‘Ah. No time to stop?’ A cheated look to her face, her mouth twists slightly to one side, eyes narrow. The air from her over-heated house wafts out, old lady breath micro-waved. A tinge of urine.
‘Do you know where she is? I’ve been phoning, but never an answer.’
‘Now, I’m afraid I haven’t seen poor Alison since a few days after the funeral. That reminds me – are you not the mannie she went off with that day?’
‘Me?’
‘You look just like him. We all saw her drive off with this red-haired mannie, and she never even showed up for the reception.’ She leers, just a second’s worth of leer, but enough to make Neal queasy.
‘Did she not?’
‘No, she did not,’ she enunciates so clearly, Neal wonders if she’s drunk. ‘She did not return till early the following morning. I mind her taxi pulling up at dawn.’
‘Is that so?’ This is exciting news – a piece of Alison’s recent history revealed! So, she’d hired a taxi from Golspie. But then, in Neal’s state, even seeing the word Alison written somewhere is exciting. Hearing the word spoken out loud is exciting. Being this near her house is exciting. He is a tuning fork vibrating to anything Alison.
‘But do you know where she might be now?’ He’s begun to breathe shallowly, so as not to inhale the old lady air too deeply.
‘No. I assumed she was staying with friends. Or sister, more like. Sorry, I can’t tell you where her sister lives, but near by. Her name’s Chrissie. I’m sorry, I don’t know Alison that well, but she’s a fine neighbour, and I’m sorry for her troubles.’
Neal, for the first time, wishes he owned a mobile phone. Of course, his dad already has one. He’ll need to get one soon. And a CD player for his car. And a home computer. Maybe internet. Maybe a digital camera too. Maybe even a DVD player. He’s been resisting for a few years now. It’s not that he’s against technology; he just feels a little tired at the prospect of learning new ways when the old ways seem sufficient. Everything seems to be accelerating so quickly. He’s a historian, he knows about change. The way it comes in bundles and bursts, in complex knots, never the slow steady trajectory. But it’s one thing expecting it, altogether different to be living through it. And what the hell has happened to wire coat hangers? Wooden cotton spools? Typewriters and their ribbons in sweet little boxes? He stopped looking for a second, and whoosh, all gone.
He drives to the payphone by the bank on the High Street. Parks his car and while crossing the road notices a pleasing yeasty smell in the air, remembers the distillery nearby. His younger self stirs under his skin, with this olfactory prompt. Feels focused, energetic. He calls directory inquiries, phones Chrissie. A little girl answers the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is your mum there?’
‘Aye,’ as in of course she’s here, stupid!
Pause.
‘Hello, I said is your mummy there?’
‘I just said so, didn’t I? What’re you, thick or sumpin?’
Pause.
‘Can I, uh, talk to her?’
‘’Spose so.’ Sounds of phone slamming against wall, then silence.
Neal stands in the freezing phone box, shifting his feet to keep the circulation going, and listens to the tiny distant voices in the phone. None of them sound urgent. Has he been forgotten? He suspects the pattern for his quest has already been set. Rush! Then: delay, delay, delay, delay, delay. Five obstacles for every success.
It begins to hail; particles of ice pound the phone box. Ratatatatat.
‘Hello?’ An adult voice at last.
‘Chrissie?’
‘No, I’ll just get her. Mum!’ Neal has to adjust, remind himself what generation he resides in, because for a minute he thought the wee girl could be Chrissie’s. But wait a minute – she could be. Chrissie must be no more than forty-five.
‘Yes? Hello?’
‘Chrissie? Sorry to bother you, this is Neal Munro. You might not remember me but I used to live with your sister. Long time ago, at Brae Cottage.’
‘Neal? Of course I remember you! Ali used to say you were her best friend.’
‘She did? I mean, yes, we were great pals, but then … ’
‘And you took her off after the funeral – where did yous go?’
‘She told you then, did she?’
‘She didn’t need to, we all saw yous two just head off north like that.’
‘No, I mean, did she tell you where we went?’
‘I’d hardly ask you if she had, no, she acted like Madame Mystery.’
‘Ah. It’s not what you think.’
‘You’ve no idea what I think. One of yous could have had the consideration to phone me, but I’m no complaining. I was worried sick. We all were.’
‘Sorry, Chrissie. We should have phoned. Sorry.’
‘Please, no need. It’s over,’ she says in a tone that says it’ll never be over.
‘You’ve a wife, right?’ she says.
‘Aye. Sally. Her name is Sally.’
‘Thought so.’
‘Yes.’ Damn! Sally! Good, sweet, safe Sally. What in the world is he doing?
Somewhere a baby begins to scream, and a woman’s voice soothes it.
‘But tell me,’ Chrissie says, unfazed by his pause. ‘How can I help you, Neal?’
‘I’m just trying to reach her. Your sister. Do you know where she is?’
‘No. I do not, as it happens.’ Snippily.
‘No idea at all? I’ve tried ringing, and …’
‘Oh, she’s not answering her phone. Or her door, come to that.’
‘Me neither. I mean, I tried her door too.’
‘I don’t know any more than you, Neal. Look, I’ll see you around, eh? Got to go now.’
‘But you must have more ideas than me. I hardly know her. I feel terrible.’
‘Well,’ in a slightly less miffed tone. ‘She said she might go stay over the west, stay with a friend, Kate, and until this morning I just assumed she’d done that. But she’s not there either.’
‘Oh dear. Are you worried? Isn’t it odd she wouldn’t tell you?’
‘We’re close, don’t get me wrong, but you know how it is. We each have our own lives. I’ve got four grandchildren now, and one on the way. It might be twins, it runs in the family. Then I’d have six grandchildren.’
‘Well, that’s, that’s just wonderful Chrissie. Congratulations,’ mumbles Neal, because she seems to be claiming these children, this vicarious fecundity, with such pride. Plus, talking about her kids, she seems to have forgotten she hates him.
‘Thank you, but it’s no picnic I can tell you. Kids these days, they cost the earth. Have you any kids?’
‘No. No, we decided to leave all that to everyone else.’ The response he always trots out. It’s so quiet in the box, suddenly. Neal glances out he sees snow silently floating down. There is a muffled sound to the traffic.
‘Oh! Ach well, I suppose with no kids, you get holidays abroad and a nice clean house. Can’t blame you for the choice.’
Neal lives in a not perfectly clean house and has never been abroad for a sunshine holiday. He can’t, right now, recall choosing definitely not to have kids – had there been a conversation? Must have been. And he’s certainly never yearned for kids.
‘So. I better let you go, Chrissie. Thanks.’
‘Aye, that’s alright.’
‘Just I’ve been worried about Ali.’
‘Same, same. Can’t imagine where she’s been, where she is. I mean, you’d think she’d let me know, where she was and that. I even wondered if she was maybe with you.’
‘No! Not me.’
‘I think I’ll go to the police.’
‘Report her as missing?’
‘Yes. Aye. Well, she is, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, it’s a good idea. Will I come with you?’ So, his instincts are correct. It is an emergency!
‘Aye? Aye, alright then. You don’t need to, but why not.’ Though
he can hear in her hesitation, there might indeed be reasons why not. Like why does he care now, all of sudden? Some best friend he turned out to be. But the words missing person – it makes him think of limp bodies in ditches. Lifeless eyes, bluish skin.
‘I’ll meet you at the Alness police station in an hour,’ says Chrissie, before hanging up to the sound of infantile squawking. The way she says Alness strikes Neal as odd. Then he remembers that Alnessians pronounce it their own way – Alness, whereas folk from Evanton and beyond tend to call it Alness. Reminds himself to pronounce it respectfully. Alness.
Chrissie is recognisably Chrissie. Her laugh is rough, her voice chain-smoker gravelly. He greets her without drama. She greets him in a similar manner, as if it’s been a few weeks not seventeen years, and they were never bosom buddies in the first place. They enter the police station.
‘Hey there, Billy, what’s the craic?’ she says to one of the milling uniforms.
‘You’re seeing it, Chrissie. And what’s doing with you the day?’
‘We’re needing to report Ali – she’s no been home for ages.’
Billy sighs and tsks. ‘Ali, Ali,’ he says. ‘Poor Ali. I’ll just get the forms. Hold on.’ He returns and they all sit in a small room. Billy writes for a few minutes. Neal presumes it’s the details he already knows. Name and address.
‘Age?’
‘Forty-one. I think. Yes, forty-one,’ says Chrissie.
‘Last seen?’
‘By me? It was, uh, let’s see, the fifteenth of January. I’d been with her since it happened, then left her after ten days. I had to get back home. I remember now, she was in the bath. She said she might visit a friend in Gairloch for a while, have a change of scene, and when I couldn’t get through to her later, I assumed she’d just gone and done that. Her car was gone, and her house locked.’
‘So, missing for three days. Not very long, really. Has anyone else seen her since?’
‘Not that I know of. She never went west at all. Kate, it turns out, is away down in Glasgow. I spoke to her this morning. She thinks it’s very worrying, not like Ali, and I agree. And Neal here hasn’t seen her either.’
Billy turns his attention to Neal. Frowns. ‘Are you related to Alison?’
‘No. An old friend.’
‘Not a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Squinting his eyes.
‘No.’
‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone off to?’
‘None, I’m afraid. It seems very odd, and well, worrying that she hasn’t been in touch with her sister.’
‘I agree. Very odd, indeed,’ says Chrissie ominously.
‘How about the why? Do either of you know why she might want to disappear?’
‘Billy! Of course!’ Chrissie says scornfully.
Billy’s pen is poised. ‘Aye. But for the record, like. Reason?’
‘Bereavement. Calum. Just write down that her only son died suddenly in a car accident. They were very close. You know that, Billy.’
‘On the A9, wasn’t it? Terrible.’
‘Aye.’
Pause. Then Billy squares his shoulders and says, ‘Don’t take offence or anything, Chrissie, it’s just one of the questions we have to ask – see, it’s on my list. Did Ali have any drug or alcohol problems?’
‘I’m not offended, daft man. No, not that I knew of. Liked a few lagers, that’s all.’
‘Any mental health problems?
‘Eh? Like was she crazy? Course she was. Demented with grief. You think she might’ve topped herself, don’t you?’
‘Suicide can be one of the explanations. On rare, very rare, occasions, Chrissie. I wouldn’t worry about it, it’s unlikely.’
Neal has a sudden image of Alison in the firth, water logged, grey fish nibbling on her fingers. He pales, blinks fast, swallows hard.
‘Right,’ says Chrissie, and her voice starts to wobble. ‘Well, I’ve thought of it already myself. I’d say it was not so very unlikely, in her case. She’s always been a bittie on the dour side. Not that she didn’t crack jokes half the day. Just never seemed that content in herself. Bit of a loner, really.’
‘Still. Let’s hope not,’ says Billy, looking down at his paper. ‘Any health problems in general? Was she on any medication, for instance, or seeing the doctor about anything?’
‘No. She was fit enough.’
‘Do you have a recent photograph?’
‘Aye.’ Chrissie, to Neal’s amazement, pulls a photograph of Alison out of her bag. How did she know she’d be asked? It’s all he can do to not grab it, have a look for himself.
‘Do you think she took anything with her? Have you had a look round her house, noticed anything? Missing suitcases, coats, passports, that kind of thing.’
‘Actually, I’ve not been round her place. Though I have the key. Silly of me, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. Here, do you need the key?’
‘Aye, but I think it’s better if you come with us.’
‘Well, just tell me when. I can get off work.’
‘Aye, fine Chrissie. Ta.’
Billy writes for another three minutes, frowning with concentration. Asks for contact details. For bank, employer and car details.
‘Right, then,’ he finally says, rising. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’
‘What will you do?’ asks Neal confidently, wanting to show Chrissie he’s a useful type of man to bring along after all.
‘We’ll wait a few more days to see if she turns up. If she doesn’t, we’ll post this information with the other missing persons. We’ll check the hospital and shelters. We’ll interview her employer and co-workers. Talk to her neighbours. Ask her bank if she’s used her account at all. The phone company, see if she’s made any calls. Check out her car, see if it’s been abandoned anywhere.’
‘I see.’ All these avenues to explore! Neal feels hopeful for a second. He’d not imagined so many ways of looking for someone.
‘I know it’s a worry. But ninety-nine percent of missing persons turn up after a day or two, maybe a week or two,’ says Billy. He stands up, extends his hand to Chrissie, then Neal. ‘We can only hope for the best. Probably she’s not wanting to be found just now, but is fine. Just licking her wounds somewhere.’
Chrissie walks home the long way to make up for all the pancakes she ate earlier. Down the High Street, up one lane, then another. It’s snowing quite heavily now, but there is no wind and it feels weirdly warm. The flakes cling to her hair almost decoratively. She walks and walks, breathing heavily. Then because she had ten pieces of bacon as well, she walks back to the High Street and repeats her journey. Binging equals brisk walks. Pauses by the bakery, then squares her shoulders and walks on. Past the café with folk sitting, drinking tea and eating cakes.
When she passes the church the second time, she pops inside because her feet are wet, there’s no food to tempt her in a church, and besides she is suddenly too tired to walk. Not a thing she does often. In fact, aside from funerals and weddings, pretty much never. It is empty and strangely muted, given the traffic nearby. She sits, her face slumped, and catches her breath. Hasn’t smoked in years, but still feels it. Has no thoughts beyond, To hell with you, Ali! I do not need this! Starts to breathe easier, calm down. Begins to enjoy a sense of detachment, in the quiet and shadows. Alone! Lets her eyes slide shut. Then an old man – a minister – comes in a side door and she opens her eyes with irritation. He doesn’t notice her, and she can’t help watching him. What’s he doing? Aside from ruining it for her.
Henry goes about his business slowly. Lately, everything he does is in slow motion. He shuffles papers, stacks hymnals, straightens pews. Finally looks up.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ says Chrissie.
‘Can I help you?’
‘No thank you. Just, you know. Sitting a minute.’
‘Stay as long as you like. Not a nice day, is it?’
‘Thanks, but I bet
ter go now.’
Chrissie gathers herself. Wraps her scarf round her neck again, and heads home. Reads the poster by the door. You Are Not Alone. The hell I’m not, she thinks.
Another poster: God Loves You. And You and You. Well! That may be so, but it’s unrequited love on a colossal scale.
Henry sits in the front pew a moment. Imagines being Chrissie. He knows her vaguely, though not her name. He guesses she is not a believer. Allows himself to imagine being her for a minute. A nothingness after death. To sack God was to eliminate protection and purpose. Like orphaning oneself at a vulnerable age. The world, not a cosy place after all. Stark and scary. How can Henry imagine this so easily? Because since Calum’s funeral, he’s been unable to think of anything else. His deep dark secret. He did not know Calum, not really, yet that particular funeral had felt the saddest he’d ever conducted. After watching those boys, those pallbearers, he’d felt their godless version of the world slice right through his chest to his backbone. He saw how it was to live godlessly.
Yes, Henry is having doubts. Has his religion, his life’s vocation, just been a rather sweet but childish security blanket? He thinks of a bumper sticker he saw recently: What if the hokey cokey really is what it’s all about? No heaven or hell. No reward for good behaviour, no chance of seeing lost loved ones again. No divine witness to all his endeavours. This makes him shiver of course, but not just with fear. He shivers because thinking this way is also strangely thrilling. Life, as a one-shot deal, is actually kind of exciting.
But what is he thinking? This way of thinking cannot be good for him.
He closes his eyes and says the Our Father silently. Tries to think about each phrase, and let it be real again. Feels a deep ache, a homesickness for his faith as it seeps away. Then he starts reading the hymn book, singing in his head. Oh let us thanks to God give, Jesus died so we may live. The phrase is one that’s always comforted him, but today he thinks of another interpretation. It’s obvious. Grief makes us live more deeply. Knowing we will die makes sense of life.
But Jesus died for our sins? Now that was a harder nut to crack. He used to be able to imagine a specific human being called Jesus. That he existed once, he still believes, but right this minute, Henry’s Jesus is not very spiritual at all. If he was not the Son of God, who was he? Maybe just a poor bastard who happened to be born in the right place at the right time, and then about thirty years later, be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe it just grew out of proportion then. Famous because he was famous, like the Mona Lisa. Or Shakespeare, who Henry secretly suspects is overrated to the point of no return. But if Jesus wasn’t the son of God, it certainly wasn’t his fault millions burdened him with the weight of that role. Talk about pressure. What if he was just a decent bloke? Said a few offhand philosophical remarks, did a few casual kindnesses that snowballed. Maybe he just had a knack for sounding clever, and happened to be born with charisma in a town full of ugly people.
If I Touched the Earth Page 8