Rise (32 page)

‘He’s doing all right. How are you?’

‘Never mind me.’ Justine could make out clicking. She moved quietly into the hall, then the lounge. Looking out the window for Hannah’s car. Saw the top of Hannah’s head, resting on the dashboard.

‘Hannah? You all right?’

‘D’you think Ross heard that?’

‘Doubt it. You know what he’s like when he’s lost in Angry Birds.’

‘I don’t, actually. I didn’t know he played it.’

‘Yeah – not much. Don’t worry; I said I’d do potato prints with him later.’

‘Did you?’ Her voice becomes clipped again. ‘Look, just tell Michael I want Ross brought to Mhairi’s house tomorrow. When he’s calmed down.’

‘OK, Hannah. No problem.’

‘And I’d prefer if you weren’t present.’

‘Of course.’

‘And tell him I’ll be sending Mhairi over to fetch some clothes.’

‘Clothes. Yes. Do you want me to look out some stuff for Ross too?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘There’s just one problem. What if Michael doesny calm down?’

‘He will; God, it’s me’s the injured party here, not him.’

Justine wanted to scream:
Credit me with some taste. I do
not
go for middle-aged crazies.
Well, no unless they pay well. Instead, she sighed. Repeat, repeat, repeat. ‘I am
not
having an affair with your husband. Not interested, haven’t kissed him, nothing. He’s delusional—’

‘Delusional? I know what I bloody saw.’

‘Fuck, Hannah.
Him
, Michael. The guy is a mess. He’s having some kind of breakdown. Fuck knows. You
must
have noticed. He needs help. That’s all I was doing. Helping. I know you don’t believe me, but I swear on Ross’s life.’

A long, slow drift to icy cold. ‘Don’t ever swear on my son’s life again’, before the click of termination.

Justine has tried talking, and begging. Shouting. Michael is resolute. That woman will not set foot in this house. He has refused to take Ross to Mhairi’s (though he did kindly lob a heap of Hannah’s clothes into the garden for her). They’ve spent the weekend hunkering indoors; Justine’s not allowed to take Ross to nursery today, in case Hannah grabs him en route. She recognises all the signs of being a wounded animal, but she canny forgive what he’s doing to Ross. What he and Hannah are both doing.

Stupid prick’s off on a ‘fact-finding’ mission this morning. Suited and booted. Buzzing with newfound energy, all the alert, jingly supremacy that a snort of liberation can bring. Aye, well if it’s anything like cocaine, the high will soon wear off. Then she can look forward to increased paranoia and even more irritability. Deep joy. When she asks, though, he claims he’s never felt better. ‘You were right, Justine.’

‘Was I?’

‘No headaches, no noises. All good!’

For now, she will humour him. If he starts his ‘I see ghosts’ shite again, she’s phoning a doctor.

‘What is it you’re ‘‘fact-finding’’ about?’

Blowing out his cheeks. ‘The Great God Wind.’

A car from Sentinel collected him, driven by a handsome man. Baldo-bloody-mero; she saw his saturnine features. Though it might be Michael’s demon, come to take him away ha. Ha. It’s as well Michael’s not driving, though, because she doesn’t think he’s fit. At least they have two hours of peace, before he’s home.

She goes into the kitchen for some water. If it wasn’t for Ross, she’d have done a runner. Can only imagine the rumours zipping round the village, a fiery ring of
did you hear about . . . ? Shouting and bawling so they were; I heard she caught them in bed;
Dirty wee cow . . . och, hello dear. What can I get you? Just the milk and the papers, is it? How
are
things? How’s wee Ross?

The truth? Since his mum went, Ross has been crying in the night; soft keening which coils all the way down to her basement. Justine waits for Michael to go, but he never does. So she’s started sleeping in with him. Doubtless Hannah would not approve, but she’s not here and Michael doesn’t appear to care or notice. When Justine’s wee brother got scared, she’d calm him by swaddling. If he
couldn’t
move, then he would accede like a trapped bird, would close his eyes, find his sister’s shoulder and, finally, sleep. Ross is too big to swaddle, but she can cuddle him. He knows his mummy and daddy are being silly billies and that they’ve had a fight – Hannah might not approve of that either, but tough. Kids are not stupid. When Justine has children, she’ll tell them everything. Together, round a scrubbed-pine table, they will reach democratic decisions and eat delicious meals. Her children will not forage for two-year-old Supernoodles. At night, she thinks these things and she holds Ross tight, so the warmth of him seeps in her fucked-up innards. ‘I love you, Justi.’ He says it factually, with uncomplicated grace, and his chubby hand pats her cheek.

Four pancakes later, she and Ross are dressed, brushed, ready for adventure. If Michael’s allowed out of this madhouse, so are they. What’s the worst he can do?

‘Rossie. Where’s your other shoe?’

He shrugs. ‘I posted it.’

‘See you?’ She opens the lid of the hall bench, retrieves his shoe. ‘I keep telling you: this is
not
a postbox. And you are not Postman Pat, underrstaand?’ She kids on she’s going to chase him, but he doesny crack a light. Just stands there, waiting for her to put his shoe on.

Justine feels every eye on them as they walk the length of Kilmacarra main street – although there’s nobody about. She clutches Ross’s hand tight, wants to protect him. Does not want more bad thoughts in his brain. But, like his daddy, he barely speaks. Man, they are
not
in purdah. Breenge right in, that’s what she needs to do. Take no prisoners; apologise for fuck-all. If you hang about like a timid dog, folk kick you. March up like you own the place, like you are blessing them with your presence, and they think they’re the lucky ones. For years, she has used this trick professionally. Why she never thought of using it for herself was odd.
Odd.
Hello. My name’s Justine, and I’m
odd
.

They’ve nearly made it to the swings when Miss Campbell and her pal intercept. They’re coming out the store, chattering, but they have their octogenarian wits about them, and snap off the babble sharpish. Turn their permed heads as one. ‘Oh, Justine!’ Miss Campbell’s voice carries with remarkable clarity. ‘Glad I caught you.’

Ross, like a good boy, stands patiently. ‘Hello, Mrs Bramble.’

‘Hello, Ross, my wee darling. Justine, I’m no having any joy with Frank Arrow, I’m afraid—’

‘That’s OK. Don’t worry about it. Come on, Rossie.’

‘No, but I’ve asked ma pal Grizzel to speak to her grandson. He works for the cooncil, in the registrars’—’

‘Please don’t worry about it. It’s fine.’

‘Well, why don’t you drop round for a wee cup of tea? To- morrow maybe?’

‘I don’t—’ Shrugging and shifting. Scanning the horizon for escape.

The other lady smiles at her. ‘And how’s young Euan doing? Any news of when he’s home?’

‘Don’t know,’ she calls, pulling Ross away. ‘Soon. Very soon.’

She takes Ross to the play park. He won’t play.

‘Will I push you on the swings?’

‘No thank you.’

‘The chute?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to get an ice lolly?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me anything you’d like to do? Anything at all? Will we go to the dig? You know, where the men are finding buried treasure.’

‘Am not allowed to.’

‘Says who?’

‘My daddy says.’

Probably for the reason Justine thought of taking him: Hannah might be there. It’s not right, this keeping them apart. If she could engineer a meeting, accidentally. Then it wouldn’t be her fault. Give Hannah back her son, and be done with this whole place.

She’s getting desperate. ‘Will we go and see if Johnny’s in?’

‘He will be at school.’

‘Oh, yeah. I forgot.’ Good. She’s relieved. Though that’s another mess she needs to deal with. Wee Johnny Green appears to be a typical man: all mouth and nae trousers. There’s been no sudden police activity; she assumes he’s never phoned them. There’s a shifting, hard veneer of suspicion round Johnny that she recognises in herself. People like them don’t go to the polis. At least, not directly – and how else would he get the reward? Her description of Euan’s accident, the vehicle, isn’t much, it’s hardly needed now he’s on the mend, but it’s the right thing to do. She will tell the police herself. After she’s fucked-off from here. It’s better than nothing. Justine will rewrite this episode as a noble vigil. She has not been cowering in Kilmacarra. She was waiting till the time was right. She looks at forlorn Ross, how he stands: a compact press of dejection. Where she’ll go is another matter. She has money, a passport, her health. And she is feeling better. A bit. Almost brave. Cooried up here, it’s hard to imagine people like Charlie Boy exist. Hard to imagine the world outside the glen. It’s a big, brooding comfortable scoop that’s kept her safe. Like a hug, a proper hug just for holding, nothing else.

She would, she thinks. She will. But she canny leave Ross with Michael.

They risk going to Mhairi’s café. A cold serving of scone-and-jam for Justine, much petting for Ross, who squirms politely as Mhairi kisses him.

‘You know your mammy loves you, don’t you, son?’

‘Mmhm.’

‘If you need anything at all, you just come to me in the café, you hear?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ He sooks up his Coke, continues staring at the standing stones outside. When Mhairi goes to the kitchen, he whispers: ‘Why has Auntie Mhairi got a beard?’

When they’ve finished, Justine takes their dishes over.

‘Doing me out of a job?’

‘Mhairi. Where’s Hannah?’

‘That’s none of your business.’ A wet dishcloth is slapped on the counter.

‘Man, I didn’t
do
anything. I swear to Christ; she’s got it completely arse for elbow. I mean, c’mon. Me and Michael Anderson? Guy’s a joke.’

‘I know.’ She scooshes some Dettox. ‘That’s what I told her.’

‘Really? And what did she say?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Is she around just now?’

‘Nope.’ She works in vigorous circles, scouring wide, then rubbing hard on all the awkward bits.

‘Can you give her a message please?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can you please tell her I’m sorry.’

‘Four days. Four days that lassie’s been without her wean—’

‘Mhairi. Please. Is she at yours?’

‘Christ. You want a wee gloat? You want to dance on her bloody grave?’

‘I can bring him to her. Ross.’

Mhairi stops scrubbing. ‘She’s no there.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Away to—’ she reconsiders. ‘Is a’ this just bullshit? Are you spying on her? For him?’

‘
No
.’

‘Aye, well, she disny need your help, thanks very much.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Just tell her. Please? Any time Michael goes out. I can bring Ross.’

Ross is drawing through spilled cola with his straw; round, sweeping spirals. Justine feels a sharp pain; maybe it’s how his wee shoulders are hunched, or it’s a future vision of him at school, head over desk, laboriously controlling his pencil.

‘Right, come on you. Let’s go.’

He wriggles down from his seat. ‘Bye-bye, Auntie Mhairi.’

‘Bye, pet.’

They go outside. A tractor rumbles by, trailing a blast of ripening grass. Both take a deep breath in.

‘Aaah,’ says Justine.

Ross copies her. ‘Aaah.’ She sticks out her tongue at him.

‘Do you know Cal Drumming?’

‘Is he a big boy?’

He giggles. The sugar in the cola’s pepped him up. ‘Cardrumming! Where Duncan has all wee baa lambs? Oh, it is nice there, Justi. You can see all yellow flowers. Can we go up there?’

‘Where?’

He points to a farm, up on the ridge of the glen. She can just make out white blobs, truffling through yellow grass.

‘Duncan? That farmer with the freckly face?’

‘Mm.’

‘It’s a bit far, pet.’

‘It is my anything else, though. You said I could do anything else.
Please
.’

It’s something to do; she is curious. And Ross is smiling anxiously at her. It’ll be an hour at least till Michael returns home. Mind, they could do it quicker if they drove. Of course Justine can drive – Michael’s such a sap; he actually makes it easy to lie to him. The countless times a pished Charlie Boy needed picking up or dropping off? Man, driving was one of her essential talents. They return to the manse, where she helps herself to Michael’s car keys.