The Big Chill

by Doug Johnstone

  She realised she’d stopped talking. Dorothy and Hannah looked at her, all of them sharing a moment of quiet before the next piece of shit came flying at them.

  50

  HANNAH

  Hannah guided the front of the gurney, fingertips on the edge of the open coffin, as Indy pushed it from the embalming room to the front of the house. They pushed Hugh into the viewing room to the right of reception then lined the gurney alongside the plinth in the middle of the room. Indy fiddled underneath, raising the gurney to the same level as the plinth, then on a count of three they slid the casket over. Hannah felt her biceps strain with the weight.

  Indy slid the gurney against the wall and checked Hugh over, tightening his tie, smoothing the lapels of his dark suit. She ran a hand round the inside of the coffin, flattening the lining where it had ruffled up, then straightened Hugh’s feet which had splayed in transit.

  Hannah watched with admiration, her girlfriend’s composure, attention to detail, compassion for someone she’d never met. Just three of the reasons Hannah loved her to bits. Making it all the more painful that Hannah had been lashing out at her, making everyone in her world feel as messed up as she was.

  She took Indy’s hand and placed her lips against it.

  Indy looked weirded out. ‘I’m not the queen.’

  ‘You’re my queen.’

  Indy mimed puking into her mouth. ‘Please.’

  Silence for a moment, a shared sad smile.

  ‘I want to say I’m sorry,’ Hannah said.

  Indy squeezed her hand. ‘OK.’

  That old song passed through Hannah’s head, about love meaning never having to say you’re sorry. What a load of rubbish. Imagine a relationship where neither person ever said they were sorry, that would be the most disastrous marriage in history. She knew what the song intended, that two people are so close they read each other’s thoughts, but it’s still a load of crap. Sometimes you have to express clearly what you’ve done wrong and how you feel about it.

  ‘I’ve been crazy,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ve taken it out on you. I think because you’re the one great thing in my life. Like, I wanted to mess that up too so I could revel in misery. Or maybe because you’re so strong I thought you could take it, put up with my shit forever. I’m sorry, I’ve been a total bitch.’

  Indy took her hand away and gave Hannah a look.

  Hannah swallowed. ‘This is where you say I haven’t been a bitch at all and you love me and forgive me.’

  Indy sighed and ran her finger along the edge of Hugh’s casket. ‘I love you to bits, Han, you know that.’

  Hannah felt her cheeks flush. ‘I notice you didn’t mention the bitch thing and the forgiveness.’ Her voice faltered on the last word.

  Indy shook her head. ‘You’ve been a total bitch, but you’re my bitch.’

  She was trying to defuse, deflect Hannah’s honesty, and Hannah loved her for that.

  Hannah nodded. ‘Were you serious the other day?’

  Indy frowned.

  Hannah looked at Hugh then at her own hands resting on the coffin. ‘About leaving me.’

  ‘I never said I would leave you.’

  ‘You said it was possible.’

  Hannah kept her head down, eyes wet, worried that a tear would drop onto Hugh’s suit. She felt Indy take her hand across the chasm of the casket.

  ‘You don’t know what you’ve got,’ Indy said.

  Hannah looked up.

  Indy looked around the room. ‘A mum and gran who would do anything for you. Me. A whole world out there that needs you in it. Yet you focus on the bad stuff all the time. Hugh is dead, your dad has escaped. So what? You still have to live.’

  Hannah felt tears now, leaned back so they wouldn’t fall into the coffin.

  Indy shook her head. ‘My dad was the same, always catastrophising, worrying the worst would happen. It drove my mum nuts. During good times he would be terrified they wouldn’t last. My mum tried to get him to enjoy himself, live in the moment.’

  Indy was squeezing Hannah’s hand too tight. Hannah stared at her.

  ‘I remember once on a walk along Porty beach he was so distant. Mum and I did cartwheels and the sand squeezed between my fingers and the water lapped on the shore and terns swooped over the waves. He couldn’t enjoy it.’

  She cleared her throat, straightened her neck.

  ‘Then the worst did happen, out of the fucking blue. So what difference did it make, all his pointless stress? It didn’t mean anything, he wasted his life.’

  Hannah’s breath was ragged as she pulled her hand away and wiped her tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Indy walked round the coffin, shaking her head. ‘Just don’t waste your life, Han.’

  Hannah went for a hug, squeezed Indy’s waist, buried her face in her shoulder, smelt Indy’s shampoo and cocoa butter skin cream. It felt like home. She pulled away, a soft kiss on the lips turning into something more meaningful, a kiss of apology and acceptance and love and devotion.

  Eventually they separated, still holding hands, and Hannah turned to Hugh in the coffin. She wondered what he would’ve made of two young women snogging over his body, but she thought he wouldn’t have cared.

  She’d been back to see Wendy, partly to say she had no luck finding the mystery caller, partly to find out more about Hugh’s life. For a terrifying moment Hannah thought Wendy was going to ask her to do the eulogy, but she already had a humanist celebrant lined up, an old friend. But she wanted to talk about Hugh, to tell Hannah about her husband’s life. It helped that Hannah didn’t know him well, so everything was fresh, and Wendy revelled in it.

  The hiking in Greenland. More than once coming across a polar bear, scaring it off with a pistol. Eating raw seal with the Inuit, the northern lights, dancing and fizzing like spirits of the dead. Meeting Stephen Hawking early in his career. And more mundane stuff, he would have fresh flowers on the dining table every week. Their thousands of little running jokes and connections, their huge open-house parties every Halloween, loads of friends’ children running around high on sugar and adrenaline, Hugh presiding over it with quiet grace, smiling in the corner of the kitchen, happy to have brought people together.

  And in two hours he would be ashes. Wendy had agreed with Edward, the pair of them would take those ashes and scatter them at a remote settlement called Ittoqqortoormiit on the northeast edge of Greenland, where he proposed to her. So he could be at peace with the dancing sky spirits.

  She wanted to shake him awake, ask why he killed himself, why poison, what did it mean? But maybe it didn’t mean anything, just like nothing meant anything in the scheme of things. The universe will end in a few hundred billion years in a last gasp of nothingness, the big chill, and all of this will be forgotten.

  Her phone rang in her pocket and she felt a flurry of shame, as if the noise might wake Hugh, make him sit up in the casket.

  Unknown number.

  She swallowed hard, hands unsteady.

  Indy looked worried. ‘Han?’

  Hannah stared at the phone then at Indy. ‘It’s him.’

  Indy’s eyes widened. ‘He wouldn’t.’

  Hannah ran her tongue around her teeth. ‘He would.’

  ‘Don’t answer.’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘The longer he’s on the line, the more accurately they can track the phone.’

  ‘I don’t think you should speak to him.’

  Hannah gripped the phone, stared at the throbbing call symbol like a heart ready to burst.

  ‘Maybe it’s not him,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s just a scammer.’

  The phone was still ringing. How long until it went to voicemail?

  She pressed answer.

  ‘Hannah, wait,’ Craig said down the line, as if they were in the middle of a conversation.

  Hannah swallowed.

  Indy touched the small of her back. It was meant to be reassuring but Hannah imagined Indy shoving her into the coffin on top of Hugh’s corpse.<
br />
  ‘Just wait a minute,’ Craig said.

  He sounded exasperated, as if he had been wronged. He was breathing hard like he’d been exercising.

  Hannah’s heart hammered in her chest, pounding to get out. She bit down on her tongue to stop herself speaking.

  ‘Han?’ Doubt in Craig’s voice.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Hannah said. ‘You told me to wait.’

  ‘OK, OK. Look.’

  She stared at Hugh, eyes closed in the casket, the smell of embalming fluid and the mustiness of his suit.

  ‘This is all a big mistake,’ Craig said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Believe what, exactly?’

  Indy was on her phone, presumably calling Jenny or Thomas, someone who could track Craig’s phone.

  ‘I never meant for any of this,’ Craig said.

  ‘And yet here we are.’

  ‘I’m still your dad.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘No matter what.’

  It was true, there was no getting away from it.

  ‘OK, Dad.’ She couldn’t stop the scathing tone. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you call?’

  Silence down the line, Hannah sensed hesitation.

  ‘To talk to my little girl, of course.’

  It didn’t ring true, he hadn’t referred to her as his little girl since the divorce a decade ago, she was too jaded, too switched-on to ever see Craig with the eyes of an innocent daughter after that.

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘I just wanted to hear your voice.’

  ‘Well here I am.’

  Indy finished her call, gave Hannah the thumbs up, someone was tracing this. They were on their way to break down his door, throw him back in prison.

  ‘I’m not a bad man.’

  Bile rose in Hannah’s throat, she thought she might be sick over poor Hugh.

  ‘Have you hurt Liam?’ she said.

  She couldn’t help it, couldn’t let the delusion continue.

  Silence. Too long.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  This was so deadpan it was a joke.

  ‘I think you do.’

  Hannah’s hand was shaking, the phone hot against her ear, the smell of the lilies by Hugh’s coffin tickling her nostrils.

  ‘I have to go,’ Craig said.

  The line went dead and Hannah stood there pressing the phone against her ear, trying not to cry.

  51

  DOROTHY

  She walked down Sylvan Place, the cold air making her eyes water, cherry blossom drifting along the gutters, ambulances lined up outside Sick Kids. She had Einstein on a lead. It was a pain in the ass looking after a dog at her age but maybe the exercise would keep her from dying anytime soon, and he was a good-natured soul. He clearly missed his owner to begin with, but that had lessened as the days went on. It helped that he had a houseful of women looking after him, plenty of dog treats. She thought about James Dundas, wondered if Jenny would find his family.

  She stopped outside Abi’s front door, waited a long time trying to picture what would happen. She remembered persuading Abi to come home and wondered what kind of home Abi could have now. She sighed and rang the bell. An elderly couple walked past with a basset hound, which yelped at Einstein. Einstein cowered behind Dorothy’s legs and she wondered if the dog was over James after all. Maybe life on the streets made him skittish, or maybe James abused him. She’d painted this picture of a saintly young man down on his luck but an addict’s life is destructive, homelessness is hard, it was easy to slide into abuse, taking it out on those around you.

  The door opened and Abi stood in grey pyjama shorts and a loose LCD Soundsystem T-shirt. Dorothy’s heart sank. This was a school day, she’d come to speak to Sandra presuming Abi would be at school. She’d decided she needed to speak to Sandra first, give her a chance to explain, and yet here was Abi, her life about to be ruined.

  ‘Hey,’ Abi said. ‘Cute dog.’

  She kneeled and stroked behind his ear.

  ‘What happened to his eye?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Dorothy said. ‘He was kind of homeless.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Einstein.’

  She smiled. ‘Hey, Einstein.’

  Abi straightened up, and Dorothy thought again about teenage energy, her long, thin limbs, the buzz about her, the confusion, the effort to stay on top of hormones, emotions, the weird weight of teenage life.

  ‘Did you find my dad?’

  And there it was.

  Mike appeared behind Abi, a hand briefly on her shoulder. Would Mike help her through this? Was he in on it? Dorothy didn’t think so, he had a face on him like he was keen to hear what Dorothy had found.

  ‘No,’ Dorothy said. It wasn’t a lie, she hadn’t found Abi’s dad, but that was a bullshit technicality and she felt it in her heart. She was lying to Abi for the first time and it sucked. After all the lies the girl had been told by her mum, what right did Dorothy have to add another into the bargain?

  Mike lifted his chin. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to Sandra.’

  Abi’s eyes widened. ‘So you have found something.’

  Dorothy felt sick. ‘I just need to check some details with her, boring stuff, tax and national insurance.’

  Abi’s face fell. This was going to kill her, and it was killing Dorothy not telling her.

  ‘She’s at work,’ Mike said.

  Did he know? His face didn’t give away anything. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who was good at lying, but what did Dorothy know?

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me about Dad?’ Abi was so keen for information, some kind of connection. But what would a connection to a real dad be if he hadn’t raised you? What about Mike, stepping into her life, didn’t he get a chance to connect? And what about Stephen, being there all those years, was that really as phoney as it felt?

  ‘I just need to speak to Sandra.’

  Mike nodded. ‘She finishes at five but sometimes works on.’

  Abi’s head went down and she stroked Einstein mournfully.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dorothy said, even though her whole body was itching to leave. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in school?’

  Abi rubbed her midriff. ‘Stomach.’

  It wasn’t convincing.

  Mike put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s been hard to focus. With everything.’

  He waved a hand at the madness of the universe.

  Dorothy wanted to hug Abi, but instead she tugged on Einstein’s lead and walked away, her head throbbing.

  Soderberg was like a balm for her soul, and she was disgusted it was so easy to make her feel better. She’d dropped into Warners but Sandra was doing viewings in Merchiston, wouldn’t be back for hours. Dorothy left a message and number, took Einstein for a long walk round the Meadows, ended up here.

  Thomas appeared from the vennel across Middle Meadow Walk, the sight of him lifting her spirits. She rose and kissed his cheek, hugged him. They’d already spoken on the phone. There was another ping from Craig’s phone when he called Hannah but he was smart, made the call on the move, probably a bus or stolen car. The phone triangulated to a few different masts across the north of the city, Davidson Mains, Trinity, Granton, Newhaven. They were pulling CCTV from buses that ran those routes but chances were low. And if they got a positive ID, so what, he could be anywhere now.

  Craig wasn’t stupid. It was shameful to think it now, but if Dorothy was being honest she had always liked him before all this. He was sharp, funny, full of charm but also aware of the vacuous nature of that. But it had all been the deepest of lies and she, along with everyone else, had fallen for it.

  ‘So,’ Thomas said. ‘You still haven’t caught up with Abi’s mum?’

  Dorothy had told him the story on the phone, heard him sig
h, pictured him pushing his glasses up, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not going to be an easy conversation,’ Thomas said, scratching Einstein under the chin.

  Dorothy watched people flowing up and down the street, imagined their auras, different hues surrounding them and revealing their moods. Not that she believed any of that stuff. She was a materialist, liked things concrete and provable. She didn’t rule anything out, there was plenty that science didn’t understand yet, and scientists would never explain why we lie to each other and ourselves.

  Thomas spoke to the dog. ‘And what about you, eh?’ He looked at Dorothy. ‘Anything more on the owner?’

  Dorothy had a feeling that was going to end as badly as Abi’s story. Intuition maybe, but feelings are not to be disregarded, she’d learned that over the years.

  ‘We have a name,’ she said. ‘Hopefully Jenny is tracking down the family right now.’

  The waitress came and took their order and Dorothy sat in silence, thinking about secrets and lies, all the pain that follows us around like storm clouds.

  Gerard Way screamed in Dorothy’s ears as My Chemical Romance blasted in the headphones. She pounded the kit in the studio loft at home, keeping the hi-hats tight in the verse, lifting her left foot and exploding round the toms into the choruses. This was the opposite of last time she sat on the stool, she didn’t want to feel the groove, empty her mind, now she wanted to use her body to scream out of the window at all the bullcrap of the world.