Rise (18 page)

Jesus God.

The world feels benign when you have money in your knickers. When that money is stolen, and becomes terrifyingly multiplied, it turns malevolent. If she was frightened of Charlie Boy before, now she is . . . She slams it all back in the wardrobe, vacates her room. She wants to crawl into that cave under the hill. How much has she stolen? Oh Christ. Oh Christ. She sits for a while in the utility room, until the smell of bleach gets too much.

 

Only Hannah in the kitchen when she comes back up. Justine shakes her hair free of her collar. ‘All right?'

You can tell Hannah's been crying. But there's a happy blur to her eyes. ‘I'm fine. Thanks.'

‘Good.' The telly's off in the lounge. ‘Where's Ross?'

‘Getting ready. Michael's taking him to the hospital.'

‘Oh, right. Good. We were going to do finger-painting actually.'

Hannah shrugs. ‘I guess the lure of Burger King was too much for him.' She opens her ever-present notebook. There's a clingfilm-wrapped sandwich on the table beside her.

‘OK, ladies, that's us away.' Michael claps gloved hands together, every inch the smart businessman in his tweedy coat. He suits it far better than his dog-collar.

Suddenly, Hannah rises from her chair and seizes Michael's face in both hands, kissing him hard. They break apart when Ross bounces in. ‘Eugh.' Hannah ruffles his hair, then Michael's. The man is grinning like a loon. ‘I'll drop Ross at nursery, Justine.'

‘Great. OK.'

‘Ross, where's your hat?' says Hannah.

‘I posted it.'

Justine opens the back door. Busies herself at the coal bunker. Nobody ever closes it right, coal everywhere, muck trailing in. She kicks the hard black scatter into place with her feet. Secures the little hatch at the front. Forgets she has no boots on. The sky is white and high, there's a bend to the trees. A good day for drying, but she has nothing left to dry. Washing machine's empty. Dishes done. Justine is floundering for something constructive to do and not get in their road and not think of the money. Can he trace it? Say if she spends it all, would he know? No. She is affording him too much credit. Charlie Boy is a doer, not a thinker. His network comprises muscles, genitals and eyes, not brain. Scrunching and scrunching her fists, till her fingernails bite her palms. She'll start on dinner.

 

In the kitchen, she takes out the meat. They eat too much meat, even if it is organic. Hannah's still there, but contained now; drawn in on herself and frowning at her manuscript. Man, you need a barometer to chart these people's moods. Thank God,
she
is an uncomplicated soul. She boils the kettle. Onions, carrots, stock cube. Justine will never tire of having a pantry. She has plans to rearrange it, so all the dry goods are at the bottom, herbs and spices grouped alphabetically. At the table, Hannah scribbles, coughs occasionally. Lets her work for ten, fifteen minutes, until the smell of hotpot drifts from the stove. Then her nose recoils. ‘Is that the lamb?'

‘Yes. Is that all right? There was tons of it in the fridge.'

‘I was keeping it for tomorrow.'

‘Oh. Sorry.'

‘It's just – Michael's got a community council meeting in Longbridge tonight. He won't be home for dinner. Can go on till all hours sometimes.'

‘Right. Nobody said. Well, it could keep till tomorrow.'

‘Mm.' Hannah puts her pen down. ‘Thanks for doing those posters by the way. Michael said you put them out.'

‘What?'

‘Judging by Constables Haud It and Daud It, we'll need all the help we can get.'

‘Hannah, I didn't put any posters anywhere.' She moves the pot off the heat. ‘I thought Michael had.'

He'd chapped her door last night, when he'd got home. Asked through the wood if she was feeling better, and when she said yes, went: ‘Good. I didn't upset you, did I?'

‘Nope.'

‘Good. Eh, d'you know where Hannah is at all?'

‘At Mhairi's maybe? They were both here earlier.'

‘Oh. OK. Is she all right? I've barely seen her all day.'

‘I think so.'

She's your wife
.

‘Um . . .' he'd said. ‘We'll need to get those posters out soon. I forgot to take them with me.'

‘Mm.'

Mm is not a promise; it's just a noise.

 

Hannah looks as if she might greet again. ‘I thought they were done.'

Man. Get a grip, doll. That pearly nose. Soft kissy-lips. She
is
like one of those smooth china things, eyes fluttering as she tilts her head down.

‘Hey, don't cry. I'll do it. Don't worry. Where d'you want them to go?'

‘I hadn't . . . I thought they were up. That's another day wasted. He told me—'

‘Look, my fault, OK? I must have misunderstood.'

‘Sorry.' Hannah lays her chin on the table. ‘Michael says I've to write, but I'm knackered. Ross didn't sleep well. He's such a good wee sleeper normally. I think Euan being in hospital is really upsetting him.'

‘Yeah . . .' Justine flicks through the papers on the dresser, searching for the coloured card. ‘There. There you go. We did five. Is that all right?'

She gives one to Hannah. ‘We made them a wee bit different. Thought it would look better with a photo on the front.'

 

ATTENTION! ACCIDENT! REWARD!

 

Then the slightly fuzzy school photo of Euan below. A tawny, open-looking boy. His unformed face stares hopefully into the future, waiting for the world to come and meet him. It reaches into her, and pulls.

‘Oh.' Hannah, too, seems unnerved at the sight of her son. As if the poster is nothing to do with him. ‘I don't . . . It's not really what I . . .'

‘I know. But Michael thought it would be more eye-catching this way. Less words. I mean, I'd be more likely to look at a picture first than a bunch of words.'

‘Yes. I'm sure you would.' Hannah turns it over and over, although there is nothing on the back. ‘Where did you get this?'

‘The photo? From here – up on the kitchen wall.'

Hannah's almost gone. Eyes shiny; you can see wee bubbles ready to spill.

‘He looks like his dad, doesn't he?'

‘Mm.' There is a sigh. ‘Yeah . . . you're right, actually. No. That's great. The posters are great. Thanks. Well done you.'

‘Cheers.'

With the heel of an ink-stained hand, Hannah rubs her eyes. A smear streaks her hairline. ‘Right. I think I'll go do some research.' She brightens. ‘See what the professor's found today. Michael made me a sandwich, isn't that sweet?' Off she wanders, into the hall.

‘Bye then. I'll just put these anywhere, will I?' Justine rolls the posters into a tube. ‘How about the bin?' There's a wee fluffy hair bauble lying on the dresser, which she pings round the tube to keep them tight. Then she pokes her hotpot. It's going claggy.

‘They've started the dig at Crychapel, did I tell you?' Hannah returns. She's donned pink trainers and her white Puffa jacket. ‘They unearthed a burial cist, right under the cobbles. Right when I was there!'

‘What's Crychapel?'

‘Oh, it's this place: you go through this kind of tree tunnel, you don't even know what's coming, then it spreads out – it's like going into a keyhole, you know? You go down the wee thin bit, then into the circle. That's what Crychapel is. A stone circle. Women turned to stone.'

‘You're joking?'

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Duh. It's an old legend. For dancing with the Devil or something. You should see Mhairi's pictures.'

‘She's got pictures?'

‘Paintings.' She stresses the first syllable, as if SPEAKING TO THE CRIMINALLY INSANE. ‘By the way: did you manage to get those references yet?'

There is always that with Hannah, always the small withdrawal and reassertion of rank.

‘They're in the post.'

‘Hm.' She touches the notebook, then the pile of typed sheets that lie beside the posters. ‘Been having a wee read at my manuscript?'

‘What? No.'

‘I didn't mean to leave it lying about.'

Oh lady, you don't half talk some bollocks
. You put it there, angled outwards, just like you angled Michael's chin in your hands to kiss him. Leaving Justine with nowhere to look at all. She scratches the back of her neck. Hannah's lips are slightly parted. Expectant.
What?
What is Justine supposed to do now?

‘Would you like to read it?'

‘Oh. Yeah, sure. Maybe later?'

‘Sorry.' Hannah rubs her pale-pink trainer on the top of her other foot. Along with the white jacket, she's wearing her sugar-pink trackie bottoms (
Delicates wash, OK
,
Justine? It's Juicy Couture
). A coy flamingo, bathed in rose-light from the red glass bowl which sits on top of the fridge, and is placed, artfully, to catch the light.

‘I don't usually show my stuff till it's done. Work in progress and all that.'

‘Jesus.' Under her breath. ‘Right. That's me away to do the loos.'

‘And you will do those posters?'

‘I'll do them! I'll do them in a wee while. I need to . . .' Justine gestures at the mop ‘. . . crack on.'

Hannah takes the fluffy bauble off the posters, twists it twice round her hair to make a rough ponytail. The carefully packaged roll springs open. ‘I'd better get going too.' Beneath the pink, her skin looks dusty. Is she too frail to wield those big heavy posters all by herself? It's a menial task, of course, therefore it falls under Justine's remit.

‘Hannah,' says Justine. ‘You've a dirty mark on your forehead.'

 

After Hannah's gone, and the house is hers and she has sat awhile at the kitchen table, Justine gathers up her stuff. She does not want to do this. Outside the manse, she pulls in her stomach, stares at the landscape which spreads wantonly before her. She is trying to feel it, really get whatever it is you're meant to feel when confronted by ‘your country'. But it remains just stones and bright sky, and the shush of sparkling trees. Nice to look at, aye, but how come it makes folk crazy? Michael and his skirly pipes and ‘freedom', Hannah with her stories. Now the woman's into old bones as well. Thinks these archaeologists are going to rescue Kilmacarra. From what? Justine screws up her eyes, trying to picture turbines on the hill. Bit of a whishy sound – not much different to the trees probably – a few eerie white arms going round and round. So what? Will they no be just one more creepy protrusion coming out the glen?

There's a thud at her feet as something falls. The bloody posters. She snatches at them, spears the roll deeper into her pocket. She could just say she lost them, or that she did put them up, but someone must've taken them down. Or she forgot? Aye, right. To refuse to distribute them would look even more suspicious. Like when Michael suggested using Euan's photo and she wanted to shout
please no
. She must show willing. Not that she's staying. She can't. But, oh man, she'd like to. Settle in that big house, sit at the oak table. Wear Juicy Couture and clack around the place. Nah. Not the pink pants, though. Forget that bit.

Ooh – you want to read my fabby book? Well, you can't, so fuck you
.

 

No. Fuck you.

Justine has no idea if Hannah keeps a back-up copy of her manuscript – which is still splayed on the dresser – but she is very tempted to stuff the whole wad of rubbish in the stove.
Oh Justine. You managed to get the fire lit. Well done you
. The actual thought of it warms her, like a hard red coal. When she leaves, that may be her parting gift. Aye, and when is it you're leaving now, Justine? Now that you know the expensive, expansive magnitude of your death sentence? He will. Charlie Boy will kill her for this, and he will do it slowly. She narrows her eyes, lets the light slide past as she watches the drift of the air balloon.

Turbines this high!!

They're tearing it up! Killing them off!

They're closing it down! The ice is melting . . . melting!

Folk who get upset about crap must have no real problems to worry about. That's why they expend their energies on worthy campaigns. Justine does not get all the angst. Same with this independence bollocks. Who cares? Two years of noise and soapbox ranting already. It's like you're finding something to worry about. When is it going stop? (Well, after the referendum, obviously; only it won't, because then there'll be the post-mortems and the promises, the agonies and ecstasies.) Who cares? What normal folk care about is: have you got enough food to eat, are you safe? Can you afford a new telly, and can you get the bastards next door to turn theirs down? Justine is proud to say she's never voted in her life. Bastards never listen to you anyway.