all the wrong colours. Sulphur in her nostrils.
‘Ssh. I know. It’s fine. We’ll get help. I promise.’
The ground is damp, she is maybe sitting in it. Sitting in this boy filtering from life, rising like mould on a wall, flooding over her legs, her shoulders. Already it is in her mouth. She can see the ivy growing, watches it creeping in the berry black. She has done this. If Justine Strang had stayed on the bus, this boy would have stayed on his verge. No, he would have reached the village by now, possibly his house. He’d be stepping into the shower and shouting to ask his mum what was for tea.
From a tangle of branches, a soft, whitish owl watches her. Blinks once, then flies off. The boy stirs, like he is settling for a nap.
‘Hey! Hey you – don’t go to sleep. Yes? Stay with me. Are you at school? What – first year? Second year? Bet you’ve got a girlfriend, eh?’
She holds him in her lap for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The cold melting into nothing. All across the glen: silence. Softly, softly round them, whispering louder, until it rises up, growing strident and defined. Wailing. She has dragged him as far off the road as she could. Right by the chevron – they can’t miss it.
‘Look, I’m sorry. That’s them coming now, OK?’
Gently, she puts the boy’s head on the moss. There is a big branch skewed and broken behind the chevron, and she hauls this across the road. Curt stumps like blunt bone knuckles, all sticking up. They’ll see that in their headlights, surely.
‘I can’t stay. You’re going to be fine.’
She repositions the branch, so the angle is greater, the emphatic Stop of its twiggy arms more pronounced. Picks up her bag, retrieves the umbrella, then Justine starts to run. The bus stop isn’t far. Get on the first one anywhere, or she can hitch, or she can . . . if she leaves a single trace, he’ll find her. Fuck, she’s already left a trace. Her lungs are tearing, but she still packs in more gulps than she needs, trying to force the tin taste from her mouth. Why didn’t she stay on the bus? The road has stretched, has tricked her. It gets darker and further while her legs get shorter. Deep, insistent, the wailing screeches. Closer. Closer.
Is here.
As the ambulance lights appear, she hides herself into the undergrowth, letting it sweep past in trails of blue and red and white.
Chapter Four
Not a bad crowd, considering.
Hannah Anderson looks at the buzzing room. She counts thirty-one people in all, including her, her pal Mhairi and the man from the Courier Mhairi’s bullied into coming. Granted, some will have come for the drama, the small-town theatre of it all, but some have come for honest debate. And, of course, the baking, which is being devoured in steady chomps, even as the first speaker takes the stage. An air of distraction, as if he did not quite believe himself . She slips her notebook back in her bag.
‘When am I gonny get a swatch at that?’ whispers Mhairi. ‘I want to see the dirty bits.’
Hannah covers Ross’s ears. ‘There’s no dirty bits.’
‘Not what you said this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, well. It’s not yet fit for human consumption. Bit like your scones.’
There’s a kerfuffle as an old man comes back from the toilet, and a row ripples to let him regain his seat. It’s a roll-call of worthies: two bald farmers, a tight perm, set of blond dreads, grey short-back-and-sides (ex-military), grey bob, mousy-brown mess, another brown (chestnut; like a lovely horse), steel grey (cropped in at the nape, wavy on top). This is where Hannah lives. A town called serendipity. For the thousandth time, Hannah says it in her head. It’s an elegant, sinuous word, which – like your horoscope – can be bent to many meanings. Hannah’s a writer, one of those soft, beady creatures made of sponge and antennae. Before they’d even thought about moving to Kilmacarra, she’d been sketching the shape of her next book. She had this idea
‘Ssh. I know. It’s fine. We’ll get help. I promise.’
The ground is damp, she is maybe sitting in it. Sitting in this boy filtering from life, rising like mould on a wall, flooding over her legs, her shoulders. Already it is in her mouth. She can see the ivy growing, watches it creeping in the berry black. She has done this. If Justine Strang had stayed on the bus, this boy would have stayed on his verge. No, he would have reached the village by now, possibly his house. He’d be stepping into the shower and shouting to ask his mum what was for tea.
From a tangle of branches, a soft, whitish owl watches her. Blinks once, then flies off. The boy stirs, like he is settling for a nap.
‘Hey! Hey you – don’t go to sleep. Yes? Stay with me. Are you at school? What – first year? Second year? Bet you’ve got a girlfriend, eh?’
She holds him in her lap for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The cold melting into nothing. All across the glen: silence. Softly, softly round them, whispering louder, until it rises up, growing strident and defined. Wailing. She has dragged him as far off the road as she could. Right by the chevron – they can’t miss it.
‘Look, I’m sorry. That’s them coming now, OK?’
Gently, she puts the boy’s head on the moss. There is a big branch skewed and broken behind the chevron, and she hauls this across the road. Curt stumps like blunt bone knuckles, all sticking up. They’ll see that in their headlights, surely.
‘I can’t stay. You’re going to be fine.’
She repositions the branch, so the angle is greater, the emphatic Stop of its twiggy arms more pronounced. Picks up her bag, retrieves the umbrella, then Justine starts to run. The bus stop isn’t far. Get on the first one anywhere, or she can hitch, or she can . . . if she leaves a single trace, he’ll find her. Fuck, she’s already left a trace. Her lungs are tearing, but she still packs in more gulps than she needs, trying to force the tin taste from her mouth. Why didn’t she stay on the bus? The road has stretched, has tricked her. It gets darker and further while her legs get shorter. Deep, insistent, the wailing screeches. Closer. Closer.
Is here.
As the ambulance lights appear, she hides herself into the undergrowth, letting it sweep past in trails of blue and red and white.
Chapter Four
Not a bad crowd, considering.
Hannah Anderson looks at the buzzing room. She counts thirty-one people in all, including her, her pal Mhairi and the man from the Courier Mhairi’s bullied into coming. Granted, some will have come for the drama, the small-town theatre of it all, but some have come for honest debate. And, of course, the baking, which is being devoured in steady chomps, even as the first speaker takes the stage. An air of distraction, as if he did not quite believe himself . She slips her notebook back in her bag.
‘When am I gonny get a swatch at that?’ whispers Mhairi. ‘I want to see the dirty bits.’
Hannah covers Ross’s ears. ‘There’s no dirty bits.’
‘Not what you said this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, well. It’s not yet fit for human consumption. Bit like your scones.’
There’s a kerfuffle as an old man comes back from the toilet, and a row ripples to let him regain his seat. It’s a roll-call of worthies: two bald farmers, a tight perm, set of blond dreads, grey short-back-and-sides (ex-military), grey bob, mousy-brown mess, another brown (chestnut; like a lovely horse), steel grey (cropped in at the nape, wavy on top). This is where Hannah lives. A town called serendipity. For the thousandth time, Hannah says it in her head. It’s an elegant, sinuous word, which – like your horoscope – can be bent to many meanings. Hannah’s a writer, one of those soft, beady creatures made of sponge and antennae. Before they’d even thought about moving to Kilmacarra, she’d been sketching the shape of her next book. She had this idea
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