Breathing in the Midnight

By R.A. Gaffney

When she discovers her father, Jim is ill, Marie returns to Scotland after 25 years in Australia. Marie's husband, Adam is resentful at her departure and uses this as an excuse to embark on an affair with her best friend, Jenny.
Jenny's husband receives a telephone call, telling him of the affair and is seen brandishing a gun. Soon, a full scale hostage drama develops.
Adam decides it would be a good time to rejoin Marie in Scotland.
Jude has always resented her cousin, Marie, feeling husband, Ian preferred her and she was second best. Deserted by her father and brought up with Marie's family, she carries much hidden anger and resentment, finding it hard to trust others.
Mark and Margaret are Jim's neighbours, with all of the problems facing a young family. Mark finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into the drug culture, seeing this as easy money. He enlists old friend, Malkie to help, setting in motion a chain of events that will have lifelong repercussions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.A. Gaffney
• Release date: Aug 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301912704

R.A. Gaffney

R. A. Gaffney is the pen name of Helen McNaught. about the author: Helen (call me elaine my mother always did) McNaught started travelling after leaving Glasgow university and never really stopped. she has had jobs too numerous to mention, from picking grapes in France, to travelling Australia as a pharmacy sales rep. she was based in Australia for thirty years where she built her dream house and got a proper job. her background lies mainly in sales and marketing, with forays into media; writing, directing and appearing in television ads in Australia. she is married to the love of her life whom she met at age fifteen. they have one dog, no children and still believe life is an adventure. The are at present living in the UK.

Book preview

Chapter 1

How I love this river. It is always hard to leave. I want to remember it as it was, for he asked me to describe it, he wanted to know, he really did, as if in listening, he could live it with me and it would be as if we had never been apart.

I want to remember for myself too, for this was the end of my old life and nothing would ever be the same again; but of course I didn't know that then.

This is how it was and is.

Down by the river, the air is still. A cloud of dust hangs in the air behind the tractor as it ploughs the brown soil of the flatlands, their boundaries marked by standing sugar cane.

The spoiled milk smell comes down the wind like poured syrup, smelling of molasses, a rich, brown odour reeking of summer.

At night, the glow of cane fires light the horizon. The fires are lit usually at nightfall, just as the wind drops. The flames are intense. Great rolling clouds of smoke spiral skywards, black smuts dancing, whirling in the superheated air like a crazy cane corroboree in the humid northern dusk.

The sugar mill sits between the silent river and the highway, below the bridge. The tall chimney exudes black smoke and a lush aroma, as if you stuck your head in a bag of Demerara sugar.

A full moon will rise later with the king tide. Up here by the mill, the surface glass is cut by the headlights of cane trucks driving off with their grey cargo in the bright reflection of passing traffic on the bridge overhead.

The hot day has left skin with a crust of salt, smut and ash. Coolness descends as night falls, and energy revives like a limp flower placed in water.

Oh, the pleasure in a long, shower after the heat. No water restrictions at the moment. To stand under the fresh stream until skin tingles, lingering until I know I will get no cooler.

Here, on the New South Wales north coast, cold water is never really cold in summer.

I hold my face up and let the water play on an overheated scalp and back of the neck, running between my shoulder blades, over breast and buttock, and think of the long, cold drink after the shower, ice clinking against the side of the glass, dripping wet with condensation after five minutes in the sultry dusk.

Sitting on the veranda together watching the river. For years, in all the times we have come here, I seem to spend most of my time just sitting here, looking at the river. I never tire of the view.

Cicadas make the air vibrate with sound that wraps around us like a lover.

We sit in the dark, watching the moon rise over the quicksilver stream, gliding smoothly from the great ocean. Bats swoop, streaming overhead in squadrons to an unknown destination. A violet-throated, tawny frogmouth glides on noiseless wings, seeking lesser prey.

I know the colour of its gullet because we rescued one once, after it flew into our windscreen, and we put him in a box to take to the wildlife people. He opened his beak wide in a silent scream and we saw he had a throat of purest violet. This one sits on a branch across the creek, becomes part of it, unnoticed until he stoops

We watch him; he sits patiently, listening to the stealthy, secret journeys of small, timid creatures, as they, veiled in the cloak of darkness, lie hushed in the gloom, dreaming of another sunrise.

The mighty river seems to exhale, to breathe into the midnight a fluid murmuring that whispers of hidden secrets.

Think of the burgeoning life beneath the peaceful surface. Imagine shoals of bream or whiting bustling upstream on the flood tide, fingerlings, sprats, or snapper, rich with roe, caviar clinging to the belly, clusters and ropes of pelagic eggs floating by, at the mercy of circumstance. Prawns and yabbies move in the shallows.

Listen closely and the mud seems to breathe thickly, like someone with a heavy cold. All night long, sea creatures excrete mucous, sperm, eggs and bodily waste into the fecund river, all of the above utilised by some species.

Only man takes without giving in return.

A wind whips up the glow of smouldering cane; clouds swallow moon and stars, extinguishing all brightness. Navigation lights blink drearily in sudden rain: Gatsby's green light, a symbol of the tender, eternal yearning to recapture something lost, something beautiful. The red light shows his love lies bleeding again, running like the river, running like Daisy Buchanan, running from life as I have always done.

Even here, there are sleepless nights.

In the morning, I stand on the veranda, nursing a cup of tea, watching the watery sunrise.

An early oyster catcher calls to its mate, winging its way downriver to Iluka, past the pelicans jostling round the pier. They wait in the grey light for the fishing boats to throw away their leftovers, snapping beaks scoop up scraps of fish. They stand, sturdy legs akimbo, great beaks held comically open, and beg for a feed in the rain-washed morning.

Before lunch, we walk across the beach to the boardwalk. Small boats upturned, crouch in obscurity beneath the mangroves. Legions of blue-shelled crabs clatter away at our approach.

Wheeling above our heads, two sea eagles whistle. The air is fresh, cleansed of dust by the rain.

For me, this timeless river: the Clarence, holds not only my memories but all of life itself.

Our last day here draws to a close, and I am happily ignorant of how soon I will fly into the unknown, into a world left behind, a world almost forgotten.

I never realised I was saying goodbye.

Behind us, as we drive away, the river is molten mercury, moving inexorably seawards to the eastern horizon. To the west, a violet sky, as the sun dissolves into the watery margin of the river, leaving only a memory of shimmering, liquid beauty. Late birds call each other home.

There is a moment of stillness, as if the earth around us held its breath in wonder.

Chapter 2

The old man walked his dog every day. Time had pared him down to bone, sinew and skin. When Margaret went to the park in autumn with the baby, he was often there. He greeted her, gravely polite and she realised they were neighbours.

A cold wind was blowing, and she tucked the blanket more firmly around the baby, as golden leaves sailed around them. The swaying branches, the light and movement had a restless quality, reflecting her mood. The wind moved the thick carpet of dry leaves on the ground, rippling through like waves on dry land.

It was as if the earth was heaving, sliding beneath her feet and she grasped the pram tightly, as a drowning man will cling to floating wreckage, fighting off a momentary dizziness.

Margaret had only recently moved here, to East Kilbride. She found the neighbours friendly, but the street was full of old people. They came when the houses were built fifty years ago, raised families and here they remained, retired now, but content to stay where they were well known.

When these were council owned, the old would have moved to smaller houses or even flats to make room for a family, but in the Thatcher years, they all purchased their homes, and thus the street remained unchanged. A house came on the market only when someone died.

Margaret was lonely in her new surroundings, at home all day with only the baby for company. She was used to the workplace and her job in the bank exposed her to an ever changing variety of people.

She had been excited about the baby and the prospect of leaving work for a while, but had not realised the grinding isolation, the loneliness would wear her down to this extent. She found herself crying for no reason. Her sleep, disturbed by the baby, had a febrile quality and was coloured by strange dreams where she ran through bleak Daliesque landscapes pursued by some hidden threat. When she woke up, sometimes she felt more exhausted than when she had gone to bed.

Margaret had never thought of herself as a nervous person, indeed her image of herself had been of a sensible, pragmatic individual, and she had little sympathy for women prone to flights of fancy or hysteria. She could not understand what was wrong with her; this should be the happiest time of her life.

She was wise enough to see that a lack of human contact was part of the problem, and promised herself to try harder to get to know the people around her.

She began by taking a home-cooked meal to the old man; he was so thin she worried about him. He carefully thanked her, later feeding the congealing lamb chops floating in mint sauce to the dog. He'd had an ulcer in his fifties and plain food suited him best. He preferred beef stew, or a good plate of Scotch broth.

She smiled at the empty plate when she picked it up.

Jim knew it gave her pleasure to do this for him, she needed to nurture, and he was kind enough to permit it, although this was anathema to his fierce independence. He had lived on his own for twenty-five years, ever since his wife died. He stood alone, gnarled and twisted by age yet, like some wind-blasted tree on a rocky headland, his craggy brow and sharp cheekbones gave his countenance great strength and a benign calmness that many were drawn to.

Across the road, Jean Balfour watched with interest as Margaret left the old man. She expected him to rebuff her kindness as he had rejected any offer of help over the years, but the empty plates told their own story.

They all worried at the prospect of new people moving into the street, but they seemed a quiet young couple and there was no doubt the lass was kind-hearted and meant well.

Margaret sighed as she noticed the twitch of lace curtain across the street. She felt uncomfortable in her new home sometimes, almost as if she were being spied upon. She was a city girl, unused to suburbia and a closer community.

Her mother brought it into perspective for her when she 'phoned later in the day.

Darling, you don't understand that when you're old and can't get about much, your world can shrink down to what's going on outside your window she said. It sounds to me as though Jean is only taking a lively interest in what is going on around her. It doesn't necessarily mean she is a busybody, just extracting the maximum amount of enjoyment of anything that comes her way.

Yes Mum, I find it difficult sometimes, that's all, Mark is so tired when he comes home from work and I understand that. He has all the pressure of his new job and the last thing he needs is hearing how lonely I am.

You'll soon make friends Margaret, especially when you start going to playgroup with Simon. I know its hard darling, but remember how happy you were to find that house. I agree with Mark, it is a good place to raise a family.

You're right of course Mum, I'm sorry to whine on, but who else can I talk to? I feel so isolated sometimes.

Of course you do Margaret, perfectly normal in your circumstances. Now buck up, brush your hair, put on some lipstick and give that man of yours a big hug when he walks in the door, okay?

Thanks Mum. Talk to you tomorrow. Margaret smiled as she replaced the receiver. Thank goodness for Mum, she always lifted her spirits. She caught sight of her reflection as she passed the mirror and decided to take her mother's advice.

How did she know my hair needed brushing? Margaret wondered aloud.

Later, she took a casserole from the oven and decided to put some in a container for the old man. She felt the need to see someone, to feel part of the human race. It would only take a minute and Simon was fast asleep in his cot. Ringing the doorbell, Margaret thought she could smell something burning. No one answered the door and worried now, she pushed open the letterbox and peered through. The smell of burning was stronger and she went to the back of the house to investigate.

The old man was lying unconscious at the back door, while his dinner burned on the stove and his little dog whined and cried beside him.

Margaret stayed until the ambulance arrived. She had done what she could to make him comfortable, but he didn't regain consciousness. After telephoning, she returned to pick up Simon, and he was restless in her arms as she walked back to the house later, carefully closing the back gate to keep the dog in. He had a kennel and she made sure there was food and water before she left. They could bring him over later if he seemed unhappy.

She felt sad watching the ambulance drive away, realising she wasn't lonely at all really. She had Mark, Simon and her family; she was blessed really. She hadn't even been able to tell the ambulance men his next of kin or even if he had any, well she could remedy that at least.

Boldly, she crossed the road and knocked on Jean Balfour's door.

Margaret isn't it? she said, brightly. Come in lass, I can see you had a bit of trouble across the road. Old Jim's had another one of his turns, I expect.

I feel badly that I couldn't tell them anything about Jim, Mrs Balfour. Do you know his next of kin by any chance? I think we ought to let them know, don't you? I hate to think of him lying there alone.

Oh, call me Jean, please. Well that's something he's used to Margaret, but nice of you to worry. We all keep an eye on him, he's getting so frail. His daughter, Marie lives in Australia, and she hasn't been home in twenty-five years. Jean pursed her lips disapprovingly. Sharper than a serpents tooth, they say. Marie gave her mother a few headaches growing up. Though I hear she's done quite well for herself over there.

I think she ought to be contacted Jean, don't you? Margaret urged. Driven by her own loneliness, she wanted to get someone for him. She needed to feel he wasn't alone.

Yes, I expect you're right. I know her mother-in-law, she only lives up the road and we both attend the same church. Jean chattered, as she looked through her telephone book. Oh look, your man's home, he'll wonder where you are. Leave this to me Margaret, I'll telephone and let you know what's happening, okay?

Margaret took her leave and walked back thoughtfully to the house. She hoped Jean would do as she promised. She got the impression that she didn't really approve of Marie, some old scandal perhaps. None of my business, she admonished herself, but her interest was piqued none the less.

Chapter 3

The curtains were drawn between the cabins and the overhead lights turned off. Many passengers appeared to be sleeping, but Marie was wide eyed and restless. She tried to focus on the movie playing on the screen in front of her, but 'The Accidental Tourist' could not hold her attention. She smiled wryly at the aptness of the title.

For the twentieth time, Marie flicked her screen onto the flight plan showing the plane's progress. It seemed they had been floating above the same spot for hours, certainly Europe seemed no closer. Would they ever get there?

If only she could sleep. All around, passengers dozed under blue, standard issue blankets, looking rather like cocoons she thought, envying their ability to rest even in these conditions; understanding now why they called it 'cattle class'. They were jammed in like sardines, cramped and claustrophobic.

'Will it never be day?' she whispered, thinking of the Dauphin's men, and wondering if they would have been in such haste for morning if they had realised they were riding to their death. Inside, she felt the same half scared, half excited flutter, as she thought of what the morning held for her.

Many strange and disconnected thoughts run through the mind at times like this.

In Australia, two days before, she had complained about going back to work after her holiday.

I think I need a change she said to Adam as she left that morning.

Be careful what you wish for, she thought; thinking of the Dauphin's men.

Her reaction to the news of Jim's collapse surprised her. Usually calm in any crisis, she had broken down, crying uncontrollably over the girls at work.

In the stillness of the darkened cabin, she realised she had been carrying fear for him around for some time. This sleeplessness had been good for her; it seemed so long since she had thought hard about anything beyond the daily grind. She saw with new clarity that a habit had developed, of pushing anything uncomfortable away, burying it beneath long hours and a demanding job and escaping into her mind, her daydreams when she was alone.

It was as if everything she had suppressed was floating to the surface now, here in this cramped space, this sardine can, where despite being surrounded by humanity, she was very much alone.

She thought of her father. Their relationship had remained cool ever since she married Adam against his wishes, and somehow they had never been able to build bridges after her mother had gone. She had always been the peacemaker. Much had yet to be resolved between them, and there was a sense of unfinished business about this trip. She remembered how young they had been when she last saw him, surely now, she could approach him as an adult, an equal?

Adam had initially been against her going. It could not have happened at a worse time. They were in the process of buying an investment property, and needed her wage badly. If she went back to Scotland, they had no way of knowing how long she was going to be there.

Marie knew she had to shelve these worries, her father was eighty-five and alone and in the event, Adam had understood, or at least humoured her, she was unsure which.

She cared little for motive if she had the right outcome, and her inner voice told her this was what she had to do. Her mother's voice spoke to her.

Birth and death never arrive at convenient times, and the nameless fear she had suppressed rose to the surface and was recognised.

The long night ended, and Marie found herself in London, struggling with baggage and moving towards the connecting flight to Glasgow with a growing sense of unreality.

The airport was overwhelming, and the crowds; everyone looked so pale compared to the bronzed Aussies she was used to, and she stood for a moment, taking it all in.

Finally, she joined the check-in queue, which moved slowly, as an American girl argued loudly with the staff behind the counter.

A large group of Japanese schoolchildren arrived, chattering like a flock of starlings. The noise filled the terminal until she felt her head would burst and she took a deep breath. She was tired, that was all, unsure of her feelings, remembering suddenly her adolescent dreams of escape from the enveloping security blanket of suburban life.

Then, she had wanted adventure and new sensations, in many ways, she never really knew what she wanted, her ideas were often unformulated and hazy, knowing intuitively that it was not the life her parents wanted her to live, there had to be more.

Marie always lived on an instinctive level, guided by emotion rather than hard logic.

Acclimatised to her Australian existence, she wondered how Scotland would react to her; would they think her a foreigner? How bizarre if that were so, and how sad to belong nowhere.

It was so busy here; like a Cecil B De Mille crowd scene, she felt hemmed in by humanity, realising she had become used to wider spaces and fewer people. Joining the queue, she was delighted to hear a Scots accent again. It had been a long time, and she smiled broadly when a young man asked if this was the queue for the Glasgow flight. Another girl heard them talking and joined them, she was Scots too and she felt her heart lift as she realised her accent was giving her immediate acceptance.

This was the opposite reaction to her experience Down Under, where her accent proclaimed her as foreign the minute she opened her mouth. There was the same dialogue with every new person she met.

Oh, that's a nice accent, where are you from? was the conversational opener in every antipodean's greeting. It was kindly meant, but who could possibly have the same conversation for twenty-five years and maintain any enthusiasm?

She had not realised it had begun to weary her until she no longer had to explain, realising suddenly the reason for her reluctance to meet new people was having to endlessly justify herself. She had come to prefer going to functions her friends attended, they at least knew her history and it saved time, yet this closed her to new people and ideas, something she thrived on and needed. She was only aware of a growing sense of discontent, and had not yet put her finger on the cause.

Despite the jet-lag Marie felt her spirits rise; she belonged, it was so long since she'd had that feeling. No matter how kind people are, there is always a sense of being an outsider when you live in a foreign country for any length of time.

Marie was disappointed to see clouds as they flew over England, but they parted magically just over the border, and she spent the next twenty minutes, face pressed against the window, drinking in the countryside below. It looked exactly as she remembered; the same patchwork of countryside and rolling hills and she felt joy rise in her despite everything, to see this place again, and rather astonished by the tears which followed.

Why had she never realised how much a part of her it was? It was like seeing her mother's face again. She had to swallow hard and make surreptitious use of several tissues, in order not to make a complete spectacle of herself.

When they stood up to leave the aircraft, she caught the eye of the man behind, who smiled in deep understanding. He had obviously seen her face pressed against the window, absorbing the landscape below, and without a word being spoken, she knew he had read her like a book and furthermore, felt the same. This much we can read into a glance. Shyly, she looked away, but she felt connected again.

Going home; they were all going home. For the first time in twenty-five years, she felt part of something larger than herself and Adam.

It was a long time since Marie had travelled alone, they couldn't afford to have Adam off work too and he showed no inclination to accompany her. She felt strange without her husband, rather liking the feeling of being a separate entity again. They were closer than most, having met young and done everything together. Yet she would have welcomed his broad shoulder to cry on, as her emotions seemed very close to the surface. All around, people were hugging and kissing and Marie felt a little flat that no one was here to meet her. Her in-laws were on holiday and her cousin, Jude never seemed to be home when she called.

In the taxi, she looked avidly at her surroundings. There were changes, but she didn't feel like a stranger, Glasgow still welcomed her with a familiar face. It was when she arrived home, to East Kilbride that every small difference was noted.

The town was built over fifty years before, to house Glasgow's overspill and had been billed as 'Scotland's first new town'. Marie had grown up in a place where every building was less than twenty-five years old. With the exception of the Old Village, everything had been new. In the time she had been away, housing developments and a huge undercover shopping centre had been built. Yet the Murray, where she had lived, looked as if it badly needed a face lift. Rusty railings and peeling paint at the Murray shops shocked her as they drove past, and many of the flats looked in need of maintenance. What would her street be like?

As the taxi came down Livingstone Drive, she felt relieved to see much was as she remembered and even more thankful that 'her' end looked even better. The gardens perfect and the houses well-kept and cared for. She was here at last; number one-eight-one. They had moved here when she was only five years old, from a flat in Westwood.

Marie felt her throat closing and quickly paid off the driver. Her old key still fitted and with shaking hands, she opened the door and went inside.

I stand in the hall, listening to the slow tick of the clock that measured my childhood. It is a calm sound. My pulse slows to match its beat. Perhaps it is a memory of the womb and my mother's heart, a recollection of warmth and safety.

The intense familiarity is a surprise; after all it is quarter of a century since I opened that door, yet I see as I walk through, little has changed. My mother; I feel her here with me, she follows me from room to room as I inhale the dust of our shared history and find it literally transforming.

With every breath, I discover the child who grew up in this house is still within me and wonder what caused me to lose her?

Chapter 4

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Livingstone Drive settled down to the day.

The workers had left, the schoolchildren who passed on their way to school were already deep in their lessons and now, the older inhabitants of the street were pottering in the garden or strolling down to the shop for their daily papers and a loaf of bread. At the corner of the street, the local council were digging up the front garden of the MacLean house searching for a blocked pipe.

At number one eight three, Moira Macpherson, busy sweeping her path, called a greeting to a passing friend.

Hello Ian, been to the shops? she called. You'll never guess who is back at one eight one.

Not Marie Callaghan?

The very same; weren't you at school together? Moira tactfully did not mention the fact that Ian had also married her cousin. She knew Jude was still a sensitive issue.

Marie Callaghan eh, well, well. What brings her home?

Her father's going downhill fast, cancer apparently and his heart was never the best. I think she's here to close his eyes and put him to rest, though whether she realises it or not I'm not sure. He was a good friend of your father's Ian, didn't they work together?

I believe they did. Is he out of hospital yet?

They're keeping Jim in to stabilise him, but he's adamant he wants to be in his own house. We visited last week. Marie says she will stay as long as he needs her, and I think they will let him home as long as she's there to look after him. At least he's coming back to a clean house; she hasn't stopped scrubbing and polishing since she got here.

Poor thing, it's not the happiest reason to come back. I might put my head around the door later and see if she's okay.

That's a good idea Ian, she must be lonely in there by herself and it might lift her spirits to see an old friend. 'Bye now. Moira continued sweeping.

Ian's mind raced as he turned into Telford Road.

Marie Callaghan was back; Marie, the clever one, who had helped with homework, who practised kissing with him in the back row of the movies at the Saturday morning matinee, who broke his heart when she started kissing Frankie Fellowes instead. They had been childhood sweethearts of a sort, but he had always been one of several vying for her attention, even then. They merely rehearsed in a childlike way what they hoped to perform well, when it mattered.

It was an age of innocence and sweet discovery, of stolen kisses and sherbet lemons, of playground games and shifting loyalties. Girls learning about this strange new power they could exert over boys and delighting in it. From being ignored, they were now silently worshipped. Though often, the boys showed their interest by teasing, pulling pigtails or pushing their knee into the back of yours as they passed by, in order to make your leg collapse. If a Scots laddie did that, it meant he liked you. Then there was the dreadful boy who said he had special X-ray glasses that could see through their skirts. The girls all ran away from him.

Marie blossomed from an angular swot with scraped back ponytail into a blonde-haired pocket Venus at age fourteen. Ian had been her 'boyfriend' during the scraped back phase. Only getting the nerve up to ask her out again once, when she was seventeen. He had been obsessed by her at that age, and she had fuelled his early erotic dreams.

Ian barely noticed her cousin, Jude at that age, except as a way of getting close to Marie. This he was careful to conceal, knowing his status as trusted friend was the only advantage he had. To his disappointment, he found Marie was going steady with Adam, and was still with him, by all accounts.

He was alone now, after the separation.

He had fallen into the habit of calling Jude up after Marie left, and they started dating in a desultory manner. No one was more surprised than he to find himself in love with a girl he had barely noticed growing up. This was long after Marie and Adam had left town and in the end, Jude had left him for pastures new.

Perhaps she had always carried the feeling of being second best. The strange thing was, it may have felt like that in the beginning, but he had quickly come to see how well suited he and Jude were, and had fallen deeply in love. The