Rise (11 page)

‘Jesus, you’re one paranoid cleric, pal.’

‘Please.’

Already, she doesn’t like this woman. ‘Hi. Don’t worry, but your husband’s had a wee accident. He’s fine, but I’ve taken him back to the manse. Like I say, don’t worry. There’s no damage. And it wasn’t his fault.’ The beep cuts her out.

‘Why did you say that?’

She isn’t sure.

‘Right. Tea? What d’you take?’

‘Milk. One sugar.’

Oh, man. The kitchen? Green Aga: check. Rustic oak table: check. Some fancy coffee maker that is huge and silver: check. On the wall, a collage of photos frame the family who lives here. Cute babies; black and white back-to-backs of wee boys growing up. A puffball wedding; university gowns; old couple on a cruise ship; a line of grinning priests; light-drenched beaches, small slim woman with a wide-brimmed hat, who rocks her lime bikini. The collage hurts Justine’s eyes: it’s like staring at the sun. She smooths her fingers round the extra-large knob of a cupboard. It’s plastic woodgrain. Oversized mugs with polka dots, or dainty floral teacups? Hmm. She goes for the big mugs. When she returns, the minister is stretched out on a wing chair, one hand over his eyes. Despite the podgy face, his belly falls taut, the way her breasts go when she’s on her back. Outside, rain fingers the windows.

‘Here you go. By the way, what’s your—’

‘Thank you . . . um?’

Almost in unison.

‘I’m Michael.’

‘Justine. It’s French’ she apologises.

‘Thank you, Justine.’

Man. She’d meant to give a made-up name. She’s not remotely French either. That was her father’s mum’s fault, a mythical creature of whom she has no recollection. What an idiot: it is the cream Shaker units in the kitchen, it is the toasting fork, twinkling too hard. Making her smell crumpets. She has to leave. Immediately. She can hitch to Lochallach, get a bus further . . . north? East?

‘Look . . . I really need to be heading . . .’

Which edge will she tumble off? But it’s so warm in here. So clean.

From the middle of the rug, she inspects the full circumference of the room. Her feet don’t leave the edges, are moving in a circle, the way a cat pads before it selects its spot. The guy has offered her a job. A proper job, not prefaced with hand or blow. How often does that happen?

‘Your son. He’s going to be fine?’ Justine settles into the velvet couch, the one with the blanket.

‘So they say. Eight weeks in plaster at least.’

‘But everything’s . . . you know. He’s all working.’

Michael almost smiles at this. ‘He’s all working, thanks. Apart from his shattered leg, the concussion, a stitched-up tongue, the neck brace—’

‘Sorry.’

‘No. No, I’m sorry. I’m . . .’ He agitates one hand, as if it’s a duster and he is shaking off the dirt. ‘God. Can I say something?’

‘Fire away.’

Michael puts his mug on the floor. ‘You look like the kind of girl . . . sorry, woman? You prefer woman, don’t you?’

‘Don’t really care.’

Ah. This is it, the main event.
My wife doesn’t understand me
. Silly cow. Why do they bother making excuses? It wasn’t for her, it was never for her. It’s done as a form of atonement. Her hand balls into a fist.

‘What age are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’

‘Ish.’

‘You look like the kind of woman who isn’t shocked by anything.’

‘You think?’

He’s going to pull out a gimp mask. Or a knife. To come all this way and be smote by a man of God. Jes-
us
. Justine pulls the lovely blanket closer. Oh man! It’s got wee silky fringes on the hem. She feels perfectly relaxed. This big woose isny going to hurt her. She knows this, absolutely. His eyes are lost, yes. But they’re not enraged.

‘I wasn’t trying to . . . you know. In the churchyard. I was checking you were real.’

‘Uh huh. Right.’

‘I know.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s daft. But I’ve been having a bit of trouble . . . seeing things. Like when you have a migraine? Visual disturbances, if you like. It’s getting quite . . . well. But I can’t say . . . I don’t want to stop working. I need to keep working. There’s so much to do; we’re at a crucial time. And Hannah – I can’t say to Hannah. I shouldn’t have said anything about Hannah. Please don’t . . . nobody knows that here.’

‘Not my business, rev.’

This velvet couch. It is the softest thing she has ever sat on. It is like a feathered nest. If you were mean, this gibbering man would be the perfect scam. She is embarrassed for him.

‘I’m not actually a minister either.’

‘Right. Just impersonate one, do you?’

‘No, well, I am. I am ordained . . . still . . . but I don’t have a parish any more. Not since we . . . we only moved here last year. I’m their councillor.’

‘A counsellor?’

Man. And she thought she had problems?

‘Local councillor. Elected member?’

She thinks of a dirty joke. Does not say it.

He gabbles on. ‘I help out occasionally in the church, but only if they ask, but I don’t really . . . it’s not my job now. I mean, you can help folk in other ways, can’t you? Real things that—’ He rubs his hand across his chest, where his heart is. ‘Oh, is it cold in here?’

‘No.’

He nods. Lifts his mug. ‘I didn’t used to be . . .’ Puts it down again. She watches it wobble on the carpet, then sink to one side, the dregs pooling on creamy wool. ‘Do you believe everything has a purpose, Justine?’

She fucking hopes not. She sips at her tea, only it is too hot, so she pretends to drink while her breath echoes inside the mug and she thinks, how did he drink his that quick? and she can see a pale beige reflection of her eyes widening back at her, the heat from her trapped tea-breath making her cheeks blaze. Eventually, she puts the mug down. Eventually, she will have to respond. The man – Michael – has his hands clasped, his eyes open, fixed on her. His mouth flattens and flares; he is compressed, everything tight and small. Yet she is up in close to his garnet blood. Bones exposed. He has splayed himself open. Is it now? At what point does she mention his son? How she’d chucked him in the path of the sole vehicle on the road, and run away?

On a side table, a pile of thick pastel towels wait to be stowed. She can smell fresh-laundry sponginess, rising to meet the flower scent, the waxy wood. The rain beats harder. More than anything, Justine would love a hot shower. Her feet tuck themselves up on the couch, wee burrowing movements, searching for just the right spot. Toes poking through the holes in her socks.

‘What happened to your boy? Does he remember?’

‘Nope. Hit and run.’

‘Shit.’ She eases her toes deeper into the pile. Her long toenails catch like hooks. ‘Does he . . . have they got who did it?’

A harsh laugh. ‘No idea. No witnesses so far. And Euan can’t remember a thing. Oh, but they were good enough to call an ambulance, before they disappeared.’

Justine arranges the blanket, so it rests across her shoulders. ‘Seriously? That’s . . . awful. I mean. I don’t drive. I don’t know what you’d do—’

The door opens, and the weave tears apart.

‘Michael! What happened? Are you all right? I— oh.’

The woman in the doorway stops, her nails resting on the head of the little boy beside her. It is the jangly woman from the café. The golden-yet-scarlet jangly woman. Justine has shagged plenty of married men, remorselessly. Justine is the very last one to judge but you can see it in an instant. Mrs Jangly is shining and busy, her painted nails match her painted lips, match her small son’s knitted hat. Quick blue eyes sussing Justine, noting the unshod feet, the mismatched socks. Withering her husband. A man should expand in the presence of his wife.

‘Hi there.’ Justine stands, sticks out her hand. ‘I’m Justine. It was me who called you at the hospital. How’s your son doing?’

‘He’s doing fine, thank you. I’m sorry – who are you?’

She doesny even recognise her. If you run your words together, you can make them glide, and if you lift the inflection of them in a little flicky tail it makes you slightly posh. Some like it posh.

‘I’m a friend of Myra’s? At the church? It was so weird: Myra said I should pop in to say hello to you guys if I was up this way, and I was literally en route to the manse when Michael had his bump—’

‘A bump?’

‘He’s fine, though, absolutely fine. It was just a skid. All this rain. But he banged his head, so I helped him home and we were talking, you know? And he told me all about your son, and here’s me on a three-month sabbatical. So how bizarre is that, eh? I’m a nursery nurse, by the way.’

Genius, doll. Justine raises her eyebrows at the little boy. ‘Hiya! You must be . . .’

‘I am called Ross Michael Anderson. I am four.’

‘Hey, Ross. Pleased to meet you.’ Turns neatly to the wife again. ‘So, Euan? How is he? Any updates?’

Tell me he’s fine. Tell me I saved his life, really
.

‘Michael? What’s going on? What did you do?’ The woman scowls at Justine’s forehead. ‘Did you do that? Did you crash into her?’

Michael lugs his puzzlement from Justine, on to his wife. ‘I didn’t do anything. I skidded outside the store, that’s all. Why would you think . . . I was just going too fast, to try and catch you up. How is he?’

‘I told you. Fine. Still got concussion. They’ve managed to reset his leg, though, stitched him up. He’s not going to need that operation.’

‘Brilliant. So he can stay at Lochallach?’

‘For now. Two weeks, they reckon. But he might need to have surgery on his jaw. Look. Can we talk about this later?’ Pale-russet nails at her mouth. The wife sparkles like a trapped star. Silver charm bracelet, golden hoops, all
chinkle-tinkle
.

‘But he’s not dopey or anything? He still knows it’s you?’

‘Of course he does. Yes.’ She is too impatient with him. ‘OK – Janice, was it?’

‘Justine.’

‘Yeah. Well, thanks very much for getting my husband home in one piece. But please don’t let us keep you. Everything’s a bit chaotic . . .’ She frowns. ‘Sorry. Myra who? I don’t know anyone called Myra.’

‘Oh, not from this church, no—’

Justine stares directly at Michael.
Come on then. Make me purposeful, mate. Because I like this place. It’s nice
.

Here is a fully furnished cocoon; a fortnight’s breathing space to decide her future. As soon as the son comes home, though, she’ll have to do a runner. Jesus. The thought of that poking, shattered bone. The desperate noise of air coming out. Staying here means she’ll know for definite he’s getting better; that she didn’t actually kill him. Oh yes. Rewind. That is the proper reason. She lets the virtue tingle, opening out her fingers till the webbed skin between them is taut. It will be like keeping watch. A GOOD thing to do. It will be the most conscientious thing Justine has ever done. Secreted here, she will be quiet and safe. And helpful. As long as she’s careful – no mad spending sprees, no sex in graveyards, no drunken brawls necessitating police action. If the minister-who-is-not-a-minister is mental enough – and he clearly is, very mental – to think Justine is in some way meant . . . well. He’ll mend them. He did, in fact, ask for this.

Her teeth on dry lips.
Over to you, big boy
.

‘No. From Clairmount, remember?’ Michael’s looking out the window again. Distracted, or concentrating on his lie? Justine can’t tell. ‘That church in Paisley. Myra ran the Brownies there, didn’t she?’

Justine nods enthusiastically. ‘That’s right.’

‘Isn’t it good, though? That Justine’s a nursery nurse? Sounds like the answer to—’

‘Excuse us, Justine.’ The wife sets her handbag on the sideboard. Picks it up again. The air around her crackles. ‘Michael? A minute?’ Michael is dispatched to the hall. ‘Ross, take your stuff off, eh? You can put cartoons on – quietly. Mummy’ll be back in a wee minute.’

She shuts the door on them, even as the child nods, tongue out as he labours with Velcro straps on his shoes.

‘Can I give you a wee help?’ says Justine.

‘No. I am putting my boots and hat in the hall.’

‘That’s a good boy.’

Ross swings the door open and the words whumph in.

‘. . . nothing about her. Look at her bloody hair. And she’s a massive bruise on her forehead . . .’

‘. . . not exactly coming for a job interview . . . be . . . help . . .’

Ross trundles back into the lounge, neatly presses the door fast. He holds a black-bound notebook.

‘You’re a very tidy boy, aren’t you?’

‘Mhm. Also I am a good boy.’

‘Oh, I can see that.’ Justine pulls the blanket from the couch. ‘Listen. Have you ever played at camping, Ross?’

He shakes his head. ‘You’re not allowed to—’

‘Did I tell you I was magic? I can do magic things, so I am allowed. And I’m going to make us a magic carpet.’ She drags two of the fat seat cushions on to the carpet. ‘And a magic tent. I’m sure your mummy won’t mind. Right. Can you put that blanket over the chair? See on the seat bit?’