Rise (21 page)

‘It could,’ smiles Tom. ‘Although how many people that will set the heather on fire for, I’m not exactly sure. Without unfettered access to the whole area, we can’t do a definitive survey anyway.’

‘But what can Sentinel do? Block access to the site? There’s no trespass law in Scotland—’

‘Hannah, Hannah.’ The professor zips up his anorak. The wind is getting up, you can see the tarpaulins fill like sails. ‘Rich, determined companies – and individuals for that matter – have a remarkable way of bending the rules to fit them. And I do not wish to get embroiled in some political contretemps. It’s not what I envisaged when I took this job on.’

‘Professor, I promise you. There won’t be any trouble. I’ll speak to my husband. We’ve got a petition going, a website, we’re lodging an appeal – but you must keep working. Anything you find here that can help prove Kilmacarra’s historical significance—’

‘Will become the property of the Crown. Not Kilmacarra, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, but with your influence and expertise . . .’

‘I’m just a jobbing archaeologist. We all live hand to mouth, certainly as regards funding and approvals. I can’t afford to fall out with anyone.’

‘I’m not asking you to fall out. Please.’

He clips his shiny poppers shut. ‘Let’s just ca’ canny for now, as my old grannie would say. Now. Who’s for the pub?’

Chapter Thirteen

There’s a dribble of milkshake on Euan’s chin. The traces curl in a pink apostrophe round his lack of stubble. Michael worries about that. For all his fitness and running, Euan is a late developer. No muscles to speak of, skin as smooth as his wee brother’s, his voice still—

‘Oh Rossie, don’t put the Burger King crown on Euan’s head. He doesn’t like it.’

‘But he is King Euan.’

‘No. See! Ah.’

‘Naargh!’ Euan thumps at his brother, who starts crying.

‘Well, it serves you right, Ross. I told you to leave him alone.’

‘You are a grumpy . . . jobby!’ snivels Ross. ‘I hate you.’

Euan gives his brother the finger. Michael smacks half- heartedly at this offending hand.

‘That’s enough, Euan. He’s only little.’

Ross scrambles to the far end of the bed, well away from the frame round his brother’s leg – he’s been warned, twice, then kicked at, once, by Euan’s good leg. He curls up, one thumb sneaking into his mouth. Michael begins to say something, then turns the telly louder instead. ‘Oh, look.
Transformers
is on!’

Ross whimpers. Euan rolls his eyes. Closes them.

Euan’s voice not breaking: it seems trivial, but it’s not. Michael dreads that he’ll be like him; at the coo’s tail, when all your pals swell and boom, and you’re still the class runt. Then, finally, it comes. Your shaky roar into manhood; that disconcerting inability to modulate this stranger inside, a deep, unexpected voice that can slide from bass to treble at any moment, leaving you stranded and squeaky – but feeling ten feet tall. For now, though, Michael would settle for any voice at all. There is a distinct lack of clarity regarding the injury to Euan’s tongue. One doctor says it’s healing nicely, the other – a young woman – keeps checking the stitches, tutting, and then applying more antiseptic gunk which makes Euan retch. They squeeze it through the metal gridding that holds his teeth and jaws in place. Michael’s hand hovers over his son’s brow. A bevelled plane of skin, with all that brain inside. The beautiful, frowning flutes. What does his boy think, in there? A long time ago, Michael would have known every thought and question; it would have been taken out and shared with Daddy. Omniscient Daddy, whose approval was all. He doesn’t disturb him. Wee soul seems flat today, spaced-out, almost. Michael said as much to the nurse. Did they not look at their patients, beyond locating the correct orifice to be plugged or drained?

‘Is he all right, though? He seems very listless. And hot.’

The nurse patted Euan’s cheek. ‘He’s just fed-up, aren’t you, gorgeous? Much rather be out chasing the girls than stuck in here, eh? Although, that hasn’t stopped him trying, eh? I saw your fan-club.’

Under his wirework, Euan blushed.

‘Anyway, you’ll be getting home soon, won’t you? So your entourage’ll just have to visit you there.’

‘What entourage is this?’ Michael felt himself grinning; suddenly elated that his boy might have some secret life.

‘Oh, patient confidentiality. I couldn’t possibly say.’ Winking at Euan as she left.

‘That lady smelled funny,’ pipes Ross from the foot of the bed. ‘She smelled like sore fingers.’

Michael moves his chair forward, so he can kiss his baby’s soft, sweet head. His wee surprise. The harbinger of . . . well. A beginning and an end, Michael supposes. He kisses him again. ‘She does actually. She smells of what Mummy puts on to make it better.’

‘And Justine,’ says Ross.

‘And Justine. She’s nice, isn’t she?’

Ross burrows deeper into his nest. ‘Mm-hm.’

‘Mmngh!’ Euan bangs his notepad on the bedclothes. WHO IS JUSTIN?

‘Justine. She’s . . .’

What is she exactly? The new au pair? Michael’s guardian angel? A consummate con artiste? She could be, judging by the way she has picked up his deceit and run with it, outstripping even the deceiver. Michael has been both impressed and unnerved. She is breathtakingly gallus. Still not a word from her, no explanation. Not even when they were making the posters, when they had all that time together, acres of time for her just to clear her throat and go: ‘Michael. About this “Myra . . . ”’ She had left him no option . . . This cannot go on, it feels weird to acknowledge her outside of the house. Then he remembers the calm in his home, in his head, and he has to keep reminding himself it had been his idea; he’d to force her, almost, to come home with him. He had to crash the bloody car . . . Then he thinks: that could be part of the con too. She could have made it happen, she could have dazzled him with a carefully positioned handbag mirror, aimed right at the sun so the light bounced off his windscreen before she moved in for the kill. It could all be one big set-up.

And then he remembers it hadn’t been sunny.

She is a poor soul, that is all. But they mustn’t take advantage. Who knows what the girl is looking for? He’s no longer sure it’s her father; she seems uninterested in anything except cleaning their house and feeding them. She went very quiet at breakfast, though, when Hannah kissed him. Did they shock her? It shocked him. He was standing up, gobbling Weetabix or something, and Hannah just claimed his lips with hers. That familiar, beautiful lurch, the pierce, the taste that bitter taste, his eyes screwed shut, desperately chasing the rush. Through his coat he could feel her breast. Both surprised. Hannah ruffling his hair, like he was a trophy, and laughing.

‘I’ll make your sandwiches,’ was all he could think of to say. And Justine had left the room.

His hands are hurting. His closed-off wife kissed him, full-lipped and spontaneous, and he’s frightened about the next move. He’s holding his hands too tight, so that the purple bulbs of his knuckles swell, the veins inside thick with blood, contracting like they’re going to give birth and his head is pulsing with visions of those plastic eggs the kids like; filled with jelly-aliens about to hatch. Should he pin her arms and take her again? Take his particular blend of rage and lust and blow it all away? She seemed to like it, before. Now, that was confrontation. But it wasn’t him. Hannah casts a delicate light around her; her fine, tense frame is too fragile. It’s treasure, not spoils. It gave him his boys. He looks round at his sons, sees clean white bone, pink brain, and dark. The whisper. Stop thinking.

‘DAH-GH?’ The notepad flaps.

‘Sorry, son. Justine’s a lady who’s staying with us for a while. Babysitting for Ross mostly.’

‘I am NOT a baby.’

‘EH-U-AGH.’

‘No am NOT!’

Michael stretches his hands; a hiatus of numbness, then the trapped blood, bursting. His head pounds. Still no Ghost since Justine came. Not in the garden, not in the churchyard; not even here, and Lochallach is a good eight miles away from Kilmacarra. The milkshake quivers on Euan’s chin. ‘Here, son. You’ve a wee bit . . .’

He’s wiping off the dribble as Hannah comes in. Euan yowls at the sound of the door opening, shoves the napkin away.

‘Ssh. It’s all right, son. It’s only your mum.’

‘Sweetie. What’s up? Michael, I told you not to get him excited—’

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’

His wife ignores him, is fussing over Euan’s covers, his face.

‘Ross. Get down off that bed. I’ve told you before—’

‘Hannah, he’s fine. I told him he could sit there.’

‘And I told him he couldn’t.’

‘Heu-ggh.’ Euan is nodding.

‘What? What is it, pet?’

He nods again, pats the bed. Ross inches his way up, nearer to his big brother’s shoulder. Euan reaches over his head, turns up the volume with the remote control.

‘See? They’ve been getting on fine.’ Michael smiles with it, so what he says is not triumphal or smug, but his fingers are throbbing again, and his heart. Always his heart; it could hold its own breath now, and did so about a hundred times a day.

‘Everything OK?’

Hannah pulls out a chair. ‘Mm.’

‘How was your writing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Hannah,’ he lowers his voice. ‘What is it? What’s up?’

‘What’s up? For Godsake, Michael, do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I wouldn’t find out? You talk so much shit. “We’ll listen to both sides of the argument” my arse.’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘I don’t “go on” about stuff. Why do folk keep saying that?’

Euan is watching them.

‘Will we go outside?’

‘Will you keep your voice down?’

‘Hannah—’

She pushes closer, so the words snap against his ear. ‘I’ve just found out the council sold a whole tranche of land to Sentinel last year. All round Crychapel Wood.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Don’t say you didn’t know that.’

‘But I didn’t, I promise. How do you know? Was it Mhairi?’

‘No, it wasn’t Mhairi. It was the guy in charge of the archaeology dig.’

‘When were you speaking to him?’

‘Today. There, the now.’

‘Why?’

‘Michael, I’ve been going there every day.’

He picks at a hangnail on his thumb. ‘Even though I asked you not to?’

‘No you didn’t.’

How young are they, these archaeologists, these new men in town? Do they have big muscles, are they better looking than me?
Assk her
. He forgets he was going to suggest this very thing. He remembers underhandness, though. And betrayal. He and Hannah stick grimly to the conceit that this wide fresh air, the lumpen stones, the dreary people are constituents of a wonderful move. Inspirational! they say, brightly and regularly. And there was that initial rush of enthusiasm where Hannah gripped stoically to her keyboard, and wrote, wrote, wrote. But then she stopped, looked up and took her bearings, and the fear shrilled through Michael’s veins again. He is hiding her like Rapunzel in a tower; they both know that, pretend otherwise.

‘Fine. Good.’ He looks up. ‘I was going to set up a meeting for you anyway. With the archaeologists.’

‘You were?’

‘Yeah. I thought it might help with the book. Look, I swear I didn’t know anything about this land. Let me speak to Donald John, OK? I’m sure it won’t be true; they’d have to declare an interest or . . .’

He doesn’t really know the protocols. But for now, his wife is nodding at him, and there’s the semblance of a smile. A thank you. There is a soft kiss. Michael’s chest swells. Absurd.

‘So, it’s good then? The dig?’

It’s like a light flicks on, and she is shining from inside. He recalls that glow, how it would set him on fire, and he’s to turn away. ‘Oh, it’s incredible. You wouldn’t believe it. They found a stone chest! Right in front of me. They actually uncovered it when I was there.’

‘Today?’

‘No. Before.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

The brightness wavers. Turns. ‘So. How is my boy?’

‘I am good, Mummy.’

‘Oh, I know you are.’ She pats Ross’s hair. ‘I meant Euan. How’s your big brother?’

Euan grunts.

‘He is making funny noises. Like Buddy.’

Buddy is a local collie who has an amazing repertoire of grunts and moans, quite separate from his barking. Michael takes Hannah’s arm, to bring her attention back to him. Whispering. ‘I think he’s awful hot. And a wee bit woozy? See what you think.’

Her gold hair against his cheek. Her, nodding, the scent of her coming up.

‘Hey, mister. Ho!’ She walks between Euan and the telly, arms on hips. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you. How you doing?’ With confident, easy energy, she stoops to stroke her son. ‘You a wee bit hot today?’

‘Ngh.’

‘You sure? You drinking plenty?’

‘Mgh.’ He jouks his chin, trying to see the screen. In addition to the wiring on his teeth, he wears a neck collar, his jaw set on top of the padded cotton like he’s trying to peer over a wall. It makes every movement large and stiff. Hannah continues to keep the back of her hand on his forehead. Michael waits for her assessment, a slight, stupid chill running through him. Ever since Euan was born, Michael would fumble, would tentatively sort, wipe, lift or lay, before Hannah swept in to do it right. Women moan, but they must relish it. They must do. Why else would they lay claim, with absolute authority, to every aspect of family life? Michael frequently can’t even get the shopping right; he waits with bated breath to see if the eggs he purchased are pronounced correct. He’d once, in a crazy haze of bravery, bought a set of kitchen knives – the kind that come in a wee wooden block – because he’d noticed the old ones were blunt. Dear God, you could have ridden the outrage like a wave.
But why? How much were they? From where?