“Wilton.”
“I was kind of hoping you had a Scottish name like McGregor or McDonald. Something with a bit of clan heritage and blood curdling history to make your toes curl.” Saffron faked a sad face.
“I’m sorry I’m unable to make your toes curl, my father’s from Edinburgh and ever so Anglo-Saxon.” Bull giggled,
“I’m sure you could make my toes curl, Saffron.” Bull was melting in her presence.
Saffron peered up at the dark skies, lit up by the flashing lights of passing drones, and through a gap in the clouds she saw a lone star, but it didn’t twinkle like other stars. Eventually, she realised it was one of the Prophylaxis spy satellites, under construction in space, reflecting light from the sun on the other side of the planet. She thought about the talk of curfews to deal with the recent terrorist attacks and wondered how long the freedoms, like the one she was currently enjoying, would last. The Government issued statements, designed to dampen fears, that if curfews were introduced, it would be a temporary measure, but Saffron understood the nature of government – if they created a circus of fear they could justify every action as a reaction, she thought. They watched the last SkyTran circle the city and then speed off back to the airport. It began to rain.
“Think I missed my last ride home. I blame you!” said Bull.
“Looks like you’re staying with me then?” said Saffron. She turned to Bull and inspected his shoulder length hair. She said,
“What brings you to Glasgow, Faerrleah?”
“The Clyde flood barrier.”
“It’s a beautiful piece of architecture but…” Bull burst out laughing.
“No, I didn’t come here to look at it. I’m not a tourist, I work there.” Saffron drew her eyes up and down his enormous body and said,
“Do they get you to turn the big wheel that opens and shuts the gates, like a big troll? Oh, you poor thing, that’s so cruel!”
“That’s why they call me Bull.”
“Well, I’ll call you Faerrleah.”
Saffron took Bull by the hand and they ran like two excited school children down towards the Merchant City and stumbled towards Saffron’s flat. They spent the night smoking weed, drinking tea and making love. In the morning, Bull lay naked with his head resting on Saffron’s breasts. He savoured the moment, breathing in her natural scent and sampling her pheromones. He relished the feel of her long hair, strewn along his back, like a warming blanket. His eyes probed her naked body. Her skin was like white marble, reminding him of a statue of Aphrodite: Venus de Milo, but with arms, he thought. He reached down with outstretched fingers, under the sheets towards her pubic mound. Saffron broke the spell. She turned away and said,
“Let’s go and get some breakfast. Then we can go for a walk on the Necropolis. I just need to visit the cludgie first.” Her voice sounded raspy under the weight of Bull’s head, which she peeled from her chest. She disappeared into the toilet like a rabbit flashing its tail before bolting down a burrow and the vision of Saffron’s naked posterior was engrained into his memory forever.
“What’s the Necropolis?” shouted Bull.
“We passed it last night. It’s the city of the dead!” shouted Saffron from the bathroom. Bull’s eyebrows narrowed in confusion. He wondered if he’d met a necromancer who now wanted to introduce him to her parents.
They took breakfast at a local café on the High Street. It was still early in the morning when they entered the Necropolis. The previous night’s rain had made the ragwort and sedges glisten in the warm morning sunshine, and the air was filled by the sweet smell of hawthorn bloom as they trailed the pathway that snakes upward towards the summit of the grey rock. Bull noticed that although most of the large tombs were still preserved, many of the smaller gravestones were toppled over and overgrown with mulberry bushes and knotweed. Obelisks, stone angels without wings and statues with badly eroded faces lined their ascent. Bull studied some graffiti scrawled across a tomb – you’re a long time dead. He felt an uncomfortable wave of energy wash over his body. He took Saffron’s hand and squeezed it. Saffron said,
“Do you know there are over fifty thousand bodies buried here?”
Bull smiled awkwardly and replied,
“That’ll be why they call it the city of the dead then.”
The chattering song of a magpie pierced the background drone of traffic. Saffron saluted the bird and greeting it with a good morning. She pinched Bull’s ribs.
“What is that for?” he asked. Saffron giggled like a school girl,
“Its bad luck to see a magpie on its own. So if you don’t salute it, talk to it and pinch the person you are with, misfortune comes your way.”
“Do you believe that? Or is it an old wives tale?” Bull rubbed his side where he had been nipped. He watched as another magpie hopped from behind a gravestone to join its compatriot.
“It’s a superstition but some people think it brings good fortune.”
“Do you believe in good fortune or do you think you make your own?”
“I think you can set the ground work by creating balance and harmony. Its amazing what you can achieve when you channel all your positive energy.” Bull eyebrows narrowed. He said,
“We used to have a rhyme at school: One for sorrow, two for joy. That’s all I remember I’m afraid.” Saffron told him of the Chinese fable about a cowherd boy and a fairy weaver girl who become separated by the stars, but on the seventh day of the seventh month the magpies flock to form a bridge so they could meet and be together.
“That’s a very romantic notion and I will remember that the next time I see one scavenging around a bin looking for scraps,” said Bull.
“It’s not their fault,” laughed Saffron. “Magpies are like urban foxes, pigeons and seagulls - they are all creatures who have learned to evolve. They are nature’s true adapters and live off our waste – we could learn a thing or two from them.”
“Who, me? Take lessons from a pigeon? It’s a mad concept but I’ll give it a go, but not seagulls, I hate seagulls – a seagull stole my burger once, then to add insult to injury, swooped back to crap on my head.”
Playfully, Saffron pushed Bull, but she was unable to move him. She persisted in trying to make him budge but he stood like one of the towering statues, absorbing her efforts as the magpies looked on.
Later, they went on, stumbling through the long grass and wild flowers. Saffron told Bull that she felt the Necropolis was her oasis, stationed within the heart of Glasgow. Over hundreds of years, the city appeared to have grown around it, leaving it preserved. She told him she would go there early in the morning or before dark, when it was empty, to clear her head and meditate. Bull told her that when he felt down, he would go to the wild animal sanctuary at the Botanic Gardens and talk to the timber wolves.
“The last time the park keeper asked me to move on. Apparently I was making the wolves feel uneasy.”
They came to the top of the Necropolis and stared across the city. Bull pulled Saffron tighter towards him. Words piled up inside him like vehicles in a road crash. He wanted to express his feelings about last night in gushing terms, but he found it impossible to utter anything coherent or meaningful. He chose to remain silent and wait for the right moment, if it arrived to express his emotions. He said,
“Who’s that fella up there pointing over the city?”
“John Knox, he’s a kind of controversial figure up here. He was a religious reformer – he wrote a book called, The first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of women, so I wouldn’t say he’s one of my historical heroes, but I suppose he is to some folk.”
“Not a feminist then?” Saffron took Bull by the hand, leading him to a bench. Bull sat down while Saffron remained standing.
“There’s loads of people buried in this graveyard,” she said, “some great, some not so great. He’s just one of them but he gets the best view. One night, a few of us from school came up here and put a traffic cone on his head. Pathetic I kno
w but we were young and we wanted to make a statement.”
Bull fumbled tried to light a cigarette in the wind. He watched Saffron, her hair blowing in the breeze and holding onto the bench with both hands for fear she would be propelled to the ground. She reminded him of a figurehead on a Spanish galleon. When she turned her head to face him, she noticed his packet of cigarettes.
“You smoke branded products?” she asked, scalding him with an unyielding look. Bull’s face was warped with deep consternation. He could feel her eyes inspecting him with cold disapproval. Bull reined in the emergence of a childhood stutter. He said,
“They’re not mine. I’m holding them for a friend who is trying to give up.” Remorsefully, Bull lowered his condemned head to the ground. Saffron reached inside her bag and offered him a small pouch.
“Have you ever tried rolling your own? The tobacco is from a working cooperative in Venezuela.”
Saffron gestured to the panoramic urban landscape tumbling into the distance in front of them. She said,
“It’s funny to think that the city was full of tenements and factories burning coal and factories. The sky would have been black with smoke. They closed all the factories and bulldozed the tenements and called it progress. Now the skies are filled with brown traffic smog. You’re from Manchester so you’ll know what I mean.” Bull was about to correct her mistake and remind her he was from Salford, but he was enjoying listening to her talking so allowed her faux pas.
“Do you ever wonder how we became enslaved by technology?” continued Saffron. “We have been convinced by a compliant media that greed can be justified and industrialists, who care nothing for the planet or the exploitation of its people, are best placed to lead us.”
“Of course, but what can one person do on their own?”
“There are organisations you can join – what about the GM.” Saffron looked at Bull’s Green Covenanters wrist band. Bull smiled and said,
“I don’t look good in sandals, but listening to you is bringing out the radical side of me. Don’t you feel like sticking it to the state and the corporations?” Saffron’s eyes were wide, gazing off into the distance and then she said with a sigh,
“I’m not always banging on about stuff like this. The Necropolis always gets me thinking. Do you know that before this hill was a graveyard, it was a rallying point for what they called The Scottish Insurrection? Thousands came here to demonstrate for labour reform and equality. They came to meet up with workers from England and they were going to march on a steel works, but Government agents infiltrated the group and the leaders were tricked and later hanged. They were what society would call radical and they paid for their beliefs with their lives.” Bull contemplated the panoramic view and with a laugh he said,
“You sound a bit like my dad, Saffron. Thank Christ you don’t look like him.”
Saffron returned Bull’s smile and sat down beside him on the bench. She took the papers and tobacco from his hands, expertly rolled a cigarette, lit it and then passed it back to him. Bull coughed hard, his chest rasping with the smoke.
“Are you sure these are good for you? My chest feels like I’ve spent the night kissing a vacuum cleaner.” Saffron grimaced and said,
“That’s a nice image to put in my mind.” Bull coughed,
“Sorry. I’ve got a savage hangover. I’m not my usual charming self.”
“So what do you do Faerrleah? What’s your thing?”
“You found me out last night, remember? I’m the beast that pushes the wheel that lifts the gates on the Clyde barrier.” Bull laughed. He looked to the west and the Clyde Gateway where the last tidal surge engulfed the Barrier. “Poor bastards,” he said, “all their homes and possessions destroyed in one night.” He stubbed his cigarette out. Saffron kissed him gently on his cheek and as if being woken from a spell, the grave expression on his face faded.
“I can see now why this is a special place for you.” Bull contemplated her dark penetrating eyes like an infatuated schoolboy.
Later, they stopped outside St Enoch underground station. The Glasgow rain was now in full pelt so they put on their ponchos. Bull ranted about every subject that came to mind in an effort to delay the inevitable parting of company, but the moment came and their separation was ended by a kiss. Bull watched her disappear down the subway escalator, but before he turned to leave Saffron reappeared. She extended her hand and passed Bull a note with her details written on it. Saffron finally left him. Bull looked down at the note. He smiled and then a strange feeling churned in his stomach.
The following week Bull took a taxi from his narrowboat at Maryhill Locks to George Square, stopping off for a drive-through breakfast en route. It wasn’t strictly in accordance with the specifications in Saffron’s letter, but lately there was something about uncompromising instructions that brought out a defiant streak in him. As he stepped out of the taxi he noticed a group of people standing close to the Cenotaph where Saffron had arranged to meet him. As he approached, one of them stood forward, a young woman, and said if he insisted on eating his mortified flesh, could he do it where they didn’t have to be subjected to the smell of it. He was determined not to allow anyone to spoil his first official date with Saffron. Bull stared her in the face and defiantly bit into his hamburger, sending a spout of ketchup towards her shoes.
He turned his back on the muttering group. One of them shouted, “lying arse-hole!” This made him smirk until he turned and realised they were shouting abuse at a news bulletin beaming from the City Chambers. “Shame on you,” shouted another at the image of the news presenter, “put your tits away!” Bull ignored the emergency announcement: reports on another terrorist attack, the continuing energy crisis and recession could wait; nothing would be allowed to spoil his day. He stood motionless, planning his day with Saffron – he imagined walking to the Botanic gardens or even over the Necropolis once more – it didn’t really matter where, as long as they were together. He envisaged them taking lunch at the Cathedral House Inn or visiting the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, going for dinner and waking up in each others arms back at his narrowboat. He couldn't wait to show her around the narrowboat.
When Saffron arrived in her camper van she jumped out and waved with a beaming smile. Bull waved back and turning to the group said,
“I'd love to stay and chat but I'm meeting a beautiful young woman, so laters.” To his astonishment the group approached Saffron and one by one they hugged her. Saffron walked up to Bull and kissed him on the cheek. She said,
“I hope you don’t mind that our second meeting is going to be attending an anti-vivisectionist rally outside an Ayrshire laboratory?” Bull’s face dropped.
“Well, our first day together was spent in a graveyard so you have form. What are we protesting about?”
“They’re testing a new synthetically engineered virus on apes. Are you sure you are alright. You don’t have to come, I could meet you later?” Bull watched the bodies file pass him and into the van. He whispered,
“It would have been nice to have prior warning.”
“I’m sorry, but you know how it is with state surveillance. That’s why I sent a mail drone with a letter and not an email.”
“That’s not what I mean Saffron.” Bull unzipped his jacket. He was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of an ape emblazoned on his chest. Below it were the words, The Pixies and Monkey gone to Heaven. .” Saffron offered him a bewildered look. “Pixies?” she asked.
“They were a rock band from long time ago, I have very old fashioned tastes in music. I didn’t have it specially designed, honestly. I didn’t even know I was going to an anti-vivisection rally,” pleaded Bull. Saffron shook her head whilst curling her top lip, pretending to be disappointed. Then she laughed before hugging him intensely. “You and your t-shirts Faerrleah.” Saffron got back into the drivers seat and turning to her friends she said,
“This is Bull? He’s going to join us at the protest today. I’ve got a good feeling you’re all going to
love him. He’s got a great sense of humour.” The group mumbled incoherently.
When they arrived at the laboratory, the anti-vivisection protest was already underway. Bull picked up a banner and watched in silence while Saffron and the crowd chanted slogans and hurled bananas at two scientists as they left their workplace. The police attempted to disband the protest – peacefully at first, then the batons were withdrawn and a sonic boom cannon was deployed. The crowd dispersed but not before a splinter group, wearing ear protectors and balaclavas, hurled petrol bombs at the police line. At that point they retreated to a nearby pub. Saffron's friends were discussing the possibility that the balaclava wearing anarchists were indeed the ELF. Saffron asked them to lower their voices and updated them on how her social media campaign was progressing. It was at that point, the landlord of the pub asked them to leave. As they walked out the door one protester called him a fascist and skilfully flicked a pickled onion at his head.
At the end of the day, they retired to Bull’s narrowboat at Maryhill Locks. Bull likened the week spent in bed to John Lennon and Yoko Ono's 1969 Bed-In protest in at the Hilton Hotel, Amsterdam but without the cameras which he stated was a relief considering the amount weed they smoked and sex they had. After a further week together, they took a train to Cheshire to visit Bull’s brother. Patrick was attempting to fix one of his children’s bikes in the workshop while Saffron wandered off to inspect the flowers in the garden. Patrick could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“So this girl Saffron, who is currently walking around my garden picking my flowers, is moving in with you? Just like that? But even worse, to celebrate your impetuous decision, you visited a local pet shop and bought a cloned diamond backed terrapin?”
“His name is Boris. It’s brilliant isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not brilliant. Can’t you see it’s just all a prelude to having children?” Patrick pointed out to the garden. “She’s testing you. Look at her, she’s at that, it’s now or never age. Check out those hips. They’re ripe for having babies. She wants to see if you’re a capable father, and when the baby arrives, the pets have to go. They’re no longer Boris the tortoise, it’s a disease ridden flea bag. Don’t do it man. Take the tortoise back to the shop and tell them they should be ashamed of themselves for trying to trick you into marriage and fatherhood, but I can see by the look on your big gormless face that I’m wasting my breath. Love has an amazing ability to , make the protagonist deaf. What’s happened to you recently? You don’t seem yourself. Are you in some sort of trouble? One day you up sticks and move to Cheltenham and now you’re in Scotland working on a flood prevention scheme.”
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 4