Surtsey looked at her bedside table hoping to see Hal’s hash pipe. She saw a glass of water and lunged for it, gulping it down, cold in her throat. She gasped as she finished it.
‘Ms Mackenzie?’
‘I don’t know about a plan. I don’t have a plan.’
‘Then you’ll need to organise a funeral director to come and collect your mum.’
‘You mean her body.’
‘Yes. If you don’t have a funeral director in mind I can recommend a local one.’
‘Who has a funeral director in mind?’
Silence.
Surtsey sighed. ‘I’m sorry, a recommendation would be good. But don’t we need to get the coroner or whatever first?’
‘When death isn’t suspicious there’s no need to contact the coroner or police. I’m registered to sign the death certificate and a funeral director takes care of the deceased’s body after that.’
‘What about cause of death?’
‘We know the cause of death,’ the nurse said. ‘As we have already discussed.’
‘So that’s it? Can I at least see her?’
‘Of course,’ the nurse said. ‘That was my next question. Would you like to see her here as she is, or later after the funeral director has prepared her?’
‘Prepared her how?’
‘It’s rather delicate.’
‘Try me.’
‘Bodies decompose and that process starts immediately. Your mother is fine right now, but we’re required by law to have her taken care of as soon as possible. If you want to come in and see her, it’s best to do it sooner rather than later.’
Surtsey pictured Iona sprawled across her bed, in a thick, booze-sodden sleep, oblivious to this wrecking ball through their lives.
‘OK,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll be round to see her as soon as possible.’
27
She stood outside Iona’s room staring at the door. The whitewash was peeling at the edges, the wood scuffed and chipped around the door handle. Who would repaint the door when it needed done? Surtsey ran a finger over one dent around head height, remembered throwing a trainer at her sister only to have the door slammed in the way. She touched the mark now, tried to remember what the trainer was like. Four large wooden letters were stuck to Iona’s door across the middle, fairy lights set into them, but the batteries had run out on the final ‘A’, leaving ‘ION’. A charged particle, quick to react. Surtsey tried to think of a joke about that.
She knocked. ‘Iona?’
Knocked again.
Nothing.
She pushed the door open. The place was a midden, stale booze and dope and sweat in the air.
Iona was out for the count, hair over her face, her arm flung over a naked guy on top of the bedclothes. His head was turned away but Surtsey could see a grey beard, a sinewy, weathered body, tight buttocks and a fat cock. Against his dark skin, Iona looked pale and beautiful.
‘Iona,’ Surtsey said.
Iona came to the surface slowly.
‘What time is it?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Fuck off.’ Iona put an arm across her face, covering her eyes.
Surtsey sighed. This was never going to come again, this moment when her sister didn’t know. Once Surtsey spoke, it was over.
‘Mum died, Iona.’
She expected protestation, disbelief, but maybe something in her voice got across.
Iona sat up, not bothering to cover herself. ‘What?’
‘The hospice just called.’
‘What happened?’
‘She died in her sleep last night. It’s over.’
Iona rubbed her head. ‘No, that’s not right.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But you saw her yesterday.’
Surtsey stood feeling awkward, trying not to look at the naked man still asleep.
Iona breathed deeply. ‘This is just…’
‘Put something on and come downstairs.’
‘Fuck, this isn’t happening.’
‘I’m sorry.’
A look of clarity on Iona’s face when she heard that. She looked at Surtsey, something terrible in her eyes.
‘Me too,’ she said.
The guy in bed rolled over, still sleeping, and Surtsey recognised him without his glasses. Bastian.
‘What the fuck?’ she said.
She stared at him for a moment, then looked at Iona.
‘You’re fucking this guy?’
‘So what?’
‘He’s the leader of those New Thule morons.’
Iona frowned. ‘So what?’
Surtsey shoved at Bastian’s chest, hard. ‘Hey.’
He stirred and took a second to come to.
Surtsey turned to her sister. ‘I honestly can’t fucking believe you.’
She spoke to Bastian, who was putting his glasses on.
‘You get the fuck out of my house,’ she said. ‘And stay away from my little sister.’
28
They scurried along the prom, sharp easterly taking the edge off the thin sunshine. A woman threw a ball along the shoreline for her Labrador, some old guy doing tai chi facing out to sea. The Inch had a wreath of white cloud around its base, like bubbles in a bath. The sun would burn that off or the wind would blow it away, and the island would soon be exposed.
Iona ran her hands through her hair, fluffing it backwards and forwards.
Surtsey pictured her sister underneath Bastian, grunting and groaning as he thrust away, then they both climaxed, but the faces got mixed up and it was her and Tom going at it on the Inch. She remembered Tom’s phone, the messages last night. They seemed irrelevant now.
Iona lagged behind, out of breath. Surtsey concentrated on the air in and out of her lungs.
Iona stopped.
‘Come on,’ Surtsey said.
A defiant look. ‘Let’s just take a fucking minute, shall we?’
‘I said we’d be there as soon as possible.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘So?’
‘What’s the rush? She’s not going anywhere.’
Surtsey breathed deeply and looked out to sea. She couldn’t see Berwick Law in this visibility or the Paps of Fife across the water. She could just make out an oil tanker smudging the horizon.
‘She’s going off,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The nurse told me. They need to get her refrigerated.’
‘Christ.’ Iona put a hand out.
Surtsey realised she was crying, shoulders shaking, heaving breath, snot from her nose right there on the prom as a woman went past pushing a double buggy. She imagined Louise walking along the prom with Surtsey and Iona at that age, coping with the handful, happy in the moment, enjoying the sunshine and the wind and the fact that they were all alive and healthy and the only concern was when they would need a sleep or a nappy change, if they might throw a tantrum over not getting a sweetie or having to eat some fruit, or something even more stupid like not having the right shoes on, the red ones not the pink ones, despite the fact the pink ones didn’t fit any more, hurt her feet, gave her blisters and pinched at her toes.
She felt her sister’s arms around her and let herself be held.
‘I’m getting snot on your shoulder,’ she said eventually, laughing through it.
‘I’ve had worse. Some guy puked on my shoes last night at closing time.’
Surtsey pulled back and looked in Iona’s eyes.
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Iona said. ‘Just keep going, I guess.’
Surtsey swallowed hard, wiped at her eyes and nose.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s all there is to it.’
29
They spoke to Effie at reception who came round and gave both girls a hug, then took them in a different direction to Louise’s bedroom.
‘Where are we going?’ Surtsey said.
‘They moved her,’ Effie
said.
‘Why?’
‘It’s just what they do.’
They turned left then went through a passageway to the back of the building. Effie stopped at a door.
‘Your mum’s in here,’ she said, touching Surtsey’s arm. ‘Take as long as you need.’
She left them to it. Surtsey watched her walk away.
‘Why did they move her?’ Iona said. ‘Do they need the bed already?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Maybe they don’t want to scare the other inmates, avoid the Grim Reaper’s touch.’
‘Iona, please.’
The air was colder here, overhead vents leaking air.
Surtsey stared at the ceiling grid for a moment.
‘Are you ready?’ she said.
‘Fuck no.’
Surtsey touched Iona’s face. She could still smell the vodka on her breath, her hair greasy at the roots. Last night’s make-up was smudged in the corners of her eyes.
Surtsey pushed the door open. The air was colder in here, two lamps casting delicate light on to the ceiling. Louise was neatly tucked into a bed in the middle of the room, three cheaply upholstered chairs alongside.
It was obvious straight away she was gone. The skin of her face was waxy and pale, a grey tinge to the lips.
Surtsey struggled to swallow.
With just her head and arms showing, Louise looked like she was being consumed by the bed, sucked down into a soft underworld of sheets and pillows.
There was nothing after this, no heaven or hell, no afterlife, just silence. Louise had believed that with all her heart and Surtsey did too. Religion was false comfort in the face of oblivion, a respite against our own insignificance. But being free from that was comforting in its own way. If you weren’t waiting for the afterlife you could concentrate on living.
Did her mum do that? Do any of us? It’s handy for eulogies, a beautiful lie, but really we all just stumble along from one day to the next without dying or harming others, without too much embarrassment or awkwardness, without confronting anything too shocking. Something from a play at school came to her. ‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on’.
Her mum didn’t look happy or sad or relieved or anything. Just dead. Gone.
Iona touched her mum’s hand and jerked away.
‘Christ, she’s cold.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘It’s just freaky, that’s all.’
Surtsey reached out and placed the back of her fingers against her mum’s hand. She moved her hand to Louise’s cheek.
They stood in silence.
Goosebumps rose on Surtsey’s arms from the air con. Of course, keeping the body cool to reduce decomposition. So matter of fact, the logistics of death.
‘Do you want to say anything?’ Surtsey said eventually.
‘Like what?’
Surtsey shrugged. She had no clue how to do this. ‘I don’t know.’
She turned to the body, took the cold hand in hers, gripped it. She felt her sister staring at her as she took a deep breath and spoke.
‘What do we do now, Mum?’ She slackened her grip, touched the bedsheets then spoke again, this time under her breath. ‘What do we do now?’
*
They scuffed over the floor tiles, Iona trailing a finger along the wall. Surtsey wanted this to mean something, to connect with her sister. But we can’t ever know someone else’s mind, we can’t even guess what others are thinking. We certainly can’t make them feel what we want them to.
She wondered what Louise had thought of them. Did she think she’d been a success as a mother?
Effie was out of her seat before they reached reception, her head tilted in sympathy.
‘You girls OK?’
Iona shook her head, making it clear the question was meaningless.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Surtsey said.
‘Nurse Steel says she’s sorry she couldn’t be here to meet you,’ Effie said.
Surtsey had to think hard who that was. The woman on the phone.
‘She’ll be in touch about all the paperwork,’ Effie said.
‘Paperwork?’ Iona said, as if Effie had mentioned aliens.
‘Just a few forms, nothing to worry about.’
‘Thanks for everything, Effie,’ Surtsey said.
Effie smiled and went back behind the reception desk, then held up a rucksack. It was Louise’s, a sturdy hillwalking thing she used for fieldwork for years. They’d used it to bring Louise’s clothes and other belongings when she first came here. So here it was again, now they were leaving.
‘All her stuff’s in there,’ Effie said. She lowered her voice. ‘I made sure they washed the clothes she was in.’
Iona stared at her. ‘Why?’
Effie looked awkward. ‘It’s just better.’
The body soiled itself, Surtsey realised, once the heart gave up.
‘Thanks.’
She lifted the rucksack onto her shoulder, enjoyed the weight of it on her back, and headed for the door with Iona.
‘You girls take care,’ Effie said as the door closed behind them.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Iona said.
30
Surtsey sat on the wall outside the Espy staring at the sea. The rowing club were out again, half a dozen of them dipping their oars in unison, heading east towards Fisherrow in Musselburgh. She pictured the water spraying on their hunched over backs, the tang of the air in their nostrils. She wanted to be out there, not anchored to the earth. Further along the beach a couple of swimmers in wetsuits were splashing out to the marker buoys. Surtsey tried to imagine the shock of the cold water on her skin, the ache in her limbs.
Iona appeared beside her waving a bottle of tequila. ‘Come on.’
She jumped down onto the sand and strode towards the water.
‘Did you just lift that from the pub?’ Surtsey said, wiping the sand from her bum and following.
‘They won’t miss it.’
‘They will.’
Iona broke the seal on the bottle. ‘So what?’
They walked alongside the old groyne, barnacles on the wrinkled wood, pools of water where the support struts disappeared into the sand. Surtsey saw a crab scuttling into the shadows, and wondered what other life lurked down there.
The tide was halfway in, the end of the groyne underwater. They stopped at the edge of the dry sand and plonked themselves down. Iona had already taken a couple of swigs from the bottle. She wiped the top on her sleeve and passed it to Surtsey who drank, screwed her eyes shut as the burn spread from her chest like she’d been struck by lightning.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘That’s the good stuff. They’re definitely going to miss that.’
She passed it back.
Out at sea the rowers were struggling into a headwind while the swimmers had rounded the buoy and were heading west to the next marker.
‘Why did you get the call?’ Iona said.
‘What?’
‘Why did the hospice phone you?’
‘I’m the emergency contact.’
‘Who decided that?’
‘Mum.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know.’ Iona gulped tequila like water.
‘Come on, don’t do this now.’
Iona passed the bottle. ‘Don’t do what?’
Surtsey took it and drank. ‘Please.’
Iona sighed. The wind threw a skim of grains scurrying over the surface of the sand. Two oystercatchers were snooping about the little craters left by razor clams under the surface. Further along, a toddler in just a nappy was challenging the incoming waves, slapping forward over the wet sand as the tide receded, giggling and running back to her mum as the water came rushing in again. Chase me, chase me.
Surtsey tried to remember being that age. She must’ve done the same thing as a wee kid but she couldn’t remember. She’d seen plenty of pictures, beach photos of the three of them having
a picnic or barbecue, building terrible sandcastles that fell apart, palming a beach ball to each other. She wondered if she remembered these things or if she had constructed memories from the photographs.
The toddler fell to her knees, got straight up, unconcerned about her sandy legs. Time compressed to nothing in Surtsey’s mind, in the blink of an eye from a kid playing in the sand to a woman with no mother.
Iona took the bottle from her and drank.
‘What was the last thing you said to her?’ she said.
Surtsey blew out air, felt heartburn from the tequila.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Try harder,’ Iona said.
‘Why does it matter?’
‘It’s important.’
Surtsey shook her head. ‘You want some profound sign-off, an epiphany, is that it?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s bullshit,’ Surtsey said. ‘Arguing about whether a window should be open or not, or the strength of the tea in a café, that’s life. That’s just as important as last words, or life advice or whatever you think you need.’
‘So you don’t remember?’
Surtsey sighed. ‘Probably just “goodbye” or “sleep well” or “see you tomorrow”.’
The last words stuck in her throat as she took the bottle.
Iona closed her eyes and touched her forehead. ‘I called her a bitch.’
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘She was having a go at me about the pub job. Wanted me to fulfil my potential.’ Her voice made quote marks around the phrase.
‘She’s got a point.’
‘She was using her illness, guilt-tripping me. I told her to shut the fuck up.’
Surtsey handed the bottle back. They sat in silence for a moment. ‘That’s my point. It doesn’t matter what we said or what she said. She was our mum, she loved us, we loved her. That’s it.’
The rowing club were almost out of sight to the east, just a blip on the water. Closer by, the swimmers were trudging out of the shallows like monsters from the deep, walking heavily. The toddler had found a stick and was tracing shapes in the sand, a slice of apple in her other hand. Her mum was watching closely.
Surtsey looked at her sister. ‘How the hell did you end up fucking that Bastian guy?’
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