by Tobias Hill
‘It’s a good picture.’
‘It’s a fair likeness. I’ve taken better of him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Years ago. John was just married. They came up together to see me. I liked her. Sharp and pretty. We got on. You could see the Northern Lights that year, and we dressed up and stood out and watched for them. The one night it was clear they were glorious. Oh, we had a fine time.’
‘How did you know,’ Anna says, ‘that I know him?’
‘Because he talks about you, of course.’
‘What does he say?’
She puts down her cup so carefully it doesn’t make a sound. ‘Love, I think you need to ask him that yourself. Don’t you? But not now. You’ve come far enough for one day. Do you think you might like to stay the night?’
The light stays for hours. There is work to be done, gas cylinders and turfs of peat to be carried in from the shed. A telephone pylon has come down beside the house, and Anna helps as best she can, ineffectually, digging into the frozen moine while John’s mother, bundled up in thick gloves and a sheepskin coat, mutters over the tangled wires. If she kills herself, Anna thinks, I won’t even be able to bury her. I’ll have to leave her in the hearse and go and find the one priest. There are clouds building to the north, great promontories and buttresses, but the sky around them is still clear, and from the field below the house she can see white beaches to the west, fringed with surf and blue shoals.
At six Ian comes home, a sallow man, younger than John’s mother, with less interest in Anna than the armchairs and the fire. They eat early, Anna finding her appetite despite herself. Collops of beef, bashed swede, whiskey from Oban. Crionna and Ian talking as they dine, neither asking Anna many questions nor volunteering any answers. Only afterwards, making up a bed in the spare room, does Crionna mention John again.
‘They say it’s set the world back a hundred years.’
‘What has?’
‘The terrible thing my son is supposed to have done. But you wouldn’t know it here, would you?’ She folds the sheets. Stands back. ‘You wouldn’t know his money had ever been here at all.’
She wakes late, the sun on her face. Before she opens her eyes she knows the trailer home is empty. From up above come the sounds of gulls and the omnipresent wind. There is a mug of coffee beside the bed, stone-cold, a note lodged under it.
Dear Anna,
I have to work today. Ian will keep out of your way. Help yourself to what you want, there’s bread + cheese etc. There’s a parcel in the kitchen you might take with you. Just latch the door when you go.
Walk back past the house. Go down through the trees.
There’s a track that goes to a small beach. Go up the cove as far as you can go. There’s a caravan. You’ll find him somewhere there. My thoughts go with you.
Crionna
He is sitting on a rock overlooking the sea. Not in a river in Japan, not listening to Schubert in Kristiansund, not eating with the dead. He is not fishing, only looking out over the clear shallows to the west, and when Anna calls out his name he looks up smiling, as if it is her he has been waiting for all along.
‘Anna!’
‘Hello, John.’
‘You never give up, do you?’
‘That’s what Lawrence said.’
‘Lawrence again. Lawrence seems to say a lot of things.’
‘Does he?’ she says. ‘You tell me.’
‘Ah,’ he smiles, awkward. ‘Well, I suppose I could. Why don’t you sit down?’
She does, the rock rough and warm through her jeans. He takes her hand in his and looks away again, not letting go.
‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘Tell me what happened with Lawrence,’ but he shakes his head.
‘Not yet. I missed you.’
‘Did you?’
‘You know I did. What’s in the parcel?’
‘I don’t know. It’s from your mother.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘What?’
‘No. For a minute I thought you might be giving me something.’
She puts the parcel down and stretches her feet towards the sea. ‘And what would you want me to give?’
The sun is against the side of his face as he grins. He has aged, she thinks. As if time works differently here. Only in his expression is there still vigour. ‘Your pardon.’
‘You had that already.’
‘Did I really?’
‘You always had it. You’ll have to choose something else.’ But he shakes his head, as if she has asked or given too much.
‘How have you been?’ she says, and he shrugs so uncomfortably she wishes she hadn’t asked. ‘– I’m sorry.’
‘No. You’ve a right to ask. I’ve been … okay, I suppose. I always expected worse. I’ve been keeping my head down, keeping out of the way, though they’ll find me. One day they will. Maybe they already have.’
Faintly she smiles. ‘I left the Revenue, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Good for you. What do you do instead?’
‘I look for you.’
‘So you do,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Do you like it here?’
She looks around at it, his refuge. ‘It’s beautiful. Yes, I do.’
‘I’ve always been happy on Coll.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, well. I’ve friends here, and family. I’m earning a living, of sorts. I’ve been playing around with the Internet. A kind of lottery. People buy a silver dollar from John Law with a chance to win a thousand. The bank account is in Switzerland, I don’t know how long it’ll last, still. The odds against them are twenty-four thousand to one.’
‘And people do that?’ she says, and he grins, wry, for a moment his old self again.
‘You’d be amazed.’
A silence draws out between them, not a withdrawal of communication so much as a truce, a tacit acceptance of understandings. As if enough has been said, Anna thinks, though it occurs to her that it hasn’t at all. That there is still too much she doesn’t know.
‘They think you did it,’ she says, turning his hand in hers. The shock of its softness. “The virus. They think you broke your own code.’
‘Now, that would be a strange thing to do, wouldn’t it?’ he says, his voice only a little too smooth. ‘Anna, tell me something. Do you think I’m mad?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Well, that’s a bonus.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘What worries me, though, you see,’ he says, ‘is that madness might be like beauty,’ and when she laughs he peers back at her, as if to see into her mind.
‘Alright, now you sound mad.’
For a moment he says nothing, only smiling at her. Then, ‘You know how people once saw beauty differently? How in the past the concept was based on different ideals?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been wondering if the same is true of madness. This is the age of money. What I was doing with my life might seem to us to have been sensible. You say you think I’m sane. How do I know we’re not both wrong?’
‘I missed you too,’ she says.
‘I should bloody hope so,’ he says, and leans to kiss her. His eyes closing a second before hers, her body tightening against him, her mouth softening.
‘How long do I have you for?’
‘As long as you want.’
‘You don’t know how long I want,’ he says. ‘Careful what you offer.’
‘Alright.’ She laughs again, merrily, gladdened. ‘How long do you want me for?’
‘For good.’ He is no longer smiling. ‘You could stay for good.’
She doesn’t answer. We could make love, she thinks. If I kissed him again now he would make love to me. No one would see us, here. We could make love and I would never leave him again.
He is stroking her face, her neck, and she keeps her eyes closed, basking in him. It is what she hoped for: it is why she is here, surely. Not to
know anything, not in the sense the Revenue would seek to know it. Just to touch him, to feel the softness of his hands on her.
It is only the faintest part of her, the inspector, that insists there are still questions to be answered. Out of nothing, unasked-for and unwanted, Anneli’s voice comes to her, repeating words she never said.
One thing you should know about my husband. I never knew when I could trust him.
When she opens her eyes he is watching her, his face so close she can smell the salt on his skin. ‘Tell me about Lawrence,’ she says, and he comedy-grimaces.
‘You know already.’
‘But that’s what you always say.’
‘But I say it because it’s always true. What can I tell you that you don’t already know?’
‘If I already know then you can tell me again,’ she says, matter-of-fact. Still, he sighs and sits back up, away from her.
‘Alright, let’s get it over with. Lawrence had something to offer. Something I thought I needed. It was business, we did business and that was all. I never had much time for business. You know that.’
The silence falls again. This time it is less comfortable, and she takes her eyes off him, looks out at the Atlantic. The sun’s fierce glitter off the waves.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ Lightly. ‘So you tried to stop me,’ she adds, and this time he has no smile ready. ‘Was that it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re asking –’
‘Yes you do,’ she chides. As if it is still a game, though she knows it isn’t. It isn’t something she can smile away, this exchange. She feels a tremor of unease, almost of fear. This isn’t what I expected, she thinks, and then; but this isn’t what he expected, either. This conversation at the end of the world.
‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what, love?’
‘Did you use Lawrence to get to me? To make me close the case?’
He closes his eyes. Patiently opens them. ‘Alright. Okay. An opportunity was presented to me, and I took it. Listen, Anna –’
‘Did he come to you, then?’
‘What?’
‘Whose idea was it? I know he always wanted money. Did he come to you, or did you go to him?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters, alright? Did he?’
Only when he laughs – smiling with anger or frustration – does she realise he isn’t going to tell her. That he can’t. It is beyond him to tell her the whole truth.
‘Anna, why do we have to go over this? We’re here now, aren’t we? Can’t we just leave it behind?’
‘No, I don’t know if we can.’
‘What?’
It is the shock in his voice which makes her realise what she has said. She doesn’t try to say it again. Her heart is hammering unevenly inside her. Not painfully, quite, but unhealthily, as if the months of cigarettes are about to catch up with her. For a second she wonders if she will faint.
‘Anna. Anna.’
‘What?’
‘Is it Anneli?’ he says. She has to laugh.
‘No!’
‘Nathan, then?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘I know you cared about Nathan.’ He leans back on the flat of the rock. ‘And Muriet, even little Muriet. You’re a good person, Anna. Too good for me.’
His voice drifting. Too early, she almost expects him to say. Too late. For a while neither of them says anything. She is aware of him, watching her, but she doesn’t turn to look at him again. She can see gulls, so far out to sea they are barely visible. White shreds of life. She wonders if they still mean rain.
‘How is my son?’
‘Okay.’
‘What does that mean?’
She turns to look back at him. ‘She said to tell you they’re okay,’ she says, and feels a pang of relief when he flinches. After a moment he sits up with a grunt, stiffly, and hunkers forward.
‘Anna, why do you think I left them?’
‘How many guesses do I have?’
‘No, really. Why did I leave?’
‘So the lawyers ruin your life, not theirs.’ She stops, waiting for his agreement. Instead he stays bent forward, quite still, not answering.
‘Why, then?’
‘Because Anneli told me to.’
‘That’s not what she said.’
‘But it’s the truth.’
‘What difference does it make, anyway?’ she asks, and he shrugs.
‘I thought it might make a difference to us, that’s all. I’m divorced, Anna. Anneli stayed with me for Nathan’s sake. Now all that’s gone, and everyone knows everything. Even Nathan knows. I left because she told me to. I can’t go back to them because she won’t have me back.’
She looks away from him, taking it in. Remembering Anneli’s offer. You can have him if you want him. The sun has dimmed behind high formations of cirrus. The air seems colder as she breathes.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘No.’
‘But you can still see Nathan,’ she says, and he makes a sound in his throat, ah, like an echo of Michael, an expression of amused, forlorn disgust.
‘Can I? I wish I could. What hours would they give me, do you think? Would the judge allow us Sundays if I took him to my caravan? If I turned up at a custody hearing hey’d laugh in my face at my arrogance and then on the way out, oh by the way, sue me for the skin off my back … Anna, I can’t see him. Not until he chooses for himself.’
‘But the code –’ she starts, and he groans.
‘The code, the code. The code was just the way it happened to end. It could have just as easily been something else. Maybe the money made more of a difference to Anneli than I realised … I don’t know. We weren’t fine for a long time before that. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Anna?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, but she has said it too many times, and she no longer knows what she is replying to.
‘Anna.’
‘Is it true?’ and before he can tell her, ‘Maybe you should go back to them anyway.’
‘Anna, I’ve lost them. I’ve lost more these last months than most people gain in their whole lives.’ He leans closer. ‘Please. I don’t want to lose you too.’
She doesn’t reply. I don’t know whether to believe you, she would say, if she was going to say anything at all. And then she almost does.
‘I want to believe you.’
He leans down towards her, smiling, shaking his head, as if he is going to say, It’s alright. And then instead he says, ‘Of course you do,’ and in a terrible moment she knows that she is right after all: that she is wrong. She has always been wrong about him.
It is a long time, a space of minutes, before he sighs and, standing, looks down at her. ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, but he just laughs, and not unkindly.
‘It’s alright. Really. We’ll laugh about this one day. Will you open the parcel?’
She unwraps it miserably, holding the paper down before it can be blown away. Inside is a tupperware box marked Spring Stew in thick green pen, a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, a pot of jam. ‘She looks after you well.’
‘She’s a good cook.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you stay?’
She looks at her watch, not really seeing it, crying a little, then up at him. The sun is behind him, so bright she has to look away.
‘I have some time,’ she says. ‘I think I still have some time.’
It is a long way home to London. Longer, it seems to Anna, than the journey north the day before. And measured in time it is; eighteen hours, as if she is travelling halfway round the world. In her seats and berths and dining cars she sits silently, not reading now, since she has nothing left to read. Only looking out at the land that passes by her into darkness.
The local train is late in, and she misses her connection. At Central Station she looks for the linctus-scented guard, but the sh
ifts have inevitably changed and he has gone, leaving behind two younger men who have little time for her. It is hours before a new seat is found and her ticket changed without penalties, and when she finally leaves Glasgow it is night again. She reaches King’s Cross just before four and takes a cab home, watching the tariff rise in hypnotic green numerals.
His voice comes back to her all the way. Not from the island but from an earlier time. Her own answering it. More softly, as if there is less life in her.
I didn’t know if I could trust you. I don’t know now. Anna.
What?
Can I trust you?
You have to trust, she thinks. Because you need love, you need it even if you hate the one you love. And in love trust is everything.
Now she is almost home. The driver knows the way. Two blocks east, five north. They turn into her road. It has started to rain again. Above the street the winter cherries have come into blossom, white shreds in the lamp-post light.
She pays the driver, leaving him the last of what she has as a tip. It takes a while for her to find her keys in the dusk. She closes the door behind her, leans against it and begins to cry, slowly at first, in great angry sobs, not for herself but for John.
It is almost light, and she is too exhausted for sleep. In the end she manages four hours, her eyes crusted shut with tears, curled in the only armchair, the cat at her feet a miniature. When she wakes the radio is on, the tuner set to timer.
She goes through to the kitchen. She has forgotten to turn the heat back on and the room is cold and unwelcoming. She searches the radio for music with one hand while she checks the cupboards with the other. There is nothing to eat that she can face, and she makes coffee instead. It is just ready, the steam warm and bitter-sweet on her face, when she looks up out of the window and sees him.
He is like the dream. He is standing across the street, on the driveway, under the trees. His hair is wet, pale in the clear nine o’clock light. He is exactly like the dream, and she puts the coffee down carefully, as if she might break it.
Her shoes lie discarded in the hall. She puts them on, belting her dressing gown, and unlocks the door. She is halfway across the road before Lawrence sees her.
‘About time. Where were you?’
‘Lawrence … what are you doing here?’
