Authors: Karen Campbell
Rise (47 page)
‘Jesus!’ Her fingers flash back.
‘See? I am already saying to Jesus,’ says Ross gloomily. ‘But it is not working. And my daddy says it works. But it is not.’
She feels sick. The darkness is getting to him, Christ, she thinks about all the bones that might be down here, and the long lush days she has ruined of her life, the knocks and the confusions, the dragging deathless waste of it; and the sun outside, it is just outside of here, and she lifts Ross and lifts her good foot, fucking stamping on Godknows what to get a purchase, pushing Ross up with her shoulder.
‘Right. Find some roots or stones, baby. Pull. We are getting out of here.’
But the side is too slippy, they sink back, tumbling, which way is up, she’s on the ground, she feels the earth, the mud in her sore mouth and the weight inverts, she has Ross by the elbow and there’s a firmness again at her feet.
‘Rossie. Just you stay here. Just sit tight a wee minute, yes? I’m going to see if I can get up there on my own. Then I’ll lean down and pull you up, right?’
He nods. Wide-eyed. Justine holds her hands in front of her. They are steady. Ish. Imagines the veins inside. Bright, gleaming blue. Her blood has been galvanised. She moves stiff limbs, pushes herself up on . . . a stone. More bones? Whatever, with the piled mud on top, there’s enough springy give, and there’s a big clump of root to get a foothold, to haul harder and harder till she finds the beginning of the wet sweet trickle, running over the ledge.
‘Justi!’
‘I will come back for you, I promise.’
Arms burning, she forces on to her elbows, dragging the dead weight of her body up until a knee hooks on to the rock. One final thrust, and she’s up. From the ledge, the glimmer of her veins is brighter; how is it she can see the actual outline of her veins? There’s a kind of phosphorescence coming from the thin run of water, whirls of steam rising, like coils on the stone itself, and there is the faintest stream of light above. It’s a fissure in the rock, lit from within. She can see a tiny bead of white, miles overhead: a headlamp at the end of an hour-long tunnel. Moonlight? The round, distant whiteness echoes the skull, which she refuses to acknowledge, set in its niche to the left of her. By ignoring it, it seems to double and loom, teasing her that there are two heads watching from the corner of her eye. But it’s the arrow of light she’s focused on. The fissure is five, maybe six feet higher than she can reach, and it’s narrow. If she could swing out, do a Tarzan leap, there’s another point of rock that offers a foothold. From there, she thinks she could reach the gap.
‘Justi?’ calls Ross.
‘Wee minute, sweetie. Hang on.’
The air glitters and she is reaching for it, towards the tiny shaft, and the sticky-out piece of rock, but her forehead cracks on another, unseen ledge, jerking her head back, tumbling slightly as the momentum kicks, then it is a leery, veering lumber, skittering stone.
Bright shriek as her hand flails from earth to air.
She stumbles. Kneels. One hand, one elbow, anchored on a rock stump. Afraid to look, to lean over. Scrabbling from the frayed-away limits of the overhang.
‘Justi!’ Ross is yelling.
‘I’m all right.’
There’s enough light to tempt her to lean further forward. On scree, steep scree that is sliding with her unsure feet. ‘Justi!’ She can hear Ross sobbing. ‘Mummy!’
The long shaft is three, four feet away. Beyond is crumbling air. Can feel a draught. She stinks of animal, grasping.
‘Justi! Please come back. Justi!’
The drip is wetting her fringe.
‘Justi!’
Fingertip far, she stretches. Sucks at the cold splinter of air, desperate.
‘Justee! I am frightened.’
It’s no use. If she leaps, she won’t get back. She cannot leave him.
‘I’m coming down, honey. It’s all right. I’m coming back.’
She fumbles her way to his voice. Much easier to lower yourself down than clamber up. She holds the trembling child in her arms. Back to black. The dark feels thicker now she knows the light is up above; it’s inside her lungs, thick as mucous, webs of it catching in her ribs, her sinuses. The two of them coil at the foot of the dripping rock. Decomposing. Sand in the pyramid: she can laugh at that image now, because the real feeling is nothing like you imagine. It’s not panic, not fear. It is the sucking absence of light. A speck of water hits her cheekbone. When his lips get cracked, she can moisten them with her fingers. She won’t think beyond that.
Ross sniffs. ‘Justi. Do you know the ho-yo song?’
‘No, baby, I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘Is OK,’ he whispers. ‘I will teach you.’
Dawn. Orange streaks into blue as the dark falls back. Thin shadows stretch. Trees yawn and people stir. Hundreds of people, in a slow march across the glen. They have searched all night, in gullies and in culverts, in bins and attics, rolled-up carpets, garden ponds. The police fan out in front, officers in baseball caps and overalls, stumping sticks, some on their knees. Each place that was searched will be searched again. Every so often, they bring her stuff: a piece of litter –
Does he eat Milky Ways?
; a purple scarf –
No. Not his
. Could it be Justine’s?
Maybe. I don’t know
; Michael’s car keys found ‘posted’ in an envelope inside their hall bench.
No, he does that
.
Rossie does that.
But is it significant, they ask, that the envelope is for Justine? There’s a note in the envelope:
Trouble at t’farm! Need to talk to you. Tonight?
And a squiggle that could be L or D.
I don’t know
, she says.
I don’t know
. The church is become an incident room, the café given over to vast urns and huddled faces stealing a quick respite before they return outside. Specialist dogs are coming up from Glasgow, the Mountain Rescue is out, and a helicopter sweeps. Sentinel Power have offered every man they have, and you see their yellow jackets in behind the cops. Others wear their bunnets and thick coats, for it’s been a chill night, a braw bricht moonlicht nicht once the rain had stopped, and though you get a sweat up, searching, when the wind bites you need warmth at your back.
Men no longer chatter. The first wild surge of conviction has ebbed; there’s an air of grim resolve. Clusters form, then dwindle. Folk come, folk go. Councillor McCall’s been patting Hannah’s arm for ages, saying it will be a tribute. A tribute for the family. It will be a beacon of local democracy, this village debate. Polling really strongly; the press are very keen.
For the people, by the people.
Or maybe
Wind in Our Sails
, they haven’t decided yet. She’s no idea what he’s on about, but he tells her: ‘It’s what Michael would have wanted.’ Hannah nods till he leaves her alone. ‘He’s not dead,’ she says, suddenly, as his backside judders out of view.
She can’t stop herself from rocking. When the surprise of Ross had happened to her, when it was still unshared, Hannah had sat on the toilet, rocking. Pee-stick in her hand. She’d noticed a small varicose vein at the angle where her right knee bent. It shrivelled when she pressed it; a snake shedding blue skin. What might it be like to be perfectly free? she’d wondered. Stripped of wife and mum and dutiful daughter. Just you again. Just you when you were unencumbered and intact. Because then you’d only feel what you wanted to feel, and there would be no power ever that could hurt you.
Mhairi drapes a blanket over Hannah’s shoulders. ‘Are you coming back inside?’
She shakes her head.
‘Can I get you anything?’
A young woman offers her a mug of tea. Hannah doesn’t recognise her, until she speaks. ‘Please drink it. You’ll think you don’t need it, but you do.’ It’s Johnny’s mum, Fiona. The young woman stands beside her for a long time. They don’t speak. Hannah watches Duncan’s sheep, the ewes square and plodding, the lambs leaping for the very joy of being alive. Fiona’s profile is sculpted against the sun.
‘Where’s your Johnny? Is he safe?’
‘He’s out with Buddy. Looking.’
Hannah nods. She sips, doesn’t taste the tea, but she feels it slip down. She looks at the mug, the liquid inside. Turns the tea out on to her hand. Although she cups her fingers really, really tight, she can’t hold on to a single drop.
‘Here.’ Fiona takes the mug from her. Mhairi calls over. ‘Hannah, that’s the polis wanting a word.’
The blanket falls away as she walks towards this new inspector coming. Duncan from Cardrummond accompanies him; he’s pointing out various landmarks, the inspector nodding.
‘Mrs Anderson. My name’s Grant. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘We’ve sent officers to various addresses in Glasgow: her mother, her boyfriend, known associates.’
‘And? Was I right?’
‘Her name’s not Arrow, it’s Strang.’
‘And is she—’
‘She has got previous convictions, Mrs Anderson, yes. Several.’
‘I knew it!’ The spike in her belly is fear, not vindication.
‘You’ll appreciate I can’t disclose the nature of them.’
‘I’ll
appreciate
? I’ll appreciate she’s got my wee boy Christ-knows where. With Christ-knows who
.
But you’re protecting
her
?
’
It is the ‘who’, all the numberless connotations of lost infants and vacant stares and docile bodies being led, being led. All she can see is the orange light, and Ross’s face. Between them, Fiona and Duncan lead her inside the café. A glass is thrust in her hands. ‘Drink.’
‘Mrs Anderson,’ says the inspector. ‘Her boyfriend is also missing. We’re focusing one strand of the investigation on him. Several of his associates are currently being questioned as to his whereabouts.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the boyfriend?’ asks Duncan.
‘I’m afraid I can’t. Only that he’s known to us as well.’
‘Ah Duncan.’ Mouth dry. The world all shrinking, all converging in a rush. ‘D’you not get it?’ It makes sense, the bruised grubbiness of her; Michael’s fascination – not with the sex, she no longer thinks that, but with the tawdry glamour, all his flirting with power and robes, his need to
save
.
Tell me
he didn’t know
. She seizes the edge of the inspector’s fluorescent jacket. ‘When you said boyfriend. Did you mean pimp?’
‘I really can’t—’
‘She’s a hooker, isn’t she? And a con artist. They’re a team of predators and they’ve got my boy.’
‘Now come on—’
‘Duncan, shut up.
Please.
Stop wasting your time poking about in burns and find them. Before it’s too late.’
‘Mrs Anderson,’ says Duncan. ‘Please listen to yourself. This is
not
Justine. No matter what you say she’s done, Justine loves Ross, she absolutely loves Ross. I know she wouldn’t hurt him. There is no way. No way.’ As if he’s trying to convince himself that this is truth, and he has a lovely, honest face and it does not deserve to be hurt but she doesn’t care.
‘Tell him,’ she says. ‘Tell him what she is.’
The inspector rubs his thumb along his chin. Tic-toc, tic-toc; a half-moon dial, with the pointer, ticking off the seconds. When the tip of his thumb touches his lower lip, he speaks. ‘Justine does have convictions for soliciting, yes.’
‘Christ. I knew it! She’s a hoor and a thief. Everything, everything of mine has fallen apart because of her.’ The swirl of people around her, blurry. Dense. She swings round to catch their faces, so they will look at her. Trying to make them
see
.
‘Now, Hannah.’ Mhairi’s soft arm is smothering. ‘We all know you’re tired—’
‘Fuck
off
,
Mhairi. Just all of you fuck off and find my boy. He’s not here. She’s
taken
him.’
Hannah hears a dog barking. Turns from the futility of the scene, all these static people, out of the café to the fresh air. There is mud on her face and in her nails. Grained earth pressed into the grooves and ruts of fingertips. Fingers that write stupid words that don’t stain your hands and break your nails. This is just a story, she tells herself. The beginning and the end, all tied in a bow that’s become unravelled. She needs to find the end. She doesn’t know how, but she needs to find it.
Under the bed. Did they check, did anyone check there, in case he made a tent? As Hannah runs towards her front door, clouds come. The earth goes striped and fluttering, scuttling past the side of the house. Twisted barley-sugar light. It’s beautiful. On her doorstep, Margaret Campbell has left a tiny posy of bluebells, and one of her infamous stews.
‘Ross!’ She lifts her face up to the light. ‘ROSS!’
Hears the dog bark again, louder. A rush of feet.
‘Mrs Anderson!’ It’s Johnny Green, filthier than usual. He flits past his mother, the cops, straight to her. ‘Come on!’
‘What is it?’