by Iain Maloney
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ He must have noticed my increasing exasperation because he continued. ‘I mean, I don’t know because I haven’t decided. I… I had to get away.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No, nothing like that. I just… I don’t know.’
‘You’re very happy to admit what you don’t know. You’d make a good scientist.’
He laughed, but it was empty. ‘I was supposed to be a lawyer, remember? Lawyers always know everything.’
‘Do you regret that? Not going to law school?’
‘No, it was the right decision at the time. And thank you for that. Talking, that day in Café Continental. Your advice.’
‘Yeah, I’ve always been good at what other people should be doing.’
‘But Dad was right – I can’t be a professional snowboarder my whole life.’
‘So that’s it? Career crisis?’
‘Midlife crisis.’
‘You’re twenty-eight, you can’t be having a midlife crisis.’
‘Depends how old I am when I die.’
‘God, you’re cheery today.’
‘Merry Christmas. Let’s get back up there. Not thinking helps.’
‘I’m not sure it does, but I know what you mean.’
Graeme was set on conquering a tricky line and I let him take a few runs at it. What do professional snowboarders do when they retire? Retiring at twenty-eight, the idea. I was just getting started on my career, still finding my feet in my first job. I was building a reputation, citations of my papers increasing. I had all these plans, the research I wanted to do, the papers I needed to write, the books. How lucky I’d been. Not everyone knew with complete certainty what they wanted to do with their lives. People drifted. Changed their minds. Tried different things. Took wrong turns. Hannah was like me, sure from a young age. Dad ended up in the oil industry because it came along when he was unsure. He’d have been happier as a field geologist than in an office making money for billionaires. The choices you made, they could take you by surprise.
We cycled home, silent, each with our thoughts, put the bikes in the garage. I wondered what to do about dinner, what to do with the evening. There’d be a restaurant open somewhere. Or we could eat in. Or we could go our separate ways. I felt like curling up on the couch with a film, maybe make a pizza. But it was Christmas. I had a depressed guest. Maybe he had some idea, knew his own mind. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I need a shower.’
‘Do you need to go back to your hotel?’
‘Depends. I have clothes with me. Do you want to do something? Get some dinner?’
What a pair. ‘Have a shower here and we can come up with a plan.’ I wasn’t used to being around one person this much, or having someone in my house. Apart from Mike, obviously, but Mike kept to himself. ‘Shower’s in there, towels in the cupboard, everything’s self-explanatory.’
I straightened the place, made sure there were no stray items of underwear drying, opened the French windows to air the room. I turned on the TV so he’d have something to do while I showered. The news was full of the bombings in Indonesia, al-Qaeda, talking heads, carnage. Those families at home, in hospitals, waiting for news. Waiting to hear. I changed the channel, found The Muppets Christmas Carol. Graeme came out, fresh and damp, we swapped places. He fell asleep on the couch, Michael Caine and the Ghost of Christmas Present watching the Cratchits through the window.
Graeme slept for an hour while I prepared dinner. Homemade pizza and salad, ice cream for dessert. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I’d had worse Christmases. The sun set, a chill wind off the sea rolled over the garden so I closed the doors, pulled the curtains.
‘I should have got you a present,’ he said. ‘I never thought.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ I was sitting on the floor, my back against the couch. He was above me, half lying, legs curled. I could feel his knee just behind my head.
‘I wouldn’t have known what to buy anyway. I usually give people bottles of stuff. Champagne. Wine. You don’t drink.’
‘It’s a pain, isn’t it?’
‘You never did like making things easy.’
‘I think I’m pretty straightforward.’
‘Yeah, but in your own way. At school all the other girls were easy to work out. Kim, Lesley, Julie. You knew where you were with them. You were a whole different puzzle.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sean Connery had been shot. Harrison Ford was approaching the first test, the spinning blade that decapitated all but the penitent.
‘You just always did your own thing.’
Ford was through and faced with the name of God.
‘I seem to remember not having much choice with that.’
‘Mark? Sure there were dicks, but most of us were on your side. And then with your dad. We wanted to help but we… I… we couldn’t find a way.’
Ford made it and now faced the final challenge. The leap from the lion’s mouth. A test of faith. I remember the first time I watched this, Indiana Jones stepping off a cliff. Even now I still held my breath.
‘You know I really liked you?’ he said.
‘At school?’
‘I had such a thing for you.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I did.’
I looked up at him. On the screen Indiana Jones found the knight, the room with the grail. ‘You did?’
‘I did. I do.’ And he leaned over and kissed me. And I kissed him back.
Findhorn, May 2003
Findhorn is a costal town a two-hour drive from Aberdeen on the hellish A96. Famous for two things – a marina and the Findhorn Foundation, a community of hippies living in an ecovillage between the village proper and Kinloss RAF base. Marcus and Isobel set up the tent on a strip of grass separated from the road by a thick hedge, while Tommy by The Who played on the car stereo, windows down, earlier visits leaving them safe in the knowledge that no one would be organised enough to ask them for payment. Beyond the tents stood the static caravans and the toilet block. At the far end past the shop selling locally made jewellery and new age guidebooks were the ecohomes and holiday lets, the Universal Hall and the pottery. The community was a mix of retired middle-class couples and dropouts from society existing in an uneasy symbiosis with the rest of Findhorn. Marcus tended to ignore the weirdos, otherwise it was a good campground and the beaches and the sea kayaking were fantastic.
There were only four other tents. Two were accompanied by expensive-looking road bikes chained to trees, German tourists cycling around the Highlands. Isobel had looked at them askance when they overtook her Alfa Romeo as they were stopping for lunch.
‘Do those seats not hurt after a while?’
‘Almost immediately.’
‘So why do they do it?’
‘To prove something.’ Marcus had loved touring when he was younger. At university he and Taka had covered huge swathes of the country like that.
‘Does it not hurt your balls?’
‘Makes them go numb. I always used to have a wank afterwards to get the blood flowing again.’
‘Any excuse.’
She’d turned back to the book. Isobel could read in the car without getting sick and over many road trips around the country they’d developed a routine where she would read aloud as he drove – always one way. Marcus never drove back.
His hip meant cycling was out. He missed it. Missed Ruby too. Isobel’s car was nice but it wasn’t a Saab, lacked those curves, the feel, the smell. He’d thought about getting his own car but his money wouldn’t last forever.
She reparked the car so its body, the hedge and the tent formed a windbreak while Marcus filled the water bottle and unpacked mats and sleeping bags, stove and gas, sorted through the food, rearranged the coolbox. It was almost like a dance, they’d done this so often. They tried to get out of the city every weekend. Habits had to be broken and remade. The counselling continued, h
is drinking held steady at the compromise level. But hanging around Aberdeen with nothing to do was asking for trouble. Loitering without intent, Isobel called it. From then on Marcus referred to their trips as ‘loitering within tent’.
Three tartan blankets patchworked on the grass, shoes weighing the corners down, they stretched out, books, newspapers, wine in short glasses – stems were best avoided when camping – basking in the late summer sun. A Hercules took off from the base, a monstrous roar, a shadow cast like a dragon, the white wind turbine ticking round. Later they’d walk into town but for now they were content to be silent. Isobel on her back with the newspaper, holding it above her blocking the sun. Marcus lay on his front, a printout of his book, a red pen in his hand, the lid chewed between his lips like a Clint Eastwood cigar.
Dr Shaw had been right. Isobel had been right. Once he got out of hospital the second time he filled the notepad, filled another one, a total mess, a stream of thoughts, his entire life from birth to Isobel finding him on the kitchen floor, everything he could remember, everything he’d been told about his childhood. It all came out yet there was a hole in the centre of it, July 6th 1988. Slowly, painfully, never on days when Isobel was away, he filled it in, a word at a time, a sentence. A scene. A memory. He worked his way through it, worked it out on lined foolscap, and once it was down there, once he had found the words, he could find them again with Dr Shaw, with Isobel. He could tell the story. His story. At times the nightmares increased, but gradually they receded, along with the flashbacks. Then the question – what was he going to do with himself now? What was he going to do with all of those notebooks?
It was Isobel who first suggested the book. It seemed Sisyphean but she pointed out that compared to what he’d just gone through, reorganising and rewriting was a doddle. So he got hold of a second-hand laptop and began wading through screeds of often incomprehensible nonsense. Monday to Friday, nine to five he worked, as Isobel did. In the evening they cooked, at the weekend they left the city to visit castles, lochs, gardens.
He topped up her glass, then his own. The salt in the air, the positive ions, he could already feel himself tingling, the sun on his skin, the tannins in his blood, the words passing in front of his eyes, his brain catching commas and typos. He’d have fish for dinner, maybe mussels. He could smell the garlic and butter already.
He’d gone to the Central Library, trawled through old newspapers, records, the Cullen inquiry. He got into Grampian TV through a friend and watched tapes from that night, from the weeks and months afterwards. He got Health and Safety reports, transcripts, minutes.
The book grew.
So did his anger.
Anger is good. Anger is natural. When it’s directed at the source, when it’s directed, controlled, utilised, anger is one of the strongest motivations there is.
Anger is bad. Anger is destructive. When it flails around, splashing on everyone, when it’s turned inwards anger poisons everything.
Dr Shaw talked him through the process, explained his emotions in clear, scientific terms. He’d never considered psychology a real science but everything she suggested worked. Except one thing. One thing he wouldn’t do. She wanted him to go to the Piper Alpha Families and Survivors Association and meet them. Meet the others. The survivors. The families.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
But he kept on with the book. No one would ever see it but that was fine. This was therapy. He’d show it to Isobel. Maybe Dr Shaw if she cared.
Carrie. Since she moved to New Zealand they’d so rarely spoken. Emails of two or three lines, ice age gaps between replies.
Would he send her a copy?
‘Have you seen this?’ Isobel tapped the newspaper.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s going to be a meteor shower tonight. If the sky stays clear we should be able to see it.’
‘Bonfire on the beach?’
‘Definitely.’
They walked hand in hand along the side of the tree-lined road, a tunnel of green, the sea unseen a few metres away, passing houses with Gaelic names, a couple at first, then more until the road became a street and they were walking through the village, the greenery under control, tamed, the bay calm and grey, boats bobbing, the clang of wind through rigging. They took the left fork at the War Memorial, the road by the thin strip of beach and went into the Kimberley Inn. A proper pub. Wooden walls and floor, a big fireplace. Marcus got his mussels, Isobel opted for the sea bass.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ he said, a slice of chilli nipping his tongue. ‘I heard back from Barry McLean.’
‘The consultancy?’
‘Yeah, he’s invited me in on Wednesday.’
‘A job interview? That’s fantastic news.’ She chewed a mouthful of fish, chased it with some Sauvignon Blanc.
‘An exploratory chat, he called it, but yeah.’
‘Do you think he knows everything about… everything?’
‘Sure. He knows Bill well, they’ll have had a talk. It’s hardly a secret.’
‘There are no secrets in Aberdeen.’
‘All that money and it’s still a village.’
‘So he’s willing to look beyond all that, do you think?’
‘He’s willing to meet. If he thought I was a liability he wouldn’t have me anywhere near the office.’
‘Well, make sure you’re prepared. You’ve been out of the industry a long time.’
‘You’ll need to get me up to speed on Health and Safety legislation.’
‘Can do. It would be great if he took you on.’
‘No kidding. I’d be able to move out of that flat for a start.’
‘Somewhere with a driveway.’
‘Somewhere without a kebab shop.’
‘A big kitchen. I’ve got us a new recipe book, Middle Eastern. Lots of lamb.’
‘A big everything. A garden.’
‘You got a lot done today?’
‘One more chapter then you can see it.’
‘Do you want dessert?’
‘I want a smoke.’
‘Beach?’
‘Beach.’
The village of Findhorn faces the bay. Around the headland the beach widens into golden sand, dunes and scrub isolating it from any signs of civilisation. Along the way they collected driftwood, blown newspapers, anything that could make fire. The last of the dog walkers called ‘Evening’ to them. A sheltered spot on the edge of the dunes. The sun was setting as they constructed a pyre, got the flames going. He opened the wine, Isobel rolled a joint. He lay back in the sand, hands behind his head, waiting for the stars to come out. ‘Doesn’t get much better than this.’
Isobel inhaled deep, exhaled. ‘Nope.’
He took the proffered joint, felt his muscles relax into the coast. She lay with him, her head on his shoulder. ‘Did I tell you about Christmas nineteen ninety?’
‘When we first met? A little. You went to the west coast.’
‘Blind drunk in the middle of the night, I drove to Ullapool, camped on the beach for three nights. Minus fifteen it got to.’
‘You must have had good equipment.’
‘The best. I sat watching the sea for two days, drinking, hardly eating. I thought I might die there. I wanted to die there. Scottish beaches and me, we go way back.’
‘We’re an island people. You less than me. Shetland’s a proper island.’
‘You know the old joke? A wife says to her husband “When you die I’m going to dance on your grave.” So her husband says, “Then I’m going to be buried at sea.”’
‘Wives used to be buried with their husbands. Burnt with them.’
‘When I die I want to be scattered on a Scottish beach. Not cremated. Just scattered.’
‘You’re full of jokes tonight.’
‘There’s been too much seriousness recently.’
In silence they watched first one star, then four, then uncountable bright points pierce through the purple sky. They were alone in the world
, a desert island, safe together, the shush of the sea, the whisper of the wind. Up above there were satellites, a space station; down here, out-at-sea ships and submarines and oil rigs, platforms of metal filled with men, the roar of the gas flare. Beyond them, Scandinavia, Iceland, the Arctic, keep going over the top and back down across the Pacific, as near as dammit on the International Date Line, catching the edge of Russia, through the islands, Kiribati, Tuvalu, Fiji and there was New Zealand, Carrie in Dunedin, the other side of the world and still a small piece of Scotland, all connected, all under the same sky but here, in the circle of light from the fire, just Marcus and Isobel.
The first meteor came. A ball of fire arcing across the sky. They couldn’t believe it, had been expecting a shooting star but they were burning up right above them. Another like a crashing aeroplane or a spaceship, another, another, the sky alive with fire, streaked by flames, another, another, dozens of meteors burning up in the atmosphere above them.
Fewer and fewer, the spaces increasing. One last meteor and it was over. Marcus kissed her forehead. She shifted her mouth to his.
‘Isobel Mowat, will you marry me?’
Dunedin, New Zealand, April 2003
‘Where are you off to this time?’
‘I told you a million times. Hawaii.’
My bags were open on the bed as I did my final check, scratching things off the list. The taxi was booked for three o’clock, in twenty minutes, and I couldn’t concentrate.
‘I could come over in a month or so.’
‘No.’
‘No? Just like that?’
‘It’s not a holiday. I’m going to be working all day, sleeping in a dorm, sometimes in a hut in the mountains. If you came over I wouldn’t be able to spend any time with you.’
‘You’re working seven days?’
‘Yes. Anyway you’ve got work to do.’
‘Not much. Not until the ski season starts.’
‘What about your designs? Did you get back to that company in Fife?’
‘On the list for today.’
‘You have an actual list?’
He tapped his head. ‘All in here. I’m meeting Gabe later. We’re going to talk about the shop. See if we can get something concrete.’