Rise (38 page)

Sally’s face shades from detached to pity. Is he that transparent? ‘I want you to be honest. Search deeply inside yourself for anything you think may have been the trigger. Consider all the times the hallucinations have recurred – might anything have prompted them? An event or an emotion? Unless some meaning is attributed to your hallucinations, it can be difficult to feel more in control. It’s my belief that coping depends not on the
content
of your hallucinations, but on the nature of your relationship with them. In short,’ her gaze slips briefly to the wall behind him, ‘if you believe the voice is in control of you, you may not be able to cope. If you believe you’re stronger than the voice is, you can.’

‘I see.’

‘Same time next week?’

‘Oh. OK.’

See how she did that? Brought him neatly to a close: in time and on budget. Had the Ghost been present, he’d have joined him in a comedy-wink.

‘In the meantime, I’d like to write to your GP, refer you for some tests. Just to rule out any physical causes.’

‘No. I’d rather not. I didn’t really want anyone local knowing.’

‘I understand. But we do need to explore every possibility. And, Michael.’

‘Yes?’

‘One final piece of advice. In my experience, strategies of avoidance seem to exacerbate the problem.’

Michael walks downstairs. The wooden banister is punctuated with black studs, which rub his palm as he labours down. His knee aches. His footsteps echo on the stone stairs of the close, which is tiled in rippling green. It’s like being in an underwater cavern. He is light and heavy, up and down. His brain has been churned, and the silt rises to the surface.
Acknowledge it, then let it pass.

Do you believe in God?

When he used to run half-marathons, there’d come a point when, irrespective of fierce will, his legs did not contain the physical energy to maintain pace. The only way to cope was zoning-out, to trust that some residual power would pump his legs and arms, his heart. But it ceased to be a conscious effort. Same with his belief. Now, whenever the panicked ticking of his heart kicks off – Hannah’s betrayal, Euan’s accident, his qualms about the council, the windfarm, his sad and complex life – he bundles everything up, holds it all like a globe in his hand. Offers the globe to God.

Tell the truth.

Where do you start?

At the beginning is always good.

Even when it’s bad?

Ooh. Esspecially then, pal. That’s the best bit.

Chapter Twenty-nine

They find Johnny and Buddy down by the burn, poking things with sticks.

‘All right?’ says Justine.

‘Aye?’ His reply is full of bruised suspicion.

‘Here, Ross tells me you’ve been drawing him pictures?’

‘No I huvny.’ Darting eyes at Ross, who is fully engaged with the collie. ‘Good
boy
, Buddy.’ Each word is prefaced by a clumsy pat.

‘Did you ever phone the polis?’

‘No yet . . .’

Her heart slows.

‘How?’ he scowled. ‘What you gonny do? Get the polis on me?’ He takes a swig from the can he holds.

‘God, you’re a spiky wee bugger. You don’t have to be so rude.’

Ross is only metres away, holding a salt and vinegar crisp above Buddy’s head.

‘Give me a
paw
, Buddy.’ Without making any effort to comply, the dog reaches out a casual tongue. The crisp is gone in a second.

‘
No
, Buddy. Bad dog.’ Ross kisses the dog’s head.

‘Look, I think it’s best if we forget about the police, yeah? Forget our wee game too.’

‘Game?’

‘Aye, you know. The one where you kid on you’re me.’

‘So I don’t get any money then?’ He tosses the Irn-Bru can on the ground.

‘You want to pick that up?’

‘Nuh
.
’ He begins dribbling it like a football.

‘Johnny. Please can we just forget the whole thing? Eh? It was a really stupid idea? I mean, you might get into trouble, as well as me. If they found out.’

‘How?’

She improvises. ‘Aiding and abetting? Withholding evidence?’

He stops kicking the can.

‘So. You want to give me back my mobile?’

‘Canny.’

‘I’ll buy you another one. A better one. And how about I still give you the reward money. So you can get a new bike, eh? How’s that?’ She checks on Ross, to make sure he’s still far enough away from the burn. He’s riding on Buddy’s back – if riding means squatting over a very flat dog, who’s frog-pressed into the grass.

‘Can I get the money now?’

Justine holds out her hand for the mobile. ‘Sure. You give me phone, I give you money. Much was it again?’

‘A hunner.’

‘One hundred pounds? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that much. How about fifty?’

‘Justi!’ Ross waves at her. ‘We are in a circus!’

‘Good for you!’

‘Seventy-five. That’s ma final offer.’

‘Done. Now, d’you want to give me the phone? I’ll take the wee bit of paper too, if you have it.’

‘I’ve got the paper . . .’

‘And the phone?’

‘Chucked it.’

‘Why?’

‘Cause it was fucking pink, all right?’

‘Hey. Cool your jets, wee man. It’s fine. Honestly. As long as it’s gone.’ She glances up the bank. Ross is showing Buddy how to
lie down
on the grass. Buddy is sitting upright and watching Ross.

‘I
telt
you, didn’t I? It’s away.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know – in the bin, right? In the wheelie bin at school.’

‘Justi!’ calls Ross. ‘I need the toilet now.’

‘All right. Good. So we’ll say no more about it? Promise?’

He wipes his face with the back of his hand. ‘Do I still get ma money but?’

‘Yes. Yes. You will. I just don’t have it on me at the moment.’

‘Justi!’ shrieks Ross. ‘It is com
-ing
!’

‘Right, wee man, I need to go.’ She taps the side of her nose. ‘I was never here, right?’

‘Whit?’

‘Nothing.’

‘’M’on boy!’ Buddy bounds towards him. Johnny picks up the Irn-Bru can, lobs it in the burn, and the daft dog jumps in after it.

Chapter Thirty

A thin layer of cloud hangs, sun bleeding out in long pink threads. Hannah lets herself into the manse. ‘I'm home,' she says to no one. Is greeted by fousty morning air – that and a pile of mail, which she's to slither out the way with her foot before the door will properly open. She steels herself for an onslaught: either Michael screaming at her, or Ross running into her arms. But the house is empty. She senses this, knows the long echoes of her home when there is nobody there.

Home. She scoops up the letters. Nice, small things she can control. Slitting them open, stacking or binning them. There's a simplicity to that. Perhaps Justine's references will have arrived. But she doesn't look; she dumps the post on the hallstand. Unhooks the spare key for Mhairi's house. She'll text Michael in a minute. Their solicitors have agreed he cannot bar her from her house. Briefly, she has a perfect round pool of peace. She'll make a cup of tea. Hannah's veins are full of dusty law firms and hospital disinfectant, teeth spongy from temperate air-conditioning. She spent the night in Euan's room. Mhairi has gone to ground. No idea where she is. Silly besom must be mortified. Hannah could not get in last night when she came back from the dig. The nurses are very kind; they know the score with her and Michael, so they leave out blankets and leave her be. She didn't sleep much, though. But that doesn't matter, because she was woken with wonderful news. Bright, pale sky outside, she can smell the leaves warming into the light. Her boy is coming home! To facilitate that, she'll fight dragons.

She goes to her kitchen, trails her hand over the back of a pine chair. They each have their own seat at this table: Michael at the top, nearest the window, Hannah facing him. The boys a kick-width across from one another – Hannah often has to referee their feet. This one is Euan's chair. A square of sunlight spills on to the table. Hannah sits, lays her head down on the light, so the world goes sideways. From the corner of her eye, she sees a burgundy hand towel, hanging on a hook. It is the colour of Justine's hair when she first saw her.

Her whole body hurts. Squinting up through the window, Hannah can see the church, with the standing stones behind. She focuses on her tiredness, and the squidge of her cheek on the table, and the patch of wobbling light. It feels good to be back in this kitchen. The walls aren't important. It's what fills it. Blame and reasoning do not seem useful. Her anger no longer has the strength to rail. Euan is getting home. And they have found the driver of the car. The police called her first thing.

 

She must have fallen asleep, because the sun's faded by the time there is a click and a thump; a scamper of feet and joyous noise.

‘Mummy! Mummy!' Ross barrels into his mother's arms.

‘Oh, my baby.' His hair in her face; his perfect smell of clean and goodness. She folds and folds him up, would eat him back inside her, would groom him with her tongue. Kissing his brow, his forehead. Her belly twists when she sees Michael.

‘What are you doing here?' he says.

Her son burrows into her breast, pressing and pressing like a little bull, her looking from above, framing a square so it is only her swelling breast and his gold head, Hannah's black jumper and Ross's white T-shirt. They make a perfect ying and yang. The weight and shape of him is made to fit.

‘Michael. They've found it. They've found the car that hit Euan.'

‘Oh. Oh.' Two long, flickery blinks. They clutch hands for an instant, then back away from one another.

 

She tells him it's a French family that struck their child. They were driving a motorhome, wrong-hand drive on unfamiliar roads. It was the casual swing of their towed car which caught him. They didn't even know they'd dragged the bone out of his leg. He was a stutter on their journey, an uneasy bump which was a badger, a ditch, a dark nonentity for which you don't look back. There was a mother, a father, a boy and a girl. It was a female that relayed the information, said the police. Anonymously. Spoke mostly in English, but sounded French. The family are liars, then. Was it the mother or the daughter who called? Which one betrayed their family, their splinter of guilt working free until they had to tell? They are currently being interviewed, car and motorhome impounded, examined for strips of Euan's skin.

‘Did the police say what'll happen to them?' says Michael.

‘Don't know. They're sending a couple of cops over to France. They've still to confirm it's that actual vehicle.'

‘Is that the people that hurt Euan, Mummy?'

‘Yes, sweetie.'

‘But I thought you said they'd found them?' says Michael.

‘I know. They're pretty sure it's the right car. But the tip-off was just a description, no registration numbers. Red car, white motorhome with a French sticker or something on it. It meant the police could check the description against cross-Channel ferries and motorway cameras, though. And this family have admitted to being in Argyll at the right time.' Hannah falters. ‘Right time. I didn't mean that.'

‘I know.'

‘They got Euan into a wheelchair today.'

‘Did they? Great.' Michael's eyelids flit shut. He has long black lashes, which dance on his hollow cheeks. He leans his head into the wall behind him.

‘And they want an occupational therapist to come and assess the house.'

‘This house?'

She shrugs. ‘How are you?' Kisses the top of Ross's head again.

‘I am hippy-happy, Mummy,' says Ross. ‘Where
were
you?'

‘All right,' says Michael, turning away. This man would have kept them apart.

‘I just had some special work to do, sweetie. But I'm back now. Where's Justine?' she asks Michael.

‘Out. It's her day off.'

‘Oh, so she's still an employee then?'

‘Justi is at Cardrumming, Mummy. You know Duncan? I like Duncy-boy.'

‘Two-timing you, is she?'

Scratch, scratch on his forearm. His eczema must have flared up. Exuberant flakes fall to the floor. You can tell Michael is desperate for her to go, but then he astonishes her; takes her hand again. ‘Hannah. I want to tell you something.' It's the hollow bass of how he says this, it's warning music, bold type.

‘Rossie. Do you want to watch cartoons, baby? Just for a wee minute.'

‘But you will stay right here?'

She does an ET finger-on-his-heart. ‘Right here. I promise, sweetheart. I am not leaving you, not ever. And you can have a biscuit, OK? One.'