The Eidolon (8 page)

It was unsettling, but not like the dreams of Sarah. The feelings they leave linger for hours before they lift. It’s a low feeling: flat, lifeless, uneasy.

I call Cora a couple of times, but she doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message. In a way I’m relieved; I don’t know what I’d say if she picked up.

I call Chris. He’s still looking for a job and hasn’t heard anything from Zimmer. He comes round to see me and the first thing he says is, “You look a mess.” I tell him I’m not sleeping, although I leave out the details, and he says I should see a doctor. God, do I really look that rough? “You’ll never get a job on three hours’ sleep a night,” he says. “Not if you look like that.”

On the fifth day I see the doctor. He sits in his swivel chair behind the desk and bounces a little back and forth as he listens to what I’m trying to tell him. He’s middle-aged, overweight and despite the sharp smell of alcohol wipes in the room, he still smells of fags. Two babies are having a bawling competition in the waiting room as he checks my blood pressure and shines a light in my eyes. He asks me if I have any family history of any mental health issues. Not as far as I know. Why, am I going mad? He suggests I take some time off, before I tell him I don’t have a job anymore or a partner. “Ah,” he says, leaning over the desk to scribble, “that explains it. Stress.” He hands me a prescription for some pills to help me sleep and tells me to get some fresh air and some exercise. I look at his belly and think about saying the same thing to him. When I leave I find a dustbin outside and drop the prescription into it. I don’t know what I expected him to do, but pills aren’t it. I go home and pack.

I
GET TO
the station just before eleven and call from there. “Hi, Mum.”

“Robert! How are you?”

“I’m fine. Got back last week.”

“So, how was it?”

“It was great – glad I went. Listen, I thought I might come up and see you.”

“That would be great! When were you thinking about?”

“Now, if that’s okay with you. Might as well, while I have some time on my hands.”

“What time’s the next train?”

“Eleven-forty – I could be up by late afternoon.”

“Fine. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“Eh... Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Cora?”

“I saw her last week.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, Robert, Jessie’s waiting for me in the car, so I’ll have to go just now, but I’ll talk to you when you get home. Can’t wait to see you! Have a safe journey.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

S
OME THINGS NEVER
change. Kildowan station is one of them. It hasn’t changed since the ’seventies, apart from the newly purchased digital announcement board which hangs from the ceiling of Platform One. Two chipped wooden benches clinging to the stone walls get a new coat of white paint every few years, and it’s overdue. A few red begonias struggle in their pots against the harsh north-easterly wind. There’s a wire rack nailed to the wall displaying pamphlets advertising visitor attractions for the odd one or two tourists who end up here, usually by accident. Today, it’s only me who disembarks.

The station is empty. As I step out into the street, I zip up my fleece and pull on my woollen beanie. It’s late April, but it might as well be January. Or Siberia. I set off up the street for home. I still call it that, even though I’ve been away for years. Somewhere that holds in the fabric of its bricks and mortar the memories and changes and constancy which made me, even though I’m someone else now.

The sun is dipping in the sky. It slices between the buildings, dazzling brightness through the shadowy gaps. The cool, crisp air is just what’s needed after the muggy train trip, and after years of working in an underground lab, I relish any time outside. Fresh air reminds me of what’s real, what’s tangible. Fresh air and Danny Mitchell. It makes me smile thinking about him. No doubt still bumming about in Tibet.

The road leads up from the station into the village, where the post office and bakery doors are bolted shut to mark the day of rest. Lining the street on one side are low terraced houses with small doors and even smaller windows set in thick stone walls, some whitewashed, some coloured, some grey. They look like they’re huddling from the biting wind themselves. Opposite is the small museum which sits in carefully tended grounds and next to that, the kirk, built four hundred years ago, with its imposing spire and modest cemetery, now the resting place for some very old people. I’ve seen headstones in that graveyard which have been there even longer than the church, with their symbols of the sun and the moon faded, but still discernible, echoes of a forgotten age.

I cross the street towards the orange glow spilling from the lamps in the deep window sills of the Stone Circle pub. A familiar wave of chatter and a beery waft greets me as I approach. I glance at my watch. Time for a quick pint. Just one. The heavy oak door groans as I push it open, the chatter swells and my face tingles in the blanket of warm air. Tam, the proprietor of the Stone Circle, a rotund individual with red cheeks just visible over his large greying beard, nods to me with as much expression as he applies to everything, which isn’t much.

“Robert,” Tam says in his usual cursory manner of greeting.

“Tam,” I reply in kind. I don’t take this personally; Tam addresses all of his customers with equal indifference. Behind the bar, Tam continues to dry a glass with a cloth, inspecting it every so often against the dim lights that hang from the ceiling. An open fire crackles under the large stone mantle, spitting and hissing. Four hill walkers, in muddy boots and waterproof clothes, huddle around a small table, recounting tales of their various experiences of the harsh Scottish wilderness and unpredictable weather. Sitting on a stool and leaning over the dark wooden bar is Angus, the retired postman. Angus drinks unashamedly now that he has little else to occupy his time. His son, Alasdair, has followed in his father’s footsteps and delivers the letters and parcels to the people of Kildowan, but he has seen what drink can do to a man and so he doesn’t touch the stuff himself. Angus hugs his pint glass, frowning as he tries to focus on it.

“Hello, Angus,” I say as I reach the bar. “A pint of bitter, please, Tam.”

Angus sways a little as he looks up and his bushy eyebrows try hard to meet his hair as he registers his surprise. He claps me affectionately on the shoulder, but struggles to say anything coherent by way of conversation. I haven’t had a pint since I got back. Plenty of whisky, but no beer. Nectar. Worth three days of butter tea for this one moment.

“Would that be Robert Strong?” I turn towards the voice.

“It would, Casimir. Good to see you.” I join him at the table by the fire. Michael Casimir gets to his feet and I clasp the hand he holds out towards me. He’s thinner than the last time I saw him, almost a year ago now, his bones more pronounced in his wiry frame, but his grip’s just as strong.

“And how is it these days at the cutting edge of science?” asks Casimir, his green eyes twinkling. His voice is steady but weaker than it used to be. God, he’s aged. A ripple of something in me, regret flickering. He won’t be around forever. He’s more stooped than before, the little hair he has left whiter and wispier, and deep lines now etch his square face, which, despite this, still shines with the strength of his character. He leans across the table and, with a voice just above a whisper, says, “Did you find it?”

He’s followed the research every step of the way. In fact, he’s the reason I ended up in physics. He has a telescope, and when I was young, and whenever I wasn’t helping him with his bees, I’d spend hours stargazing, listening to all he knew about the cosmos, which was a vast amount for a man who never had enough money to go to university. It didn’t stop him learning, though. He had books on all kinds of things – astronomy, particle physics, archaeology, philosophy. A real thinker. The idea of finding dark matter always intrigued him. A hunch, he said, that it would change everything. I wish I’d something more to tell him. “No, not yet. We came close, though. They pulled the funding at the last hurdle, so my services are no longer required.” I take another gulp of beer, as bitter as my mood.

He looks crestfallen. “The bastards.”

“The bastards.”

“Why did they do it now?”

I shrug. “I’ve no idea. We were so close, Casimir. I reckon we’d have found it, if we’d had a bit more time. We had some provisional results – encouraging results – I mean, we were onto something concrete for the first time in years. We just needed to verify what we found. That was the last phase.”

He rubs his thumb across his chin, his habit when he’s thinking. “Maybe they didn’t want you to find it, after all.”

“Who knows how these things work.” I turn back to my pint. I’ve stopped asking that question. All it does is wind me up. “Anyway, how have you been? You’re looking well.”

“You’re lying,” says Casimir. “Ach, you know, getting on with it. I’m on a health kick at the minute – you see?” He fumbles on the table to find his glass of tomato juice and holds it up.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Aye, but the doctor says I’ll live to be a hundred if I keep off the drams.”

“And is it worth it?”

I don’t know what he’s thinking as he looks at me. Finally he says, “Life’s too sweet, Robert.”

“Aye.”

He lets out a sigh. “And what’s this I hear about you and Cora?”

The mention of her name turns the stone in my chest. “Och, I don’t know. We’re just too different.”

“Are you?”

“Well, she’s into all this New Age hippy crap and I’m... well, you know me.”

“She’s a free spirit.” Casimir raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you could do with a little more of that.”

“Oh, don’t you start.”

“You might see things differently when you get a bit older.”

“Oh, come on, Casimir. You’re a man of science. You can’t buy into all that shit.”

“Layman’s science. Maybe science isn’t the whole story.” He sips his juiced tomatoes.

I lean back against the hard curve of the chair. “When did you start thinking like this?”

“It’s always been there, I suppose.”

“You’re not going all religious on me, are you?”

“No, I’m not going back to that. Too many of man’s opinions muddy the waters and obscure the point, if you ask me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in something else.”

I’ve never heard him speak like this. He was always comfortable in a world without a God. In his lifetime of prolific reading, he found too many other things to take its place. “Like what?”

Casimir leans forwards, his elbows resting on the table. “Well, that’s the Big Secret, isn’t it? If I find out first, and I probably will, given that I’ve got a good few years on you, then I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” I raise my pint to him.

“Aye.” Casimir nods, lifting his glass of red sludge. “You know Cora’s minding the pottery just now? I bumped into Frank not long ago – they’re away to Barcelona for a holiday.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Hmm. Have you seen your mother yet?”

“No, I’m just off the train, but I should be getting home soon.”

“It’s her birthday tomorrow. Did you remember to get her something?” I rub my forehead. Every year. Why is it so difficult?

“Well, maybe you should take a trip to the pottery tomorrow to get her a wee present – I’m sure Cora would be good enough to sell you something. Unless you want to get her one of those plastic sunflowers that Flora’s selling in the post office.” I grin, but my heart clenches at the thought of meeting Cora, even though she’s the reason I came here.

Casimir reaches into his pocket. “Give this to your mother for me tomorrow, will you?” He hands me a wooden letter opener. Its smooth handle and sharp teeth are carefully carved, but with minor inconsistencies that wouldn’t be made by a machine, and I know without asking that Casimir made it himself.

“Why don’t you give her it yourself? We’ll drop by and see you.”

“Aye, and you’d be very welcome,” says Casimir. “But you hold onto it, just in case.” He sits back and appraises me, as he does from time to time whenever we meet, his fingers slowly twirling the glass on the table. “You’ve done well for yourself, Robert.”

I snort. “What do you mean? Unemployment?”

“No,” says Casimir. “What you’ve done with your life. Physics, computer science, your research posts – that’s quite an achievement.”

“Still hasn’t got me a job, though,” I reply. “If it hadn’t been for all your years of brainwashing about life, the universe and all that, I’d have a real job by now.”

Casimir chuckles and finishes his drink. “Maybe you’d do me a wee favour and see me home? I find it a bit tricky when the light fades.”

“A pleasure.” I swallow the remainder of my pint and stand up to help Casimir, waving to Tam as we leave, who nods almost imperceptibly in response.

A
LTHOUGH
C
ASIMIR HOLDS
onto my arm, he strides ahead with little hesitation, oblivious to the cutting wind. The elements have never phased him. The weather was just something else to add background interest to whatever he was doing. He’s just as stubborn now, even if he has aged. “How are your bees doing?” I ask.

“They died in the summer, the whole bloody lot of them.”

“All of them? What happened?”

“No warning at all,” says Casimir. “They just up and died one day, and that was that. It’s happening all over the place. If Einstein’s right, we’ve got about four years left.” He glances at me, a faint smile in his expression. “That’ll about do me, anyway.”

“Och, don’t talk rubbish.” But I feel a stab in my chest at the thought. I don’t like talking about mortality with an old person. It makes me uncomfortable. They’re in a place I don’t understand, edging closer, every single day. We all do, I suppose, but when we’re young, we have the luxury of choosing ignorance. I’m in no rush to spoil the illusion, and Casimir knows it. He doesn’t elaborate. His was a statement of fact, nothing more. It’s one of the gulfs of age that will always be there.