The Casualties Read online

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  For all our outcry and struggle, we shall be for the next generation not the massive dung fallen from the dinosaur, but the little speck left of a humming-bird.

  —Djuna Barnes, Nightwood

  Prologue

  AS WE APPROACH THE ANNIVERSARY, let us try to think back. Back through the bright lights, then through the darkness, to the start of this century.

  At that time there was a small city called Edinburgh, which was the capital of what was then Scotland. It was a small city of half a million built between seven hills, one of which was an old volcano that was believed to be safe. Though its best days were past, the city was still thought of fondly.

  However, the place of which I wish to speak played little part in either the city’s past or present. It was an old cobblestoned street known as Comely Bank. Though no battles were fought there, and no kings were crowned, it was still an exceptional place.

  The shops of Comely Bank sold food, clothes, books, music, alcohol, and medicine, plus many other things we would be familiar with (after all, it has been only sixty years). There were larger shops that were cheaper and had more products to choose from, but to reach them you had to drive to the edge of town. On the way the buildings shrank from high apartment buildings that contained hundreds of people to small, squat houses built of stone where only one family dwelt. After that the houses stopped and you were driving through an area of such desolation it seemed like a place and time before civilisation. There were no buildings or streetlights, just rocks and twisted trees. You wondered what would happen if your car broke down. You’d set off to find a house or shop, and at first you’d walk at a normal pace, maybe even whistle. But soon that blasted landscape would make you nervous and your heart would beat faster; you would walk more quickly, looking left and right, sometimes behind, telling yourself you were being stupid and there was nothing to fear. You’d laugh at your foolishness, and then a black shape would flicker at the edge of your vision and you would just run.

  And so the residents of Comely Bank bought from the local shops. It was easier, and they enjoyed the predictability of the different shopkeepers: Mr. Asham was unfailingly civil; Mr. Campbell was snide. Sam was patient, always helpful; Caitlin avoided your eyes.

  They were also familiar with their fellow shoppers, whom they smiled at, or even spoke to, whilst standing in a queue. This was far from common practice. If you did this in the supermarket at the end of the world, people looked startled or scared. It is true that some of Comely Bank’s customers did not enjoy this kind of familiarity, and on the contrary, found being addressed by a stranger so rude and invasive it was like the glint of a knife. But these were sour, unpleasant people; most enjoyed the meetings. They produced a sense of community absent elsewhere in the city. People recognised each other; they knew each other’s names, where they lived, what they did for a living, if they were married, if they had children. This alone made Comely Bank an unusual place. However, what made it truly remarkable was not how its residents interacted. Whilst most of its people were wholly of their time—in that they did not believe in God, had small families, took holidays to faraway places, enjoyed electrical consumer goods, believed in things like equality, democracy, and the worth of the individual—there were a few who stood out. This was partly due to the way they looked (their size, their face, the way they walked), but mostly because their ideas went against the grain. They worshipped God, wished for death, or were chaste. They refused to own property.

  Yet for all their eccentricities, they had a place in Comely Bank. Most people saw them as quaint characters who added colour to daily life. They were the human equivalents of the commemorative plaques on the walls, the statues of great leaders, the dried-up wells into which people dropped coins in exchange for luck. They were relics of a long-past age that were worth preserving.

  There have been many changes over the last sixty years. Our cities are cleaner; we commit less crime; we manage our desires. If there are no statues or plaques on our streets, it is because we prefer to look forward.

  So if I speak of these characters fondly, it is not because I am nostalgic for that era. Quite the opposite. I just think we should remember the old world as it actually was. Not only the average, but also the exception.

  Part I

  1. A Curious Man

  SAM (SHORT FOR “SAMUEL”) CLARK, born 1988, was the only child of William and Rebecca Clark. Like most murderers, he was unexceptional. There were richer men, more intelligent men, men with more appealing faces, men who could tell a joke or funny story better (the same was true for women). He definitely was not one of Comely Bank’s relics; no one thought him a “character.” But to get to know the more interesting residents of Comely Bank, we must begin with him.

  In 2016 Sam was twenty-eight and single. He worked in a secondhand bookshop whose profits went to the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. This charity was founded in 1884, sixty years after the founding of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. It is not just the order in which these charities were founded that is revealing. That both needed to exist had led some to suggest that hurting defenceless creatures was a part of British culture.

  There was certainly no shortage of people who wanted to support Sam’s charity by working in the shop for free. Without wishing to diminish the kindness and generosity of these volunteers, it must be said that most of them were deeply troubled. They were alcoholics, misfits, former criminals, or just very lonely, boring people who lived through their pets.

  When these people told Sam their problems he listened closely and did not interrupt. He was flattered to be trusted with their secrets; it made him feel as if they shared a special bond. But he was mistaken. Their pain was so deep and abiding they would have told anyone.

  It was from them that he learned about the jealousy, sadness, betrayal and longing that seethed beneath the visible life of the street. When Sam looked at the queue in the post office he did not just see strangers waiting. He saw a pulsing pink line of affection that jumped from the head of “Spooky” standing at the back; it leapfrogged the heads in front to reach the head of Indira, who never once turned round or gave any intimation that she felt herself being adored.

  Sam’s volunteers were not his only source of information about the residents of Comely Bank. Every day people brought him bags and boxes of books they no longer wanted. From these he could deduce the person’s job, where they had been on holiday, their political views, what kind of food they liked, what their hobbies were, if they knew languages besides English (which was more the exception than the rule, English being a lingua franca at that time), if they had been learning to draw and paint, if they had physical or psychological problems, if they were interested in war, if they believed in God or gods or spiritual forces that lacked names and personalities but were still all-powerful.

  Even the condition of the books was revealing. Their own
ers always left a trace of themselves in the pages. It is hard for most people today to understand how books could be so personal. What difference did it make that the texts of the past were written on pages? When people then read the works of Tagore or Lu Xun, their eyes were consuming the same words as those we see on our screens. As for the books themselves, they were mass produced, identical.

  This changed as soon as a person began reading. Then they folded page corners over, opened the book so wide its front and back covers touched, turned pages with food-smeared hands, underlined passages, scribbled comments in margins, wrote thoughts or a phone number on its blank pages, forced it into a coat pocket, tore strips from a page to write on, rested a cup or mug on its cover, left it lying in direct sunlight, spilt water on it, took it into the bath, sat or slept on it, highlighted significant passages with fluorescent pens, drew smiling faces next to parts they liked, drew frowning ones next to parts they hated, tore out pages they thought offensive, tore out pages they thought brilliant, sprayed perfume or cologne on its pages, substituted their name for one of the characters, unstitched the binding then reordered the pages, crossed out every word containing the letter T, crossed out every female name and wrote the bitch in their place.

  Of course, a maltreated book was not proof of its owner’s bad qualities. It was merely suggestive. Someone who bent a book’s cover and pages till it was folded double might not have been a callous, thoughtless person. They could still have believed that every book contained the potential to instil wonder, joy, sparks of enlightenment.

  But Sam’s favourite aspect of the books was the ephemera they contained. He found airline tickets, bank statements, receipts, birthday cards—best of all, a postcard, photo, or letter. Sam put these in a battered tin chest the size of a bathtub that had belonged to his grandfather, who had spent thirty-five years in the merchant navy and appeared at Sam’s house only once a year, usually without warning. Dinner would be a slow and gruelling event during which his parents struggled to pass the baton of conversation, usually by speaking of what had happened since his grandfather’s last visit. Unfortunately this was an event in which the old man refused to compete. He sat quietly, listening with a slight smile, speaking only when directly addressed. His only burst of loquaciousness was telling Sam a bedtime story, or rather stories, because they jumped between places and people. They were tales of boats, typhoons, and beautiful women who could throw knives. Fortunes were found, friends betrayed; men were tied to masts. His grandfather often got characters’ names confused, or used two different ones for the same person, but Sam didn’t mind. It was part of the telling. Sometimes the stories were just memories of people his grandfather had known—those he had sailed with or met in a port—and these often had no end. These were the stories young Sam had liked best, the ones he could finish himself.

  He had been almost eleven when his father came into his room early one morning. His father did not turn on the light, so Sam could barely see his face when he said, “I have some sad news.” His father didn’t sound sad. The funeral was well attended, mostly by old men with beards who ignored Sam and his parents. In the will Sam’s grandfather left him two hundred pounds and the trunk.

  In March 2016, the chest was almost full. By then Sam had been working in the shop for eight years, opening ten to fifteen bags a day, dealing with more than a thousand books a week. He didn’t keep most of what he found, but it had still accumulated. The top layer was composed of the most recent additions, plus a few letters and diaries he often reread, hoping to find a phrase he had overlooked, some name or event that had meant nothing before, the way that every piece put into a jigsaw makes another possible. Amongst these favourites were sixteen letters from “George” to “Iris,” all ending with the phrase Forgive me; a Christmas list scrawled in green crayon, with NO written by each item in an adult hand; and a black leather-bound notebook in which someone had recorded everything they bought, where they had bought it, and its price, between June 2008 and August 2009. The notebook was titled Book 29 and smelt strongly of smoke.

  As for the rest of the chest’s contents—perhaps five thousand items—they were mostly forgotten. Sam was more interested in finding out new things. During the rare moments when he was not in the shop, he wandered the streets of Comely Bank, glancing in windows, loitering in shops, sitting on benches, observing people and listening to conversations in which he took no part. He was like a ghost that everyone could see. If you had asked him why he did this, he would have shrugged, smiled, and said something about being interested in people. A few thought him a little strange. Nobody, including him, thought he could do harm.

  2. Lost

  COMELY BANK HAD AN OLD stone bridge that crossed the Water of Leith. Whenever Sam went over it he always paused to look down, partly to see the swift, brown river, but also in hopes of catching a glimpse of the man who lived beneath. Alasdair was first seen in Comely Bank at the start of spring 2015, and after a few nights of sleeping in the park he installed himself under the bridge. Though it was dark, cold, wet, and uncomfortable, Alasdair thought it an excellent place. He put great stock in the powers of water. The best kind was fast and north flowing, because this made the air magnetic. Magnetic air was good for the blood, because it made the iron in the blood more active, and what was good for the blood was good for the brain, because it used blood, and so the water was good for memory and thinking, and also for vision, because the eyes were part of the brain. On fine days Alasdair liked to stand on the pavement above while looking upstream. He took slow, deep breaths and thought of how his brain was getting stronger. Soon he would be able to remember his second name, where he was from, and what he had done for the first forty years of his life.

  The other reason Alasdair liked the spot was that many people went by. Each of these was interesting and contained a lesson. He could immediately tell why someone’s complexion was poor, why they wore glasses, why they looked depressed. He was constantly surprised that people did not want to hear that their spots were caused by fear, that their poor eyesight stemmed from eating cheese, that they masturbated too much. This was vital information; it was about their health.

  But although many found Alasdair’s opinions unpleasant, often embarrassing, they didn’t walk away. It was rude to ignore someone, however crazy they sounded. As the passersby reluctantly paused to listen, they faced the dilemma of where to rest their eyes. Not because Alasdair was ugly or disfigured: If viewed in isolation his features were those of a handsome man. The problem was that they seemed disarranged. His ears were too far back. Though his brown eyes were appealing, they were so misaligned that he squinted. As for the long and shapely nose, it seemed entirely supported by the upper lip. Only the mouth, with its crown of dark bristles, looked properly placed. This was where people glared when Alasdair told them how to be happier, taller, grow back some of their hair.

  It was usually at this point, when the person was scowling, that Alasdair asked to come home with them. Though living under the bridge had many advantages, it was hard to cook or take a bath, activities that were both important for a person’s health.

  But the only person who let him stay was old Mrs. Maclean. That night Alasdair slept well, except for the fact he woke up crying. The next morning, before he left, Mrs. Maclean offered him a large cut-crystal bowl on which was inscribed: To Eileen, in gratitude for forty years of service. When he hesitated, she said, “Go on, take it,” in so desperate a tone he fled from her house. This was the problem with owning too many things: It drove people mad. The only items he owned were his bicycle, a penknife, a cigarette lighter, and a copper bracelet he wore for the good of his teeth.

  He’d have taken the bowl if Mrs. Maclean had been less insistent. Not because he wanted it for himself, but so he could sell it. For Alasdair was something of an entrepreneur. His bicycle was always laden with things he found on the street. In addition to bags of books, clothes, ornaments, and plates, there would be a ripped lampshade, broken toys, ele
ctrical cables coiled round the frame like loving boa constrictors. His hunting grounds were the streets around Comely Bank, with the exception of a broad, tree-lined road at the edge of the park. The houses there were imposingly large and eerily deserted. There was too deep a hush, a sense of something awry. Even going near there made him so anxious he had to put his feet in the river and slowly count down from one hundred.

  He sold the items he found in a small market that took place on weekends in the church car park. People brought their unwanted books, clothes, and household items and sold them for less than they usually cost. Alasdair saw most of the traders every week, but he had little contact with them. Although they were pleasant people, they made him sad. They came to get rid of their things, and usually succeeded—but then, often late in the day, some sort of panic began. They asked a friend, or their spouse, or a partner, to keep an eye on their stall so they could look round. Few came back empty-handed. They were excited, thrilled with discovery; they had finally solved the momentous question of what to put on the chest of drawers.

  This was the problem with having a home: It asked to be filled. Each room had to be decorated, furnished, stocked with its proper objects. People spent all their time working to earn money to make their houses perfect. They thought that every lamp, rug, and cushion was a step towards peace. If they’d been told that it would be far better for them to sell their house and everything in it, and then leave the country, they would just have laughed.

  Even Alasdair was not immune to the lure of ownership. Although he sold most of the things he found, there were some he wanted to keep. One morning he found a set of place mats that had been spattered with paint. On each were sailing ships that looked so full of speed and grace they threatened to glide off the mat. He stared at their masts, rigging, and sails while a light breeze rustled his bags. His nose filled with a stinging sensation. He thought of the sea.