Alex Gray - A small weeping

Lorimer didn’t reply. For how could he be expected to comment on the unfairness of life? That was what his job was about most of the time. Solomon’s eye caught his as Lorimer looked up and the psychologist inclined his head towards the door. Lorimer gave a brief nod in reply. It was time to go.

The early evening sun was glowing against the hillside as they stepped out of Borve Cottage.

‘Do you mind if we pay a short visit?’ Lorimer asked, indicating Saint Clement’s Church.

‘Why not,’ agreed Solly. The two men made their way over to the entrance, Lorimer stooping slightly as he ducked through the doorway. It was the smallest cathedral he’d ever seen, Lorimer thought, blinking as the gloom enfolded them. The stone flags that were polished from centuries of use gave a dull echo as they walked out of the light and into the shadows.

Neither of them spoke a word. It was as if these grey walls hadn’t noticed the passing of time. Lorimer had felt like this before. Sometimes standing by a mortuary slab he had that sense of being a tiny speck of dust in a swirling, meaningless universe.

Now here, as his footfall sounded on the worn stones, the Chief Inspector wondered at those Saints who had risked everything to try to bring their beliefs to these parts. What had it all been for? Was the so-called Christian West more law-abiding than in those far off pagan times? perhaps, just perhaps. He looked over to where Solomon stood poring over a leaflet that he’d picked up from a small wooden table. Did Solly have any religious beliefs? Judaism was so old and venerable. In all his dealings with human behaviour had Solomon retained something extra to sustain him against cynicism? Somehow Lorimer knew that was a question he’d be unable to ask.

As if aware of his companion’s scrutiny, Solly turned around, waving the leaflet in his hand.

Lorimer joined him, noticing that there were postcards for sale. An honesty box lay beyond them, fixed to the wall.

‘Listen to this,’ said Solly. ‘Tradition has it that Saint Clement of Rome was banished to the Crimea where he was put to death by being thrown into the sea with an anchor around his neck. The Church was built by MacLeod of Harris in the thirteenth century as Saint Clement was the patron saint of the MacLeods. Within the church is the tomb of Alexander Macclod, domino de Dunvegan 1528.’

As Solly picked up a few postcards and rattled in his pocket for change, Lorimer took a lingering look at the interior of the tiny, ancient cathedral. He tried to imagine all the folk who had come to worship here over the years. Then another thought came to him. Kirsty would have come here. And her old Aunty Mhairi. Lorimer chewed on a raggled nail. The MacLeods had been here for centuries. That meant that there would be a whole load of them outside. In the graveyard.

For a moment Lorimer stood with his face up to the last warmth of the setting sun. Heedless of his presence, a sheep cropped at the grass. Overhead a gull mewed. He took a deep breath and smelt something fragrant in the soft air. All his weariness seemed to fall away like a cloak being shed. He could so easily forget everything in this quiet corner away from the world. The sky and sea merged into one blur of blue. Somewhere beyond lay a world of offices, streets, computers, files, telephones…all the paraphernalia of his working life.

Lorimer gave himself a shake. He was in danger of being beguiled by the quiet of this island. It was a place like any other, he persuaded himself, inhabited by people as culpable as any in the city.

He stepped in among the lichened gravestones, looking at the names. He was right. There were lots of MacLeods. Some were so old that their inscriptions had faded into decay. He moved among them, shaking his head at all the infant deaths centuries before. Lorimer bent to read the carving on a stone that had leant over with years of westerly gales. The words were still clearly marked: Be Ye Also Ready The Small amp; Great Are Here

Lorimer gave a rueful nod of acknowledgement and passed on down the line.

There was another MacLeod, a Donald MacLeod who had fought in the ’45 rebellion. Several lines of inscription told any passerby that here lay a man who’d been preceded by three wives, who had borne him nine children. Lorimer gave a twisted smile. He was barely in his forties himself, but he’d long ago given up any hope of producing any kids to carry on his own name. He read on. The old man had died in his ninetieth year, it said.

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Solly was suddenly by his side. ‘What accounted for their longevity, do you think?’

‘The whisky?’ Lorimer joked.

‘I wonder. Did they have a healthier way of life, perhaps?’

Lorimer shrugged. The world that he and Solly came from wasn’t particularly healthy any more. The Sunday supplements were forever carrying a story about someone who had changed their city life for one in a remote part of Scotland. Taking another lungful of Hebridean air, Lorimer could understand why.

There were more modern headstones on the far side of the graveyard. The detective’s feet left soft imprints on the springy turf as he walked amongst them.

At last Lorimer found the one he’d expected to see. It was inscribed to another Donald MacLeod. Lost at Sea, told the deeply cut words. The wife’s name had been added not long after. Kirsty Grace. There was space below for another inscription. When would this grave be opened to lay their daughter to rest? That was the question emanating from the blank grey patch of marble.

‘When I find her killer,’ Lorimer spoke softly to the gravestone.

‘OK, be with you in half an hour.’

Maggie put the phone down. She was really far too busy with marking these junior exams to go out for the evening but maybe she could catch up in her spare periods tomorrow. The seniors were off on exam leave, after all, she argued with herself, and it was Divine Lipinski’s last evening in Scotland.

The papers were neatly piled up by her armchair, red marking pen on top, as Maggie glanced guiltily at them. Someone had once teased her that all teachers were programmed to serve. It was true. She found it hard to switch off from work. There was always pressure, always new demands, new directives. In recent years she and her colleagues had hardly time to learn one set of assessment techniques when some wise guy supplanted them with something different. The wise guys had never been teachers, or if they had, they’d long forgotten what the inside of a classroom looked like or, more to the point, what kids really needed for the big, bad world after school was out for good.

Maggie suddenly found herself longing for a change. Surely other countries’ systems couldn’t be as restrictive as the current Scottish curriculum? She daydreamed her way to the bathroom and started to wipe away the day’s make-up.

She’d dress up tonight. It was a lot warmer and it was staying lighter for longer now. The face in the oval mirror stared back at her, pale skin with fine lines etched around a discontented mouth. She faked a smile then made a face at her reflection. Time for war paint, she told herself.

Thirty minutes later Maggie alighted from a taxi outside the Corinthian. The effort of dressing up in a shorter skirt and slim-heeled shoes was well rewarded when she caught sight of all the lovely young things parading their designer gear at the bar. As usual, Maggie’s eyes were drawn towards the gorgeous gold painted ornamentation that gave The Corinthian its name. Her gaze lingered on the fabulous dome with its subtly shifting colours, then she looked around and saw Divine sitting by the hearth. The fire wasn’t lit tonight but it still looked the cosiest part of the enormous room.