Idea in Stone

by Hamish Macdonald

  Throughout dinner, Stefan noticed Fiona looking at Roddy as he picked another pork chop from the centre plate without asking, or drank from a beer bottle while the rest of them drank water or milk. Stefan knew the look on her face, though Roddy wasn’t paying enough attention to see it, and she likely didn’t realise she was showing it. Ming looked at him this way shortly before telling him that it was over between them.

  Heart tissue, he read once, never regenerates once it’s damaged. He wondered how long it would be before she told Roddy he had to go.

  All John, Fiona, and Stefan were concerned with was Peter’s upcoming trial. Barry sent his regrets that he couldn’t make it back, but assured them that his lawyer friend was the man to help them. They were scheduled to meet him the next day.

  ~

  The meeting took place in an upscale restaurant in the New Town. Stefan had money now, and wanted to treat Barry’s lawyer friend well, to make Peter’s case his utmost priority. The lawyer was a tall, stocky man with thin ginger hair and a young boy’s face. He was warm and friendly, and had none of the cruelty Stefan witnessed in Barry’s other friends at the wedding. Better still, the lawyer believed he could help Peter.

  “Admittedly,” said the lawyer, “Peter did turn himself in the day of the explosion. But he never explicitly said that he caused the explosion, that day or since.”

  “But the paint?” asked Stefan.

  “It places him at the scene, yes. There’s definitely grounds for suspicion, and, if we’re not lucky, a charge of malicious mischief. But it’s not enough to conclusively prove that he blew up the building.”

  “This is good,” said Fiona, smiling and sitting back in her chair to sip her white wine. She’d commented when they’d first sat down that it was a nice restaurant. She hadn’t said it, but Stefan got the intended irony, that they should be in such luxury on Peter’s behalf while he sat in jail.

  “The prosecuting lawyers are fairly convinced that he’s not actually the one who did this.”

  “That’s good, because he’s not,” said Stefan.

  “Yes, well, the trial is about establishing that. If you know anything more, I’d love to hear it.”

  Stefan looked at Fiona, then shook his head.

  “Alright,” said the lawyer, unsure but not pressing. “Say they can’t prove that he was responsible for the explosion, and say they decide there isn’t enough evidence to proceed with any other charges. Then he’ll be okay. Unless, of course, the police feel that he’s involved in some kind of terr—” The lawyer’s mobile phone made a warbling noise in his pocket. He took it out and read a text message on it. “I should get going,” he said, holding up the mobile as his explanation. “Let’s meet again later in the week to go over what we’ve got.”

  “Thanks,” said Fiona.

  “Thanks,” said Stefan, shaking the lawyer’s hand. Stefan sat as the lawyer left, then leaned over to Fiona. “Where can I find our friend Rab? I need to have a talk with him.”

  ~

  It didn’t surprise Stefan to learn that Rab lived with his mother. Short months ago, he would have felt himself in no position to judge, but now everything was different.

  Rab’s mother gave Stefan a mobile number to call. To be safe, Stefan called Rab from a payphone. Stefan geared himself up for a confrontation, but Rab actually sounded glad to hear from him. “There’s a meeting tonight,” he told Stefan, “and you have to be there.” He gave Stefan directions to the meeting-place.

  That night, Stefan walked across town, following the directions, which were good up until the last piece of information. Rab gave him a street name and a building number, but the street ended before Stefan reached the address. The tarmac crumbled away to cobbles, which in turn were overgrown with grass. He could see a building ahead, but it looked abandoned. The light was failing, and he felt unsure. As little as he knew Rab, though, he figured this was exactly the kind of place he’d hold a meeting.

  The building was solid, stately, and completely black, like a Greek temple that had been ransacked and burned. As he got closer, Stefan saw a fine green moss clinging to the blackness. He touched a pillar, running his hand over the rough stone then moved his hand onto the soft fur of the moss. The feel of it calmed him. He put his cheek against it. He wondered where the scratchman was. This seemed to be the kind of place he’d expect to find him, too. The thought didn’t seem so scary anymore.

  “Ste!” called a voice. He knew that it was Rab—trouble himself. Soon enough, he saw Rab’s gangly frame coming toward him in the evening gloom.

  “Alright?”

  “Well, Rab, my boyfriend is in jail. Let’s see. What else is going on? No, just that.”

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “How about trading places with him?”

  “Ste, I can’t do that right now. There are important things going on. Come inside and meet the others, and maybe you’ll understand.”

  Stefan followed him around the back of the building. Rab got down on his belly and crawled his way through an empty basement window pane. His head vanished through the small opening, then his torso, legs, and finally his feet vanished. His hands re-emerged, summoning Stefan through.

  Stefan was not usually claustrophobic, but this pushed him to a new limit. He hunkered down, then got on his belly. He stuck his hands through and Rab took them. Rab pulled and Stefan slid forward. Peter’s puffy jacket, which Stefan still wore for sentimental reasons, left him wedged helplessly in the window for a moment while he wiggled on either end, but with a tug, Rab pulled him into the damp basement of the building, where he landed on a hard floor. He stood up, brushed off his knees and hands, and followed the faint light of the torch Rab produced.

  They went up a set of stairs, and Stefan found himself in a lobby or lounge illuminated softly by lanterns, candles, and torches. He saw people, about twenty or thirty young men and women, sitting on old chaise longues, wingback chairs, or on the marble floor. On either side of the room was a large fireplace, but these were unlit, probably for fear of drawing attention.

  “Sorry for the delay, everyone,” said Rab. “This is Ste. He’s come to join us.”

  “Well, uh, no, I haven’t really,” said Stefan.

  “Come on,” said Rab, “you know what’s happening here in this city. Peter told me you could actually see it as it was happening.”

  “Look, I don’t know what I’ve been seeing. Maybe I’ve just been imagining it.”

  “You know you’re not imagining it,” said a woman, stepping out of the darkness. “And I know you’re not, because I can see it, too.”

  “Ste,” said Rab, “this is Mairi.”

  Twenty-Three

  Vive!

  “Do you really think Morton is all that dangerous?” asked Stefan. He sat beside Rab in a circle with the other men and women in the burnt temple building. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the others weren’t all the would-be hippies he’d taken them for, but from different walks of life, young and old.

  “You have no idea how dangerous he is,” said Mairi.

  “So why am I here?” asked Stefan. “You seem pretty well-organised. What do you need me for?”

  “Ste,” said Rab, “your play started a revolution, and it’s spreading. People are up in arms because of it. The only problem is that it leaves them there. It doesn’t give them anyplace to go. We want to help them see what we’re fighting against, and what we’re fighting for.”

  “We’re being sold an idea of what our lives are about,” said Mairi. “But it’s some company’s idea. It’s got nothing to do with our lives or our culture.” She leaned forward on her fists. “You know what Morton said the other day? Morton keeps talking about his vision for the city, so in a meeting the other day someone finally asked him what that was. ‘Better shopping,’ he said, ‘and office space’. That’s it: shopping and office space.”

  “Okay,” said Stefan, “granted it’s not exactly inspir
ing, but that’s his business. So his biggest crime is believing his own spin.”

  “No, Ste,” said Mairi, “what’s worst about this guy is that he has the means to make it happen. He wants to turn this beautiful old city into—well, a mall. And he’s doing it. Anyone in power who doesn’t fit his vision gets replaced with someone who does. His money makes him a lot of friends. Sure, some people can’t be bought, but that doesn’t stop him. Say he makes an offer on your building and you hold out for too long. Well, you’re gonna find yourself holding a fire sale pretty soon.”

  “So we’re thinking,” said Rab, “that if you came up with another play, that might—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Stefan, standing up. “That wasn’t my play, it was my father’s.”

  “Ste, come on, you know how to make it happen. Please,” Rab implored. “You’ve seen what’s happening here. If we don’t do this, we’re going to lose everything. Why did you come all this way to be here if you don’t care about it, if you don’t appreciate what makes it special?”

  “We’ve both seen what’s happening,” said Mairi, standing up and taking his hand, “and you know what? That’s nothing.” An idea struck her as she looked at him. “I’m going to take you to work with me tomorrow, and then you’ll understand the scale of what’s coming. If that doesn’t convince you, then we’ll agree to leave you alone.” She looked to Rab.

  Rab nodded. “Right. And if you’re not convinced, I’ll go to the police and turn myself in. Then you’ll have Peter back, and you can run away somewhere where this isn’t happening—if you can find it.”

  Stefan was stunned. “Okay,” he said. The people around the room nodded their heads, and some clapped their hands.

  “Alright,” said Rab.

  ~

  The next morning, Ste dressed in his best suit and caught a bus into the city centre. As the bus crested a hill, the Old Town rose in front of him like a stone crown. At the next stop, Stefan stepped from the bus, saying, “Thank you, Driver”. His heart soared as he stood in the morning sunlight, which was so bright it banished the usual winter grey.

  He walked along Princes Street. Every building contained a shop, and at least half of them were the same shops he’d left behind in Toronto. As he looked up, Stefan saw that some of the buildings still had elaborate fronts, but above street level. Where he walked, it seemed every attempt had been made to erase any distinguishing features.

  He stopped in front of an old department store, marvelling at the detailed masonry above. Four female sandstone figures stood with their arms over their heads, as if holding up the building. As Stefan watched, each of the young women faltered, losing their grip on the stone. One by one, they lost their footing, too, and tipped forward. Their faces looked horrified, and their mouths were wide with silent shrieks. Stefan covered his head and jumped backward, yelling “Heads up!” to the people around him on the pavement. But halfway down, the women turned to sand and were diffused by a gust of wind. A few of the shoppers who heard Stefan stopped to look up. They blinked and coughed, then threw annoyed looks at him before moving on. The places where the women once stood in the façade were now just four empty recesses. Scaffolding stood just below, and on it was a sign: “Restoration by Morton”.

  Stefan brushed himself off and continued down the street. A few doors further, he passed a crater-like construction site which was partially hidden by wooden hoarding. Whatever Georgian building originally stood in that spot, it had been reduced to rubble. The airbrushed picture on the hoarding showed that it was to be replaced with a cube of concrete and glass. A plastic sign declared “Future home of another Morton development”.

  He’s everywhere, thought Stefan. It was as if Morton had got into the water-table. Even in the time since Stefan arrived, the man seemed to have touched everything.

  He walked to the far end of Princes Street, where Mairi waited for him. She was dressed much more formally than the last time he’d seen her. “You look nice,” he said.

  “Everyone pitched in to help me buy these clothes when I got the job at Morton’s office. I couldn’t afford to dress like this on my own, but he demands it of his staff.”

  “Right. Do I look okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, smashing,” she said. She pointed for him to cross the street. They walked through the gate into Princes Street Gardens.

  A figure stood inside the gate, an old black bronze military man on horseback. “Good morning, madam,” he said to Mairi, touching the brim of his tall bearskin hat and tipping his head. Mairi waved a dismissive hand at him. Stefan saluted him, and he saluted back. Only a moment later did it occur to Stefan that it was odd for her to see and hear the figure, too.

  They walked down through the gardens, passing a huge fountain made of base metal painted gold. Animals and fish frolicked in it, but Mairi had no time for them, either.

  “Can we stop for a second?” asked Stefan.

  “No, or we’ll be late. Do you really want to look at that thing?” she snipped at him.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Ste, just because something’s old doesn’t make it good.”

  “Yeah, but—wait,” he said, touching her arm. She stopped and looked at him. “What am I going to this office with you for, if it’s not to save things like that fountain?”

  “Look, some of us want to save it all, while others, like me, think we simply need to be more selective about what we replace. I just don’t trust the selection process Morton is using. My background is in art, so I—I don’t know, I’d like to think I have a certain sense of taste about these things. And that,” she said, pointing at the fountain, “is in bad taste, whenever it’s from.” She continued walking.

  “I kinda like it,” he said. A golden fish jumped from its highest point as Stefan turned and ran after Mairi.

  ~

  Mairi sat Stefan in the lobby then took the lift to Morton’s office. A few minutes later, the lift door opened again. Morton stepped out, followed by a squat round man in a grey suit whom Stefan recognised as the Lord Provost. Mairi followed behind the two men, writing instructions from Morton on a clipboard as he spoke them to her over his shoulder. She followed them as far as the revolving door, but when they stepped into it, she turned back to Stefan. He joined her as she grumbled under her breath about Morton.

  “The Lord Provost is like the mayor, right? Is it appropriate for him to be having private meetings with Morton?”

  She shrugged her shoulders as she pushed the button for the lift. “He doesn’t really do ‘appropriate’.”

  The lift carried them to the office. Stefan was amazed at the view. The art—the metal stalagmites scattered around the floor, and a wall hanging like a tar-pool sprinkled with gold-leaf—struck him as ugly and frightening, but he put his hands on the windows and sighed at the view.

  “Uh, if you could not touch anything,” said Mairi, lifting his hands, spraying the marks where they’d been and wiping the glass with paper towel.

  The lift door opened again and Stefan jumped. “It’s okay,” said Mairi. Three staff members emerged, one of them pushing a cart. Mairi nodded to them, and they busied themselves with various details of Morton’s office, smoothing his leather chair, rearranging the biscuits on his desk, setting out a glass of water, then testing its temperature with a thermometer.

  “We have fifteen minutes before he comes back,” said Mairi, re-checking her clipboard. “Come with me,” she said. She led him through a door at the far side of the office into a boardroom. Along the entire length of the table was a model of Edinburgh. Stefan was amazed at its detail, but when he leaned in to take a closer look, was puzzled to see that everything seemed to be frozen in ice. Then he realised that what covered and filled the old buildings wasn’t meant to be ice, but glass. He poked the model with a finger, touching a tiny building. As he did, it collapsed like cigarette ash. He stood up and looked at the dust on his finger.

  “Hello?” said a voice. Mairi and Stefan turned to
see Morton in the doorway.

  “Ah, sir, you’re back early,” said Mairi.

  “Yes I am,” said Morton. “Who’s this?”

  “Uh, this is, this is your 9:35.”

  Stefan glared at her.

  “And who might you be?” asked Morton, extending a hand.

  “Stefan Mackechnie,” answered Stefan, accepting it.

  A startled look flashed across Morton’s face for a second, but he quickly covered it. “What can I do for you?”

  “I represent a small group of conservation societies here in—”

  “No you don’t,” said Morton. He turned on Mairi. “Why did you let him in here?”

  “Wait a minute Mister Morton. She—”

  “No, I’m sorry, you wait a minute. This is my office, and you’re not welcome here.”

  “You don’t even know who I am,” argued Stefan.

  “I know very well who you are. You’re the one who put on that play here this summer, the one that started the riots. You have no idea how expensive that was for me. And then one of my buildings was attacked by some kind of militants, probably as a direct result of your father’s lunatic ideas.”

  “My fa—?”

  “I went to school with Robert Mackechnie. I recognised his name when I heard it associated with that play —” he mocked the word—“this summer. You’re the spit and image of him. We were good friends in school, but then he completely lost the plot and went off to Canada, where he met that—”

  Stefan lunged at him, but Morton reacted quickly, pushing him back against the table with a hand on his throat. The hand was so cold it instantly gave Stefan a headache, and he felt the heat leaching out of his body. He couldn’t bear to touch the man’s hand to pull it away.

  Mairi grabbed the glass of water from the desk and struck Morton with it. The contents splashed over his expensive suit, but the glass didn’t break. Morton was startled enough to let go of Stefan, but not incapacitated. He turned on Mairi, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re with them, aren’t you? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.” He headed for the lift, jerking her along behind him.