‘I used to have ideals,’ said Graeme, ignoring his wife and daughter. ‘Still do, I suppose. Like you, I wanted to be a lawyer. Like you, I thought that it would be a secure career. Like you, I wanted to do something worthwhile.’
‘He became a lawyer anyway,’ said Suzie and cackled.
Her father continued to ignore her. ‘The choice I had to make was the same choice that you have to make. Inevitably, Lorna, it all comes down to choice.’
‘And what choice did you make?’ she asked.
‘I chose corporate law.’ He sipped from his wine glass. ‘Not, perhaps, the best choice for a young man with his heart set on making the world a better place. But at the time I couldn’t think of anything better.’ He put down his wine glass then smiled round the table. ‘I still don’t think it was a bad choice.’
Nobody was going to doubt him. He was a somebody in the Edinburgh legal world, with flattering profiles in the broadsheet newspapers, and had driven fancy cars since Lorna was old enough to tell the difference between a Vauxhall and a Ferrari. He exuded authority – was someone to be respected, to be trusted. ‘It’s also the reason we sent Susan to school here in North Berwick and not to some expensive school in Edinburgh. To give her a sense of what everybody’s life is like.’
Lorna thought about this. ‘I always thought you were a fascist.’
‘Forthright, as ever.’
‘Well, maybe not a fascist, but you know what I mean.’
He inclined his head. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
Lorna opened and closed her mouth several times. ‘OK, I want to do something useful with my life. What that something is, I don’t know. I just don’t want to end up doing something that I’ll regret. But, maybe, yes, I am a pinko leftie, whatever that means. Sorry,’ she added, ‘you’re probably not a real fascist.’
‘You could do worse than choose what I chose.’
‘I wouldn’t fit in.’
He laughed. ‘The world, Lorna, isn’t full of little people and big people. The world is just full of people ... in my experience, mostly good people. You could, of course, specialise in defence. But, and I say this honestly, few of the clients truly require the services of a lawyer. Most require other things, like drug rehabilitation, which they rarely get. On the other hand, most good people work for companies who provide them with salaries and pensions. Corporate law is about making those companies succeed, so it is also about helping people.’
There was a small silence. ‘Jesus Christ, Dad!’ said Suzie. ‘Do you actually believe that bullshit?’
Even her father laughed. He again lifted his glass, watched red wine swirl in the subdued light. ‘OK, you want to do something useful with your law degree ... charitable stuff, right?’
‘I just don’t want work for fat businessmen and tell them how to get fatter.’
‘If it helps, we also represent some of Scotland’s largest charities. Mostly for peanuts, sometimes for free. I’ve always believed in that side of things. Social responsibility, Lorna. Giving something back to those less fortunate. We’re also involved in the administration of aid to Rwanda, among other places.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘If you wanted, I could have a word with Toby Redmarsh. Do you know him?’ Lorna shook her head. ‘Nice fellow. I’m playing golf with him at the weekend. You may not have heard, but he’s taking over from me at Wilsons. I’ve decided to call it a day. Time to retire.’
‘Retire?’ said Lorna, prevaricating. ‘You’re barely out of short trousers.’
Although Lorna had never heard of Toby Redmarsh, the gilded name of Wilson, MacGraw & Hamilton needed no such introduction. Discreet to the point of invisibility, its clients owned Scotland and large chunks elsewhere. This was a firm that had no need to chase business; clients aspired to be represented by Wilson, MacGraw & Hamilton. It was everything she’d always stood against; a caste of privilege stretching back centuries. And yet she’d always liked Graeme and his easy charm, and the silver sports car she could glimpse through the kitchen window.
‘Anyway, they wouldn’t want me,’ said Lorna. ‘Not posh enough.’
‘Don’t be silly. They want talent.’
‘Didn’t go to the right school.’
‘Neither did Suzie ... Really, Lorna, it doesn’t matter, not these days.’ Graeme Bryce was smiling. ‘But you do, in your free-thinking sort of way, kind of believe in capitalism?’
‘Not unbridled, greedy capitalism, no.’
‘But in bridled, un-greedy capitalism?’
‘Look, Graeme, a firm like Wilson’s wants posh and talent,’ she persisted. ‘Listen to me! My accent! I can’t even speak proper English.’
‘Sorry,’ interrupted Suzie, ‘but did anyone understand what this bumpkin actually said? Anyway,’ she now added, turning to her father, ‘unlike you, she has real principles.’
* * *
Lunch extended into late afternoon, but without charades, and Lorna escaped uneasily back to Edinburgh. Usually the Bryces’ Boxing Day lunches were all about frivolity and exchanging stupid – and by unmentioned agreement – very cheap Christmas presents in bad taste. Lorna had given the Bryces a HappyMart box of seasonal chocolates with a smiling reindeer on the box; in return she’d been given a multi-pack of toilet tissue in a plastic container the size of a car engine that Suzie promised to bring with her to Edinburgh the next day. But this year had been different. Her conversation with Graeme had been an unnerving reminder that she had to start making decisions. It had all been very well studying to be a lawyer, and deciding to be a good lawyer, whatever that meant, and wanting to make a difference, even a small difference, but what did that actually mean? Joe came round and they finished a bottle of wine and watched an old black and white film on TV. She didn’t talk about her uneasiness; it was still Christmas, the season of goodwill. Reminded again how comfortable she felt in his company, they had no need to talk. They lay, curled together on the cigarette-burned sofa then went to bed. After making love, they slept: Lorna on her side, Joe behind her, one hand softly on her breast. In only a few weeks her life seemed to have turned on its axis. She hadn’t meant to find love, and maybe she hadn’t, but Joe seemed too perfect to throw back. Suzie was forever throwing back frogs; Joe was still a prince, much to her surprise. The wings on her back were tightly folded against his chest; she couldn’t have flown, even if she’d wanted to. He was breathing softly; the touch of it on her shoulder like a sea breeze. She hadn’t yet mentioned him to her parents; she didn’t want to frighten him. At times strong and wild, he didn’t look as if he wanted to be tamed. Joe had spent Christmas in Edinburgh with one of his flatmates, and Lorna had nearly invited him down to North Berwick. Tom’s room still had a bed in it, rarely used.
Towards dawn she felt Joe’s breath against her ear; felt his lips on her neck. She rose from dreamless sleep and turned over; felt his arms around her, pulling her close. She held to him dreamily; kissing him back.
Then she pushed him on his back and knelt over him, guiding him into her.
‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ he said.
‘Can’t it wait for a bit?’ she replied, eyes closed. At that moment, at the end of the night, she simply wanted to be wanted.
‘Simone called yesterday. She’s having a baby.’
‘Good for her.’
‘The thing is, Nico wants a big family get-together. You know what the Greeks are like about family.’
‘Joe, why not just make love to me?’
‘Fuck you, Lorna!’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she said.
Afterwards she opened the curtains and they lay and watched the dawn touch the city. ‘I’d quite like to go and visit her,’ said Joe. ‘You know, wet the baby’s head.’
‘You do that when they’re born.’ Her head was on his chest and she could feel his heart thumping, then slowing. ‘Anyway, when would this get-together actually happen?’
‘In a few weeks.’
‘But it’s the middle of winter!’
‘It’s also term-time, Joe.’
‘It’ll only be for a few days, Lorna. Anyway, you could take books and stuff with you. It’s why computers and email were invented.’
‘Then think of the expense, the plane tickets ...’
‘At this time of year, they’ll cost peanuts.’
‘Quite a few peanuts.’
He scratched his head then laid one arm across her back, tracing the contours of her spine with a finger. ‘Come on, Lorna, it’ll be a blast.’
She lay in his arms feeling safe, light thickening in the sky and, despite herself, made some mental calculations. Now she was a two-star supervisor, and had worked through the summer break, she’d got a bit of money saved and, strangely, the thought of taking time off no longer bothered her. She’d worked and worried all her life and, although her ambitions hadn’t changed, she now seemed able to accept other things into her life, even if she couldn’t yet discern principle from ambition. She wanted to tell Joe this, to try and explain it, but it was too early in the morning and his eyelids were closing. Maybe a holiday would do her good. The HappyMart and the University of Edinburgh could manage without her for a few days.
‘Why the hell not,’ she said.
Towers
It couldn’t be Heaven because, after her meeting with God, her headache had gone from bad to worse and all she could do was sit in the beach bar and stare out over a warm sea. On her face, a Greek sun; at her back, the place of her birth. Then in a moment the sea and sand disappeared and her body felt heavy. Weights seemed attached to every part of her, even to her eyelids. She tried to open them, but couldn’t. She was back in blackness, but not quite black. The darkness was shifting in interwoven columns, climbing upwards, becoming dispersed. Lorna looked up and, through darkness, could see the sky: flickers of blue amid mud grey. There seemed to be a noise like distant thunder and it echoed as if in an enclosed space. Then the smoke shifted again and she saw the same shattered houses that she’d seen before. There was smoke rising, figures hurrying, looking upwards. The same woman was at the centre of her screen, soundlessly wheeling, the small child in her arms. She was still unable to get anyone’s attention. Lorna had assumed it was some kind of suicide bombing in a place far, far away but suddenly she knew it wasn’t a suicide bombing. She’d remembered, because she’d seen it on the television news and in the newspapers. It was a stray bomb from a US jet that had hit an Iraqi village. Military commanders said it had been a mistake. Bad intelligence, said a general to a bank of microphones. He didn’t look contrite, preferring instead to talk about the fog of war and collateral damage. He had grey, cropped hair and an air of righteousness. He had a voice born of giving orders and on his tunic were rows of medals, suggesting that he sometimes got things right. Only at the end of his short statement did he remember to apologise for the loss of innocent life. Then the news report switched to the scene of the bombing, to smoke and dust and broken-open houses. A US soldier was cradling a rifle, pointing it at the camera, motioning the camera crew to back off. In the background were women dressed in black and a child in a bloodied T-shirt. At the time, Lorna had thought that mistake didn’t really cover it.
She thought back to the night she’d lost her virginity, the boys in the kitchen talking football and discussing David Beckham’s riches and, much later, of her voice raised in protest at a war in which she wanted no part, but which had happened anyway. Collateral damage. It was the first time she’d heard the expression, her blood boiling with its banality, and the truth lying in bloodied people, not the fog of war.
Her headache eased and she walked back to the High Street. There was blue sky above and she could hear water lapping onto the shore. The shops and cafés were deserted. Lorna helped herself to a copy of The Times from a rack and settled down in a pavement café, flipping pages. As with everything from Earth, it was all out of date. Before the beach party she’d turned on her TV, tuning into a soap opera she liked, only to be disappointed; signals from Earth took several months to reach Heaven and she’d seen the episode before, on another television in another kind of life. She supposed it was the same with newspapers. On the front page were the same faces from Iraq: another suicide attack, or maybe the same attack. Faces with blood, anguished faces telling of loss. Children had died; a mother was cradling a dead daughter. Lorna frowned, feeling nauseous, once more sensing that a fragment of torn memory was flapping, signalling for her attention.
She walked further up the High Street and paused beside a small shop selling exquisite watches, and on a whim she pushed open the door and went inside. Her attention was caught by a display case in which sat Mike’s watch and she reached inside and extracted it. It was heavy, like Mike, and had the same impressive range of dials to give you the time in Sydney or New York and the phases of the moon. But when she looked closely, the hour and minute hands were stuck solid to the watch’s casing. Like everything else, it was real, but it wasn’t. For a brief moment she felt a pang of affection for Mike. Despite his faults, he had made the HappyMart his universe and seemed content with it, and she was overcome by a sudden urge to phone him and apologise for not having been at work.
It was the same with the dress she’d chosen with Irene. Overnight it had gone from chic and exquisite to tatty, with poor stitching, a hem that was coming loose and a red stain down one side, barely noticeable, that could have been blood or tomato sauce. So too her diamond and emerald bracelet; it now appeared to be nothing more than moulded plastic, glittery and gaudy but capable of convincing the very young or terminally gullible.
She’d been told that she was a temporal anomaly: dead in one place, alive in another. But Lorna didn’t feel dead. She didn’t feel devastated by her death, because she could no longer believe she had died. Equally, she didn’t feel elated by continued life either. It was as if she had become two people, with different consciousnesses in different places; the real and nonsensical place in which she existed couldn’t be death, and she now sometimes heard intruding, familiar voices, as if there was talking in another room. Reality is subjective, Irene had said, lecturing her about toasters and giant mushrooms.
When she came out of the shop, Nico and another man were sitting at another pavement café, and they beckoned her over. Lorna saw that the other man was a young Omar Sharif double. Nico introduced him as a research supervisor.
‘I’m Asim,’ he said in an exotic accent.
They sat and drank coffee, until Nico announced that he had to get down to the beach and start cooking. Asim asked if she’d like to see where he worked and, as he seemed nice enough, she said yes. He led her off the High Street and into a maze of identical corridors, each one white and antiseptic. Then they turned a spotlessly white corner and were suddenly in countryside. They were in a huge and open place, with lush grass and woodland through which a small stream meandered and birds darted. Lorna watched a butterfly flit from flower to flower. It was a summer day, and Lorna felt a faint breeze touch her cheek.
‘God thought this place would be a good idea,’ said Asim. ‘Somewhere for the crew to go jogging, read books, or lie in the shade of an oak tree.’ He waved an arm at the trees and the rolling hills in the distance. ‘Turned out to be one of his less inspired ideas.’
They entered the woodland and had to cross a small stream on the way, Lorna slipping off a rock and getting her foot wet. She stopped and listened to birds’ calling, to the hiss of wind through branches. Asim was standing beside a blank wall, tapping one foot impatiently, and then pressed a blue button on the wall, a hidden door sliding open to reveal a large room with workstations neatly arrayed in long rows. At first glance it seemed no different from a call centre that Lorna had once visited, except that this one was empty.
‘This,’ he said, gesturing around the room, ‘is a research department devoted to collating material on Earth’s biodiversity.’ He sat her down behind a computer screen and showed
her how to tap into the datastream that Trinity was downloading from Earth’s own research computers. Each research report, he explained, had to be searched for key findings, and those findings cross-referenced with other reports. That way, said Asim, we build up a comprehensive picture of things like carbon emissions and climate change. By tapping into everything, he said, we can see the bigger picture.
‘But why do you work?’ asked Lorna.
He stroked his pencil moustache. ‘Originally, I was a hyperspace engineer. Back then, of course, our main engines hadn’t fallen off. After they did, I retrained as an astrophysicist. It might have helped us find out where we were. Then, once we’d given up on any hope of rescue, I retrained as a botanist. My speciality was orchids, if I remember, and I made several trips to Earth to identify each species and their habitats. There are still samples lying about somewhere, if you’d like to see them. Then, when God decided we’d done enough research, I retired.’
‘But you’re working now,’ she reminded him. On one cream-coloured wall were fixed a line of clocks, each giving the time in New York, Madrid, Bali, and London. All the clocks seemed to have stopped.
‘Well, some of us do, Lorna, although I did stay retired for a very long time. Then, quite recently, I decided that I needed some purpose to my life. I decided to come out of retirement and do something useful. If nothing else,’ he said, looking mournful, ‘it passes the time.’
‘Will you transfer to Earth?’ she asked.
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘But I don’t want to die.’
‘Neither did I,’ Lorna agreed.
For a few minutes she watched the datastream from Earth: one from the University of Bogota on the disappearing Amazon rainforest; another from Cologne University on the genome of the fruit-fly; and a third from a Japanese think-tank on the growing menace posed by the whale population. She frowned at this.
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