Fault Lines

by Doug Johnstone

  ‘Don’t fucking darling me,’ Surtsey said.

  ‘Language,’ Flannery said, drenched in sarcasm.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Flannery sank back in his seat smiling as Yates lifted a hand to quieten them both.

  Surtsey turned to him. ‘And fuck you, too. Are you suggesting I had something to do with my own mum’s death? You sick bastard.’

  ‘Miss Mackenzie, please,’ Yates said.

  Surtsey’s hand was at her neck as if she was being choked. She pushed her chair back with a scrape on the thin carpet and lowered her head to her knees, heaved air into her lungs. She blinked three times and black spots drifted across her eyeline. She could see the cops’ shoes under the desk, worn brown leather, square toes. She concentrated on the frayed lace of Flannery’s left shoe but it went out of focus. She realised she hadn’t breathed in a while and sucked in air. Eventually the dots disappeared from her vision and her head stopped throbbing. She sat up and leaned back in her seat. The two cops looked at her like her hair was made of snakes.

  ‘We spoke to your housemate, Miss Malik.’

  Surtsey’s eyes widened. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘But I was just there.’

  ‘It seems you missed her.’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be OK?’ Yates said, eyes like slits.

  ‘I just haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s avoiding me.’

  ‘Why would she avoid you?’

  Surtsey stared at Yates. ‘No idea.’

  Yates consulted his notes. ‘She confirmed your new, improved alibi – that you were out in the boat earlier and had forgotten. It seems she forgot as well, until recently.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘It stinks,’ Yates said, sighing. ‘It’ll never stand up in court.’

  ‘I’m innocent,’ Surtsey said. ‘And you don’t have any evidence against me.’

  ‘We’re working on that,’ Flannery said.

  ‘Good for you.’

  Yates took over. ‘We should have the results from the boat and your clothing in the next few hours. That will be interesting.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘And we have this,’ he said, lifting a piece of typed paper from the desk. ‘It’s a warrant to search your house.’

  ‘This is harassment.’

  ‘You’d know it if we were harassing you,’ Flannery said.

  Yates frowned and shook his head at his colleague.

  Surtsey felt weariness in her bones. She eased out of the seat and stood up, which took the cops by surprise.

  ‘Are we done?’

  ‘Sit down,’ Yates said.

  ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

  Yates stared at her for a long time before shaking his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I’m leaving.’

  She walked towards the door, hands shaking, legs weak. She made it out of the room, down the corridor and round the corner before she burst into tears.

  37

  She stood blinking like an idiot outside the police station. She checked her watch but didn’t register what it said. She turned to look at the station, at the clock tower of the old Victorian building. It looked like something from a 70s kids’ show. She couldn’t make out the hands of the clock from this angle, her eyes still blurry with tears. She had to shade her eyes from the fuzz of the bright sky beyond, high cloud like muslin draped over the planet.

  Two old women were sitting on the bench outside the station having a fag. One had a tartan trolley for her shopping, the other a metal walking stick with a rubber stopper on the end.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  Surtsey tried to focus. ‘What?’

  ‘Saw you come out the station, just checking you’re all right.’

  Surtsey shook her head. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Hey.’ This was from behind her, loud and in her direction.

  Surtsey turned and saw Alice clambering out of her car parked at the bus stop across the road. The windows were wound down and Surtsey could see the girls in the back in their booster seats. Belle was chomping on a Freddo and Gracie was looking sternly at her mum’s back.

  Alice barely glanced along the road then ran across between a white van and a bus. She landed on the pavement in front of Surtsey, manic look on her face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can’t leave the station.’

  Surtsey felt sorry for her, everything she’d gone through, but she was angry too. Fuck this bitch haranguing her all the time, putting her own kids at risk, building up emotional scars for them in the future.

  ‘They’ve arrested you, how can they let you go?’

  ‘They haven’t arrested me.’

  She couldn’t quite believe it herself, that they’d let her walk out of the station. But they needed more evidence. Maybe they would get it, maybe they wouldn’t, maybe they would make it up. She couldn’t think of any possible way this could all end. A purgatory of dead friends, lovers and family parading past her every day, casting accusing looks in her direction.

  The slap came and she welcomed it, didn’t flinch, kept her chin out in case Alice wanted another crack at it.

  ‘Christ,’ said the lady with the shopping bag.

  Surtsey looked over the road and caught Gracie’s eye. Nine years old. Tom had talked about the girls all the time, besotted with them. She hadn’t minded at all. It reminded her that what the two of them had wasn’t permanent, there was no way he was going to leave Alice because it would mean leaving them. That was fine. It showed he could love unconditionally, that he had a big heart. But now this whole thing with Iona, what the hell did that mean? Did he know about her? Surely not, or how could he be sleeping with Surtsey? Louise’s letter hadn’t said if she’d told him. If he knew, then he was the biggest arsehole alive. Well, dead. And either way, he had been cheating on his wife for two and a half decades. But for all that maybe he was a good dad. And now his girls had no dad; that was the worst thing in all this. A lost husband or lover or boyfriend, you come to terms with that eventually. A lost parent, well, Surtsey could relate to that now. And Iona. They were both the same as Alice’s girls, left to fend for themselves in the world.

  Gracie was stony-faced, Belle still oblivious, looking at herself in the rear-view mirror, sticking her chocolatey tongue out.

  ‘Your daughter is watching,’ Surtsey said.

  ‘Good,’ Alice said. ‘I want her to see what happens to the fucking slut who killed her dad.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Tom.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Alice said. ‘Just like you killed your Irish boyfriend.’

  Surtsey frowned. ‘How do you know about Brendan?’

  ‘You’re evil and I’m on to you. I can’t believe the police let you go.’

  Surtsey stared at her. Red cheeks, gin breath, haphazard make-up. ‘Maybe the police should interview you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about me and Brendan, that’s all.’

  Alice twisted at her own wrist. ‘I’m going to make sure they lock you up.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’ Surtsey said. ‘Setting me up?’

  Alice stepped closer, the alcohol rank. ‘If they don’t deal with you, I will.’

  ‘Like you dealt with Tom and Brendan?’

  Alice shoved Surtsey hard so that she stumbled back into the women behind her.

  ‘Hey,’ Tartan Bag said.

  Surtsey struggled to right herself as Alice turned and stormed across the road without even looking at traffic. In the car, Gracie had turned the other way, as if she wasn’t a part of this.

  38

  She cut down past McColl’s and the back of Scotmid, through double-parked streets. Like a bird with a homing instinct she headed for the beach, the prom and the sight of the Forth. A view that included the Inch, a place that used to feel like a haven for her
.

  As she was passing the boarded-up old bingo hall, the earth shook. Another tremor, Christ. How many was that since the big one a few days ago? This was stronger than the last few aftershocks, her balance shifting as she splayed her feet and held her hands out. Aftershock was the wrong word, these quakes happened any time and they didn’t follow a pattern. So much effort went into understanding seismology, geophysics and the rest, and yet it was still so spurious, no way of predicting when and where an earthquake would strike. The world shrugged off all their attempts to understand it and Surtsey had respect for that. Screw us, it was saying, we were worthless specks on the surface of the planet.

  She caught the eye of a young mum pushing a girl on a trike who’d stopped to hold a railing, using her other hand to keep the trike still. The tremor lasted a few more seconds, then the buzz in the air afterwards, an expectation of more mixed with the vacuum left behind. The woman shook her head and grimaced as her daughter looked puzzled about why she wasn’t able to go forward. She pushed on the pedals but her mum held her back. Surtsey shook her head at the woman and turned down Bath Street, pulling her phone out and dialling.

  Ring tone then Halima’s voicemail.

  ‘My God, Hal, where are you?’ Surtsey said. ‘Call me.’

  Another tremor made her stomach drop. Her hand went out but only found a ragged hedge. Her legs shook from stress as much as the earthquake. She thought she might be sick. The world was trying to shake her off into space. The planet had finally had enough of the billions of parasites on its surface, it was ready to start again, shake itself clean.

  Then the weird stability afterwards, silence after noise.

  Bile rose from her stomach up her throat. She spat on the pavement and pushed her hair away from her face.

  She began again down Bath Street then stopped outside the Espy. Stared at the chipped paint on the wooden doors for a moment then pushed them open. She scanned the bar. No sign of Iona, just the lanky Canadian guy she sometimes fucked, shaved hair on one side and emo tattoos sleeved up his arm.

  ‘Is Iona here?’ she said.

  He looked up from his phone, glanced around. ‘She didn’t come in for her shift. I’m covering for her.’

  Surtsey stared at the gantry of spirits behind him, tempted.

  ‘If you see her,’ Emo said, ‘tell her she owes me one.’

  Surtsey pulled her phone out and called. Iona’s voicemail. Christ, where was everybody? ‘Call me, we need to talk.’

  She rubbed at her forehead and looked at her phone. Checked social media for any posts by Hal or Iona. Nothing. She checked her messages, even though she knew neither had been in touch. Flicked to the last messages from Tom and Brendan, then flicked out. What was she doing to herself?

  She pushed open the door, breathed in the salty air then headed along the prom.

  The New Thule protestors were outside the boat enclosure, claiming the earth was offended by humanity. Maybe they had a point, she thought, maybe they were right all along. There were twenty of them clustered in front of the Beach House café, which couldn’t be good for business. They were subdued, maybe by the recent quakes, wondering what their earth mother was trying to tell them. She pushed through them looking for Bastian, wondering about him and Iona, but she couldn’t see him. She took a leaflet from a young man with thick hoops stretching his earlobes open. She crumpled the leaflet and threw it in a bin. She walked on, hunched with her hands in her pockets, daring the earth to unsettle her again.

  She rubbed at her cheek where Alice had slapped her. The blood was still raised at the skin and she wondered if it would leave a mark. Maybe she could have her charged with assault. But Surtsey knew she deserved it. She might not have killed Tom but she felt responsible, felt as if she’d started this whole chain of events where everyone around her was dying.

  She walked past the swimming pool where her mum had taught her to swim and kept walking. The sun was high to her right, making her squint as she came out of the building’s shadow. The Inch was behind her, nagging at her mind. She went past the ice cream van, thought about how many hundreds of cones she’d eaten from there. With her mum, with Iona, more recently with Hal or Brendan. Every step she took retraced a thousand previous walks, over and over, the promenade defining her childhood, her adulthood, her recent descent. The sea always changing, the sand shifting, the light dancing or brooding, the haar sometimes in, snowstorms bristling the sand, the wind throwing oil drums or dead seals or once a rotting whale carcass onto the shore. Always different, always unexpected, yet somehow reliable too, always there for her.

  She passed the hospice and couldn’t help looking at her mum’s window. She stopped in her tracks like she’d hit a wall. An old woman was sitting in a wheelchair at the window, thin white hair in wisps from her head, like lightning tracers. She had bags under deep-set eyes and thick creases in her forehead, and she smiled at Surtsey, who just stood there. Of course they would reassign the room, they were a business. Of course some other sad, dying person would love to have Louise’s sea view. But Surtsey hadn’t got her head round that yet. She’d expected to see the room empty, but now some cancerous old witch was sitting at her mum’s window looking at the view, sleeping in her mum’s bed and using her mum’s bedpan to piss in if she couldn’t make it to the toilet. The old woman raised a spindly hand and waved, more of a muscle tremor than anything. Surtsey put on a smile and waved back, then wiped tears from her face and walked on. She gazed at the sea, a flat sheet of hammered silver.

  She went through the contacts on her phone and called Mum.

  Voicemail. Her mum’s voice. ‘I can’t get to the phone right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

  Then the bit about re-recording your message, followed by the tone.

  Silence.

  ‘I miss you, Mum,’ Surtsey said. ‘I need you. Come back to me, please.’

  She was crying hard now.

  ‘I’m such a mess, my God, you would be so disappointed.’

  She laughed and sniffed, wiped away tears with the heel of her hand.

  ‘You would tell me to get my shit together but you would give me a hug too. Christ, I need that right now.’

  A crackle on the line, a ghost in the ether.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She ended the call and stood there, trying to get her breathing back to normal, clutching her phone like a rare fossil.

  She walked towards home. As she walked she pictured her mum in their house, shouting to her and Iona to brush their teeth and get their shoes on, they were late for school. Or telling them their tea was ready. Or patting them on the bum as they walked up the stairs in their jammies, trailing teddies. Just life, the stuff we ignore because it’s so commonplace. The stuff that matters.

  She reached her house and stopped. Standing on the doorstep was Donna, a smile on her face and a bottle of red wine in her hand.

  39

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Surtsey said, as she fiddled with her key.

  ‘Really?’

  Surtsey turned and held her gaze. ‘Really.’

  Donna smiled. Surtsey noticed long shadows spread over the sand behind her, so it was evening. She tried to think if she’d eaten anything today.

  She opened the door. ‘Come in.’

  Donna shuffled up the step behind her. Surtsey stopped in the doorway, grabbed her and hugged. Donna’s perfume filled her nose. It was a smell she recognised but couldn’t place. Maybe the same stuff Iona or Halima used. Maybe just from the hospice, smelling it in her mum’s room.

  She let go and smiled awkwardly.

  Donna returned the smile. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Far from it.’

  Donna waved the wine at her.

  Surtsey grabbed glasses from a kitchen cupboard then headed to the living room, Donna behind. She poured glasses for them both.

  Surtsey glugged away while Donna took a sip. That’s right, she didn’t like to get drunk, to lose control. Sur
tsey tried to imagine being in control and a laugh slipped from her mouth.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Donna said.

  ‘Control.’

  Donna looked confused.

  Surtsey waved her glass. ‘Never mind. Sit.’

  They sat opposite each other, Surtsey facing the bookshelf, those family snaps scattered amongst the science books.

  ‘Tell me about your parents,’ Surtsey said.

  Donna fidgeted with the stem of her glass. ‘Really?’

  ‘Unless you don’t want to talk about it.’

  Donna picked at the seam of her jeans. They were dirty around the bottom, her Nikes sandy too. She was wearing a nondescript T-shirt with a hoodie thrown over, dressed for comfort rather than going out. Nothing wrong with comfort. Surtsey had rarely seen her out of uniform, and she noticed that Donna looked strong, a physical presence in the living room. Beneath the flesh in that hug had been some solid muscle too. Surtsey wondered if she worked out.

  ‘I don’t really,’ Donna said.

  Surtsey tried to figure out why she’d invited her in. Maybe it was this: she didn’t want to talk about her dead parents, and there was no great desire to share, to make their relationship about her and her troubles. She was an empty page waiting to be filled by Surtsey. A good listener, her mum would’ve said, perfect for nursing. A sounding board for all of Surtsey’s problems. Except Surtsey couldn’t tell her any of it. She briefly wondered if she should tell Donna about Tom, about finding him on the island. She said nothing.

  ‘It’s a hard time,’ Donna said. ‘When someone you love dies.’

  ‘What about when several of them die?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Surtsey gulped wine. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is there something I don’t know? Has something happened?’

  Surtsey laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘I’m a good listener.’

  As if she’d been reading Surtsey’s thoughts again. She shook her head.

  Donna smiled. ‘I never could’ve imagined at school that we would be friends.’