Two Kinds Of Truth(19)

I make my way to the driver’s side, and even before I turn on the engine, Callum’s urging me to put my foot down.

“What’s making ye so edgy tonight?” I ask.

“Nothing; I just need a change of scenery.”

“We don’t have to go to Camburgh for that. We could easily go for a walk if that’s all you’re after.”

“Just drive,” Callum snaps, “or I will.”

I push the Range Rover on down the narrow country lanes, not slowing until we reach the outskirts of Camburgh. In the distance, a floodlit medieval church appears on the horizon. The sight of it still fills me with awe, even at this distance. The gothic style building is a sanctuary to many who use it, its two stone turrets rising either side of a magnificent stained-glass window in its eastern front. There’s also a cross chiselled from a single piece of stone that stands between the two turrets. The whole edifice looks formidable, a beacon of hope for many perhaps, yet inside my head I simply pray there’ll be no trouble this night.

I watch my brother out of the corner of my eye. His face is tense and his jaw twitches. I try to think of something funny to say that might bring him out of his dark mood.

“Do ye remember the time when we were coming back from town and McDougal’s prize cow chased us up this hill? We both near pissed our pants.”

My ploy fails. Callum doesn’t crack a smile.

“Save it for the old man,” he says, glancing over. “I’m not in the mood for reliving the good old days.”

I shake my head, exasperated. Sometimes, there’s just no talking to the stubborn wee fool.

I park up in the market square and Callum is halfway across the road by the time I step out of the car. The old church bell chimes the hour and I think of Maddie coming down to dinner only to learn her husband has left her for a night of binge drinking. I hurry to catch up with my brother, even though I know where he’s heading; there’s only one pub in town and it’s busy there every night of the week.

Callum opens the door to the Scran and Sleekit and I’m right at his heels. High-pitched laughter and the smell of stale beer hits my senses the second I’m inside, where I follow Callum straight to the bar.

The pub is made from local stone, the dark wooden beams above my head having been in place for centuries. It has a rustic feel and lots of charm. The soft furnishings are dressed in tartan and tweed, and a pair of antlers hang on the wall. I spot a half-dozen watercolours of Bonnie Prince Charlie with the Jacobite rebels, fighting the English. Their red and black uniforms are a vivid contrast to the wishy-washy pale-cream walls.

There isn’t a single person here who doesn’t know me and my brother. It’s a small community and identical twins are a rarity. I nod and smile at the many familiar faces, some of whom I went to school with, whilst others are farmers, enjoying a quiet drink with their wives.

The barman comes over and shakes Callum’s hand.

“What are ye doing here, Callum; I haven’t seen ye for ages?”

It’s clear Callum hasn’t come here for pleasantries; a quick hello and he’s ordering a beer for himself and a pint of Coke for me.

There’s an empty table in the far corner, close by a wood burning stove, which, considering it’s a damn cold evening, is a boon. Callum hands me my drink and I nod for him to follow. We make our way over and I take off my coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. Callum sits on a stool beside me, soon closing his eyes and taking several long swigs of his pint.

“Ah, that tastes good,” he says, and before I can reply, he’s off to the bar for another.

He returns with two whisky chasers.

“Hey, slow down,” I hiss, “the bar doesnae close ’til eleven.”

Callum grins for the first time since we arrived.

“Chill out. I’m just catching up on lost time. I’ll not be downing these so quickly, so stop your haverings.”

He slips a whisky into his drink and my earlier worry about him comes rushing back. I needn’t have worried, though, and much to my surprise, Callum behaves himself. After he’s downed both chasers, he chills out and begins to socialise, mingling with the locals and greeting his old pals from school with genuine warmth, quickly becoming the Callum everyone remembers.

Eventually, he comes back to the table, where I’m still sipping my Coke, now swaying, his mood clearly having turned melancholic. He stumbles as he sits beside me, spilling his beer all over the table.

“Easy, Cal,” I say, mopping up the mess with a couple of beer mats.

He laughs and slides what’s left of the spilt beer into his glass with the side of his hand.

“Not to worry, I’m not about to waste a single drop,” he chuckles into his glass.

“I think you’ve had enough for one night. God knows what Maddie’s going to say.”

The mere mention of Maddie’s name wipes the smile off his face, the expression that replaces it shocks me. There’s a wretchedness to him now that I’ve never seen before.

I reach out my hand and squeeze his wrist.

“What is it?” I ask, and when he doesn’t speak, I add: “For Christ’s sake, Callum, and for once in your life, talk to me.”

He lifts his head and turns towards me, his eyes shining like glass, filled with unshed tears, and my heart lunges in my chest. Whatever it is, it’s tearing him apart.