Kathy then revealed her own information. She left out her brother’s earlier existence, but told Margery Nairn that she hadn’t seen or heard of her brother in many years. He hadn’t come home for his mother’s funeral in 1968, citing ‘important business’, and as far as she knew, no one in the family had heard of his marriage to Rose until Harry – sorry, Hari – had told her in recent weeks. However, their father had died recently and she hadn’t known of any way to contact him and, of course, there were matters arising that needed Peter’s input. Margery looked shocked. Rose, it transpired, hadn’t attended her father’s funeral either. A very formal-sounding letter had arrived some weeks later, saying that she and Peter had been away on ‘important business’, and had only heard of her father’s death when they had returned. By then, of course, it had been too late. Margery had been disturbed about it, she had felt hurt and let down, she supposed, but she assumed her daughter would come home to console her as soon as possible, only she didn’t. Kathy didn’t tell her Old Aggie’s opinion of Peter’s absence when Lily died, or her own explosive reaction; she was dealing with a refined lady, after all. Sitting listening to Margery’s worries she felt angry. She had never minded Peter disappearing, not for herself anyway, they had, as she was the first to admit, never been close. But Margery Nairn, for all her alien upper-crust ways, had obviously been a good mother to Rose. She had brought her up in a good home, given her a decent education and yet she had been cast aside by her daughter because she had not further use for her. The cult of wannabe angels had decreed that families, especially close, supportive families, were obsolete. If someone felt the need for wings that was certainly their business, she thought, but those who had been discarded should at least have been accorded the decency of an explanation, especially from offspring who had benefited from being part of a family, as Rose had. Instead Margery, and doubtless many others just like her, had been left to worry and fret over missing relatives, fearing the worst but unable to get through the brick wall the cult had erected to keep them out, unable to find out what had happened to people they loved. It wasn’t right; it was arrogant and elitist. Those who had been discarded had a right to be told why, to be told to sod off, she decided. Peter and Rose should’ve had the decency to at least say, ‘Look, we’re involved in something, we’re happy with it, but it doesn’t include you. We want you to consider us unrelated from now on, and if you try to contact us we won’t reply.’ That at least would have been clear; even if the likes of Margery didn’t like it, they would’ve been saved the anxiety of wondering if their relatives were in some kind of trouble and needed help. In Kathy’s mind it became a quest, a search for justice, and anyway, she dearly wanted to face Peter the Messiah and tell him what a prat he was, but she’d keep that to herself for the moment. The big question was, could she keep a straight face while she was delivering her telling-off in the middle of the Mojave Desert?
There was a brief return to her cottage at Drumsallie while her passport was sorted out, then Kathy told Rory she was off again.
‘I knew it,’ he replied calmly.
‘You knew what?’ Kathy asked.
‘I knew as soon as you spent any time in the city again you’d want to go back for good.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ she protested. ‘If you must know, I have a brother in California and over the years we’ve lost touch. Now I have to find him to tie up the loose ends after my father dying.’
‘Hmm,’ Rory muttered. ‘First I find out you have a father, now it’s a brother! Seems to me that whenever you need an excuse to get away from the West Coast you invent a long-forgotten relative!’
‘Oh, listen to the man!’ she said. ‘Rory Macdonald, you used to accuse me of being melodramatic, have you listened to yourself?’
‘Och, I always said it anyway,’ he said with a grin. ‘I always said you’d never last up here, your sort never do!’
‘As I recall, you said I’d be gone within six months – that was twenty years ago!’
‘Aye, well, six months or twenty years, what’s the difference?’
‘What’s the difference?’ she shouted at him. ‘I’ve been living here at least as long as I ever lived in Glasgow!’ But he’d turned his back and was walking off, with Cat following happily behind.
15
The further away from home she got the less sure she became about what she was doing. It made no sense to go chasing after her long-lost brother like this, especially when he didn’t want to be found. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, though, and she couldn’t explain that either. It wasn’t as if they had ever been close, or even liked each other for that matter, but ever since Con’s death she had lain awake in the wee small hours calling Peter to mind. She remembered his determination that he knew what was best for everyone, and how they had accepted it; she could never fathom that one out, even when it was happening before her very eyes. He had seemed so strong and confident, so sure of himself, but just occasionally she had wondered about that, even when she was a child. Their natures were similar, she had always been aware of that, though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of her. People talked about her as ‘that Kathy Kelly’, who always stood her ground, who said what she thought, who took no prisoners, yet she had never felt strong, not deep inside. She remembered someone once saying to her, ‘It’s all right for you, you’ve got a lot of confidence,’ and she had been astounded. She had never felt confident, she felt as though she had lurched from one crisis in her life to the next, making decisions on the hoof and desperately hoping they were the right ones. She had no capacity for seeing through the mist to the core of whatever problem appeared on the horizon, her survival instinct had provoked certain reactions that to outsiders looked like confidence, that was all. But still, she was pleased that she had come across as though she knew exactly what she was doing, even if it had all been a trick of the light. She was Harry in another form, she thought, laughing to herself, her whole life had been a conjuring act, the illusionist’s art ran in the family after all. So what if Peter’s life had been the same, she mused? What if Peter’s strong, dominant personality was a front to disguise the extent of his weaknesses? It was something that had crossed her mind before. There was that time when he had lashed out verbally at her because, he had said, her interests were insular, they proved she was incapable of engaging with people. And even as he ranted on, she had suddenly realised that, despite being older and supposedly superior, he was jealous of his younger sister. She had demonstrated a talent and he had been threatened by it; a truly strong, confident nature wasn’t threatened by the success of others, surely? And there were times, too, when he was pontificating on other people’s lives and problems, decreeing from on high that they were all idiots, and she had caught a glance from the corner of his eye, a swift look to see if she had swallowed it. She never did, of course, that was partly why they had never got on, Peter needed to be acknowledged as the one and only authority on everyone and everything, and it annoyed him that his younger sister refused to join the adoring masses. But why had it mattered to him, she wondered? She was nearly eleven years younger than him, he was adored by his family and everyone around him, so why was he so afraid that she had seen through him? Was it because he had seen through himself and, sensing that they were so alike, suspected that she had too? Thinking about it annoyed her. She didn’t want to think about Peter, she hadn’t given him more than a passing thought in more than twenty years, he was out of her life and she was out of his. Yet here she was, almost feeling something for him, though she couldn’t make up her mind what it was. Empathy? Dear God, please, not that! Understanding, forgiveness? ‘Oh, gie’s a break!’ she muttered, but despite that she was on her way to find him; it made no sense.
‘If you look out of the windows on the left-hand side of the aircraft,’ said the co-pilot over the intercom, ‘you’ll be able to see Las Vegas.’
Kathy looked down at the bright spot of light in the darkness, the excess of ele
ctrical power that was Las Vegas. At least she could say she had seen it, she thought, for what that was worth. In a few minutes the plane would be landing at Los Angeles airport, the furthest from home she had ever been. Even from the sky Los Angeles looked like what it was, a shrine to the car, with multi-laned roads stretching in every direction, crammed with automobiles. From the air it looked as though they were crawling along, like spaghetti studded with flies, she thought, and just as unappetising. The specially tailored deal she had made with the travel agent included a driver to take her to Gabriel’s Gateway, but first of all she had to get away from the unbearable heat that had hit her like a blast furnace as she stepped outside the airport, and she needed to get some sleep too. The driver could pick her up the next day, and luckily he knew where he was going, because she wasn’t at all sure that she could say ‘Gabriel’s Gateway’ without collapsing in a heap of laughter in front of him. She had decided not to tell the aspirant angels that she was about to descend on them, suspecting that they might not be terribly welcoming, especially to family members, and forewarning them would give them time to man the barricades against her. She would, she decided, simply turn up and ask to see Brother Peter. She had waited a long time for this, nearly a lifetime in fact, and she could hardly wait to see his face when she confronted him.
She had started compiling a hate list immediately she heard the first ‘Have a nice day!’ She hated LA, she decided, the noise, the heat, the sunshine that hurt your eyes; it was hard to believe that people not only lived here, but chose to do so. As soon as she could get this business over with she would be on the first flight home again. She was annoyed about everything, at herself for being here, mainly. After picking her up the next day the taxi driver tried valiantly to open up a conversation, but he soon gave up when her replies refused to move beyond one repeated syllable. Was she on holiday? No. Was she thinking of joining the commune in the desert? No. Was she planning to stay long, because he could provide very competitive rates if she wanted a conducted tour? No. Did she like LA? No. In Glenfinnan she dealt with tourists all day, so she refused to be treated like one. Did she like LA, indeed! She would never have thought of asking a tourist the same thing about Scotland, it was so crass! The journey took three long, mostly silent hours, at the end of which she had discovered something else she hated: air conditioning. She would’ve died without it, but it was unnatural. She thought of the freshness of a West Coast morning, with the cool, clean mist still capping the hills and creeping across the loch, as the deer grazed on the grass along the shoreline. She felt a stab of homesickness and yearned to be back, wondering again what the hell she was doing here. ‘If Ah ever get back,’ she promised no one in particular, ‘Ah’ll never complain about the rain ever again!’
Her first sight of Gabriel’s Gateway reminded her of every picture she had seen of prison compounds. The high walls contained the area owned by the cult, screening those inside from the gaze of the world, and vice versa, she mused. She had once heard a deluded Communist trying to explain the rationale behind the erection of the Berlin Wall. It wasn’t, he said, to keep those inside from escaping to the West, perish the thought, but to keep Westerners from gatecrashing and partaking of the delights of the East. She thought the High Seekers would probably say the same about their wall, and they would probably believe it too. At the entrance were two huge, wrought-iron gates, predictably representing angels and carefully painted in purple and gold. She got out of the car and yelled through the security intercom that she wished to see Brother Peter Kelly. There was a pause.
‘Have you an appointment, ma’am?’ a voice drawled politely.
‘No,’ Kathy replied.
‘Well, ma’am, admittance here is strictly by appointment only. I suggest you go back and call this number –’
‘Look, chum,’ Kathy said wearily, ‘I’ve travelled several thousand miles to get here. I suggest you let me in to see my brother, my actual brother, because I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Your “actual brother”, ma’am?’
‘As in, we inhabited the same womb, were fertilised by the same sperm source, God help us. Peter Kelly, married to one Rose Nairn. Do you know who I’m talking about?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am, I know them,’ the voice said carefully. ‘I just don’t know if they’ll be at home to visitors is all.’
‘Is there a local newspaper around here?’ Kathy asked. ‘Radio stations, TV stations? You wouldn’t have their numbers, would you?’
There was another silence. She imagined furious celestial discussions going on somewhere behind the gold and purple gates. ‘Grieving sister turned away from Gabriel’s Gateway, that’s what the headlines will say,’ Kathy said into the intercom. ‘Screaming very loudly and telling of her disgraceful treatment in the desert.’
The gates opened. ‘Please drive through, ma’am,’ said the voice. ‘Follow the road till you come to our reception area. Brother Peter will be summoned there to meet with you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly, hopping back in to the nasty, blessed air conditioning, sweat covering every part of her body.
It was like following the yellow brick road and entering Oz, none of it felt or looked real. Here they were in the middle of this ghastly, burning hot desert, the sand as far as the eye could see shimmering with a silvery heat haze, yet inside the gates was a land of greenery, with fountains, well laid-out and tended gardens and giant palm trees. It looked like a garden centre that had been delivered to the wrong address, only it had been too much trouble to take it away again, so here it had remained, out of place and wrong somehow. All around were people clad in purple. These, she surmised, must be the apprentices; if she saw a solitary creature wearing wings she would know she had encountered Wally, the one and only angel she was ever likely to see in her life, or after it, come to that. The car drew up outside a tall, white building. It had been constructed of glass and concrete, but whoever had designed it had a classical Greek theme in mind that didn’t quite come off in modern materials. Wasn’t that just like the Americans? All that cash and application, and they still couldn’t get European concepts right. Aristotle would’ve been horrified.
She took a deep breath before bolting out of the car; going into that merciless heat was like going under water, you needed something in reserve till you reached safety. There was a committee of one waiting for her in the reception area, another purple-clad clone who looked so cool and relaxed that she hated him on the spot; another one for her list of hates. He extended a cool hand and shook her proffered hot, sweaty one weakly, with obvious distaste. If she would take a seat, he told her, Brother Peter would be here momentarily. Why didn’t they speak properly? ‘In a minute’, ‘soon’; what was wrong with that? He extended a graceful arm, indicating a row of seats with a long, low table in front, and on the table was a glass and a jug of water, the outside of the jug dulled by the cold temperature of the icy water inside. The thought crossed her mind that the liquid could be spiked, she could wake up tomorrow and find herself in the custody of a white slaver somewhere in Arabia, a son of the desert with a burnoose and a mouthful of gold teeth, but she didn’t care. It was hard gulping down an entire jug of cold water with gorgeous, beautiful ice cubes floating around inside, in a ladylike manner, so she didn’t bother trying. The annoying cool purple clone stepped forward and wordlessly refilled the jug from a standard American, upturned-flagon, water dispenser in the corner, and brought it back to her. Then he retreated behind a desk on the other side of the wide stone-tiled floor. She would’ve given anything to take her shoes off and walk barefoot over those cool-looking tiles, but she decided against it; with her luck Brother Peter would appear at that very moment, and nothing would lose her the higher ground faster than being barefoot. She looked around. You couldn’t call this a room, it looked like a cross between a cathedral and an aircraft hangar, as though the architect, the same one, presumably, who hadn’t got the outside quite right, had found it just as difficult to make
up his mind about the inside. Various purple clones passed back and forth, and there was nothing particularly alluring about the one approaching the cool one at the desk. There was a short conversation before the figure turned round to face her. ‘Dear God!’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Did Ah no’ have him burnt in the Linn a few weeks ago?’ She didn’t recognise him as Peter, but had she seen him in a street anywhere in the universe she would’ve recognised him as Con. Like all the others he was wearing a shirt of some coarsely woven material, with a mandarin collar and long sleeves, and a pair of wide, baggy trousers in the same material and colour. On his feet he had thong sandals; Harry was right, he would be perfectly at home here, she thought. There was a long moment of eye-contact as he walked to where she was sitting. She stood up.
‘I’m—’
‘I know who you are,’ he said, in a strong American accent. ‘You look exactly like your mother.’
Not my mother, she noticed, not even our mother, but your mother. She passed the ball. ‘And you look exactly like your father.’
Peter smiled slightly, a strange smile, polite but distantly cold. Then she looked into his eyes and was suddenly horrified by what she saw, or didn’t see, there. She had come here full of righteous indignation, ready and anxious to face her brother, determined to make him account for himself, to rub his nose in it. And not just about his cult either, it went deeper than that. She wanted to attack him for the way he had always behaved towards her, then she would leave here and feel vindicated, feel that she had got her revenge. But all that died the instant she looked into his eyes. He wasn’t there, that was the problem, no one was there. It was as if he was inhabiting an empty space, but there was something else. What? There was no feeling of connection, it was as if they were looking at each other, talking, thinking, but behind a screen.
Chasing Angels Page 31
