Ian Rankin: The Naming of the Dead

His head was shaved, but he sported a full, dark beard and a tangle of eyebrows.

“Social call, actually,” Siobhan said, showing him her ID. “A couple by the name of Clarke. Need a word with them.”

“In you come then.” He led her to a gate in the perimeter fence. In miniature, it was a bit like the Gleneagles security. There was even a sort of watchtower. Every ten yards or so along the fence stood another guard. “Here, put this on,” her new friend was saying, handing her a wristband. “Makes you less conspicuous. It’s how we keep tabs on our band of happy campers.”

“Quite literally,” she said, taking it from him. “How’s everything going so far?”

“Local youth don’t like it much. They’ve tried coming in, but that’s about it.” He shrugged. They were walking along a metal walkway, stepping off it for a moment as a young girl roller-skated past, her mother watching cross-legged from the ground next to her tent.

“How many are here?” Siobhan found it hard to judge.

“Maybe a thousand. There’ll be more tomorrow.”

“You’re not keeping count?”

“Not taking names either-so I’m not sure where you’re going to find your friends. Only thing we’re allowed to take from them is the fee for their site.”

Siobhan looked around. The summer had been dry, and the earth underfoot was solid. Beyond the skyline of apartment buildings and houses she could make out other, more ancient shapes: Holyrood Park and Arthur’s Seat. She could hear some low chanting and a few guitars and pennywhistles. Children’s laughter and a baby ready for its next feeding. Hand claps and chatter. Silenced suddenly by a megaphone, carried by a man with his hair crammed into an outsize woolly hat. Patchwork trousers lopped off at the knees and flip-flops on his feet.

“Big white tent, people-that’s where it’s happening. Vegetable curry at four quid, thanks to the local mosque. Only four quid…”

“Maybe that’s where you’ll find them,” Siobhan’s guide said. She thanked him and he headed back to his post. The “big white tent” seemed to serve as a general meeting place. Someone else was calling out that a group would be heading into town for a drink. Meet in five minutes by the red flag. Siobhan had passed a row of portable toilets and some standpipes and showers. All that was left for her to explore now were tents. The line for curry was orderly. Someone tried to hand her a plastic spoon, and she shook her head before remembering that it was a while since she’d eaten. Her Styrofoam plate heaped high, she decided to take a slow walk through the camp. People were cooking their own food on camp stoves. One pointed at her.

“Remember me from Glastonbury?” he called. Siobhan just shook her head. And then she saw her parents and broke into a smile. They were doing the camping thing with style: a big red tent with windows and a covered porch, foldaway table and chairs, and an open bottle of wine with real glasses next to it. They got up when they saw her, exchanged hugs and kisses, apologized that they’d only brought two chairs.

“I can sit on the grass,” Siobhan assured them. There was another young woman already doing just that. She hadn’t moved at Siobhan’s approach.

“We were just telling Santal about you,” Siobhan’s mum said. Eve Clarke looked young for her years, only the laugh lines giving the game away. The same could not be said for Siobhan’s dad, Teddy. He’d grown paunchy, and the skin drooped from his face. His hairline had receded, the ponytail sparser and grayer than ever. He refilled the wineglasses with gusto, his gaze never leaving the bottle.

“I’m sure Santal’s been riveted,” Siobhan said, accepting the glass.

The young woman gave the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was neck length and dirty blond, gelled or mistreated so that it emerged in clumps and braids from her scalp. No makeup, but multiple piercings to her ears and one to the side of her nose. Her dark green sleeveless T-shirt showed Celtic tattoos on either shoulder, and her bare midriff showed another piercing to her navel. Plenty of jewelry strung around her neck, and hanging lower still what looked like a digital video camera.

“You’re Siobhan,” she said with a trace of a lisp.

“Afraid so.” Siobhan toasted the company with her glass. Another had been produced from a picnic basket, along with another bottle of wine.

“Steady on, Teddy,” Eve Clarke said.

“Santal needs a refill,” he explained, though Siobhan couldn’t help noticing that Santal’s glass was actually almost as full as her own.

“Did the three of you travel up together?” she asked.

“Santal hitched from Aylesbury,” Teddy Clarke said. “After the bus ride we’ve just endured, I think next time I’d do the same.” He rolled his eyes and fidgeted in his seat, then unscrewed the wine bottle. “Screw-top wine, Santal. Don’t say the modern world doesn’t have its pluses.”

In fact, she didn’t reply at all. Siobhan couldn’t say why she’d taken such an immediate dislike to this stranger, except that Santal was just that: a stranger. Siobhan had wanted some time with her mum and dad. Just the three of them.

“Santal’s got the campsite next to us,” Eve was explaining. “We needed a bit of help with the tent…”

Her husband laughed suddenly and loudly, filling his own glass. “Been a while since we camped,” he said.

“Tent looks new,” Siobhan commented.

“Borrowed from neighbors,” her mother said quietly.

Santal was rising to her feet. “I should go.”

“Not on our account,” Teddy Clarke protested.

“There’s a bunch of us heading to a pub.”

“I like your camera,” Siobhan said.

Santal looked down at it. “Any of the cops take my picture, I want theirs in return. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?” Her unblinking look demanded agreement.

Siobhan turned toward her father. “You’ve told her what I do,” she stated quietly.

“Not ashamed, are you?” Santal all but spat the words out.

“Just the opposite, to be honest.” Siobhan’s eyes shifted from father to mother. Suddenly both her parents seemed intent on the wine in front of them. When she looked back at Santal, she saw that the young woman was pointing the camera at her.

“One for the family album,” Santal said. “I’ll send you a JPEG.”

“Thanks,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Odd name, isn’t it, Santal?”

“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Eve Clarke answered.

“At least people can spell it,” Santal herself added.

Teddy Clarke laughed. “I was telling Santal about how we burdened you with a name nobody down south could pronounce.”

“Shared any more family history?” Siobhan said, bristling. “Any embarrassing stories I need to be aware of?”

“Touchy, isn’t she?” Santal commented to Siobhan’s mother.

“You know,” Eve Clarke admitted, “we never really wanted her to become-”

“Mum, for Christ’s sake!” Siobhan broke in. But her further complaint was cut short by sounds from the direction of the fence. She saw guards jogging toward the scene. There were kids on the outside, making Nazi salutes. They wore regulation dark hooded tops and wanted the guards to send out “all the hippie scum.”

“The revolution starts here!” one of them yelled. “Up against the wall, wankers!”

“Pathetic,” Siobhan’s mother said.

But now there were objects sailing through the darkening sky.

“Get down,” Siobhan warned, all but pushing her mother into the tent, unsure what protection it would offer from the volley of rocks and bottles. Her father had taken a couple of steps toward the trouble, but she hauled him back, too. Santal was standing her ground, pointing her camera toward the melee.