‘Remember in Soderberg?’ she said.
He looked up, knew what she meant. ‘I remember.’
She glanced down at the coffin. ‘You said you’d go out on a date with me when things calm down.’
‘I did.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘I don’t think things will ever calm down.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean I think we should go out anyway. How about dinner tomorrow night?’
A look came over his face. ‘I would love to.’
‘OK, then. Great.’
‘Great.’
They both laughed, holding the coffin, looking at each other.
The doorbell rang.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment then Dorothy went to the front door and opened it. It was Abi, rucksack on her back, in an orange sweatshirt and black leggings, face crumpled from crying.
‘I spoke to Mum,’ she said, catching her breath in gulps.
‘Come in.’
Abi dumped the rucksack on the floor and threw herself into Dorothy’s arms, squeezing tight around her waist, crying into her shoulder. Dorothy felt her lean frame as she shuddered. She smelled of sweat and shampoo, stress oozing from her pores.
‘It’s OK,’ Dorothy said, as Thomas came into the hall.
He gave Dorothy a look and she returned it.
Eventually Abi’s breathing settled and she pulled away, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She crossed her arms, shook her head.
‘I can’t believe that bitch,’ she said.
Dorothy breathed in and out. ‘Don’t be too hard on her.’
Abi’s face was stone. ‘If you hadn’t found out she would still be lying to me.’
Dorothy wondered how much Sandra had told her, whether it was just the fake dad, or maybe her real dad too.
‘I’ve left,’ Abi said.
‘You’re fourteen, Abi.’
‘I can’t stay in that house another minute.’
Dorothy nodded. The scent of lilies was in the air, an arrangement in the corner of reception waiting for a coffin.
‘OK.’ Dorothy kept her voice calm. ‘So where are you going?’
Abi shook her head, avoided eye contact. ‘I’ve got nowhere.’
Dorothy knew where this was heading from the moment she opened the front door. ‘You can stay here.’
She put steel in her voice so Abi wouldn’t have to make a song and dance about accepting. Abi smiled and Dorothy saw the little girl in her still. She didn’t know how long this was for, what it would bring, but this was the right thing to do and sometimes you just have to do the right thing.
‘Thanks,’ Abi said and came in for another hug.
The view from the top of Crow Hill was beautiful. Dorothy had been up Arthur’s Seat before but never this neighbouring hill. It was slightly less high so tourists always passed it by. She looked at Arthur’s Seat now and fifty people were straggled across its craggy top, selfie sticks and fleeces, gangs of foreign teens in matching outfits, couples with kids clambering the last few feet to the trig point.
Crow Hill was empty, just the four of them. The funeral earlier was a little busier but not much, which saddened Dorothy. Mary was there but not her husband. Dorothy couldn’t imagine not attending her child’s funeral, imagine having that in your heart. But she’d experienced plenty of narrow-minded people in her time in the funeral business, so James Dundas wasn’t so unusual. She tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he was grieving in his own way. She hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
Hannah and Jenny were behind Dorothy, hands clasped in front of them. Mary stood to the side, biting her lip, shaking her head, gazing at Duddingston Village below, her big house.
Dorothy looked at the ashes casket in her hands then at the view. The snow flurries of earlier had slipped away, high grey clouds remained, a bite in the air as the wind swept in from the west. She saw the three bridges over the Forth in the distance, a jumble of supports jutting into the sky. Then the spread of the city from the sea to the Pentlands, her own house in there somewhere. She turned and took in the east side of the city, Leith Docks and Porty Beach, the islands sitting out there like giant whales, the bump of Berwick Law and the white stump of Bass Rock. Hundreds of thousands of people putting one foot in front of the other, trying to carve out some peace amongst the mayhem and madness, secrets and lies, violence and pain. Jamie Dundas in her hands was beyond all that now. Whatever led him to drive away from the police into the graveyard that morning, it was over.
Einstein followed scents around the rocks and moss, tail low and swinging, padding over the uneven surface.
Dorothy caught Mary’s eye and offered the casket to her.
Mary burst into tears, pressed a handkerchief against her nose and mouth like she was inhaling ether, something to make her forget.
Hannah stepped forward and put an arm around her and Mary pushed herself into a full embrace, shaking and sobbing, her face pressed into Hannah’s chest. It was strange to see a middle-aged woman take comfort from a twenty-year-old, but Dorothy had seen plenty of strange things.
She thought about Abi back at the house. She was playing with Schrödinger in the kitchen when they left, another moment of peace carved from the turmoil. She still hadn’t told her mum where she was staying but Dorothy would make her do that.
Dorothy looked at Jenny, staring at the city. Craig was out there. It was unbearable but they had to bear it.
Mary composed herself and looked at Dorothy and the casket.
‘You do it,’ she said.
Dorothy raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
Mary swallowed and nodded.
Dorothy checked which way the wind was blowing and turned so the ashes blew away from her. She opened the casket and looked at the grey dust. She’d seen cremated remains countless times but she was always moved.
‘Goodbye, Jamie,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ve found peace.’
She looked at Mary, who nodded, a tiny movement like a pecking bird.
Dorothy turned the casket upside down and emptied the ashes out, watched as the dust blew and spread, disappeared into the grass and the rock. She shook out the last of him then closed the casket.
Einstein came up and snuffled at her hands.
She couldn’t think of anything to say so she stayed quiet. Eventually Mary nodded to herself and turned away, began picking her way down the path from the summit. Jenny and Hannah followed in silence.
Dorothy watched for a moment. She wanted to scream into the wind but she just took a last look at the city that was her home and followed the rest of them down the hill.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Huge thanks to Karen Sullivan and everyone else at Orenda Books for their constant hard work and love. Thanks to Phil Patterson and all at Marjacq for their dedication and support. Thanks to all the readers, writers, bloggers, booksellers, librarians, teachers and everyone else who has championed my books over the years. And a special thanks to fellow author Katerina Diamond who gave me the idea for one of the plots here. The biggest thanks as always go to Tricia, Aidan and Amber, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Doug Johnstone is the author of eleven previous novels, most recently A Dark Matter (2020). Several of his books have been bestsellers and two, Breakers (2019) and The Jump (2015), were shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Novel of the Year. He’s taught creative writing and been writer in residence at various institutions over the last decade, and has been an arts journalist for twenty years. Doug is a songwriter and musician with five albums and three solo EPs released, and he currently plays drums for the Fun Lovin’ Crime Writers, a band of crime writers. He’s also player-manager of the Scotland Writers Football Club. He lives in Edinburgh.
Follow Doug on Twitter @doug_johnstone and visit his website: dougjohnstone.com.
The Skelfs Series
A Dark Matter
The Big Chill
Other titles by Doug Johnstone, available from Orenda Books
Fault Lines
Breakers
COPYRIGHT
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2020
Copyright © Doug Johnstone, 2020
Doug Johnstone has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–913193–34–8
eISBN 978–1–913193–35–5
The Big Chill Page 28
