Surtsey forced a laugh. ‘Yeah.’
Halima’s tone had shifted, she was on board. ‘OK.’
‘You’ll do it?’
‘I’ll do it.’
The gulls had drifted back down and were pecking at the seaweed looking for food.
‘But we need to talk about all this, Sur. Tonight, yeah?’
‘Definitely.’
Halima ended the call and Surtsey put her phone away. She got the other phone out her pocket and stared at the screen. Flicked to Messages and read through the texts from last night. She scrolled through the other messages between her and Tom, arranging to meet at the Inch. They’d never explicitly mentioned the place, but Surtsey got her own phone back out and deleted all the messages between them. If the police took her phone they could presumably get that data back but it was all she could do for now.
She looked at Tom’s phone. This was the key. Someone had been following them. She had to find out who, and what they wanted. Her thumb moved over the letters:
Come and get me, motherfucker.
She pressed send and looked up, stretched her neck, easing out the knots in her shoulders. In the distance one of the toddlers had run away from the picnic blanket and fallen face first into the sand. She picked herself up and continued tottering to the water’s edge, her mum shadowing a few yards behind, looking out for her, keeping her safe from harm.
21
Iona was a natural behind the bar, like that was the only place she came alive. Kicking around the house she was surly or drunk, argumentative or morose, never communicating. But stick her between the beer pumps and the spirit gantry and she glowed with energy, chatting to other staff, flirting with regulars, rebuffing their jokes or tearing a strip off them if they went too far. She moved in a blur, wiping down the bar, clipping out change, slicing limes, stacking the glass washer, ducking out the way when they lifted the cellar trapdoor.
Surtsey watched her sister with narrow eyes. They used to get on when they were younger, Iona looking up to her big sister, trying to gain the secrets of make-up, boys and booze before she was ready. In return Surtsey looked out for her, stepping in to ward off playground bullies, holding her hand as they crossed the road, packing her gymnastics bag when she was running late for training.
She couldn’t picture Iona doing gymnastics now. The only exercise she got was lifting a pint to her lips. She gave up everything when she hit fourteen, the hip-hop classes, the cheerleading, the basketball. Then when their mum was diagnosed Iona gave up everything else, including any attempt at civilised conversation. It was her way of coping but that didn’t make it any easier. And it didn’t help that Louise was so fucking forgiving about it. Why should Surtsey shoulder all the responsibility of visiting mum when she never got any credit for it? But she didn’t do it for credit, of course.
Iona spotted her standing at the bar, beamed and came over.
‘What brings you here this time of day? Don’t you have volcanic mud to sift through?’
‘You have such a deep understanding of my work.’
‘I always listen when you bang on about rocks.’
‘Shiraz, please.’
Iona poured a large one and handed it over. ‘On the house.’
Surtsey raised her eyebrows. ‘Thanks.’ She glugged then sighed as the glass left her lips.
‘Looks like you need it.’
‘You have no idea.’
Iona checked the bar. Surtsey followed her gaze. A bald guy in his fifties with AC/DC and Aerosmith tattoos had a Sudoku book open, end of a pencil in his mouth. Elsewhere, two rosy-cheeked guys in red corduroy trousers were sipping pints of Guinness and laughing. At the fireplace a trio of young mums were stretching their boozy lunch to infinity, their kids clambering over each other on a sofa.
‘Is this about your boss?’ Iona said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Must be tough, someone you know dying.’
It hung in the air for an eternity, the echo of their mum.
‘It’s not just that,’ Surtsey said.
Iona flipped a cloth between her hands, dabbing at a wet ring on the bar top. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re going to find out anyway.’
‘What?’
Surtsey took a drink, lowered her glass. The mums burst into laughter at the other end of the bar. Light played in through the window, dust giddy in the beams.
‘I was sleeping with him,’ Surtsey said.
Iona whistled. ‘Wasn’t he married?’
Surtsey nodded.
‘Christ,’ Iona said. ‘I thought you knew better than that.’
Surtsey tilted the glass to her mouth, finished her wine and rolled the glass around in her hand. Iona grabbed the bottle and refilled it.
‘It gets worse,’ Surtsey said.
Iona didn’t speak, just screwed the top back on the bottle.
Surtsey drank. ‘The police know. His wife knows.’
Iona had her hands on the bar. ‘Don’t they have kids?’
Surtsey paused with her wine glass in mid-air. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘Sorry.’
Surtsey took a breath. ‘Two girls, Gracie and Belle, nine and six. Now without a dad.’
‘That’s not your fault.’
Surtsey laughed. ‘Try telling the police that. They came to the house and interviewed me. Asked about my whereabouts. I might well be a suspect.’
Iona laughed. ‘Jesus wept.’
‘Glad you find it funny.’
Iona shook her head. ‘It’s just so…’
‘I know.’
‘You’re the sensible one.’
‘Apparently not.’
Iona got a wine glass down from above the bar and poured herself a glass. ‘If one of us was going to have an affair with a married man, get found out by the wife and be a suspect in his death, I always presumed it would be me.’
Surtsey spluttered into her drink. ‘Me too.’
Iona held out her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They both took a big hit. Iona looked round and caught the eye of Metal Sudoku, who held his empty glass up. She poured an IPA and placed it in front of him, sharing a smile. She took the money and popped his change in the tips jar.
‘Maybe we’re having a Freaky Friday personality swap,’ she said as she returned.
‘Then you would be sensible,’ Surtsey said.
‘Well I’m at work, while you’re drinking wine in the afternoon.’
Surtsey pointed. ‘So are you.’
‘Good point.’
Silence between them, not uncomfortable.
‘You know I miss this,’ Surtsey said.
‘Drinking in the afternoon or sleeping with married men?’
Surtsey pressed her lips together. ‘You know what I mean.’ She held her hands open to indicate the two of them. ‘Us talking.’
‘We talk.’
‘Not really.’
‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘Mum.’
Iona shook her head. ‘You had to go there.’
‘Come on.’
‘What is there to say, Sur? Our mum is dying and there’s nothing we can do and it’s shit beyond words. Happy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then.’
‘But you’re wrong, there is something we can do.’
Iona shook her head.
‘We can make it easier for her,’ Surtsey said. ‘We can help her.’
‘She’s our mum,’ Iona said. ‘She’s supposed to help us.’
‘She needs us. Why won’t you go and see her?’
Iona straightened her shoulders and picked up the bar cloth, smeared the already clean bar.
‘It breaks her heart,’ Surtsey said.
‘You don’t get to do this.’
‘Do what?’
Iona squeezed the bar cloth. ‘You don’t get to nag me, to be the sensible one telling me what to do. We’ve switched person
alities, remember, Freaky fucking Friday?’
‘If you’re the sensible one, be sensible.’
Silence.
‘Go and see her,’ Surtsey said.
Iona downed the last of her wine. ‘Fuck you.’
‘I know it’s hard.’
Iona put her empty glass in the washer. One of the posh guys was at the bar getting the next round. Iona poured two Guinness, took the money while they settled. When she’d finished, Surtsey held her glass up by the stem, wiggled it.
‘Can I get another?’ she said. ‘I’ll pay this time.’
Iona sighed. She got the bottle and plonked it next to her sister. ‘Just drink it. It’s easier to lose a whole bottle of stock than a couple of glasses anyway.’
Surtsey poured it herself.
‘Here you are.’ The familiar accent made her turn.
Brendan stood with his fists shoved in his pockets, lines across his forehead.
‘Here I am,’ Surtsey said. The Shiraz had warmed her, the edges of the afternoon fuzzy. Her heart lifted at the sight of him, but her stomach tightened too.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ Brendan said.
Surtsey stayed quiet.
Brendan lifted a hand to his hair.
Surtsey puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Brendan shook his head. ‘How long?’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Iona said from behind the bar.
Brendan hesitated, looked at the lager and ale taps, confused. ‘No thanks.’
Surtsey felt heat rise to her face.
‘Well?’ Brendan said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do. How long?’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘The details matter.’
She didn’t want to discuss details because the details hurt the most, made it real.
‘Six months.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘I am.’
Brendan ran his tongue around his teeth, chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘You want to know the worst thing?’
‘Brendan, don’t do this.’
His voice was hard. ‘Do you want to know the worst thing?’
Surtsey’s heart was sore, tight.
Brendan put a hand out to the bar, just his fingertips, as if checking the world was tangible.
‘The worst thing is that you’d still be fucking him behind my back if he hadn’t died.’
‘Brendan…’
‘You didn’t end it. He didn’t end it. He fucking died, that’s the only reason.’
Surtsey thought about saying sorry again but what was the point?
‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ she said.
He nodded, animated. ‘Oh, you don’t blame me? That’s nice. That’s lovely, thanks. I have your permission to be angry, I am so fucking honoured.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ His voice was louder, making Metal Sudoku look over. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
Iona came over. ‘Everything OK?’
Brendan had his arms by his sides, hands balled into fists. The tendons on his forearms twitched as he clenched.
‘Did you know?’ he said to Iona.
She shook her head.
He turned to Surtsey. She was gasping to take a drink of her wine.
‘Did anyone know?’
‘No one.’
Brendan tilted his head. ‘That’s nice, just you and Tom, cosy little lovebirds. Do you realise what a cliché you are? A student fucking her professor?’
‘I think you should leave,’ Iona said. ‘Before you do something you regret.’
Brendan nodded at his fists then at Surtsey. ‘Hit her? Is that what you mean?’
Surtsey wanted him to hit her. She’d felt relief when Alice slapped her, relief when Brendan and Kezia found Tom’s body on the Inch. It was all following a path and she had no choice but to be swept along.
‘Go,’ Iona said.
Brendan stood silent for a moment then touched his forehead.
‘The cops came to see me,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
‘Asking about me and Kez finding Tom. What we were doing that whole day, and the day before.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry,’ Brendan said under his breath. ‘That’s useful.’
He shook his head and put his hands back in his pockets. Iona watched.
‘I thought I knew you, Sur,’ Brendan said. ‘I thought we had something.’
More silence. Nothing to say.
Brendan turned to leave. ‘I hope he was worth it.’
He walked out the pub door.
Surtsey watched the door close and picked up her glass, had to use two hands to keep it steady as she downed what was left, feeling the burn spread down her throat and through her body.
22
Louise lay in bed with an untouched food tray in front of her. Stew of some kind, brown slop with dry mash and wrinkly corn on the side. Surtsey didn’t blame her mum for not touching it and she felt heartburn from the red wine as she stared at the plate.
The television in the corner was on the news. A plane missing over the Indian Ocean, a politician having an affair, scaremongering about immigration. It was strange to see all the ordinary tragedies of life just trundling on as if nothing had changed. But Surtsey felt different, the steadiness of her life a couple of days ago had vanished, the ground under her feet was constantly shifting.
A reporter appeared walking across the sand of Portobello beach, speaking to camera. The sound was too low to make out what she was saying, but it would be the same stuff, police following lines of enquiry, appealing for witnesses.
Louise coughed into a tissue, folded it and placed it on the blanket, away from the food. ‘Are they any closer to finding out what happened to Tom?’
Surtsey was sitting by the bed on a red plastic chair that dug into her thighs and rubbed against her spine. ‘Mum, there’s something I have to tell you.’
She wondered if she needed to. Louise was dying, maybe Surtsey could get away with never mentioning it. But she couldn’t stay quiet, that’s not how she was with her mum. They told each other stuff. She needed help.
Louise turned from the television screen to look at her daughter, but didn’t speak.
‘It’s about Tom,’ Surtsey said.
No reply, just waiting. Surtsey sometimes wondered if her mum could’ve been a psychiatrist, using emptiness to make people say stuff they wouldn’t usually reveal.
Surtsey breathed in, felt her stomach grumble, the acid messing with her.
‘I was…’
The television news had moved on, the screen now showing footage of chickens in cages. Something about the possible return of bird flu. Surtsey’s own little drama was only a tiny snippet of the news agenda, filler for a couple of minutes. If only she could move on as easily as the broadcasters. What happened to all the stories in the world when the news teams got bored of them? Surtsey pictured countless people sitting and suffering with no one to tell their story to. The relatives of the air passengers lost in the ocean, the family of the MSP shagging around, the immigrants being sent back to Syria or Iraq or wherever because no one gave a shit.
Surtsey’s face was hot. She placed the back of her hand against her cheek, her cool fingers felt nice. She’d always had bad circulation, something she shared with her mum, the two of them in thick socks and slippers around the house, blankets over their knees on the sofa as they snuggled in to watch the latest Netflix thing.
Surtsey looked out the window then down at her lap.
‘I was seeing him,’ she said, head down. She didn’t want to look at her mum’s face.
Silence for a while, so that she thought maybe Louise hadn’t heard.
‘Sleeping with him,’ she said.
There was a long silence. ‘Oh, Sur.’
‘I know,’ Surtsey said. ‘A married man, old enough to be my father, what about his poor wife. You don’t have to say any of it.’
She looked up, her eyes wet.
Her mum was staring at her, jaw tight. ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
‘You don’t need to.’
Surtsey reached out and took Louise’s hand. Shocking lack of flesh, like she was already just a skeleton in a thin bag of skin. She squeezed gently, her thumb in her mum’s palm.
Surtsey wiped at her tears. ‘Alice knows.’
‘Oh, darling.’
‘I deserve it.’
A long pause. Too long.
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? I’ve been a fucking idiot.’
‘We all do stupid things.’
‘Not you,’ Surtsey said.
Louise looked out the window. ‘I’ve had my fair share.’
‘Like what?’
Louise looked at the congealing food on the tray, took a sip from a water bottle. Swallowing looked like such hard work, Surtsey didn’t know how her mum managed it. Louise put the bottle down with a trembling hand.
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
Surtsey touched her knuckles to her eyelids, the cold of her hand drawing the heat away from her face. ‘Mum, what are you not telling me?’
‘Nothing.’ Louise picked at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘When you come to the end of your life…’
‘Mum.’
‘…things reduce down. Like you’ve been simmering the whole time, reducing until there’s only the essence left. All the rest of it.’ Louise lifted a hand and waved at the bland decor. ‘It’s just distraction. Noise.’
She looked out the window. The haze from earlier had lifted and Fife was in sharp relief. Light glinted off the windows of the holiday homes at Burntisland, winks of life against the landscape.
‘How’s the boat?’ she said.
Surtsey remembered waking up in it. Was that just this morning? ‘It’s fine.’
Louise turned. ‘I’d like to go out in it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not well enough for a boat trip.’
‘Says who?’
Surtsey pointed at Louise’s body under the covers and immediately regretted it.
Fault Lines Page 9
