Authors: Karen Campbell
‘I am doing Bad Birds.’
‘No. You are doing
Angry
Birds.’
‘But if you are angry it is bad.’
Justine twists in her seat to face him. ‘No. Not always. Sometimes if you’re
not
angry it’s bad.’
In the mirror, Michael sees Ross frown.
‘What Justine means is, you can be angry if something’s unfair. But not to hit,’ he says quickly. ‘Angry hitting is always bad. Oh look, Ross. Tell Justine where that is.’ He points at a bigger version of the lone hill behind the manse. This one bursts from the wide-open moor they are travelling over. The Great Moss. Or the Big Bog, as Euan calls it.
Ross sighs, barely glances up from Angry Birds. ‘It is a king’s hill called Dumbledore.’
‘No. Dun
add
.’
He, Hannah and the kids had climbed Dunadd last spring. They were still exploring, still tentative and delicate in their new surroundings. The boys were quite disappointed. Michael had filled them with stories about this mighty hill where the first kings of Scotland had been crowned. How its summit, rising central from the face of the valley, saw warring Picts and Gaels united, their king anointed from a font hewn in the rock. But the hill looks more like a blister. A double-headed blister in the middle of a field, with a couple of houses hinging off its base. Not very impressive. Hannah had urged them on.
You wait till we get to the top,
you’ll see.
Not that she’d been up it before, either. They’d left their bikes at the start of the footpath, puffed their way up. It was indeed higher than it looked. The moss covering was springy, and they’d pretended they were walking on the moon, bouncing deathly slow. On the summit, Michael showed the boys what a good view the settlers would have of anyone entering the valley.
That’s why it was so important.
It wasn’t as high as the surrounding backdrop of mountains, but it was placed in the middle of the valley, so people could see all round. Enemy or friend – they’d know who was coming.
It’s called strategic positioning. Do you know that word, boys? Stra-tee-gic.
They had all solemnly, one by one, placed their feet in the carved-rock footprint, just as Michael and his dad, and ancient kings had done. Euan was nonplussed.
It’s not that big. Thought you said a giant made it?
Hannah’s throat went tight, scrawny with the effort of making them all have a nice day out, and he’d handed Euan a placatory Twix.
This is where your nation began, son
. Michael had learned almost no Scottish history at school. He was keen his sons’ education would be different. Euan had begun some hybrid Scottish Studies course at school, but it was like damage limitation. Generations, growing up without a basic knowledge of how their nation came to be. What kind of country suppresses the teaching of its past?
‘Is it a volcano?’ Justine’s asking him. ‘It looks like the hill behind us.’
‘Think so.’ He’s surprised she’d notice. ‘They reckon they might’ve both been islands once, when all this was water. It’s an ancient hillfort. Capital of Dalriada. You’ve heard of Dalriada?’
‘Is that the place where Scotland lost all its money? I thought that was abroad.’
‘No, that was Darien.’
‘There is a boy in my group called Darren. He smells of pee-pee.’
‘Ross! That’s not nice.’
‘Darren is not nice. He has bogies up his nose.’
‘You know, I’d a boy called Darren—’
‘Enough. Right. C’mon. We need to get a move on, or the roofer mannie will have given up on me.’
They pass hills of blue and skies like water, pass water like stone and long purple fields. ‘Potatoes,’ says Michael knowledgeably. Well, they could be. Do potatoes grow in spring? In the back, Ross has given up on Angry Birds and fallen asleep. Michael drops down a gear, takes in the vast panorama of open land. He notices Justine’s holding a booklet. Can make out the word: ‘Crannogs’. ‘What’s that?’
‘Leaflet.’
‘Can I see?’
She sighs, opens it up in an exaggerated motion. He recognises Hannah’s style, is surprised she’s found the time to write it. Then he sees the web address, and returns Justine’s sigh.
‘That you been drafted into the cause too?’
Justine shrugs. ‘Just do what I’m telt, me.’
There is a pause, then she says, ‘Hannah’s a very definite person, isn’t she?’
‘How do you mean?’ He knows exactly what she means.
‘Knows what she thinks about everything. Good/bad. Pish/perfect. You know?’
‘Mmm.’
He thinks about when Hannah seems happiest with him, and it’s when he challenges and argues back. It’s when he’s brave enough not to be careful; it liberates them somehow.
‘Why do women like bad men?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. Nothing.’
They drive in silence until they get to Furrow, and the corrugated shed and awkward brick building that was church and hall combined. Bill Teague’s flat-top van is about to drive away, and Michael jumps out to catch him. The hole in the roof isn’t big, but he knows from experience that, if he leaves it, more tiles will come away. There’s not enough in the funds (party or council – who own this sorry site) to pay Bill. They do a deal for cash, which Michael will pay himself. He wishes it was the olden days, when priests could offer indulgences for money. They haggle; Bill wins. They shake, he waves Bill off, gets back into the driver’s seat.
‘That you done?’ says Justine.
‘I am. You all right?’
‘I’m fine. It’s really lovely here, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
She presses her head into the seatback, a slight arch in her back like a cat. ‘But lonely?’
‘Yup. It can be very lonely.’
‘Still,’ she says, switching on the radio. ‘We’ve always got Myra.’
On the way home, Ross begins to snore.
‘We should wake him. His mum will crack up.’
‘Why?’ says Justine.
‘Because he won’t sleep at night. He’s not been sleeping well.’
‘But he’s tired now. And he seemed a bit upset. I think he’s worried about you.’
‘Why? What did he say?’
‘Nothing. Maybe he’s worried you’re not very well. You’re not, are you? I mean, you look like death warmed up.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Well, you do. All pale and clammy.’
Michael drives on through the slim channel she’s made. It’s another vacuum to be filled; she’s waiting for an explanation. A politeness at least. But it’s a relief to be quiet beside her. He carries on driving and not talking, although what he really wants is to fold into her lap. Time is flashing past as the standing stones come into view, grow big, diminish. More stones appear, grey and bowed against the centuries of wind. They will be home in less than ten.
‘You don’t want to talk about it?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Fair enough.’
That’s wrong. She needs to prise it out of him, or coax it like a little bird. Why does nobody know that what Michael wants most in the world is to be looked after?
He sees Justine check her watch.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you. If you tell me why you were leaving.’
‘
Were
?’ she says.
‘If you were really going to go, you wouldn’t have come with us in the car.’
‘You think? You practically dragged me in.’
‘Please?’
She sighs. ‘I did something stu— look, I just need to get out of here.’
‘
Is
it Hannah? I can talk to her.’
‘Why would you think it’s Hannah?’
‘Well . . . She’s not always as friendly as she could be.’
‘Put yourself in her position. Some strange lassie gets the run of her house – and I bet I’m not the first one, am I?’
‘I don’t pick up women, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No, but I know your type. So busy trying to save the world—’ she stops. ‘Do-gooders can be right selfish bastards, actually.’
‘I think you’re being unfair.’
‘That right? Well, I know a social worker that got me two black eyes and a broken nose.’
‘He gave you what?’ His knuckles are white across the steering wheel.
‘No.
He
didny. But if he’d left well alone, I wouldn’t of bloody got them.’
‘But he was trying to help you, yes?’
‘I don’t see why some people aye think they know what’s best. When they have absolutely no idea of what’s going on. Or how some folk really live.’ She folds her arms. ‘Do you have a single clue, Michael? Of the shit that happens to some folk, for no reason at all? Not cause they’re bad and they deserve it, not cause—’
‘I think there can be reasons. We just might not understand them.’
‘What? Like you were a real bastard in a previous life? Or God’s just having a pisser of a day?’ Justine sniffs. ‘I don’t know how you believe all that shite. How’s a whole bunch of weans getting shot up on a bus fair? What’s the reason for that, smartarse?’
He shrugs. ‘Free will? Man’s inhumanity to man? I don’t know. Faith doesn’t have a reason. It’s trust, I suppose. You trust that there is a reason, you just don’t know what it is. But you trust that God knows. God knows the secrets of your heart. You don’t know his. That’s what I believe.’
‘What a load of fanny.’
‘Is it about her stupid face cream?’
‘What?’ She unfolds her arms. ‘Christ,
no.
It’s not about Hannah. I just . . . it’s time I was moving on. You’ve clearly got a lot of stuff going on, you and Hannah, and I’m only in the way.’
‘Justine, we really need you.’
‘No you don’t. I’m not a bloody barrier for yous to hide behind. What you need to do is sit down and talk to your wife. Properly talk to her. Tell
her
what it is you’re cracking up about, not me.’
‘I can’t.’
Justine snorts. ‘So how come you stay with her then? If you canny even talk to her. After she fucked another guy?’
The barbed fricative of the
fuck
makes him flinch; he checks Ross is still asleep.
‘Because she’s sorry. And I’m not
cracking up.’
‘Is she? Sorry?’
‘She said she was.’
‘So, if someone says they’re sorry that makes it OK? Whatever it was they did?’
‘Yes. It’s called forgiveness.’ He sounds whiny. He hates when he is whiny.
‘Fuck off. That’s called bullshit.’
‘Honestly, it’s not. It works . . . if you let it.’ The inside of his lungs hurt. ‘It has to.’
‘Where does all the rage go then?’
‘You let it out. You don’t hold on to it.’
‘Bollocks. You must still be raging inside. Maybe that’s why you “see stuff”, eh? All that anger’s got to seep out somewhere.’
He glances in the mirror again. Ross sleeps on, his wee fists up at his face.
‘Who hurt you, Justine?’ He says it partly as a distraction but mostly because he worries for her.
‘Fuck
off
. Tell me what you see.’
‘What happened to you? What did you do before you came here?’
They are approaching the manse. An angel in the graveyard catches a shaft of clear gold light; the quiver on her back is trembling.
‘Man up, padre. Fucking tell me.’
‘A ghost. I have a ghost.’
‘Oh man. Classic.’ Adopts a nasal whine. ‘
I see dead people
. What: white sheet? Chains? The works?’
Even his traumas are pathetic. A van emblazoned with Sentinel Power cuts in in front of them. It is going far too fast for the twisting road. Michael brakes, toots his horn as the driver raises his hand. He is shocked to see Justine raise her hand and wave, not shocked at her hand, but at the way she pouts her lips. An almost-kiss of air.
‘You know him?’
‘Aye. He’s one of my regulars.’
She clasps her hands in her lap. Presses them over the place where, later, he will learn she is tattooed with her stable number. She swallows and chews her lip and fidgets with her fingers. They’re pulling into the driveway of the manse before she speaks again.
‘You asked me what I did before I came here. I was a prostitute, Michael. A great big, dirty hoor.’
Day Five in the
Big Brother
house. There is a claustrophobia about Hannah's home; the manse is a brew of strange energies. Ross is demanding more and more stories; he's very clingy, and Hannah's run out of books to read him. She can't face another round of Dr Seuss. You
write me a story, Mummy
. But her brain is fried: it's full of stone cists and bones and Euan. His temperature's still too high. Justine's in some almighty huff too, ate last night's dinner in her room. Will speak when spoken to, and that is all. Good. Perfect, in fact, because she's still doing the housework. Hannah thought at first she was pissed off with her, because of those daft history leaflets; was ready with a sharp
you're being very childish, Justine, you can't copyright ideas
(which of course, you can, but Hannah wrote all the damn words,
and
she'd bought Justine a big box of chocolates which she'll not be getting now if that's her attitude). But the girl's also strange with Michael; they won't look at one another.