Lie of the Land (29 page)

He set off for Alec John's. At least he'd spend today inside, learning how to saw a carcass, how to slice it into cuts and joints of meat.

It nagged at him, Terry and his flash of clarity. There was something about his way of telling it, something that wasn't obviously either a lie or the truth. Call it self-delusion. Was he supposed to spread the story around? Was he supposed to tell Simone?

He turned off the main road, just round the head of the bay, and walked up the gravel track to the stalker's farm.

He had to have the facts to stand up a hunch, and in this case his hunch was giving him trouble. There was no evidence to swing it either way; there had been no sign of broken glass or a knife in the trees in the clearing, just thin, sharp branches, sticking straight out from every conifer trunk. In daylight it was a pain to walk through; in the dark, and running, it would have been dangerous.

January–April

33

The sky cleared, and the temperature plunged. Two Celsius was the best the brief, crystal daylight could offer; by night it was sub-zero, down as low as minus eight. Clear skies meant crunching grass below and the full catalogue of constellations wheeling above, Orion rising in the east, where the ionosphere flashed and crackled every now and then to SCOPE's electric dance.

As dawn broke, a light wind rose. A mile above the stirring village a parachute opened, a silver cylinder suspended beneath it, glinting in the early sun. The canopy of white nylon drifted inland on the breeze, away from Inverlair, and sank silently out of sight.

Simone could hear Isaac humming to himself, as he thudded, one deliberate step at a time, down the stairs. Granddad would be down there, lighting the fire, wrapped in his dressing gown, with his balaclava on. He would probably tell Isaac off for coming downstairs without wearing any socks. Simone lay on her side, the duvet pulled up to her ears. At least she wasn't vomiting any more, that was something, and Dr Morgan had said everything was fine; everything, that is, except life in general. Simone tried not to think of her mum; tried not to picture what would be left of her after almost four months lying wherever SCOPE had sent her to sleep. There was her son to occupy her thoughts now, and the baby in her stomach, and her dad and her brother and other people to think about. They were here, and they were alive. Simone kept telling herself that she had to focus on the present, and that
thinking about what had happened served no purpose. It would drive her mad if she let it.

What was she going to do?

She started to cry, her mother not present to make things right, to comfort and cuddle and nothing more, no, nothing more . . .

A crust had developed on her vulnerability, and no man would be allowed to penetrate it unless she, in full conscious realisation, wanted that to happen. She would keep her guard up, especially now, and her persona would bar the way to those who deserved exclusion. No outside force, no man, was going to make her feel bad again.

It was obvious to her that Carl was either incapable of opening up or unwilling to try. She lay there, wrapped in the duvet, staring into space. Fatherhood, to Carl, was just a frightening word with unpleasant connotations.

She hoped that her brother had told her the truth about Terry. It had been difficult enough to raise the baby subject before, to make it real for Carl, and now there was a reason for him to dislike her even more: Adam. She tried to see the justice in what had happened to Terry, but she found it impossible. He was a sad and lonely man.

She felt nauseous again, and her breasts were tender. Pregnancy was real enough for her.

At the same time that morning Carl lay in his own bed, fully clothed and hungry, trying to figure out how to start the day. He mustn't stop washing just because it was easier and warmer to get into bed at night with all his clothes on. An effort to keep clean should be made, bollock-freezing water or not. He wasn't going to stink like Terry. Days like this made him yearn for a coffee, a splash of Irish in it, just to keep out the chill. And carbs. Even the synthetic shit they used to hand out at the rationing centres. He would take a slab of polycarb right now, and a bucket of coffee, to kick-start his system. He was tired. Everyone was tired.

Something would happen, something that would make his spirit soar. There had to be that in life, an end to the staleness and sameness and discomfort.

This is how people used to live, he thought, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. They survived, cold and hungry, most of the time. Probably much worse back then, when there were no polytunnels or chest freezers or photovoltaics; no duvets or taps. And now an echo of the past had returned, making life what it had been for most of humankind's existence: a struggle. Nature used to dictate that there was less of everything in the winter, including warmth. And now the power of seasonal rationing was back, tightening its coils around Inverlair for the long cold squeeze, until spring.

He sighed. Why did she keep pushing him? She could be asking questions about SCOPE or Alec John or Terry one minute, then the next she'd ask about his own parents and the conversation, inevitably, would turn to children and the child that was on its way. He wasn't going to get pinned down like that. It was too much like losing control, and he'd had enough of that over the last thirty-eight years to last a lifetime.

In a minute he would fill a sink of water in the en suite, scrape together a film of soap from somewhere, and have a wash; then he would go and do something. In a minute he would do all that. Start the day. Perform an allotted task. He was starting to get the hang of things. Some of it disgusted him; the reek of steaming innards from a gralloched deer, or a snared rabbit, mouth full of its own blood. At least he was only answering to Alec John, not the committee – the self-appointed good shepherds. Maybe everyone needed that kind of authority, doing all the planning and organising.

The committee had stepped into the breach and were now enforcing Howard's survival plan, tweaked with their own sly modifications. Maybe that's just what happens: those who get to call the shots pretend that everything is okay and above board, while the folks at the sharp end just accept injustice as natural, so
long as it isn't waved under their noses. Even gouging out eyes as punishment could be tolerated.

Maybe he should tell the rest of the village about Adam Cutler's food rationing stitch-up, and maybe enough of them would listen. But then what? Hold out the begging bowl and watch it get filled to the brim by a repentant committee? That sort of admission of culpability had never happened before the redzone, so why should it happen now? People look out for themselves; it only takes the right circumstances for the mask to drop, for people to regress to growling over a fresh kill.

•

Sunlight came streaming through the crystal-coated birch and into Alec John's living room. The sky was cloudless and the early afternoon had a piercing light to it. The day would darken in two hours, but for now it was blue around and above the frosting bay. Hungry birds – siskin, Carl thought – were squabbling in the leafless trees, oblivious to him walking past, crunching up the shell path.

Alec John was in his favourite spot, sitting at the window with a blanket round his shoulders and another over his knees, dozing, but not asleep. As Carl watched through the window, Alec John, his closed eyes dark and his skin stretched pale over the frame of his skull, grimaced and turned his head. But there was no respite from the discomfort, and the man's gaping mouth struggled to inhale what his lungs could barely use. This is how it would be, from now on: Alec John's breathing would get quicker and shallower and the lack of oxygen, once his emergency tank ran out, would mean even walking to the toilet would be a struggle. Without regular injections of nanomed to fight the good fight, his heart would soon no longer be able to pump oxygenated blood to his lungs. This disease had been exorcised by inexplicable magic – in Alec John's case administered five times a year by Dr
Morgan. But now it was creeping back, repossessing its human host. Undoubtedly, emphysema would bring a few friends along, and they'd all have a wild old time in their Highland retreat. They'd do their best to devour it.

Carl watched Alec John for a while. He couldn't help but think of Eric and Leslie. Did they die together? The question kept occurring. He shuddered at the image of a Glasgow filled with desiccated corpses, in beds, cars, offices and streets, lying where they'd collapsed, bones picked clean. There would be other notspots and, one day, he'd drive away and find them.

Carl went inside the house. ‘Hello, it's me.'

Alec John stirred at the sound. ‘Hello there,' he gasped. He coughed, spat into his hankie, a trace of blood and sputum clinging to his grey-stubbled chin. He lifted the face mask, took a few deep breaths, and sat up straight to focus on his visitor.

Carl noticed the bowl of soup, untouched, on the drop-leaf table. ‘George will take that personally,' he said.

Alec John shook his head. ‘I must have nodded off.' He straightened his back against the armchair, smoothed his thinning grey hair into place. ‘I had some of the soup, and the bread – say thanks to George.'

He glanced at Carl. He was showing the evidence. Food? Keep my strength up? Look, Alec John was saying, I am nothing but skin and bone. I am already dead. One day soon, a shortage of oxygen will put me in a coma or give me a heart attack, and no amount of soup is going to stop that happening. He took a few sips of water. ‘You have it.'

‘Have what?'

‘The soup.'

Carl hesitated. ‘No, keep it for later.' He put another log in the stove. ‘Heat it up whenever you're hungry.'

He stood at the fire for a moment, looking at the framed photos on Alec John's mantelpiece. Mother and father in black
and white, wife and nephew in colour. The clock ticked and Jess panted in her basket.

‘That thing the fishermen saw come down the other day, it's definitely a capsule – Russian, I think.'

Alec John brightened. ‘Really? How do you know it's Russian?'

‘I saw their flag painted on the side,' said Carl. ‘It was too foggy yesterday to get a good look. There's a parachute attached, but it's too far into the redzone. Must have been dropped from very high up.'

‘There could be all sorts inside, stuff we need.'

Carl nodded. ‘They would've dropped important stuff – medical supplies, high-energy food maybe. But we'll have to wait a good while to reach it.'

Turning back to the window, Alec John said nothing more. Carl took the bowl through to the kitchen.

‘Is Terry still the same?'

Carl pulled up a dining chair, turned it around, and sat with his elbows resting on the back. ‘He's been okay for the last couple of weeks. He's started carving animals into logs, even into trees. They're amazing, really detailed.'

Alec John drank some more water, brighter now. ‘Do you think he'll snap out of it completely?'

‘I think he is. Part of him seems glad that he's been punished for something he's done wrong.' He looked at Alec John. ‘He did have sex with that girl when she didn't want to. It was rape.' He paused. ‘He's getting some odd ideas into his head though. Keeps going on about Celtic myths and old religion.'

Alec John sighed and shook his head. He kept his eyes fixed on the scrawny patch of hazel in the garden. ‘Well, it was wrong, what he did, though not wrong enough for what happened to him.'

‘Well, there are different rules now. That's what Gibbs said: different rules.'

‘I suppose there are,' said Alec John, clasping his pale white hands together. Then he looked up at Carl, fixed his eye for second. ‘Different rules.'

He took a breath of oxygen. ‘Did you put the strychnine down for the stoats?'

‘Yes.' Carl smiled. ‘That American woman, the one who latched onto Adam, she was pretty horrified. Called it barbaric.'

There was a twinkle in Alec John's eye. ‘Maybe she won't want any grouse then – if the stoats and crows leave us any. Did you check the Larsen traps up below the corries?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘Two hoodies.'

‘Good.' Alec John relaxed into the armchair again, licked his paper-dry lips, and collected his thoughts. ‘In the corner,' he said gruffly, gesturing. ‘You may as well have it.'

A gun in a leather case stood in the corner of the sitting room. Alec John had several guns, but Carl recognised the case. He picked it up, smelled the linseed oil on the cracked leather. He opened the straps and took out the Ruger.308. It was Alec John's own rifle. Not one of the .22s or a shotgun, but the man's weapon of choice. The magic meat stick, handed down from father to son.

‘You may as well take it,' Alec John said.

Carl felt the gun, hard and cold, in his hands. ‘This was your dad's.'

‘Aye, and now it's yours.'

On the tip of Carl's tongue there hung a question, more a consideration, really: he wouldn't ask if Alec John was sure about giving the gun away, because that would mean raising the possibility of its rightful owner never firing it again. And that, they both knew, was probably the truth. He put the .308 back in the case and closed the silver buckles. Alec John said nothing, waved his hand to dismiss any protest.

‘Thanks,' Carl said softly.

Pursing his lips, Alec John resumed his vigil with the crisp winter scene outside his window. What had to be done was done.

‘You'd better make them count,' he said. ‘There aren't too many left.'

‘I'll pick my targets.'

Carl stoked the fire, turning the log so that some heat would flow into the room. Once the sun sank, the temperature would drop quickly.

‘How's Simone?'

There were a variety of responses to this question, covering simple lies and complex truths. Carl opted for the simple truth. ‘I don't know.' He cleared his throat. ‘We don't really talk, or see each other that much.'