by Lin Anderson
The sitting room was in darkness, the big wooden shutters open to reveal the night sky over Glasgow; the biggest, some would say the friendliest city in Scotland.
But it was also the most violent, with a knife and drugs culture that walked hand in hand. A tally of a hundred drug-related deaths a year wasn’t unusual.
The haunted face she had looked into on the Underground suggested the girl could have a place in the next statistics. And she, Rhona, had said nothing, done nothing, even when she imagined in that split second that the girl might jump.
What happened to the words Are you alright? Can I help?
You can’t help everyone, Sean had said when she told him the story over dinner. And he was right.
In her job, she couldn’t prevent death. She could only help the dead explain how or why they had died.
At first the black words on the white screen danced in front of Rhona’s eyes, but gradually she was sucked into the comfort of ideas begun, explored, formulated, proved. This was the time she liked to write: in the dark, the peace, the streets below empty of people. This was the time she thought best. Even as a student she had gone to bed struggling with some scientific problem, only to waken in the middle of the night having solved it mysteriously in her sleep. Two hours later the paper was complete. She checked the acknowledgements. Some of these people would be at the conference. The thought filled her with both pleasure and fear. The perfect mixture. By the time Sean appeared naked at the sitting room door, she was packed and ready to leave.
‘Is it that time already?’
‘I’ve called a taxi. It’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Come here.’
He slipped his hands under her coat and ran them up her spine. His body was bedwarm against hers. She breathed in the smell of his skin.
‘You’ll phone?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
They parted at the front door with a kiss, the tip of Sean’s tongue a reminder of what had happened between them earlier.
Glasgow was as quiet as the grave.
She watched the empty streets roll past. In the cold light of dawn, nothing seemed to matter. Death or life was inconsequential. Rhona felt herself relax, the taste of guilt at her sense of release from Sean sharp in her mouth.
Two hours and three cups of coffee later, she was still sitting in the airport lounge. Her flight had been delayed initially by twenty minutes, then by an hour.
Rhona took vengeance on her empty polystyrene cup. ‘And another thing,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How many cups of airport coffee can a person swallow before they die of poisoning?’
‘I believe four is the maximum.’
‘What?’
‘A person can only drink four of those before …’ The man to her right sliced across his throat with his finger. ‘There was an article in last month’s Scientific American by someone who travels a lot.’
A smile was beyond Rhona.
‘As long as that’s the last delay,’ she said.
As if on cue, the departure board sprang to life.
‘Did that just change to 10.30?’ Rhona looked at her neighbour in despair. He nodded equally despairingly.
‘God,’ she said. ‘I’d be quicker swimming.’
‘The Atlantic, perhaps, but then there is the great American land mass to cross before you reach California.’ He paused. ‘Of course, you could go in the other direction but that would involve travelling to Edinburgh first. And I gather people from Glasgow are not keen on Edinburgh?’
He had succeeded. She smiled. He held out his hand. He introduced himself. ‘Andre Frith.’
‘Dr Andre Frith? The University of California?’
He nodded. ‘I recognised you from your picture.’ He waved the pre-conference blurb. ‘I came over to propose we have a coffee together.’ He looked at the crushed coffee cup. ‘But maybe not.’
‘What about something to eat instead?’ Rhona suggested.
Chapter 2
Spike was out the door before the girl serving knew he had ever been in. Two boys waiting for hot pies saw him pocket the packet of potato scones from the counter but said nothing.
Spike didn’t run. Outside the baker’s, the street was busy with school kids eating fast food and dropping the papers at their feet. Spike joined them for a bit, then strolled across the road. No point in being about when the bell went for the end of lunchtime. Folk might wonder why he wasn’t back in school with the rest of them. He resisted the warm smell of potato coming from his pocket even though he was hungry. He had plans for the tattie scones.
When he reached the tenement block, he walked straight past the front entrance and nipped in through the back railings in case the woman on the first floor spotted him. He ducked under half-a-dozen grey nappies flapping on a line. Nothing there worth nicking.
When he reached the third floor, he heard the peevish whine of the baby. He didn’t like hearing it cry. It reminded him of his wee brother Calum. Next door was flapping open, caught in the stair’s sucking breeze. The baby’s whine was louder now. ‘Christ. Pick it up. Pick the kid up.’
He ignored the bad smell that drifted out the neighbours’ door and turned the key in his own. He was halfway in when the baby emitted a high-pitched cry. It was no use. He would have to make sure it was alright. He almost gagged at the smell of stale piss as he made his way to the living room. The baby had stopped whining now and was weeping, a lost sound that expected no answer. Spike pushed open the living room door. It ground its way over broken glass.
He looked about angrily. Where the fuck was she this time? She was on the settee, junked out of her mind. And beside her, head slumped back, mouth hanging open, was the kid’s father. Spike swept the baby up from the floor and took it to the bathroom.
He ran the dirty wee hand under the tap and dried it on his shirt. The cut was only a nick, and couldn’t have hurt much - it had probably been more shock than pain that had brought on the crying. Spike brushed at the knees of his dirty trousers, sending fragments of glass down the toilet pan.
‘Okay. Now what do we do?’ he asked his patient.
Some snot escaped the child’s nose, ran down his face and met the remains of a tear. Spike pulled a bit of toilet paper off the roll and wiped the mess away.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’
He was sharing his dinner with his new best friend when he heard the front door open. He had fried the tattie scones and heated some beans. The baby was sitting surrounded by cushions, wee hands waving in the air in anticipation of the next mashed spoonful. Spike shovelled another one in and handed it a mug of milk. He looked up as Esther came into the kitchen.
‘We’ve got a visitor,’ he said.
‘So I see.’
She tried to smile, but he knew by the shadows round her eyes.
‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘No!’
He jumped at the sharpness of her tone and she looked sorry.
‘It’s okay. Honestly. It was bad in the Underground but it’s quieter now.’
‘I made some food,’ he said. ‘Yours is in the grill.’
They were drinking mugs of tea when the baby’s mother banged on the door.
‘Did you take the wean?’
‘What do you care?’
‘Fucking wee smart arse.’
She pushed past Spike and pulled the child up by his arm. He let out a squeal of rage as the biscuit he was eating flew to the floor.
‘Don’t feed my wean. I’ve told you before.’
‘You feed it then.’
She kicked the door as she went out.
Esther was pale and frightened.
‘They were both out of their minds on the settee,’ he explained. ‘The place smelt like a pisshole.’
Esther looked worried. ‘She’ll tell the social about you. She knows you’re a runaway.’
‘Then we’ll move,’ he said. ‘I’m fed up listening to them shagging anyway.’
‘Spike.’
‘What?’
He could feel his face shift into worry.
‘You might not be able to stay here any more.’
‘You want me out?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just… if the singing doesn’t work out… there won’t be any money.’
‘There’s none now.’
He fetched the pot and poured more tea. He felt sixteen going on sixty.
Esther took the mug and nursed it, her mind somewhere else.
Spike wondered about going to a doctor, asking about the voices. When he’d tried to persuade Esther to make an appointment, she’d looked so frightened. He couldn’t bear it when she looked at him like that.
‘Spike?’ She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘What for?’
She leaned forward and touched his head with her lips. ‘For everything.’ She got up. ‘I’d better get ready. Don’t want to be late.’
‘I’ll walk you down.’
She looked as if she might argue, then thought better of it. While she got ready he cleared the dishes and washed up. In his whole life, this was the first place he had been happy. Esther made him happy.
‘Right. How do I look?’
She’d changed and put up her hair, revealing the heart-shaped mole. Her eyes were black-rimmed, lashes thick with mascara. She stretched her red mouth into a smile. ‘For the punters, right?’
He prayed that the voices would leave her alone for tonight. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
He liked walking with her. In the dark she could be his girlfriend. In the dark he wasn’t sixteen. She put her arm through his. The streets were filling up with punters, blokes set on a night out.
They passed the Fantasy Bar. Four guys got out of a taxi and hung about the steps before they went in. Spike hated them, hated the way they were men before they were human.
‘Hey, I’m not there yet,’ she said, tugging him on.
The jazz club was busy, a trail of people edging its way in the door.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said and squeezed his arm.
‘I could come in.’
The doorman gave him a look that suggested otherwise.
‘I’ll be back for you.’
Esther nodded, trying to hide her nervousness.
After she disappeared Spike stood for a while, ignoring the doorman’s bugger-off look.
He tried to imagine Esther on stage, the red lips trembling with sound. He thought about looking for a back entrance, finding a way in, hiding, watching her sing.
The doorman had had enough.
‘Get lost, son.’
Spike gave him the finger and walked on.
Chapter 3
Rhona made herself look down. Below her, the west coast of Scotland peeped through a curtain of grey cloud, each island a jigsaw piece of green and purple against the charcoal water. ‘Shit.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I’m sorry. I hate flying. It’s unnatural.’
‘But you’re a scientist. You know that the laws of physics dictate this thing will stay in the air.’
‘I know, but I still hate looking down.’
‘Why don’t you pull the blind and pretend we’re in a train instead.’
‘Good idea. Just don’t mention any train crashes.’
The plane was busy. Beyond the curtains of business class, Rhona could hear a wall of voices and the clatter of a trolley. In here life was quiet, well ordered, peaceful and spacious. On her left Andre Frith was reading some papers, on her right a small flat screen begged her to switch on and enjoy the inflight movie. All expenses paid was the way to travel.
Her DNA research had brought her here. For the last couple of years she had been involved in a think-tank to see how DNA studies and certain other branches of genetic research might aid crime investigators in the future. The next step was to match the DNA characteristics of bacteria and virus samples to one another so that they could determine if two individuals were in the same environment, or in close enough contact with one another to pass micro-organisms back and forth. Challenging, but not insurmountable. Such research was welcomed by the university. It brought money in the form of grants. It also brought prestige and invitations to conferences in exotic places.
Her companion turned and gave her one of those American smiles, all white teeth, golden tan and crinkly blue eyes. Rhona was suddenly reminded of Harrison Ford.
‘You didn’t mention why you were in Scotland,’ she said.
‘Didn’t I? I was in Scotland because … well, Scotland is beautiful.’
‘So you were a tourist?’
‘Yes and no. I had a little business to deal with first, then I took a look at your west coast. I’m afraid, like so many Americans, I was searching for my roots.
‘Your family was Scottish?’
‘My great-great-great-grandmother came from Raasay. She was one of the MacLeods cleared from there in the 1800s.’
‘So we’re related?’
He laughed. ‘Looks like it.’
‘And did you find what you were looking for?’
He looked sad. ‘I found a pile of stones.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was enough.’
He pulled a photograph from his pocket It showed two women seated on stiff-backed chairs, a man standing behind them. The sepia colours made the women look ugly and severe.
He pointed at the one on the right. ‘My grandmother,’ he said. ‘Scary, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘She was born in the Red River Valley, which is where her mother ended up. According to family legend, my great-great-grandmother spoke only Gaelic until the day she died. She had made up her mind she was coming back, you see.’ He smiled. ‘A determined lady.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘No. But I did.’
The prospect of the LA Conference didn’t seem so daunting, now she was on speaking terms with at least one of the contributors.
Andre Frith was to deliver a paper on ‘The New Weapons of Ethnic Cleansing. At least sixteen countries, Rhona knew, had bio weapon programs, including Syria, North Korea and China. Russia, Andre reminded her, had already developed a new generation of untreatable diseases which were resistant to antibiotics.
‘And on that positive note, here come the pre-dinner drinks,’ he announced. ‘Champagne, madam?’
Rhona nodded her acceptance. Talking shop with a handsome biochemist over a glass or two of champagne could make her forget there was nothing between her and the Atlantic except fresh air and the laws of physics.
Rhona rolled across the kingsize empty bed and looked at the clock. No wonder Santa Monica was going strong. It might be two in the morning on her internal clock but it was late afternoon here. It would be easier if she got up, went and found a place to eat, then slept when everybody else did.
As she stood in the shower, water pounding on her head, she thanked God she had time to put her brain back together before she had to address the conference.
Andre had left her at the airport, promising to call on Sunday and take her for a short drive. Rhona had no idea what this might mean in American terms. Probably nothing under seventy miles.
On her way to the hotel she chatted with her taxi driver. He told her he lived in the desert and it took him two hours to get home. He had to leave the city at eight o’clock to avoid the rush hour.
Catching a five-minute ride to work, or even walking for twenty minutes, began to look like heaven in comparison. Rhona made a mental note to remind Chrissy how lucky she was; how lucky they both were.
She momentarily forgot the time difference and phoned Chrissy, who was initially disgruntled to be woken up. ‘So, you’re trying to say it’s hell over there?’ She didn’t sound convinced.
Rhona took in the spacious airconditioned room; the blue sky outside, the sun shining through the window, the smell of fresh coffee and fruit just
delivered by the management.
‘Not hell, just hectic,’ she said.
‘So where is this Andre taking you tomorrow?’
‘To meet some more MacLeods.’
‘You’ve got family over there?’
‘I’m meeting the Californian branch of the Clan MacLeod.’
‘They’ll be nutcases.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Nothing personal,’ Chrissy said. ‘But chances are they’ll be the Jacobite brigade.’
Rhona chose to ignore that remark. Instead she asked Chrissy a favour, which was followed by silence.
‘Never heard of them, but I’ll check for you. What were they called again?’
‘ReGene.’ Rhona spelt it out for her.
‘Sounds like an advert for Lee Cooper.’
‘The card was here when I arrived. A Dr Lynne Franklin wants to arrange a meeting.’
‘Looks like you’re in demand.’
‘I’d like to know a bit about the company before I agree to speak to her.’
‘She probably thinks you’ve got a DNA vaccine up your sleeve, ready for worldwide distribution.’
Rhona resisted a retort. With Chrissy always wanting the last word, they could be there all night.
‘By the way,’ Chrissy said, ‘I’m going to the jazz club tonight. See how Sean’s getting on without you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Danny says the band’s new singer is very hot.’
Danny was the latest in Chrissy’s long string of boyfriends.
‘I thought I’d better view the competition.’ Chrissy paused. ‘My competition, I mean.’
No answer could adequately express what Rhona felt at that moment, so she didn’t voice one.
‘I’ll email when I’ve done the background on ReGene,’ Chrissy went on. ‘Oh, DI Wilson says thanks for the report on the foot. He’ll talk to you when you get back.’
Rhona rang off quickly before Chrissy could fire more ammunition at her. Chrissy believed in being up front about everything, including Sean. Making a meal of Rhona’s jealous streak was Chrissy’s way of telling her not to worry. It rarely worked.
Rhona opened the suitcase and found something to wear that suited another climate - and another planet, she thought, as she emerged from the cool elegance of the marble reception area into the late afternoon sunshine of Third Street, Santa Monica.