Rise (9 page)

‘The planning application? On average, we – that is the council – aim for within nine months from receipt of application. In cases where there’s no public inquiry, that is.’

Mhairi is on her feet. Ross sits upright, interested in this new development, in the pounce of air his Auntie Mhairi’s made.

‘Right,’ she shouts. ‘How do we get a public inquiry then?’

‘Oh, come on, people. We’re nowhere near that stage. Listen to what the man has to say, eh?’

The chair intervenes. ‘Perhaps this might be a good time to hand over to Señor Escobar?’

A glossy, dark man unravels himself from somewhere down the front, takes an easy stride centre-stage. His teeth, hair, unstructured linen jacket and light suntan eclipse Michael’s seabird grey. A flutter courses the room. Señor Escobar.
Escobar
– they roll it in their mouths like a new fruit. He perches next to the councillor. Mhairi sits. Her elbow is in Hannah’s ribs.

‘Oh. My. God. Where were they hiding him? Would you look at the arse on that? I’ll never wipe thon worktop again.’

‘Mummy. Auntie Mhairi said a bad word.’

‘Ssh, son, I know. She’s very rude.’

Escobar waits until the murmurs fade. There is a fine torque to his mouth. ‘Ladies. Gentlemen. Than’you.’

‘Laying it on wi a trowel,’ whispers someone. ‘All thon needs is a rose between his teeth.’

Hannah is determined not to listen. She will remain unrapt. At the end of the row in front of her, a brace of old women have the same idea. They maintain a steady witter as Escobar talks. One has a green felt hat on, the other a bubble perm. You can only catch one-way snatches of the conversation, because the woman with the hat speaks much louder than the other.

‘Aye he does, a bit. The one with the wee moustache.’

‘No, dear, it wasn’t David Niven that was the angel.’

The hatless woman whispers her response. ‘Swss . . . yishoor . . . psswss . . . mind?’

‘No, Margaret – he was the bishop.’

The bubble perm moves her head and Hannah can see it’s Margaret Campbell. Which means the one in the hat must be Effie Grey.

‘Psshh, wshhw’s awfy handsome . . . biglad . . . pstshww . . . so I would.’

‘I know, Margaret, it’s a sin. How’s your veins?’

These two old ladies trundle round Kilmacarra together almost every day, walking the single street, purchasing their bread and their milk at the store. Why not? Far better to get out and about than wait for your four walls to smother you. Escobar nods and smiles at his audience. Holds court, holds gazes. Heat slides under Hannah’s skin. She remembers this morning, Michael’s teeth and tongue on her breast, her wanting to pull him in, deeper to her. Afraid he would break. Remembering that, after, as they lay there, her breast was still damp. Wondering what the dampness was, knowing how, at night sometimes, he still cries. How he thinks she cannot hear him.

She contemplates the crumbs on her plate.

‘It is important to know that the turbines will be on the hilly moorland, not in the glen itself,’ continues Escobar.

‘But what about the noise? And the peat?’

‘Aye, and you’ll still see them—’

‘Of course I appreciate how beautiful this place is – an’ we would respect that, of course. But, according to your government, the glen is not of huge historical significance. Many of the stones have been removed, or damage by the agriculture—’

‘But it’s the whole of it,’ says a man in the front row. ‘What it symbolises.’

Escobar smiles. ‘What does it symbolise? From what I understand, very little people know this place, yes? No one really come to visit here, you have no industry, no tourism. Our development will bring jobs, we will build an eco-centre . . . is very good for you, no?’

‘How many jobs?’ demands Angus.

‘Oh, many, many jobs. We will have the construction phase, of course, an’ then there will be maintenance, supply, staffing of the visitor centre. Community-investment funds. Eco-awareness education. Perhaps we can offer you the specialised training . . .’

The natives are resting. This charming man is lisping them all to sleep. You can see the tilt of them, inwards, inwards. Literally coming closer to his way of thinking. Hannah knows she’s doing it too, but it’s such a pleasant toppling forwards. So . . . reasonable.

A blast of cold air as the door opens.

Hannah follows the other turning heads. It is Rory from the pub, charging in. Pale and floppy in his daft kilt. Realising he has caught everyone’s attention, he wavers. Scans the room.

‘Ho!’ Mhairi raises her voice again. ‘Not historically significant? What about Crychapel Wood then? And the cairn on Mary’s Brae?’

Escobar looks puzzled. ‘You mean your concrete bunker? Mm, it is a pity it was so . . . damaged by that funny little lid, no? And is empty, I believe?’

‘Aye, well, there’s plenty more stuff like that around here. Bound to be. Modern research’ll be much more . . .’ Soft gauzes of sweat are appearing on Mhairi’s cheeks, her angry cleavage. Shit. She’s going to say it; their secret. Not yet, Hannah wills her. Not here.

‘Ever heard of the
Time Team
, pal? Well, we’re getting a whole squad of archaeologists up here. Embarrass the lot of you. What d’you make of that, then?’

Michael catches Hannah’s gaze. Escobar laughs. A pleasant, respectful laugh. Ross giggles and claps his hands, pleased something nice is happening. And the others laugh too. All except Rory, who clumbers and ‘excuses me’ until he reaches Michael. They consult in frantic whispers.

‘Ho!’ Mhairi calls. Hannah sees Michael move purposefully towards them. He’s going to remonstrate with Mhairi, who is shouting, ‘Did you just come here to take the piss, señor? I’m talking to you.’ Her arm flies back, Hannah sees a scone soar through the air, make contact with the side of Escobar’s face, butter-side down. Ross whoops, and slides from Hannah’s lap, heading for the table with the cakes –
Ross!
– more shouts go up, the camera blazing, catching her and Mhairi and Michael, who is just standing there in front of her.

Her husband takes her hand. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he says. ‘You have to come.’

Chapter Five

Michael stares at the tea, the piece of toast. Listens to his wife talking in the hall.

‘No, honestly. He’s fine. He’s conscious, he knows we’re there.’

Pause.

‘Yes. I do know. With his eyes. I told you; he can’t speak yet. His tongue’s in a terrible state – bit clean through one side.’

Pause.

‘I know. God, I know. But they’re dissolving ones, so . . . Yes. Yes, I know. And the nerves are intact, so . . . yeah. Yeah. Once the swelling goes down. Eh?’

Longer pause while mother-in-law decants more fears into his wife.

‘No, they’ve got a kind of a cage over it. No. No, his leg. No, Mum, I told you – they can’t put a plaster on it yet. He’s going to need an operation.’ A trembling sigh. ‘Yes. I know they were really good trainers, Mum.’

More pitting and patting, until Hannah’s tone becomes bright and final. ‘Honestly, there’s no need. I know. It’s a long way. And you’ve the cats. Look, come and see him after the op, once we’ve got him home, yeah? Mmhm. Yup. Fine, Mum. Will do. OK then. Bye now. Bye-bye.’

Michael refills the kettle, switches it on. The thing has been on the boil for ever. He flattens his palms on the bevelled metal, keeping them there as the heat intensifies. But he can’t get warm. His face, distorted in the silver, gazes out with one elongated eye. His wife, sharp and hysterical. His neighbours, stoic and offering lifts. Folk bringing platitudes and baked goods. His wee boy, pinned and skewered. His son is drained and broken and stitched and he is making tea again.

‘Why is everything my fault?’ Hannah kicks the door shut with her heel. ‘Did he have his earphones in? Was he not wearing that luminous sash she sent? God Almighty.’

‘Tea?’

‘What?’

‘Do you want some tea?’

‘No. I don’t want bloody tea. Did that policeman phone back?’

‘No.’

‘Christ, they must have got some witnesses by now. What about the person who phoned them?’

‘No trace.’

‘I bet it was them. I bet that was the fucking driver.’

‘Hannah. Could you please stop swearing? You tell Euan not to—’

‘Oh, piss off, Michael. Away and pray or something.’

Cupping the kettle as the whistle shrilled; his skin shriven. A sensation akin to pleasure. Then that raw rise of nausea, that shrilling in your gut. He is enjoying the pain. He should have been a Catholic. She is pacing, pacing. Ignoring his further offer of tea. ‘Right, what’s the time? I said we’d be back up by eleven. The consultant’s coming at eleven, Michael. Michael – can you get a bloody move on?’

It’s the stress, that’s all. He wipes some crumbs off the worktop. Through the hatch – a handy thing, which Hannah wants boarded up – he can see their lounge. It’s a peaceful room. High ceilings, plain cornicing and a rich smell of lilies. One vase on the coffee table, another in front of the mirrored mantel. Fluted glass, sparkling in filtered light. Hannah loves her lilies. She loves her manse too. That was her compensation. Not him. Ha. If he says these things out loud, will she laugh and call him Eeyore? Or tear off his head? Do things, Michael.
Do things
. Stop making tea.

The manse is a long white house, imposing beside grey neighbours. It sits to one side of the church, is grand with its square-paned windows and several chimneys, although the core of it would have been a blackhouse once, with folk living at one end and their beasts at the other. Grown and adapted for a large family and the needs of a thriving parish, it has become two floors, plus a Georgian extension, plus an attic, plus a basement at the back where the land dips down. The attic and two of the bedrooms lie slightly damp and empty. They live mostly in here – the deep, knocked-through drawing room – and the kitchen. Except, more and more, Michael has been going underground. His study is one of two rooms in the basement. You go down through the cupboard under the stairs. That’s where he’d been skulking before the meeting last night. He thought Euan was in his bedroom. Michael was hiding in his dunny and Hannah was putting out cakes and Euan was probably in his room, or watching Ross or whatever, and he – distracted by his speech and the weird-shaped floaters at the corner of his eye – had gathered up his papers, put on his public face (he pictures a selection of them, arranged in mood order, and hanging like hats by the door), and left for the windfarm meeting. No. Euan was lying with his mouth smashed and his leg snapped, ten minutes’ walk from the house.

‘Shit!’ The kettle jumps; scalding water slaps his hand. Outside the window, the Ghost is watching. So here they are, in this room, he has a witness right here and the bloody thing is waving. Bold as brass. He’s mouthing the same word over and over, which he combines with some scatological mime.
B-I-T-C-H
.

‘Nice,’ says Michael.

‘What’s nice? What in Christ’s name is nice about our son lying in a hospital bed?’

‘I said, you look nice.’

‘Oh. Oh, don’t be stupid, Michael. I look like shit. We’ve spent all night in corridors, sitting in chairs . . . ah . . . I can’t . . .’

Quietly, she folds in on herself. Michael moves to kiss her, but she holds herself rigid, will not bend, will not yield. He kisses her brow instead.

‘Hannah. It’s going to be all right. He’s conscious, he’s breathing and his bones are young. They’re going to fix him.’

‘Do you promise?’

The fierce glare of her lights his heart. Glowering like a wee girl. His girl. Only her and his boys; that is all that matters. His boys. This, all this nonsense of mirages and duty and obligations, is toothpaste squeezed too far, too thin. He is all rolled up and jaggy at the ends, he is the toothpaste, the world is squeezing him, he was the tube. Michael is a tube. The Ghost presses his cheek against the glass. Watching. Michael concentrates on the flesh before him. It is smooth, slightly dry. It is warm.

‘I promise.’

She sniffs. Jangles. He loves that she’s all golden. Hoops and rings and pretty things.

‘C’mon then. We’d better head. We’ll get Ross on the way.’

Ross, who was deposited at a friend’s house last night, has been demanding to see his big brother, has left a hundred plaintive messages on his mother’s phone. They make it as far as the front door. Open it to see Miss Campbell bowling up the path. She carries a casserole before her. The Ghost has one finger down his throat, pretending he is puking.

‘Oh for Christsake. Michael. I can’t—’

‘You go on,’ Michael whispers to Hannah. ‘You go in your car, get Ross, and I’ll catch you up, yes?’ He propels his wife to one side as he greets Miss Campbell at the other. Voice professionally sonorous, oh he hates this pantomime that is his life – ‘Miss Campbell. Thank you for coming.’

‘Oh. What a terrible, terrible thing. You poor souls. Oh, Mrs Anderson. Can I just tell you how—’

‘Thank you. Sorry. Can’t stop.’ Hannah hurries to her car.

‘My, that looks lovely. Thank you so much. We’re actually just heading to the hospital now . . .’