Rise (46 page)

‘Why? What’s wrong? What are you going to do to him now?’

‘Nothing invasive, I promise. We’ll be doing another ECG, to read the electrical activity in his brain. And we’ll need to reset his meds a tad, so he might get a wee bit jumpy.’

Hannah clasps her other hand over the first. One big knot of controlled desperation. ‘What will you be looking for? Exactly?’

‘I really do think it would be a good idea for you to go home now, Mrs Anderson? Yes? Get some rest?’

She stands, walks past him to Michael’s bed, to the top, where his head is. She daren’t touch his skull now, not even his hair in case it presses on his brain.
You cannot move the patient, Mrs Anderson!

‘Do you think he can feel it? Did I hurt him?’

The vulnerability of his skin is compounded by the hard metal that surrounds him. Machines and sensors. Monitors on his skull. Hooks and clicks, dark whirrings. There are thick, tired lines like half-moon spectacles, there is unshaven hair and long, broken planes of shadow. He’s lost any trace of plumpness, which was only an illusion, because she knows the smooth skin of his belly, but that was the impression of him: plump and middle-aged, all the connotations of contentment. He is pared-away. He is all the man she married, every last bit of him, full and present in this liminal space where his copper eyes are not quite shut. The swell of Hannah’s chest threatens to burst her open.

‘But he’s breathing now. Is he going to be all right?’

‘It will take time. A long time, maybe.’

‘Be honest with me, doctor. Please.’

‘It’s Andrew. My name is Andrew.’

‘How many heads have you been inside? You seem very young. How many folk will get better from something like this? Honestly, properly better?’

‘Honestly, it depends.’

‘On what? What can I do?’

‘Be patient.’ The doctor rests his bum against the edge of the sink. ‘Depending where it strikes, a haematoma can eat your memories, your speech. It can steal time. One half of your body might wither and die. Get you at the front of your brain, and your personality will morph. But I think we’ve been lucky here. The combination of the head injury, plus the tumour. You could say they’ve worked to our advantage.’

‘Advantage?’

‘Well, the bleed was small, we caught it quickly. The tumour was even smaller. Believe me, that makes the prognosis reasonable. Good, even.’

Hannah imagines their scale of ‘good’. How many people has Andrew truly restored? He’ll have seen vacant eyes light briefly, as a loved one enters. Brave men weeping at their obstinate hands. Shiny-swollen faces struggling to relearn words. Are these good outcomes? She wants her Michael back, every bit of him. Together, their pieces slot. Fit one into the other, the points touch, the edges meet and run.

‘I promise you.’ The doctor touches her hand. His awkwardness makes her think of Euan. ‘This was a very positive procedure. Give him time, let him heal. We have a hundred million brain cells, you know – more than all particles in the universe.’ Andrew smiles. ‘The brain’s the most beautiful structure there is. My old boss used to say we were “working close to the architecture of God”.’

There’s a rap at the door. A familiar perfume drifts. ‘Hannah!’ Her mum appears, throwing open her arms. Soft folds of love and pity, sweeping her back to infancy. Hannah climbs inside, to a wrist scented with Nina Ricci, the light glide of fingertips, the upstroke of palm. This hand has forty years’ practice in navigating her heartbreaks.

‘Oh, Mum.’

‘Ssh.’

Breathing in her mum, slippery skin on silk. Her knotted neck being stroked. ‘Where’s the boys?’ she asks. ‘Have they had any dinner?’

‘I don’t know, darling,’ says her mum into her hair. ‘Did you not get Rossie something here? What about you? Have you eaten?’ She cups Hannah’s cheeks. ‘Oh, darling, this is awful. How are you? How’s Michael? Poor pet.’ Her eyes fill up as she looks at the bed. ‘Can he hear us?’

‘Did you come straight here then? Is Ross not at the manse?’

‘No. Is he not with you?’ Her mother’s bony fingers at the top of Hannah’s arms. Pressing. ‘I waited and waited. I assumed he must be with you.’

‘No.’

‘Where
is
he, then? I tried Euan’s room, but he’s down for physio they said.’

‘But, Mum, you were supposed to get Ross at the house.’

‘I know. That’s why I waited.’

‘For what?’

‘For Ross. But there was nobody there.’

‘Don’t worry. Justine’ll have him somewhere. Did you try the café?’

‘That’s what I’m saying. They’re not there. I went to the shop, the café, the park. I waited in the house for ages, in case they came back. The girl’s gone.’

‘Mum. What do you mean, gone?’

‘I mean gone. Hasn’t even tidied up like you asked: dishes in the sink, crumbs—’

‘Yes, but they’ll be at . . . I know. Did you try Cardrummond?’

‘Hannah. I’ve tried everyone I could think of, I’m not senile you know. Kilmacarra isn’t exactly huge. That’s why I was getting worried. You said she was in the basement? Which is why I’m in the wee room with Ross, and I don’t mind, honestly I don’t. But, when they didn’t come back, well, I went down and had a proper look, you know? I wasn’t being nosy. Hannah, her room’s empty. Her wardrobe, everything. No note, no Ross.’

‘But Ross is meant to be with her.’

‘Well, where are they then? Where are they, darling? Because they’ve both gone.’

Chapter Forty

She won’t sleep.

Just dark and quiet womb noises. A faint, persistent drip. The chamber has no time. Justine tells herself it must be night-time. There is a strange leaden warmth; Ross has fallen into exhausted sleep, as she keeps vigil. For what? They have yelled themselves hoarse, but nobody comes. She won’t sleep. But the nightwatch tricks her into dreams. Of deadness and elongated hours. Of grasping hands. Of fire and stone and angry lights, of feet scuffling and a sudden-snapping wakefulness. She is thick and dark, is nowhere. Allows the gentle dumbness to fold round her. It stops the whirring from cracking out her skull.

She won’t sleep, and then she has. Again. Wakes, again, to the hard-backed soreness of her neck. She’s in a sticky heap. A faint and desperate thrashing. There was a struggle. She remembers.

She remembers Charlie, and his feet kicking her. Remembers falling back. A roar of wind. They are in some endless cave; she can feel rough walls, a rocky shelf, then yards and yards of empty black. Too frightened to walk out into this nothingness, they have been huddled against the jagged shelf. There’s no cave mouth she can see, no light. Only panic. Air curdling. Shallow breaths, she tries to breathe slowly, quietly, listening to where they are, spreading out against the teethed walls of the cave that are screaming in her face, sucking the air from her chest and forcing it up to make her gag.

That they might not leave this gluey air. A momentary terror, sharper than the rest. She touches Ross’s lips. Still warm. He stirs slightly. Charlie’s body has stopped convulsing, she thinks. The noises have stopped. That was the desperate thrashing she is trying to forget. It happened so quickly. Quivering, the first shudder beneath the pressure of the hill caving in, or so it felt, not just the earthen wall falling from behind her, but the ceiling too, the whole entrance pouring in on itself, vast shards of stone and earth seething. Her, shielding Ross with her body as the rain of rock kept coming. Then, suddenly, no clattering. Deep silence, dust eddying. Blackness, sealing them in. Blind, hand in front of her face, on her knees with Ross clinging to her leg. First, she heard him. Then, she felt him: Charlie skewed beneath the debris, his legs jerking. She buries her nose in Ross’s neck. The earth continued to tremble far below them, all the teetering weight of Mary’s Brae above.

Justine makes slits of her eyes, tuning-in to the dark. She thinks they’ve been here for hours. And no fucker is coming. Her wounds throb in time with her pulse. There are layers of darkness, if you focus: velvet, silk and gauze, coal and iron and granite. She can see proximities: the compact curve of Ross’s spine, the outline of Charlie’s feet. The upper half of his body is hidden by the pile of rocks. Impassable pile of rocks. The dripping continues. Her throat’s parched; if she follows the sound, they might find water. The notion of minutes, hours is gone. It would be cruel to wake Ross, but he’ll need to drink. She will have to do this carefully. Her fingers lace his hair.

‘Rossie,’ she whispers. ‘Sweetie. Wake up.’

‘
Mh
.’

‘Now, don’t be scared, but it’s gonny be dark when you open your eyes. Justi will be here. I’m right here. We’re going to get you a wee drink.’

Immediately, he is crying. ‘Muh-mee,’ he beats her off. ‘Want my mummy.’

‘Ssh. I know you do.’ Cuddling him. ‘And we’ll see her soon. I promise. They’ll come and find us soon.’

‘
Who?
How’llae,’ a gulping sob, ‘know we are he-ere? Mum- mee,’ he shouts. ‘Muuuuh-mee.’

She lets him yell.

‘Just like that. What we’re going to do is keep shouting. Just as good as you did there. But first, we need to get a drinkie, or our throats will be sore.’

‘My throat
is
sore. And my tummy is hungry.’

‘Are you a hungry hungry hippo?’

‘No,’ he sniffs. ‘I am just awful very hungry.’

‘Well, let’s try and get a drink first, yes?’

With her belt, Justine ties Ross to her, looping their waistbands together. She’s petrified they’ll lose themselves in the dark, has no idea of the geography of this place; if the floor will sheer away or their heads batter on overhangs.

‘Now you can be like Buddy, eh?’

‘Don’t want to.’

‘It doesny have to be Buddy. The game is we walk on our hands and knees, like a doggie. You go behind Justi, and we’re going to try and find where that drip-drip noise is coming from. Can you hear it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Good. Now, let’s keep close beside this rock on our left, yeah?’

‘What is our—’

‘This side. The hand you don’t hold your pencil in.’

Slowly, they set off; a limping caravan. The ground is silky dust; it feels almost like shingle. Every so often, where you hit rock, there’s a definite, twisty groove which makes her dizzy trying to understand it. Round and pointlessly round; as if the grooves are mocking their passage. Justine counts their steps – can you call them steps when it’s on your knees? There’s no entrance any more, but she doesn’t want to become entirely disorientated. If they keep returning to where the cave mouth fell in . . . well, it’s some fixed point. For when the people come. They’ll come for Ross, won’t they? But all the rubble seemed to fall in a sinkhole, she’s no idea if there’s any outward sign, if the concrete slab is split, if the menhirs have toppled and her bag’s belching money into air. Or if the sliding concrete lid’s still there, and no one thinks to look inside, and it must be fully dark by now.

How long does trapped air last? There will be draughts and breezes coming in, surely? But this is not a proper cave: they are locked inside the belly of the hill. The further they shuffle round the perimeter, the more she’s aware how long and vast this space is. This unstable space, which has already crumbled in to meet itself. She changes hands every few paces, one to support her knees, one to reach out and feel what’s ahead. All she can smell is dankness, no fresh stirrings. No rays of light, oh man, she’s lost count of their steps and there’s an overwhelming wave of panic rising, her throat seals shut, skin is searing, she is bone, dead bone, and who will go first? When they weaken ohgodohgod she mustn’t scream. She snuffles through her nose until she can trust herself to open her mouth.

‘You all right behind, mister?’

‘No. It is spitting on my hair.’

‘What is?’ Justine pats out her hands behind her, on his head. ‘Wet?’

‘Or it might of been bird poo. A seagull bird pooed on my head once and Euan just laughed.’

She holds her hand a moment, cupped, until another drip falls.

‘Clever boy. You’ve found the water. Now, stick out your tongue and catch the drips.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is dirty.’

‘No it’s not. Don’t be daft. Look, Justi’ll do it first then.’

‘No. It might be poisoned and you will die and you will leave me. No!’ He slaps her hand away from his head.

‘Ross, you’re being silly.’ She licks her fingers. Tastes manky, but that could just be her. ‘We need to have a drink. What if we can see where it’s coming from, eh? Would that make it not dirty? If you can see it’s just nice clean water?’ Feeling upwards, till she finds a damp, slimy patch of rock. Follows it with her fingers, her fingers hit a groove, a dent, and another, lots of gouges in the rock, standing up and spanning higher till she feels a little ledge. ‘Right, there’s a wee bit up here we can maybe get up on to. Then we’ll see where that goes, all right?’ Justine never went to Brownies or camp or any of that woolly woodcraft shite, but the water has to flow, and soak and be replenished. If they can follow the water up, to its source . . . There is the spring at the summit of Mary’s Brae, there is a gap in the rocks through which water pours. She feels the slippery rockface above them. More strange cuttings. Regular and shaped. Yes, it’s desperate. Possibly pointless. But there is nothing else. Her fingers keep moving. The ledge is broad. She inches her good foot up the rockface, winces as pain builds in her injured one. Shifts her grip and her fingers bump, running from rough to smooth. Very smooth, a strange, brittle scoop, nudging out and into her palm. She finds a foothold and punts herself, springy like a kid peeking over a wall. Sees her hand on the empty sockets of a skull.