The Road to Hell

by Gillian Galbraith

  His lunch consisted of little more than a chunk of bread with some pickle and grated cheese. The Irish stew that his wife had left for him in the fridge remained untouched, congealing in its bowl. He did not need it. A good meal could be expected from Ellie that evening whatever happened, and allowing, encouraging even, one’s waistline to expand beyond thirty-six inches was, according to modern science, no less than a slow form of suicide. His trouser buttons, his early warning system, should not be ignored.

  Two hours later the school assembly was well under way. In the chilly central hall, there had been no interruptions or heckles and his homily, equating the dead lion with evil itself, seemed to have held the pupils spellbound, or at least speechless. Only one girl put her hand up to ask a question. She was over six feet tall and seemed to be wearing only a pelmet over her flesh-coloured tights. In an innocent tone she asked: ‘But, Sir, what about Aslan? He was a good lion, wasn’t he?’

  Where do I begin? the minister thought, his mind racing, confounded by the surreal quality of the query. But before he had opened his mouth to reply, the headmistress said in an irritated whisper, ‘Ignore her, Reverend. It’s the McGonagall girl, a well-known troublemaker.’

  This remark was picked up by his radio microphone and broadcast to the assembled children. Prolonged and loud laughter ensued, and the tall girl stood up and took several bows, acknowledging the applause and smiling at the headmistress who looked on, impotently, unwilling to hazard another word.

  Driving away from the barber towards 121 George Street and the Church and Society Council Meeting, Duncan McPhee enjoyed himself, contemplating to whom, among the membership, he would impart his good news. Graham would, undoubtedly, take it well and be genuinely pleased for him, but Susan’s expression would be worth watching. Horror, masquerading as joy, a difficult one to pull off.

  Entering the meeting room a couple of minutes late, he felt all eyes upon him. Nodding to all and sundry he took his place at the long table. His antennae twitched, picking up a definite frisson in the air. So the word must already be out, and dwelling amongst them.

  As had become customary, by the time the tray of drinks was brought into the meeting the coffee in the jug was tepid. No one seemed to have remembered about biscuits. A female minister moved to fill up the cups, then, seeing that none of the males present was going to help, withdrew her arm. No one else stirred.

  A paper on ‘The Ministry: Current Day Celebrity Culture and the Church’ was being delivered by a Gaelic-speaking minister from the Outer Isles, and he had already taken up most of the two hours allocated. ‘The Church has its own X-factor,’ he explained earnestly, ‘the cross of Jesus . . .’

  Duncan McPhee heard nothing of the talk. His mind was elsewhere, going over the changes in his life that he would have to make now that the Nomination Committee membership was on the horizon. All those loose ends would have to be tied up, otherwise he himself might become tangled up in them. Things must be simplified, whatever the cost.

  ‘Have you any views on this, Duncan?’ the Vice-Convenor asked.

  ‘About?’ he replied, emerging from his meditation and playing for time. He had no idea what ‘this’ might be.

  ‘About the “Britney” effect?’

  ‘No,’ he said, truthfully, looking round the room and braving the surprised glances that his uncharacteristic brevity had provoked. To make no contribution to the debate was a first for him. Ten minutes later, and bobbing his head cordially to all once more, he gathered up his papers and joined the queue that was forming to leave the building.

  Back at home, now standing in front of the mirror, he brushed the hair-trimmings off the shoulders of his black jacket. He straightened his badge and sucked in his belly, admiring his own reflection. Surveying it for a second time, he saw himself in the garb of the Moderator and in those robes he seemed, in his own eyes at least, literally to have grown in stature. Beside him he imagined his mother, alive once more, dressed as for church, accompanying him to some official function, a garden party, perhaps, or an official dinner. But he could not maintain the fiction for long. It became too alarming. What might she say? What might she do? So he readjusted the fantasy, conjuring her up in her front room as she watched him on television, her pride and delight undisguised as he opened the General Assembly.

  For the short walk ahead the dog would stay by his side on the pavement, so he did not bother to search for the lead. Had it been a Labrador or a collie, he would not have had even to consider such a precaution, but Juliet had always been drawn to unintelligent breeds. Except me, of course, he mused, I’m the exception to that rule.

  As he was going through the hall, he caught sight of a photograph of his wife. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait, showing her in her graduation gown. Looking into her familiar eyes, for a split-second he felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, betraying her again with another woman. How could he do it to her, his spouse of over thirty years?

  But that was the answer, of course. Familiarity had long since doused their fires. At some level, she must know about Ellie, he reflected, comforting himself with the thought. How could she not? And, knowing, she could not have minded. Could she? Otherwise she would have said something, done something. It was not part of her fiery nature to keep quiet about something like that. So, in its way, that was all right then, wasn’t it? No one had been hurt. And if by some odd fluke, some strange chance, she had never known, then that would be fine too – better, because what she did not know could not hurt her.

  In any event, it was all academic now, or it would be soon. Because this, really, would be the last time. Of course, the whole thing had been his fault. He himself had been at fault; he had to accept that, he was entirely to blame. But it had all been so unlikely. Only a saint could have resisted Ellie, and he made no pretence to sainthood. He had never expected, certainly never intended, that their long discussions about agendas, any other business or the minutes should somehow move from the sitting room to the bedroom. How had it happened? Perhaps he had had too much to drink and lowered his guard?

  Certainly, her loneliness had been no secret. It shone from her like a lighthouse beam. Or, perhaps, more accurately, like light from a wrecker’s lamp, luring ships off their course and onto the jagged reefs! Very soon a proper course would be resumed. Ellie had gone in with her eyes wide open, knew he was married, knew his calling. With membership of the Nomination Committee on the line, the equation had suddenly changed and the reward, certainly, no longer outweighed the risk. For him. Now there was far too much to lose.

  Yes, he would tell Ellie tonight as he had resolved earlier, explain the impossibility of their affair continuing and wipe away her tears. He had to think of Juliet. Had to consider Ellie’s interests too, because she deserved commitment and undivided love. More than he could ever have offered.

  Perhaps he should end the relationship by simply not going? But could things be adequately explained in a letter? Probably not, and it would look decidedly cowardly, unworthy of him. And the Irish stew had looked so unappealing in its Pyrex dish. In any event, she deserved to be told in person. It was the least he could do.

  Having so settled matters to his own satisfaction, he closed his front door behind him and inserted his key into the lock.

  When Alice arrived at Ian’s studio at 9 p.m. everyone else had already gone for the night. Crossing the cold concrete floor, listening to the sound of her footsteps echoing in the recesses of the place, she felt suddenly chilled and slightly afraid. The place felt different. The harsh strip-lighting made the shadows deeper and darker, capable of harbouring some malign thing, and the stillness in the air felt dead, like the stillness of the tomb. But the inventory must be done, she had promised his mother it would be ready by the end of the week.

  Aware that an irrational fear had begun to stalk her, she told herself off, telling herself that she had been there hundreds of times before and come to no harm. But that proved a mistake, because the calming voice which she
had summoned up, ruthlessly reminded her that, when she had come before, it had invariably been in company. With Ian. Not once had she been there on her own.

  An unwelcome thought flashed into her brain, almost made her run for the door: had her mystery caller tracked her down? Was he, whoever the hell he was, waiting for her in here? No. She had the key, had unlocked the place herself.

  Forcing herself onwards, she pushed her way through the cold, grey dividing sheet into Ian’s area, and saw that his easel was still up and had a half-finished canvas resting on it. She looked closely at the picture but at first sight it appeared incomprehensible, an incoherent jumble of colours. The background was made up of greys and blues, merging at the bottom into a solid block of pale yellow. Two-thirds of the way down ran a thin, horizontal strip of silver. She stepped back a few paces from the unfinished work to give it a second look, and as she did so, miraculously the colours and brush-strokes started to cohere and make sense. Of course, it was obvious now. Tyninghame.

  How many times had they walked together through those deep, dark beech woods, with the dried leaves crunching under their feet, into the tunnel of buckthorn and sea holly and then out into the light? To see before them a view of the sea, smooth as glass and with that characteristic slash of silver defining a horizon that merged into the vast skies of East Lothian.

  His favourite palette knife lay against the picture, as if recently discarded, and without thought she picked it up, trying to feel him through something that his hands had so recently touched. Nothing came. She closed her eyes, limp with despair again, finding herself surrounded by his things but without him. Surely to God, if he was anywhere, he would be here beside her, paint-spattered and alive.

  The silence was broken by loud shouting outside in the street, as one man taunted another, sounding vicious, yelping and hooting as if egging someone on. A third voice joined in, screaming at the top of his voice and revving a motorbike. Listening to the sounds, she stood still, petrified, unsure what to do. Should she go and see what was going on or should she radio for assistance instead?

  ‘Christ!’ she said out loud, exasperated by her own passivity and aware that she was as nervy as a cat. Once she had been confident, bloody competent, in fact. She would not have dithered and agonised over what to do next. She would just have done it. It would only be a drunken fracas or some such thing, basic police work.

  Deciding to take a look outside, she scrambled over two rows of broken kitchen chairs, covered in torn and dusty sheeting, and climbed up onto the windowsill. Perching there, she put her face close to the glass and looked through the dirty pane onto the street outside. As she peered through it she thought she heard a voice saying, ‘Alice?’

  Less than a second later a brick came hurtling towards her through the pane, shattering it, smashing it into a thousand pieces and sending tiny daggers of glass in every direction.

  12

  ‘Foot the ladder for me, Stevie,’ the tree surgeon shouted, surveying the scene around him from his elevated viewpoint and glorying in the prospect of the Dean Bridge that his perch gave him. Cars sped along it, and the heads of a few pedestrians, all early birds, were just visible above the parapet as they tramped across its span on their way to work. The sky above the Holy Trinity Church on Queensferry Road was a gelid blue. A wind from the north had driven away most of the clouds but a small drift of grey, lowering cumulonimbus had somehow eluded it and remained directly above him, marring the otherwise pristine perfection of the heavens.

  Getting no reply, he looked down towards the base of the beech tree on which his ladder was propped and saw, to his irritation, that no one was there.

  ‘Stevie!’ he bellowed but, once more, to no effect.

  ‘Stevie!’ he shouted again, unwilling to start on the diseased, lifeless limb on which his chainsaw rested until he was certain that his ladder was secure. The ground below was as hard as iron after last night’s frost, slippery in patches too.

  Yet again receiving no answer, he raised his visor and began to plod wearily down the rungs of the ladder in his steel-toed work-boots, his chainsaw swinging from side to side with each step.

  Taking on his nephew had been a mistake, he decided. He should have stuck with his own instincts and never listened to the rest of the family. His was a business, not some kind of youth rehabilitation scheme, not some kind of bloody charity. Now where had the lad got to? No doubt he’d be hiding somewhere to sniff his miaow-miaow or whatever the latest stuff was called. Months and months of community service had had no more effect on him than a slap on the wrist. Some folk didn’t deserve second chances.

  For the next ten minutes he busied himself stamping along the frost-whitened gravel paths that crisscrossed the gardens, heading downhill, in his search for his elusive apprentice. Every so often, self-consciously, he yelled the boy’s name.

  Eventually, enraged by the lack of response, he roared at the top of his voice, ‘Stevie, where the fuck are you?’

  An elderly woman, little more than her eyes visible between her mauve woollen hat and the striped scarf wound around her nose, mouth and chin appeared around the corner. Her pet, a Maltese terrier, strained on its lead, attempting to sniff the workman’s boots.

  ‘Have you lost your dog?’ she asked.

  ‘Eh . . . yes,’ he said weakly, unwilling to attempt to explain his predicament but incensed at feeling the need to lie.

  ‘What sort of dog is it?’ she asked brightly. ‘We’ll keep our eye out for the renegade, won’t we, Digger?’

  ‘Eh . . . a mongrel. Just a soddin’ mongrel,’ he replied, edging quickly away from her as if she carried the plague, cursing the boy silently in his head once more.

  By the lowest path the Water of Leith rushed along, tumbling over itself, in spate. Its cloudy waters were flecked with an ochre-tinted foam, and a single tree-stump blocked half the stream, the city’s flotsam and jetsam collecting around it. Beyond the beavers’ dam of twigs, litter and traffic cones, he noticed a half-submerged ironing board held upright by the current, white eddies forming on either side of it. Its rigid metal legs were extended skywards as if in surrender.

  Raindrops began pattering onto his yellow hard-hat. He swore out loud, hastily retracing his steps, initially to the diseased beech tree and then, on finding nobody there, to his van. Yanking open the door and leaping in he found his apprentice, Stevie, cowering in the passenger seat.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ he said angrily. ‘The rain’s only just come on and I spent the last quarter of an hour looking for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the boy moaned, shaking his head, ‘but I couldn’t stay out there. Not with that man . . . like that.’ He, too, was wearing a yellow hard-hat and his green overalls were too large for his slim body, swamping him. Neither hand was visible beneath his overlong sleeves.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? What man? Like what?’

  ‘The dead one – near the bottom of the tree.’

  ‘You found a dead man?’ The tree surgeon was incredulous. No doubt this was the drugs talking. ‘You sure about that? It wasn’t one of those pink elephants or whatever you see with your weed?’

  ‘Aye. Aye, I’m sure. And he’s got no clothes on! He’s only about ten yards from our tree.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Christ’s sake! Why didn’t you tell me then? Why did you not come and get me?’

  ‘I did. I tried,’ Stevie protested ineffectually. ‘I shouted at you when you were doing the lower branches, using the chainsaw.’

  ‘So I never heard you! You idiot! I’d have stopped if I’d heard. Are you sure the man’s dead?’

  ‘He’s lying down – half hid in the undergrowth. He must be dead otherwise he’d have moved. It’s freezing out there.’

  Leaving the boy trembling in the van, his boss braved the downpour once more to search the dense clump of rhododendrons on either side of the beech trees. With raindrops stinging his
cold cheeks and running off his waterproof cape onto his jeans below, he scoured the edges of the bushes until he found what he was looking for. A pair of white feet, their soles wrinkled as if from an overlong bath, heels resting on the frozen ground.

  Moving closer to the body he stared at its pallid legs, strands of ginger hair clinging to the skin like strands of seaweed on a rock. Gradually he allowed his eyes to travel upwards. In less than a second, he had confirmed that the man was dead and, disturbingly, as naked as the day he was born.

  ‘A wifie rang to report a dead dog, Sir,’ DC Elizabeth Cairns said to Eric Manson as he entered the office. Omitting any greeting, she added, ‘It’s a Dalmatian. Little more than a puppy, the lady says.’

  ‘Why were we called?’ the DI asked, taking a sip of coffee from his polystyrene cup. Then, grinning, he walked to his desk and added, ‘Was it murdered or something? Raped even? We’re supposed to be the Criminal Investigation Department, not the Cur Investigation Department.’ He looked over at her and guffawed, expecting some kind of reaction to his witticism.

  ‘Nope,’ the constable responded, deadpan, ‘but it didn’t die from natural causes either. It was run over on that big stretch of road opposite the Travel Inn on Learmonth Terrace. The lady found it in the gutter. Its name tag says it’s called Ailsa and there’s a phone number too. But the owners are not answering.’