Rise (30 page)

No matter.

He thinks of his last sermon in Kilmacarra Church, of the lift he got from the people. The love in that vaulted room. He is desperate for love now, searching and scrabbling like those men at Crychapel Wood.

‘I love ya, baby.’ The Ghost kisses the top of his head.

Michael holds his hand to the light. Solid flesh. Wiggles his fingers. Apart from the transparent webs that link them, they are solid. Solid. Doubt lets the chaos in; it eats away the certainty. He takes a long breath, swilling it like the wine.

He should call Ailsa. And go see Johnny’s mum. He promised he’d keep an eye on her. Husband shot in Afghanistan, so the poor lass comes home to hide. It’s not his problem, he’s not a minister any more, but his friend was their chaplain and he promised and it’s not fair, life’s not fair and he has to work and go to the hospital and speak and eat and pee. But he wishes he didn’t. Each day has become a steady panic. As well as the Ghost, Michael can now see bones. Inside the ground.

It happened just there, when he was coming home. As he often does –
you mean when you want to avoid Hannah
– he took a wander through the graveyard. Felt a gentle rippling, like a person turning in bed. As is natural in these circumstances, an elbow or a buttock will rise and dip, settle into a more comfortable position. And it did. They did. First Michael saw a humerus, then a grinning pelvic bone. Quick, impatient ripplings, making it plain that Michael’s footfall was disturbing them. He does press particularly hard when he walks now because the Ghost has decided he likes to ride on the base of his skull. Whispering, whispering. A tinnitus of whispering. Michael has forgotten how his own weight feels. All he can do is hum, and ride the pain. He is aware they are building to a crescendo. Very soon, this; all this air and walls and fleshy casings will snap, and he expects to fall through the ground into some netherworld from which he will never escape. It will be like falling off a bridge.

The doorbell chimes. He waits a minute, then remembers no one but he and Ross are in the house. Hannah never came home for dinner. He doesn’t want to see anyone, but what if it’s the police? It might be the posters, jogging someone’s memory. Michael dries his hands, puts on his here-to-help face, goes to open the door.

It’s not.

‘Are you the minister?’

‘Oh.’

A faded man is outside, faded except for the bright-red hair that burns in the electric lamplight. Michael’s used to all sorts: junkies, thieves, lonely widows.

‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

Stars clink past his eyes as the Ghost flurries himself. He is mostly human now, but still with the swallow-tail. Michael ignores him.

‘I was looking for the manse.’

That the manse is a beacon in the darkness is good.
I was a stranger and you took me in.

‘This is the manse. And you are?’

‘I’m Frank.’

‘Come in, Frank. Sorry, I thought you might be the police.’ He shuts out the night, leads the man into his glowing hall. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You expecting the police?’ The man frowns, a frown so kindly, so solicitous that Michael would like to hug him. ‘I’m sorry. Should I come back later?’

‘No, no. It’s fine. Our son was—’ Michael goes to say ‘knocked down’, he’s pushing his tongue behind his teeth make the ‘nn’, the Ghost is screaming: ‘Fucking
squashed
, pal. Like a manky hedgehog. Here! This yin eats hedgehogs. Rolls them up in mud and bakes them whole.’

‘Knocked down.’ It comes out shrill.
Down, down, deeper and –
‘Shut up!’ Michael whips from side to side, clattering into the hallstand. A black silk brolly which isn’t his slides through the oak spars.

‘Here. You need a wee seat?’ The tramp, Frank, helps him over to the flip-top pew they keep their boots in. One arm is cradling his waist, easing him down to the hard surface.

‘I’m very sorry to hear about your boy.’ He sits beside him. The Ghost moves his leg out the way. Tightens his grip round Michael’s neck.

‘Is he badly hurt?’

‘He’s all right,’ he says quietly.

‘Listen, reverend, you don’t look so good. I’ll not keep you.’

Michael shakes his head. The Ghost’s bloody tail keeps whipping, deliberate as an angry cat, past his face.

‘
Language
, Michael,’ admonishes the Ghost. ‘You’ll make the Big Man cry.’

That might be nice. Drown out other noises.

‘Yes. But I can scream louder than the wind. It was the wind that carried me down, remember?’

‘It’s fine,’ he tells Frank. ‘Our son . . . since the accident, we’re at the hospital all the time. It’s been quite a week. I’m a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘Well, like I say, I’ll not keep you. I’m just after my brolly, if you don’t mind.’

‘Pardon?’

‘My umbrella.’ Frank points at the black umbrella skewed on the carpet. ‘That’s it there. I lent it to Justine.’

‘You know Justine?’

‘Met her on the bus up from Glasgow. Nice girl.’

‘Yes.’

‘He wants to fuh-uck her, he wants to fuck her. You want to fuh-uck her—’ The Ghost jiggles on Michael’s back. Hoof-tap jigging – singing. It is like wearing a dancing, malodorous bear. The hall clock does its wee half-chime.

‘Quarter past,’ says Frank. ‘Look, I better be heading for my bus.’

‘Oh, there’s no bus tonight.’

‘There is if you know a friendly coach operator. There’s aye space on a pensioners’ bus tour – someone falling ill or . . . Anyway. I’ll just take my brolly, if you don’t mind, and be off.’

Michael stands to show Frank out. Cracks his spine straight. The Ghost shakes, but is not stirred. ‘
Fuckwit
,’ he hisses.

‘It’s OK. I’ll see myself out.’

‘I’m fine, really. Here. Your umbrella.’

‘Thanks.’ Frank runs his hand along the fabric. ‘It’s a lovely silk, this.’ He doesn’t speak like a tramp should.

‘I should have . . . Sorry. Would you like some tea?’

‘No thanks. Need to be off. Hitch the bus to Oban, tramp till dawn, then have a wee kip. Folk tend to leave you alone more in the day.’

‘Can I make you a sandwich, then? For the journey?’

‘No. Honestly, I’m sorted.’

A poor man and a prostitute.
Could be a leper an’ all. Looks it.
‘Ssh. Frank. Is it urgent, where you’re dashing off to? Would you like somewhere to stay tonight?’

‘Oh for fucksake.’ The Ghost slithers from Michael’s back. ‘I’m off. Can’t take any more of this puke-fest. You canny have him here; he’s
honking
. Hannah will freak. Smells worse than me.’

‘No. Thank you.’ The tramp has his hand on the doorknob. ‘You mind if I ask you a question?’

‘Mm.’ Michael counts in his head the number of seconds it will take before the Ghost speaks again. Ten, maybe twelve?

‘Do you see as well as hear?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I don’t mean to intrude. But you’re not well – you know that, right?’

‘I told you. I’m tired. We’re under a lot of stress at the moment.’

‘Oh, sure, sure. I realise that. Is it only the one voice you’re hearing, or a bunch of them?’

The air breaks. Is this it? For all Michael knows, the tramp is another visitation. He must be cautious. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Ah. See, most people would frown and go:
One, of course. I can hear you
. But you, my friend, are immediately defensive, which speaks volumes.’ Frank pats Michael’s arm. ‘It’s called an auditory hallucination. Doesn’t mean you’re going mad. Honestly. About fifteen per cent of folk experience hallucinations at some time. Do you have visual disturbances too?’

‘What?’

‘Do your voices manifest as visions?’

Michael holds on to the hallstand. The messenger is confusing him. Perhaps this is intentional. He must just rest for a wee bit. Lie down on the couch until his mind is clear. His fingers are sticky. The hallstand is living wood, and there’s all bloody sap pouring from the nail holes.

‘Please. Will you just go.’ He can see crucified hands in the nail holes.

‘I promise you. Talking about it helps. There are all sorts of talking therapies. And drugs, if you need them.’

‘What I need is for you to go away.’

The pinioned hands cup in pleading, catching their own dripping blood.

‘You should also have a physical, in case there’s some—’

‘Will you leave me alone!’ Yelling it, at this poor, kind man.

‘You’ll have to let someone help you. Trust me, you can’t just block it out.’

‘Justine. Justine is helping me. She’ll be here any minute.’

‘Eh, I hate to tell you, but Justine’s getting dry-humped in the pub, even as we speak. I wouldn’t expect to see her back tonight.’

‘Rubbish. Justine doesn’t know anyone here.’

‘Well. She knows you. And me. And she definitely knows the guy that’s groping her.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Why would I do that? Look, I promise you. If you do see visions, it’s no different from dreams. Or when you get an idea, or a tune in your head and you don’t know where it came from. You never planned to think about it, and now you have, you can’t get rid of it. Honestly. It’s no different from that.’ Frank touches Michael’s forehead. ‘Trust me. The mind always wants to heal itself. You’ll find a way.’

Ssssh.

The tramp’s voice is growing fainter. ‘Have you tried talking back to them? Sometimes you can make them positive. Make them guide you. But you’ve got to make yourself stronger than them. If you run away, they just chase you.’

‘Just leave me alone,’ he shouts, thinking that Hannah will find him. Hannah will hear and come and rescue him; that’s all he wants. That’s all he’s ever wanted, and his neediness makes him weak. Repulsive. He sees this in Hannah’s eyes, in her stiff turns, the subtle recoil. In vain, Michael waits for his wife to come, but he doesn’t even know where she is.

‘Right, right. I’m going. But you have to calm down, eh? Have a think about what I said.’ Frank lumbers into the twilight, shoulders flat. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’

‘Just. Go. Away.’

The tramp does not look back.

‘Daddy?’

A wee voice drifts from up the stairs. Michael pauses, then hurries into the kitchen. Closes the door, and puts off all the lights.

Chapter Twenty-three

‘
How you doing, Mrs Anderson?’

The guard they’ve sent to Crychapel is Duncan Grey, a young farmer who’ll turn his hand to anything. He lives up on the ridge, in a family farm that runs to sheep and ruin: every month, a little more tumbles down. Hannah feels sorry for his constant enthusiasm, because she’s sure it’s feigned. He looks a bit dishevelled, hair sweated to his brow.

‘I’m fine. You all right? You look like you’ve been running.’

‘Och, no, it’s fine. Just a wee bit hot in the pub. How’s Euan?’

‘He’s doing well, thanks.’

‘Good stuff. So. This it?’ He peeks inside the tent, shakes his head. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Everyone’s jumping round like they’ve found a treasure trove. They’ve been
dusting
them with pastry brushes.’

She won’t look at the skeletons again. Epiphanies should be glorious, but hers has come with a thud. Sitting here, spiral stone imprinting on her spine. Thinking. Thinking why it is that you push out children, or put your name on books. Why you might get a whole stone circle devoted to you. It’s so folk don’t forget. But they do, and all your stories go with it. No matter how much digging and assembling and surmising happens now, no one will know how these two souls died. How they felt, or who went first.

‘Nae wonder the women were weeping.’ Duncan tips his head at the stones. ‘
Na
màthraichean a’gal
.’

She likes how the Gaelic sounds in his mouth; the thickness of it, and the music.

‘Away you go up the road, Mrs Anderson. I’ll sit with them now.’

He’s a brave lad. It’s growing dark, but they’re only bones. There’s nothing in them.

‘
Oof
.’ She scrambles up. ‘Think my backside’s gone to sleep. There’s some coffee in that flask if you want some.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Night then.’

‘Night, Mrs Anderson. Safe home.’

She’s not sure she wants to write her book any more, because it worries her, the words flowing up her hand as she was sitting there. To her greedy writer’s belly, which is filled with rank unmentionables, the graves, the grim tableau of headless mother and child are food. And it’s frightening and exciting all at once. As she starts the car, the clock on the dashboard glows green. God. That late? Should Michael not be worried about where she is? She checks her mobile. No messages. But then, she didn’t call him either.