The Angel in the Stone

by RL McKinney

  RL (Rebecca Louisa) McKinney is the author of Blast Radius (Sandstone, 2015), short stories, poetry and the occasional politically-charged blog. She lives near Edinburgh with her husband, children and two spoiled cats.

  Also by RL McKinney

  Blast Radius

  Published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © RL McKinney 2017

  The moral right of RL McKinney to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBN: 978-1-910985-79-3

  ISBNe: 978-1-910985-80-9

  Cover design by Stuart Brill

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typography Ltd, Newtonmore.

  For Craig, Jamie and Susanna

  Contents

  Title Page

  BLOCKAGE

  PRETENDING TO BE DEAD

  INSIDE THE WALLS

  PUSSY CAT

  POSITION STATEMENTS

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  MATCH

  THE ANGEL

  A FACE IN THE CROWD

  MARY MACDONALD’S FAREWELL

  I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS

  VERTIGO

  REMINISCENCE

  WRITTEN IN STONE

  KITCHEN SESSIONS

  MEETING

  BACKPACKING

  TELEPHONE

  WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOUR LOVED ONE HAS DEMENTIA

  WATER

  FIVE YEARS

  SEVENTY-SIX PER CENT

  HOTEL CALIFORNIA

  MOUTH MUSIC

  THINGS YOU CAN’T SAY TO YOUR GRANNY

  WHAT THIS IS

  CEILIDH

  STRIP THE WILLOW

  SKIMMING STONES

  CIRCLES

  THE WORST THING

  HEADSTONE

  CRUX

  BURGLARY

  LIFE CLASS

  NIRVANA

  THE PIPER OF GLENDARACH

  AXE

  EAGLE

  WHEESHT

  CATCH

  AFTER

  YIELD POINT

  AS IF NOTHING BAD COULD EVER HAPPEN

  FLOWN

  COIRE AN T-SNEACHDA

  Acknowledgements

  BLOCKAGE

  ‘Someone’s been coming into the flat.’ Mary’s voice was muffled. ‘Things keep going missing.’

  Calum Macdonald stopped working at the washer, slid out of the cabinet and looked up at his mother. She sat at the table, surrounded by the contents of the under-the-sink cupboard: old bottles of household cleaners, packets of sponges, mouldering dish brushes, rolls of bin liners, cracked Marigolds. Her fingers laced together, released and laced again.

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Documents. Money. Food.’

  ‘Food?’ It was impossible to hide his cynicism.

  ‘Look at this.’ She showed him the fruit bowl she kept in the middle of the table. It contained a single shrivelled clementine.

  There was no evidence to support the break-in theory. He tried to reason with her again.

  ‘Your windows are fine, your door is fine, nobody’s broken in. Nobody’s been in your flat.’

  Her head moved from side to side. ‘Maybe you’re stealing from me, I don’t know. You have keys, maybe you let yourself in when I’m out.’

  ‘I’ll hold my hand up and confess that I ate a banana when you weren’t looking. We’ve been through this, Mum. I am not stealing from you. Where are you getting this idea?’

  ‘I don’t know, Calum.’

  He wormed himself back into the unit again, eased the wrench onto the joint that connected the basin drainpipe with the main outlet pipe, exerting more pressure this time. It didn’t want to give. He channelled anger into the wrench. Last week she believed he had stolen her chequebook. After a frenzied search, she found it in the freezer. Then she accused him of hiding it there.

  Stealing had been Finn’s game, not his.

  He had to remind himself that she wasn’t rational. Or maybe she was, but it was a rationale that came from a brain that was slowly consuming itself. He couldn’t argue with her, even to defend himself. He never could, even before she got ill. Her moral high ground was so heavily fortified he never stood a chance.

  Calum breathed in. A wet, smoky smell hung about the kitchen: last night’s campfire on a rainy morning. ‘Have you been burning something in here?’

  Mary didn’t answer. From his position, he could see her legs, sturdy trunks sheathed in brown polyester. She stood, shifted from one foot to the other, walked around the table, crinkled some newspaper and put it down again. Her anxiety was real enough, even if the cause of it wasn’t.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘I can smell smoke. Have you been burning something?’

  ‘Just some old papers.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I told you, someone’s been in the flat. They could be stealing my bank details or anything. How do I know they’re not taking everything I have?’

  ‘We’ll check your accounts, but I’m sure it’s fine.’

  ‘I’ve been burgled before, Calum, don’t dismiss me like you always do.’

  She had forgiven the so-called burglary all those years ago. She had swallowed the invasion and abuse it constituted, and he couldn’t recall hearing her mention it since. She hadn’t forgotten about it though. The fear was still there, even if the essential details were missing. What could you say about that?

  Nothing. Say nothing. Let it go. Oblivion was the best place for some things. He clenched his teeth and gave a final heave on the wrench. The joint cracked and loosened, and a dribble of black sludge escaped. He pulled a basin over and worked it off completely. A mass of slimy, burnt paper and wet ash splatted into the basin.

  He sat up. ‘There’s your blockage. Be thankful it was in the U-bend and not behind the wall.’

  She bent forward and narrowed her eyes. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Burnt bank statements. How about we go buy you a shredder if you feel the need to destroy things?’

  ‘Och, I don’t see any need for more gadgets. A waste of money.’

  Calum looked at her. A wee plump fairy godmother with a bun, specs on a chain and a whole pumpkin-load of bitterness. She had been old a long time, far longer than she deserved. Her losses kept her afloat, like strange life rings. Her God had picked her out for some special misery, there was no question about that. Still, she prayed. Believed He was Good. Came back to Him. Like a woman who sticks with a man who gives her a doing every Friday night.

  ‘Okay, do me a favour and promise me you won’t burn anything else in the sink. I’m not doing this again.’

  ‘People have been in my flat. They’re looking for evidence.’ The hands were going again, making a dry snaky sound.

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘My political affiliations. Your father’s activities.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Mum, they’re not.’

  ‘I’m a woman on my own. I know you hate helping me. You always have. You left me to deal with everything, both of them, on my own, while you were away. Doing whatever you were doing.’

  ‘Your timeline’s a wee bit off.’

  Mary didn’t acknowledge this.

 
Calum hid in the cupboard again and began reassembling the pipework. The plastic pipe cracked as he attempted to tighten it. ‘Ah … ’ He swallowed a curse, threw the pipe out of his way and sat up. ‘That’s buggered. I’ll have to go see if I can get a new one.’

  ‘I knew you’d break something. I knew I should have got a plumber.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right, you should have got a plumber. I had better things to do today.’

  ‘You always do, Calum. You don’t come for weeks at a time. You come when you have to, but you never want to.’

  ‘I come to steal your bananas, remember?’

  She only looked at him, her mouth working on unspoken words. He knew she would swallow her confusion because she was too embarrassed to admit to it. But here was the cruellest irony of all: the disease had made Mary even more Mary than ever. One day it would suck her empty, but right now it had inflated her with her own most dominant traits, so that she had become a great big festering balloon of herself. It might have been okay if it was as straightforward as losing her memory but right now she was remembering things that might be better forgotten. She had been angry since Dad died, and now she seemed angrier than ever. Maybe, Calum thought, they both were.

  Glendarach, May 1986

  They made their way through the oaks, Calum hanging back to walk with his dad and Finn running ahead, leapfrogging stones and swinging from branches like an adolescent Tarzan. Sometimes Finn doubled back, sat down and waited, legs jittering impatiently. Calum accompanied their dad slowly along the path as it rose and fell over the mossy steps and forest debris. They had walked these woods together hundreds of times but somehow even the place felt different now: more hazardous, more frightening. Jack stepped carefully, watching the uneven ground like a person twice his age, protesting as Calum reached for his arm.

  ‘Leave me, I’m fine.’

  ‘You look a lot better today, Dad,’ Finn said, trotting back to them. He was on an upswing, when even the worst news in the world couldn’t bring him down.

  ‘I feel better.’ Jack paused again. ‘A wee bit of sun makes all the difference.’

  It was the first properly warm day of the summer. They came down onto the sheltered beach below Uncle Iain’s cottage and Jack stopped. He stood for a minute, breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead. It had been nearly two years since he could work, and his body had softened with disuse. He stifled a wheezy cough, mouth closed, his chest heaving with spasms. This was new, and Calum and Finn looked at each other, marking another milestone in the cancer’s progression. They had learned how to pull in their belts and live without his income. Soon they would have to learn how to live without him entirely. Nobody was saying it yet, as if talking about death would only speed its approach.

  Jack turned his face into the sun and smiled as its heat fell across his cheeks. He knows too, Calum thought as he set the case containing Jack’s pipes on a stone. He knows this will be his last summer.

  ‘I’m going in,’ Finn announced, pulling off his shoes and stuffing his socks into them. Peeling off his sweaty T-shirt, he revealed three parallel tracks of purple welts on his back.

  ‘What happened there?’ Calum asked.

  ‘Just … football.’

  ‘Were they using you for the ball, like?’

  ‘Nah, it was a bad tackle or something. I don’t remember.’

  Jack turned to look. ‘What is that, Finlay?’

  ‘Just stud marks. It happens.’

  ‘That looks intentional.’

  ‘It wasn’t, alright?’

  Jack inspected the marks more closely: long, deep bruises edged by scabs. ‘Can’t you learn to stand up for yourself, lad?’

  ‘I said it wasn’t intentional, Dad.’

  ‘Was it that wee ginger shitebag Thomson? Tell me and I’ll sort him out for you.’

  ‘Calum, just shut up, right?’ Finn dropped his shorts and strode into the sea in his pants, dived in and came up with his dark hair sleek against his skull, lean and wiry as an otter.

  ‘You go in with him, Son, I’ll be fine here,’ Jack said, testing the ground for stones with his feet before sitting on the soft sand.

  Calum sat beside him. ‘I’ll give him a few minutes to stop being stroppy.’

  ‘He’s stroppy all the time now. Up and down like a damn yoyo.’

  ‘He’s thirteen.’

  ‘You weren’t like that.’

  ‘Do you blame him?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Jack coughed again, fist pressed against his lips.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Aye, aye. That sun feels braw, doesn’t it? It’s been a cold year. I never felt the cold when I was working, you know that? That’s the key to it. Whatever happens, you’ve got to keep yourself going. Promise me you will, right?’

  ‘I will.’

  They sat without speaking for a couple of minutes. Calum lay back and closed his eyes, listening for Finn’s splashes, picking out the different bird songs, feeling the warm grains between his fingers and the sun burning his cheeks. Jack’s breathing settled and he hummed a tune to himself like he always did. Calum felt sleep coming for him but he didn’t want to give in to it. This day was too precious to sleep through any of it. He opened his eyes and pushed himself out of the sand. The sun glittered on the water.

  ‘You coming for a swim Dad? I’ll take you.’

  Jack gave a soft laugh and thought about it for a moment. ‘Nah. You go on.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Aye.’ He lay back on the sand and folded his arms behind his head. ‘I’ll just lie here and imagine I’m on the Med. I can see those lovely girls in their bikinis already. Tops off.’

  ‘Dream on.’

  ‘Aye, I will.’

  Calum undressed and left his clothes beside Finn’s. ‘Right, then. See you in a bit.’

  ‘Leave me the pipes, Son, I might have a wee blast.’ Even now, Mary wouldn’t let him play anywhere near the house.

  Calum wondered if he would have the breath to play, but set the case on his T-shirt.

  Jack patted the case. ‘Aye, that’s grand.’

  We should give him a Viking funeral, Calum thought as he crossed the beach. No mouldy old priest humming and muttering a stream of lies to people who would believe anything. Dad would hate that. Pie in the sky, he’d say. He would laugh and make a flashing sign in the air with his hands. Christianity: Keeping Poor Folk In their Place for Two Thousand Years.

  The sea hadn’t warmed yet and it tightened like an iced metal vice around his shins. Calum paused, took a deep breath, then ran forward and dived in, swimming hard to catch up with Finn. They raced each other towards the tip of the headland, where the white sand fell away and the clear shallow water became huge and black. They stopped to catch their breath, treading water, rising and falling with the swell, and from the shore came the drone of the pipes warming up. They looked back at Jack. After a few skirly notes, he started into a piobaireachd: long mournful phrases, more chant than melody, a steady stream of sound like he was drawing breath from the earth itself.

  ‘He’s obsessed,’ Calum said. ‘Normal dads cook sausages and read the newspaper on the beach.’ His voice broke.

  ‘He’s never been a normal dad,’ Finn said without judgement or sadness, floating on his back with his ankles together and arms outstretched. Christ cast adrift.

  ‘That explains you, then,’ Calum said. He wanted to joke, or fight even, because Finn could never take a joke. But Finn just floated there, refusing to be drawn. Calum felt himself become heavy with the coming loss: a stone strapped to his back, ready to drown him. He let it pull him down, deep below the surface where the pipes were no longer audible, and tears leaked from his eyes, making tiny pockets of warm water in the cold sea.

  PRETENDING TO BE DEAD

  Catriona Smith kicked her legs free of the cover, pushed the pillow onto the floor and lay flat on the bed, pretending it was a mortuary slab, pretending she was dead. Her fingers splayed again
st the sheet. After a couple of seconds they began to grip the fabric, so she turned her palms toward the ceiling. She tried to imagine her body withering and sinking down into the ground. The dead were empty. They felt nothing. They were safe. Death was the only place of safety in the world.

  She could hear her mum clattering around downstairs, talking to the dogs, thumping across the kitchen floor in her work heels. Soon she would go out the door and even that small protection would be gone. Catriona thought she should get up, run downstairs before her mum left, tell her to stay, tell her everything, be the baby girl again, let herself be gathered in. But instead she lay on the bed and wanted to be dead. She imagined her body filling with cement and becoming impenetrable.

  The heels were thudding up the stairs. Catriona hauled her cover back over herself and closed her eyes as her bedroom door creaked open.

  ‘I’m off.’

  Catriona pretended to sleep, but Jenny Smith had never been easily fooled. She sat down on the bed and stroked her daughter’s hair.

  ‘Cat, are you going to get up and do something today?’

  Cat opened her eyes but didn’t turn over. ‘Is there something I’m meant to be doing?’

  ‘You’ve done nothing but lie about the house since you got home. You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m knackered, Mum.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be, unless you’re ill.’

  ‘I’m not ill.’

  ‘Are you depressed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It runs in families.’

  ‘That’s another thing you can blame my dad for, then.’

  ‘Cat … ’

  ‘It has nothing to do with him, and I’m not depressed.’

  Jenny gave a huffy breath. ‘Well in that case, you might consider getting off your backside. It wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to find a job for the summer.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. A shop, or a café. Ask some of the guesthouses if they need a maid.’

  ‘I’m not changing other people’s dirty sheets.’