The Weight of Angels

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘I’m a good reporter,’ she said. Then she shivered hard. She wasn’t acting: I saw the goose pimples pop up on her arms where she’d pushed her sleeves back.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said.

  ‘Any chance of a Bovril or something?’

  ‘So what’s all this about Angelo?’ I said, when I came back through from the kitchen.

  She had been trying to get the gas fire lit, making herself right at home, but at my words she straightened and turned. ‘Don’t you know?’ she said. ‘You sit down. I’ll do the drinks. Seriously, you don’t know?’

  ‘Tell me right now or I’ll put you out, bare feet and all,’ I told her, trying to make it sound like a joke.

  ‘He reported the body,’ she said. ‘You’re seriously telling me you didn’t know?’

  I dropped down onto the couch and stared at her. ‘Angelo?’

  ‘Reported the body. The polis have been at the school. Your husband took him to the station. Alison, are you trying to say your husband didn’t tell you? Didn’t tell the boy’s own mother?’

  I whipped out my phone and stared at it. Nothing. Not a word. But as she – what was her name? – as she edged towards me I had the sense, dredged up from somewhere, to hide the screen. I pressed it against my chest.

  ‘Fifteen messages,’ I said. ‘First day at a new job! I had it on silent and never switched it back again. Oh, my God! Look, I need to call them. Do yourself a Cup-a-Soup. Top shelf by the window.’ I stood shakily and made my way upstairs, shutting my door and going right to the back of the room before I hit Marco’s number.

  He answered after half a ring. ‘Als!’ he said. ‘Hiya, babe.’

  ‘Is it true?’ I said. ‘Did Angelo go to the police station?’

  ‘Calm down, pal,’ he said. I could hear him walking and the sound changed as he went from one room to another. ‘There’s no need to ups—’

  ‘Marco, for once in your life, will you listen to me? Tell me what is happening or, so help me, I’ll—’

  ‘See, this is exactly—’

  ‘Marco, if my son is at the police station and I didn’t know—’

  ‘He’s not. Ali, will you calm the hell down?’ Marco started talking as if each word was a sentence all on its own. As if I was a drunk or a moron. ‘He is at school. I am in at my work filling in forms. Everything is all right.’

  Finally, I took a breath. ‘There’s reporters here.’

  ‘At the hospital? How did they get past—’

  ‘At the house, Marco. Someone from the Record said Angel was the one who found the body. Where did they get that from, if nothing’s wrong?’

  He was silent for so long I thought the call had dropped. Bloody Galloway and its dark skies. Great for seeing the Milky Way, useless for mobile connection.

  ‘Marco?’

  ‘It was all a big misunderstanding,’ he said.

  I had been quiet, thinking of the woman downstairs, but at that I forgot to whisper. ‘What? You just told me nothing happened.’

  ‘The report about the remains came from Angel’s phone. Don’t interrupt me. Just listen. The police contacted me and we went to the school together and spoke to him. Then we all went to the police station so he could identify his phone.’

  ‘I can’t—’ I said. Then I threw the phone hard against the sloping wall of the bedroom. The back sprang off and the battery fell out, thudding to the floor. The phone bounced back and landed on the bed.

  ‘Ali?’ shouted the Record woman up the stairs. ‘You okay?’

  It took that long for Marco’s words to sink in. The news of Angel, my son, my little boy, in a police station and me not knowing had drowned them out. But now the truth hit me. I scrabbled the three pieces back together – phone, battery, back cover – and when I powered it up it was already ringing.

  ‘Fine!’ I called down. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ I jabbed the green button and whispered, ‘Why was his phone at the police station?’

  ‘Ta-dah!’ said Marco. ‘Exactly. It was stolen three days ago. He’s been working up to telling us.’ I tried to speak but didn’t have the breath for it. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Marco said. ‘Why didn’t he tell us when he found out about our new jobs? Well, get this: because the wee toerag reckoned he’d get an upgrade out of us without us finding out he’d lost the old one. Talk about cheek, eh?’

  ‘And where is he now?’ I said.

  ‘I told you,’ said Marco. ‘He’s back at school. He’s fine, Als. Don’t worry.’

  This time I hung up gently.

  ‘Everything okay?’ the woman said, when I got downstairs again. She hadn’t just found the Cup-a-Soups and boiled a kettle, she’d stuffed her shoes with newspaper and set them in front of the gas fire. And she must travel with a spare pair of tights in her bag. She’d pulled them on. I could see the perfect little red cups of her pedicured toes through them. And she had wiped her face too.

  ‘Fine. Thank God.’ All I wanted was to get her out of my house. ‘Just a misunderstanding. It was nothing to do with him, after all. He’s back at school and he wants smoked-sausage baguettes for his tea.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him, then?’ she said. ‘I thought you were talking to your husband, what with the shouting.’ Her voice didn’t change and her face didn’t change, but all of a sudden she made me think of Dr Ferris.

  ‘He gave the message to his dad,’ I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing. I’m a terrible liar. ‘You can’t phone kids in school hours. Don’t you have any?’

  ‘I don’t have any ties with the local education authority,’ she said. ‘I’m not familiar with their rules.’ Trying to make me think she had six rosy-cheeked geniuses in a private school, but not actually saying it.

  ‘Anyway, so keep the mug, if you like,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have to ask you to go, I’m afraid. I wasn’t thinking straight when I asked you in. I’m sure you understand.’

  She pretended she didn’t. ‘You – you’re putting me back out in the rain?’

  ‘There’s no story in here,’ I told her.

  ‘We’ll see.’ She tipped the soup into the sink and shuddered. Too good for instant, suddenly.

  She smiled as she left, far too professional to trash a good contact she might be needing later. She didn’t fool me.

  Chapter 6

  Marco was back. He came in quietly and stood just inside the front door, listening.

  ‘I’m through here,’ I shouted at last. I was in Angelo’s bedroom, using his laptop to try to find out something, anything, about what had happened. BBC Scotland had a tiny piece, two paragraphs and a photograph of the police under their green shelter. ‘Human remains were discovered at Dundrennan Abbey in south-west Scotland last night, after an anonymous report to local police. A high-school student was briefly questioned earlier today in connection with the incident but later released. The abbey, which dates from . . .’ and then the usual potted history from Wikipedia. I read and reread the words – ‘A high-school student was briefly questioned’ – and stared at the picture, the view that greeted me every time I left the house.

  Then I went back to the search page and refreshed it, finding a bit more on ITV Border News, which said nearby residents were shaken by the discovery and that the abbey grounds were a well-known meeting place for what they called ‘local youths’. One ‘local youth’ had already been questioned by the police in connection and further enquiries were ongoing. I supposed I was the shaken resident, running away like that. But they were scraping together bits of nothing and making it sound suspicious. Really, it was perfectly innocent.

  His phone was stolen.

  He didn’t tell us.

  He’d just come from the abbey.

  The police found a body.

  I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. ‘I’d just about given up, as it goes.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Marco, appearing round the bedroom doorway. ‘What are you doing? Don’t be looking at that.’

  I close
d the laptop lid and spun round on Angelo’s desk chair to face him. ‘You didn’t call me,’ I said.

  ‘I explained that,’ Marco said. ‘Are you still annoyed?’ He put his head on one side and crinkled his eyes at me, then started forward, coming to kiss me, I was sure. That was our way. A kiss hello and a kiss goodbye. A kiss goodnight and one in the morning. It was my parents’ way, my dad stooping to kiss my mum – thank you for a lovely dinner; welcome back from the supermarket – and it had got to be our way too.

  I held up a hand, with my arm straight. ‘No,’ I said, trying to make sure my voice stayed level. ‘No and no. You didn’t explain. You said things and I left it. But you haven’t explained, Marco, because there’s no possible explanation in the world. My son was at the police station being questioned and you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you,’ he said. He had stopped advancing but the smile was still on his face.

  ‘Well, that was a big fat failure, then, wasn’t it? Because I’m very upset.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’ Marco stopped himself, literally biting down on his tongue. I could see it glistening between his teeth. ‘Right then. The boy’s had a shit day so I’m going to fire up the frying pan and give him a treat. Come through and keep me company.’

  It took me a few breaths to get myself off the chair and through to the kitchen. By the time I got there, he was whistling. I stared at his back. He had put on his apron and rolled up his sleeves and, as he rummaged in the deep cupboard for the plug-in fryer, he was whistling.

  ‘How long was he there for?’ I said. ‘Did they put him in an interview room? Did you leave him alone at any time? What did they ask him? Did he sign a statement? And “Yeah, but” what, by the way?’

  Marco poured oil into the fryer, a whole new bottle of pale golden rapeseed oil, glugging out in rhythmic convulsions, making me think of someone vomiting. I looked away.

  ‘Twenty minutes. Yes, he was in an interview room and they gave him a bottle of Fanta. No, I didn’t leave him. They asked him where he lost his phone and got him to ID it. And, yes, he signed something and I counter-signed it. And “Yeah, but” nothing.’ He had got a packet of bacon out of the fridge and a bag of sausages out of the freezer, beans from the tins cupboard. He looked at his watch and spun the dial of the fryer.

  ‘What did it say?’ I said. ‘The thing you signed.’

  ‘I didn’t read it, Als. I think the cops might have taken it as a bit of an insult if I’d read it, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘And why are you putting the fryer on now? It’s . . .’ I looked at my watch and blinked. It was just leaving twenty to four. I turned and checked the clock on the cooker, which confirmed: 3:43. What the hell? I’d left Howell Hall before they served lunch, come back here, let the journo in, kicked her out, looked at the news sites and now, somehow, it was nearly tea-time.

  ‘I’m making doughnuts for when he gets in,’ Marco said. ‘Okay?’

  I said nothing. The Cup-a-Soup the woman had made for me was still sitting on the counter near the sink. I reached out and touched it. There wasn’t a trace of warmth left.

  ‘I’ll zap that for you, if you want,’ Marco said, ‘but there’s doughnuts in twenty.’

  ‘I’ve lost some time,’ I said. I was still angry, angrier with him than I had ever been, but there he was and he’d been there for a long time, and when you’re frightened you reach out to the nearest person. I saw it once on a plane when it hit the worst patch of sudden turbulence anyone had ever seen, the plane walloping up and down, like a speedboat. All up and down the aisles, complete strangers were clutching each other, digging their fingers into each other’s arms and staring into each other’s eyes. Marco and I locked arms over Angel’s head, pressing him between our bodies, so his voice was muffled when he squealed, ‘Wheeeee! Again, Mummy! Again!’ Then, with a final lurch, it was over and everyone was laughing shakily, and apologizing.

  Marco was holding me again now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I got it wrong. But . . .’

  I leaned into him, my full weight falling on him. He wrapped his arms tight around me, mine pressed inside his. ‘But what?’

  ‘Nothing. And don’t worry about the time. It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve had a rough couple of days and you had a shock. Don’t worry. At least you were here at home, eh?’

  His voice always lulled me. He’s got this way of talking to me, like he talked to Angelo when he was a baby and like he talked to his grandma when she was old and used to get scared, not knowing where she was and who was in the room. Then his words hit.

  ‘But what?’ I said, struggling out of his grip. ‘Yeah, but what?’ I braced my arms and pushed against him. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell me when it was happening? Because you didn’t want me freaking out at Howell Hall?’

  ‘No!’ Marco said. ‘Are you kidding? They’d be the last people to act weird about anyone getting upset. They’d have helped you.’

  ‘Oh, come off it!’ I said. ‘They help patients but they need the staff to be . . . not getting calls saying their kid’s been taken out of school by the police.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong about them,’ Marco said. He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring into the fryer as the oil started to shimmer.

  ‘I’m going for a bath,’ I said. ‘I’m cold. And don’t bother frying bloody doughnuts. I’m taking Angel into Dumfries when he gets off the school bus. He needs a new phone.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Marco said. ‘Oh, hey, I printed you out some stuff that looked good. You know how you were worried about the art therapy side of it? It’s by your side of the bed. Read it in the bath and tell me what you think.’

  But I didn’t. I locked the door and ran the water blistering hot into the iron bath. It was rough with soap scum from the three of us having showers every morning and there was a line of black at the bottom of the tiles, but once the air filled with steam I could lie there and stare straight up and let it all melt away. I could tell myself nothing had happened. I was just engrossed in looking at news. Everyone said the internet ate your life if you sat in front of it, clicking. And, anyway, the brain is the strongest organ in the body. I refused to be ill again just like I refused to stay ill last time. I got better and I had stayed better for ten years. I didn’t even wobble when we lost everything. No way I was going back down now, when I finally had a job and when Angel needed me.

  I put my head back and let myself sink deeper into the water, letting it creep up into my ears and steal around my face, like a wimple. My breath was loud in my head and the heat made my blood pulse. I took a deep gulp of air and pulled myself right under so that everything was gone. Ruins and bones, job, car, house, husband and son, phones and print-outs and treatment menus, art supplies and checkpoints, clothes and rooms, words and deeds and life. It was all gone and I floated in warmth again, like we all do in our perfect beginnings. ‘Hello,’ I said, inside my head. ‘Are you still here? I’m back.’

  Then I stood up, scrubbed myself down with a mitt and a dollop of vanilla body wash, rinsed under the shower with the plug out and stepped out to dry myself. I was absolutely fine.

  I wrapped myself in a bath sheet and scampered upstairs. Angelo was due any minute and he hated to see me in anything less than a neck-to-ankle dressing-gown, these days. I had an ear cocked for him as I dressed but when I started back down again Marco was standing in the living room, looking at the front door.

  ‘The bus is late,’ I said.

  ‘The bus has been,’ said Marco. ‘He wasn’t on it.’

  I flew down the rest of the stairs and straight out, blew through the gate and stood looking both ways into the sinking light. The rain had stopped but the day was beyond hope, chilled and damp and murky. The police and reporters had gone. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in either direction and not a sound to be heard, except the dripping of the trees and the distant downshift of the school bus’s diesel engine as it rounded some corner out of sight.


  I heard the door shut behind me and Marco was advancing with a coat for me and his own hooked on his head by the hood. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go looking.’

  ‘One of us should stay here,’ I said. ‘In case he comes back.’

  ‘Serve him right to come back to an empty house,’ Marco said. ‘I’m not leaving you on your own to work yourself up. And no way am I letting you drive.’

  ‘Trouble?’ said a voice.

  The neighbour. Of course.

  I rounded on him. ‘You should know. You made it.’

  He stood his ground, turning his head to one side to peer at me, like a bird watching grubs. ‘Me?’ He did look harmless, standing there in his shirt collar and zip-up cardigan, slippers on his feet and his Sta-Prest trousers bagged at the knees.

  ‘Why did you tell the news that kids meet over there?’ I demanded.

  Marco had laid a hand on my arm and was pulling me gently away. ‘Let’s get going, Als. Sooner the better, eh?’

  ‘Me?’ said the neighbour again. ‘I never said a word.’

  ‘What did you tell the cops?’ I said, shaking off Marco’s hand and taking a step forward.

  ‘I’ll tell them about that!’ he said, pointing a wavering finger. I thought he was showing me something behind my head and I turned.

  That was when I saw my own arm, fist clenched, raised above my head.

  ‘Ali!’ Marco called. He was over by the car with the passenger door open.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the neighbour. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Our son is missing.’

  ‘That’s none of my doing,’ the old man said. ‘We brought up three of our own and never had any of this.’

  ‘Ali!’ Marco shouted again. ‘Come on!’

  ‘He’ll have missed the bus and set off walking. That’s all it’ll be,’ Marco said. He turned the car and set off in the direction of the school, back the way I had come.

  He couldn’t have made it this far already, ten miles on a twisting road, but still I wound down the windows and scoured the darkness at the edge of the lane, already black in the dying light. We passed the checkpoint gate at the turn to Howell Hall, the soldier’s head just visible over the messy windowsills. From there on the trees met above our heads, still dripping, swallowing the last of the daylight. Marco flicked the lights to full beam.