Billy stared at the police ROAD CLOSED sign. Cars approached the roundabout next to him, slowed as they took in the sign, then circled and headed back the way they had come.
He’d only passed out for a few seconds. Same as in the toilets. What was happening to him? He came round on the floor with Rose over him, her hefty cleavage in his line of sight, thick perfume filling his nose.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, before she’d had a chance to speak.
He tried to pick himself up as calmly as possible, managed to get to a chair, fingers tight on the blue plastic.
‘Must’ve had a dodgy pint last night,’ he said.
Rose stared at him, compassion in her eyes. ‘Go home and get some rest. Call me when you feel better.’
He hadn’t gone home. He needed fresh air, time and space to think.
He turned now and walked across the grass, away from the road, uphill then left to the bottom of a path. The start of the Radical Road. No name anywhere, just a red and white triangular sign warning of falling rocks. No tarmac, just gravel. Not a road at all. How had it got its name?
He started up the slope, his legs unsteady, feeling the stones in the path through the soles of his trainers. The sun was hammering down from a cloudless sky. What the hell was with this weather? He took his jacket off and pushed his sleeves up, felt sweat under his arms. The stink of gorse blossom everywhere. He imagined the pollen clogging his nose and throat. His tongue felt sticky. A few bees meandered in and out of bushes to his left. It was too early in the day for midges, thank God.
He passed another sign, a battered, metallic Historic Scotland plaque stuck to a boulder. ‘DANGER. Please Beware of Falling Rocks’. The path became grassy underfoot, ochre sandstone cliffs rising to his right, a steep yellow slope falling away on the other side. It didn’t take long before he was high up, more than a hundred feet, looking down at the police activity below.
Behind him the cliffs loomed, and in front the fall was equally dramatic. He stopped and looked around. He could see for miles, from the Pentlands to the Forth bridges and Fife. The light diffused to a vague haze in the distance, but the foreground was painfully sharp in the morning light. He could see down Rankeillor Street from here. He thought he spotted the Micra parked in the road, a smudge of red. He could see the police station, the newspaper office, the Holyrood. In the other direction, The Crags pub and Adele’s house. His whole world enclosed in a small turn of the head. And of course down below, the small cluster of trees on Queen’s Drive. There were no police there yet, they were all still standing around on the grass, waiting for instructions, sipping coffee from cardboard cups. He wondered if he would ever escape from this world. If he deserved to.
He reached out and touched a flower on the nearest gorse bush. He picked it, crushed the petals in his fingers and brought them to his nose. A smell like honey. He reached back out and grabbed a thorny branch in his fist. The thorns dug deep. His hand reacted instinctively to pull away but he forced it to remain, gripping tighter until the individual pinpricks of pain smeared into one, his whole hand on fire. He squeezed his fist in a slow pulse, feeling the thorns respond, digging deeper into his flesh. Eventually he pulled his hand away. More blood. More pain. Like the barbed wire. Like the nettle stings. All infusing into one.
He leaned over the edge. Long way down, almost a sheer slope, smothered in thick spiky bushes all the way. An easy way to die. You would get ripped to shreds on the way down. He leaned further out. His head throbbed and his mouth sweated. He forced himself to stand still, his eyes losing focus as he stared down to the bottom.
Eventually he stepped back and took a deep breath. Everything was normal. The bright sun, the faint drone of traffic in the distance, a thin breeze making the gorse quiver a little.
His phone rang. He pulled it out. Adele.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘I’m stoned. Apparently you had a funny turn at the press conference.’
‘Hangover. It was too hot in there.’
Billy heard a lighter fizz into life, then a breath.
‘I want to see you,’ she said.
Billy looked at the distant hills, which seemed to be closing in on him. ‘Sure. When?’
‘Now. Come to my place.’
Billy looked in the direction of her house. It was mostly shrouded by trees, the grey roof peaking through.
‘The summerhouse again?’
‘No, just come to the house. I’m alone.’
She hung up. Billy looked down to the expanse of grass below. The police were slowly walking towards Queen’s Drive, ready to examine the road in detail.
His neck throbbed. He tried to crick it, but it just hurt more. He pulled out a pack of painkillers, took three and then made his way down the Radical Road.
13
She was sitting on the back patio gazing at nothing when he emerged from the trees at the bottom of the garden. She wore a thin green blouse and tight jeans with a small rip in one knee. She was fingering the frayed edges of the ripped denim and smiled when she saw him.
‘You came over the back wall again.’
‘I wasn’t sure what the protocol was.’
‘You could’ve just rung the front doorbell.’ She looked at her watch, a delicate silver thing. ‘You were quick.’
‘Don’t like to keep a lady waiting.’
Billy rubbed a thumb across the palm of his hand and winced. The pain was muffled, but he was still acutely aware of it.
‘More trouble with the barbed wire?’
He stepped on to the patio. She didn’t get up. There was a stoned glaze in her eyes.
‘It’s fine.’
‘Let me see.’
He thought about it for a moment then held his hands out. She took them in hers.
‘Jesus, what a mess. Let’s get you cleaned up.’
‘There’s no need.’ He didn’t pull his hands away.
She got up, still holding his hands, and led him into the kitchen like a little kid. She turned a tap on.
‘Run them under there for a bit.’
She rummaged in a cupboard, then came out with a first-aid kit. The kitchen was huge, a marble island in the middle, heavy copper pans hanging like fruit from a tree, Smeg fridge sulking in the corner, jars of pasta and rice on a shelf next to hardback cookbooks. It was like one of the rooms they always featured in Zoe’s magazine, full of expensive, unattainable shit. Zoe would love this place.
Adele handed him a tea towel. He rubbed at his hands. Small spots of blood appeared on the fabric.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Come here.’ She took his hands. ‘This might sting a little.’
She wiped them with something antiseptic. Her head was down, concentrating on what she was doing. Billy stared at the top of her head, the intricate swirls of hair, the infinite spread of follicles. He could smell her shampoo, coconut and some exotic fruit. He looked down and saw she wasn’t wearing a bra under the blouse. Rounded nipples and full breasts, larger than Zoe’s. His hands stung but he held them steady. She began spreading some kind of cream on the cuts, a slow circular motion across his palms that had him mesmerised.
‘It’s like you’re reading my fortune.’
She smiled and played along, putting on a fake-ominous voice.
‘You will have a long and happy life.’ She traced a crease in his skin with her finger. Billy noticed she wasn’t
