Rise (26 page)

Hannah feels uneasy. She doesn't know why. It's the same slithery chill that's been nagging her since yesterday morning; it's to do with the police coming; no, after, when she was crying and Justine was – did she pat her? No, not that. It was the tea. It was when Justine made the sugary tea and she passed a mug to Michael. It was automatic. With no words. Have they fought? A violent ugly thought comes to her, which she dismisses. Michael wouldn't. And then she remembers how he held her by the wrists, pushed her legs apart with his knee and fucked her like a man possessed.

‘I'm sorry?' says the doctor.

She collects herself. Smiles her winning smile. ‘I'm sure you've considered all this already, but I wondered about getting a dental specialist in? If his jaw doesn't set right—'

‘His jaw is healing well, Mrs Anderson. I can assure you, he's getting the best of care.' He pats Euan's hand. ‘Aren't you, young man?'

She nods. ‘And what about his memory? D'you think he'll remember what happened soon? We need to find who did this.'

‘I'm sure the police are doing their best. Let's just focus on getting Euan fit for going home.'

The doctor stands. Are they allowed to sit on patients' beds? It's hard to grab them, as they bustle past, nose firmly in a clipboard, two nurses at their heels. But they're just men, underneath the dressing-up. She's managed to corner this one for a whole five minutes.

‘When do you think that will be?'

‘Soon, Mrs Anderson. End of next week, if he keeps doing as well as he is? Just need to get that temperature down a little more. Get some home-care support organised as well.'

She smiles her appreciation. Will they need Justine more or less once Euan is home? She's not sure she wants her teenage boy bed-bathed by a girl with a bright-red bra. The doctor leaves. On the bed, Euan sighs and flumphs.

‘You want a wee sleep, pet? Should I go too?'

‘Mngh.' He shuts his eyes.

‘All right. Now are you sure there's nothing else I can get you?'

Another sigh.

‘Fine. You have a rest. I'll see you later. Tonight? Your dad's meant to be coming but I can—'

‘Nng.'

‘OK, sweetie. Tomorrow then. First thing. D'you want me to bring some school books in? You don't want to fall be—'

‘
NGHO.
'

Hannah takes her vending-machine coffee. ‘Bye then. Love yooo.' He's so like his dad: he'll talk if he wants to, but the more you force, the less you'll get. When she and Michael were first married, she'd tried every trick she possessed: airy blethering; pouting; dancing in front of him; long and hearty sighs.
But what do you want to ‘chat' about?
he'd say.
I dunno. Everything.
Poor, bemused Michael, who talked all day for a living. She even yanked up her jumper once and yelled
Newsflash!
That did get a response, mind. A very good one. But she wouldn't let it go.
Why don't you want to talk to me?
she'd say, day after day. And he'd reply:
Why don't you want to be quiet with me?

—
Do you love me? Just say that.

—
Oh Hannah. More than the world.

—
But
why
do you love me?

He would kiss each one of her fingers.
You make me look forward to tomorrow.

Something turns inside her; a wash of contentment rushes out of nowhere, like something healing. Her bracelets jangle as she unlocks the car. Euan will be home next week. They'll have a party. She'll invite that wee Julie girl, definitely. Hannah's not sure how many friends he's made since moving here, but Julie appears to be a constant. The list at the front of her brain scrolls down. The police have agreed to do door-to-doors round the village. Tick. Posters flapping everywhere. Tick. No phone calls yet, but it's progression. Mhairi is organising a petition for the windfarm, the leaflets are out, website built. Tick. Her five hundred words are written for the day. Tick. Hannah trills stiff fingers. She could be conducting an orchestra, or moving a jigsaw back into place. Artists are meant to be chaotic, but she likes her life ordered. She keeps telling herself that. Lower down the list: Justine's references. No tick. Telling Mhairi about Sentinel buying that land: that's one to be saved for later, with a glass of wine. They'll hear the sonic boom in Glasgow. She cannot believe the cheek of Sentinel. Their avarice. Their, well, their canny acumen. Sly bastards. But Michael says he'll sort it, and she believes him. She has to believe him. It's going to be fine.

She's not ready to go home, though. Hannah wants to go back to the dig. Justine knows to get Ross from nursery; she can have a few more hours at Crychapel, do another five hundred words, easy. This evening, they will eat Miss Campbell's defrosted stew, Hannah will have a few beers to accelerate the writing, continue this glorious roll she's on, and then she'll climb aboard the good ship Michael. They have many months to make up for. Perverse as it may be, having a young female stranger under their roof is making Hannah amorous. Hysterical? She has an insistent need to mark her territory anyway.

She takes a tentative sip of her coffee; no, it's still too hot. It's definitely not healthy, this urge to show off in front of Justine. Lots of clever-scented sprayings:
These are my words, my book. My kitchen.
This is
my
husband. Look, I'll snog him in front of you.
She wonders if she and Michael become better people, though, in front of an audience. Like when you put on lippy to go to the pub. You are still essentially you, the same old you who would be sitting in front of the telly, drinking the same old drinks. But in a public space, you are by necessity transformed. You can't be in your jammies, can't be picking your toes and staring glumly at the wall. Let loose, you must sparkle.

There's a spreading stain on Hannah's T-shirt. Coffee dribbles. One more thing for the wash: which she's delighted to say is being done very nicely, and without any colour-run mishaps. Although she looks like she could smell dirty, Justine is very clean.

Hannah Anderson,
wash your mouth out
. But it's true: it's nothing specific she could insist be rectified; merely a hint of wetness at her lip, of blue, unspecific shadows. And Justine wears clothes for a body she doesn't have: shapeless, when she's clearly not. Hannah likes her sheets being ironed, her dinners made. She does not like her wee boy being in love.
Justi says – Justi, can you read – Justi, can you make macanonie?
Apparently it tastes better with no lumps.

Ach, that's not fair. Justine's a funny wee thing. Sweet in her own way. Does that sound patronising? Good. She needs to feel superior. The girl is simply a bruised fruit. Another soul for Michael to save. Hannah opens the car window, tips the scalding coffee out.

Chapter Seventeen

A smell of dry tobacco. The box of cigars is flanked by a bigger box, same pale wood, open at the front and tucked with straw. Inside it rests a bottle of golden brandy, which Señor Escobar pats as he leaves.

‘Enjoy.’

The man has barely left the room before Donald John McCall speaks.

‘Slimy codfish, that one. Wouldna let Kitty in five feet of thon.’ Donald John keeps his home life separate from his work. Even in the expense-scamming days when everyone’s wife was also their secretary, he eschewed Kitty’s involvement in his sphere. She wouldn’t understand it, he told Michael. He’s a different man at work, see. Prouder, louder. He reveals parts of himself here he’d never do with Kitty. Despite being his boss, Donald John seems to enjoy these brief confessionals with Michael, who’s never sure if it’s because he sees him as a priest or a protégé.

‘
My own Mary Maaahg-daah-lene.
’
The Ghost is humming to the tune of ‘Lily Marlene’. Michael’s only half-aware of the conversation DJ’s having; the pain in his head is intense. If he grinds his teeth, he can reach a state of not grace, but detachment. Putting his fingers in his ears doesn’t work; the Ghost is wormed inside. Justine’s revelation has shocked him, utterly. It plays constantly, on a loop
.
Her protective charms shattered; he wants her out of his house, away from his child. It’s a knee-jerk, heathen response, it’s the antithesis of what the Lord would do.

‘What
would
Jesus do?’
The Ghost is currently reclined across the Leader’s huge mantelpiece. A shadow is anyway, a sore dark fuzziness he thinks might be scratching itself. Or masturbating, but he doesn’t like to look. Loud-buzzing hymns are his incantation; that and hiding in the church. The Ghost still doesn’t come there.

‘You see the way Liz dribbled when she gave him his coffee?’ says Donald John. ‘Fair give you the boak. Still. Very nice brandy the man brought with him. Very nice.’

Donald John is a pragmatic operator. He believes it’s rude to refuse gifts, yet tells Michael never to compromise himself. ‘Thon wee fund for the playground refurbishment’s no to be sniffed at either.’ He pops the cigars in his desk drawer. ‘Did you want something else, Michael?’

How to approach this?
Focus
, Michael. Focus. He’s been putting it off, hoping there’d be a natural drift in their discourse with Escobar, a mention of land sales, an assumption or assurance that all is in order. But nothing was said. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the land deal. With Sentinel.’

Donald John blinks. ‘What land deal would that be?’

‘The one where they got to buy the access areas round Crychapel Wood. From us.’

‘Did they now?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Tell me, Michael. Did your daddy ever tell you it was wise to put your own house in order, afore you start elsewhere?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Have you see this by any chance?’

His boss hands him a copy of the
Courier
. The photo with him and the flying scone is there, but it’s the letters page he’s pointing at.

Sir,

With regard to the council’s claim that wind power is clean and safe, can we point out that the construction of Kilmacarra Windfarm will cause colossal ecological damage due to the proposed excavation of the ancient peat bog, and release huge amounts of C0
2
into the bargain.

Michael cracks the pages of the newspaper straight.

Furthermore, there is the building of access roads; the carbon-intensive cement used in the foundations to stabilise the structures; the ugly ancillary support buildings, not to mention the mining and smelting of huge amounts of metal to build the actual turbines. Then there are the health risks posed by noise: to animals and humans alike, the danger to birds, in particular our precious eagles, the destruction and industrialisation of our wild landscape and the knock-on effect to tourism . . . 

The list goes on and on. And on. As do the appended names, which are only a representative sample of the two thousand signatures amassed on a petition, which, according to the letter writer, is winging its way to Donald John’s office. It’s Mhairi, of course, that’s written it. The name after Mhairi’s is Hannah’s.

‘Were you aware your wife was going to publicly embarrass the council? No to mention yourself, son.’

The weight of Michael’s heart, his head, feel like they’re collapsing inwards.

‘And that Bloody Mhairi too. Ach, see that woman? Why can she never be content?’ Donald John rummages through papers on his desk. ‘There arna two thousand people in Kilmacarra Glen, so how the hell’s she worked that one? Traded tray bakes for bloody signatures? Did you know they’ve applied for funding to start a damned museum too?’

‘No. I—’

He has nothing left to say.

Donald John picks up a binder. ‘There’s this an’ all. From our own damned archaeologist. I mean, they’re clearly told, these lads, tae follow a simple rule of thumb. It’s damn well written out for them.“
Is the proposed development such that it would affect our understanding and appreciation of the site
?
” And the fecking answer when there’s new investment, new jobs
and
a big tick in the manifesto box is always, always no!’
His boss thumps the report with a pudgy forefinger. ‘Thon reads like he’s in cahoots with Mhairi and your missus. All “significant interest” and “encouraging stratigraphy”. “Maintaining an integrity of the sacred landscape”, for Christ’s sake.’

Donald John loosens his collar further. He always wears his shirts like that; it gives him a hurried slickness, as if he was that jam-packed with energy and busyness he’d not had the time to dress right. He also shakes your hand too firmly, is permanently glancing over your shoulder when he speaks and is best friends with the local MSP. Michael reckons Donald John has been promised a punty-up come the next elections; the council is his stepping stone to greater things. But, if old DJ cannot deliver a shiny new windfarm with the minimum of fuss, then—