Rise (3 page)

Yesterday, Michael saw a ghost.

He has a pile of paperwork to read. A constituents’ surgery to prepare for. A persuasive, upbeat speech to craft, and a sermon to inspire. And all he can think about is the Ghost. He’d seen it the day before too, in the bitter glint of a heron rising from the loch. Its empty beak was open, glistening, and it seemed as if all the world might fall into it. On the way back from visiting Ailsa Grey he was; well it was no wonder, because those are the times, the dark long times when sin sneaks in and bites you. You have to be on your guard. A grey afternoon spent praying with a grey, dissolving woman, who is tired, so tired and sore, getting deeper locked in herself, and you, praying with her, through the pain, and telling her how God loves her. That her illness is part of a plan. So it’s no wonder at all, when you
are
wondering, when you’re wondering about ‘wonder’, and you see another dimension in a simple bird.

No wonder at all.

But it’s not an isolated incident. Four times now Michael’s seen it since last summer. Kidding himself, the first time, that it was a trick of the light. His overworked, furious mind. And that seeing it was actually better than the perpetual plunging rush he fell into whenever he wasn’t looking. It was a thing, a thing he deserved, perhaps. But frightening, all the same. Second time, he was drunk and lonely, and it was a graveyard and it was five a.m., so that’s fine. Completely understandable. You can wake up from that one, and he did; he had many energies, bristling, rounded things into which he could pour his focus: his work, his constituents, his family; this momentum lasted several months. He became more settled. As well as work, he risked a hobby; fishing, which brought him to the third time, and the loch. That was horrific. Broad bright day, Michael’s fishing rod swinging, a whoosh. He turned. Saw it smiling. Blatant. Bang. Bang. And then again yesterday. Twice in two days – that is not coincidence.

He’s been smelling it too. Not sulphur – that would be ridiculous – but in the desolate clean grey that passes here for sky. Occasionally he’ll see a hint of it in the standing stones, how they hunched and waited, and then he’d blink, and they’d be stones. Yesterday, there was no duplicity. It was sitting in a tree; the Ghost, not Michael: a man of middle years, easing into thinning hair and with a nagging, deepening pain in his right knee that precluded any sports. Still daylight, and he was sitting in an oak tree, one with a parasitical birch growing right through the centre of its trunk. No amount of blinking would make this less so.

‘Evening,’ said the Ghost.

‘Evening,’ said Michael.

He – it? He was leather-coloured, small, with feathery tips to his ears. Huge, swivelling head and swivelling eyes. Could have been an owl, Michael supposed.

‘That you been out fishing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Used to love fishing. Staring down into the water; seeing your own face glimmer. Helped me think better.’

‘Yes.’

‘You working on your speech or your sermon?’

‘Both.’

‘Think they’ll listen?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll see.’ The Ghost had blinked, once, and flown away. All the leaves on the tree shook, and with them, a bird’s nest, a clutch of blue eggs sclattering to the ground, and Michael trampling over them in his haste to get away. Damp trousers clinging, his heart doing an SOS.

It might have been an angel; God knows, he’d been praying for that at least. A guiding light. A torch would do him. Of course, Satan had been an angel. That had fully terrified him as a wee boy; that this beautiful, terrible creature was the product of good gone bad.

The gentle click of the manse door, smooth wood behind him. Shutting it all out. The manse was chilly. His wife was chilly. His nose was chilly. Michael ran a bath, took some whisky, then went to bed.

Today, when he woke, the Ghost was squatting on his head.

‘Morning,’ said the Ghost.

‘Morning,’ whispered Michael, going cold.

‘Morning,’ said his wife, slow with sleep and all the lovelier for it. ‘You mind if I don’t come to church?’

That’s the first thing she said to him.

‘But I’m . . .’

‘I’ve got to do those edits.’ Squeezing his hand.

‘Oh. No, OK.’ He’d known today was going to be difficult.

‘And Ross needs picked up from Jason’s house.’ She’d let go of him then, rubbing her eyes as she woke to all the possibilities of a day that did not include Michael. ‘And I’ve to take stuff over to Mhairi’s—’

‘All right! OK. That’s fine.’

‘And the house is filthy. That kitchen needs gutted – but where am I meant to find the time?’

‘We’ll get another cleaner. I promise.’

‘Maybe one that cleans this time?’ Hannah raised herself on one arm. He could see the line of her breast through her nightie.

‘You’ve got to remember; there’s less folk to choose from here.’

‘Fewer.’ She stuck her tongue out. Mumbled something about inbreeding. Only Hannah could find fault with how the inside rim of a toilet seat was wiped. What she really wanted was an au pair. A nice obliging girl who would do a bit of everything. The Ghost popped his head between them. Gave him a comedy-wink. Michael tried to ignore him, it. The thing that wasn’t there. ‘You think Euan might—’

‘He’s in training? For the 10K? I told you last night. He’s running over to Fraser’s, staying for lunch, then running all the way back.’

‘OK, OK. You said.’ Turning over on his side.

‘Anyway. It’s probably better if we do our own thing today. Seeing as you’re the enemy.’ Hannah had tugged the duvet over her own back, leaving his spine exposed, but their bottoms touching.

She was probably right. Downstairs, he could hear the groan-and-gush of their kitchen tap, then a slam as the back door shut and his eldest son set out on his run. He envied Euan that steady pound, the freedom of filling yourself with sky. Michael missed jogging. Michael missed many things. He hoisted up his pyjama bottoms – the elastic had gone again – then had a little toe flex. Running might loosen things up, but Euan preferred to go alone now. He’d thought he might get the lad into fishing too, but that suggestion had been met with a snort. A good-natured one, certainly. But a definite no. Actually, the congregation reduced – possibly by a quarter – made him less sad than he thought it would. Lighter in fact, that there were fewer folk. Less? Fewer? Ach, but no, no. This one was going to be good! They wouldn’t like it at first but . . . He wasn’t even sure why some of them still went to church. Same reason Ross kept his cot-blanket at the foot of his bed?

At the end of the day, it was just words. Words that made folk happy.

The Ghost smiled at him. Licked his lips. No longer so bird-like, he wasn’t human either. ‘Breakfast?’ he enquired, sliding from Michael’s head and on to Hannah’s breast.

‘Mmm . . . ooh. That’s nice.’ Hannah stretched, but kept her eyes closed. As did Michael, so it was just the soft smell of her, guiding him, that familiar flesh which was foreign now, and delicious and good for him and bad, bad . . . oh, but he loved it so. Even if it did make him feel lonely. And with a terrible tightness in his teeth.

Afterwards, he showered, got dressed. Put a big pan of water on to boil. Ate wholemeal toast and some hideous jam she’d made from hedges. The Ghost put a pale finger in the pot – it was definitely a finger this morning, not the wings, then plunged it, lasciviously, into his scarlet mouth.

‘This is shit.’

‘I know.’

‘Nice arse on her, though.’

‘Thank you. Eh . . . are you coming to church?’

The Ghost wrinkled his nose. ‘What do you think?’ He examined the jam pot, turning it and turning it with the clever tip of his tail. ‘But on you go, have some fun. Knock yourself out.’ He upended the jam pot into his mouth, gulping it down. It was all a bit
Tiger Who Came to Tea
. ‘I’ll just stay here with Helen.’

‘Hannah. And will you hell, you dirty bastard.’

The Ghost grinned. ‘That’s better. Bit of fire in your belly. We like that.’

*

It is possibly the best sermon Michael has ever given, better even than the one he’d made as a probationer on Remembrance Sunday; the one where he’d almost cried himself (he’d had flourish in those days. What Hannah called chutzpah. The cascade of red tissue petals he’d shaken from his cassock had been worth it, despite the Rev berating him for the mess).

Ten in Kilmacarra Church today – actual double figures – plus the Sunday School (five under-tens and an eye-rolling twelve year old). To weak protests, he’d trooped the lot of them up the hill to Mary’s Well. No harm; they were of hardy stock, even the octogenarians. Turns out it was a rare hill for rolling eggs. Always has been, a panting Miss Campbell informed him.

‘Every Easter your grandpa would bring us up here. At dawn.’

‘Really?’

‘To see if God had stopped the water.’

‘Right.’

‘Aye. They’d jam the spring with a big rock the night before, but us wee ones didna know that. We all joined in, clamouring for a shove – we’d a Sunday School of thirty then.’

‘Did you? My.’

‘Aye. Until Frances Gibson fell over the edge.’ She nodded at where one side of the hill was shrouded in a thicket.

‘You’re joking? Kids: over this side, please. Now.’

‘It wisna pagan, mind. It was to guarantee good crops.’

Michael had winced as a mashed-up yolk sailed through the air, commencing a brief but messy Sunday School food-fight.

‘Ach, but this is fine, son. You’re doing your best.’

Doing an Easter service: it’s the furthest thing from what he wants. When they’d found out, though, that he was an actual, ordained minister. That he was old Reverend Archibald ‘Baldie’ Anderson’s grandson, come back to live in the family manse . . . well. His card was marked. He’d not thought enough about reinvention when they moved here. He should have got his story straight.

He should have got a story.

Kilmacarra Kirk has no minister now, so the parishioners take it in turns. There are three churches in all, welded together in a spiritual wheel, which spins on a monthly basis. Although a member (how could he not be?) Michael has avoided giving most of the sermons for over a year, with a neat blend of work commitments and illness, of sporadic attendance at crucial ‘choosing’ times. But today? Easter Sunday? Friends to convince and support to consolidate? It had to be Michael. He’d even donned his dog-collar for the occasion. Ridiculous.

He traces his descent. It began so well. A son of a son of the manse, destined like his forebears to spread the word. A son of quiet-ticking clocks and dark rooms, of administrators and do-gooders, of pious, thunderous, certain-sure men and frustrated women. Of nice hats on Sunday, weak tea and stirring songs. Of starving black babies and monsters under the bed. Of wanting, more and more, to do. Things, not thoughts. Real, practical good.

This won’t do. Michael has a busy day ahead of him. He is a busy man. Blowing on his hands; he just can’t get a heat inside him.

Anyway. This morning had been grand. They’d rolled their eggs, then he’d marched them back down and into the church, bringing in smells of muck and moss, smirred cheeks and a high-wire sense of were we just outside? The full blue-grey sky they’d carried with them, and the purple hills, the cusp of where heaven meets earth.

‘Every day, we’re surrounded by wonder. The sky above, the land below. And all the wonders beyond that as well – the layers and glimpses of beyond. Sometimes, all it takes is to stand quietly – quietly, thank you, Gemma Jones – and drink it in. What better day than Easter Sunday to look at our world anew, at all the things it can offer us – and give thanks.’ He noticed Myra’s son in the congregation. ‘And not to fear the worlds beyond either. Because God is with us, in everything.’

It felt good, to preach again. When it is like that, all true and open, it’s wonderful. Michael imagines his words as leaves on the wind or twinkly dust, resting lightly, dissolving in people’s ears, drifting and landing, perhaps as far as his son’s running shoulders. Or in the dents on Hannah’s brow. Her neck, the clavicle. The sweet dent between her breasts, and him, searching there not two hours ago, nuzzling, with the nipple in his mouth so round and full, how that would always be his escape from everything, just the pillowy blissful losing of himself, kneading and rising, and how, just as he was coming, it all shot back, like flying down the tunnel away from the light, and that he had wanted to bite down hard.

‘Didna know I’d need my woolly bunnet and boots the day,’ says Auld Angus, shuffling past him at the door. ‘And what’s the cooncil doing about a’ these gay ministers?’

‘Pardon?’

‘On the telly. Gay folk. Getting married. I mean, they’d a guitar in here last month.’

‘Angus, that’s got nothing to do with—’

‘No happy-clappy. No kissy-kissy. No needin’ ma long-johns for church, right?’

But there is a ruddy vigour about Angus that pleases Michael. The man has not looked so healthy in months.

‘Angus, you disappoint me. Here was me planning to start a tambourine band too.’