Chapter Nine

"Like, for repairs?" Bracken asked hopefully.

"No," Adric yelled sadly, twirling one of his bow ties. "One of the local kids was burying a cat out in the garden - don't ask - and he found a big wedge of Mayan gold. At first we thought it was a hoax by some of the older boys – ” he gestured towards a row of computers where a line of older teenage boys sat in silence checking their social networking sites and hatching plots.

“– they need to get jobs like – but the council was interested enough by the prospect of money to get some professor down here to check it out... The kid was pretty annoyed, as it turns out it's real, authentic and very very old."

"Mayan gold, though," Bracken said, incredulous and slow. "As in the ancient civilisation in south America?"

"That's the one." Adric confirmed squeakily, putting up some shelves as he did so.

"But how did it get here? Under a library in Edinburgh? It doesn't make any sense."

"Oh Bracken," Adric said paternally, placing an assortment of library related knick knacks on the aforementioned shelves, "you said it yourself. The Mayans were an ancient civilisation. This building has only been here since the mid seventies. I know that seems ages to a young snip of a girl like you, with your flighty fancies and frippery doodads. But it's really not that long in the grand scheme of things. You'll start to see that as you get older."

"No," she said patiently, "I mean physically how did this gold get from South America to Scotland? Who went to all the trouble of removing what was probably a cursed treasure - they usually are, at any rate - sailing back here, and burying it in the Scottish countryside, never for them to lay eyes on again?"

"I would have thought that was pretty obvious," Adric said, "it must have been pirates. They love nicking shiny stuff and burying it."

"That's a myth propagated by Treasure Island," Bracken informed him wearily, "you might just as well say a dragon did it."

"Don't be silly," Adric said dismissively, "you don't get dragons this far north. They hail from Wales. Must’ve been pirates. With big hats, and peg legs, and hooks for eyes. No, wait. Hands. That’s right, isn’t it? Like in Peter Piper. I mean Pan."

"So what will happen to your jobs then," Esmerelda asked, when the flow of nonsense seemed to have come to a natural end, "what with the economic climate how it is? The Edinburgh Evening News says the council are firing people at a rate of lots."

"Knots," Aloysius corrected automatically.

"What?"

"The phrase is at a rate of knots," he said, "it's a seafaring term."

“I know,” Esmeralda pouted, irritated at her amateurish mistake, “I was just making a joke. God, Al. Way to make me sound like an idiot.”

"We'll probably be offered the chance to go to different branches," Adric explained, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room. Bracken noticed it though, and a flicker of hope twangled in her tummy like a rowdy gerbil.

"Or if we refuse, a minuscule pay out. I'll probably go to another branch, myself. Maybe in the Maldives, haha. Only kidding. The council doesn’t run any libraries in the Maldives. Not any that are legal and above board, at least."

"Actually, I was wondering about volunteering in a Romanian orphanage," said Aloysius, to the evident surprise and chagrin of his alleged girlfriend.

Bracken noticed that their body language was very distant as well. Could it be that Esmeralda had lied to her that night at the hospital?

"Where did that come from, all of a sudden," Esmeralda was asking through gritted teeth.

"I just think that maybe it's time to do something different," he said, "something to help other people rather than worrying about myself all of the time."

Esmeralda looked genuinely blank. This was a concept that was alien to her. Because she was secretly mean.

"And anyway," he continued, shooting a sneaky look at Bracken under his lovely (in a butch way) eyelashes, "there's not really anything for me here."

"Ally-poos," came the tinkling voice of Nigella in full slap, "how can you say that? After last night?"

She emerged from the staff room brandishing two cups of tea, and gave one to Al with a lingering look.

"What happened last night?" asked Bracken and Esmeralda in unison.

"It's always the quiet ones," remarked Adric, pulling a custard cream out of his shirt pocket and munching cheerfully.

"Nothing happened last night," Aloysius said quickly. "I just walked her home, that's all."

Knowing how honest he was, Esmeralda was inclined to believe him.

Knowing what a fantasist Nige was, Bracken tended to agree. And yet there was something not quite right about his demeanour, or her snake eyed look of triumph.

"Well, that was pretty much the most boring revelation ever," Adric said, scanning through a bunch of graphic novels for comic book guy and stamping eight of them due back on the 41st of April 2026 before realising it had been tampered with.

"You know me," said comic book guy, "I'll have them back within the week anyway!". He laughed, implying that this had been a joke of some kind.

Adric, who had never seen comic book guy in his life, was confused.

He overcompensated by laughing uproariously and shouting, "yep, that sounds like you."

"Maybe it's not such a bad thing we have to close," he said sadly after comic book guy hooded up and dashed out into the rain, "I don't know the customers anymore anyway."

"You know me," Bracken pointed out.

"Yeah, but this is the first time you've been here in weeks. Where have you been? We've got a book in that you reserved, actually. That one about the woman who turns everything she touches into marine creatures."

"That the one with the moustachioed porpoise on the front?" Al asked, going to retrieve it.

"The very same."

"I don't have my card," she admitted regretfully, "sorry guys."

"That's alright," Al said, "we put your card number on the book when it comes in."

"Not just yours," Adric qualified, taking the book from him and typing her borrower number into the database. "It's standard procedure."

"Gosh," Esmeralda said sarcastically, "how fascinating. Nobody should live at this speed."

"Thanks," Bracken said quietly, examining the cover.

The moustachioed porpoise gazed back at her with the calm of the sea.

“Maroona Fusible was an ordinary, strikingly beautiful girl… Until the clock struck 12 on her eighteenth birthday,” began the blurb on the back in flowing silver calligraphy. “But then her family’s secret curse was unlocked, and strange things began to happen to the people she loved. Whenever she touched someone with whom she had a connection, they turned into citizens of the sea.”

“I think it’s meant to be some sort of strangled metaphor,” Bracken muttered, “wonder if it explains what for or whether I’ll have to try and work it out from context and the author’s background.”

“Well guys,” Nigella trilled, interrupting her train of though, “I’d better be going. People to do, places to see. Oh, what am I like.”

Bracken rolled her eyes.

“See you soon, Al,” Nige added sweetly, clopping away in her tallest pulling shoes.

“Break a leg,” Bracken wanted to shout after her, but she didn’t.

“I should go too actually,” she remembered, “the kids’ll be finishing soon.”

“No they won’t,” Adric asserted, “they’ve got an in-service day. Nobody in the school at all.”

“Oh,” Bracken said, “that’s why they’re all running about in here making a racket. I’m so used to them now I just tune them out, I thought it was quiet in here.”

“ADRIC,” shouted a chubby boy with mud all over his face, “WHEN AM AH GETTING MA GOLD BACK?”

“You’re not getting it,” Adric explained, evidently not for the first time. “It’s been taken away to go in a museum.”

“Should I not get a reward for finding it or suhin?” persisted the boy, picking his nose and wiping it disinterestedly on the counter.

“Well, in a perfect world maybe,” Adric admitted, “but nobody knew it was missing, so there isn’t really a reward going as such. You got your picture in the paper, though. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“NUT,” expostulated the boy, “ah’ve been in the paper like, about, a HUNDRED times. Like for ma golf and when we did that thing for Robbie Burns night and when my sister got married…”

“Ooooh,” Bracken said, recognizing the kid at last, “you’re Kelly’s wee brother aren’t you.”

“Aye,” he said.

“I was in school wi her.”

“Oh.”

Adric shrugged apologetically.

“Well can I book on the playstation 3?” Enquired the boy.

“That depends,” Adric responded, “have you got your library card?”

“Ew nut,” the boy shrieked, “that’s pure geeky!”

He saw the look on Adric’s face.

“Eh, I mean, I lost it.”

Adric folded his arms.

“Dog ate it.”

A shake of the head.

“Ma wee sister accidentally on purpose flushed it down the toilet.”

“Your wee sister, aye,” Bracken interjected doubtfully.

“Ma wee brother.”

“You don’t have a wee sister or a wee brother,” Adric and Bracken chorused. Such was the benefit of living in a tiny community where everyone knew everyone. Through very different channels, both of them knew that Dillon Mackay (for this was his name) was the youngest of nine children.

“Just find someone who does have a card and play with them,” another kid suggested from the sidelines.

“I think I might go,” Bracken concluded, having glanced outside and noticed that the rain had stopped; “now that I’ve realized they’re here I’m going to end up shouting at them. They’re wee toe rags when they’re in here.”

“What, are they mild mannered and delightful when they’re outside?”

“No. You know what I mean. Youse’re good wi them, but I couldnae stand it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Al disagreed, reappearing from a Super Mario Brothers tournament in which he had been pwned by an eight year old girl. She was now doing a victory dance on the craft table as some other kids cheered her on.

“Well,” Adric told her, “don’t be a stranger, OK? We’re all rooting for you and hoping things work out with Nicky and the wee one.”

Bracken was genuinely touched by this unexpected display of kindness. Because her aunt and Nige and Jeremy Kyle had been so vocally against her, she hadn’t thought that anyone was on her side.

“Thanks,” she nodded, the lump in her throat threatening to swell up to kitten size. “I’ll see you when I bring this back –” she waved the porpoise book – “if not before.”

“You take care,” he smiled.

“Will do.”

Which was ironic really, because as soon as she stepped outside, she was grabbed from behind, a gloved hand went over her mouth, and she was bundled into the back of a car by a man (or a female bodybuilder like on Louis Theroux) in a balaclava.

“What the-” was all she got out before everything went black.

Chapter Five

"You need a night out," pronounced Bracken's cousin, Nigella. "I'll be round in two minutes."

"I don't think that's such a great idea, Nige. I just want tae curl up in bed and never come out again, to be honest."

"That's because you're stressed," Nigella told her, walking in through the front door.

Bracken put the phone down.

"A night on the tiles is just what the doctor ordered."

"But what aboot the bairn?"

"Nicky'll look after him."

"It's poker night."

"Weans are allowed at poker night."

"No anymair," Bracken said, "since that time he was looking after you and me and took us along. He's only just been allowed back after that little incident."

"Pfft," Nigella said dismissively, "it was only one hamster."

"But quite a lot of vodka though eh."

"I didnae ken it would be as flammable as that. How could ah? I skived science classes at scale. It was borin'."

"Anyway," Bracken said, "he's awready left. And the bairn's gone doon fur the night. So."

"Nae worries," Nigella said, "I'll text maw."

Seconds later, Bracken's aunt, Nigella's mother, came in the door.

She was a formidable woman, with peroxide blonde hair and a voice that was husky with years of chain smoking. Today she was dressed in leopard print leggings, a fake fur gilet, and a shiny new pair of reeboks. Her eye makeup was a vibrant, kingfisher blue, right up to the brows, and her nails were fluorescent orange.

"Does naebiddy buzz anymair," Bracken complained, more to herself than anything else.

"It dusnae work," Nigella explained.

"It was a rhetorical question," she mumbled.

"Ooooooh, rhetorical eh. Check oot captain vocabulary ower there," the aunt piped up, lighting a cigarette.

"Shup, mum. It's an achievement that Bracken's such a guid reader."

"We've got hereditary dyslexia," she said, "s'no anybiddy's fault. And ‘shutup’ has a ‘t’, thank you."

"Dyslexia doesn't stop you doing stuff," said Bracken, "you just have to work at it a bit more. You dinnae get suhin' fur nuhin' in this life."

"How d'ye explain the wean then," her aunt cackled.

Bracken flushed, remembering the earlier conversation with the pinstripe woman. How did she explain the wean? She hadn't told her cousin that part and Nige hadn't pried, although she was well curious about the paternity of Bracken's kiddy.

"Well ladies, you cannae go out lookin like that," Bracken's aunt declared, producing a cheap bottle of white wine from her sleeve and pouring them each a glass. "Go and make yourselves beautiful while I catch up on Eastenders."

They shuffled through to the bedroom to examine Bracken's wardrobe.

"No got much in the way of going out stuff, do ye?"

Nigella plucked a little silver number off a hanger.

"This is nice though."

"That was a costume fae a Halloween disco at scale," Bracken said. “I was trying to impress Mr Holly. Think he was a gayer though.”

Nigella pulled the dress on over her head. It clung to her like a second skin.

She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed, "well I canny wear any underwear with this anyway."

She turned her attention to Bracken, who was gazing into the middle distance, apparently lost in thought.

"C'mon ya big tramp," she said gently, "try this one."

She had picked out a blue cat suit with diamanté trim. The v-neck plunged almost to the pelvis.

"Although," Nigella said thoughtfully, you canny wear a bra wi that, and what wi having had a baby..."

She stopped and stared as Bracken donned the outfit without a word.

"Where are your stretch marks," Nigella queried, "from the pregnancy?"

"Don’t have any," said bracken, who didn't.

"Well, lucky old you. And why, may I ask, are you still so pert in the boobal arena?"

"Well I'm only twenty," Bracken laughed, “they don't go south just yet do they? Or are you feelin’ past it, at the ripe old age of 22?"

"Did you not breast feed?"

"Aye," Bracken said, "but only for the first few months. I got ill, remember?"

Nigella did not. Now she came to think of it, she didn't remember anything at all about her cousin's pregnancy. And as Bracken thought about it, neither could she. She had a vague sense she had breast-fed the wean for a bit, but for the life of her couldn't remember when or where she was supposed to have done it, or how it felt.

"How do I look?" she changed the subject, taking a gulp of wine.

"Lovely. Gie's a twirl."

Bracken obeyed. The cat suit clung about her curves, and because it was made of velour like her tracksuit, she didn't feel uncomfortable or overdressed.

"Ooh, classy," Nigella approved. This was at least in part because the word classy was emblazoned upon the seat of the cat suit in more diamanté.

"You think?" Bracken asked anxiously.

"I do."

"Cab's here girls," called Nigella's mum from the living room.

"But I haven't done my make up," they chorused.

"Take it wi yese, dae it in the bogs when ye get up town."

They exchanged grimaces.

"She's suhin else, your mum."

"She's an embarrassment, that's what," Nigella said, sweeping all of Bracken's makeup from the top of the chest of drawers into her bag. "And what if we get a cute taxi driver? He'll run for the hills."

"It’s a lassie," her mum said, "and she says to hurry up or she's away."

Barely pausing to grab some more scrunchies for their hair, Bracken and Nigella bombed it down the stairs and scrambled into the taxi.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Eh," said Bracken, "dinnae ken. We hadn't really got that far, to be honest."

"Up toon," Nigella said, "and we'll think of something more specific on the way."

The something more specific ended up being a club that Nigella always took them to, which Bracken suspected had been the plan all along. Walking in she had to slow down because her feet were sticking to the floor, and almost instantly she was hit by the unmistakable aroma of sick.

"Oh look," Nigella said casually, "there's Jimmy Bob."

Nigella had had her eye on Jimmy Bob for a number of months now, but had never been sure if he was interested. Then last week he had shared a poke of chips with her, and when they had both put their hands in at the same time he had left his fingers touching hers for slightly longer than you would if you didn't fancy the person. It wasn't an exact science, Nigella admitted, but it was totally romantic.

Bracken was unconvinced by this tale at the time, and there was little about Jimmy Bob's general demeanor now to prove her wrong.

"Isn't that Rachel Henderson?"

"Aye."

"Sitting on Jimmy Bob's knee?"

"Aye."

"Sucking his tonsils?"

"Fucksake Bracken," Nigella said, "you dinnae huv tae rub it in."

"Sorry hen,” she said sincerely, “but he's no good enough fur ye. Ah’ve aiways said it."

"Shut up," Nigella said, annoyed, "if anything he's too good. Ah'm never going to get any better anyway. No livin round here."

"You don't have to live round here forever," Bracken pointed out, surprising herself slightly. She’d never thought about moving away herself.

"Aye, ma glittering career working part time in the coop could take me anywhere hen. Maybe even as far afield as Oxgangs."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

Nige looked blank. "Nah mate. D’you no mind how Jean got moved over that way last year? Two buses there and two back. She wusnae happy likes."

"Nah, I just meant... Are you ok?"

"Fine aye,” Nigella said cheerfully. “It's like you say, plenty mair fish in the sea."

"And your no going to take Rachel's sloppy seconds when she goes hame and Jimmy Bob tries his luck wi you?"

"Nut," she said, slightly too insistently, "as if."

"Good."

"Sorted. Now… flaming sambuca?"

"I'm no sure that's such a good idea," Bracken started to say, but her cousin was gone.

She leaned against a pillar and looked about her. The place was such a dive, she thought, maybe a couple of shots wasn't such a bad idea. Just to take the edge off.

In the far corner there were a group of lads on a stag do. She made a mental note to avoid them, knowing as she did so that her cousin would make a beeline straight in that direction as soon as she clocked them. They were good for getting free drinks out of, she maintained, and got so drunk so fast that it was easy to lose them later on. Bracken felt this was immoral, but Nigella thought she was just being a prude.

"There's worse things in this life than having a one night stand," she would say on the mornings after she had woken without quite managing to shake whichever one had stayed the course. "Like, some folk have no legs. And not by choice either."

"Here we go," Nigella reappeared with a tray of drinks. "These should get you in the mood for a bit of a fandango in the cowgate."

"Is that a euphemism," Bracken asked, "or do you genuinely want to go clubbing in the cowgate?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B," Nigella said with a wink.

The drinks went down quickly, but although Bracken felt light headed she was still fairly lucid. She even started to relax a bit.

"Who does that Keremy Jyle think he is anyway," she said suddenly, in the middle of one of Nigella's work anecdotes. "Blackmailing young mums to go on his show. I've done nothing wrong, just by having a baby."

"Totally."

"So what if ah'm no wi the dad," she continued, "that's naebiddy's business except for mine and the wee man's, when he's big enough for me to explain."

"What are you going to tell him," Nigella asked interestedly. "Have you planned it all out?"

"Not yet," Bracken said, "but all this has made me think about it. I guess I'll say that his dad loves him just as much as I do, but he had to go away."

"Bracken," Nige said earnestly, looking her cousin directly in the eyes, "who is the wean's dad? Ya ken I wouldnae grass."

Bracken sighed.

"Well the thing is," she started, "the dad is... Well he's..."

"Nae pressure," Nigella said. "I just wonder sometimes if it might help you to tell someone. You act like you've got the weight of the world on your shudders when you hink naebiddy's looking."

"OK. The father of ma bairn is - DUCK!"

"Doug who?" Nigella asked, thus failing to duck as a barstool came hurtling out of nowhere within a working inch of her left ear.

Slowly and deliberately, she turned in the direction from whence the stool had come. The couple responsible (newlyweds) let go of each other's throats and looked sheepish.

"Eh," the woman said, "sorry hen."

"Aye, sorry hen," the man echoed. "We got a bit carried away."

"WE?!" the wife began, but when she saw the look on Nigella's face she stopped sort.

"Apology accepted-"

Then a girl with pretty dodgy eyesight who was stood in a completely different area of the bar shrieked, "what are you looking at, ya tramp?!" and took a running jump at Nige.

Nobody moved for a fraction of a second, then the whole place descended into chaos.

"FIIIIIIIGHT," yelled the dude who had just tried to brain his wife.

The random girl pulled out a clump of Nigella's hair.

The stag party started whooping and cheering and taking bets on who would win and how severe the other’s injuries would be.

Nigella sank her teeth into the girl’s cheek.

An older gentleman, who had been the manager of the place till comparatively recently, began to conduct a commentary of the fight in the inimitable style of John Motson.

Bracken could barely make out who was who in the flailing mass of arms and legs and shrieking and stilettos.

One of the bar staff called the police.

The random girl pulled off one of her spike heels and rammed it into Nigella’s side.

Bracken called an ambulance.