The Big Chill

by Doug Johnstone

  30

  HANNAH

  Dr Gilchrist was animated for a physics lecturer, at least compared to some of the dullards Hannah had endured. He was talking about the solar atmosphere – the photosphere, chromosphere and corona – and the solar wind, the high energy, charged plasma that escaped the sun’s gravity at hundreds of kilometres per second. Hannah roughly understood but this wasn’t one of her courses, she was here because she wanted to see what kind of man he was.

  Because this was Edward, Hugh Fowler’s lover for three decades. He was in his later fifties, maybe, and Hannah did the maths in her head. He would’ve been late twenties when he first got together with Hugh, who would’ve been around fifty back then. And they’d stuck together all that time, according to Hugh’s wife. Wendy said an open marriage, did that mean open to other people too? Would an old man with an old wife and a middle-aged boyfriend restrict himself to that? Wendy said they were beyond physical stuff these days, but maybe she was speaking for herself, maybe it wasn’t the case for Hugh, and surely not for Edward.

  He was tall and handsome, full head of brown hair, no sign of grey. He looked fit in his button-down blue shirt and jeans. He was enervated as he talked to second years about the solar wind interacting with planets. On Earth we’re protected by the magnetic field, the charged particles are deflected leading to auroras and electrical storms. But on a planet with no magnetic field like Venus, the solar wind stripped the atmosphere away. So much about the universe seemed lucky. If certain physical constants had different values, Earth would be uninhabitable, or the whole universe wouldn’t exist the way it does. That seemed arbitrary and unfair, we’re all lucky to be here at all.

  Why end it? That’s what Hannah couldn’t stand, that Hugh just killed himself for no reason. Of course there could be a hundred reasons. Depression, mental health, physical problems, emotional ones. Guilt, blackmail, self-loathing. We’re all a mystery to others and ourselves.

  Edward finished up and the students filtered out. This lecture theatre was two doors down from the one she fainted in, but the shimmer and buzz of the overhead lights and air conditioning were the same.

  ‘Dr Gilchrist,’ she said, standing up.

  He looked up from his leather bag, pushed his glasses up his nose.

  Hannah tried to imagine him and Hugh having sex, lying in bed gently stroking each other’s cocks. Or maybe just holding hands.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Hugh Fowler,’ she said.

  He came up the stairs, smiled when he reached her. Hannah saw deep-set lines around his brown eyes, across his forehead. He looked a little older up close.

  ‘You’re Hannah,’ he said, putting out his hand. ‘Hugh talked about you.’

  Hugh’s widow said the same thing. What was Hannah’s role in this?

  ‘Really?’

  Edward was taken aback by her tone. ‘He liked you very much. Said you were an intelligent young woman.’

  ‘He hardly knew me. And I hardly knew him, apparently.’

  Edward nodded. ‘You’ve spoken to Wendy.’

  ‘Can you explain your set-up to me?’

  Edward’s face fell. ‘I miss him so much.’

  Hannah shifted her weight. ‘When I spoke to Wendy she didn’t seem all that bothered that he’d committed suicide.’

  Edward touched the frame of his glasses. ‘“Succumbed”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s more sensitive to say he “succumbed” to suicide, rather than “committed”. We commit crimes but succumb to illness.’

  Hannah was annoyed she’d been called out, even more annoyed he was right. She hadn’t considered the terminology before and her cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be.’

  ‘I just need to understand.’

  Edward waved around the empty lecture theatre. ‘There’s so much we don’t understand.’

  ‘About the universe. But what about here?’ Hannah tapped at her chest. ‘Surely we need to understand each other?’

  Tears formed in Edward’s eyes. He reached for a handkerchief and dabbed, blew his nose. He gradually recovered, touched his glasses again, a nervous habit.

  ‘I first met Hugh thirty-two years ago.’ He gave Hannah a look. ‘Before you were even born. Which makes me feel incredibly old.’

  Hannah tried to imagine Edward and Hugh as younger men, flirting with each other at a faculty do, shy looks over warm wine in plastic cups.

  Edward’s eyes were still glassy with tears. ‘We woke something in each other. It was remarkable. I’d always known I was gay on some level, but it was buried deep. I was married when we met.’

  ‘Not anymore?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I was so unfair to Helen. I mean, I loved her, I truly did, but not in the way she ever wanted. I thought if I just kept on something would change, but of course it didn’t. None of it was her fault. That’s my one regret, that I had to hurt her to be true to myself.’

  ‘So your wife left you but Hugh’s wife didn’t leave him?’

  Edward looked around the room as if the answer might appear on the whiteboard. ‘Hugh’s situation was different, he was bisexual. And his relationship with Wendy was very different to Helen’s and mine.’

  ‘So you were happy to share him?’

  ‘To begin with, happy would be overstating it,’ Edward said, running a hand through his hair. ‘But Hugh made it very clear where he stood. I can’t say he ever gave me the wrong idea.’

  ‘You never wanted more, you never wanted him for yourself?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘That wasn’t an option.’

  ‘And that was enough for both of you?’

  Edward looked confused. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I just wonder how open Hugh’s marriage was. If he had a relationship with you, maybe he had other relationships.’

  Hannah felt a draught as the door to the lecture theatre opened. A student poked his head in, looked round, left. The interruption burst the bubble around them.

  ‘Why do you need to know any of this?’ Edward said.

  Hannah went into her bag and pulled out the medal. It seemed to throb with brightness in her fist. She held it up.

  ‘This has to mean something, he was holding it when he died.’

  Edward frowned and took it. ‘Why do you have it?’

  ‘And the acid,’ Hannah said, ignoring the question. ‘It’s a crazy way to kill yourself.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Where did he get it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘And the whole Schrödinger’s cat thing.’

  ‘What?’

  Hannah chewed her cheek. ‘It’s the same acid Schrödinger used in his thought experiment. That’s not a coincidence.’

  ‘It must be.’

  Hannah was surprised to feel tears coming. She swallowed. ‘We talked about quantum immortality, quantum suicide. I think he was trying to tell me he was going to do it.’

  ‘Why would he tell you, not me or Wendy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Edward pushed his glasses up his nose again, and Hannah wanted to grab those glasses and crush them underfoot.

  ‘We don’t always get answers,’ Edward said. ‘The scientific life has taught me that.’

  Hannah put her hand out and he gave her the medal.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ she said heading for the door. ‘It’s just not good enough.’

  31

  DOROTHY

  Dorothy closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, felt the warmth. She thought about something Hannah told her about cosmic rays, how thousands of neutrinos passed through our bodies every second. She imagined those particles tearing through her bones and organs and into the earth.

  She opened her eyes. Middle Meadow Walk was busy as always, cyclists and skateboarders, tourists and students, young mums and pensioners. She realised she fell into the l
atter category and was surprised all over again to be a seventy-year-old widow in Scotland. She pictured herself as a seventeen-year-old high school student in Pismo Beach, skipping classes to hang at the beach or grab a milkshake in the diner. Those two people seemed completely unrelated.

  ‘Always the sun worshipper.’

  She smiled as Thomas leaned in for a hug then sat. She’d arrived first so tea and pastries were on her. She poured him a cup.

  ‘I’m confused,’ Thomas said, removing his sunglasses. ‘I thought you found the girl.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s some good detective work, by the way.’

  She bowed her head at the compliment. ‘But I told her I’d find her father.’

  Thomas nodded and added milk to his tea. ‘Are you sure that was the only reason she ran away?’

  ‘You mean something at home?’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘I think so. I know stepdads are supposed to be evil paedophiles, but he seemed genuine when I spoke to him.’

  ‘Well, the police don’t have anything on him.’

  Dorothy nodded. ‘That’s good. And Sandra?’

  ‘Nothing to report.’

  ‘She did seem odd when I spoke to her,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Odd how?’

  ‘I don’t think she was telling me the whole truth about Abi’s dad.’

  Thomas picked up a Danish pastry and pulled off a chunk. ‘I might be able to help you on that front.’

  Dorothy raised her eyebrows and Thomas smiled. She had a sudden urge to lean over the table and kiss him, just to feel a man’s lips against hers for the first time in months. She imagined touching his arm, his chest under his shirt. But he was so much younger than her, still with a life ahead of him.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  Thomas sipped tea and sat forward. A skateboarder rattled past heading uphill, pushing hard. Thomas waited until the noise died down.

  ‘The flat doesn’t belong to Neil Williams. In fact, I couldn’t find anything on him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not on the police info network. But I dug a little deeper, he’s not on the electoral roll for that area either.’

  ‘So he hasn’t been in trouble with the police, he doesn’t own the flat or vote, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘You said he travels a lot?’

  ‘That’s what Sandra told me.’

  ‘I got one of our guys to check online, nothing.’

  ‘So?’

  Thomas ran his tongue around his teeth. ‘That might not seem weird to people of our vintage, but it’s strange for someone who works in sales.’

  ‘OK.’ Dorothy took a bite of a small, sweet thing she’d ordered at random. ‘What else?’

  ‘The car,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s owned by a company called CTL, Creative Talent Limited.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘All sorts of things. They’re entertainment promoters, they run a bunch of things during the Fringe. Also corporate events. And provide “bespoke creative logistics”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Thomas shrugged and took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table.

  ‘The info is there, along with details on the flat.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s owned by a property company, rented out.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘You’ll need to ask the owners.’ Thomas tapped the paper. ‘It’s all there.’

  Dorothy touched his hand and took the paper.

  ‘So I’ve got a dad who doesn’t exist, a promotions company and a flat rental. Not exactly smashing the case, are we?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘I suppose I’m the private investigator.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  They both drank tea, Thomas poured some more. Dorothy watched the steam rise from the cups.

  ‘So,’ Thomas said. ‘I heard about Craig’s case coming to court.’

  Dorothy took a deep breath. This thing with Abi was a useful distraction from that, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. ‘First thing tomorrow in the High Court.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘Pretty sick, to be honest.’

  Dorothy’s hand went to her neck as she remembered Craig’s hands on her throat. The bruising was long gone but she pictured her windpipe being squeezed and felt her breath catch. She reached for her tea but her trembling hand fumbled the cup and it clanked in the saucer, spilled onto the table. Thomas took her hands in his and squeezed. Dorothy felt a jolt of energy up her arms, was warmed by his smile as they locked eyes.

  ‘You’re strong,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t feel it.’

  ‘You are.’

  It was like he made it true by saying it. She squeezed his hand and decided.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ she said, eyes darting to their hands on the table.

  Thomas didn’t speak, waited.

  ‘When this is all over, I wondered…’

  She didn’t know how to finish. He didn’t interrupt.

  She looked up again, held his gaze. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go out with me. On a date.’

  The kindness on his face, the smile in his eyes. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  32

  JENNY

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Jenny said.

  Liam made a face like she’d insulted him. ‘Don’t be daft, I’m here for you.’

  He reached over and touched her hand on the scuffed wooden table. Saint Giles Café was a narrow space, exposed brick and distressed wooden beams, mustard walls in between, a blackboard of expensive specials. Everything was expensive in the city centre, twenty yards from the Royal Mile, but tourists still paid. Jenny looked out of the window down the street, saw the terrorist prevention gates, curved concrete blocks across the road. Except the central swing-gate was open, so in you come, terrorists, blow up the cathedral across the road, plough into the spread of visitors staring in the whisky-shop window. Please run over the jugglers and buskers.

  Jenny breathed deeply and felt Liam squeeze her hand.

  ‘You didn’t sign up for this,’ she said.

  ‘I did.’

  Maybe he did. He asked her out in the aftermath of Craig’s violence, so he knew what he was getting into. She hated the way Craig got under her skin when she had this handsome, considerate man who wanted to be with her, and who had his own fucked-up backstory to deal with.

  ‘Where are Hannah and your mum?’ Liam said.

  She checked her phone. ‘On their way.’

  She’d wanted to get here early. She looked across the road at the High Court. The front entrance was round the corner on Lawnmarket, the famous David Hume statue outside, his toe rubbed smooth for luck. How did that get started? Same with Greyfriars Bobby’s nose, that wasn’t a thing when she was young, now tourists risked death under the forty-two bus by standing in the road to get a picture of their friends touching the statue.

  From here she had a perfect view of the side entrance to the High Court. Thomas told her that was where the accused were brought under police guard. It was important to see Craig being delivered. She didn’t want to think about the psychology behind that. She’d been drinking black coffee for an hour so she was jittery as she waited for him to appear in handcuffs with a distraught look on his face, full of remorse or anger or hatred or she wasn’t sure what she wanted him to look like, just that she wanted to see him debased.

  She was ashamed of that impulse. At least she recognised it was shameful, that was something, but she was still here. Her life was out of control, she needed someone to blame and Craig fit the bill. But she’d chosen him, fell in love with him back in the day, laughed with him and fucked him and made Hannah together, what did that say about her? The truth was her life had never felt under cont
rol. She scoffed at meditation and mindfulness, poured scorn on her daughter’s generation for going to therapy and talking about their feelings, but deep down she knew she needed something like that. But she was petrified what a therapist might find in the darkness of her soul. She was terrified it was just ugliness all the way to her core, a mess of contradictory bullshit that somehow coalesced into a human being. She thought about her mum, with her yoga and meditation, decades before they were popular, so grounded because of it. She wondered how the hell she could get a piece of that.

  She looked at Liam and wanted so bad for him to be the anchor to keep her steady, but then she thought of Craig with his hands around Mel’s throat, pushing the knife into Jenny’s belly, smiling at her from across the prison table.

  What a fucking mess this was. It was worse for Hannah, which also filled Jenny with shame, she’d failed to protect her daughter from that evil bastard. She wondered how Hannah was coping. Her daughter didn’t talk about the counselling sessions and Jenny was too afraid to ask. Now this business with the physics professor, Jenny couldn’t get her head round it. They saw dead bodies at the funeral home every day, but discovering a suicide was different. That was personal, and it seemed like a message. Or maybe it was nothing. But Jenny understood Hannah’s need to solve it. Resolution was missing from their lives at the moment. Another reason she was here with Liam, hammering espressos and waiting for the prison van.

  A Japanese family in matching rain macs walked past heading to the Royal Mile. A Tesco delivery van stopped down the street. It seemed amazing that ordinary people still lived amongst the tartan tat of central Edinburgh. She presumed they’d owned the flat for generations, no ordinary people could afford to live here now.

  Jenny turned to Liam and he smiled.

  ‘This place used to be called Café Florentine,’ he said. ‘Did you ever come here?’

  Jenny smiled. Liam was a few years younger than her but they kept discovering that they’d spent time in the same haunts, known the same people, gone to the same clubs and bars and gigs. As if the universe was trying to get them together for decades, finally hooking them up in middle age. There was something comforting about that but it was bittersweet too, time and energy wasted with the wrong people in the wrong situations.