Ken McClure: Hypocrite's Isle

He joined Princes Street at its east end and started walking west past a row of buses, waiting line astern like a string of sausages as they took it in turn to move in to their appointed stops. The one at their head had ‘North Berwick’ on its destination board. On impulse, Gavin got on. He’d never been there, but he knew that it was beside the sea and about twenty miles or so east of the city. The plan was to find a beach and start walking. On a cold day in February this should afford him the solitude he needed.

There was an icy wind coming from the east so he decided to walk in the opposite direction, so that he would have it behind him. The tide was out, so he was able to walk on firm wet sand instead of the strength-sapping soft stuff at the head of the beach, something which also meant that he wasn’t forced to adhere strictly to the line of the shore and could cut across small bays and inlets at will, making straight lines out of curves.

His attention was drawn to a big rock situated about a hundred metres out from the shoreline. It was over two metres high, but had barnacles all over it, suggesting that it was routinely covered at high tide. Feeling drawn to it, Gavin went over, doing his best to avoid the puddles and rivulets left by the receding water, which threatened to swamp his trainers. He rested his hands on the surface, very conscious of the weight of its years.

‘Well, big rock,’ he murmured. ‘What are you saying? I’d appreciate your input. You were here a long time before I was born, and you’ll be here a long time after I die. What’s it all about, eh? Why do we do what we do?’

Gavin found a smooth section to rest his cheek against while he looked idly at the water, which was lapping the sand with a sluggishness that suggested extreme cold.

‘Nothing to say, huh? Maybe you don’t know either.’

As he turned away, Gavin looked back and said, ‘You’re quite right: saying nothing is probably the best policy. That way, you don’t upset anybody...’

Gavin had been walking for just under an hour when he came across a log that had been washed ashore and sat down on it for a few minutes to give his legs a rest. Almost immediately, he felt himself grow colder as the wind caught his right side, making him pull up the collar of his denim jacket and fold his arms, although this had little effect. It was less than five minutes before he decided that he had to start moving again, but as he stood up, his mobile rang. He could see on the screen it was Carrie. It had rung four times before he summoned up the courage to answer.

‘Hello.’

‘Gavin? Can you talk?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s that sound in the background? Where are you?’

‘It’s the wind. I’m on the beach.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere near North Berwick.’

‘What’s going on, Gavin?’

‘Where do I begin? There was a fire at the lab — Mary was burned: she’ll probably be scarred for life. Tom Baxter has committed suicide because he caused the fire. He meant it for me. Apart from that...’

‘Stop it, Gavin! Talk sense.’

Gavin took a moment to pull himself together. The enormity of all that had happened had given him a strange feeling of detachment which, even in his upset state, he recognised as an escape mechanism from the hell of reality. ‘Tom thought my research was going to screw up his job prospects with Grumman Schalk, so he set me up to have an accident in the lab.’

‘An accident?’

‘A flash fire involving ether, only Mary Hollis got it instead. She was doing me a good turn — setting up some cultures for me. She was badly burned: she’s in intensive care. When he realised what he’d done, Tom couldn’t handle it. He threw himself down the stairwell. End of story.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘Why did you phone?’ asked Gavin, closing his eyes.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘It’s bye bye Gavin time, right?’

‘No, you idiot, I just need to talk.’

‘I’m not dumped?’

‘You can be a prat at times, but I still love you.’

‘You do? Christ, I thought it was all over.’

‘No, but I do need to talk to you, although, after what you’ve just told me, this is probably not the best time.’

‘No one else wants to talk to me. I think even Frank wishes he’d never laid eyes on me. If I hadn’t come to his lab none of this would have happened.’

‘Don’t blame yourself, Gavin. None of this was your fault.’

‘What was it you want to talk about?’

‘My mother.’

‘I’m sorry I said all those hurtful things. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Oh yes you were,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s just that sometimes it’s so painful to be confronted with the truth. It can be so cold and unforgiving, not what you want to hear at all...’

‘I guess.’

‘Let’s not talk over the phone. Maybe we can meet up later? I came back this morning. I’m in Edinburgh.’

‘Sure. Eight o’clock in Doctors?’

‘Fine.’

Gavin, seeing signs of habitation, turned inland, climbing up through the sand dunes and plantations of stabilising marram grass to find the village of Gullane, which didn’t take long to impress its comfortable middle-class and golfing credentials on him, as he made his way up to the main street looking for a bus stop. He had less than fifteen minutes to wait before he was on his way back to the city.

Jenny Simmons found her husband sitting in the house when she got in from work at the surgery. He had his back to her and was looking out of the window. ‘This is becoming a habit,’ she said. ‘Not sex again?’

‘No,’ sighed Simmons, ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Oh,’ said Jenny feigning disappointment. ‘I didn’t think it was that bad last time...’ The smile faded from her face when she saw the look in her husband’s eyes. ‘Oh, my God, Frank, what’s the matter?’ she asked, sinking to her knees beside him.

Simmons told her what had happened to Tom Baxter and why. ‘Christ, Jenny, what a mess.’

‘I really don’t know what to say,’ said Jenny. ‘I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse after yesterday.’

‘Tom’s dead, Mary is going to be disfigured for life, and my lab is in ruins. To top it off, everyone wishes the one remaining member of my group had never been born... and all because he came up with something that looks like a cure for cancer.’

Simmons looked at his wife in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘Can you believe it?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘It’s crazy.’

‘I’m desperately trying to find something positive to concentrate on,’ said Simmons. ‘But I’m damned if I can find anything. Help me?’

‘I wish I could, Frank,’ said Jenny, hugging him. ‘Maybe when the awfulness of what’s happened to Mary and Tom... passes... you’ll be able to concentrate on Gavin’s research again... and the good that can come from it?’

Simmons felt himself go tense.

‘I know... I know that’s what caused all of this but... nevertheless...’

‘Maybe,’ agreed Simmons.

‘I think you should call the doctor and get something to help you sleep. You didn’t get much last night,’ said Jenny.

Simmons waved away the suggestion.

The phone rang and Jenny answered it. She turned and said, ‘It’s Graham Sutcliffe. Do you want to speak to him?’

Simmons took the phone.

Jenny couldn’t tell anything from her husband’s expression, which seemed to stay blank throughout the short conversation. ‘Well?’ she asked.

‘He wants a meeting.’

‘Tonight?’ exclaimed Jenny.

Simmons nodded. ‘At Old College.’

‘Of all the insensitive...’

‘They’ll probably want to discuss damage limitation over Tom’s death.’