Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  Sheena ruminated for a few moments, then: ‘I suppose.’

  ‘But you’ve no recollection of doing so, you say?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Susan changed tack. ‘How would you describe your marriage?’

  ‘We’ve been together over twenty years.’ Sheena stated, her face devoid of expression.

  Doesn’t follow that the marriage is happy, Susan thought. She’d seen many a miserable pairing in the course of her work.

  ‘Have you had any upsets lately?’

  Evasive look. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Rows? Hiccups?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. Gordon’s very even-tempered.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m…’ She hesitated. ‘Pragmatic, I guess is the word. I tend to keep my own counsel. Like a lot of women, I suppose.’

  Susan was wondering if this was a coded message, when: ‘Is that all?’ Sheena tugged the sheet up to her chin. ‘I’d like to help you…’ She broke off. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Susan.’

  ‘I’d like to help you, Susan, but I have absolutely no idea how I ended up here.’ She grimaced. ‘And I’m tired now, so…’

  ‘I’ll leave you to sleep.’ Susan rose to her feet. ‘Before I go, though, there’s just one thing…’

  Sheena lifted a drowsy face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You came around earlier.’

  ‘Did I? Don’t remember.’

  ‘And you said something.’

  A look of utter panic swept over Sheena Struthers’ face. Swiftly, she dispelled it. ‘What might that be?’ she queried.

  ‘“Enough”, you said.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. Can you tell me, Sheena, what you meant by that?’

  Sheena’s face darkened.

  ‘Don’t remember,’ she muttered. ‘I need to rest now.’

  And she pulled the sheet up to cover her face.

  Thainstone Mart

  ‘Who’ll give me two hundred? One hundred? Fifty, then, to get started? Fifty, I’m bid!’ From his perch on the elevated metal dais, the white-coated auctioneer scanned the faces gathered around the ring. Behind him, an identically clad assistant kept a watchful eye. The two were flanked by a female clerk, her eyes glued to a computer screen.

  With an annual turnover of over one hundred million, Thainstone Mart comprises a purpose-built complex of auction halls, stores and offices on the outskirts of Inverurie. With over five thousand members, the farmer-owned co-operative hosts a weekly Thursday sale of cast cows and bulls, prime cattle and sheep, and on Fridays, of young, store and breeding cattle and ewes. These are augmented by sales of fodder, plant and machinery, vehicles, furniture, and by farm displenish sales or roups.

  Maggie had been to a fair few sales with her folks when they lived on the farm, though these had been at the old Kittybrewster Mart, a rather random collection of sheds on Aberdeen’s Great Northern Road. The site had been redeveloped, now: new flats and neighbouring superstores. But she could still hear the scrunch of her dad’s car tyres on gravel as they bumped over the unmade approach road, smell the two rank toilets that huddled in one corner, and taste the stovies that came, steaming, on a bendy paper plate from a makeshift kitchen.

  Now, she sat in the tiered blue folding seats that rose behind the Thainstone auction ring. Following Wilma’s unfortunate episode at Kemnay, Maggie had decided to resume control of the case. Farming was second nature to her, and she was determined to achieve a satisfactory outcome. One in the eye for Wilma; she wasn’t the only one who could take on somebody bigger than herself and get a speedy result. Maggie allowed herself a quiet smile at the thought her business partner had been floored by a coo.

  She’d decided the best way forward was to nail the subject on sale day. That way she was sure he’d be solvent. She scanned the rows of seats. Men of all ages, shapes and sizes, clad in quilted body-warmers, fleeces, Barbour jackets. A scattering of women. There was no sign of her man.

  ‘Sold!’ She was snapped out of her reverie by the crack of the auctioneer’s gavel. Above his head, the screen flashed red, live-streaming details of the lot under the hammer: number, sex and age of the beasts, country of birth, breed of sire. Then the medical history and whether farm assured – this last, she knew, essential to meet supermarket criteria.

  ‘Walk on!’ She heard the familiar command of the yardsman in his blue coat and welly boots, as he brandished his stick at the sold beast’s rump. On the other side of the dais, another beast snorted and nudged at the steel bars of the pen as it waited its turn to be led into the ring.

  It was years since her dad had kept cattle, but it all came flooding back: the serene presence of the cows with their solid flanks and liquid brown eyes, the sweet smell of silage. With a pang, Maggie recalled the day her folks held their own roup: the household goods in the yard, the machinery laid out in rows in the field. The anticipation as the auctioneer sought a vantage point on a chair or tractor, the poignancy of dismantling a lifetime’s toil.

  How Maggie wished, now, she’d offered her mum and dad more support. Decisively, she dismissed the thought. Wasn’t it always the same, the way a woman was pulled in two different directions – that constant tug-of-love between husband and child, parent and family, even one sibling and another?

  Concentrate! Maggie turned her attention to the potential bidders. Perched on moulded blue plastic stools, the weather-reddened faces at the ringside were a study in fierce deliberation, broken only by the occasional quip out the side of a mouth. Bids were hard to spot: a raised eyebrow, a barely perceptible lift of the chin. Maggie indulged in a quiet chuckle. This lot could teach a poker school a thing or two.

  She’d inveigled her way into the office, established her man’s consignment was Lot No. 137. Now all she had to do was wait. Lot 100 came and went. 110. 120. The auctioneer rattled through the lots. Maggie followed with her eyes the new arrivals in the hall. Lot 130. 135. 137. She sat forward in her seat.

  The bidding was sluggish at first: one man wearing a lovat green jersey with shoulder and elbow patches leaned on the ringside opposite, one hand on the railing, his little finger flicking bids. Another sat in the seats high up. He raised a catalogue to show intent. And then she saw him. He was standing just inside the doorway, his face partly obscured by a checked scarf.

  The bids crept upwards, so slowly Maggie feared they wouldn’t meet the reserve. And then what? She caught her breath. She’d have spent time and petrol for nothing.

  A new bidder, this time on the seats below her, though Maggie could only see the back of his head and the auctioneer’s acknowledgement. Her eyes glued to the action, she observed another couple of bids. Then they stalled.

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s a pass.’ The auctioneer jotted a note.

  Damn and blast! So much for the Mart’s guaranteed same-day payment. Half Maggie’s day had been wasted. In her head she totted up the cost to the agency. And that didn’t factor in Wilma’s wee adventure.

  As the beasts were led out, Maggie caught a movement. Her man had turned and was pushing through the exit.

  She leapt to her feet, skittered down the steps and followed. She was just in time to see him huddled in the near corner in conversation with another man.

  There was a brief nod of the head, a shuffling of hands, a roll of banknotes. So her guy had done a deal on the side. Maggie cursed herself for being so slow on the uptake, for many a transaction was effected outside the sale hall to avoid paying the Mart’s commission. For just a moment she felt sorry for the man. High levels of indebtedness among farmers were widespread, she knew, farm suicides not uncommon. Her man had likely been driven by financial difficulty to perpetrate the fraud she was investigating. He’d just sold his beasts for less than they were worth. And he wouldn’t be alone.

&n
bsp; Still, she reminded herself, fraud is fraud.

  She watched as the two shook hands.

  The target turned.

  Made to walk away.

  Maggie moved like a bullet.

  ‘Got a minute.’ She tugged at his sleeve. ‘There’s a wee something we have to discuss.’

  Stay With It

  ‘Get this midden cleared up,’ Chisolm gestured to the half-finished coffee cups and empty water bottles that littered the table. ‘No. Not you,’ he growled as Susan stepped forward. ‘Whoever made the fucking mess.’ He eyed the male members of his squad.

  Murmurs of dissatisfaction accompanied the men’s reluctant movements.

  When the table was cleared of debris, Chisolm sat down.

  ‘Where are we at with Brannigan?’

  ‘Not looking good, sir.’ Douglas was first off the mark as usual. ‘He’s been in and out of theatre. They’re not saying much. But what I can tell you,’ he paused theatrically, for all the world like a seasoned politician, ‘is that in the course of the attack his windpipe was severed.’

  ‘Windpipe’s repairable,’ Duffy said with a satisfied smirk. ‘Most times, anyhow.’

  ‘I’ll hand you that,’ Douglas came back. ‘But it still gives us a problem.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Duffy walked right in.

  Wood beat Douglas to it. ‘Fucker canna speak,’ he drawled, a look of grim satisfaction on his face.

  ‘Bang goes our statement.’ Chisolm slumped in his seat. ‘I’ll stand down the twenty-four-hour guard. But I want regular updates on Brannigan’s condition.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Make sure I get them, Burnett.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Susan, what’s the latest on Sheena Struthers?’

  ‘Not much progress there, I’m afraid. So far, all I’ve managed to get out of her is general chat. Nothing specific, not even what she remembers of the hours leading up to her hospitalisation.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Zilch, according to her. Insists she has no memory of events after she went to bed the previous night.’

  ‘It might equally testify to the fact the woman is still heavily medicated.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Chisolm steepled his fingers. ‘What about the husband? Has she said anything on that?’

  ‘I’ve raised the question of the marriage, sir. She’s pretty non-committal. Pleads exhaustion when I try to draw her out.’

  ‘So we’re still some way from a formal statement.’

  ‘I’d say so.’ Susan hung her head. She’d have given anything to shout success in front of these hard-nosed bastards. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she added, somewhat lamely.

  ‘Stay with it, Strachan.’ For once, Chisolm looked kindly. ‘Get yourself up there when you get the chance. Sometimes, perseverance is all. However,’ he looked down the table, ‘seems like we’re not going to get a result in either of these cases. Not anytime soon.’

  ‘There is just one thing, sir,’ Susan ventured. ‘Sheena Struthers did say something. Patient was drowsy at the time so it could be nothing,’ her voice tailed off.

  ‘Out with it,’ Chisolm encouraged.

  ‘She said “enough”.’

  ‘Enough what?’ Duffy demanded with a cheeky grin. ‘Tea? Gin?’

  ‘Mebbe she’s had enough of marriage,’ Dave Wood chipped in, his face dour. ‘I know I fucking have.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her has a fancy man on the side.’ Duffy again.

  ‘As I said,’ Susan rushed to defend her position, ‘it could be nothing. Only…’

  All eyes were upon her.

  ‘When I pressed her about it she became quite defensive. Agitated, is the word I’d use.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ Chisolm asked.

  Susan shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Douglas rounded on her. ‘What sort of “agitated”? Excited? Distressed? Scared?’

  Inwardly, Susan cursed. Her chance to shine and she’d blown it. She drew a calming breath. ‘All of those, I’d say.’

  Time We Saw Someone

  ‘Nic?’ Ros sank onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes.

  ‘Yup?’ His eyes didn’t move from the television.

  ‘I’ve been thinking…’

  His head swivelled.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time we saw someone?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Counselling.’ Ros felt the colour start to rise to her face. She raised a hand to her cheek. Felt the heat. Wondered when she’d started blushing, something she never used to do. ‘Doesn’t have to be heavy. Just an informal chat.’

  He took hold of her hand. ‘You having me on?’

  ‘I’m serious.’ She pulled away.

  ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She was flustered now. ‘Not one thing, anyway. More a whole lot of little things.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like, we seem to row all the time.’

  ‘Darling.’ He draped an arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

  She set her chin. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Tell me the last time we had a fight.’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I’d call a fight.’

  Ros took a deep breath. ‘I disagree.’

  ‘So…’ He removed his arm. ‘We have a minor disagreement over a matter of domestic minutiae and you feel the need to involve a third party, am I right?’

  ‘Don’t make it sound so trivial,’ she shot back.

  Smug look. ‘That’s because it is.’

  ‘It’s not.’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘It’s important. To me, anyhow.’

  He smirked. ‘So I see.’

  ‘Why are you always putting me down, Nic?’

  ‘Am I? Wasn’t aware of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Ever since…’ She broke off. ‘You’re forever finding fault. I feel as if…’ She struggled to make sense of the thoughts that were tumbling in her head. ‘These days I can’t seem to do anything right.’

  ‘Ah…’ He nodded sagely. ‘Now we’re getting to it.’

  ‘Getting to what.’

  ‘The real reason for this outburst.’

  She sat back, perplexed. ‘Are we?’

  ‘Ever since Max was born, I think you were going to say. And you’re right, Ros. Since the baby arrived you have been a bit unhinged.’

  Her shoulders sagged. So it really was all her fault.

  ‘But don’t let it get to you,’ he went on. ‘I’ve talked to people…’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Colleagues. Medical professionals. Seems it’s pretty common, post-natal depression, especially with a first child.’

  ‘It’s been over a year, Nic.’ She fought to keep her voice even. ‘And, anyhow, what makes you think it’s depression?’

  ‘Well, you have been…are…a bit…’ He considered for a moment. ‘Paranoid.’

  ‘Is that what you’d call it?’ She uttered a shrill laugh. ‘Well, you’re not the only one who has colleagues to talk to. The people I’ve discussed it with put it down to exhaustion.’

  ‘Ah.’ He assumed a knowing look. ‘Sounds like your new friend has been putting ideas in your head.’

  ‘It’s not that at all. If you must know, I went to see your precious GP. He said it was nervous exhaustion too.’

  Nic patted her knee. ‘We’re both worn out, if the truth be told. Comes of trying to maintain full-time jobs whilst we’re raising a child.’

  ‘We?’ she seethed. When had Nic ever put himself out in the nursery department?

  Bang on cue, the baby alarm crackled into life.

  Sod it! Ros dragged herself to her feet and trudged up the stairs in her stocking soles.

 
; In his cot, Max struggled to free himself from the confines of his bedclothes, legs kicking, face purple with exertion.

  ‘There.’ She bent to pull back the covers. ‘There.’

  She picked him up, took a judicious sniff of his nappy, then clasped his hot little body to her breast. He smelled of vanilla, talcum powder. All things sweet. Ros remembered, then, a farmer friend of her father’s, a man of few words. He’d been talking about silage. So sweet you could eat it yourself, he’d enthused. She’d been touched by the comment at the time. A man’s man, but with a romantic streak. Like her dad. She wondered where that left Nic?

  Ros carried the small bundle downstairs.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s not long fed. Doesn’t need changed.’ She sat down again. ‘Probably just looking for attention.’

  ‘Bit like mum,’ Nic observed. Then: ‘Joke.’

  She buried her head in the baby’s neck.

  ‘But, yes,’ he added. ‘To continue where we left off…’

  Too tired to argue, Ros sat there, defeated.

  ‘You’re quite right. It probably is time we saw someone.’

  Hardly daring to believe her ears, she raised her head.

  Nic cupped her chin. ‘A specialist, perhaps. After all, Ros, your mental health is every bit as important as your physical wellbeing.’

  A Big Ask

  Maggie wasn’t long out the shower when the doorbell rang. Must be the window cleaner. This week, she’d finally squeezed time out of her jam-packed schedule to address domestic matters.

  She scrambled into a torn pair of jeans she’d saved for doing housework and tugged a baggy jumper over her head. Grabbing her purse, she made a beeline for the front door.

  Allan Chisolm stood on the doorstep. His eyes swept the dishevelled clothes, the tousled hair. ‘Have I got you out of bed?’ he asked, an amused look on his face.

  Maggie bristled. ‘No.’ Instinctively, one hand reached up to smooth her curls. ‘I’ve chores to tackle, that’s all.’

  His expression grew serious. ‘I’m sorry to land on you like this, but I wondered if I could have a word?’