Ken MacLeod - Intrusion

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Geena. ‘I had no idea you were so serious about it. Is it something to do with the churches up there… what do they call them, the Wee Frees or something?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s a bit of that and something else. The population of Lewis – that’s the island I’m from – has more or less doubled this century, after declining for a very long time. Mostly because of the wind farms and immigration, but that in itself helps to retain the native population, with jobs and opportunities and so on. And just when this turnaround was beginning – way before the wind farms, towards the end of the last century – a lot of the incomers were kind of New Age types, people who wanted to get away from the cities and open a wee craft business or start an organic farm or whatever. Some of them were hippies, pagans, that kind of thing. Big families, kids running wild, all that. One consequence was a child abuse scandal that got fuelled by local suspicions on the part of those Wee Frees you mentioned about anyone who wasn’t a good Christian, let alone people who openly called themselves pagans and witches. Whatever the details of the original case – it may have been open-and-shut for all I know, it was many years ago – that kind of thing can rankle for generations. Some people in the generation after those pagans and witches found a way of hitting back, and a very nasty, underhand way it was too. They kept an ear to the ground for rumours of the second sight, and passed anonymous tip-offs to social services about anyone who was said to have it. On the grounds, you see, that this was an occult practice and therefore a risk indicator for satanic child abuse. They witch-hunted the locals right back . And of course in wee close-knit communities like that, just getting investigated is a disgrace, even if there’s nothing in it.’

Geena was shaking her head slowly in amazement. ‘That’s appalling!’

‘Aye, it’s appalling. Now this was before my time, the last case like that was before I was born, but people have long memories in small communities. So when I first got curious about the second sight – I found the term in an old book on Highland folklore that was lying around in our house – I asked my pals at high school, and they sort of tapped their noses and talked behind their hands about certain folks in the locality, and next time I was home I asked my dad about it, like, “Dad, is it true that old Mrs Macdonald has the second sight?” I guess I was about, uh, thirteen or so, not a little kid, and for the first time in my life my dad takes me out the back, literally behind the woodshed – well, the peat shed – and gives me a clip on the back of the head. Not hard, not to hurt, but like a glancing blow, you know?’

Geena nodded. ‘Uh-huh. I’ve had a few myself.’

‘Right. It was enough of a shock to me, I can tell you. So now he’d got my attention, so to speak, he told me what I’ve just told you about what had gone on, the investigations and that. He said never to mention the subject again. And I didn’t. Until now.’

Hugh felt a pang as he said that. He hadn’t even told it to Hope.

Geena was giving him a very quizzical look.

‘Why did you get interested in the second sight in the first place?’

‘I was a curious lad,’ Hugh said.

Geena considered this.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘none of this really matters any more. The point is your wife now has a good case for not taking the fix, and maybe identifying this gene will clear up all the superstition about the second sight.’

Hugh glared at her. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘There’s just no way I’m going to open that can of worms. No fucking way. I’ll tell Hope about it, and it’ll be her choice, but I’m sure she’ll agree.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes. I know my wife better than you do.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Geena. ‘But I’m betting otherwise.’

‘Like it’s any of your business.’

‘I just wanted to help,’ said Geena, sounding upset.

‘I know, I know. I appreciate that.’ Hugh frowned. ‘Why did you want to help us, anyway? Why take these risks? Is it because you’re a Christian, or what?’

Geena snorted a laugh. ‘I’m not a Christian! What makes you think that?’

Hugh pointed. ‘That cross around your neck.’

Geena looked away, then back. ‘It’s a cross I have to bear,’ she said.

‘Family pressures?’ Hugh guessed, with some sympathy.

‘Good God, no! My parents are as godless as I am. It’s a… cultural thing. I’m from a Catholic community – Goan, you know?’

Her voice had taken on a higher pitch: light, over-casual.

‘Oh, I get it,’ said Hugh. ‘Same reason as my colleague Ashid’ – he jerked a thumb over his shoulder – ‘wears the round cap, even though he isn’t a Muslim. Community identity, loyalty to—’

Ashid’s voice suddenly boomed from the hallway, through which, in one of those bloody-typical moments, he happened to be lugging a bucket of rubble.

‘You’re a bloody fool, Hugh!’

Hugh turned, embarrassed, into the full beam of Ashid’s grin. The plasterer’s gaze basked in Hugh’s discomfiture for a second or two, then switched to Geena. He patted the top of his head and tapped his chest.

‘You and me for the same reason, eh? To show the cops we’re not bloody Hindus! Every time they stop me they check me over and I tell them I’m a good Muslim and then they send me on my way with the same joke: they miss the jihadists, hah-hah! Like their fathers missed the IRA!’ Ashid mimicked a posh English accent, very badly, to add: ‘Sporting chaps the IRA were, at least they didn’t blow themselves up!’

Geena giggled. ‘Yes, that’s it!’

Ashid waved and went on. When Hugh turned back to Geena she was blinking rapidly and sniffing.

‘What’s the matter?’

Geena turned away and blew her nose, then turned back. ‘Sorry, nothing. It just upsets me sometimes. The stops. You’d think with all the information they have on us they’d not bother, but they do.’

‘You get hassled by cops?’

Geena gave him a what planet are you on? look. ‘Yes. And so does your friend, by the sound of it.’

‘He’s never mentioned it.’

‘People don’t,’ said Geena, in a bitter tone.

‘Ah, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t realise. Still,’ he went on, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I know what it’s like not mentioning things.’

Geena gave him a pitying look this time. ‘No, Mr Morrison. You don’t.’

After half a minute of silence, she spoke again: ‘I think we’re about finished here.’

‘Thanks for trying to help,’ Hugh said, ushering her to the door.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Geena.

That evening, after the ten o’clock news, Hugh waved a hand in front of Hope to ask her to disengage from her glasses, on which she was surfing. She took them off.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve got a confession. Today a very pretty girl came to see me at work.’

‘How nice for you.’

Her tone was light but wary.

‘Ah, that’s not really the confession.’

‘I didn’t think it was, somehow.’

Hope put aside her glasses and leaned back. Hugh leaned forward and began talking.

When he finished, her eyes narrowed, as they had when he was going through the bit about the witchcraft accusations.

‘That’s all?’ she said. ‘That’s everything? You don’t have any more secrets you’d like to get off your chest?’

Hugh thought about it. ‘No.’

‘Good.’ She sounded miffed, as well she might.

However, to Hugh’s surprise, she took the rest of his account of the morning’s events in her stride. She insisted that the new information didn’t change anything. The gene was probably for nothing more than a susceptibility to hallucinations. She certainly didn’t want to make it the basis for any appeal.