The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘I’d like to stress that he was in no way implying any form of violence would occur,’ he said.

  She leaned on the railing and laughed. He was talking to her as if she was in court. ‘Simon, this is Scott Burke we’re talking about. Of course he was implying some form of violence would occur.’

  ‘We know nothing of the sort. Their campaign has so far been peaceful and there is no reason why it shouldn’t continue that way.’

  ‘If you say so, Simon. But when Scott Burke says he’ll do whatever it takes, it does make me wonder.’

  She heard Simon take a breath on the other end of the line and pause for a moment. ‘Are you going to print what he said?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘It could mean anything.’

  ‘That’s my point.’

  He tried another tack. ‘It was off the record.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  It was her turn to pause. She couldn’t prove anything. She had been on her own with the Burkes in the house and Mo had refused to be recorded. ‘What are they going to do, deny they said it? Sure, that’ll work because everyone will believe Scott Burke. He is such a paragon of virtue, after all.’

  ‘There was something else said,’ Simon began. ‘By Mrs Burke. She’d rather you didn’t print it.’

  ‘About her abuse, you mean? Now, that really was more of an inference than a statement.’

  ‘Whatever the case, her position is that it’s a private matter and she doesn’t want it spread across the pages of a newspaper.’

  She had already decided not to use it, but something about Simon’s tone, his coldness, was annoying her, even though deep down she knew she deserved it. ‘What happened to her, Simon?’

  ‘I’m not going into detail. It was a long time ago, but these things have a habit of staying with a person. It’s their business, Becks. It’s their lives.’

  ‘It has a bearing on what she’s doing now, Simon. Goes to motivation.’

  It was his turn to give her a small laugh. ‘You’ve been watching too many American courtroom dramas. At any rate, the Chronicle is not a court of law. That’s private, Becks. I’m asking you to leave it out of whatever you write.’

  ‘Are you asking as a lawyer or as a friend?’

  ‘Which would you rather?’

  ‘You know the answer to that, Simon.’

  There was a brief silence before he spoke again, his voice soft. ‘You know, I really don’t.’

  She understood that. ‘We can be friends, Simon.’

  ‘I’m not sure we can, Becks. Life isn’t like that. So let’s just term this as a favour, for old times’ sake. You don’t need to mention anything about what may or may not have occurred in the past. It doesn’t affect your story.’

  Rebecca felt the guilt stab her again. She could still hear the pain in his voice. She really had hurt him. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I won’t mention it.’

  ‘And Mr Burke’s statement?’

  ‘I won’t go into that either. All I’ll say is that they won’t let this matter rest. How’s that?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I’m doing it as a friend, Simon. It’s not a favour. As a friend. I’ll always look on you as a special friend.’

  She thought she heard his breath catch, but it could have simply been a glitch on the line.

  ‘It’s too late for that, Becks.’

  And then he was gone.

  12

  ‘Who the absolute hell are these people?’

  Alan and Chaz were in Rebecca’s flat. They had brought in some takeaway: curries for them, chicken and chips for her – she had never developed a taste for spicy food. They were half-watching a TV programme which purported to show celebrities doing something or other that Rebecca had no interest in. Alan loved these so-called reality shows, even though he was well aware there was very little reality to them, and had been staring at the screen while Rebecca told them about the changes at the paper.

  Chaz squinted at the television set. He was always complaining that Rebecca’s TV was too small and he could barely see anything, but she countered that her flat wasn’t large enough to house anything bigger – and then followed up with the suggestion that he needed glasses. His vanity thus outraged, he usually dropped the subject.

  ‘I think she was on a reality show,’ Chaz said, nodding to a blonde who was so plastic Rebecca wouldn’t be surprised if she had a recycling symbol stamped on her backside. The image then cut to a remarkably handsome man in his thirties with a grin like a flashbulb going off. ‘And he was a model, I think. Or maybe he was on a reality show, too.’

  Alan grunted, obviously unconvinced by the participants’ celebrity status. Chaz grinned at Rebecca. ‘So, what do you think will happen?’

  ‘I think that model-stroke-reality-show-guy could have me, if he played his cards right,’ said Alan.

  Chaz sighed. ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

  Alan kept his eyes on the screen. ‘I know. I just wanted you to know that my head could be turned if he walked in right now.’

  Chaz squinted momentarily back at the screen. Raising one eyebrow, he tilted his head to one side. ‘Yeah, okay. But you’d have to fight me for him.’

  Alan snorted. ‘No contest there, big boy.’ He jerked a finger towards the cane propped up against Chaz’s leg. ‘You’re physically compromised.’

  The corners of Chaz’s mouth tightened and he adopted a weary look. Alan feigned concern. ‘Oh, love. Are our feelings hurt? Do we need counselling?’

  A dramatic sigh from Chaz. ‘As Oscar Wilde said . . .’ He raised the middle finger of his left hand.

  Alan erupted in laughter. ‘Always had a way with words, that Oscar Wilde.’

  Rebecca smiled as she listened to the two of them bicker. This was their speciality, like a double act. The Amazing Chaz and Alan. Despite their banter, she knew they cared deeply for each other and she hoped that would never change.

  Simon popped into her head. There was a time, when they had first begun to go out with each other, that she thought he might be something special. She was wrong. It wasn’t his fault – he was a decent, caring man – but even before she found out she was pregnant she had begun to wonder if there was a future for them. Then she lost the baby and any vestige of feeling she had for him vanished. She didn’t blame him in any way – the miscarriage was merely the result of faulty chromosomes – but whatever feelings she thought she might have had for him died then too.

  ‘So, what is going to happen at the paper.’ Chaz laid heavy emphasis on the last three words for Alan’s benefit.

  Rebecca thought for a minute. ‘Well, it won’t be the same, that’s for sure. Barry was at least an old hack at heart. But this guy? Not so sure. Sometimes he says the right things, but I don’t believe he means them, you know? It’s as if he’s trying to punt something, like a salesman.’ She sipped at her glass of wine. ‘I don’t know, maybe it will all settle down and work out. Maybe Barry’s right. Maybe I am just an awkward bitch who thinks she knows best!’

  ‘Or maybe you’re right,’ said Alan. She knew he’d been listening while watching the screen. He said it was his super power – the ability to appear to be disengaged while in reality taking everything in. It was the primary skill needed to be a first-class gossip and he had perfected it at an early age. Growing up in a house with all brothers, he had needed some kind of edge and discovered the skilful use of eavesdropping gave him knowledge. And knowledge is indeed power. His brothers were dedicated to the pursuit of manliness. They played rugby – football was a girls’ game to them – and they hunted and fished and womanised. Listening in on their secrets gave him a measure of protection and, as he had admitted himself, ‘It also made me a detestable little shit.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters whether I’m right or wrong,’ she said. ‘The changes will happen anyway.’

  ‘You can’t fight progress,’ said Chaz.


  Alan looked away from the TV set and gave his lover a smile. As usual, Rebecca saw the affection in his eyes. ‘Sage words from someone so young. You should put that on a T-shirt.’

  Chaz raised his middle finger again. ‘Put that on a T-shirt.’

  Alan let out a dramatic sigh. ‘That’s why I love you – your scintillating wit is an inspiration.’

  Chaz laughed and looked back at Rebecca. ‘So, hear anything more about the murder?’

  Alan gave up feigning disinterest and was suddenly all ears. ‘Murder? What murder? You didn’t tell me about any murder.’

  Chaz jerked his head towards his partner. ‘It’s like living with Miss Marple. You’d think after Stoirm he would of had enough of it. But no.’

  Stoirm. The fierce winds that lashed the island still blew in their memories. Chaz and Alan had almost died there. Others had met a worse fate.

  Alan waved the words away. ‘Yes, yes, yes – I’m a ghoul, I need help, blah-blah-blah – now tell me more.’

  ‘There was a body found this morning,’ said Rebecca. ‘On Culloden.’

  ‘The battlefield?’

  ‘Why does everyone ask that?’ Chaz rolled his eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d have heard about it,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Not a word. I have spent the day in the rarified atmosphere of academe, where the very air, replete with the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom, acts as a buffer against the everyday horrors of real life.’

  ‘You work in the office,’ Chaz pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but the air drifts in from the corridors.’ Alan flicked him away as if he were a troublesome fly. ‘So, what do we know?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Rebecca. ‘Police aren’t giving out any details until tomorrow at a press conference. But I spoke to Bill Sawyer.’ She saw Alan’s face crinkle with distaste. He and Bill Sawyer didn’t get on well. Rebecca suspected the ex-police officer was a touch homophobic and that didn’t sit well with Alan, who liked to poke such people for fun. ‘He said there was something weird about it.’

  ‘Weird how?’

  ‘That’s all, just weird.’

  Alan thought about this. ‘So, you have a body on Culloden Moor. And it’s weird. Were you there? On the moor?’

  Rebecca nodded.

  ‘Was it found near the road?’

  ‘No, it was a fair bit onto the battlefield.’

  ‘A fair bit onto the battlefield.’ Alan took in the details. ‘So not merely dumped at the side of the road.’

  Chaz grinned. ‘See what I mean? Miss Marple.’

  Alan ignored him. ‘Why would someone leave a body on the site of an old battle? And what makes it so unusual?’

  ‘I’ll learn more tomorrow,’ said Rebecca. ‘And who’s to say the body was dumped? The murderer and the victim could have been walking on the moor when it happened.’

  Alan wasn’t buying it. ‘Who walks over an old battlefield at night?’

  ‘What makes you think it happened at night?’ Chaz asked.

  ‘Because the corpus delicti would have been spotted in the daylight.’ Alan rolled his eyes towards Rebecca. ‘It’s just as well he’s good-looking.’

  ‘Aye, well, Brainiac, corpus delicti doesn’t mean the actual body. It means body of evidence.’

  Alan was momentarily stunned into silence. ‘You’ve been reading again, haven’t you? I’ve warned you about that before.’

  Rebecca laughed. ‘Anyway, as I said, I’m sure I’ll find out more tomorrow.’

  ‘You should talk to Anna Fowler,’ said Alan.

  ‘Who is Anna Fowler?’

  ‘Professor Anna Fowler, up at the university. She’s on the staff in the history department. She knows all there is to know about Culloden. In fact, she’s the historical advisor on that film they’re making over there in Glen Nevis.’

  ‘What do you think she can tell me about a murder?’

  Alan looked at her as if she was a child who just wasn’t getting it. ‘Because this really doesn’t sound like this was a mere deposition site. I don’t see someone carrying a body onto the battleground and risking being spotted for no reason.’

  ‘It was pretty misty last night,’ Chaz said.

  ‘Yes, but they’d still need to leave their vehicle at the side of the road, or at least park it nearby. That could attract attention. No, someone took a big chance disposing of their handiwork on a well-known historical landmark site. I’d say that was done for a purpose.’ He paused and stared at them. Alan liked a bit of drama. Then he said, ‘Someone was making a point . . .’

  13

  In his dream, Chaz was buffeted by winds. They tugged him from side to side, elemental creatures picking at him, as if searching for a way to penetrate. They shrieked around him, a cacophony howling into the night.

  The banshee.

  The wailing women who herald death. Chaz was born in England, but he knew his folklore. And in his dream they were there that night. On Stoirm. Floating in the winds that threw themselves at the Land Rover he had been driving, each gust a talon clawing at the bodywork.

  He could still hear them when he woke. Beside him Alan snored, softly but snoring all the same. Chaz sat up, being careful not wake him, the shrieks still undulating in the darkness of their bedroom. He wanted to click on the bedside lamp but he knew that would disturb his partner so he let the screeching swirl and echo around him.

  He thought he was over the accident. He thought he had got past it. But obviously he hadn’t. It was still there, in his mind, waiting to be relived. The winds. The twisting road. The headlights blazing in the rear-view. The scream of the engine as he was forced off the road and into the rocks on the shore, Alan’s own cries merging with it and ultimately becoming subsumed by it.

  And the laughter of the young men in the other vehicle, rising and falling with the keening squall, eddying around him as the sound of metal crumpling against the harsh stone became one with the sharp agony of something thrusting itself deep into his body.

  No, he hadn’t got past it. He still didn’t like driving, especially at night and certainly not when it rained. Alan understood. If Chaz had to go out on a job in such conditions, he always came with him. Alan was not a natural driver, but he did it. For Chaz.

  The dream, though, he hadn’t had for months and, as the banshee continued to moan in the dark corners, he wondered why it had come back.

  Rebecca was still in that netherworld between sleep and wakefulness as she sat up with a start, clicked on the bedside lamp, stared around the room. Her surroundings seemed unfamiliar to her. She recognised them but, at the same time, didn’t. Then, realisation edging its way through her dreamlike state, she understood she was in her own bedroom. Those were her curtains drawn over the window. That was her wardrobe, her dresser, her chair with Teddy Edward surrounded by the array of cuddy toys from her childhood. Her clothes tossed on the floor.

  But no child.

  That was what had pulled her from sleep. The sound of a child crying. But now, as the electric light chased away the darkness, she knew there had been no child. Not one that lived.

  The child had not visited her for some time. There had been a time when it was a regular caller. Sometimes she would awake to find her father sitting with her and that would soothe her. But not tonight. There was no vision of John Connolly to ease her mind, only the sound of her own breathing, the furniture and the memories of her childhood staring at her from the chair. A happy childhood. A loving one. Something the infant in her dreams, which lived only in some dark recesses of her mind, would never have.

  She got up and eased Teddy Edward from his friends. He was old, much older than Rebecca, and had been her mother’s favourite toy before she had passed it on. Some of his fur was on the threadbare side and an eye had gone missing years before, so her mother had fashioned a black eye patch. That and his floppy ear gave him a slightly rakish look.

  She clicked off the light, sank under the duvet and lay on her back with her eyes open, Teddy
Edward resting in the crook of her arm. Light filtering through the curtains from the street outside left a soft glow on the ceiling. She would not hear the cry in the night again. Not that night anyway. She wondered if that cry would ever fully still, if the child would ever find peace.

  She rolled over, clutched Teddy Edward tightly to her body and tried to remember the time before she had learned that life was loss.

  14

  The past is present, the present is past. What went before lives on.

  Footsteps.

  The child still hears the footsteps. Like heartbeats. Slow. Steady. Inexorable. Growing louder as they reach the door to the room, where they pause. Always that pause, as if he is debating with himself whether to come in, whether to do what he came up the stairs to do. But always the pause ends and the lock clicks and the door swings and there he is, framed in the light from the hallway outside.

  Breathing.

  The child remembers his breathing. Harsh after the climb up to the room. He is not a fit man, after all. He stands there, the rasp in his throat reaching across the small room like a calloused caress. Always the same routine, like a ritual. The pause outside before the door is unlocked, a similar pause before he enters the room. The child wonders if it is hesitation. The child wonders if it is conscience. The child wonders these things now but dismisses them. It is just another part of the torment, another way of inflicting pain. Another show of power. He has it all, those pauses tell the child. He can stand there and look or he can come in and touch. It is his choice. What the child wants is not a factor to be considered.

  Decisions.

  Sometimes he looms there, occupying a curious netherworld, neither in nor out of the room, his coarse breath the only sound. Sometimes he steps back and locks the door once more and the child listens as his footsteps recede again. Another show of power. He can do what he wants and there is nothing on earth that can stop him.