by Les Cowan
“Which means nothing’s going to happen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for what you tried to do and I’m sorry for what happened. I’m just worried sick. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
David felt powerless to give her anything to cling on to. He was all too familiar with relationships everyone could see were toxic except the people in them. Sometimes it took a crisis to knock the juggernaut out of gear and allow the unwilling passenger to jump out before the whole thing tumbled over the cliff. Sometimes they were too late. Everyone could see it but Jen. So young, so dazzled by a bully with a flashy watch and a big car.
“Where do you think she’ll be now?” Alison asked, looking for anything positive in the situation.
“I’ve no idea. Probably Spain. If I understand what’s going on he still needs to be near enough to protect his business but far enough away to keep the detectives guessing. He’ll have friends in the barrios of Madrid or Seville. Or maybe a place in the country where he can hide up for a while.” Alison was quiet.
“Do you think there are any more miracles where that one came from?” she eventually asked, nodding in Eric’s direction. David looked down.
“Alison, there is nothing I can say that’s going to make things easier for you. Jen seems like a very single-minded girl. Maybe it’ll turn out in her favour now. Sometimes help comes from the most unexpected sources. We need to keep hoping – and praying. I don’t believe it’s a waste of time. It’s not all over yet.” Even as he spoke David knew that he doubted every word.
Down the road in Edinburgh Royal, Gillian made good progress and by the following Wednesday – the fifth day after the attack – was told to go home, put her feet up, and get better. A nurse would call in and check on progress until the stitches came out. Did she have someone who could look after her? She thought she did. The first few nights after the shooting she’d had nightmares but these quickly faded as other emotions took over. The night after David dropped her off from the party she had lain still for hours feeling warm and complete, not wanting to sleep and lose the feeling. The background hum and rumble of the ward which normally kept her awake carried on, but now it felt distant and remote. Normally she loved to have her own things about her and felt disorientated when everything was so strange, but that night she was floating. She felt as if she was wrapped in a blanket or surrounded by a heavy perfume that filled her consciousness and dampened all other senses. Or maybe it was like the snowfall the first night they met. Everything sharp and abrasive was softened and everything ugly was covered over.
David came to take her home around mid-afternoon. He brought flowers and the scent of the lilies filled Juan’s car all the way to Marchmont. He helped her out, supporting her with one arm and carrying her bag with the other. They took the stairs very gingerly, stopping a few times till she felt able for another few steps. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, then followed her into the living room. Having Gillian here in person made everything different. He no longer felt like an intruder – even a permitted one. She was the essence of the space that gave it a personality. She sat down gently on the sofa. David bent down and pulled her shoes off. He was about to go put the kettle on but she wouldn’t let him. She gripped his hand and pulled him down. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. They sat like that, quietly, almost drifting off to sleep. Eventually David spoke, barely audibly, not to break the spell.
“Hungry?”
“A little. Anything in mind?”
“I bought a few things. Why don’t you sleep while I get something ready.”
“That would be nice.”
“Here. Let me.” David got up gently and lifted her legs up onto the sofa. He eased a cushion under her head then took a throw from the back of another chair and laid it over her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She reached up without opening her eyes, caught his neck, and pulled his head down. He knelt beside her. They kissed. Properly. Again and again. She was smiling in a dreamy sort of way. He finally kissed her through her hair then managed to get away. She let out a long satisfied sigh and turned her head to stare at the ceiling.
Over the next few weeks winter changed into spring. Alicia slept at Gillian’s until she was fully able to look after herself, but otherwise David spent lots of time there till she was fit for work. Eric moved back to Muirhouse and back in with Lorraine, so the flat in Bruntsfield returned to normal, though still sparsely furnished and dismal. Gillian set about making it a place of comfort and life. David was amazed at what could be done with paint, paper, inexpensive fabrics, and a bit of taste. They went shopping for second-hand furniture and became regulars at Steptoe’s in East Preston Street, holding hands and wandering through the clutter till they came on some undiscovered treasure coated in dust behind broken TVs, redundant record players, and musty piles of books. Repeatedly they surprised themselves and eventually racked up a very reasonable suite, a quite elegant table and chairs, lamps, rugs, a couple of kitchen appliances with three-month guarantees, and lots of occasional bits and pieces. Gillian gently suggested that perhaps a new washing machine might be a bit more functional than a tarnished old saxophone they found under piles of floor tiles and carpet offcuts – despite the fact that it claimed to be a 1948 Selmer Super Balanced Action. David put it back reluctantly. The concept of a colour and design scheme was something of a revelation to a man who normally considered magnolia a little bit racy and had no problem with dark green lino and powder blue walls. Gillian was careful, however, to seek his opinion and preferences at every stage. Together they decided on a Mediterranean feel and tried to hunt down dark wood, earthenware pots, and terracotta kitchenware offset with touches of olive green and pale cream. David felt the colour coming back into his home and his life. The flat was beginning to feel like somebody really lived there for the first time.
Gillian in turn was exploring more of the way David saw the world. He told her how he had come to faith as a sceptical, ambitious businessman in his early thirties. He was frank about his struggles to believe both then and now but also spoke about transformations in people’s lives he could find no other explanation for. There was nothing they didn’t talk about and no holds were barred. How did prayer work? How could God be in control if people still had free will? Would judgment be both conscious and eternal? How could God be in heaven watching himself dying on a cross? Did he really descend into hell, and if so how did he get out again? Do miracles still happen, and if so when and how? Was changing the water into wine not just a bit of showing off? David tried to answer as honestly as he could and where he didn’t know, he said so. At one point he confessed it wasn’t the parts of the Bible he didn’t understand that gave him most trouble; it was the bits he did. The issue was not about having a foolproof understanding of every theological problem as much as trying to put into practice what he already understood perfectly well. It was a throwaway remark but made an impression. From that point on Gillian started thinking not so much about what she thought of God as what he might be thinking of her.
They talked about Rocío and how David and she had met, fallen in love, come to faith, and built the church together. Then she had gone on ahead, leaving him alone. Once he’d heard a friend refer to death as just a significant change of address – a nice phrase but not so nice for those left behind when the removal van leaves. Dozens of times he had decided, “That’s it – I am no longer a believer – I am totally done with all of it. Either there is no God or whatever God there is, is unwilling or unable to help. Or else it’s part of his divine recreation to torture and torment. In either case that’s of no use to me.” He could even have coped with God as the divine dentist, pulling away regardless of the pain until the rotten tooth popped out, but for a long time, this God had seemed more like an evil experimenter twisting teeth to see how much you could stand. But somehow, throughout it all though, there was still a feeling that God – whatever he was – wouldn’
t let him go. He kept intruding into his thoughts, even his dreams. Not with answers, just with a conscious presence as if to say I’m still here, still in you, still part of the world as much as the rocks, the air, and the sky. Eventually the pain receded enough for David to hear the still small voice again and begin rebuilding. Even so he had come to Edinburgh with little more than a nodding acquaintance left. In meeting Gillian and taking a step out in search of Jen something seemed to have shifted. They snuggled up together on the nearly new sofa, kissed, caressed, and grew together. Throughout this time David kept up a constant dialogue with whatever or whoever might be out there. He felt no sense of unease, just a strong and loving presence over everything they did.
Gillian told her story too. Duty and diligence, academic effort, and from time to time a little gratifying recognition in her chosen field. Then, when Tony and she had drifted apart, she found herself asking, “Is that all there is, then?” It wasn’t really a traumatic break-up, just a gradual numbing of the senses until there wasn’t anything left. She felt like a rag that had been soaked, wrung out, sterilized, hung out to dry, and left flapping in the wind. Now the wind carried a familiar scent like something you can catch a whiff of but can’t quite place – like remembering a moment from childhood or a half-forgotten song. Nevertheless there was an authenticity about it, hinting at a richness and sweetness if you could only find the source. She was happy to be wafted along and see where it might lead.
They did other things together as well as decorating. In fact they did everything people who live in Edinburgh almost never do. They watched the firing of the One o’clock Gun from the Castle ramparts. They walked round, marvelling at the natural history exhibits in Chambers Street Museum. They risked the wrath of the attendants by taking their own picnic to the Botanical Gardens and eating salmon sandwiches and chocolate eclairs behind the bushes. They climbed Arthur’s Seat and the Scott Monument and took panoramic photos from the top. They did the tour of the Royal Yacht at its berth in Leith with that peculiar mixture of curiosity and discomfort commoners feel peering into the lives of the rich. They went sailing from Port Edgar in a small yacht Gillian owned a part-share in with friends she’d met on a girls only sailing course. After David was sick the third time they decided he should start with a rowing boat on St Mary’s Loch in Linlithgow.
David also made a welcome new addition to Scots Language social events. His Spanish background and occupation attracted attention but what got everybody talking was just how in love they both were. Colleagues were shocked to hear about Gillian’s ordeal and ready to be very negative towards whoever had got her into such a fix. Immediately she got back to work, though, they began to notice a difference. Being shot at wasn’t a trivial matter but she simply wasn’t thinking about it. She seemed to float through turgid staff meetings, get on well with awkward colleagues, volunteer for unpopular lectures, offer to counsel and tutor failing students and even return her library books on time. At the same time, student grades seemed to be improving though nobody was sure whether this was due to more generous marking or simply more enthusiastic teaching. When Gillian and David turned up together at an end of term bash just before Easter, everyone was intrigued, then fascinated, and in some cases a little bit jealous. They simply worked together, as if they were parts of a machine designed to interlock, now finally turning in unison. They went to concerts. She got to like Latin and swing, coped with bebop but found free jazz impossible. David sampled Sting, Eric Clapton, and James Taylor with a reasonable show of enthusiasm. Then Salsa Celtica clicked for both of them so they started going to Pepe and Roberta’s Latin dance class once a week. Gillian told him he needed tighter trousers to do the salsa but he wasn’t ready to sell out altogether. David continued to teach Spanish and Gillian continued to attend – both of them trying to keep the secret with little success. When Julie passed all her essays and term papers the whole class went to Hacienda to celebrate. David kept on preaching, counselling, and leading at Southside, with Gillian sitting in the front row listening carefully and thinking it through. He tried not to let it remind him too much of Rocío listening to Paco.
Romance was in the air elsewhere as well. After Eric had decamped back to Muirhouse they didn’t see him for several weeks which made everyone nervous. Had it really just been a flash in the pan? Had Eric had his spiritual shot in the arm then come down from the high and reverted back to normal? Then he started showing up at church and sometimes dropping by David’s flat in the evening, at first a bit unpredictably then more and more regularly. Finally, he surprised them all – again – bringing Lorraine and the three children with him to church and announcing they wanted to get married. Could David do the service? Lorraine was a much quieter creature than Eric, not quite pretty but looking as if she could be with a bit more guidance and confidence. She was delighted with her new man. David was happy to officiate and they started looking at dates. Juan offered to do a very affordable reception, and Gillian and Alicia thought they could collaborate on flowers and decorating the hall. Senga, Tyrone, and Cameron made life more interesting for Sunday school staff that morning but improved with a clout round the ear from Eric while Lorraine looked on approvingly.
“Ah couldnae believe it when he turned up again,” she told David over coffee. “At least, ah could believe he’d turned up aw right – ah’m used tae that – ah jist wisnae used to him turnin’ up and staein’ turned up, if ye ken whit ah mean. Then, when he wis aff the drugs and wisnae nicking money oot ma purse to buy smack aff aw these Spanish nutters, that wiz really weird – in a good way like. Noo he’s even goat a part time joab an’ that. It’s magic.”
So it was with a sense of surprising contentment and well-being that David sat down as part of three couples having lunch at Hacienda after church one day. The restaurant was normally closed on Sundays but occasionally Alicia cooked just for friends. Today she invited David and Gillian along with Eric and Lorraine and the children to celebrate the engagement. The normal menu was put to one side. Instead she cooked Cordero Asado Castellano in the style of Sobrino de Botin in Madrid – reputedly the oldest restaurant in the world, famous for roast lamb and suckling pig and where Juan himself had trained. It was crisp and succulent. Eric and Lorraine had never tasted anything like it and loved it after they got over their initial embarrassment. The older kids took more convincing and had to be provided with emergency pizzas or would have spent the day moaning and kicking each other under the table. Only Cameron took to Spanish eating. After finding out his name meant “shrimp”, not even teasing from his older brother and sister could stop him wolfing down enough to make his bedroom reek of garlic for the next three days. Fresh-baked bread, exotic salads, and a Rioja reserva completed the ensemble.
David was enjoying the food, the surroundings, and the occasion and was able to reflect that at last things seemed to be going well. Numbers were up at church and not just on the back of students who had the loyalty and commitment of rabbits and were no foundation for long-term growth. Nor was it by dint of migration of the disaffected as with so much supposed “church growth”. He squeezed Gillian’s hand under the table and got a fleeting smile while she was supposed to be giving all her attention to talking about table decorations with Lorraine. The last three months had been a revelation. Without exaggeration he thought it must have something in common with heaven. Everything you wanted to do was allowed and things that weren’t allowed you didn’t want. Together they were slowly teaching each other to believe and live again. Now Eric and Lorraine were about to embark on a new phase of life as well, and he allowed himself to feel some satisfaction in their new start too. He still felt bad about his initial scepticism, but on the other hand it was looking for Jen that had made the connection. It could so easily have turned out otherwise, but this was how it was and he was glad of it. And that reminded him of Jen. They hadn’t seen Alison at church since the week she turned up to tell him about the fleeting visit and the passport. Mrs MacInnes oc
casionally updated him on how she was doing. Normally it wasn’t good news.
Just as they were finishing coffee and the party was about to break-up – at the point the kids were about to start throwing chips at each other – there was a loud banging on the restaurant door. Juan rolled his eyes in an uncharacteristic show of impatience. With Alicia expecting and Tomas back off to Madrid last week, more of the burden of running things was falling to him and Juan was jealous of his time off.
“Cerrado significa cerrado,” he muttered. “Do they not understand that closed means closed? This is our day off.” Wearily he got up and went to the door as the banging continued. He hurried the last few paces. He quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. As he turned, they saw who it was. Alison. White as a sheet. She rushed to the table, her lip trembling. She was only just holding it together. Without saying a word she pulled out a mobile phone, tapped a few keys and laid the phone down on the table, the speakerphone on full volume.
“You have no new messages and a saved message. Saved messages…”
A pause, then a young, female, Scottish voice. It had a deathly calm and control in spite of what was said.
“Hi Mum. This is Jennifer. I hope you get this. I’m in Spain but I’m not allowed out and I can’t contact anyone. I stole this mobile to call you. Nobody tells me anything and I can’t understand what they’re saying but I know something’s going on. Raúl gets really mad. He’s… he’s…” There was a pause. “… he’s shot a couple of the gang and he’s started… hitting me. And other things… I want to come home but I can’t get away. We’re in a country house. I don’t know where. They’ve started packing things up. I think they’re going to leave. Everybody keeps talking about ‘Cali’.”
Then she broke down.
“Help me,” she sobbed. “Help me. I don’t want to go. I want to come home. I think he’s going to kill me…” Silence, followed by another sound in the background. Like a door slamming. A scream, then shouting in Spanish – “Puta! Hija de puta!” A thud, and another scream. The message stopped, then with jarring normality the recorded voice:
