Rise (24 page)

‘That phoned the ambulance.’

‘I’m no a fucking lassie!’

‘I know, I know. But I heard the police say it could be a boy or a girl. They don’t know. I mean, it’s not as if . . . well, your voice isn’t . . . you know.’

‘Naw?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Johnny.’

‘And what age are you, Johnny?’

‘Ten.’

‘Ten, eh? Wow. Think of the money, Johnny. You tell them what you saw, say you were . . . och, I don’t know . . . scared or something, so you ran away. That way, you get the reward, and I get left alone.’ She scrutinises his skinny face. ‘
Do
you get scared of anything?’

He shrugs. ‘Naw.’ But his eyes have a firmer gleam to them. ‘So? What would I tell them?’

‘Ah-ah. First, do we have a deal? You keep the money and you keep me out?’

‘Aye.’

‘OK. You tell them that a big white motorhome whizzed past, right? Heading in towards Kilmacarra. You know what I mean? Like a caravan, only you drive it?’

‘
Aye
. Course I know.’

‘Good. Now, listen. On the back of it was a wee red car. They were towing it, right? I don’t know what kind, but they were towing it, so I couldn’t see any number plate for the motorhome. You. You couldny see any number plate, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I never saw what happened, but I think maybe the car’s clipped him? So the driver might not even know. But: this is very important, Johnny. Are you listening?’

‘
Yes
.’

‘On the back of the car was a wee flag-thing. It was like three wee swirls with a dot in the middle. Look.’ She opens her phone pouch, takes out the scrumpled wrapper. She hasn’t looked at it since that night. ‘See? I drew it down.’

‘So you
were
gonny tell them?’

‘I . . . I don’t know what I was going to do. Maybe, when I left here. Here – you take it. Practise drawing it out yourself so . . . you know. Make it look like you did it, yeah?’

Solemnly, he takes the paper, folds it in two.

‘Much d’you think the reward is?’

‘Haven’t a clue. In fact, here.’ She gives him her phone, killing two troublesome birds in tandem. ‘You’ll need this too. That’s what I phoned them on.’

‘It’s
pink
.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, take the wee pouch thing too. It’s black.’

‘Aye, but I still wouldny have a pink—’

‘And here, here.’ A wedge of tenners – forty, fifty quid? She’s started so she’ll finish. Pressing the money into his hand, which slips with surprising rapidity, both the notes and the phone pouch, into his sweatshirt pocket. The phone itself is still in his other hand. He traces it up and down the line of his thin, freckled mouth. ‘I suppose . . . now I’ve got all the evi-dunce an that . . . I could still tell them it was you. And still get the reward.’

‘Right, you wee shite.’ Justine grabs the cords of his hoodie, drawing him closer so his legs are flailing, and the bike keels over. The collie begins to bark, a snarling circle of cower, but no pounce.

‘You know what? See the reason I don’t want to let anyone know I’m here? Cause a very bad man is after me. Very, very bad – you understand? And if he knows I’m here, he’ll find me and
get
me. But, you know what?’

Johnny whimpers, but doesn’t speak. She loosens her grip, slightly. ‘See, when he knows you’ve just taken some of his money? He’ll come and get you first. You with me? He’ll come and take a Stanley blade to your bits and leave you to bleed to death. How d’you like that then,
Johnny
?’

The wee boy starts to cry.

Roughly, she brushes at his collar, as if she’d been making some motherly adjustment to his clothes. ‘OK now. Come on. I didny mean to scare you. But this isn’t a game, Johnny, this is serious. And you started it, you know?’

He sniffs. Nods.

‘So. Do we have our deal? Or will we just pretend this was all a bad dream? Because, let’s be honest. Who the fuck’s going to believe you?’

Chapter Fifteen

Michael’s car is almost at Kilmacarra. Or Furrow, he could head on to Furrow after all because that’s even further and it’s over the river and evil things can’t cross water, can they? But it’s not evil, his Ghost. He is not. Oh God, just away, just anywhere that is away, and he feels the car is running liquid and he’s swinging round a bend and there’s a tractor in the middle, Malcolm Greig, you’d know him anywhere by his oily perma-tammy and the greasy hair that hangs beneath and he sees the whites of Malcolm’s eyes as he skirts and screeches past. Only just missing; a man could kill a person on a road like this, driving like this, could crash a car or knock a cyclist. Or a kid. If you are insane. He is
not
insane.

Michael slows down until he’s barely doing twenty. Feels the tight purse of his breath come out, lips vibrating, a faint harmonica- buzz. Is it his conscience come alive? That little spark of celestial fire?

Fucking pug-ugly conscience then, pal, eh? What
like
is your heid inside?

See, now that was a definite conscious exchange: no visions (apart from this painful fuzziness round his right eye), no real voice. Michael just made that up, the way Ross talks with his Transformers, or like he did with Action Men when he was wee. Maybe his consciousness is his conscience. The simple fact of being aware, like the wee voice that reminds you to put the bins out or post that letter? So, what happens to all the bits he ignores? There must be a sump of oil inside him, all the undigested debris he’s sluiced through in his life. The source of his evil demon.

His Ghost is not evil. No one is evil. No, a person must be mad to be evil; you must explain away evil with synapses and psychosis. Yet revere the notion of goodness. Of God.

Please Lord
.
Please.

At last, he can see the half-egg rise of Kilmacarra, can see his house, the church, which makes him speed again. He makes himself speak out loud. ‘You all right, Rossie boy?’

Ross doesn’t answer.

‘Ross.’

He is sharp, too sharp. ‘Daddy asked you a question.’

‘No. My tummy is feeling sick.’

‘Well. We’ll soon be home.’

‘But I have to go to nursery. Miss Thomas will be waiting.’

Michael cannot face the thought of Miss Thomas, wittering about the Easter Eggstravaganza and how Michael’s to explain the mystery of the resurrection. The kids are four years old for Godsake.

‘You don’t have to go to nursery. Not if you’re not well. Here. D’you want a play on Daddy’s phone?’ He pokes the contraband through the gap in the seats. Hannah will freak.

‘You mean like how Euan is not well?’

‘Yes . . . no. Not like that.’

As they drive towards home, he sees Justine, scluffing along the pavement on the other side. He sees her, and feels a pop of pleasure, the way you do when the sun comes out. Scruffy leather bag swinging; her shoulders hunched up to her ears. It’s not that cold, yet she’s wearing a Barbour jacket. His Barbour jacket. And she’s pinned her hair back, the way Hannah does, so it drapes her spine in a single snake. Justine’s hair is dense and heavy-textured. Well, he doesn’t know that, it’s not as if he’s touched it, but you would definitely not call it ‘flyaway’. Whenever he goes the messages, it’s always ‘flyaway’ shampoo Hannah asks for. He looks closer. The colour’s changed too. Shame. He liked that colour.

‘Look, Ross. Who’s that?’ Winding down the windows.

‘Justi!’ he squeals. ‘Justi. It is me! Ross Anderson.’

Michael thinks for a second that she’s not going to stop, she must be going out, not in; she’s already past where you’d cross the road for the manse. But she does stop, eventually: Ross shouts her into submission. Slowly, she takes her bag from her shoulder. Shakes off her stoop and pokes her tongue out at his son. Her eyes are rimmed bright pink.

‘Hello, guys. What you up to? How come you’re not at nursery, Ross Anderson?’

‘Because my daddy drived me too fast and my tummy is sore.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ross.’ Michael leans his elbow on the open window. He is being jaunty. ‘Where are you off to then? Look as if you’re going hiking.’

‘What? Oh. Yeah. I borrowed your jacket. Hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course it is.’ It is not unpleasant, the thought of her inside his clothes. Oh, that’s amazing. His heart has calmed right down.

‘You all right, Michael? You look a bit . . .’

‘My daddy is not well.’

‘Are you—?’

‘I’m fine. Now. I mean, I was feeling . . .’

The bare spring light. The blue moving over her lidded, sore eyes. Her uneven mouth.

Tell the truth.

He looks at the pavement. ‘Justine. It happened again. That . . . thing.’

‘The seeing-things thing?’

‘Ssh. We’ll talk later, OK? Ross,’ he says brightly, ‘do you want to go to nursery, then?’

There’s a little
cheep
. Ross has discovered the Angry Birds app on Michael’s phone. ‘No. I am too late and it will make Miss Thomas sad. And you said I was not well so it will be a fib anyway.’

‘Smart kid,’ says Justine.

‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’

‘No. Ta. I’m just . . . I thought I’d go for a walk.’

There is a flicker in Justine’s demeanour, a blink that goes from casual to luminous pain as she glances at Ross and he knows.

‘Are you leaving us?’

‘No.’ Scornful, swinging up her bag. ‘I told you. I’m just off for a walk.’ He thinks he sees their toasting fork poking out the top of her bag. That’s ridiculous. Only his imagination. A gold-glinting devil-fork.

‘Please, Justine. Please don’t go. I’m begging you.’

‘
Fucksake
,’
she hisses, and Ross gasps.

‘Justi. You are not allowed to say that word. My mummy hit Euan with my Lego when he said that word.’

‘Ross, I know. I’m really sorry.’

‘Can we talk about this? Will you get in the car and talk? Or we can go to the house. Hannah’s out.’

‘I know.’ She’s clutching her bag across her belly.

‘What is a fucksake?’

Michael sees old Miss Campbell emerging from the village shop. Instantly, she spots them, bears down as fast as her wrinkly stockings will allow. She’d been to his surgery last week, to complain about Johnny Green. ‘Needs a good hiding, so he does.’ And he’d promised he’d see what he could do. And he hasn’t. He’s not a policeman, for Godsake, he’s a councillor. If he speaks to the school, then the Social Work might get involved again. Johnny’s poor mum needs time.

‘Can we not have this conversation out in the street, please?’ He opens the passenger door. ‘Justine. Will you just get in the car?’

‘Ha! You said “just” to Justine. That is funny, Daddy. You are a funny daddy.’

‘I know. Thank you. Justine. Please
.
’

Wordlessly, she complies. He releases the handbrake, rolls off as Miss Campbell reaches them. He pretends he doesn’t hear her chapping on the window.

‘Where we going?’

‘Furrow. To see a man about a ceilidh.’

‘Right.’

Justine rests her head, closes her eyes. With her hair tied back, the skin pulls bluntly across her cheekbones. Not angular, though; there is a flatness, there’s no glimmer left on her. She is dull. Up close, Justine looks as tired as him.

‘It’s for a party fundraiser. But the hall roof’s leaking, so I need to get it fixed. By next Friday.’

‘Right.’

She’s still beautiful, though. Ah. The hair. Michael knows, now it is gone, why he liked it: Hannah had the same kind of metallic red hair when they met. He recalls the brilliant flash of her as she sailed into lectures. Arts and Divinity occasionally overlapped, in murky, fluid options like Philosophy when you were encouraged to open out your mind. Well, he’d like it shut now please. Tight, if anyone is listening.

He drives out the village. Green earth around him. Bright sky above. The bubbling inside him has subsided. Five minutes talking to a girl who doesn’t care; that’s all it takes. It is inconceivable, when it’s gone, that the Ghost has ever been here; it’s like those mornings you wake bitten by your dreams, you feel the marks, but can’t remember what made them. Or vomiting. Yes, seeing the Ghost is like being sick: an uncontrollable surge that leaves you weakened and ashamed. He cannot let Justine go. She is his talisman, he’s sure of it.

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘Whit?’ It is a leave-me-be drawl.

‘Did something happen? Has . . .’ He hesitates, then is disloyal. ‘Has Hannah upset you? She can be a bit of a nippy sweetie, but she’s a good person. Honestly.’

‘Yeah? Even though she fu—’

‘Justine!’

Her eyes snap open. ‘Sorry. God, I’m sorry. Hey, Ross. What ya doin’?’