Authors: Karen Campbell
‘You want to see a really big hole, Ross?’
‘No.’
‘Aw, come on. A wee peek, then we’ll go back down. I’ll give you a coalie-back.’
‘Oh-
kay.
’
She crouches by the rock, so Ross can dreep on to her back. They rise up, wobbling. The feel of those baby limbs round her neck is indescribable. Damp skin. It’s drizzling. All that mist is becoming moisture, boulders glistening like jewels and oil. Justine swithers. Up or down? The further up they go, the further they’ll have to scramble back. What if the bus doesn’t wait? But her movements have become inevitable, like falling. Like it is not her making them. They need to climb as high as they can go.
She trudges on. Rivulets of rain down the nape of her neck. Ross’s compact, pearly flesh begins to drag on her throat.
‘Where is the big, big hole, Justi? Is there treasure?’
‘No, pet.’ She stumbles through a stony rivulet. Wet feet ugh, minging; she can feel the coldness seeping. Vainly, she shakes her ankle.
‘Justi! I am falling. Save me!’
She lifts Ross higher, elbows tight into her waist to stop him slipping. They stop for a minute, till he gets comfy. Can hear the crack of breathing trees. Birch and oak. A few rowans. They are safe in the thicket. No one will see them from here. Her arms ache, thigh muscles throbbing. This is daft. Here is far enough. She looks back downhill, through a long gap in the trees. In fact . . . The world goes wee. A toytown bus is trundling along the yellow road.
‘Shit. Come on, Rossie-boy. Let’s go back down.’ She starts to run. Ross bounces on her back, her bag swinging wide.
‘Ow!’ His voice judders. ‘You are going too fast, Justi. And there is a jaggy thing hurting me. Why have you got our fork?’
‘Whee-ee. Pretend I’m your horsey again, and you’re a cowbo—’
She stops. Crumples. All the breath coming out. The bus is going the wrong way. Justine checks her watch. It is still twenty minutes to go. Yet, between the broad leaves and the coming twilight, she can see the bus like ticker-tape, leaving Kilmacarra. She shakes her wrist. Turning, pointlessly, on the spot. The bus has come and gone, and they have missed it.
‘Shit!’
‘You saided a bad word, Justi. A
nother
one.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
There is a definite crack of wood.
She freezes. Deliberate. The quiet has shifted, it has curdled up behind her. Observing.
She will not turn round. Stupid. Stupid. She needs to get back. Decides to move off the path, it will feel safer inside the thickest of the trees. Won’t look up, won’t look down; just her tip-toeing feet, sideways along the brae. Trees all tucked round them, follow the slope downhill. Ice is emptying her out, it is scooping crystals from her lungs and throat. Is creeping up her spine. Two small, clumsy hands stroke her hair. She picks her way down the brae. Dim-lit and shivering. Roots like the rungs of a ladder. Their limbs twine like tendrils; Ross’s lips touch her hair. Knowing. She locks her fists round his legs.
Another crack. Rupturing. Deliberate.
‘Hello, Justine.’
Ice and lead. The voice is not it is flat it is not there notthere not keep moving.
Gut sparkling with fear. Cannot hear him.
He is not there.
‘Justi,’ whispers Ross, his grip tightening. The wet rocks shine up at her. Hills roll on, and the dark; the dark is coming. A streetlight goes on in the village.
‘Nice night for a walk, eh, doll?’
Blood gone from her fingertips. A drilling, sick cold. She will not turn round. This is not happening, she has been waiting always, sick and dreadful. Waiting since she left.
‘How you been, darlin? Who’s this wee man, then?’
Charlie’s voice is light and dangerous. Here would be a grave. They will find her bones in a thousand years, and put her in a seed tray.
‘Charlie.’ Not Justine speaking, but her ghost.
She will not turn round. She loosens her hold on Ross’s legs, lets him slide to the ground. Pulls him into the side of her coat.
‘
Charlie
.’ He mimics her lispy softness. She hears the rustle of kappa, that cheap hiss of flammable nylon that is so familiar. A hand is on her shoulder, at her neck. Stroking away the hair. Wet lips smear skin above her artery, wet teeth settle, for an instant, where it throbs. Is a dream is a dream wake up is a dream. The hand pushes her round, till she is facing him. Is inches from his sour breath. Ross still nestled behind. Tries to speak. A sob comes out. A fierce splash of urine. Hard eyes. Black; they are all pupil, with only a glaring rim of brown. He is still beautiful, like stone is beautiful.
‘
Please
.’
‘Please,’ he repeats, more loudly than she can, and he raises his hand from her hair and strikes her brickfasthard and she is losing her vision; the mist and the rain, the roaring pain in her head.
‘Hi-
ya
,’ he leers. ‘Surprise!’
‘Run, Ross!’ she screams, shoving the child away. ‘Run home now. RUN!’
Charlie Boy kicks her shin, full and cracking, and she is down into the mud where their feet have churned, her heels scrabbling like little mice to get a grip get a fucking grip, she smells the earth, good earth where bad things happen she will be a bad thing, a memory that lingers like a smell a stain, where is Ross is he safe, and the ground says
there you are
organic matter wormfeed lost potential and he hits her and he hits her, she is conscious of his fairness, ensuring every bit gets a doing. And that this is the aperitif.
‘Chah.’ Mouth swollen, there are lumps of teeth or blood clots she must tongue through. Swallow. Spit. Air on torn scream skin-scream. Her leg is trapped beneath her. ‘I gotthe . . . money. Youc’n have . . . it—’
He stops mid-slap. ‘I can
have
it? My own fucking money? I can fucking
have
it, can I?’
His eyes are gone, or hers are, wet mist and pain is all there is and ringing smashing her body, thumping out a heartbeat on her flesh. Her ears schlush and boom as she tries to move her head, ankle searing, but his full weight is on her, pinning neck and arm, one arm, there is less numbness in one arm and her fingers, here, can you move, scrabble-scrabble little mouse, clagging earth to catch on, crumble through her hands as gravity shifts and her world goes spinning down and down and her fingers slide, scrabble-scrabble as he rips at her hair, her clothes the hardness in her hands, scrabble-scrabble—
‘Don’t you hurt her!’
She is aware of Ross, a wee hand flailing, and Charlie’s arm is out to casually swat her baby; his tiny body flies
you fucking bastard
scrabble-scrabble, feel the roughness of the rock, its freight, feel some unsteady power shoot up her arm like a bullet as she smashes it down and down again. On him, on bone? He stops moving anyway.
Reverberations up her arm. Lies there. Chasing comets, blinking, blinking. Trying to see. Weight of her bloodied head, too heavy. Needs to close her eyes. Skin on her face is too tight. Feeling a squashy thing, flumped. His arm. Pain shoots up her leg as she moves. Slow dusk rolling, but it’s all there, the scene is there; it’s just her puffy eyes. Blink more. Fucking
move
. Stand.
‘Ross!’ she yells.
‘Justi!’
‘Oh Christ. Don’t move.’
Rain smirring. Blink. Concentrate. Look . . . for points of light. Long shapes in the twilight. Charlie Boy is on his flank beside her. Eyes closed. He is in the recovery position. She does not check his breathing. ‘Ross, baby. I can’t see you.’
‘I am here. Look!’ Pale fronds wave at her. Fingertips.
‘Oh, baby. Are you all right?’ Hands and knees, to him. She spits out her own blood. ‘Where’s sore?’ Wiping dirt from his hair, his eyes.
‘I am fine, silly. But you are hurted.’
‘It’s fine. We need to get down this hill. Quick, quick, yes?’ Her foot caves when she tries to stand. Shafts of bright, fresh pain. ‘Let Justi lean on you a wee bit, yeah?’
‘But not to squash me?’
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘Now, big big ssh, OK? Really quiet and really quick. As fast as we can. Pretend we are on a flying carpet.’
She thinks her ankle is broken. They will never make it down. She snatches up her bag, full of those thousands of pounds which got her here. Together, they slide and stumble in the half-light. Running, running on a ruptured foot. Each sclatter of scree, each muffled, painful breath makes terrible echoes. She knows Charlie won’t shout; that’s not his style. If he is following, he will let them enjoy their terror. Then he’ll pounce.
Emerging now, from the screen of trees. Less encumbrance here; they can slide faster. Justine blanks off the pain in her ankle. It’s not part of her. She can just make out the bulk of stones by the chambered cairn. The light on the hill is fading rapidly; it does that here, the sky flicking its hood up. It’ll be pitch black before they reach the bottom. Far, far away, she can see a light glowing at Cardrummond.
‘You all right, sweetie?’
Ross’s clear ‘No’ bounces off the rocks.
‘Ssh. We’ve got to be very very quiet, remember? Like wee mice.’ Sweat and rain sting her eyes.
‘Justi,’ he whispers loudly. ‘Are you frightened?’
‘No! We’re just playing at pirates, OK?’
Keep turning your head. If he can walk, he will come after you
.
‘I don’t want to play now. My legs are hurting.’
Feel the soft, damp dark enfold you. It will be like lying in the snow. Give in, and make this stop.
‘I know. Uhh,’ she stifles a scream, catching her foot, her ankle in a rabbit hole. Stones spew. Pain spews. There is another crash of rocks and pebbles further up the hill.
‘Ah fuck!’ shouts Charlie Boy. ‘Fuck you, Justine! Do you hear me? Fuck you!’
She begins to topple, puts her hand out to stop the fall. Cold, tall stone. They have reached the looming menhirs which flank the chambered cairn.
‘Rossie, here,’ she hisses. ‘Help Justi slide the lid.’ She can barely see him, just feels him small against her side. They put their hands out to touch the lower rocks, fumbling against stone. Smooth metal rubs along her palm. Smooth and curved. ‘Watch your fingers. Ssh, darling. Don’t cry.’ She shoves her hand through the iron staple on the top of the concrete cover. Grinds it slowly open. Every scrape is a flare in the dark, but there are no more shouts. ‘We’ll have a wee rest in here, eh?’
‘No,’ Ross wails. ‘It is dark.’
‘Man, would you ssh! For fu— look, baby, it’s getting really dark out here too. Please, please get in.’ She lifts him bodily, bundles him inside the chamber. ‘The bad man is coming. We can curl up all cosy in here.’
‘I want my mummy.’
‘I know, darling.’ Her throat is hoarse with rasping. ‘But we just need to hide like wee mice, just for a wee while. I promise I’ll keep you safe, OK?’ Tries to drag the lid shut, but there’s no handle on the inside. It’s getting dark. All covered in rock and grass, from the outside the chamber is just a wee hillock, a bump on the brae. The lid a fallen-down slab. He won’t even know it’s here. She shuffles them both backwards, as far as they can fit. Dunting her bum against the earthen wall, where she knows it’s weak. Further from the open lid. They are both crying. The tin taste mingles with the bloody spittle from her mouth. She coils tight against Ross, trying to stop the shivering. Darker in here than out, but it’s dry. Justine wriggles and eases deeper in, trying to find the soft space in the earth. A slice of grey air flashes above them, grey light on the tips of their toes. She scrunches Ross’s legs, so his feet are tucked behind him.
They wait for Charlie Boy’s footfall. He is good at being silent. She waits in the darkness, gnawing on her knuckle till the blood comes. Ross’s face damp in her breast.
Thinks she hears a noise to her left, to her right, circling like a cat. Waits for the pounce, the slap, the night-time games. All her skin is wet and burning cold.
There is a scuffle above, hard shoes against her thigh as he swings in legs first, using the concrete lid to give him purchase, and she counters, kicking out her leg, connecting with the underside of his chin. Too late. He is laughing, a maniac, spitting out the tooth she has loosed even as he descends on them, she is screaming, screaming for her life. There is
Fuck you
and
fuck you
and dull low keening. There is panting and wailing and a cry that is not human. Then there is an almighty rumble, a terrible, terrible slamming, of metal. Rock. A final crunching of hard-gone-soft.
Why?
Hannah whispers it often. Gently. With love. Michael thinks it often, in the dull bloom of his head. He lets the whispers come.
*
In the beginning was a minister. His name was Michael, and, last summer, he’d gone down to Glasgow for a Church Without Walls conference at the Days Inn Hotel. It’s not the prettiest of hotels, seeing as it’s a featureless box beside a run of railway arches. The hotel sits in the Gorbals, a southern enclave of the city which derives its name from
gort a’ bhaile
(Gaelic ‘garden of the town’), the Latin
garbale
(sheaf), suggestive of a tithe of corn, or the ‘gory bells’ of lepers, depending on which Wikipedia site you read. Either way, the place that was once home to Franciscan friars (and allegedly still houses the finger bone of St Valentine himself) is now a utilitarian mix of modern yellow-brick apartments, damp local-authority housing and cuboid, stranded pubs for communities that no longer exist. Although handy for the city centre, Gorbals is neither romantic, nor a tourist destination. As he drove into the hotel car park, Michael saw a coach party descend from their bus. Immediately, he wanted to warn them. Hide your valuables, don’t walk back here at night! Which was probably unfair. He and Euan frequently had debates about the nature of Glasgow. Michael saw poverty and disparity, while Euan saw vibrancy, beauty and love.