The Big Chill

by Doug Johnstone

  As far as she could tell it was straightforward stuff, a young disenfranchised guy, everyone else’s fault. Hannah wondered about that. The few lines she could decode blamed landlords, the local council, the government, social services, school teachers, parents. He was bitter and lonely, alone in the world and looking to belong. Hannah had some sympathy, it was easy for any of us to fall through the cracks of society. She was lucky, she had a supportive girlfriend, Mum and Gran had grounded her when she went through years of teenage anxiety and depression.

  Likewise, without that help all the shit over the last six months could’ve sent her over the edge. The more she dwelt on her dad, the more she felt herself sinking into a black fog. Only Indy, Jenny and Dorothy kept her going, along with the uni counselling. It was so easy to just give up trying to stay afloat. What if you skipped rent and got evicted? What if you couldn’t get to work in clean clothes because you couldn’t afford to wash them? What if you had nothing to eat and nowhere to live and it was raining hard and that stupid Edinburgh wind was blowing from the west and there was a car you could take and sleep in. Of course you would.

  ‘Come to bed,’ Indy said.

  Hannah turned and saw her girlfriend in pyjama trousers and vest, brown skin against white cotton, framed in the doorway like a mirage. Her heart swelled as if she’d conjured Indy out of thin air. That would be a useful superpower.

  ‘Just a few more minutes,’ Hannah said.

  Indy came over and looked at the notebook. ‘Getting anywhere?’

  Hannah massaged her brow. ‘Not really. He was angry.’

  ‘So would you be, in his position.’ Indy rested a hand on Hannah’s shoulder, rubbed her tight neck. ‘We all like to think we’d behave morally if pushed into a corner, but most of us wouldn’t.’

  ‘You think?’

  Indy shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of evidence. People stampeding over others to get to lifeboats. It’s easy to be moral if those morals aren’t tested.’

  Hannah waved a hand at the book. ‘But this guy was full of hatred.’

  ‘And that would be comforting,’ Indy said. ‘If you think you’ve been hard done by, anger is an energy to keep you going. It’s easier if your shit circumstances are someone else’s fault rather than the alternative.’

  ‘Which is what, that it’s your own fault?’

  Indy shook her head. ‘Random bad luck. Come on, Han, you’re always talking about the randomness of the universe, all that quantum stuff, how things can just happen. This is the same on a human scale.’

  Hannah angled her head into the neck massage and thought about that. The randomness of the universe underpinned the way she looked at the world, but that was physics not everyday life. That’s why people turned to religion or conspiracy theories, as a way to defend against that randomness, a way to impose order on their lives. But she’d never had religion, Indy was a lapsed Hindu, so where did that leave them?

  She stood, took Indy’s hands and kissed her. Pulled back to look in her eyes and felt guilt. Indy had been through so much, her parents dying in a car crash four years ago, and she was as much a friend of Mel’s as Hannah was. And yet Hannah always made it about herself. She was ashamed that she had to make a conscious effort to see things from Indy’s point of view, it was a failure of empathy. Indy had no such trouble, so good with the bereaved.

  ‘How was your day?’ Hannah said.

  Indy nodded. ‘Oh, you know, the usual death-infused laugh-fest.’

  Hannah smiled. ‘You’re joking but you love it.’

  ‘I helped Mr Wilson pick out flowers and music for his wife’s service,’ Indy said. ‘He was only a teeny bit racist.’

  She put her thumb and forefinger together to indicate something tiny. Hannah copied her. This was a running joke, a way of defusing the unthinking racism that Indy came across every day, especially from old people. You don’t have a name like Indira Banerjee in Scotland and go uncommented on.

  ‘He was stationed in Burma during the war, don’t you know, has always really liked “my people”.’

  ‘Christ,’ Hannah said. ‘How far is Myanmar from West Bengal?’

  Indy laughed. ‘A thousand miles through Bangladesh.’

  Hannah’s smile faded as she put herself in Indy’s shoes. Part of the Scottish-Asian community, Edinburgh accent, dead Indian parents, no longer practising Hindu, funeral director, empathetic voice of reason. But the casual racism was interlaced with misogyny, amplified because the funeral game wasn’t for women in some people’s eyes. If anyone had a right to be losing her shit just now it was Indy. And yet here she was with neck massages whenever Hannah needed them.

  Hannah kissed her stronger than before, trying to make her love obvious.

  Eventually Indy pulled away. ‘Come to bed.’

  Hannah closed the notebook then her phone rang. Her throat tightened, remembering her dad last time. Checked the screen, Hugh Fowler.

  Indy raised her eyebrows.

  Hannah bit her lip. ‘Two minutes.’

  Indy left and Hannah answered. ‘Professor Fowler.’

  ‘Hugh, please.’ His voice was soft and shaky, like he was apologising for making any sound at all. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. It is rather late.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Hannah went to the window and looked at the neighbouring flats, their rooms lit up against the evening gloom.

  ‘I wanted to check how you were, my dear,’ Hugh said.

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Hannah realised it was still the same day she’d fainted.

  ‘That’s good.’ There was a chewing down the line. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t worked out when to reschedule Mel’s memorial.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hannah said. ‘She’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’ Hannah sighed at her own stupidity.

  ‘That’s quite all right.’

  Hannah heard Indy brushing her teeth in the bathroom, remembered the conversation she had with her counsellor yesterday.

  ‘Hugh, what do you think of quantum immortality?’

  A brief silence. ‘An interesting idea, but just that, really. That’s the trouble with thought experiments, they don’t take the real world into consideration.’

  ‘But where do you stand?’

  ‘I don’t stand on either side, it’s a paradox, that’s rather the point.’

  ‘So you’re like Schrödinger’s cat.’

  ‘I’m not in that situation, thank goodness. I’m pretty sure I’m still alive.’

  ‘But that is quantum immortality. You’re alive because you’re the observer, and you can only observe yourself if you’re alive.’

  A cough down the line. ‘You’re going round in semantic circles. Your statement can be reduced to “I’m alive because I’m alive”. No philosopher worth his or her salt would entertain such a notion.’

  Hannah couldn’t think what else to say.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Hugh said.

  Hannah rubbed at her forehead. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to continue this in person? I do like discussing quantum theory with students.’

  Hannah wanted to tell him this was just a way to think of Mel as still alive, but it seemed ludicrous out of context. But she liked the professor, and he was nicer to talk to than a counsellor.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Maybe we can get to the bottom of quantum immortality.’

  Hugh laughed, a soft sound. ‘Well, the best physicists on the planet have failed so far, but yes, that would be lovely.’

  15

  DOROTHY

  The address, Lochend Butterfly Way, couldn’t have been less suited to the warren of new-built flats cluttering up a forgotten part of Leith. Each flat had a little balcony with pastel-coloured metalwork looking out over more flats and building work.

  It was a quiet corner of the city between Meadowbank and Hibs’ ground at Easter Road. Dorothy thought about the car crash two days ago r
ound the other side of the stadium, wondered if the Blackie family were over the shock yet.

  She tried to remember what this part of town was like before these flats, but nothing came to her. Bonded warehouses, maybe, or factories. In the distance were stainless-steel skeletons of more apartments, cranes swinging between them like dancing giants. Beyond was the tail end of Salisbury Crags, yellow gorse springing into bloom below clouds nudging each other to the Forth.

  She found number five and checked the buzzers, no Neil Williams. Flats three and seven had no names, just numbers. She pressed both and waited. No answer. Pressed again and stepped away from the doorway to look up. She could make an educated guess which was which, but there was no movement at any window.

  She pressed the services button, nothing. Then tried number ten and waited.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sorry, delivery for number three.’

  Buzzed in. This was a nicely kept place, flowers in plant pots outside the first door, carpeted hallways.

  She got to the first floor and looked at number three. Adams and Yong on the door. She knocked, cocked her ear. Nothing. She went up two more flights to number seven. No name. She knocked, looked around. No flowerpots here, just a basic brown welcome mat. She listened. Opened the letterbox and looked inside. Couldn’t make out much, a plain hallway, no pictures on the walls, no jackets hanging up, no boots by the door.

  She stayed there soaking it in until her back began to ache, then straightened up and checked out the door across the way. Went and knocked there too. Nothing, everyone out at work, these were not flats that shirkers could afford.

  She went up another flight and stopped outside number ten. Ferrier on the door. She knocked, waited. Heard a noise inside, young, male, talking to himself. She knocked louder. Eventually the door opened, a boy, early teens, wearing headphones with a mouthpiece and holding an Xbox controller.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He was good-looking and skinny, big brown eyes, spots and the start of a moustache. Wearing joggers and a hoodie.

  Dorothy had been preparing an excuse for why she was here, why she didn’t look like a delivery person with a package.

  ‘I’m trying to find Neil Williams,’ she said, nodding downstairs. ‘Number seven.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know if he lives there?’

  Shrug. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Well, who does live there?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Is it a man? Woman? A couple?’

  His shoulders went up. Dorothy could hear someone else’s voice spilling from the headphones.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and she didn’t know if he was talking to her or the online person. He pressed a button on the cable to mute them. ‘What do you want?’

  Dorothy sighed. She remembered Hannah at that age, and Abi had a tendency for monosyllabic answers, so she was used to this.

  ‘Number seven, downstairs,’ she said slowly. ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone going in or out?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  She realised now she’d been stupid earlier, hadn’t got a description of Neil Williams from the stepdad. She made a mental note to go back and ask. Then she remembered something and pulled out her phone, scrolled through the pictures.

  ‘Ever seen this girl?’

  Held up a picture of Abi behind a drum kit from the school show. It was a year old and she’d stretched in that time like teenagers do.

  ‘Maybe,’ the boy said.

  Dorothy handed over her phone. ‘Please take a look.’

  He stuck out his lips in a pout, chewed the inside of his cheek, his fingers still twitching over the controller buttons as if playing the ghost of a game.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ he said.

  ‘You think so.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The boy shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Dorothy couldn’t decide if it was nerves or just excess teenage energy. He sucked his teeth.

  ‘A lot of folk come and go from that flat.’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugged, mumbled. ‘What I said.’

  ‘A lot of people? Like, how many?’

  ‘Half a dozen.’

  ‘What kinds of people?’

  ‘All sorts.’

  ‘Teenage girls?’

  ‘Not especially. She’s the only one, I think.’

  ‘So who then?’

  ‘Just people, OK?’ He looked behind him to the living room. ‘Look, I need to go.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

  He deadpanned her. ‘Shouldn’t you mind your own business?’

  ‘OK, I just need to know as much as I can about…’

  But the door was closed.

  She stood staring at the letterbox, the name on the door, then she went downstairs, stopped again at number seven, and wondered about the people coming and going.

  Thomas was already at a table outside Soderberg when she got there, a couple of pastries and a pot of tea in front of him. He smiled and got out of his seat to kiss her cheek. He felt solid and she thought about the last time she touched a man in a way that wasn’t innocent. Six months since Jim had gone and she hadn’t had the urge, not in that way. But Thomas was good company and he was in good shape. Maybe.

  He poured tea in an unhurried way, slid a cup over to her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  She was a little confused by the question. ‘Sure.’

  He frowned at her raised eyebrows. ‘It’s only been two days since the joyrider thing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’

  ‘And have you found out anything about him?’

  ‘Jimmy X? I went to see him at the mortuary. Jenny is looking into the car and Hannah has the notebook. We’re going to try homeless shelters.’

  ‘You named him.’

  ‘I couldn’t keep calling him the joyrider or the homeless kid.’

  ‘But Jimmy?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Thomas sipped his tea. ‘So why did you want to meet?’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘Can’t a woman sit and chat with her old friend?’

  ‘You only want to chat when you’re after police info.’

  Dorothy clutched her chest. ‘I’m genuinely hurt.’

  ‘OK, so you don’t want anything from me,’ Thomas said. That Swedish accent, the thick T sound, enough to make him stand out around here, just like her Californian echoes.

  Dorothy put on a coy face. ‘Now, let’s not be hasty.’

  She slid a piece of paper across the table. It had everything she knew of Abi’s life, her mum, stepdad and biological dad, the addresses of her home and Neil Williams’ place.

  ‘Can you check these guys for anything weird?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Abi is missing,’ Dorothy said. ‘I think she’s gone to her real dad, this guy.’ She pointed at the name on the page. ‘At this address. But something doesn’t feel right. I haven’t been able to find him and the flat seems off.’

  ‘Off how?’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’

  ‘Is this an actual case or another crusade?’

  Dorothy swallowed some tea and put her cup down. ‘I teach her drums. She’s a good kid and she’s gone missing. The parents don’t seem that bothered.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Shit,’ Thomas said.

  Dorothy reached out and touched his hand on the paper. ‘There’s something weird about the whole set-up.’

  ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’ll find out what I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dorothy cricked her neck, feeling her bones ache from the thing at the cemetery. Didn’t take much these days to wipe
her out, a tiny fall, an innocent bug.

  ‘I worry about you,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I worry about you.’

  He looked confused. ‘Why?’

  Magpies in the tree above them were clacking to each other, one arriving with a branch in its mouth to add to a nest. New life everywhere at the moment, young parents pushing buggies down Middle Meadow Walk, fresh-faced students easy in their movements.

  ‘You’re alone, like me.’

  He placed his hand palm up on the table. ‘We have each other.’

  She put her hand in his. ‘Do we?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was a little tired of being friends, if she was honest. Six months as a widow was enough, it wasn’t as if she had endless time left. She wanted to suggest that she and Thomas could be more than friends, but, Jesus, she hadn’t had to let a man know she was interested in fifty years. But the look in his eyes, maybe he knew already. Maybe he was interested. In a seventy-year-old husk of a woman whose bones ached when she breathed.

  Eventually he took his hand away and folded the paper into his pocket.

  ‘How’s Jenny doing?’ he said.

  ‘She wants me to talk to you about Craig.’

  Thomas shook his head. A busker strode past with his guitar on his back. Two businessmen in expensive suits argued as they walked.

  ‘She shouldn’t have gone to see him,’ he said.

  ‘I know but she’s worried, we all are. How could he change his plea?’

  Thomas sighed. ‘He’s got a good solicitor.’

  ‘Could I talk to the solicitor?’

  ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘What about the psychiatrist?’ Dorothy said. ‘Presumably he got a diagnosis about his mental state.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea either.’

  Dorothy straightened in her seat. ‘We can’t just do nothing.’

  ‘You need to stay away, all of you.’

  Dorothy nodded. An old woman walked past with the help of two walking sticks, rubber bases on them, moving slow. That would be Dorothy soon, forced into a slow-motion world. She looked at Thomas and he raised his eyebrows. He knew what was coming, it was good to have someone who knew you like that.