Room For No Angel (I.P.)

I drop my son off at his mother’s house, hoping to catch a rare glimpse of my daughter. She turned twenty one on Friday. The last time I saw her she was seventeen. The most recent photograph I have is a cutting from the front page of the local newspaper. In the past, if someone from my family made the front page it was always followed by a long sentence, usually measured in years or months. But, as the lead model in the school’s fashion show, she made headlines for all the right reasons, and got her own paragraph.

Being in the family mood, I decide it best to visit my mum while I'm in the area, seeing as her birthday was the week before last. I’ve no money to get her a present, but she’ll understand, like always. She’ll be happy for a bit of time; the most I can do.

On the way to the family home I stop off at my brother’s. We joke about the size of the lump of cocaine in his pocket. He's his usual self, moaning about it not being enough breakfast to get him out of bed in the morning. At least it gets him talking for a while. I can’t really be bothered saying much.

He’s picked a good spot high on Carman Hill overlooking Vale of Leven. I sit on the bench close by, sort myself out and sink into the landscape.

On the other side of the valley my birthplace, Overtoun House, rises above the trees, against the backdrop of the Kilpatrick Crags. When my cousin, Davy, became the night time security guard for the Grade A listed building I visited often, familiarising myself with where it all began.

Production companies, working for the BBC, Channel Four, or film makers from Bollywood, were frequent visitors, transforming at least one room into a periodical delight a few times a year. There was always something worth stealing.

The architect James Smith died before its completion in 1863, and his socialite daughter, Madeleine, was the defendant in a sensational murder trial. Observed buying arsenic from a druggist’s office, she signed for it under a false name. Her secret lover, Pierre Emile L'Angelier, threatened to expose her and force her to marry him, then died of arsenic poisoning shortly after. The jury said they didn’t believe she was innocent of the charge, but the prosecution had failed to make a strong enough case against her. She became one of Scotland’s most infamous beneficiaries of the country’s controversial Not Proven verdict.

Many years ago I took my kids up to see the old haunted house and informed them it was one of the creepiest places on earth. In Celtic mythology, Overtoun is known as ‘the thin place’ – an area in which heaven and earth are reputed to be close.

The outside of the Scottish Baronial Country House stood as grand as ever. With crow-stepped gables, canted bays, tourelles and large unifying central tower it dominated the surrounding countryside from any angle.

Before going in I showed the kids Overtoun Bridge. Over the years hundreds of dogs have leapt to their deaths, fifty feet below in Overtoun Burn. There are also stories of dogs surviving the jump, only to climb back up and jump again. And in 1994, a local man threw his baby to his death from the bridge, claiming he thought the child was the anti-Christ.

I sort myself out some more and think back to 1998 when I helped talk Davy’s brother, Charlie, out of jumping from the bridge. He was tanked-up on Buckfast and saying he wanted to kill either me or him. I messed that up too. I should’ve let him jump, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. But I didn’t, and we made up, only to roll about the floor of my house later that night in a fight that wasn’t really a fight. At six foot four he was much bigger than me, but I knew he didn’t really want to hurt me; it was just his way of self expression, so I refrained from stabbing him.

If he’d jumped that night he might have survived. And if he’d jumped that night he might have thought twice about leaving my house three years later and jumping from the Erskine Bridge. There are no second chances from that leap.

Inside the house, things weren’t so good, especially upstairs. Walls torn down, floorboards ripped up. The air tasted centuries old.

One room on the ground floor retained beauty. The one production companies used. The Angel Room; so called for Renaissance style paintings on the ceiling by an unknown artist, depicting flying baby angels watching over those below. I told my kids I was born there, but they were more interested in running from room to room pretending to be ghosts.

When the building was taken over by a Christian Centre for Hope and Healing in 2001 I didn’t think I’d step foot in it again. But, as the believers say, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Attending a course to tutor kids with literacy and numeracy problems, trying to give something back to the community, one of my fellow students invited me to a special evening at the old house. Two Evangelist speakers were coming from America, just for the night. I thought, what the hell.

Not wanting to stand out as a heathen, I sang along with gusto as the pastor’s teenage kids played guitar at the front of the packed room. All the words being projected on to the wall helped considerably; as did the line I had in the car. I said Amen and Hallelujah at all the right times. I listened intently to the two middle-aged women preach about signs, and how they were there for all to see, if only we looked. Everything was going well. I was managing to wing my way through without anyone spotting the mark of Cain on me. But I still couldn’t stop thinking it was all a bit culty.

When the pastor, his wife and the guest speakers started speaking in tongues, I shifted in my seat and eyed the exit. If I wanted to leave I’d have to walk right past them, in full view of the congregation. I didn’t have the bottle for that, so decided to sit it out, hoping it would quickly pass.

The believers lined up in the middle aisle and shuffled towards the pastor, his wife and guest speakers. I suspected they were going for communion. But at the makeshift altar hands were laid upon foreheads and the speaking became more frantic, until the believers fainted and were caught by other believers. I felt a devilish sweat run down my back as I stayed glued to my seat.

Instead of Jesus and salvation I started thinking of The Wicker Man, Aleister Crowley, my Led Zeppelin albums at home, and the lump of coke in my pocket. I pictured them tying me down and finding 666 on my scalp, and felt like telling them it was my house as much as God’s.

Eventually, the pastor asked, in that booming voice all pastors have, if there was anyone else needing cleansed. I felt two hundred eyes burn me as I sat rigid. My fellow course mate indiscreetly nudged me, and whispered encouragement in a voice loud enough to be heard by most, but the devil held me down.

It reminded me of my one visit to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting where I decided against standing up and doing the whole I’m an addict routine. Outside, one of the Twelve Steppers pulled me aside. When I told him I wouldn’t be attending the next day’s meeting he put his finger in my face and shouted something about not treating my illness seriously enough. I was impressed by his enthusiasm for my health, but it didn’t stop me punching him on the nose.

I glanced around the makeshift church, measuring up the worshippers; mostly women of a mature age. Not much of a physical threat should they start putting fingers in my face. I hoped by staying in my seat I’d already made my feelings clear about anyone laying their hands on me. But there were also a few larger blokes. The kind you’d expect to see waving Jesus Hates Fags placards, spouting fire and brimstone about the Rapture. I shrunk into my seat, making myself as small as possible.

After the service I made my excuses for not staying for tea and biscuits. On my way out the pastor stopped me and told me not to worry, to come back when I was ready. That was the last time I saw him.

I stir from my self-induced reverie on the bench in time to see someone approaching in the distance, and identify him as a council worker when he collects the green wheelbarrow. I’ve seen the same barrow sitting in various locations through the years, always an innocent bystander, just doing its job.

Gathering my thoughts, car keys, lighter and brown-stained foil, I stand, uneasily at first, and start walking. To straighten myself up a bit I take a detour past both sets of grandparents and my uncles, giving them a cursory glance and imperceptible nod.

By the time I reach my parents I feel like having a lie down, but don’t want to stay long, not yet anyway. I’ll be with them soon enough. After a minute of awkward silence I squeeze out a Hail Mary and an Our Father, throw away the remains of dead flowers from God knows when, and thank mum for having the foresight to purchase a plot deep enough for three.