beige, the carpet was beige, everything inoffensive and inexpensive. The only ornamentation in the living room was a small watercolor of irises and a big oil painting of her younger brother, done from a small snapshot photograph, a little boy standing on a hillside many years ago, squinting into the camera.
As part of a university project, Liam had made a film of Siobhain. She talked to the camera about her people and the Highlands, showing irrelevant pictures cut out of ladies’ magazines. She told the story of her childhood with the travelers, how her brother drowned in a burn and her mother left the land and came to the city to die. It was a peculiar film. It should just have been annoying but it was strangely touching, fat Siobhain barking in her Highland accent at the camera, her stilted delivery seeming affected and mistimed. Liam had written an end-of-term paper on his film, a vague and pretentious piece about the rare beauty of reality. He failed and was having to do a resit exam over the summer.
Maureen would never have thought of them as friends, much less close friends, but since the film Liam had been over at Siobhain’s all the time, watching television, showing her films and asking her what she thought.
Siobhain had been very fat when Maureen met her but it hadn’t disguised how beautiful she was. Her nose was a straight arrow, her plump mouth a tidy rosebud and her cheekbones high and proud. Her black hair had started to gray prematurely but in most lights the silver strands looked like a glossy sheen. Angus Farrell had almost broken her. As a senior psychologist at the Northern Psychiatric Hospital he had had unlimited access to the ward where Siobhain was being treated for depression. Farrell had tethered the women with rope, around the ankles, around the wrists. Of the other two victims Maureen knew about for sure, Lona McKinnon had hung herself and Yvonne Urquhart had had a stroke that left her severely brain damaged.
It might have been the shock of seeing herself on film, or just that she had pals, but Siobhain had changed dramatically in the past six months. She went on a crazy diet of steak and citrus fruit, which caused her to exude a sharp, rotting smell. It also made her fart soundlessly every fifteen seconds although she steadfastly denied it every time Leslie challenged her. She had lost half her body weight. Because the weight loss had been so rapid her skin was just catching up with her, contracting around the new shapes and forms. She had had a chicken neck for a month but it had settled back now to show a strong jaw and slim neck. She still moved as if she were obese: swinging her legs around each other clumsily, holding her arms out stiffly to the sides. When she sat down she cleared space for her phantom belly, sitting with her legs wide open as if she still had forty-inch thighs.
She needed new clothes and trawled the charity shops with Maureen and Leslie, choosing a peculiar mixture of old-lady flowery dresses, a big yellow anorak, tennis shoes and bright jerseys in blues and oranges. It was the first time she had ever chosen her own adult clothes. She dressed like no one else they had met. Today she was sporting white tennis shoes with red soles, a red skirt and a green shirt with button-down breast pockets.
Maureen could tell she was enjoying her new self and the shades were part of that. She had taken to brushing her hair and making sure her collars weren’t tucked in.
“Siobhain,” said Liam, handing her the newspaper, “we want you to look at this.”
Siobhain moved her face in the direction of the newspaper. It took them a minute to realize that under her shades she was keeping her eyes on the crying woman and Montel.
“Siobhain, read it,” said Liam impatiently, cracking the paper with a flick of his finger. “This shit’s on all the time.”
Maureen had never seen anyone swear in front of Siobhain without getting pulled up about it. She looked at Liam curiously.
As part of a university project, Liam had made a film of Siobhain. She talked to the camera about her people and the Highlands, showing irrelevant pictures cut out of ladies’ magazines. She told the story of her childhood with the travelers, how her brother drowned in a burn and her mother left the land and came to the city to die. It was a peculiar film. It should just have been annoying but it was strangely touching, fat Siobhain barking in her Highland accent at the camera, her stilted delivery seeming affected and mistimed. Liam had written an end-of-term paper on his film, a vague and pretentious piece about the rare beauty of reality. He failed and was having to do a resit exam over the summer.
Maureen would never have thought of them as friends, much less close friends, but since the film Liam had been over at Siobhain’s all the time, watching television, showing her films and asking her what she thought.
Siobhain had been very fat when Maureen met her but it hadn’t disguised how beautiful she was. Her nose was a straight arrow, her plump mouth a tidy rosebud and her cheekbones high and proud. Her black hair had started to gray prematurely but in most lights the silver strands looked like a glossy sheen. Angus Farrell had almost broken her. As a senior psychologist at the Northern Psychiatric Hospital he had had unlimited access to the ward where Siobhain was being treated for depression. Farrell had tethered the women with rope, around the ankles, around the wrists. Of the other two victims Maureen knew about for sure, Lona McKinnon had hung herself and Yvonne Urquhart had had a stroke that left her severely brain damaged.
It might have been the shock of seeing herself on film, or just that she had pals, but Siobhain had changed dramatically in the past six months. She went on a crazy diet of steak and citrus fruit, which caused her to exude a sharp, rotting smell. It also made her fart soundlessly every fifteen seconds although she steadfastly denied it every time Leslie challenged her. She had lost half her body weight. Because the weight loss had been so rapid her skin was just catching up with her, contracting around the new shapes and forms. She had had a chicken neck for a month but it had settled back now to show a strong jaw and slim neck. She still moved as if she were obese: swinging her legs around each other clumsily, holding her arms out stiffly to the sides. When she sat down she cleared space for her phantom belly, sitting with her legs wide open as if she still had forty-inch thighs.
She needed new clothes and trawled the charity shops with Maureen and Leslie, choosing a peculiar mixture of old-lady flowery dresses, a big yellow anorak, tennis shoes and bright jerseys in blues and oranges. It was the first time she had ever chosen her own adult clothes. She dressed like no one else they had met. Today she was sporting white tennis shoes with red soles, a red skirt and a green shirt with button-down breast pockets.
Maureen could tell she was enjoying her new self and the shades were part of that. She had taken to brushing her hair and making sure her collars weren’t tucked in.
“Siobhain,” said Liam, handing her the newspaper, “we want you to look at this.”
Siobhain moved her face in the direction of the newspaper. It took them a minute to realize that under her shades she was keeping her eyes on the crying woman and Montel.
“Siobhain, read it,” said Liam impatiently, cracking the paper with a flick of his finger. “This shit’s on all the time.”
Maureen had never seen anyone swear in front of Siobhain without getting pulled up about it. She looked at Liam curiously.
Similar Books
