the TV a smiley man was forecasting a change in the weather. Heavy rain, danger of landslides. A debate show started, angry audience and suited panel, talking about the independence referendum. Both Alex and Brian lurched for the remote.
Brian got it first and flicked over.
‘God,’ he said, ‘I hate this. Next office down’s handing out literature and holding lunchtime rallies in the canteen. They look at your lapel before they look at your face.’
The fervent had taken to wearing badges declaring their allegiances, putting stickers and signs in their windows and cars. It made the vote an incessant background thrum, impossible to forget.
‘It’s getting mental,’ said Morrow.
‘This must be what the Reformation was like,’ said Brian cheerfully. ‘At the beginning. When it was all bright hopes of the Resurrection.’
She huffed, ‘I can’t wait for it to be over, anyway.’
‘The Reformation?’
Alex snorted a laugh. ‘That too.’
Brian grinned at her. ‘It’s the Reformendum.’
‘Bit of a mouthful,’ said Alex as her phone lit up on the side table. Unknown caller. She frowned and answered it.
Alexandra Morrow? This was Shotts Prison. They had her number listed as Daniel McGrath’s family contact.
The officer apologised for phoning so late but her brother had been stabbed and was in hospital. He had been operated on. He was in a stable condition. If she wanted to visit him she needed to contact this person in that department of the Scottish Prison Service. Thank you, sorry, and good night. They hung up.
Brian watched her hand drop to her lap, still clutching the phone.
‘What?’
‘Danny. Stabbed. In hospital.’
‘He OK?’
‘Stable.’
Brian’s hand found hers across the settee.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Aye,’ she said, but too high, too fast.
He squeezed her hand. ‘Want to call the hospital?’
‘Tomorrow.’
They lay shoulder to shoulder in bed. Lazy tears oiled from Alex’s eyes, running into her hair at the temples.
The light on the baby monitor lit the room kelp-green. An undulating ocean of sound filled the room, an ebb and swell of little boys’ breathing. Brian waited for a wave to crash before he spoke.
‘You crying?’
She waited for the next back draught and whispered, ‘A bit.’
‘I’m sure he’s OK.’
She wasn’t crying because she was worried about him. She was crying because, again, Danny had robbed her of the delusion of nobility.
In the moment after she hung up, before Brian squeezed her hand, Alex had wished her brother dead with a fervour that was almost sexual. Not because he was a bad man. She wasn’t wishing him dead for the good of the world. She wished her brother dead because he was an obligation she did not want to meet. He made her uncomfortable. It was mealy, malevolent, and she didn’t want to know it about herself.
Brian whispered in the green dark, ‘Never going to be over, is it?’
She didn’t answer.
They shouldn’t even have her number. Danny must have given it to them. She tried to believe that he’d done it to shame her but that was a lie. Danny gave them her number because Alex was all he had. She had all of this: Brian, the twins, her job, everything. But she was all that Danny really had and she didn’t want him.
She lay still, listening to the wash of the twins’ breathing. They were trying to synchronise: one would snuffle, the other stumble over an exhalation, correcting themselves, trying to meet as completely as they had in the womb, but failing. Always failing.
14
It was a fraught morning. Paranoid about Danny, afraid someone would phone at an inopportune time if his condition worsened, Morrow gave in and called the prison service. They told her Danny was in the Southern General acute post-surgical ward. They couldn’t tell her anything about his current condition, she’d have to phone the hospital. That probably meant he wasn’t dead.
She turned to her work for comfort but
Brian got it first and flicked over.
‘God,’ he said, ‘I hate this. Next office down’s handing out literature and holding lunchtime rallies in the canteen. They look at your lapel before they look at your face.’
The fervent had taken to wearing badges declaring their allegiances, putting stickers and signs in their windows and cars. It made the vote an incessant background thrum, impossible to forget.
‘It’s getting mental,’ said Morrow.
‘This must be what the Reformation was like,’ said Brian cheerfully. ‘At the beginning. When it was all bright hopes of the Resurrection.’
She huffed, ‘I can’t wait for it to be over, anyway.’
‘The Reformation?’
Alex snorted a laugh. ‘That too.’
Brian grinned at her. ‘It’s the Reformendum.’
‘Bit of a mouthful,’ said Alex as her phone lit up on the side table. Unknown caller. She frowned and answered it.
Alexandra Morrow? This was Shotts Prison. They had her number listed as Daniel McGrath’s family contact.
The officer apologised for phoning so late but her brother had been stabbed and was in hospital. He had been operated on. He was in a stable condition. If she wanted to visit him she needed to contact this person in that department of the Scottish Prison Service. Thank you, sorry, and good night. They hung up.
Brian watched her hand drop to her lap, still clutching the phone.
‘What?’
‘Danny. Stabbed. In hospital.’
‘He OK?’
‘Stable.’
Brian’s hand found hers across the settee.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Aye,’ she said, but too high, too fast.
He squeezed her hand. ‘Want to call the hospital?’
‘Tomorrow.’
They lay shoulder to shoulder in bed. Lazy tears oiled from Alex’s eyes, running into her hair at the temples.
The light on the baby monitor lit the room kelp-green. An undulating ocean of sound filled the room, an ebb and swell of little boys’ breathing. Brian waited for a wave to crash before he spoke.
‘You crying?’
She waited for the next back draught and whispered, ‘A bit.’
‘I’m sure he’s OK.’
She wasn’t crying because she was worried about him. She was crying because, again, Danny had robbed her of the delusion of nobility.
In the moment after she hung up, before Brian squeezed her hand, Alex had wished her brother dead with a fervour that was almost sexual. Not because he was a bad man. She wasn’t wishing him dead for the good of the world. She wished her brother dead because he was an obligation she did not want to meet. He made her uncomfortable. It was mealy, malevolent, and she didn’t want to know it about herself.
Brian whispered in the green dark, ‘Never going to be over, is it?’
She didn’t answer.
They shouldn’t even have her number. Danny must have given it to them. She tried to believe that he’d done it to shame her but that was a lie. Danny gave them her number because Alex was all he had. She had all of this: Brian, the twins, her job, everything. But she was all that Danny really had and she didn’t want him.
She lay still, listening to the wash of the twins’ breathing. They were trying to synchronise: one would snuffle, the other stumble over an exhalation, correcting themselves, trying to meet as completely as they had in the womb, but failing. Always failing.
14
It was a fraught morning. Paranoid about Danny, afraid someone would phone at an inopportune time if his condition worsened, Morrow gave in and called the prison service. They told her Danny was in the Southern General acute post-surgical ward. They couldn’t tell her anything about his current condition, she’d have to phone the hospital. That probably meant he wasn’t dead.
She turned to her work for comfort but
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