The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

Before . . .

  She had been so beautiful then. So beautiful and full of promise. Of joy.

  Before . . .

  He swallowed and fought back the tears he’d thought had dried long ago. He knew now they were always there, waiting to return. Wounds close, they say, but some don’t. Some remain forever open, no matter what you do. Time does not heal everything; rather, it makes things worse. Memories pick at whatever scab there is until the welt is left bare again. And blood flows like water.

  Like tears.

  He wiped his cheek dry with one hand, then reached out, his fingers closing round the whisky glass but not yet raising it. He still stared at the photograph, at a face frozen for eternity. A face not made of flesh and bone but only so many pixels, so many reds, greens and blues, so many bits of digital information, so much metadata. And yet the photograph, and others like it, was more than that to him. For it, and others like it, were all he had left.

  And the memories, of course.

  And his rage.

  25

  Nolan arrived home to find his mum and Scott waiting for him in the living room, a laptop lying open on the coffee table. Scott himself lounged on the couch, that little smile of his irritating Nolan immensely. Everything about his brother irritated him these days. Or perhaps it was simply that he irritated himself.

  ‘Where have you been?’ his mother demanded.

  A welcome scuttling at his feet told him Midge needed attention, so he stooped to rub his ears. The wee dog loved that. Midge was the one thing in this house that made life bearable.

  ‘Out,’ he said, unwilling to expand further. ‘Why?’

  ‘Out where?’

  He straightened and Midge, sensing there would be no more affection, trotted back to his basket. ‘I called into Barney’s.’

  It had been owned by a friend of the family called Barney Maguire. He’d been a cantankerous old bugger, but Nolan had always got on well with him. When he’d retired, Nolan had advocated buying into the place. Mo was always open to any opportunity that could either turn a profit or wash some cash, so they had taken it on. Ostensibly it was Barney’s daughter who owned it, she was the licence holder, but real control lay with the Burke family.

  Nolan decided that truth was the best policy. Just perhaps not all of it. The barman wouldn’t say who he was with, of that he was confident. He was an old friend and he knew the score. Nolan had scoped the place as they entered and there was no one else there he knew who might seep word back to his mother that he had been with Rebecca. Well, fairly certain at least. The young man and his pals were complete strangers, as were the old couple. The other guy, the one with the dog, was a mystery, but he recalled Rebecca asking about him. Why did she do that, he wondered?

  ‘What have I told you about being out alone,’ she said. ‘Not with McClymont’s people sniffing around.’

  ‘They’ve backed off,’ he said, dismissing her concerns with a flick of the wrist.

  ‘Wee Joe McClymont never backs off. He learned that much from his father. All they’re doing is licking their wounds.’

  Scott sniggered. ‘Can you lick your own knees?’

  Mo glared at him. ‘Don’t start me on that, Scotty. You went over the score there. A bloody power drill? You’re no Scarface. Understand me? You do anything like that again I’ll take a sander to your arse, see how you like me B&Q-ing it.’

  Scott’s smile didn’t waver. ‘It was a chainsaw in Scarface.’

  ‘Don’t back-chat me. You’re no too big that you cannae get a slap, okay?’

  Scott didn’t say anything further. He knew better. Nolan knew his brother, though. He would do something similar again and that worried him. Scott would get himself into serious trouble some day and, by extension, the family. And, despite her stern warnings, he knew their mother would side with his younger brother and let him away with it. Oh, she’d give him a bollocking, but that’s as far as it would go. And when that day came Nolan would have to make a choice. They shared the same blood but not the same outlook.

  ‘Well, I’m home, safe and sound, so what’s the worry?’ Nolan said.

  Mo jerked her head in the direction of the laptop. ‘You seen the news?’

  ‘No, been busy all day. What’s up?’

  He moved around the coffee table, lifted the PC to cradle it on his left arm while his right fingered the scroll pad. The screen flashed to life to show Rebecca’s story on the man found at Culloden. He felt something jerk at his mind as he saw her byline, then quickly scanned the story.

  As he read, he said, ‘Okay, what about it?’

  ‘Look at the photie,’ said Mo.

  Nolan glanced quickly at his brother, saw the smile still in place, and scrolled down until he found the computer-generated image. He took in the long hair, the lean jaws coated with stubble, the stud. It was a good likeness.

  ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mo, her voice flat.

  26

  The child has become adept at hiding the memories, although they are always present, like a shadow on a dull day. The child knew they would never leave, for they were a part of the fabric of existence. To lose them would be like losing a part of itself.

  Itself.

  It.

  The child thought itself sexless even before the term gender neutral was coined. That was what he did to it in that little room with its creature comforts and its terrors. That was what they did to it. Him. Her. The son. They may not have taken part in what happened but they did nothing to stop it. Just as the child could do nothing to stop the memories that fed on its sanity like vampires.

  In daylight they hide, as if fearful of the sun. But at night they rise to manifest with such clarity that they shimmer in the dark, whispering in tongues thick with bile and darkness. And the child can name these creatures, for it knows them intimately.

  Pain.

  Shame.

  Rage.

  Even killing failed to lay them to rest. They merely lay dormant. Spilled blood does not exorcise them, the child was fully aware of that. Not the first time. Not this time. Even so, the plan was made and executed. As before, at the point of death there came a realisation. The child saw it in his eyes. This is justice, those eyes said. Sins had to be atoned. Death was inevitable.

  The child had watched death creep over the man as his blood left him to seep into the land. He had fought it at first, but then had understood that this was necessary, that he deserved this, and the anguish that filled his eyes bled away to be replaced by something else.

  Peace.

  But his death had failed to satisfy the spectres that tormented the child from the shadows. For a new wraith had joined them and it, too, had a name. And the child knew that to satisfy this fresh presence, further blood would have to be spilled.

  For the new persecutor was named Fear.

  27

  The cathedral always looked to her as if someone had sawn off the tops of the twin spires. They were flat, block-like, and had an incomplete look. Which they were. Rebecca had learned the money ran out before ornate pointed spires could be added. The pink sandstone building sat against the hump of Tomnahurich, the hill of the yews, although she had no idea if the crust of green and yet-to-green trees were yews. The waters of the Ness were grey and rippled by a breeze drifting upstream, its grassy bank speckled with gently waving bright yellow daffodils.

  A seagull sat on the railing above the steep drop to the road below and eyed up her lunchtime baguette like a mugger. She gave it a look designed to warn it against any offensive act. It took the hint and flew away.

  An American voice made her turn towards the bronze statue of Flora MacDonald sitting in front of the red sandstone castle. A man in a red baseball cap was taking a photograph of his wife at the base of the plinth and telling her, ‘Move a bit to the left, honey.’ Flora had helped Charles Edward Stuart over the sea to Skye, as the song had it, and the statue depicted her with a dog at her side and one arm raised, as if shielding her
eyes from the sun. When Alan had first seen it, he’d quipped that she was checking to see if her deodorant was still working. The statue was a reminder to Rebecca that history was everything to the Highlands, not just in terms of culture and identity but also finance. It lived on in the old buildings and the monuments, it sang out from heather and mountains and forests. There were songs of heroism and loss, celebrations of brave deeds and laments of old wrongs, history and myth melded together to boost the economy. For in the Highlands the past lives on in the present and the present owes allegiance to the past. She had been born in Glasgow, but she had island blood in her, thanks to her father, and she could feel that past keening within her. However, to many, she was still an outsider.

  She looked downstream to where the Great Glen opened up. Although the pale sun shone on Inverness from an eggshell-blue sky punctuated with puffy white clouds, misty rain crept in like a thief to rob the hills of their colour and texture. She wondered if it would reach the city and ruin her peaceful lunch. She hoped not.

  This was one of the best things about her days on the rota reporting court proceedings in the castle. If it was to be fine, she bought a chicken mayo baguette and a bottle of water and sat on one of the benches that overlooked the river. She knew it was a habit, a ritual, but it was one she enjoyed, although not for long. A new court complex was under construction as she sat there – it had been promised the year before, but still wasn’t finished – which would free up the A-listed castle to be used as a tourist attraction. She would miss coming here, though, miss her routine.

  The morning session had been predictable, a mixture of assaults, thefts, acts of vandalism, domestic disputes that had turned ugly. She sat in the press box listening to the roll of dishonour and studying the people. Young faces, old faces, faces of those who had aged beyond their years, others who would never grow up and a few who would not celebrate many more birthdays. Private lives were made public in flat monotone statements from lawyers; crimes and misdemeanours, both intentional and accidental, laid bare because justice must be seen to be done. Victim and perpetrator breathed the same air again, the former leaving either satisfied or outraged depending on their view of the outcome. The latter, often young men casually dressed or in ill-fitting suits if they were attempting to curry favour, some still with peach fuzz on smooth skin yet eyes that burned with defiance, accepted sentences with equanimity or displayed flashes of temper. It was all very businesslike, the crisp efficiency of the process making moments of drama almost mundane. The court staff ensured the production line of justice ran smoothly, with only the occasional outburst from an accused or an overly splenetic sheriff to punctuate the routine.

  Rebecca’s shorthand was, thankfully, impeccable and she was able to follow the proceedings easily, although she would have sight of the court papers later to double check the exact charges proffered against each of the accused. All these sad, even sordid, little tales of human mistakes and failings were grist to the local newspaper mill, but nothing among them cried out as a front-page splash. But then she might already have that in the bag, thanks to Nolan Burke.

  In the half-hour before she’d left for the court that morning, Rebecca had placed a call to the council press office, asking them if it was true they were planning to rehouse Walter Lancaster in the Inchferry area. The response was as chilly as a New Year’s day dip in the Moray Firth.

  We cannot comment on individual cases.

  A non-denial denial if ever she’d heard one. And a handy cop-out for local authorities, police and health services across the land. However, Rebecca wasn’t letting them off that easily.

  She’d pointed out there was a public safety issue at stake.

  We cannot comment on individual cases.

  They had to be aware that there was a voluble and active resistance to any suggestion that a convicted sex offender be moved into the area.

  We cannot comment on individual cases.

  And what if I told you that the organisers of the protesters knew about council plans and even had the offender’s name?

  We cannot comment, etc., etc.

  It wasn’t much but was enough of a story to punch into the system before she left for court. She would get it out there; that was the main thing.

  As she walked from her desk, Barry crooked a finger from the editor’s office door. She had been summoned to the sanctum sanctorum. This was never good. She tried to think what she had done wrong lately but came up with nothing that merited being hauled into the room that, since Les’s arrival earlier in the week, had been swiftly dubbed ‘The Boys’ Club’ by the women in the office. She felt that was unfair. When Elspeth was editor, had it been called the Ladies’ Room? Then she thought, perhaps it was – by the men in the office.

  Barry had taken a seat in the corner. Les was behind the editor’s desk, staring at the computer screen up against the partition wall to his right, his right hand curled over the mouse like a cat hunched over its prey. He really hadn’t lost much time getting his feet under the table and she wondered if she’d ever get used to seeing him there. It had taken months to become accustomed to Barry in that chair instead of Elspeth.

  ‘What’s up?’ She addressed Barry deliberately. She could reason that it was because he had called her in, but she knew she was simply being thrawn, a fine old Scots word her mother used when Rebecca was being particularly stubborn. Barry nodded towards Les, who turned away from the terminal to face her. He gave her a look that was no doubt intended to show her he was the boss now.

  ‘So, you got a name for the paedo,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve done some words, you’ll find the story—’

  ‘Yeah, got them here.’ He jutted his chin towards the screen. ‘A few tweaks and it’ll go live shortly.’

  ‘What sort of tweaks?’

  His youthful face crinkled in an expression that she thought was meant to be reassuring but only came across as patronising. ‘Nothing major, no need to worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried, I just wondered what they were.’

  ‘I’ll take legal advice about using this guy’s name – Lanchester, is it?’

  ‘Lancaster.’

  ‘Yeah, Lancaster.’

  Christ, he had the story on the screen in front of him, couldn’t he read? ‘I think we’re fine,’ she said. ‘He’s a convicted felon and it’s a matter of public record. We can’t really defame him by naming him. And I made it clear it was unconfirmed.’

  ‘Sure, but it doesn’t do any harm to have someone with a law degree take a look-see. Anyway . . .’ He fiddled with the mouse, clicked with his finger. ‘This thing tonight in’ – he glanced at the screen – ‘Inchferry.’

  ‘The Ferry, yes.’

  ‘Yeah. How reliable is this info of yours, that there will be resistance?’

  ‘Feeling is pretty high,’ she said. ‘So I’d say pretty reliable. If you heard they were going to move a paedophile into your area, wouldn’t you be concerned?’

  He didn’t answer as he gave the mouse a little push and scrolled down the story she’d just written. ‘The council wouldn’t confirm they were moving this guy, Lanchester—’

  ‘Lancaster,’ she corrected again. How difficult was it to remember that name?

  He didn’t seem irritated by her correcting him. He seemed distracted. ‘Yeah, they wouldn’t confirm, right?’

  ‘They wouldn’t comment in an individual case.’

  He grunted. ‘A non-denial denial.’

  That’s exactly what she’d thought. So he’d seen All the President’s Men. She wondered if that was supposed to impress her. It didn’t. Her university lecturer had brought in all sorts of newspaper-themed films for them to see. If Les quoted a line from Ace in the Hole then she might be mildly amazed. Not that she’d recognise it if he did. She’d watched the films, she hadn’t memorised them. Non-denial denial was the only thing that had stuck.

  ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  ‘So your source isn’t offi
cial?’

  Nolan’s face flashed in her mind. She saw him pushing his chair back and whirling on that young man the night before. She heard the voice of the stranger outside the pub . . .

  He’s not for you.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said.

  ‘So it may all be utter bollocks?’

  She had considered this. Nolan Burke could have been lied to about the plan to move Lancaster in. He could have been given the wrong name. He could be lying to her. He could be trying to impress her. But he didn’t strike her that way. Scott, yes. He would say anything that would have an effect, to shock, impress, scare. His older brother, though, was different. At least, that’s what she felt. His words had lodged in her mind.

  What if a guy could change?

  Scott would never think anything like that, let alone say it. He liked the life he led, that much was clear. The two had sprung from the same womb but that was as far as it went.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she told Les. ‘I think they’re going to move someone in there tonight. I’d say the chances are that it’s this guy Lancaster. If not, I feel there would have been a flat denial. But if they do, I think there might be trouble.’

  Les scanned something on his screen. ‘This Burke family. They’re bad news, right?’

  It was Barry who answered. ‘If there’s something dodgy going on in Inverness – hell, the west Highlands – you’ll find a Burke involved somehow.’

  Les looked back at Rebecca. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think there’s a good chance there will be unrest, yes.’

  ‘Because the Burkes are involved?’

  ‘Because I think feeling is high and, even if the paedophile angle is rubbish, all it will take is a few strangers to drive through in a car and all hell will break loose.’

  Les pursed his lips as he thought about this. Rebecca wondered what was coming. This was not simply about her story. He scraped the mouse on the desktop again. ‘Do the police know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did they say?’