Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Will Joanna Hart be there?’

‘I’d be surprised if she wasn’t. She’s one of the speakers.’

The PM programme was just starting on the radio, so time was plentiful. She turned on the cold tap with her big toe, reducing the temperature of the water until it was just above tepid. The air in her flat, like that in the street outside, was warm. It would dry her without the need for a towel. Resting on the bath was her glass of white wine, all but empty, and she drained its dregs, relishing the taste on her tongue. While so thoroughly relaxed she should, she thought, plan what to wear. If they were going for a walk by the sea then her black jeans would do and, maybe, her red tee-shirt. No, she would have to think again. That tee-shirt was still in the wash, and with it her second favourite top, a light-blue short sleeved blouse.

Eddie Mair’s voice, interviewing the latest Secretary of State for Defence about the campaign against the Taliban in Afghanistan, re-directed her thoughts away from clothes and back onto an old and well-worn track. Women had been oppressed in that country for years and years, and no-one in the West had given a stuff. Scant bloody Radio Four coverage of their suffering then. Now thoroughly annoyed, she rose from her bath and stomped off to her room to dress.

At six-thirty on the dot the doorbell rang, and the tall form of Ian Melville, slightly out of breath from running up the tenement stairs, stood before her. ‘Let’s go to the Dean Cemetery and have a look around it, eh?’

Not what she had planned. ‘OK. I’ve certainly never been. Have your got your car?’

‘No,’ he looked slightly uneasy, ‘the exhaust’s fallen off, but I thought, perhaps, we could walk there? I’m really sorry. Quill could come on the lead.’

Again, not what she had planned. ‘That‘ll be fine. But do you mind deciding on our route? I’ll follow happily, but I’ve had enough decision-making today.’

As they emerged onto Broughton Place the tinny, discordant chimes of an ice cream van could be heard on the windless air. The sun was high in the sky, and on the pavement, in places, the tar seemed sticky. They strolled down the hill towards Canonmills, intending to use the Water of Leith Walkway as a route across the city. A thin mist hung above the turbid waters of the river, making its characteristic scent more pungent and, in the dense shade of the overhanging trees, the atmosphere was unexpectedly dank and humid. Quill, eager to run, strained on the lead as if an invisible hare was half a metre in front of his nose, and by the time they reached the Colonies, Alice’s arm ached. Half of Stockbridge seemed to have decided to promenade along the river that evening, and the couple strolled together, hand in hand, amongst the others, occasionally lurching unpredictably to the left or right, following Quill’s whim like puppets.

They arrived at a discreet back-entrance to the cemetery, having left the river at Bells Mills, retraced their steps up Belford Road and crossed the grounds of the Dean Gallery. A ‘No Dogs’ sign immediately confronted them. Alice tied Quill’s lead to a tree and tried to ignore his piteous yelps, as he railed against the division of his pack and, in particular, her desertion of him. As they entered the consecrated ground, a massive, pink granite pyramid stood on their right, a strange cave hollowed out of one side, making the structure imperfect and profoundly pagan. Still holding hands they meandered past memorials, grand and grander, until, on reaching the apotheosis of grandeur, Buchanan’s Monument, they watched in amazement as a pair of grey squirrels frolicked all over it, using it as a gymnasium, unabashed by the disapproving chorus set up by the magpie residents in the canopy above.

Having torn themselves away from the display, the couple came across a tall sculpture and stopped, rapt by its eccentric charm, the delight of each enhanced by the presence of the other. The base of the piece was composed of winged lions supporting a pedestal with rams’ heads on it and they, in turn, supported spindly pelicans.

As they examined it the Dean Bell tolled mournfully and, as if on cue, a few raindrops began to fall, rapidly followed by a heavier downpour. Dropping Ian’s hand, Alice raced off towards the pyramid, tearing breathlessly past deceased lawyers, engineers and architects, and on reaching it crouched down in the hollowed-out section. Within seconds he had joined her, and Quill, sensing their closeness, began howling afresh. And in the grounds of the Necropolis, surrounded by the remains of the great and the good, they kissed.

The grandfather clock chimed nine. Alone again. He looked around the drawing room, surveying it as if seeing it for the first time. In his youth its grandeur had both impressed and appalled him until, as the years passed, he had become accustomed to the strange collection of family relics it contained and ceased to shiver on finding himself looked down upon by the stern warriors arrayed on the walls. Slowly he walked upstairs, crossed the landing to James’ room and pushed the door open. The scent of his lover hit him immediately, unexpectedly and powerfully, and he buried his face in the pillows, painfully conscious that with time even this slight comfort would disappear. By the bedside was a framed photograph of himself, laughing on holiday in the Alps, and he turned it over, face down, onto the cabinet. It belonged to the past, and somehow, somehow, a new future would have to be forged, one in which he could live each minute of every hour as if it mattered, until, finally, he, too, would be released.

Removing his key from the lock he descended the stone steps to the pavement, watching, as he did so, a troupe of starlings bobbing up and down, bickering with each other on the black railings encircling the gardens. As he began crossing the cobbles, a screeching sound cut through his head, and he turned to his left, attempting to locate the noise. Then there was an ear-splitting bang. The impact of the car sent him flying, hurtling through the air as if he weighed nothing until, everything having slowed down, he slammed into a parked jeep with a strange crunching sound and felt himself sliding down the bonnet, crumpling onto the ground below.

I am still alive, he thought. He tried to open his eyes, to shout, call for help, but nothing happened. The blackness remained and no voice came from his lips. Blood trickling into his eye tickled the edge of his nose and, in his mind, he moved a hand to scratch it, but the itch remained and his fingers felt none of the warm, sticky fluid that was streaming from his forehead.

Someone had come, was leaning over him, shouting, crying, and he recognised, in the warm breath on his face, the smell of alcohol mixed with perfume. Liv. She was speaking to him, pleading, sobbing, and in his head he answered her, comforted her, but it seemed to have no effect. She carried on, screaming now, shouting, inconsolable. Her hair brushed against his face, tickling it unbearably, and he strained to turn to his side, prevent it happening again, maybe even to scratch his skin on the road surface. But another strand swept his cheek.

He shivered. When had it become so cold? The air had seemed kind earlier, hot in the late afternoon. Where had this chill come from? Seconds later he sensed a blanket being laid over him, rejoiced in its weight, waited for warmth that did not come. He could feel the woman close by, beside him, her hand in his below the rug.