The Interpretations Read online

‘Oh yes. Off like a rocket.’

  ‘Really? Well, he hasn’t finished. Must’ve pulled up.’

  ‘Check with Brian. He started last so he’ll be able to tell you if he passed him or not.’

  But Brian Mitchell, when Mike found him among a group of runners preparing to set off for the local pub, the Din, said no, he hadn’t overtaken Tom. ‘Set off as if his arse was on fire. Knew I didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him.’

  Mike left his stopwatch, still running, with Alice Rattray and cycled back along the walkway towards South Mossfield. He met no one. Just to be absolutely sure, he turned off the bridge approach at the southern end and went all the way down to the start line. No sign of Tom. Then he cycled across the bridge once more. There was no one at the finish now except Alice Rattray. They made their way over to the Din. Many of the runners were there. ‘Anyone seen Tom?’ he called out. The responses were all negative. Alice Rattray said, ‘There’s probably a simple explanation.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, go back home. He’ll be there.’

  Mike cycled back across the bridge to South Mossfield. At intervals he even called out Tom’s name, knowing how ridiculous this was. Having started the race, there was only one place Tom could be and that was on the walkway. There was a high, chain link fence separating it from the carriageway on one side and, on the outer edge, the high barrier with only sky above and sea below.

  Shortly after eight fifteen, Mike reached the flat in South Mossfield that he shared with Tom. He knew Tom would not be there and he was right. He checked Tom’s bedroom. It was in its usual state: neat and tidy but not obsessively so. There was no obvious sign of arrival or departure.

  Tom did not return that evening. In the morning, Mike called round a few of Tom’s friends just to check if he’d somehow managed to abandon the race undetected and had stayed the night away from home. No one knew where he was. At ten in the morning Mike phoned Dalmore Police Station and asked to speak to Inspector McCall.

  3

  In the beginning the Reverend McFarren had used wire but now the key hung round his neck on a length of dirty string. It was a very old, very large key. He could put three fingers with ease through the worn, flesh-polished loop of iron that formed the handle. It was heavy and where it lay on his chest, handle on breastbone, shaft pointing down towards his navel, the skin was permanently inflamed in a red, key-shaped rash which he took to be a cross and was glad.

  The wire had been a mistake; even he could not withstand the pain of it cutting into his neck. After two days he chose string instead. But, to pay a price for his inconstancy of purpose, he ensured that the tight hard knot of the string was positioned directly on top of his left collar-bone where it pressed hard into his flesh and produced, over the years, a little welt of rough skin surrounded by an almost permanent purple bruise. ‘Such things I endure for my faith,’ he said. To himself.

  Standing before the heavy oak door of the East Kirk he took off his wire-framed spectacles, folded the legs carefully and pushed them into the outer top pocket of his black jacket. He undid the stud of his dog-collar at the back of his neck and reached under, at the side, to take hold of the string. He pulled out enough for him to be able to slip a loop of string over his head. Then he dragged out the great key which struck him on the chin as it emerged. Placing the key carefully in the lock he said quietly, ‘Nearer to thee, oh Lord, thy humble servant.’ He turned the key and pressed the door lightly. It swung slowly away from him. But before he entered the church, before his foot was allowed to cross the threshold, he put the key away again, observing in reverse the details of ritual that had attended its retrieval from his person. He made sure that the knot of the string was still on the left side in irksome balance on his collar-bone. Then, when he had done up the stud of his dog-collar again, he took his spectacles from his pocket, unfolded the legs and put them on, threading the curled wire carefully over his ears. He took a couple of seconds to compose himself. ‘Oh Lord, I come to Thee as one naked, a sinner.’ He pushed the door open wide and went inside.

  As he had feared, there was a pool of water in the left aisle. He looked up into the gloom of the raftered ceiling and saw the source. There was a great pale brown stain on the white plaster between the roof beams. He had been right about the broken slates and now the sarking was probably rotten, the plaster soaked and here was the inevitable result: a steady drip onto the floor after last night’s storm. Soon the plaster itself would give way and apart from the shame of it there was the danger of serious injury if the event occurred during a service and someone were sitting beneath. But mostly there was the shame.

  ‘Good morning, minister.’

  He turned. ‘Good morning, Alec.’

  The man at the door was dressed in faded blue overalls speckled with paint and dirt and torn at the right knee. He stood waiting, hands clasped before him.

  ‘Come in, man, come in.’

  He stepped forward into the church. They stood, side by side, contemplating the pool of water, watching as three drops exploded separately on the surface.

  ‘I never thought it would come to this, Alec. It’s an affront to the Lord.’

  ‘But easily fixed, minister,’ the other replied. ‘I can make a start at the beginning of the week sometime.’

  ‘You couldn’t do anything today?’ the minister ventured. ‘I was thinking of tonight’s communion service.’

  ‘Get them to sit on the right, just for this evening. The east roof is fine.’

  ‘The east roof?’

  ‘It’s the west roof that gets the battering. It’s where the weather comes from.’

  ‘Well now . . .’ The minister walked round the pool of water which was, in fact, only a couple of feet across. ‘This is the Mitchells’ pew,’ he said. ‘They won’t like moving. And I don’t blame them. We’re failing the Lord, here, Alec. I’m affronted myself.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t take it so personally, minister.’

  ‘No? No? So how should I take it then, Alec?’ the minister said, aware that his voice was rising. ‘Tell me that. How should I take it?’

  There was no immediate reply to this. They stood for a while facing one another on opposite sides of the slowly enlarging pool of water. They looked up at the barely visible ceiling then down at the floor again; they looked round at the rows of empty pews. Were they ever full? the minister caught himself thinking and, as if on cue, the builder said, ‘There’s another possibility, minister, as you know.’

  ‘Is there? Is there? And what’s that, then?’

  ‘The suggestion at the last parish meeting . . .’

  ‘Oh that!’ He affected dismay, though he had guessed what the builder was about to say. ‘That suggestion. Yes, that infernal suggestion. I’m surprised you should mention it, Alec.’

  ‘So you’ll not consider it, then?’

  ‘Not while I live and breathe. Never.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Right. Well then . . .’ The builder peered up at the ceiling again, the dusty brown beams, the cracked and stained plaster. ‘I’ll take a look from the outside now, I think.’

  ‘Fine.’

  They both went outside, the minister closing but not locking the door behind him. They stepped from the gravelled forecourt of the church up onto the lawn.

  ‘Now don’t get your feet wet, minister.’

  ‘It’s all right, Alec.’ He looked down at his polished black leather shoes, the shine on them, a little fleck of mud on the right toe.

  ‘It’s soft now, and damp.’ The builder’s faded dungarees descended into black Wellington boots, striped with paint and mud and hardened cement.

  They squelched their way forward leaving prints behind them on the grass, toe and forefoot and heel, shallow indentations that filled momentarily with water before slowly unspringing themselves. When they had crossed far enough to be able to view the pitched roof with ease they turned and stood. The minister could feel water invadi
ng the stitching of his shoes, seeping through the welt, soaking his dark grey socks.

  ‘Four slates, minister.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s enough. Look up there.’ He pointed. ‘Four gone and two broken in half and a few more ready to drop at any time, I’d imagine.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘By the amount of repair work. Can you see it?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . I think I can,’ the minister said, but he couldn’t really. He regarded such things in the same way as he did mechanics, engineering, trigonometry; they weren’t Godless things but they were mysteries, for him at least. For a moment he thought of the word Godless and wondered what its opposite might be. Godly, he supposed, though he would apply this word to people and actions rather than things. Goddish? ‘So . . . so what do you suggest then, Alec?’

  ‘Long-term, what I suggest is what you don’t like.’

  ‘Oh?’ He turned to look at the builder again. His eyes softened. ‘Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?’

  ‘It’s an opportunity.’

  ‘Is that what you call it.’

  ‘Well, that’s my opinion, anyway.’

  ‘Well, it’s not mine.’

  ‘Oh, I know that, minister. I know that but . . . but what I’m saying is that you could have one church in . . . in really first-rate condition, outside and in. I mean, there’s enough slates between the two of them to give you one sound roof rather than two that’s broken down . . .’

  ‘But Alec . . .’

  ‘I mean, think of the building you could have there! I could replace all the broken paneling, all the rotten skirting-boards, all the beams that aren’t going to last much longer. It would be . . . I mean . . . it would be something that would last for another hundred years. Another hundred years! Imagine that! Instead of just . . . never-ending repairs because last week this broke and this week that fell apart and next week . . . next week who knows what’s going to happen . . .’

  ‘Alec . . .’

  The minister stopped. He was surprised, perhaps shocked, by the vehemence of the builder’s words, their passion. He hadn’t believed the man capable of such a thing. ‘I can . . .’ he began, ‘I can see you feel very strongly about this, Alec.’

  ‘I do. I do.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking more of the people . . .’

  ‘But I am too, minister. I mean – no disrespect, you understand – but well . . . there’s neither church even half full, is there? Nor nearly half full. I mean, I don’t like it any more than you do but I’m just trying to be . . . to be practical.’

  ‘I’m thinking of Mrs McArthur and the McFadyens, Alec, the Lennoxes . . . living close by and walking to church every Sunday. Would you deny them that?’

  ‘I’d arrange lifts for them. I mean, I do that already . . . Miss Comlyn, I mean.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t want a lift.’

  ‘It’s not far . . .’

  ‘Maybe that’s not the point.’

  ‘It would be easier for you too, minister . . .’

  ‘What’s easy or not for me is of no importance whatever and you know that very well.’

  ‘The new bridge . . .’

  ‘Another abomination.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then the builder said quietly, ‘Yes, yes, I forgot. An abomination. Well . . .’

  ‘Am I the only person who can see this?’ the minister asked.

  ‘Well . . .’

  But the question was rhetorical. The all-too familiar rant had begun. Skinner knew this and remained silent; the Reverend McFarren knew it also but seemed helpless before it. He went on, ‘Four men during the building of it. Four lives gone and four families destroyed. And if that isn’t enough, think of the five poor souls who have killed themselves since then by jumping off it. Do people stop to think about that, do they, when they get to Dalmore all of five minutes quicker because of that . . . that bridge?’

  ‘I’m not saying . . .’ Skinner began, but the minister wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Tom . . .’ He shook his head and then repeated the name quietly. ‘I can hardly bring myself to say it.’

  After a few moments of silence, Skinner said, ‘A terrible business altogether.’

  ‘I pray for him’.

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  ‘For his soul and its repose.’

  Skinner said nothing.

  The minister looked up at the roof again. Then his eyes strayed to the hills in the distance. It was much too early for heather and even for broom but the gently rounded shapes with their occasional crags and scree slopes always had colour to offer: shades of green as leaves of bracken and couch grass began to struggle towards the lengthening light; the grey and mica-glittered granite laid bare where winter storms had stripped away a layer of heather and peat; the white bark of a few stunted birches on the lower slopes.

  The minister said, ‘And Eileen Tulloch.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you’d seen Tulloch after his daughter died . . . well, you’d not think twice about knocking that abomination down. No . . . knock it down, I say . . .’

  ‘It’s too late for that, minister.’

  ‘Is it? Is it?’ For a moment it looked as if the Reverend McFarren might lean forward and take a bite out of Skinner. The builder had rarely seen him so animated, so angry. There was a bitter edge to his anger these days, too. He had fought a battle and had lost. He knew he had lost and he knew there was nothing he could do about it even though he believed as strongly in the cause as he had ever done. ‘Too late, is it?’ the minister said. ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: it’s too late for Eileen Tulloch.’

  ‘I can hardly disagree with that,’ Skinner said quietly.

  Gordon Tulloch was an elder in the Reverend McFarren’s church. He was a butcher and had a shop on a prime site on Dalmore High Street. He was known as a shrewd businessman who was very fair to his customers but in spite of this he was not well liked. Even the minister himself struggled to like Tulloch. He was sometimes mean-spirited and harsh in some of his relationships, particularly those with his immediate family. His wife had died three years ago and this loss filled him with a resentment which sometimes spilled over into unreasonableness and cruelty. He was so hard on his son, Samuel, that the boy left home at the age of sixteen and, in the two years since then had visited Dalmore only once and that was not to visit his father but to attend the funeral of his sister, Eileen.

  Eileen was seventeen when she died. She had been quiet, studious and devout. Unlike her brother she had retained the religious beliefs instilled in her by her father. She decided to dedicate her life to the church. At seventeen she left home to attend Bible College in Glasgow.

  At the end of the first term she returned home and announced that she had fallen in love with one of her classmates and was going to get married. To no one’s surprise her father was outraged. He forbade her from returning to college and told her she would remain at home and, as before, look after the house on his behalf. In these circumstances there was only one thing that Eileen could do and she did it. She ran away from home.

  At this point the facts in the case became hard to pin down because Tulloch himself was the only remaining source of information. The Reverend McFarren had talked to Tulloch a lot and thought that he knew what had happened but he could not be sure. Tulloch’s account of events could not really be trusted because of the horror that followed.

  But the story, true or not, was that Eileen and her boyfriend had travelled together to Italy. While they were there something went wrong and they parted company. Within three weeks Eileen was home again. The Reverend McFarren could only guess at the reception she got from her father. Tulloch himself would not elaborate. Whether this was because he was ashamed or felt guilty or because one or either or both of these had blotted out the details, the minister couldn’t say. But this at least was known for sure: shortly after a
rriving home Eileen took herself to the middle of the new Duie Bridge and jumped off. Her body was found in the firth two days later.

  Two days after that, another body was found as well. Her boyfriend, shocked at the news of her death, made his way north to Dalmore and decided that he should share the same fate.

  All this had happened only two weeks ago, a few days before Tom Kingsmill disappeared. And so the bridge was implicated once again. Everyone believed that, whatever the reasons that lay behind Tom’s action, he too had killed himself by jumping from the new Duie Bridge.

  As for Tulloch, the minister was right: he was a man destroyed. Even his fiercest critics softened to him in his grief. One or two, however, privately suggested he’d driven his daughter to take her own life. The minister knew his position was clear: whatever Tulloch was or was not, it was compassion that he needed right now. But the minister also knew that what he felt for Tulloch wasn’t compassion; it was pity.

  The two men, Skinner and the Reverend McFarren, stood for a little longer, both looking up at the roof, the three or four spaces where slates had broken away. They had slid down the dark ski-slope of the roof and two of them had hit the gravel below and smashed into jagged grey pieces. Two others had been arrested by the sagging guttering and still sat there, a few feet above the point of the right-hand mock-gothic window, waiting for a gust of wind to tip them over and let them fall.

  ‘It was Tom Kingsmill . . .’ the minister began, as if talking to himself.

  ‘Tom?’ The builder asked.

  The minister turned to him. ‘I was just thinking, it was Tom who last fixed the roof.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘He did. The slates on the outside and then some plastering inside.’

  ‘That would have been some time ago, then.’

  The minister shook his head. ‘Four or five years maybe. No more.’

  ‘I thought he’d given up on the kirk,’ the builder said. ‘In fact, didn’t he say something about never entering a church again?’

  ‘Oh, he did. But he agreed to fix the roof.’ The minister smiled. ‘And the ceiling. Said he’d do it when God was out.’