by RL McKinney
‘What’s wrong with me? I wake up and it’s two in the morning and you’re still in the bath? I thought you were dead in there. I thought you slit your goddamn wrists.’
‘I fell asleep, Shell. Calm down.’
‘You could have slipped down and drowned.’ Her body was shaking.
He laughed softly and reached for her arm. ‘I’m fine. I was wedged in there so tight I wasn’t slipping anywhere.’
‘That’s not even funny.’ She yanked down a fresh towel and scrubbed at her face. ‘You don’t know what this is doing to me. You’re completely oblivious.’
‘Feel free to join the party.’ He snatched the brown plastic vial of pills and threw it at her.
She caught it neatly and returned it to the shelf. ‘I’ve thought about it. I’m not moving to Scotland. You do what you have to do.’
‘Aye.’ He felt cold and raw, and awake for the first time in months. ‘I will.’
Maybe you would call it an existential crisis, only to be solved by remaking yourself completely. You had to do that with your eyes open and your skin exposed. If he’d still been a Catholic, maybe he would have walked barefoot over stones and cacti to some holy place, fallen to his knees and been refilled by the Holy Spirit. He’d stopped believing in God by the time he was ten, but his mind still turned to the darkness and blood of those early foundations. He still instinctively reached for some kind of redemption.
They pulled into the drive in front of the house and he turned off the engine. Catriona sat still for a minute, arms folded over her chest, eyes looking at anything but him. He remembered that need to withdraw, to be invisible and untouchable, to find a place where other people couldn’t reach you. She was a little girl hiding at the back of the wardrobe. She’d come all the way here to hide from Jenny.
The question was, why?
MOUTH MUSIC
The hens were an unexpected delight. Calum had appointed her keeper of the hens and Mary took her duties seriously. Each morning she opened the door of their house and they looked at her with dozy eyes, making soft throaty noises and shaking out feathers before stepping out into the garden. Like four noble ladies, they strutted across the grass, breakfasting on slugs and snails while Mary gathered their eggs. Sometimes she sat with them and their conversations reminded her of old women telling stories or singing while they knitted.
An insurgent sun had emerged after the morning’s torrent, bringing heat, lifting steam from the earth. The water in the shallows brightened, glowed translucent turquoise over the white sand. There was sufficient breeze to keep the midges down, so she sat out with her pot of tea and the last of the cake Calum’s friends had brought. Mary couldn’t recall the name of the English girl with the childish plaits and the accordion, but she made a decent sponge. The raspberry jam in the middle tasted home-made. It was a taste of summer, of childhood, of a time before worry or loss. She turned her face to the sun, absorbing its goodness. Her skin burned easily, peeled and freckled, but she didn’t suppose it mattered that much anymore. She wasn’t saving her looks for anyone.
Accompanied by quiet, satisfied clucking, she let a song rise from her throat: the Gaelic mouth music mother and aunties used to sing. Most of the syllables were meaningless, simply there to give voice to rhythm, and so it was fine to sing along with hens. They seemed to like it, their little bird heads twitching and tilting towards her, their coal-black eyes glinting. Sing another one, Mary, they seemed to say. Sing a naughty one.
Out front, tyres ground over the gravel. The engine of Calum’s Land Rover shuddered then turned off. She sat up, hastily rearranged her blouse and gathered her dishes, not wanting him to catch her resting. From the kitchen, she heard the front door open and his voice in the hallway. A young girl followed a few steps behind him, crowned by a pincushion of shocking red hair.
‘Mum, we’ve got a surprise visitor,’ Calum said. ‘You remember Catriona?’
Mary gave enough smile to be polite and no more. ‘Are you one of his fiddle students, dear?’
‘Eh … no … ’
‘Mum, Catriona’s my daughter. Your granddaughter.’
‘Oh … ’ Mary brought her fingers to her lips. She remembered a toddler with dirty blonde hair and a stubborn set to her jaw. ‘Goodness me.’
The girl’s eyes flicked to Calum. She looked like a punk, her ears and lip studded with metal. ‘Hi Gran.’
‘Let me look at you.’ Mary moved towards her. She could see no family resemblance at all. This girl was an alien creature: short, pale and busty. She was so dark under the eyes she looked like she took drugs. ‘Are you sure, Calum?’
‘Pretty sure.’
The poor girl stood like a lamb waiting for the slaughter. ‘You must have been just a wee baby last time I saw you, pet.’
‘I think I was about twelve,’ she replied.
Mary couldn’t remember. She looked at Calum. ‘You might have told me she was coming.’
‘I didn’t know. I found her outside the pub.’
‘Ocht, Calum.’ She shook her head. What could she say? He was always in a guddle, floating about in his own thoughts, pretending nobody else existed in the world. ‘How old are you now then?’ Mary asked. ‘You must be sixteen at least.’
‘Nineteen, Gran.’
‘You never are.’
‘Aye. I’m at uni. Just finished first year.’
‘In Aberdeen?’
‘No, Edinburgh.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘Sociology and politics.’ She fidgeted from one foot to the other as though she needed the toilet.
‘Oh, well. You must be a very clever young lady.’
‘I was all right at school, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Mum, I’ll show Catriona up to her room, all right?’
‘Aye, on you go.’ Mary waved her hand. The girl turned a shoulder on her without a backward glance and slouched up the stairs after Calum. Mary turned on the television and sat with an unsettled tummy. Something wrong with that one, she thought. His fault, partly at least. A child needed a father. She only had to remind herself what happened to Finn after Jack died.
Calum came downstairs after a few minutes. ‘She’s getting changed. Poor thing got soaked in that rain. I’ll make up the bed in the study for her. What a surprise, huh?’ He unpacked his workbag and handed her a polystyrene box. ‘It’s most of a burger she didn’t eat. I thought you might like it.’
Mary opened the box and sniffed at the burger. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to eat her food. She might be unwell.’
‘For goodness sake, Mum, she’s not carrying diseases. Here, I’ll put it in the fridge.’
Mary handed him the box. ‘What’s she doing here? I must say, it’s strange for her just to turn up unannounced.’
‘She is allowed to visit.’
‘Is she in trouble?’
‘What, you mean pregnant? I don’t think so.’
‘Well, she might be.’
‘Can’t you just stop fretting over ridiculous possibilities?’
‘It isn’t ridiculous Calum, as you of all people should know.’
‘Point made.’ He set his jaw hard and turned away, emptied the remainder of the tea from his flask and rinsed it. Mary leaned in the doorway and watched the sun illuminate the silvery stubble on his cheeks. She wished he’d shave more. Jack shaved every day, sometimes twice if they were going out in the evening, and he always wore a shirt tucked in.
‘I don’t like the way she’s dressed.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not sure she’d appreciate your fashion sense either.’
‘Oh stop it. It’s unbecoming. All those studs are unhygienic. I wouldn’t have allowed them in my classroom, I’ll tell you that. You should make her take them out.’
‘I’m not making her do anything,’ he said sharply, ‘and neither will you. Just let her be. She’s upset about something and she needs some time to get over it.’
‘Well what is it?’
�
��I don’t know.’
‘I’ll speak to her.’
‘Mum … ’
‘What?’ She waited for him to finish but he stood there like a cat about to bring up a hairball. Infuriating and tongue-tied. No wonder he could never keep a woman. ‘Do you think I’m a fool, Calum?’
‘No.’
‘You treat me like one.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled off his filthy grey sweatshirt and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘I heard you singing when we got back. Mind how Finn used to dance? The way he jumped around the place and jigged his wee feet? He couldn’t contain himself.’
Mary lifted the jumper. It smelled of sawdust and turps. ‘The kitchen isn’t the place to leave your mucky clothes.’
‘I was talking about Finn, Mum.’
‘What about him?’
‘How he used to dance? Remember?’
‘Of course I do. I always said he could have been a dancer. He moved so gracefully, even when he was tiny.’
‘He could have been a lot of things.’
‘He might still have been, if he’d had more time.’
Calum stared at her. For two seconds, maybe less, there was a look of such black hatred on his face she thought he might attack her. Then it passed. ‘I’m popping next door,’ he said very quietly.
THINGS YOU CAN’T SAY TO YOUR GRANNY
From the cupola window, Catriona watched Calum stride across the drive to the other cottage, his boots driving hard into the gravel. He knocked once and pushed the door open. Briefly she caught a glimpse of a woman in the hallway, slender and pale. They kissed briefly on the lips and then he stepped inside and the door closed. So already he was hiding things from her.
Fine, she thought. Permission granted not to tell him everything.
She emptied her rucksack onto the threadbare red sofa bed in Calum’s study and draped the damp clothes over the radiator. Her stomach felt empty and nervous. She wished now she’d eaten the burger but was too embarrassed to go down and ask for it. Her own grandmother hadn’t even recognised her. It was possible that Mary had forgotten her existence entirely. Was she so low down in their priorities that they never even talked about her?
The old lady had dementia, she reminded herself. You wouldn’t necessarily know it to speak to her, except that she’d behaved like they were complete strangers. Catriona wondered if she’d have to introduce herself all over again when she went downstairs.
To postpone that embarrassing prospect, she scouted around her new digs. It was a small room, wooden-floored, the computer desk and shelves cluttered with dusty files and boxes of paperwork. She looked around, not touching anything but gathering clues about his life: a poster for a music festival in some place called Telluride, an ice axe and a pair of crampons on a hook, old textbooks about engineering and geology, other books of poetry. CDs of his band took up a whole shelf. She took one down and looked at the cover art: swirly, stylised line drawings of two men and a woman in a rowing boat surrounded by mountainous waves, the woman’s hair streaming loose and flowing into the water. The only CD player in the room was the computer, so she switched it on and hoped it wouldn’t ask for a password. It didn’t.
She slipped the disk into the slot, expecting the usual snap and jerk of fiddle and accordion ceilidh music. What emerged was something else entirely: a long, haunting wail on the fiddle, a single note splitting into a chord, almost like a train heard far in the distance. It gave rise to a melody in some dark key. Spartan, primitive, nothing you could dance to. Catriona sat down amidst her few possessions and listened. The next tune was brighter and sweeter, a happy turn after a bleak opening. She lifted her feet up onto the sofa and let herself drift into a doze for a little while.
Her mobile phone woke her and sent her scrabbling around in the pile of stuff she’d unloaded. The screen said Mum. She swiped it. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi Love. How are you?’
She was Love from a distance. ‘Fine. I’m at Dad’s.’
‘Okay … how is it?’
‘All right. His mother’s here. Granny Mary. She has Alzheimer’s. She didn’t recognise me.’
‘Oh … ’ Jenny paused. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Calum?’
‘He’s … yeah … okay I think. He looks good.’
‘He’s all right with you?’
‘Aye, sure.’
‘I was worried. I tried to call you a few times earlier, but … ’
‘There’s not always a signal here.’
‘I’ll call the landline then, if I need to reach you. Cat, there was a boy on the phone for you last night. From Edinburgh, he said, and … ’
Catriona’s chest tightened. Clutching the phone to her ear, she went to the window and peered out. ‘Who? What was his name?’
‘Kyle. He was upset, Cat. He said he’s been trying to reach you for weeks. He said you finished things on bad terms and he wanted to apologise … ’
‘What did he tell you, Mum?’ Catriona almost barked down the phone. ‘How did he get our home number?’
‘I assumed you gave it to him. He didn’t say anything more than that.’
‘Mum, don’t speak to him. If he phones again, don’t answer it. And don’t tell him where I am. You didn’t, did you?’
‘No, of course not. Catriona, I don’t like this. This isn’t something that needs to be dealt with by the police, is it? You’re not in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, I’m not in any kind of trouble, Mum, I swear. Kyle’s just a loser who got a bit obsessed. A posh creep who needs to get over me, that’s all. Promise me you won’t tell him I’m here.’
‘I won’t. Of course I won’t. Is this why you’ve been so strange? Is this why you’ve run away?’
‘No!’ she blurted, hoping if she said it forcefully enough Jenny would believe it. ‘I haven’t run away. God, Mum. Kyle’s just an asshole I met at a club. I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘He sounded genuine.’
‘Well he isn’t.’ She felt sick. She rubbed a sweaty palm on her leggings, her pulse racing. The safety she’d felt since getting off the bus in Fort William yesterday crumbled. If her mum had mentioned anything at all about her coming to stay with her dad, Kyle could trace her. She’d told him too much about Calum. If he could track down her mum’s landline in Aberdeen, he could sniff her out here.
What if that really had been him in the shops that day?
She’d have to tell Calum, soon.
‘Mum, I have to go.’
‘Catriona, are you all right?’
‘Yeah, but I have to go, okay? I’ll … call you.’
She ended the call before Jenny could ask any more questions and sat for a moment, struggling to breathe. It was like someone was holding a pillow over her face and she couldn’t make a sound.
Sitting still made her feel vulnerable, as if Kyle was on his way here already. She went downstairs. Mary was watching the news, perched on the edge of the brown leather sofa, her hands knotting and unknotting against her belly. She looked as anxious as Catriona felt.
‘Did my dad come back?’
Mary looked at her, chewing her lower lip.
‘Calum, I mean,’ Catriona added, just in case.
‘No, dear.’ Mary’s hands continued to twitch, and to that she added what looked like an involuntary head shake. ‘No … Calum’s not here. Can I make you something? Some tea? There was cake earlier but I’m afraid I’ve finished it.’ She started to stand up.
‘No … no thank you, Gran. I’m … fine, I can help myself. Can I watch with you?’
‘If you like.’ Mary shifted towards the end of the sofa.
Catriona sat, leaned back, tried to breathe calmly. The Scottish news was all referendum: Salmond asserting that an independent Scotland would keep the pound, Osborne asserting that it wouldn’t. The House of Commons bleating like sheep. Young people campaigning for independence in the Meadows. Her stomach clenched all over again: Kyle might be there. But if Ky
le was there, at least he couldn’t be here. She looked for him in the brief images but they soon disappeared.
Keep the heid, she thought.
He’d phoned her house. He’d phoned her fucking house.
She tried to distract herself with her phone. She scanned her friends’ Facebook updates. There were the usual holiday snaps, boyfriends met or broken up with, tiffs and reconciliations, summer jobs with hateful managers, gigs and nights out. Melanie Goodwin had an enviable new pair of Docs. Leah Mathers was fundraising for a trip to Swaziland. In addition to all of this, there was now a backdrop of political anticipation, as if they were collectively about to embark for a new world. Maybe they were, and most likely they wouldn’t get there. Even if they did, she couldn’t help wondering if anything would change that much. Life would probably still rumble on in ignorance of other people’s pain, just like it always did.
She had unfriended Kyle and had posted nothing about her present location. She offered a couple of YouTube videos so that people didn’t forget her existence entirely, but nothing personal. They didn’t need to know; she didn’t want anyone to know. A thing had happened and it needed to be left in a dark cave somewhere and forgotten about.
‘Flabby, over-fed men arguing about money,’ Mary said.
‘Pardon, Gran?’
‘These politicians, bickering like children. They never tell the full story.’
‘No, they don’t.’
‘You should be careful with that.’ Mary pointed at the phone. ‘They spy on you with those.’
‘Who?’
‘The government.’
Catriona let out a little laugh. ‘Do they? They won’t see very much here. I’m the most boring person in Scotland.’
Mary turned off the television, turned and looked at Catriona, tilting her head the way a puppy would.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m being critical, dear.’ The way she said dear made Catriona wonder if Mary had forgotten her name as well. ‘You’re a very nice looking young lady. I don’t know why you want to poke holes in your face and hide yourself under men’s clothing.’
‘Dunno. It’s just my style.’
