At first they bonded over mockery of the straighter students on the course, but that acerbic fluff gradually gave way to something deeper, a shared understanding of the importance of friendship and family. Hal was the youngest of six siblings and was forever heading off in a bright sari to some cousin’s wedding or aunt’s birthday, rolling her eyes at the conformity but also revelling in it. We all live multiple lives, Surtsey thought, play different roles as a daughter, friend, student, lover.
Surtsey remembered that Halima had asked a question.
‘Mum,’ she said.
‘Oh, babes.’ Halima reached over and touched Surtsey’s hair. She ran a finger around the edge of her ear and Surtsey shivered, then she touched Surtsey’s loop earring, a tiny tug that pulled at the lobe.
Now Surtsey really was thinking about her mum. They’d spent three years apart when Surtsey left school, the usual quest for independence. Surtsey split rent with Halima on a crappy student flat in Sciennes, five minutes from the action of George Square. But Louise got the diagnosis at the start of Surtsey’s final year and she moved back in to help out, tearful at first but some laughs along the way, Iona storming around as if their mum dying was a personal affront, something she still did. Surtsey could understand that anger, God knows she felt it too, but in the end what good did it do?
Six months ago, with Louise deteriorating fast, they managed to get a place in the hospice five minutes up the road. Surtsey didn’t have it in her to keep changing grown-up nappies, cleaning up sick and helping her mum to the toilet. Louise hated all that too, ashamed of being babied by her own daughter. Through all this, Iona kept stomping around refusing to accept, a human storm cloud rumbling through life.
So this house was Surtsey and Iona’s home now, and Halima was here too having moved in partly to keep Surtsey company, partly because it was rent free. Louise was never coming home, that was the truth. The only way she was leaving the hospice was in a wooden box. Surtsey felt sick thinking about it.
She stared at the television, her stoned brain sucked into the glow of it. It was a news story about the earthquake earlier. 5.7 on the scale, no real damage done, a few minor aftershocks, a warning about future tremors. They were so used to it now it was barely worth mentioning unless it was a really big one.
She wondered what time it was. They’d been drinking and smoking for hours, watching Kimmy Schmidt, Parks & Rec, old 30 Rock.
Surtsey frowned and pushed herself up from the sofa. It took enormous effort, muscles straining. She stumbled over to the telescope and bent to look through the eyepiece.
Halima laughed. ‘What are you doing? It’s dark, you can’t see anything.’
Surtsey kept her eye to the telescope, staring at the blackness.
5
Surtsey was too wired from the grass to sleep, lying in bed imagining she was in a coffin. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Tom, the way the bones of his face weren’t quite right any more, the smear of blood on his scalp, the glassy look in his eyes. The birds would’ve returned to him after she left and she felt guilty about that. But she had to go.
She heard an electronic ping she didn’t recognise coming from somewhere. She sat up and lifted her jeans from the floor. Fished her phone out the pocket and pressed the button. Nothing. She looked around the room for a few seconds then remembered. Tom’s cheap Nokia, the one he only ever used for her. She had lifted it from the Inch and brought it home. While Hal was cooking earlier she brought it upstairs and stashed it in the drawer of her bedside table.
She opened the drawer, picked it up and swiped. A text message from an unknown number:
I know you were there.
She dropped the phone on the bed and her hand shot to her temple. She felt dizzy. What the hell? She stared at the phone lying on the covers then glanced out of the window, dark except for a lighthouse blip in the distance.
She turned back to the phone, picked it up, gripping it tight in her fist, stared at the words until the screen went dark. She brought it back to life and sent a reply.
Who is this?
She pressed send and waited. Someone had Tom’s number and knew that she had his phone. They must’ve seen her take it from the island. So they were there. It must be the murderer, unless they were bluffing. Maybe it was someone who knew she’d been sleeping with him, someone putting stuff together, fishing for information.
No answer.
She tried to call but there was no caller ID and the phone just bleeped out. She tried again, same result. Then she texted:
How do you have this number?
She stared at the screen, the green of it the only light in the darkness. She checked back through the phone’s history, texts and calls, but the only other interactions had been with her own phone.
Then she heard a noise coming from downstairs. A clattering about in the hall, the clomping of feet. She swallowed hard and took a long, slow breath. More thumping around, indistinct, then finally a familiar sound, girlish giggles and comedy shushing, two voices. Iona was back from her shift, and not alone. Again.
There was the sound of a glass smashing, mumbled swearing, a thud against a wall. She was probably fine down there, whoever she was with. But … Surtsey arched out of bed, still holding Tom’s phone. The touch of her toes on the floor made her feel connected, like she was an ancient tree. Shit, that grass was stronger than Halima’s usual stuff. She checked the phone screen again, to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated it. The message and her reply were still there. She threw on her old green hoodie,
