“You were all already at risk. I’m sorry I lied to the family. I’m sorry I lied to her. I should have told her but I was afraid of losing her. It’s a big fucking mess. I wish I could explain to her how I feel.”
“Fuck how she feels Faerrleah. It’s one thing lying to her but you’ve dragged the family into it because you sold secrets to...”
“I didn’t try to sell secrets Patrick. I came across something unethical, something morally reprehensible. I had to do something.” Patrick huffed. He wiped raindrops from his head and said,
“Well my brolly is well and truly fucked, that much is certain. These old things are hard to come by.”
“I’ll get you a new one on eBay, I promise.”
“So everything has been a big lie and you think she might have found out? She lives in a twilight world, on the fringes of society, but we have jobs and livelihoods that could be ruined if the secret service seeks to punish you in some way. Is sabotaging drilling activities and disclosing it to your brother in a Glasgow beer garden part of the contract? I hope you are right, for all our sakes.”
Bull looked around the rain sodden beer garden to make sure nobody was listening. Finally, he said,
“The strangest thing, it started off as a lie, but I started to believe in what she believes. She’s converted me.” Patrick looked at the green covenanter bracelet on his brother’s wrist. He said,
“Is she an eco-terrorist? Is she one of these ELF’s?” Bull’s eyes flashed. He shook his head, saying,
“No, she’s totally opposed to violence. I can’t for life of me comprehend why she would be of interest to the Government anyway. As far as I could see into her life, she’s just a hedge monkey. She was like a door - the way in to their world, that’s all. I got connected with the GM through her contacts and it was they who got me the engineering job in the Arctic.” Patrick took a deep breath and said,
“It’s like what Mam used to say, if you tell a lie you need to tell another to cover it up then another lie to cover that one.”
“Dad used to say, why tell the truth when a lie may fit, but I think he was just winding me up.”
“So what are you going to do – resign?”
“It doesn’t work like that. I wish it did.” Patrick looked at his watch and then said,
“To be honest I don’t know what to say. It’s a big fucking mess – this situation with the line of work you are in.”
Bull clutched his empty beer tankard, gazing at the distorted image of his sodden boots through the dimpled glass. Patrick said,
“Look, I need to go. I’m going to be late for my meeting and I haven’t bought a respirator yet. I hate the city life!”
“Here, you can borrow mine, I won’t need it.” Bull passed him his respirator. Patrick stared at him critically and then he took a call on his Shackle. Finally, he said,
“That was work. The meeting has been cancelled. Apparently the riot has spread to the city centre and they are evacuating staff.”
“Do you need a place to stay?” said Bull, “There’s plenty of room at mine.” Patrick downed the last of his whisky and said,
“I’m going to head back to Cheshire and make sure the kids are safe. Will you be alright? Get out of the rain, you'll get pneumonia again.”
“Oh, you know me, I’ll get by.”
“You always do Faerrleah, nothing seems to get you, not pneumonia, meningitis or even falling three storeys from a building and nearly braking every bone in your body. You always get back up, you're a survivor. Laters brother.”
“Yeah, laters.”
Patrick patted his brother on the back and left him sitting alone in the rain. By late afternoon Bull was drunk. He left the pub and staggered back along the cycle path to the narrowboat at Maryhill Locks. In the distance, he saw a girl with long black hair cycling on the moorings. He ran towards the bridge and then down the stairs and stood, blocking her way. As she drew closer he realised it wasn’t Saffron. The girl drew him a strange look then threatened him with a mace spray, if he didn’t step out of her way. When she passed, he stood in silence for a while and then returned home, banging his head on the companionway as he descended through the hatch door. He searched the narrowboat room by room, desperately hoping that Saffron had returned. She hadn’t.
Chapter 12: The road to redemption
2036. 9 months earlier
The following day, Bull sat on a tombstone recalling his first visit to the Necropolis. Later he climbed to the summit and stopped at the bench where he and Saffron would sit and talk. He lit a cigarette and stared over the city. On the ground he lost count of the blue flashing lights from emergency service vehicles, but his gaze centred to the east where military drones circled a tower block which was engulfed in flames. A distant scream sent a shiver down his spine. He wondered if it was an urban fox or a woman in distress. He sat down on the damp wooden seat, out of breath from the uphill walk and watched a child and her father struggle with a kite in the robust wind. Considering the unfolding carnage in the background, it was a strange image, he thought.
He stretched out his hand and touched the rough, weathered wood of the bench. A magpie hopped out from behind a tombstone. He saluted the bird. Seeing it felt like reacquainting with an old friend. Like him, it was alone. He remembered the time when he watched Saffron holding onto the bench, facing the city, her hair blowing in the wind. He remembered thinking at the time that she was the embodiment of everything he felt was perfect in a woman. He considered her feminine compassion, her respect for every living creature on the planet, the strength and resolve she showed against injustice. He missed her peculiar sense of humour. He missed her silly quips and nonsensical stories. Suddenly, he began to feel foolish. He conjured up the pathetic image in his mind where he was Greyfriar’s Bobby: the Skye terrier who spent year after year pining for his master and guarding his grave until the end of his days. Bull turned away in repugnance.
He drew deeply on his cigarette and leaned back. He examined a wasp stripping a few layers of wood from the bench. He pondered on the point of wasps; they contributed little or nothing to the world and most thought of them as parasites. To him they were merely an annoyance. During late summer they got drunk on fermenting fruit and would attack people, unprovoked, he thought. Then Bull considered that if Saffron had been there, she would have pointed out the irony that the same things could be said about mankind. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of gunfire. It was getting dark and the curfew would soon be in place.
On the way home he stopped off at a hot food wagon outside the St Mungo’s Arms. He was buying some handmade crepes when a young woman’s voice distracted him from behind.
“Faerrleah, is that you Faerrleah? It’s me.”
Bull’s heart stopped and his guts churned. His eyes tried to focus on the approaching form. Aisha stepped out of the shadow. “Aisha. Saffron’s friend? How’s yersel? Don’t you remember me? We met in George Square before setting off for the anti-vivisection protest in Ayrshire. You spilt ketchup on my sannies.” Bull blushed, remembering the incident, she kissed him on the cheek. Bull said,
“I think you might have got your revenge when you repainted my narrowboat.” Aisha laughed,
“That was all Saffron’s idea, Faerrleah. She gets the credit for that one. Hey, I was scunnered when a heard about you and Saffron breaking up. You two made a lovely couple. She wouldn’t say why things ended and I didn’t want to ask. So what are you doing with yersel?” Bull feigned a smile.
“Oh, drinking myself to death, watching Swedish movies, playing Solitaire. You know the usual stuff.”
“That’s great.”
“I thought you were in Venice?”
“Rome actually. It’s heavy man. Most of the protest groups were hoachin with Filters and the polis were giving it laldy to every covenanter on the streets. I had to come home and what do I find?” Bull’s face contorted in confusion, and then he said, “More laldy?”
“You guessed
it, loads mare laldy. What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m not sure but the cities aren’t safe.” Aisha reached up and put both hands on Bull’s shoulders. Bull took the opportunity to smell her. Her odour was very different from Saffron's. It was masked by a strong perfume or deodorant, but not something he was familiar with. Not noticing his indiscretion, she said,
“Ye canny run fae it ya big fud, the world has taking a maddy. Folk are being flooded out their homes, they're starving and they’ve had enough.” Aisha smiled and then said, “You’ll be alright in your narrowboat for a while. You don’t care if the lecky goes off again, you generate your own energy, collect and filter your own water.”
“I’m selling the Wagamamma mafia, Aisha. I’m moving away.” Aisha grinned and said,
“You mean the Wangari Muta Maathai. That’s a shame. Look, I have to shoot the craw, I’m getting another tattoo removed at that new drop in laser clinic down on Sauchiehall Street, but it’s been pure dead brilliant seeing you again. Here’s my number fur a wee chat when I’m no so busy. Maybe I’ll come roon sometime and say goodbye, before ye go?”
“Cushdy.” Aisha hugged Bull before retreating back into the shadow. Bull stood like an immoveable piece of urban sculpture until the sound of police sirens brought him out of his trance.
The following day, Bull took a train to Manchester. He found his sister and father in the pub. Bull sat with Deirdre and watched his father play Muggins with some other old men at the far side of the bar. Deirdre explained why their father had turned down Patrick’s offer to have the family home professionally redecorated. She said,
“He likes the place left the way Mam had it, before she died. I know its gaudy and those paintings from the Lowry art gallery are hideous, but it all reminds him of her.” Bull nodded his head in agreement. He offered no verbal response. Deirdre continued, “Patrick says it’s not healthy. He thinks he’s effectively living in a museum dedicated to her memory.” Deirdre stopped and slapped Bull on the shoulder,
“Are you listening?” Bull turned his head nonchalantly.
“How is Patrick?”
“He’s coping. That cold hearted bitch of a wife took off with a traveller. I never had her pegged as the neo-hippie type. He said he had seen it coming but I’m not so sure. You know Patrick, you never know what he’s thinking, not really anyway.” Patrick could finally empathise with my own misery, thought Bull. At last, they had something in common. Deirdre continued,
“It’s been nearly thirty years now. Dad needs to move on. What do you think Faerrleah?” Bull was lost in his own thoughts.
“What did you say? Deirdre drew Bull a sharp look of disbelief. Bull suddenly felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t hold Deirdre’s disapproving eyes. Bull said,
“I was watching that game of dominoes over there, looks like Dad’s going to punch someone.” Deirdre took a sharp intake of breath.
“Leave it out, you were thinking about Saffron. I can tell. You have that doleful, pathetic look on your face again, like a drowning kitten in a bag. There are more important things going on in life Faerrleah, but you’re too busy staring at your feet to notice. You’ve got to snap out of this melancholic hole you’ve dug yourself into or life is going to pass you by. Is that what you really want? Others need you, like Dad, Patrick and me, so give yourself a shake. She’s gone Faerrleah and she’s not coming back. All the mourning and drinking in the world won’t change a thing. It’s like when Mam died, we had to get on with things. It was hard at first but we got on with our lives. I’ve said my piece now and I’m sorry if I sound heartless, but there it is.”
Bull sat motionless, still staring at the old men arguing over their game of dominoes. His father returned to the table. He sat down and tasted his beer, acknowledging old acquaintances as they passed by on their way to the bar.
“What’s up with him?” asked Bull’s father turning to Deirdre.
“Since he broke up with Saffron, he’s been acting like a soppy martyr.” Bull’s father took a gulp of beer and responded by mentioning the harrowing plight of the Tolpuddle Martyrs and their fight for a trade union. Bull turned to Deirdre with a bewildered look on his face. Their father continued to ramble on. Bull said,
“Do you know all I have to remember Mam?” said Bull clutching a silver chain around his neck, “this medallion of Saint Jude that she gave me: the patron saint of lost causes.” Deirdre sighed and turned her head away towards the old men arguing over their game of dominoes. Raised voices came from the far side of the bar. A fight was breaking out within the circle of pensioners. Bull finished his drink and stood up to leave. “Where are you going?” asked Deirdre, a hint of compassion returning to her voice.
“I’ve got a train to catch,” muttered Bull.
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to the house to pick up a few things and then I’m catching a train back to Glasgow.”
“I thought you were working in Greenland building igloos or something?”
“Iceland actually, but you need snow to make an igloo.”
“I know Faerrleah. Fuck me, where’s that famous sense of humour gone? What are you doing now?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“So, as usual, it’s a secret.” Deirdre beat Bull to his standard response, “It’s complicated. If I told you, I would have to kill you.” Bull jokingly drew his finger across his neck. He smiled and said,
“I’ve got a job interview for the Royal Coast Guard.”
“For someone who hates water, you tend to spend a lot of time surrounded by it?” Bull protested,
“I do like water. I don’t know where you get that idea from.”
“I remember you screaming when Dad threw you into a rock pool. You said you had nearly drowned in a rock pool the last time you were at the beach, and that you had been cut off by the tide, but you were talking shite, because that was the first time the old man had ever taken us to the beach. We wondered if you had been reincarnated.”
“I remember, but this job is more to do with marine technology and new engines. I won’t be anywhere near a rock pool.”
“Is it the uniform? Do you think girls like a man in uniform coming to save them?” said Deirdre in a teasing voice.
“I wouldn’t be saving anyone, I just need a change of scenery.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Nothing like that. I just need to get my head together. I’ll stop off soon. I just need to pick up my birth certificate and a few documents.” Bull’s father turned his head. His expression was stern, a look normally reserved for his pub board games. He said,
“What documents?”
“The audiologists report on whether your cochlear implants are working effectively, but they seem to be fine, right Dad?” Bull’s father turned to Deirdre and said,
“What’s he talking about love?” Deirdre huffed,
“He’s talking about your hearing dad, don’t mind him, he’s just in a foul mood.”
“Smart arse,” growled Bull’s father, “what’s he doing here anyway? What does he want?” Deirdre turned to her brother and said,
“He wants to know why you are here…” Bull said,
“I know what he said Deirdre. I’m not the one with the hearing aid.” Deirdre took Bull’s hand as he moved towards the pub door and said,
“Faerrleah, she isn’t worth this, no one is.”
As Bull left the Squealing Pig an old man flew passed him, out through the doors and into the rain. Bull helped him up and he re-entered the building. Bull could see his father grappling with one of his friends as Deirdre tried to restore order. He continued on his journey to the family home. Across the street he saw two young boys, their faces partly concealed by oilskin hoods. One of the boys walked while the other rode a bike. The boy on foot took out a knife and as he passed Bull, scored a deep gash along the side of a SUV parked outside the pub. Bull winced at the sound of the stainless steel blade scraping against the metal car. His imm
ediate reaction was to scold the boys, but he thought that since the climatic tipping point was reached, a large, petrol guzzling 4x4 vehicle was a prime target for a new worldwide wave of eco-vandalism.
He didn’t condone their methods but he could understand their anger and sense of grievance. After all, the poorest and most vulnerable in society were suffering for the excesses of the more wealthy. They had very few opportunities in life, no prospects and they were angry young men, looking for a target to strike out at, he thought. The energy crisis, the changing environment and the floods were to blame. The government established food banks to provide, what they championed, as a basic requirement of three square meals per day, but as global food prices climbed exponentially, the Minister for Food Aid announced that it couldn’t guarantee that vital level of subsidy anymore. Many had turned to the black market to supply additional luxury items which created a network of powerful criminals who fought the law and each other to maintain their status. He, like others, had ignored it, it was something you watched unfold on a documentary or a news bulletin, now it was at his doorstep and it seemed so real.
He thought of the stalemate between the Green Movement and most of the governments of the world, who had claimed that mass unemployment and spiralling poverty was the fault of environmental reforms, coming too thick and too fast. Saffron was right, thought Bull: they were all puppet governments and represented the rich and powerful, not the people. Politicians hired themselves out to the corporations, and it was they who worked the strings of government to their own advantage. Democracy was merely a mask, slipping from the face of modern civilisation. The corporations controlled the media, and used it to frighten workers into believing their jobs were being threatened by radical left wing environmentalists. Many believed them, but when flooding made them homeless, food prices rose and medicines became the preserve of the rich, panic began to descend amongst the populace. The flood barriers went up over the world but not all could afford to live behind it. Capitalism could offer no solution.
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