying about the cost.

“Listen, you have a wee drink if you want. Don’t worry about me, ” she said, as the waiter brought them two fizzy colas. The glasses were tall, and each had a mixing stick meant for cocktails. “That’s fancy, isn’t it, ” said Agnes, examining the stirrer and unable to relax. “Honestly, I don’t mind if you take a wee drink. ”

Their prawn cocktail starters arrived. The ice cream bowl was lined with a slice of lettuce and frozen pink prawns that swam in a sea of thick Marie Rose sauce. Around the edge of the glass were thick wedges of lemon. The prawns were still a little cold, not fully defrosted, which Eugene said wasn’t very good of the place. Agnes didn’t mind it, to her it tasted fresh, the ice a clean crisp stab against the sweet and tangy Marie Rose. “I’ve made this sauce before. But I’ve never thought about adding a lemon or the—”

Eugene stopped her mid-sentence. “Ah have to ask you about something. ”

Agnes set down her small fork.

“Ah don’t mean to bring it up again, ” said Eugene awkwardly. “It’s just, ah’m tryin’ to understand, ah suppose. But, well, have they people, ye know the people at the AA, told ye when ye would get better? ”

The waiter had come and cleared their bowls before Agnes spoke again. “I don’t know what to tell you. They tell all of us that we will never get better. At least, ” she added, looking at him directly, “not in the way you mean. ”

“But ye know how ye telt me you are a different person now? You telt me yersel that it was him that drove ye to the drink. Well, all that’s changed. ” Eugene tried to soften his tone. “If we made a go o’ this, don’t ye think that wid keep ye off it? ”

“I don’t think it works that way. ”

“Yer arse. Wi’ me in your life, what would ye need a drink problem for? Drink is only for they sad pitiful bastards. Look at you now. Look at me, for fuck’s sake. ” The pastel-jumpered couple at the next table made a distasteful cough. Eugene lowered his voice again. “Look, all ah’m saying is, ah like ye. I think you are that fuckin’ smashin’. ”

Eugene was unwilling to admit defeat, and Agnes could imagine he was a man well used to being able to fix any object that was broken. It made her feel like an engine left corroding on a front lawn. “Well, I like you too. ”

The waiter brought the main dishes. He wrapped his hands in a towel and gently slid the hot plates in front of the couple. Agnes looked first at her roasted chicken, and then she cooed over Eugene’s lamb and boiled potatoes like a wean at Christmas. Eugene ignored the spread and pointed his thick finger in the direction of the coal-mining estate. “You are the best-looking wummin in that whole scheme. Most o’ them don’t even run a brush through their hair, and look at ye. Any time o’ the day, ye are spotless. ” He leaned in. “I just need to know. Afore ah really fall for ye. Afore we start something serious. ”

Agnes felt uneasy. She tried to change the subject back to the food. “That looks lovely. Big portions, aren’t they? I thought it would maybe be a breast or thigh, not a whole half chicken. ”

The waiter coughed and asked if they had everything they needed. Eugene nodded yes. Then, on second thought, he added, “Pal. Bring us a bottle of your house wine, would ye? ”

“Red or white, sir? ” asked the waiter quietly.

Eugene looked at Agnes, who had gone stiff. He looked back at the waiter. “Would ye have white with chicken? ” The waiter nodded that, yes, he thought that would be a good idea. So Eugene ordered a bottle of the white.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, ” said Eugene softly. “Ah’m no forcing ye. ”

The chicken that had looked golden and juicy now looked dry and dead in front of her. The waiter brought the bottle of wine. He made to pour some for Agnes, and she didn’t stop him. She remarked on how the wine was almost the light peach colour of the roses in her front garden. “You know, peach roses are meant to be the colour of sincerity, the colour of gratitude. ”

The two of them sat looking at the glass for a long time. Eugene raised his and toasted the two of them. “Here’s tae us. Wha’s like us? Gey few, and they’re aw deid! ” Agnes raised a half-smile and lifted her Coke glass. It was flat and watery now.

“You never told me much about your daughter. ” She pushed the chicken around the plate. “Bernadette, is it? ”

“Aw, she’s aw grown up now, ah suppose. She does wonderful things for the nursery weans at Saint Luke’s. She’s like her mother in that, and she was very close to her mammy when she was alive. They always did things together, guid things for the Chapel, charity work for the miners’ widows. ” He sucked some gristle from between his back teeth. “But she can be at that stoup altogether too much. The pair of them were always at the fuckin’ holy water. Back and forth like it was a dipping sauce. ”

“She sounds like a good person though. ” Agnes said it, although, knowing Colleen, she suspected otherwise. “Have you told her about me? ”

“No, ” said Eugene flatly.

“Oh! ” She would have liked to have sounded less deflated.

“Cos our Colleen did. ”

Agnes exhaled. “I’ll bet she painted a pretty picture. ”

Eugene let his eyes float over the untouched glass of wine. “Ah suppose ye could say that. ”

They finished their dishes and talked about taxis and snack bars, South Africa and its palladium mines. Agnes pushed her fat potatoes under the half-eaten carcass. The waiter cleared the plates and brought the tiramisu out to the table. Eugene drank the bottle of white down as her glass of peach-coloured wine sat untouched, getting warmer.

“I don’t think I could eat another bite. ” She was playing idly with the tiramisu. “It’s lovely though. It’s the best custard I’ve ever had. ”

“A wee whisky would finish this off lovely, ” said Eugene, scooping the last of the pudding into his mouth.

“You know, I would never have thanked you for a whisky. Not even on my worst days. I find it’s like gin. It makes you sad. I didn’t drink to get sad. I drank to get away from sadness. ”

“What did ye drink, then? ”

“Oh, mostly only lager, and when I could afford it a half-bottle of vodka. On bad days it put the fight back in me. ” She paused. “It gives you the worst blackouts, though. Well, at least when you are drinking to get drunk. ”

“Ah can hardly believe that you and her are the same person. ” He paused, then said, “What do ye think would happen if ye took a drink o’ that wine the now? ”

“I’d probably want more. ”

“But maybe ye wouldnae. ”

“Maybe, ” she said, then trying to be lighter, “Eugene, you don’t have to get me drunk to have your wicked way with me. ”

“Thank God for that! ” He swept his hand over the debris on the table. “That would have been money down the drain, eh. ” He laughed, and his face grew pinker. “Look, ah’m no trying to get ye drunk. Ah’m trying to have ye try a drink. ”

“But why? ” Agnes was suddenly very tired.

“Because … Because it’s what normal people do. ” He moved the warm glass. “Look, just have a sip. To be social like. Ye’ll be fine. Listen, if ye start any trouble, I’ll have them put ye out and you can walk home. ” He pushed the glass towards her by its long, elegant stem. “Ye’ll be fine. You’re a different woman now. ”

Agnes took the glass in her hand and held the wine up to her nose. The glass was warm, and the wine smelled like sunshine. “I don’t even really like wine that much, ” she said, pushing it away.

“Aw, yer shitebag scared. ”

She was scared; she was terrified even, but she wouldn’t let him see. She lifted the crystal glass to her mouth, and a small mouthful ran down her throat. It burned in a way she did not remember. The wine tasted nothing like sunshine. It was bitter, like cooking apples and vinegar. “See, ” she said, putting the glass down.

“Do you see? ” said Eugene, genuinely excited. He looked like he might rise to his feet. “You haven’t burst into flames. You haven’t grown another head. ” He lifted the dregs of his glass and swung it towards her in salute. “Cheers! Ah’m that proud of ye. Ah knew what ma sister said wisnae true. ”

He was right: she didn’t feel any different. Colleen was wrong. Agnes felt a wave of relief. She slowly finished the glass of wine, hoping what he said about her was true, feeling like she had beaten the AA and that she could be normal again.

When the bill came, he paid in small notes, tightly curled from his nights out taxi driving. When they left the table, Agnes felt warm on the inside, and Eugene led her into the small members’ bar. Eugene laced his thick arm around her middle, and she felt happy that people were looking at them admiringly. As they sat close to one another in the corner, Eugene kissed her earlobe, and Agnes ordered a vodka and tonic and then she ordered another and then another.

The taxi swerved back into the dark scheme. It was only good fortune that there were no other cars on the road. Agnes slipped around on the back seat, rolling in and out of a stupor. Eugene pulled the taxi over into the mouth of the closed colliery again. In the dark they tried to fuck, but it was clumsy and painful, and it made her rigid with a dark memory she couldn’t quite remember. As Eugene fumbled on top of her, coins spilt out of his pockets and made her feel as if she were being paid for.

By the time Agnes had managed to scrape her house-key into the door lock, the lights were already on in the hall. As she fell in the front door, she felt her mohair coat catch on the jagged Artex plaster and heard her tights rip on its hooked spines.

She was sure she was smiling up at Leek, so she didn’t know why her son would be so angry, why he was screaming down at her. All she understood was, he was hitting Eugene square in his thick neck with his fists. All she remembered was that another bedroom door opened, and there in the doorway was the little boy with the worried face of his own granny. His face was wet with disappointment. The front of his pyjamas was dark through with piss.

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