‘Uh huh.’

‘Really, honestly, wait and see, but we might not be able to see the heads close up.’

‘The heads?’

He flicked through the images on the laptop to show her. ‘The heads are called Life, Death and Immortality. They’re carved over the entrance to the crypt. It’s amazing though, ’cause Life and Death have weathered and faded with age, but Immortality hasn’t.’

‘Immortality through death then?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Cool.’

Jason moved across to the window, opened it and peered out. Dark clouds momentarily obliterated the moon. The wind seethed and howled.

‘Jason and Lauren were bewitched by the dark beauty of the landscape.’ Jason looked at her and laughed. ‘Only one thing would improve this.’ He closed the window and walked towards her.

She snuggled into the sofa. ‘You’ve a one-track mind.’

‘Not that; I’ve got something.’ He reached across her and grabbed his rucksack, unzipped it. Heard Lauren start to laugh. Started laughing himself.

‘What is it?’

‘Liquid G.’

‘GHB?’

‘Yeah.’ He placed a small plastic bottle on an empty CD case, went into the kitchen and returned with a glass and a bottle of cordial. He looked across at her. ‘Want me to go first?’

‘Yeah, but where’s your glass?’

He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a hip flask. ‘I keep this with me always.’ He began to pour.

The song had ended and the next one had begun when Jason lay back on the floor and let the sensation wash over him. He looked across at Lauren – she was lying flat out on the sofa, a smile on her face, her eyes closed.

Chapter 39

The television was on in Ian Robertson’s sitting room, the sound turned down. Images of the Scottish Colourists and their art flicked in silence as Robertson paced the room. Finally he heard the noise of a car outside. He was at the window in a second and stood watching his wife’s car pull into the driveway. He drummed his fingers on the sill, frowning. When she saw him Margaret blushed, looked at the ground. It was then that he knew. He waited until she was in the hall before going to meet her. He kept his voice casual, neutral.

‘Where’ve you been?’

She wouldn’t meet his gaze; instead she concentrated on hanging up her coat. ‘Out.’

‘I can see that. Where?’

‘I went for a drive.’ She crossed to the kitchen, put on the kettle. Stood with her back to him.

‘Margaret, we don’t have secrets. We’re not that kind of a couple.’

She turned to him, her eyes filling up. ‘But we do have secrets, Ian. I feel as if I’m in this marriage alone. You come and go without even waking me sometimes. You go out at night and never tell me where you’re going. It’s as if I don’t matter. Sometimes I feel I don’t exist.’ Her shoulders began to shake; the familiar sobbing began.

He reached out and held her, let her cry for a few minutes before he spoke. Kept his voice even. ‘What brought all this on?’

‘It’s been building for a long while.’

‘What has?’

She held out her hands. ‘All this, me being kept out of your life. I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

He turned from her, looked out of the window, watched the outside light go on and illuminate the garden. A fox padded across the lawn, its bushy tail amber in the light. Robertson watched it disappear into their neighbour’s garden. He could hear the noise it made as it ate the dog food his neighbour insisted on leaving out for it. Robertson sighed, turned back to her. ‘I’ll need to see to that fence. Get it sorted once and for all – it’s like a zoo out there sometimes.’

Margaret said nothing.

The kettle had boiled and he went to the cupboard, took down two mugs. ‘Tea or coffee, Margaret?’

Her voice was calm. ‘I went to see Elder Morrison.’

He froze, let his hands fall to his side, struggled but failed to keep the anger from his voice. ‘You went to see Elder Morrison? About what?’

It came out in a rush. ‘I went to talk to him, about us, about our issues. How we’ve not been getting on. How we barely see each other and we never talk.’

He waited. ‘And?’

‘And how we don’t have any . . .’

‘Any what exactly?’

‘Just that we don’t . . . we haven’t, you know, in a long while.’

‘You spoke to him about our sex life?’

‘I was desperate – you won’t talk to me, we hardly touch.’

‘So, the best way to resolve this is to go and speak to someone outside of our marriage? To air our dirty laundry in public?’ His voice bitter, accusing.

‘I didn’t mean to talk about it,’ Margaret pleaded. ‘I didn’t know who to turn to.’

‘I suppose you told the women at the meeting too; I suppose now the whole Hall knows?’

‘No, just Elder Morrison.’

‘I see. And what did he say?’

Her shoulders slumped. ‘He told me to be patient, that you had a stressful job. That it’s not all about my needs.’

‘Your bloody needs! That’s all you think about. Maybe you should never have got married – maybe being an old maid would have suited you better because you don’t seem to be able to handle being a good wife, do you?’

The tears fell steadily. Margaret didn’t bother trying to brush them away.

‘Well, Margaret?’ he bellowed.

‘I want to have a baby.’ Her voice a whisper, ‘I want us to have children.’

‘So then maybe you listen to him, maybe you think about me for a change and all the stress I’m under at work, instead of your own selfish needs. I work fucking hard to keep a roof over our heads.’ It was the first time he had sworn at her.

‘I work too, you know.’ Her voice was quiet, losing conviction.

‘You’re unbelievable. Can you really compare your shitty part-time job at the bakery with my career? Do you know what it’s like to work in the real world?’

She reached for the kitchen towel, began shredding it. ‘I only took it until the babies came along. You encouraged me.’

‘I encouraged you to take it to get you out of the house, to give you something to do instead of obsessing about children all day.’

‘I’m not obsessed. Mum agrees that it’s time I had a family of my own.’

‘You’ve spoken to your mother as well? Well, that’s just great. Is there anyone who doesn’t know?’

Margaret was confused. ‘But I always talk to Mum.’

‘Then maybe it’s time for you to grow up and be an adult for once. Anyway, how can we afford a family with our mortgage? You do the sums.’

‘We could sell the house.’

‘And live where?’

‘We could ask Mum and Dad if we could stay there for a bit. They could help us.’

Robertson rubbed the back of his neck, flexed his fingers, stared out at the back garden. ‘Listen, that is never going to happen. And I don’t want you ever, do you hear me, EVER to go talking to others about me behind my back. Got it?’

Silence.

He turned to her, leaned into her face. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’

Margaret nodded.

‘And if anyone needs help it’s you. You need to get to the doctor again, get some tranquillisers or something to calm you down. You’re losing it, you know that don’t you?’

She began sobbing again.

He grabbed his coat, slammed the door behind him. He drove as fast as the speed limit would allow, desperate to get away from her nagging and far away from their claustrophobic home. Robertson felt the familiar band of pain tighten around his head and press in on his thoughts. He gripped the steering wheel, fought the desire to press hard on the accelerator, kept driving, out of Glasgow, out to the Campsies, past the Gospel Hall and out into the dark hills. Far away from his wife, Elder Morrison and a marriage that was choking the breath out of him.