Lie of the Land (14 page)

Carl got up and continued to dig, but it took him the whole afternoon to unearth one more stone. He kept stopping to think, looking up the hill to where the stalker's dwindling form had vanished into the dark slopes of rock and heather.

A while later Carl gave up digging. Late afternoon sun appeared, spotlighting the horizon as wads of grey nimbus opened. Carl shouldered the spade and headed in the direction of the north road, down to the old house near the roadblock.

Careful in the gloom, he eased his way up the broken staircase and, almost in darkness, lay on the bare bed frame. Eventually, stars appeared above him, visible through the dusty cracked skylight.

Patterns.

16

Down to the dunes and the waves, past the quarry, behind the southern headland, among the flotsam on the shoreline, sliding in the autumn sunlight among the stink of rotting high-tide seaweed, Carl stood on the glittering shore as the water played, filling the gullies with each surge, slooping and slurping between the cracks in the rocks. The sea kept on, coming in, going out, carrying stuff in, and spiriting it away again. Label-less plastic bottles full of what looked suspiciously like piss; oil drums half buried in the sand; and wooden planks, beams and branches – tossed high up the beach to soften and rot at the foot of the dunes. The sea was patient at its business, coughing up the rubbish, the indigestible. An election placard from Ireland, washed-out blue and white, the bleached grin of some straight-up, honest candidate was lying, half covered, in a slimy mound of kelp. He wondered if a wind had ripped the placard from a lamppost, maybe at the seafront somewhere, and sent it spinning into the Irish Sea. It might have been years in the water, a drifting relic of the old pre-emergency order. All that trust: washed away and beached in a far corner of nowhere.

Carl walked further along the high-tide line; the sea fizzing on the sand as the waves dragged out, feeling the first sting of redzone in his right temple.

The sheen of oil on a stretch of sand, its rainbow iridescence spreading on the water, black gobbets in the tideline froth. The oil had no obvious source. God knows where it had come from, but here it was – the dead world, like a decomposing corpse, leaking putrescence onto the pure sand, still with the power to hurt.

Above a shingle cove, near the main road south, he could see the small cairn of red warning stones that Howard had built and painted to mark the edge of the redzone. Making his way through the soft dunes, through the spiky marram grass, he headed back to the sub-lethal tranquillity of Inverlair.

No matter what happens, the sea comes in and the deer walk their ancient paths and the wind blows, or it doesn't. Nothing else enters the equation or disturbs the equilibrium, not old oil drums or Irish election posters. And certainly not SCOPE. All that stuff wasn't even a nuisance. Arrowhead and atom were all the same to the sea and the wind. Human triumphs had come and gone in a blink, and now the tide was high and the time to move to higher ground, or drown, had arrived.

‘You're an arsehole,' Carl muttered to himself as he made his way between the dunes. ‘At least talk to the woman. What other choice do you have?'

The stalker: it sounded as if he didn't exactly see eye to eye with the rest of the village. The guy had made a wise choice. Up there in the hills a man could think his own thoughts, be himself. There was no one watching, judging. There was nothing except air and earth.

Carl would keep picking away at the broch, building what he was compelled to reassemble, somehow. The stones were waiting to be fitted back together, and he shouldn't let them down. They could be recast; with effort they could be returned to what they once had been. Order could be restored, a semblance of purpose and pristine machismo.

He walked back up to the main road, grass knee-high on the verges, wanting something hard and level under his feet for a change instead of soft sand and shifting shingle. The road would vanish too, just like the quarry was doing. Creeping vegetation would do for both.

He took the track that led up past the stalker's house and onto
the ridge, to where in the summer he would aim for the summit of Ben Bronach, at a shade over 670 metres. In the summer . . .

As he walked the south road that swept down into Inverlair Bay he slowed, looking ahead. There was a guy putting a chain on a bicycle. Before Carl could make a detour, the guy straightened from his upside-down bike, saw him approaching, and waved. With no real conviction, Carl waved back. A bit closer and he recognised the guy from the previous month, up the ladder, cleaning the guttering along with ex-Navy Patrick or Peter.

‘Hey, dude,' called the guy, wiping oily hands on his black combats. He was smoking, and Carl didn't have to get too close to realise it wasn't ordinary tobacco. Gusts of weed came to him on the breeze. Carl wished he still smoked, the craving sparked by the sight of someone doing it for real. As he approached, the guy grinned. ‘Never try riding a bike when you're stoned.'

‘Can't say I've had the pleasure,' said Carl. He glanced at the spliff. There seemed to be writing, tiny script, covering the paper. The guy handed it to Carl with a twinkle in his eye. ‘The good book contains the path to enlightenment.'

Carl studied the joint. A page from the Bible, ultra-thin, rolled into a fat cone. He took it and had a suck, the raw weed harsh on his throat. He coughed immediately.

‘I'm not a true believer.' There were tears in his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath.

‘You the journalist?'

‘Was. There's not much call for news-gathering any more.'

‘Certainly not in this place,' said the guy. ‘Everyone's a journalist in Inverlair.' He grinned. ‘They make up what they don't know.'

Shaking his head, Carl declined another puff. ‘I must be hot news.'

The guy mounted his bike. ‘You're a household name, for sure.' He stuck out his hand. ‘I'm Terry Sullivan.' He picked up a can of white paint.

‘You decorating? An autumn makeover to banish the blues?'

Terry smiled. His battered leather jacket was covered in sewn-on patches: Greenpeace, Shiva, Yin and Yang. The usual New Age hodgepodge. ‘I'm in the Care and Repair Detail,' he said. ‘Mrs Mackay is eighty-seven and her windows need doing before the winter.'

Smoke snaked from his nostrils and was carried away on the breeze. He climbed back on his bike and set off down the road. ‘Come over for a smoke any time you want,' he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I'm in the caravan.'

•

Two days later, Carl considered broch stone number 34. It was the last one before the slope. The harder work was about to start: heaving the stones up the slope, a few inches at a time, would take every ounce of strength he had. And the second layer of wall, lifting one stone onto another, would need a crowbar. Making the broch higher could not be done by brute strength alone. It was stacking up to be a mountainous problem.

Binoculars poised, Carl watched Terry Sullivan's grey static caravan. A couple of hundred metres down from the main road, it sat on the opposite headland where the ground levelled off near the shore. By the look of it, Terry's neighbour was an old hippie: grey hair in a ponytail, glasses and sandals; going in and out of three big polytunnels lined up next to his house, a two-up, two-down with a flat-roof extension out the back.

Carl lowered the binoculars. He could walk round the shore or into the quarry, the forest, anywhere. All the way to 2.26 miles, if the fancy took him, as far as he could go, which was nowhere near far enough. Maybe he could pop over for a visit, and a smoke.

For today at least, stone 34 could stay buried.

•

Out in the corridor Carl heard children's voices.

‘The monster will get us up here,' came a whisper. He recognised Isaac. Another kid spoke. ‘Is there a monster?'

‘Yes,' said Isaac. ‘He makes noises, stamps on the floor. I get shaky in my bed, and the walls get shaky too, cos the monster is very strong.'

‘Is it a man monster or a lady monster?' his friend asked.

‘A man monster, of course.' Isaac scolded. ‘You don't get lady monsters.'

There was silence, then a thud on the stairs, and something hitting the walls. Carl heard yelps of delight and the drum of footsteps going down the stairs and coming back up.

‘Your go,' said Isaac. ‘Why don't we make them crash in the air like planes?'

There was another thud against the wall; whoops of delight and little feet pounding the stairs followed. Carl opened the room door and crept out into the corridor, down to the corner, peered round at the two boys. They were kneeling at the top of the stairs, firing two sleek but scratched metal cars down the steps and onto the landing. They zoomed the cars along the soft carpet and off the edge, metal hitting the wall with a crash.

Carl watched. He could see the scratches from here, the white wood beneath the dark varnished skirting board. Perhaps he shouldn't be watching this. Isaac fired his car again, and it hit the wall, gouging out a big splinter.

Carl stepped round the corner. ‘Guys, maybe you shouldn't be doing that. It marks the wood.' He pointed. ‘See? Over there.'

At exactly the same time, both boys jumped to their feet, shouted ‘The Monster' and ran downstairs, laughing, terrified. They banged through the fire door and into the annexe.

Carl went over to inspect the walls. You couldn't say they intended to cause any damage; sometimes it just happens that damage happens, especially with kids, or so he thought. Anyway, it hardly mattered if the walls were fucking scratched: it wasn't
going to put the tourists off or affect the sale price. He looked at his watch. By the time he made the broch it would be getting dark, and he'd have to come down again. There was a glimmer of something that wasn't fear or despair inside him. Something had been planted.

Across the bay, wisps of white smoke curled from the thin metal chimney of Terry Sullivan's caravan.

•

Carl shivered as he washed himself in the bathroom sink. Balls and armpits. The works. Call it a reacquaintance with recent convention.

The water was barely warm; there was nothing but a stream of ice from the shower. He couldn't say he was a picture of health, but in nearly a month he'd filled out a bit. Colour in his cheeks. Other people had made that happen, fed him and looked after him. He sighed, rubbing the short hair on his head. Softer now. Not so bristly. Time for a trim, maybe.

On his way down the stairs he picked up the two metal cars. Isaac and his pal could get them later.

The fire door to the annexe opened. It was George. ‘The kids said there was a monster upstairs.'

‘Only me.'

George folded his arms and leant against the wall.

‘Look,' said Carl. ‘Don't start again, George. It's your son you should be having a go at, not me.'

‘I wasn't thinking about Adam. I'm sorry I let it slip to him.' George shook his head. ‘But he had to find out, sooner or later. No, it was more my daughter I was thinking of.'

‘What do you want me to do, George?'

‘Talk to her.'

Carl rubbed his forehead. ‘I'm having trouble doing that, George – with anyone. Mass death. Being trapped here. Howard. A baby. Stuff like that, you know, bit of a shock to the old system . . .'

‘It's a shock, yes, but . . .'

‘It's extremely unfair that you guys expect me to . . .'

George started laughing, shaking his head in pity. The humour faded. ‘My daughter's friend is right – you are an asshole.' He looked coldly at Carl. ‘My wife going to Edinburgh and not coming back – that's not fair. Millions falling asleep and never waking up – that's not very fair. All the work
some
of us are having to put in to staying alive – that's a little bit unfair as well.'

Carl considered picking up the toy cars and hurling them against the wall. But that would only have caused more damage to the varnished woodwork.

George pushed open the fire door, chuckling to himself. ‘Unfair: that's a good one. Fucking priceless.' He poked his head back through the fire door, all trace of amusement gone. ‘We're here. You're here. And you're going to be a dad. Deal with it, like the rest of us have had to.'

The door swung closed.

Outside, the morning was cold in the fresh onshore breeze. An old guy on a chopper bike pedalled along the shorefront, nice and easy, going slow from A to B. Carl said hello – a proper hello, not a furtive glance and a mumble. It was returned with a wave. Acknowledgement. It wasn't so hard, this greeting lark; the old habits could soon re-establish themselves given half a chance. Anyway, he was going round to someone else's house, and that had to be a good thing. In a world of very fucking bad things smoking grass with someone who seemed reasonably entertaining had to count as progress.

He crossed the stone bridge at the head of the bay, river frothing down to the foreshore; sponge bogs, up in the hills, sluicing out two days of rain. The
Aurora
was chuntering back into the bay, trailing a raucous flurry of seagulls in its wake. The main man was bringing home the bacon. Altruistic Adam.

Carl climbed the southern road to Terry's gate, and walked
down to the caravan. A bike stood against a wall. There were fat, stunted cacti lined up inside the window of Terry's caravan. Carl knocked. Not a sound from within. He knocked again, waited. There was no one home.

Carl looked in the window: a few clothes strewn about, plasma screen propped on a bench sofa, dirty plates on the table; pencil sketches pinned everywhere, a bookmarked Arthur Koestler. Overflowing ashtray. Everyday layabout stuff. Just living: the things you have to take care of, sooner or later, no matter what has happened to a sizeable chunk of humanity.

Carl turned away from the window and started back up the track to the main road.

Down at the hippie's house, he saw Terry, waving and shouting. He walked up the path as Carl started down.