Rise (42 page)

And she sees his breast rise and fall.

‘Eugh-ya.’ Euan returns, chucks her a cheese ploughman’s.

‘Ta.’ She peels back the cellophane and a ripe sweat-smell comes out. The veins of lettuce are brown, the pappy bread white. They look obliquely at Michael. It’s quiet in this room, apart from the machines. Hannah’s been writing here, though the book’s meaningless. She has told them she can’t meet her deadline.
Not to worry
, said the TV folk.
We’re going with a series about a telepathic dog now, anyway. Kind of
Lassie
meets
Hollyoaks
via
Life on Mars
? Not to worry, darling
,
said her agent.
You just take care.
But she writes still, in shards, because she must do something in this fragmented yellow room. No space to grieve poor Ailsa, though. Those energies are finite. Reserved for this.

Euan pops the tab on a can of Fanta. The sharp phssh causes her to jump, any sharp noise in here elicits Pavlovian panic. Two sets of eyes slide to a bleeping bed. She has to pretend Michael’s sleeping. How could she not have seen this coming? She tries to keep her mind blank. He is sleeping, that’s all. His face seems mottled, but it’s hard to be sure. She cannot wait until the mask is off, and he can speak to her again.

He tried to speak to her, before. Hannah curls herself into the chair. The room is very hot and she is very cold. She tries to chew. A ribbon of tomato catches in her throat.

‘Hello, hello! It’s the foodie reinforcements!’ There’s a shaft of light, and the brilliant big heft of Mhairi slips into the room, carrying warm-smelling bags. ‘Och, c’mon. You’re no eating thon hospital crap when I’ve brought you a lovely flask of soup.’

Euan leans forward. ‘Hey! Muh. On’t cry.’

Is she crying? Hannah gets pulled into her big boy’s chest. Her cheeks go sticky on his shirt. Huh. So she is.

Chapter Thirty-five

Mouth thick. There’s . . . on her face. Damp fingers.

‘Euch! What you doing?’

Ross takes his finger out of Justine’s nose.

‘Ross!’

‘I am drawing your face.’

They’re lying side by side, on top of Justine’s bed. ‘Ouf. What time is it?’ She sits. Scratches her head. Brain waking up. Duncan is leaving Kilmacarra.

‘Ross? How long we been asleep?’ Shakes her stupid watch. ‘Did your mummy phone?’

‘No.’

Duncan is going. Michael is still Godknows where, for when, with who – oh man, that’s a whole other nightmare opening out; and Hannah’s . . . oh, and
Duncan
’s going and he didn’t say and there’s no use hanging on to stuff. Ever. No fucking use.

‘Did your gran phone?’

‘No. And her name is Grand
ma
.’

‘Grand
ma
, then. C’mon, wee man. Time to get up.’

‘I
am
up.’ Ross slides his beaker of juice towards him. Dips one hand in and stirs.

She’d only lain down for a moment. Lying sideways is another way you can prohibit tears, disguise them at least, with blinking and weary rubs. Why did Duncan not say? They spent a whole afternoon and evening together. It wasn’t a date: she was helping him with the lambs, had held the curly wet weight of a newborn and for a fleeting, stupid instant, when he pressed close against her, it felt as if they were joined-up, and it was nothing but the two of them, not touching, not speaking. Just looking up at his eyes, at the back of them where it was warm and lovely until it felt like she was falling.

Ach, you know what? Guy’s a prick. He should’ve said. No matter how ‘sudden’, he could’ve left a message at the manse. Man, he was in the bloody café, it’s a two-minute walk. Mhairi would’ve told him; he must’ve known she was at the hospital. Nuh. No way. She won’t stay here. What is the point? The instant Hannah’s mum arrives, Justine’s off. Up and off. Leave no trace. It is the only way to flit through life. And if Michael dies . . . He won’t, it’s not cancer or anything. Hannah’s said they got it out. Oh man. It’s nothing to do with her. They don’t care about her here. She is aye making these bloody holes for herself, stumbling from one crater into another. A clean, smooth passage to follow: loads of people have that. Girls her age who’ve been to college, are planning weddings. Getting pregnant. They all know the right steps. She’ll get her stuff, get packed right now and will not think of this little lovely boy who is carefully licking juice from each of his individual fingers.

‘Can you no drink out of a cup?’

‘No.’

She leaves Ross smearing the sticky residue on her bedclothes, while she lugs down her bag, starts dumping stuff inside.

‘What you doing?’

Justine keeps her head inside the wardrobe. ‘Packing. I’m going on a wee adventure.’

‘I
like
ventures. Where are we going, Justi?’

‘You’ve got to stay and see your gran, sweetie.’

‘She doesn’t like me,’ he sighs. ‘She only likes Euan Poo-head.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ She peels off a hundred quid, then makes a wee nest for the rest of the money. Stuffs it in her bag, folds more clothes on top. ‘Cause you are the most gorgeous boy in the world.’

‘I know. Are you crying, Justi?’

‘Nope. Now, we need to go find Johnny again. I’ve got a wee present for him.’

‘Can we get a dog, Justi? Like Buddy?’

‘Oh, you’d need to ask your mum, Ross. Right, let’s get going, eh? Shoes on. And watch that cup—’

‘Uh-oh,’ says Ross. Too late. The juice spills everywhere.

On the side of Mary’s Brae, the archaeologists are packing up for the day, trudging past the manse as they make their way down to the pub, with Ross going ‘hello man’ and ‘did you find more bones?’ They laugh. Say ‘lovely afternoon’. It is; it’s crisp and cold. There will be stars tonight. Justine can see Kilmacarra’s tiny sheep, the lazy burn and Mhairi’s daft balloon above it. Far up the hill across the glen, she can make out the shape of Cardrummond. From here, she could watch the ribbon of Duncan’s car fumes, as he wends himself away from her. She could, except his car’s not there, it’s actually a grey cloud rolling in, and she has this small boy hinging on her arm.

‘Swing me, Justi. Swing
meee
!’

They walk along the main street, stop outside Johnny’s house. ‘Right, you. Stay there. In fact, here. Swing on Johnny’s gate. That’ll keep you busy.’ It’s a solid thing, though the paint is peeled and rusty. She goes up the path, chaps the front door. Like the gate, it’s seen better days. Buddy barks. A curtain stirs. She knocks a second time. Then a third.

A snarled ‘What?’ behind the door.

‘Johnny. Can I talk to you?’

‘Nuh. Leave me alone.’

‘No. I’m not going to go away. I can stand here all night if you like.’

‘No!’ He opens up. Eyes-wide terrified. ‘Piss off away from my door.’

‘Hey, Johnny. Come on. I’m sorry I was sharp with you in the café.’

‘Couldny gie a fuck.’

‘I was worried about Ross’s dad. You know, Mr Anderson?’

‘He’s gonny die, isn’t he?’

‘Sssh. We don’t know what’s going to happen—’

‘Then Ross and Euan will have no dad.’ There’s a hint of satisfaction as he sums this up. ‘Billy Halliday said his brain’s all pure swole up, and he’ll be a mong anyroad.’

‘A
mong
? What a horrible word. Do you even know what that means?’

‘Aye. A spazz.’

‘Oh, for
Godsake.
Does your mum let you speak like that?’

Johnny shakes his fringe out his eyes. He’s a colourless wee soul; hair, brows and lashes the same dull beige as his skin. ‘What’s it to do with you? You’ve never even seen ma mum.’

Come to mention it, she never has.

‘Look, I’m sorry I upset you. But you were going on and on in front of Mhairi.’

‘It’s ma bloody money. I wanted it. I
need
it.’

‘Ta dah!’ Justine wheechs out an envelope. ‘Here. I’ve got it here. See? I hadn’t forgotten. Always pay my debts, me.’

His face wavers, buckles.

‘A hundred? Think that’s only fair.’

Mouth twisting, like the wee soul can’t remember how to smile. The smile exploding to an angry shout. ‘You’re a stupid cow.’

‘John?’ A thin voice trails downstairs.

Johnny moves on to the front step, pulls the door behind him.

‘Is your mum not well?’

‘She’s
fine
. Just leave us alone. Just piss off, Justine.’

Ross clangs on the gate. Buddy barks louder.

‘Here. D’you not want your money?’ Justine reaches to touch his arm, but he jerks away. As he does, his shirt flaps, revealing a rim of pink at the pocket of his jeans. Same lurid pink as her mobile phone.

‘Johnny? What the hell is that?’

‘Piss off.’

‘Is that my phone? I thought you said you chucked it?’

‘So?’

‘So why d’you say it if it wisny true?’

He shrugs. Chin trembling.

She grips his wrist. Thin, hollow as a reed. She could fracture it if she has to. ‘Give me the fucking phone.’

The boy is properly weeping. She flings his wrist away. Helps herself to the mobile, which slides out easily. The kid is so skinny; she can feel his jutting hip bone.

‘So. What’s the big deal? You been phoning porn lines or something?’ She switches it on. ‘I canny see how, there wasn’t enough credit on it.’

‘Don’t!’ His shout echoes up the glen. Even Ross stops swinging and looks over. Justine waves.

‘It’s fine. We’re just playing.’ As the screen begins to glow, she sees five missed calls. ‘You got a girlfriend, is that it?’

‘Please,’ he whimpers. ‘Don’t answer it if he phones.’

‘If who phones?’

‘It was just for the games.’

‘What are you on about? I don’t mind if you used it, honest.’

‘I wanted to see if there was any good games on it.’

‘Doubt it.’ She’s a little more cheerful now she has the phone in her hand. What’s the big deal? ‘It’s just a cheapo.’

‘I know. That’s how I swapped the cards roon.’

‘What cards?’

‘The SIM card. It was in your wee pouch-thing.’

It is in that film
Sinbad
or some Hammer Horror or maybe it’s
The Mummy
but there is a scene inside the pyramid where, one by one, shutters begin to slide, a square of light becomes a slit and it is snatched away, the poor sod turning, spinning desperate as long walls of granite descend to block the doors and sand is pouring. For one horrible moment, the camera pans into live eyes, and you see them flicker with the knowledge of what is happening. That is what Justine sees: it is like she is unpleating. One hank of her is watching a pyramid seal while another vague strand sees a phone crack under a bus and a third is listening. Dying.

‘Soon as it went in, this man starts calling. I didny know what to do. I tried to take the card back out but the wee clicker hingy’s broke on the back – see.’

His hand brushes hers.

‘I was feart ma mum would find it . . . I’m sorry, right? If you just keep it switched off he canny phone. Just hide it or break it or something.’ He scans the vast trough of valley. Desperate. ‘But you canny hide nothing here. Folk see everything.’

‘How do you know it was a man?’

Dull eyes on dull fingers as she clicks to check the missed calls. But she knows.
CB CB CB CB.

‘Did you answer it?’

‘
No
.’

‘Did you fucking speak to him?’

‘I . . .’

‘Did you tell him where I was? Oh Jesuschrist. You stupid little
fuck
.’ The phone is scalding her as she throws it. Tumbling over rocket-fast, cracking through air. Off his breastbone.

‘Don’t hit me!’ he sobs, folding in on himself. ‘Don’t hit me’, but she doesn’t, because Ross comes running up the path then, Buddy barking, leaping at the window.

‘
Johnny.
Christ. What did you tell him?’

‘I telt him you were here.’

Chapter Thirty-six

In the hospital Hannah takes her notebook, the fat, full pages. Tears them down the middle. She is writing an ugly nightmare. It comes in spews. She has a hundred different endings to her story. All wrong; full of black shadowy things that don’t work right. She sits, in the dark, with her husband. ‘I won’t leave you. I promise.’

His ventilator sighs. The noise of the monitor is like a long-engaged phone, always one beat of silence more than you think. Before the beep.

Beep.

Sigh.