Rise (17 page)

‘That’s Carnac. In France. We went there on holiday a couple of years ago.’

When Hannah was in the midst of her affair and he did not know.

He peels the picture from the board. ‘I think Carnac gave her the idea for the book, actually.’ It had been a brilliant holiday, full of wine and sex and laughing. ‘So. What about this one?’ He chooses a recent school photo, in which Euan is almost smiling.

‘Sorry. I thought we were doing stuff for the council?’

‘No. For Euan.’

‘Are you sure posters are a good idea?’ says Justine. ‘Should you not just leave it to the police?’

‘Hmm. Not that we’ve even heard from them today.’

‘Well, they’re probably . . .’ she shrugs. ‘Busy.’

‘Yeah, but it can’t do any harm, though, can it? To ask for help.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Please?’

They work quietly, efficiently, reworking the words, choosing the best photo of Euan, going down to the basement to scan it in. Tricky thing the scanner, but between them, they manage. It is a printer-scanner-copier, too many buttons. He keeps it to the side of his desk, half-hidden by an old lectern, a splendid gilded eagle that Hannah picked up for him in a saleroom. Justine seems unimpressed by his study. She fingers the Bible on the lectern, a fat, tissue-papered tome, leather-tooled. He doesn’t use that one much. Too delicate. But he likes to breathe the smell of it when he works.

‘This where the magic happens?’

‘Sorry?’

‘All your God stuff. This where you cook it up?’

‘I work here, yes. There.’ Michael shows her the scanned-in photo. ‘Can you put the heading above that, see how it looks? But I told you, I don’t preach any more. Oh! That reminds me. Did you want me to dig out the parish records? I think they’re stored in the wee vestry in the church. I’ve got the key in my desk.’

‘Nah, you’re all right.’

‘You sure? It’s no trouble. I’m the official keyholder anyway, because we live so close. No one would mind if you had a rummage.’

‘I said no.’ Justine clears a little space on his desk. ‘Ta.’ A column of pocket-sized booklets fall over. Several
Your Scotland Your Futures
spatter to the floor.

‘Man. You into this pish?’

‘Would you like one?’

‘Nuh. No way.’

He retrieves the booklets, not sure why she’s getting angry with him. ‘I’m an SNP councillor, so yes, I am “into it”. Definitely. Yes.’

Once upon a time, his religion fed a hunger that was social as well as spiritual, dosing the populace with schools and structure and morals. Country folk like Auld Angus, thousands of them, washed up in teeming city sprawls as industry took hold and the clearances began again. Those wee, quiet, douce folk who were looking for a haven, his kirk gave them magic lanterns and bold missionaries. His kirk was once a sweeping vehicle of change, a pseudo parliament even, in the absence of a real one. Order and community, promises and rules.
In loco parentis
, in God we trust. It gave folk hope for tomorrow. He’s not sure it does that any more. But this does. He runs his thumb over the cover of a booklet. He knows this does. He has faith.

He’s too tired to launch a mini campaign in his basement though, and it usually causes friction anyway. Despite the painkillers, a band is beginning to tighten across Michael’s skull. He fiddles for ages, arranging another photo on the scanner, one of Euan in his running gear in case it’ll look more appealing. Eventually, Justine breaks the silence. ‘So what d’you do, exactly? What’s a councillor?’

He’s shocked that a young woman in her twenties doesn’t know. He always is. ‘Well, you know in the local elections—’

‘No.’

‘I get voted for by local people, then I work on their behalf at the council. I’m their voice, if you like.’

‘Aye, but what do you do?’

How to explain? Does he start with the concept of democracy, or should he boil it down to the basics:
I make sure the holes get filled in the roads
. Pulpit and hustings – that’s how his father raised him, so he finds it hard – no he finds it unforgivable actually – that people don’t care enough to even understand the how and the why of who keeps their lights on and their streets clean, who builds the schools for their kids and stocks their libraries with books. ‘I help run the community, I suppose. We ask the people what they want, then we try to make it happen.’

‘Right. So the people wanted this windfarm then?’

‘It’s complicated.’

Michael continues scanning; his son face-down on the printer. The headache hovers. This evening, he’ll tread softly with Euan. Hannah is too strident –
but you must remember
something.
Try. Try really hard
. Michael will go easy.
Imagine you’re on a country road
. Or maybe he won’t mention it at all. The boy will remember what he wants to. When it’s time.

‘Good money, though, eh?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Council pays more than the church, does it?’

‘Slightly.’

‘So how come you chucked being a minister then?’ Justine is picking her teeth with her thumbnail. ‘If it’s no the money.’

‘Well . . . I still am. On paper. But,’ he takes the printed poster from the tray, ‘I suppose I felt I was being called in another way. No, that first photo was better, wasn’t it? Can you just finish off that heading? Bit darker maybe?’

‘“Called”?’

‘Mm. You know. That God was pushing me in a different direction. That I could help people in a more . . . practical way.’

‘Scamming expenses instead of talking shite?’

He switches off the scanner. ‘Do you have a faith, Justine?’

‘Nope.’ She concentrates on the letters she is writing, going over and over them until they are bold. ‘Aye, well I do. Faith in me. That I’ll survive. Like a fucking cockroach.’

Her hand continues tracing the letters, he can see the pen nib split the paper. It will go through to his desk. It’s antique oak; another Hannah find. ‘Here.’ He puts his hand over hers, to stop it. ‘I think that’s probably enough.’

She pulls away. There is a cut there, a scab he hasn’t noticed on the back of her hand. The edge breaks, there is blood, blood coming on his skin, from her.

Her hand goes up to her mouth.

‘Sorry, padre. I’m not feeling too great. Think I’ll have a wee lie-down.’

She leaves him in his study, arranging the faces of his son in a neat pile.

Chapter Eleven

A thousand paper cuts.

Sing yo ho, boys.

Spinning circles and whoosh and scattered headlights. Askit's tongue on her wounds. Leathered man with orange bunnet in a cave, warm cave. Apples, bright and round. She is warm and there is singing.

Let her go, boys.

Hannah is singing Ross a lullaby.

Justine is outside Ross's door. Not dreaming. A slit of light lets her see; see his plugged-in panda light which glows a pale orb around their heads. Mother and child. His sleepy fingers stroke Hannah's hair, twining it across his lips. One fist falls on empty air, and she holds him, his neck protected in the crook of her arm.

Hannah's eye flits. Ross coughs, and is hefted closer to her breast. A tiny moan as he snuggles in. Folds of linen, it will smell of the washing powder Justine used.

Sssh. Sail her homewards.

Justine shuffles back from the light. Finds the stairs which takes her down in slow and silent steps towards the kitchen. She is starving.

 

Justine shoves hair from her eyes. The dye has made it thicker; it feels like a curtain, not her hair. Through steamy windows, she sees the police car door close. The thistled crown above ‘Semper Vigilo'. Always watchful. Sleekit bastards.

‘OK. Thanks then, officer.' Michael's head bobs at the open front door. He's thinning slightly at the back. ‘Yes. No. That's very good of you, really. Give my best to your inspector, won't you?'

She glances at Hannah, who gives a watery smile. ‘D'you want more tea?'

‘No. Ta.'

Ross tugs her skirt. ‘I would like more juice-tea please. Jus-tee.'

‘Oh would you? Here.' She pours him another orange juice.

‘Joos-tee,' he repeats, giggling. He does a wee dance in front of his mum, who doesn't respond.

‘Yeah, yeah. Justi: I get it. Now scram and get your teeth brushed.'

Justine picks up the last of the ironing from the floor. Her wrists feel weak. Man, when those cops came into the kitchen, her first instinct had been to chuck the iron at them, then barrel it out the window.
They will
know.
Check you out. Match you up. Find the money in your room
. Each word rising in steam from her iron. She made herself stay very still, nice and mechanical, barely looking up as she lifted and smoothed and folded. It worked. Camouflage is when you are so much a part of the furniture that they don't even ask your name, and assume you've always been there. Thank Christ she's damped her hair down. Goodbye Burgundy Fizz. She found a dusty packet of mid-brown dye in the store. Combined with the burgundy, her hair is now a nasty shade of nothing. There's no need to be so scarlet here. But, fuck – she needs to ditch that phone.

Michael returns to the kitchen. ‘OK. Here's what we're going to do.'

‘Michael, I don't want to talk about it. And while we're at it, yes, I did use your bloody photocopier. All right?'

‘Hannah. You need to calm down, all right? It doesn't matter. Now, will you listen to what I'm saying?'

Justine goes down to stow the ironing basket in the utility room. Not her business. She has never experienced a
ménage à trois
before; well, she has, but not lived one. It's the most odd sensation. You can take their knickers from the laundry, fold them neatly into piles, but you canny say, ‘
Ho
. You two need your heads bashed together.' She's like a cobweb round them, a silent, sticky shadow – there, but transparent. How servants must have felt in the olden days. Justine is skilled at not getting involved. Click your brain into neutral and you just get on with it. Watch the fallout from a distance, or focus on the ceiling. They've been sniping all morning, long before the police arrived. Apparently the scanner downstairs has ‘haemorrhaged' a cartridge of coloured ink. Michael is insistent that, while he supports Hannah's right to campaign, he doesn't want council equipment used for any protests. They do actually talk like that: ‘I support your right'; ‘I respect what you're saying'; ‘This is not about protest, it's about history.' Such dainty, dainty two-steps. Poor Hannah.

Poor Hannah. Would you listen to her? Having lived with them a few days, though, it's fair to say Michael is a bit of a creeping Jesus. Nice guy; kind, nice guy – but in need of a massive jolt of electricity. He is no advertisement for the joys of the Lord. Rather, he is a gentle sheep: bemused, obliging, scrawny under all that wool, and with a resigned, benevolent stare that makes you furious. He has a face you want to slap. He is fucking with her head.

Michael is refusing to acknowledge their shared lie, and it's driving her mad. He hums and smiles and potters round her,
pass the potatoes please
, writes in his study, stares at his hands. Lets the days roll, content to let it drift. Man, he is not normal. There they were, doing the posters. Perfect opportunity: working side-by-side, a careful selection, peeling photos she didny want to look at off the wall, laying them on the coloured card. They were properly alone for a good stretch of time, and she waited, waited for him to
say
, or bitch about Hannah, his eyesight, his fainting fits – whatever the hell is wrong with him. But it is like none of it has happened. Michael makes her more nervous than Hannah does.

She moves from the utility room to her bedroom. Bone-white windowsill (that is the actual colour, she's seen the tin, some fancy heritage paint at forty quid a pop. It's possible Hannah leaves the stickers on deliberately). From her window, she can see two tree trunks, the roots of a standing stone, and the bottom half of a shed. Ross has asked if they can build a den in there.
Then we can hide
. When she asks from what? he simply shakes his head. Oh, man. Justine needs out of this fraught house. She could be in a posh hotel; a Caribbean cruise. What's the point of having hundreds of pounds stashed away if you canny enjoy it? She's yet to count her money, could've easily laid it out in nice fat slabs, totted it up with glee. But she hasn't. She extracts cash from the rear of the wardrobe like honey from a hive. Head tilted sideways, blind hand grasping. The stupid pink phone sits on her bedside table. She checks that it is off, then stuffs it inside its pouch. They've got her number. Shit. What if the polis had come down here? Found the phone; Christ – found the money? Or if Hannah finds it? A casual sweep inside her wardrobe would harvest you . . . she delves, pulls out a big wad of—

Fifty-pound notes. She sits on the edge of her bed. Fifty-pound notes. They spring out in her hand, the creases of them like little grins. Fifty-pound notes. She thought they were tenners. There were tenners, look, here is a fold of tenners, and another. And . . . no more. One after one, she pulls out the wodges of cash and they are all fifties now. Fifty
pounds
each sheet; she cannot believe it, the smug face of Sir Walter Scott, master tartan-story-weaver, smirking at her, each one is fifty: FIFTY, and here, this is one sole, lonely handful, only ten will make five hundred and she is holding crumples and crumples of them, and there are bundles more behind her jumpers.