Rise (27 page)

‘Yous are fucked,’ says the Ghost, as he hops to the open window. ‘It’s a pigeon, Michael. What is wrong with your eyes? It is a fat blue pigeon and there is no shadow on the fireplace and your withered brain is . . . Hannah lies to you. All the time, she lies to you.’

‘
Plus
the environment folk have started bleating about rare ragwort. Which sounds like a bloody disease. Michael! Michael – are you listening to me? Do you even
gie
a shit? See, when we selected you—’

‘I think it’s a flower?’

‘Is that right?’ The Leader slows. Stares right through him. It is horrible. ‘OK, Michael. How you gonny handle this one?’

‘Me? I thought you would want to—’

There is a crash as the door slams open and all the wee geegaws on Donald John’s desk jump.

‘You little shit!’ The prow of Mhairi’s kaftan precedes her, all of her other folds and flounces tumbling in behind. Liz is at her back, trying to push through the entrance too, but the bulk of Mhairi is such that it’s proving impossible. ‘Councillor McCall – I’m so sorry. I told her—’

‘And I telt you. I’m no interested in talking to the monkey. So you away back to your typing and—’

‘Well, if I’m a monkey, you’re a bloody whale—’

‘Mhairi! Elizabeth! That is quite enough. You are in the Council Chambers.’

She isn’t wearing a bra. The Ghost is no longer visible, but Michael can hear him in his head. ‘I can see her
nipples
. Look at the sweet round teats of her, dancing at us.’

Nowadays, folk call Mhairi shapeless, but there is so
much
shape to her, creamy sweaty billows of the stuff. Look at those calves: great barrels of flesh, planted like an insult in the room. As a wee boy, up visiting his grandpa, Michael observed grown men gasping as Mhairi Cowan sashayed past. Curvy, yes, but gorgeous with it. If he remembers right, she and Donald John were a bit of an item too.

‘I apologise, councillor,’ says Liz. Then, ‘Shall I call security?’ comes, in a sly wee voice. At once, poor Mhairi becomes the joke, drooping and flushed, the dignity of her mouth belying the fear of ridicule in her eyes.

Fat heifer ejected from council headquarters. Took four men to heave her out, witnesses say.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ says Donald John. ‘I always have time for Miss Cowan. Away in, Mhairi. What can I do for you?’

‘Hello, Mhairi.’

Mhairi ignores Michael so completely it’s like a slap. She dumps the two carrier bags she’s lugging on the floor, fluffs her hair out. Stray strands of wire float up through the light, then drift down to land on the desk, the carpet. Liz tuts as volubly as is possible, before slamming the door.

‘You know fine well what you can do for me.’ She unwinds first a purple scarf, then a turquoise one. Michael watches, fascinated, as her neck reveals itself. There are three chubby folds of skin where her throat used to be. ‘That bloody test turbine – it’s going up already.’

‘Yes? And?’

‘And we were told it wouldny be sunk till next week. We were planning a big march and everything.’

‘Mhairi – that was only ever a provisional timetable . . .’

‘Provisional, my arse. You’re sneaking it up on purpose.’

‘You can hardly “sneak up” a two-hundred-foot pole now, can you? Anyway, it’s no up to me. The council disna have daily tête-à-têtes with Señor Escobar, you know. Once we’ve given the go-ahead—’

‘Of course! It was his idea, wasn’t it? Only cause you’re too bloody thick to—’

‘Now. Which is it to be, Mhairi? I’m either a criminal mastermind out tae hoodwink you, or a daft sap that lets Spanish boys shit all over me. Which is it?’

‘Don’t play your politics wi’ me, Donald John.
Politics
? Without me you’d never even of heard of politics. “Whi – whi – whit’s the SNP?”’ she whines. ‘I
took
you to your first meeting. You remember?’

‘Do you no want a seat, Mhairi?’

‘
No.
All the times we talked about independence, and how it would work. Never once did you say: “I know. Let’s free our land, then sell it on to someone else.”’

He lifts his chin to her, but stays in his leather chair. ‘It’s no about “freedom”. You’re showing your age now, pet. Like we keep saying, we’ll be the best of friends with our neighbours and we’ll—’

‘Och aye, that’s right. “
Dinna be feart, Scotland! Independence equals the status quo
.
You’ll no even notice it’s here!
” That’s your lot’s new slogan, isn’t it? We’re keeping the monarchy now, and the pound.
And
the nuclear weapons . . .’

‘Oh for Godsake, woman. You canna be a revolutionary all your life.’

‘How? How no?’

The bounce of her putters out. The way she crumples makes Michael angry, annoyed at how she wobbles, at the meaty lips of flesh around her eyes.

‘You’re being ridiculous. We’re not “selling” the land, you bloody know fine well we’re not. It’s no as if it’s
going
anywhere. It’s a natural resource . . . we’re exploiting a natural resource.’

‘Aye, well. You’d know all about exploiting, wouldn’t you, Donald John?’ Mhairi gathers up her scarves and shopping bags, which she proceeds to shake out over his desk. Sheets and sheets of paper pour on his head, his lap, slide from shiny wood and shinier trousers on to his shoes.

‘There’s my latest petition.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Fuck off, DJ. I’ll tell you something, you smug old bastard. You are going to be sorry you ever started this.’

‘Mhairi—’ Michael gets up. He’s trampling on the petition.

‘Oh, piss off, Michael Anderson. You’re as bad as him.’

There’s another battering for the door as Mhairi sweeps out in flurries the colour of kingfishers. Patchouli oil and that slight, sweet smell he’s noticed fat folk can have will linger on for several minutes. Michael’s sense of despair, though, will remain throughout the afternoon, following him all the way back to the manse.

Chapter Eighteen

Justine needs a drink. She wants rinsed with spirits. Hannah has been out all day. Michael has just arrived home. Being alone with him is awful.
Hello, I’m Justine, and I’m your friendly neighbourhood hoor
.

Why? Why does she always break and damage and be so bloody thrawn?
You’re fulla shite and spite
, her mum would scream. And Justine would smash a vase, or spit on the carpet, daring her mother to love her.

What does Michael think of her now? Does he view her differently as she navigates his home? Is the sway of her hips alluring or repulsive? Does he see her face and imagine her cunt, spread and glistening because she is a receptacle for sex. Or does he see a pitiful wretch, rejoice that he gave her shelter? Man, it was his fucking fault, making her say it, him pushing and pushing.
I can
help
you
. Let me explain your life for you, because I talk all posh with fucking bools in ma mouth and you don’t, ergo my brain is so much bigger. Christ, you just want to slap the fuckers when they go like that.

Her bag’s packed. One more night with Ross. One more night in her big soft bed. She’ll soak in their massive bathtub, use up all their hot water, every last glob of Hannah’s bath oil. Be on the first bus out tomorrow. To fuck-knows where. To do fuck-knows what. What is the point of you, Justine? Gripping the edge of the marble worktop.
You are a nothing person.

That is what Charlie Boy told her. Not at first, Christ, no. Initially, she was cream of the crop, the wee darlin’ who got to sit on his knee, like a cat or a court-jester. She was his girlfriend, not a working girl at all. She despised the other women who clustered round him; jaded, track-marked, spent. Sad cases, the lot of them. The men in his gang both scared and thrilled her, each with that tang of unhinged menace. It hung about them, a testosterone miasma. Being that close to the action kept you on your toes. Imagine a family, of sorts. A gangster and his moll. His herd of cows, his labouring, thuggish children. Smash. Imagine being told you have to earn your keep. Imagine saying no, and the breaking thump of an arm before you are held down, tattooed. Claimed.

Charlie Boy likes things neat and numbered.

Knuckles crackle, gripping metal. Smooth metal, warm sun. Her body. Cold.

When it is over, you are ripped and small. You recall, years ago, being jack-knifed over the bath, so a stepfather could smack your bottom and you wonder: Is that why he did it? Then you are sick. Not physically – although it’s a common response, it is a purgative after all – but in your soul. You think of the times you sat on your uncles’ knees, you think when that nice teacher leaned over and brushed against your shoulder, you think of your friend’s dad tickling you and you are.

You blame your breasts, you blame the smell of you that rises like unwashed, like you are a bleeding wound. All you want is to shutter yourself, lay planks across your heart and cunt to stop them weeping. You want so much to say you fought it, with every violated particle of your skin you railed and kicked and bit and beat. You despise the weakness that capitulated. The strength that wasn’t your own. You are no longer an autonomous capsule. You are shameful. Despicable. You are a quaking heaving bloody filthy mass.

Who
did
you think you were?

You want that hour, that day, your life to begin again. You want the paths you chose to come with warning signs, a shepherd. You want your mum.

You pretend you have a choice. When there is a currency to it, conversely, that gives context. It’s a tin can round the sordid contents, protecting you; you pretend it does; you are empowered and you have a choice and you are contributing and this is business, money in the slit-slot and you do it because he loves you. He does, he really loves you, and if you loved him you’d do it. It’s only sex not love and so you do, again, you do and you turn your face into the wall, but you are
choosing
. Reimbursed.

It’s why all the money she stole will never be enough. Tomorrow. She’ll leave Kilmacarra tomorrow. And then she will start again.

‘Oh.’ Michael stands, framed in the kitchen doorway. ‘I thought you were— You all right?’

‘Yup.’

‘I just . . . d’you mind if I stick the kettle on?’

‘It’s your house.’ She steps away from the sink, so he can get in to the tap. ‘By the way, a woman called
Sha
phoned for you? She sounded pissed.’

‘No. She’s not. She’s not well. Her name’s Ailsa.’

‘Whatever.’

Christ, this is awful. ‘Look, Michael, I’m sorry I took the pish out of you. And I’m
so
sorry I told you . . . fuck, I’m going to go, all right?’

‘No.’ The kettle batters down.

‘Is that not Alessi? Man, don’t break it. Hannah’ll freak.’

‘Please don’t go.’ There are beads of sweat on his brow. She thinks he might puke.

‘OK. Cool your jets, padre.’ Blank relief that he’s not repulsed by her. That she is needed, still. She goes all brisk. ‘Here, is your head hurting again?’

‘No. I’m fine. It’s nothing.’

He shakes himself, and she’s not sure if it’s a tremor or deliberate. You can chart the flow as it shivers from neck to shoulder to trunk. Then his body settles. His eyes don’t. ‘Michael. I think you should take a couple of Panadol, eh? For your head?’

‘Mm.’

Winding the tea towel round her fingers. ‘Michael. Did you tell Hannah? What I said?’

‘
No.
Did you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Justi. What’s for dinner?’ Ross charges into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Daddy! Can I have a sleepover with John-boy please?’

She wheechs him up, so he is flying in her arms.

‘What would you like, gorgeous boy?’

He’s giggling and shrieking, so she blows a raspberry under his chin, the most delicious tender place where he is tickly, she knows he’s tickly here,
and
under the side of his ribs, and in the crook of his elbow; the scent of him is apples and baby flesh and love. Pure love.

‘I . . . want . . . fishy fin . . . gers!’

‘Who’s John-boy?’ says Michael.

‘Johnny. Can Johnny and Buddy and me have a sleepover? He wants to be Euan’s friend but I would like him too. Please? He is a big boy.’

‘Right, down you get now. Let Justine make you your tea.’

‘But can he?’

Justine sets Ross back on the ground. ‘I don’t think he’s a very nice boy, Rossie.’

‘Yes he is. He’s my friend.’

‘Is he not a bit big for you?’

‘No.’ His face puckers. ‘I am a big boy too, cause Euan has left me alone anyway and there are no more boys here except Johnny and Buddy.’

‘Euan hasn’t left you, silly. He’ll be home soon.’

‘No.
You
are silly, Daddy.’