Rise (23 page)

The irony is, she left to stop anything bad happening.

She feels bad for that old lady, Margaret, searching for Frank Arrow. Justine doesny know what her father is called, apart from ‘that French cunt’. When pressed, her mum would say,
Aye and he wisny even that. Only on his mum’s side. How you got your stupid name.

—
But what was
his
name, Mum?

—
Away and play under a bus.

She’s walked round the circle twice now, skirting the dug-up bits. Still no
zap
. The fault probably rests with her. Dodgy wiring. She envies people who have faith, folk like Michael who get a headrush from singing hymns. Even seeing ghosts – she’d always liked the idea of being sensitive to ‘the other’. It would appear, however, that Justine is a grubby creature of earth, damped down to all but survival. Which is a shame, but there you go. Not her fucking fault.

‘Excuse me.’

Justine hops to a halt.

‘Are these yours?’ It’s the guy from earlier, with the freckly arms. Only he’s shed the yellow jacket, is wearing a suit. And he’s holding her boots.

‘They might be.’ Trying to hide her bare feet one behind the other. They are filthy, and a wee bit blue with cold.

‘Here you go.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Doing a bit of t’ai chi? Get the ground beneath your feet, eh?’

‘Mm.’

His tie is brightest violet, but loosened so that the ensuing V of neck is perfectly framed. Behind him, the sky lowers and broods; to the left, the hills rise in deeper blues and green-grey. In front of him, Justine feels like a total tube.

‘I wasny really . . .’

‘I know.’ He almost laughs at her. ‘You better watch you don’t get turned to stone.’ The violet tie does nothing for his pale spattered skin, or his faintly ginger hair. He sees her looking, flicks the tie. ‘Got a job interview.’

‘Yeah? I thought you worked for the electricity folk?’

‘I do, but it’s only temporary. And part-time. Though I do get the use of the company car.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Duncan, by the way.’

‘Justine.’

Her hands are full of shoe, so he shakes her pinkie. ‘Hi, Justine. I saw you the other day, at the graveyard. Miss Campbell tells me you were looking for your dad?’

She remembers the long, tight torso stripping off in the Sentinel van. Appraises him more carefully. But he still reminds her of David Lamont at school, a violent, ruddy boy with orange curls. David, Trevor and Darren, who would squeeze your bum or nascent tits in the free-dinners queue, every bloody day.

‘So, what’s the job?’

‘Car sales at Lochallach.’ He grimaces.

‘No really your thing?’

‘Nup. Far rather be up at the farm. But it’s a job. And they might give me an actual car.’

‘Let me get this right. You work on a farm and for Sentinel. And a garage? Christ, you’re one greedy bugger.’

‘I am that.’ He smiles, a sleepy, assessing smile. ‘What is it you do, Justine?’

‘Au pair at the moment. For the Andersons. But I’m a nursery nurse too. And I sing sometimes, in a band. Back in Glasgow.’

‘Yeah? What’s it called?’

Oh fuck, fuck, it’s called it’s called
– ‘Crazy Cows,’ she blurts.

Now he is laughing, openly. ‘Is that right? And what kind of stuff d’you sing?’

‘Och, anything really. Rock, folk, pop. Whatever folk want really. Good money in it too.’

Why does she say these things? Now he’s going to ask where she plays, or to sing him a song and she canny even bloody sing.

‘Justine Arrow and the Crazy Cows.’ Duncan nods. ‘You sound more like a Country and Western band.’

‘Oh, yeah, we do a wee bit of that too.’

She’s pleased, and troubled, that he knows her pretendy name. How does it happen, that information transmits here in a lightning-rod flash? Where do these people gossip, when there’s nowhere to go?

‘Think you might sing in the pub one night?’

‘Who knows?’

They are face to face. He’s a good foot taller than her, and Justine’s five six in her bare feet, and she feels quite petite, which is nice, because beside dainty Hannah she is perpetually a lumbering ogre. Ogre-ess? They watch each other. His eyes are proper grey. She thought grey eyes were a myth.

‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fly. Oh. Good luck with the interview.’

‘Cheers.’ He has a smile that splits and redefines his face. You would buy a used car from this man. ‘So, is that a date, then?’

‘What?’

‘You. Singing in the pub. Will I tell Rory?’

‘Oh, aye. We’ll see. I don’t think you guys could afford my prices.’

She plunges her arms out; one boot at either end. Then she flees the circle, keeps running, does not look back at his bemused face; keeps going until she is on the track past the primary school, cheeks slapping, cold wind in her teeth, and her, bouncing in air then smashing on rough dirt with the jaggy burrs and the sharp, teethed stones and her feet in ribbons. Doubles over, laughing. Lets the sounds ring out of her. Running is going on the swings for adults; you still get that breathless flight. The laughter makes her light; she feels like she is levitating. She’s not run that way since she was a child, is amazed at the longness of her limbs, how they piston in powerful juts. There’s something pleasing in the swell inside her too, that it works still and isny crushed beyond reach. Not that Justine’s in the market. For anything. Not any more. Not ever ever ever.

Right. Work.

Euan loved running. Another press of guilt. Man. Justine should go to see him. She should’ve done that first. Even if she stood at the doorway; Christ, she’s eyeballed Duncan twice already and she didny recognise him, and the boy’s eyes were shut almost the whole time apart from when they bumped and passed and she needs to, she just should, that’s all. If he saw her, and he didn’t know her . . . Could she just stay? Not for ever, obviously. The wee pink phone in her pocket is like a beacon, or a grenade. Bin it? Bury it? Smash it first, with a big rock, then burn it in the fire – no, the Aga, man. That thing is totally roasting, would melt plastic no bother. Sorted. Get these done first, then back to the ranch for some torching. She shakes out one of the posters, which are now bent in the shape of her arse. Stuffs her raw feet back in her boots. Fuckknows where her socks have gone. Takes a tub of pins from her jacket pocket. Mhairi’s got one poster up in the café already. She’ll put another in the shop, two in the hotel, and the rest on random trees or lamp-posts. Duh. She’s not brought any Sellotape. No lamp-posts, then. And they can go fuck themselves about the crannog leaflets. She is not distributing them. Her crannog leaflets. A breeze licks the edge of the poster she’s holding. She can’t not put them up. One small release of pressure in her thumb, and the paper will catch on air, will fly away. Hannah will simply make more.

She will visit Euan, before she goes. Justine draws her eyes over the glen and the distant hills, the scattered farms, the street and the jumbly houses. People live in them, every one of them; they open their door and walk inside. Put the telly on or fill the kettle. Go
ah
as they settle in chairs. Do they know how lucky they are, when they draw the curtains, switch on their lamps?

There’s a tree near to the churchyard, a gnarly fat one. She clamps the heads of two drawing pins inside her lips, goes over and flattens the poster against the tree trunk. As she reaches to insert the first pin, there’s a sprinkled warmth across one foot. A black and white dog is peeing on the top of her boot.

‘Piss of
f
! Get away!’

She kicks out her leg, not at the dog exactly, more of a combined warding-off and drying action all in one. The dog continues to pee, his happy face panting as he does so. It’s the same collie she’s seen here before.

‘Don’t you bloody kick him!’

On the verge beside the road, a boy straddles a bike, a rusted contraption too small even for his slight frame. The disparity is compounded by his trousers, which stop just above his ankles. No socks. No jacket. Ferret-face poking from a sweatshirt hood. An embryonic ned, who wouldny last five minutes in Glasgow.

‘Is that your dog?’

His scowl intensifies. ‘That your face?’

When she doesn’t respond, he gives her the finger.

‘You’re a right wee charmer, eh?’ Justine smooths her hand over the poster, pressing down before she sticks in the final pin. ‘And, for your information, I didn’t kick him. Did I, Mr Dog?’ The dog wags his tail, has a final, proud sniff round the tree. ‘You’re a very rude wee boy, by the way. Your dug’s much nicer than you. Even when he
is
peeing on my foot.’ She stands back a little, to check the poster is straight. Beneath the strident heading, there is the photo, then this:

Road accident last Sunday evening, approx. 6 p.m.

Please help us find out what happened to our son. Euan, who is fourteen, was out running last Sunday, when he was struck by an unknown vehicle. He was found unconscious at the flashing chevron on the bend as you leave Kilmacarra, heading towards Kinmore. If you saw or heard anything, or are the person who called the ambulance, PLEASE phone or call in at the manse, or call Lochallach police. Any information will be gratefully received. Please note, a reward is offered. With grateful thanks for all your support at this difficult time.

Councillor & Mrs Anderson, Kilmacarra Manse

‘You gonny phone them, then?’ The boy is still there, finger hovering at the crust inside his nose.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Cause I seen you. In my garden. You seen me an’ all. That’s how you were walking up that road. That exact same time cause I know cause
Antiques Roadshow
was comin’ on the telly.’

‘You’re talking a load of shite, wee man.’

‘It was you what phoned the polis, wasn’t it?’

Her heart slips. ‘
No
.’

The boy regards the poster. ‘Says there’s a reward. What if I tell them it was you? Does that mean I’d get the reward? Will you get the jail?’

‘The only person getting the jail’ll be you, if you start annoying folk with stupid stories.’

‘You think I’m a daftie, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Aye you do. I’m gonny phone them—’

‘And say what? That you saw me walking up a road? Big wows.’

‘And I seen you running back.’

Her shoulder blades tighten. ‘Don’t talk crap. Why would I be running?’

‘You tell me.’

Wee shit. She wants to punch him. She forces herself to walk away, but he comes after, on his clattery bike.

‘Ma brakes don’t work.’

‘So? What d’you want me to do about it?’

‘Maybe if I get a reward I can get a new bike.’

‘Oh, for fucksake – Look, so what if I was there? Not that I bloody was. It was a
car
that hit him, not me.’

‘Aye, but see if you seen the car, you could tell them what it looked like. So how come you don’t just get the reward?’

He does a wheelie as she ignores him. ‘Euan Anderson’s all right, you know. He’s got a cracking bike. Gies me shots on it sometimes. I wouldny mind a bike like his.’

Wee bastard is swinging a lasso round her neck. In the absence of any vehicle being traced, the police will keep looking for the caller. Imagine coming forward now, going:
Actually, it was me. All the time! Surprise!
She can picture Hannah’s face, how it will ripple, then crack as she turns to rip her head off. Fuck, she should just leave Kilmacarra this minute. Grab her bag and run. Where? There’s no bus for two hours – and she knows this for a fact, she’s learned the timetable off by heart. Justine lets cold air flow through her nose. Holds it in the soft part of her throat. Go where? From the churchyard, a battered angel stares. On Justine’s thigh, the tattooed numbers prickle. She’s not ready.

She has to harness this prying avarice before she gets hog-tied. It’s just a wee, stupid kid. Think. Think. What would
he
do? She sees the long curve of Charlie Boy’s tongue as he wets his roll-up. Always a smoke before a decision, although the decision will already have been made. He is an expert in misdirection. A torture that is quiet and slow. Often, there’s a sexual charge in the anticipation; she’ll see him growing hard – or would sense it if she was pinioned on his knee. On his throne, surrounded with acquisitions as he passed judgment or directed fates. Oh yes. That made him very hard indeed.

Justine grips the boy’s handlebars, so he’s forced to put his foot down. ‘Do you do deals?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you’re right. You’re no a daftie. In fact, I’d say you were a very clever boy. So. Supposing I had seen something. But, for personal reasons, I didny want to get involved. How would it be if I told you what I saw, and you pretend it’s you.’

‘Me what?’