Requiem

by Clare Francis

  ‘Possibly,’ he agreed. ‘But apparently the levels were very high.’

  ‘Then – ’ She searched his face. ‘What are you saying?’

  He slid the chicken into the oven. ‘It doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Or anyone else for that matter. It’s what the coroner says.’

  ‘They don’t have coroners in Scotland,’ she replied mechanically.

  ‘What do they have then?’

  ‘Procurator fiscals.’

  ‘God, what a title.’

  ‘Will there be a hearing, an inquiry, do you know?’

  He pulled a dead lettuce out of the fridge and looked at it accusingly. ‘An inquest, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think they have inquests. Just inquiries. Can you find out for me? If they’re having one?’

  ‘Mmm? Well …’ He was losing interest. ‘If I hear anything.’

  By the time a powerful aroma of wine and garlic began to emerge from the oven she had lost her appetite.

  ‘I think it’s flu after all,’ she said.

  The wary expression came back into Simon’s face.

  Daisy took her cue. ‘I think I’ll skip the chicken if you don’t mind.’

  Simon put on a disappointed face, but didn’t try to argue her out of it.

  The flat was dark and cold when she got in. And a mess. She’d forgotten how behind she’d got with the chores. The ironing board stood in the middle of the room beside a well-filled ironing basket, the floor supported sprinklings of newspapers and magazines and a scattering of music cassettes. Her bed, only approximately made, was strewn with clothes and work papers.

  On her way to the kitchen, her eye was caught by a note propped on the mantelpiece. She recognized the neat upright hand of Anthea, her flatmate. Anthea said she was sorry but she was giving two weeks’ notice. She didn’t quite think the flat was working out, nothing personal. She’d already moved her stuff out, she said, and would send the last two weeks’ rent by post.

  Despite the inconvenience, Daisy couldn’t blame her. If she’d been in Anthea’s position, she’d probably have done the same.

  In need of cheer, she made herself a hot lemon drink and slid a hot-water bottle into her bed before making a superficial attack on the clutter. She threw the newspapers into a pile behind a chair, hid the ironing board behind the bathroom door and thrust her tapes onto the shelf by the tape player. Something about the shelf made her pause. Though tidiness wasn’t her strong point, she liked to keep her tapes in some kind of order, and now she had the sudden impression that something was out of place. She ran her fingers along the ranks of plastic, ticking them off in her memory until she realized that a number of work tapes had got into the wrong slot: recordings of interviews with chemical victims from which she transcribed notes in the evenings. She’d put them between Pink Floyd and Beethoven, where Bach should be. Or was it Brahms?

  As she flopped into bed and clutched the blissful hot-water bottle she remembered the answering machine and, reaching out, pulled it across the floor towards her. It was off. Then she realized that it wasn’t actually off but incorrectly set. The model was a fairly ancient one; to set it properly it wasn’t enough simply to turn the machine on, you also had to flick the control switch away from ‘answer set’ and then back again before the tape whirred into the correct position. It was a sign of how brain-stormed she must have been that morning to have screwed up this simplest of tasks.

  More out of habit than expectation she played back the message tape, expecting to hear a repeat of yesterday’s messages.

  But she was wrong. There were no old messages, just a brand new one in the form of her mother’s voice announcing the date of her great-uncle Alf’s seventieth birthday party, and asking if there was any chance of seeing her before that, like for Sunday lunch. Daisy lay back, trying to work this out. To have recorded that message, the machine must have been properly set for at least some of the day. So what had caused it to unset? It was some minutes before it came to her. Anthea. Anthea must have unintentionally switched it off at the wall as she was moving out, and forgotten to reset it properly. That, or there had been a power cut.

  She switched off the light and closed her eyes, ready to let herself lose sleep over far more important things, like what could have prompted the Lincolnshire farmer and his wife to suddenly change their minds about the blood tests.

  Hamish Macdonald didn’t know what had hit him. One moment he was minding his own business, throwing up outside the back door of The Stag, peaceably wondering why he’d wasted good money on those last four pints only to review them so quickly, when in the next instant he was lifted bodily from the ground. It was a curiously weightless feeling, like flying, or being transported to heaven. Until he hit the wall, that was. Then he knew that he wasn’t flying or going to heaven or suffering a malfunction of the brain. The wall was too hard for that; through the considerable haze and uncertainty, he was aware of the brickwork meeting his head with a nasty tap.

  The sensation of flying ceased; his body slid a short way down the wall then stopped with his feet still clear of the ground, his weight supported by the grip of two vice-like hands on his lapels. The hands, of course, had an owner, as Macdonald feared they might, and now the owner’s voice was hissing in his ear.

  ‘Right, Macdonald, time for a wee chat.’

  Macdonald blinked and tried to make out his assailant’s identity, but the street lighting of Stirling, such as it was, revealed nothing but the man’s black outline. Was he a thief? A man whom Macdonald had offended perhaps? That was always a real possibility. But whoever he was, whatever his business, Macdonald was only too happy to co-operate. Indeed, if only he could get his brain to respond he would tell the fellow so. But try as he might, much as his mouth moved, no words would come.

  The other man was very close, his nose almost touching Macdonald’s. ‘Willis Bain, Macdonald. The sprayin’ in the forest, the flyin’. Who did it?’

  A memory stirred in Macdonald’s mind. This conversation had happened before. This man had accosted him at his lodgings a few days ago and had asked him the same bloody stupid question. There was something about the man that Macdonald knew he should take into consideration, something really important, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was.

  In the meantime, the thought of co-operating no longer seemed quite such a good idea. This harping on about spraying and dates and places, it reeked of trouble and the law and unpleasant consequences, and no one was going to nail Macdonald that easily, oh no.

  The words came at last. ‘Och, pish off,’ said Macdonald.

  He got another tap on the head for his trouble, a forceful push against the brickwork, and then Macdonald remembered what it was about this man he should have taken into account: the fellow was huge, huge and strong.

  This called for different tactics. Although he felt no pain, Macdonald cried out, a loud moan intended both to frighten the other man and to vent his own fear.

  It had no effect whatsoever. The other man pushed him harder against the wall, repeating the questions in an aggressive tone.

  To give himself time, Macdonald moaned again. This, for some unknown reason, seemed to register and the other man relented slightly, letting Macdonald slide down the wall until his feet touched ground. The questions didn’t stop, however. Time. Place. Aircraft. Company name. When. What. Which.

  ‘A’right, a’right. Jus’ let me go, will ye?’

  The hands released him, and Macdonald felt a glimmering of hope that things might go his way after all. Leaving one arm propped against the welcome solidity of the wall, he resentfully shrugged his jacket back onto his shoulders.

  ‘So?’ demanded the voice.

  ‘A’right, a’right.’ Macdonald ran an unsteady hand over his lapels, both to smooth them down and to show the extent of his affront. Also to give himself time to calculate his chances of making a run for it. The odds were not good, he had to admit, even if by some miracle he could stand uns
upported and sprint the five yards to The Stag’s back door. No, he would have to rely on a bit of stealth: a smidgen of truth peppered with liberal doses of amnesia.

  ‘When ye say this was?’ he asked blearily.

  ‘June last.’

  ‘Tha’s a long time. Cannae recall tha’ long …’

  ‘Try harder.’

  The fella moved in again and Macdonald held up a protective arm. ‘A’right, a’right. Ye’re quick to take offence. So wha’ was it agin?’

  The explanation came, and Macdonald did his best to recall the circumstances. He remembered making various deliveries to airfields and isolated strips, he remembered seeing planes sitting around. But the names of the two or more flying companies? The names of chemicals? Even if his brain had been clear – and it was thicker than a Gorbals smog – he’d have had trouble knowing the where and when. All he’d ever done in his working life was to turn up more or less on time, pick up whatever he was meant to pick up, take it to the right place, collect his wages and mind his own business.

  ‘I dunno, and tha’s the honest truth.’

  A massive hand shot out and grabbed his lapel again. ‘A wee aircraft,’ growled the voice. ‘Based out to the west somewhere. A field mebbe. Somewhere handy for the western lochs.’

  Nothing stirred in Macdonald’s brain.

  ‘The aircraft,’ the voice persisted. ‘It mebbe had a red band on it. Diagonal.’

  Ah, now … A bell rang in the back of Macdonald’s memory, indistinctly at first, then with greater clarity. Gradually a picture formed; he saw the plane sitting on a piece of concrete, under an arclight, near a portable office. On a farm west of Stirling somewhere. Yes, he remembered all right. The question was, should he speak out? The whole thing reeked of consequences.

  Better to be safe. He shook his head. ‘Don’t remember.’

  The next moment it was all happening again, the flying sensation, the thud of his head hitting the wall, and a great deal harder this time, so that he cried with unprompted self-pity. The pain, which the alcohol for once failed to anaesthetize, finally persuaded him that enough was enough. This fella wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and Macdonald wasn’t about to suffer more insult and injury to prove otherwise.

  He squealed: ‘Mebbe there’s somethin’ … Mebbe.’

  ‘Names, man, names.’

  ‘Lemme think, lemme think …’ The big man loosened his grip, but this did nothing to clarify Macdonald’s memory, which was black as pitch. All Macdonald ever had to do was find the address on the delivery notes – the foreman at the depot near Stirling did all the paperwork, making sure the right chemical went to the right contractor – so how in heaven should he be expected to know the name of the flying company and the stuff they were using all of a sudden?

  Seeing the big man looming above, he made an attempt to show willing.

  ‘A field. By the wesht there. A wee plane. But A never kent the name o’ the plashe. Honesh to God, honesh to God …’

  There was an answering growl and Macdonald cowered, fearing a reorganization of his face. Then, as if heaven-sent, something stirred in the back of Macdonald’s mind, a memory so vague that he couldn’t at first grasp it. But realizing it offered the only hope of salvation, he begged: ‘Hang on, fella. Hang on …’ and put his mind to concentrating hard, which was no easy task.

  Finally it came, and in his haste to get it out before the big man got impatient he jabbered incoherently and it was a moment before he could make himself understood. ‘A faerm … By a faerm … By a faerm name o’… name o’ Auld … Auld-somethin’ …’

  There was a pause. The voice said angrily: ‘The name, man!’

  ‘Auldhome … Auldhame … Aye – Auldhame. Honesh to God, tha’s all A ken … Honesh to God.’

  Having said his piece, Macdonald’s stomach threatened to go through its paces again and, to put off the evil moment, he slid further down the wall until he was almost bent double. When he next glanced up he was mightily relieved to see that the big man had gone. He celebrated by sinking the last distance to the ground and having a welcome lie down.

  Chapter 14

  THE CALL CAME at midnight. Susan, surfacing slowly from a heavy sleep, knew there was no point in objecting to the lateness of the call, no point in mentioning that this was the first time they’d got to bed before one in the morning in the last two, maybe three, months. The call would be from party headquarters or a party colleague. Or maybe even the prime minister’s office, in which case, even if it was five in the morning, you were incredibly relieved, not to mention pathetically grateful, to be hearing from them at all. It meant that you – or to be precise, Tony – was still up there where it mattered, in the PM’s good books.

  Through her sleep-drugged haze she suddenly remembered: this wasn’t any old night. This was the night the PM was putting the new cabinet together.

  She sat up groggily, eyes creased against the light, and tried to read Tony’s face as he grunted a few monosyllabic yesses and noes into the phone.

  Maddeningly, he wouldn’t return her eye signals, and when he turned away to replace the phone, it was all she could do to get him to speak. She had to positively bully him before he finally told her: it was the PM’s office. The PM had asked to see him at eleven the next morning.

  It took her a moment to take this in, to realize the full implications of what he was saying. Then she knew without a doubt: he’d done it. She gave a great guffaw of delight and grabbed him in a fierce embrace. He didn’t respond. He seemed dazed, almost as if he wasn’t expecting the call, which was ridiculous because everyone knew he was up for a top job. The PM’s office hadn’t told him what the job would be, of course – that little morsel would drop direct from the prime minister’s lips – but the timing of the call was enough: the senior appointments were always announced first. It couldn’t be anything less than full cabinet minister.

  ‘Oh, honey!’ She gave him another squeeze. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, as if trying to clear his brain. He didn’t seem to have taken the news in at all.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she demanded. ‘Are you ill or something?’

  ‘What? No. No.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Tired then? Oh honey, you must be so tired.’

  He gave a small shake of the head.

  Susan eyed him fretfully. If he wasn’t ill and he wasn’t particularly tired, then what the hell was wrong? He should be grinning with delight and jumping up and down with excitement. Crying, even.

  ‘Tony – it has to be a job! And a cabinet one. Got to be!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, with an effort, he smiled. ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘D’you think it’ll be Agriculture?’

  He nodded absentmindedly.

  ‘But isn’t that what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  He squeezed her hand briefly and reached out to turn off the light. ‘We’ll see. In the morning.’

  She was so baffled by this that it was a long time before she got back to sleep. And even as she finally began to nod off, she was suddenly wakened again by Tony getting out of bed and creeping noisily out of the room. If he slept at all during the night, he couldn’t have slept for long because shortly after six, when she got up to go to the loo, she found the other side of the bed empty. She pulled on a dressing gown and, though she was feeling decidedly short of rest, tottered downstairs to see where he was and if she could do anything for him. She thought: Greater love hath no wife.

  He was in the room they grandly called the study, but which was actually a ten-by-ten box squeezed out of a half-landing with a desk jammed under the window and a few bookshelves perched on the little available wall space.

  The door was open and she could see his back hunched over the desk. She paused on the stairs, curious to see what he was up to. The answer was: not a lot. He was quite still, bent forward
over the desk with his head cradled in his hands.

  She started forward again, on the point of calling gently so as not to startle him, when he reached out a hand to pick up the phone. Something made her pull slowly back until she was hidden by the door frame. She told herself she’d done it so as not to interrupt him, but who was she kidding? His attitude, the stiffness of his body, told her this wasn’t a routine call.

  Whoever he was calling wasn’t in a hurry to answer, but he was obviously prepared to wait it out. He sat motionless, the receiver pressed to his ear, his only sign of impatience a hand rubbed back and forth across his temple.

  After what seemed a long time, he stiffened suddenly: he was in business. Susan craned forward.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Tony … I know … I know … Yes … I’m sorry, but I wanted to be sure to get you.’ His voice, already low, dropped to a whisper. As if aware of the dangers, he half turned his head, swinging round to glance over his shoulder. Susan pulled back out of view.

  He was closing the door. It swung slowly towards the frame, then stopped short, leaving a small gap. He didn’t attempt to close it any more and after a second or two Susan crept forward and positioned herself by the jamb.

  ‘It was the only time I could ring …’ His voice sounded urgently. ‘I know, I know … Look, I’m sorry, I really couldn’t call before, I just couldn’t. Listen, we have to meet … What do you mean? … But we must – we have to! We’ve got to discuss this thing! … What do you mean? What are you saying? Christ …’ An anguished sigh. ‘Listen, we have to talk. You can’t drop this on me and then say you’re not going to talk about it! Christ, it’s got to be discussed. I mean, what are you planning to do about it, for God’s sake? No … No … The only time I have is this morning, in an hour or so … No, the only time. Really … But I can’t. No … Please. For God’s sake, Angela.’

  The small worm of jealousy turned in Susan’s gut. So she had him crawling, this woman. Well, bully for her. She must be fantastic in bed; there wasn’t much else that could reduce Tony to such creeping submission. From the sound of the call, it certainly wasn’t her conversation, nor, presumably, her charm when woken at six in the morning.