Star Gazing Read online

  ‘Perfectly. The wooden floor reverberates with your voice. You sound very close in fact. Go on.’

  ‘In summer I used to stand at my bedroom window – when I should have been in bed asleep – staring up at the sky, knowing that the stars were there, I just couldn’t see them. So I used to plot their positions, work out where they’d be if I could see them.’

  ‘Like the astronomers who predicted Neptune.’

  ‘Aye! You know about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. I collect stories about the redundancy of sight. Tell me what you can see now. And don’t worry whether or not I understand. I’ll just listen to it as story. No, as music. The music of the spheres.’ She laughs softly. ‘A space opera.’

  Satisfied that the log has caught, Keir gets into his sleeping bag again and looks out the window. As the moon appears from behind a cloud he sees that snow has started to fall in big, slow flakes. It collects at the corners of the window frame and is beginning to drift on the sill. He turns away from the window, lies down on his back and aims his voice upward, towards Marianne. He speaks in a soft, steady monotone, as much incantation as description.

  ‘If you look east, one of the brightest stars you’ll see is Arcturus. It has a yellow-orange glow. Most stars look cold. Icy. They’d sound like… flutes. No, piccolos. Shrill. Arcturus looks warmer. A cello maybe… It looks like the stove feels when it gives off just a bit of heat. Arcturus glows, but it doesn’t burn or blaze like the sun. It’s like the feeling you might have for an old friend… or an ex-lover, one who still means something to you. Steady. Passionless. On second thoughts, make that a viola… How am I doing?’

  ‘This is utter bliss. I want you to make me a tape of this. To listen to when I’m back home. Tell me more.’

  Keir rolls onto his side and props himself up on an elbow, looking at the stove. ‘If you look west, you’ll see Orion, the hunter. He’s easy to spot. He’s massive. My esteemed colleagues on the rigs would say he was built like a brick shithouse. His right arm’s raised up in the air, wielding his club. His left arm is extended and holds a shield – some say a lion’s skin. His shoulders are wide and a big, bright star called Betelgeuse sits on his shoulder. I couldn’t get my mouth round it when I was a kid so I used to call it “Beetlejuice”… There’s an even brighter star at Orion’s foot: Rigel. Now Rigel really hits you between the eyes. It’s fifty thousand times brighter than the sun, but it’s fourteen hundred light years away. What I really like about Orion – och, this guy is so cool! – is, he has a fancy belt. He’s big in the shoulder but kind of narrow in the waist and he has a belt made up of three bright stars. And hanging from this superb belt is another cluster of stars, quite close together, that dangle and form his sword. The middle star is really the Orion Nebula, which is a cloud of dust and gas, but it looks just like a star… Now if you look to the left of Orion, snapping at his heels you’ll find the brightest star in the sky: Sirius, the Dog Star, Orion’s hunting dog. Sirius is quite close, only eight light years away and it’s forty times more luminous than the sun, so that’s why it looks so bright. Think of… a clarinet, the way it dominates the other instruments of the orchestra. Sirius outshines all the other stars and draws your eye. My grandfather had a sheepdog like that… Star. That was his name. No good as a working dog – unreliable and a show-off. So he gave him to me. Star was always at my heels, wanting attention. A complete pain in the arse, but I loved him and he loved me. I gave him a secret name. Sirius. And I used to pretend to be Orion the hunter, with a leather belt my big brother gave me and a stick for a sword… Once Sirius caught a hare. He killed it and brought it to me, dropped it at my feet, like an offering. I was completely choked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘At the foot of Orion there’s another constellation. Lepus. The Hare. I thought this was proof that Sirius knew, knew what his secret name meant, knew who I was pretending to be.’ Keir turns his head to look up at the window. He watches snowflakes swarming outside, then says softly, ‘Are you still awake? You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I’m completely entranced, that’s why.’ He hears the rustle of bedclothes above him as she turns over. ‘Thank you, Keir. That was all quite, quite wonderful.’

  ‘You should try and sleep. I’ve an exhausting day planned for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m far too excited to sleep. I shall lie awake now and watch the stars in my mind’s eye.’

  He doesn’t reply, then after a moment begins to recite.

  ‘Thou being of marvels,

  Shield me with might,

  Thou being of statutes

  And of stars…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A Gaelic prayer. More of a charm, half pagan as it is. A charm for sleep.’

  ‘Is there more?’

  ‘Aye, plenty…

  Compass me this night,

  Both soul and body,

  Compass me this night

  And on every night.

  Compass me aright

  Between earth and sky,

  Between the mystery of Thy laws

  And mine eye of blindness.’

  He hears the small sound of her sudden intake of her breath, but continues:

  ‘Both that which mine eye sees

  And that which it reads not:

  Both that which is clear

  And is not clear to my devotion…

  Goodnight, Marianne.’

  ‘Goodnight… And thank you, Keir.’

  ‘Och, no bother.’

  She hears the zip of his sleeping bag and a creak as the sofa settles beneath him. Lying still, hardly breathing, Marianne recalls a phrase from the charm: Thou Being of Marvels… She smiles and thinks of Keir, then to her dismay, finds she has begun to tremble, and not because of the wintry chill in the room.

  * * * * *

  Louisa

  When she’d been gone for several days I received a postcard from Marianne. I presumed she must have dictated the message.

  Dear Lou,

  Sight-seeing is not an option but I’m nevertheless experiencing Skye. Everywhere we go I hear a beautiful, soothing texture of sounds. And so many different kinds of rain! It’s never silent but always quiet enough to hear the smallest sound, like water trickling over rocks. I feel as if I’ve been given spectacles for my ears – my world of the senses is suddenly in sharp focus. I’m drunk on a cocktail of peat smoke, damp vegetation and the sea, washed down with the odd dram of very good whisky.

  Having – as they say – a wonderful time.

  Love,

  M.

  x

  P.S. I asked Keir to choose a card for you.

  It was one of those humorous postcards, completely black and captioned ‘Night Skye’. At first I thought the joke was in pretty poor taste, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was just the sort of weird choice Marianne herself would have made. Keir also sent me a card and the two arrived together. His was pictorial, showing a spectacular view of mountains. The message was brief.

  Hi Louisa

  Marianne appears to be enjoying herself. No mishaps and she’s coping very well off home territory. She even seems to like our terrible weather.

  Best wishes,

  Keir

  It was sweet of them both to think of me sitting worrying at home and I did appreciate the reassurance, but of course neither of them had told me what I really wanted to know.

  I showed both cards to Garth when he called round to fix a problem with my laptop. Despite (or perhaps because of) his public school education, Garth likes to affect the speech patterns of a cockney costermonger. He read both cards, handed them back to me and said with a grin, ‘You reckon they’re shaggin’ then?’

  Chapter Eight

  Louisa

  Life took an interesting turn while Marianne was away. (Perhaps life took an interesting turn because Marianne was away.)

  Garth and I had been to an evening lecture on Mary Shelley (a
much under-rated author, in my opinion) and we walked home, deep in discussion. As the February sleet turned to snow we took a short-cut up a side street, then through an alley. An ill-advised decision as it turned out, but I was accompanied by Garth and it wasn’t very late, so my guard was down. We were debating whether Frankenstein constituted a study of bad parenting as well as motherlessness when a man suddenly sprang up from behind a pile of rubbish bags. Shabby and desperate-looking, he emerged from the cover of the bags, like Magwitch among the tombstones, and lurched towards us.

  One is used to beggars, tramps and all sorts in Edinburgh, so although I was startled, I didn’t panic immediately, not until I’d registered our surroundings: a badly lit side-street; the absence of people; the sound of traffic now distant. Clutching Garth’s arm, I was aware he was rigid with tension, then that he was shaking.

  He must have seen the knife before I did. It wasn’t a very big knife, but there was something about the way the man held it that made me think he knew how to use it and would have no scruples about doing so. Magwitch said, ‘Don’t move!’, a quite unnecessary instruction since Garth and I were rooted to the spot with terror. He lifted the knife, brandishing it in my face, but kept his eyes on Garth. ‘Wallet and phone, pal. One at a time.’

  Garth stammered, ‘Leave ’er alone! You can ’ave ’em, mate.’ He reached inside his long black overcoat and slowly handed over his mobile, then his wallet. Magwitch pocketed them both, still watching Garth, though his eyes flickered once in my direction. They were dead, dulled with drugs, hunger or cold – perhaps a mixture of all three.

  He turned to me and snarled, ‘Bag.’ I thought at first this was just an insult, then realised he was asking for my handbag. I proffered it without hesitation. It was a large leather bag with a shoulder chain as well as handles, a bag big enough to contain all my writer’s paraphernalia of notebooks, pens, index cards and so forth. I could see Magwitch thinking how conspicuous the bag would be, how heavy to carry as he ran. He gestured with the knife then barked, ‘Open it. Gie’s your purse.’

  Now, there was a flaw in the design of that bag which was in any case never intended to carry all the kit I put in it. If you held the bag by one handle and released the catch, it tended to gape open and, if you weren’t careful, the contents of the bag fell out. I wasn’t careful.

  I let go of one of the handles, released the catch and the contents of my handbag fell at Magwitch’s feet. Phone, purse, spectacles, powder compact, nail polish, fountain pen and key ring clattered to the ground. He seemed to be thrown by the noise and glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. If looks could kill, I’d have been a goner. He muttered, ‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ then did a little dance of indecision, shifting his weight from one ill-shod foot to the other. I prayed for him to turn and run. Instead he growled, ‘Pick them up! Purse, then phone.’

  I extended a hand towards Garth and clutched at his arm as I kneeled down among my scattered (in some cases shattered) belongings. Garth must have bent to help me because Magwitch grunted, then said, ‘Don’t move, laddie, or Ma’s had it.’

  Well, that was the last straw. I was already frightened and tearful, but this was the final insult. Now I was angry. Grasping my phone in one hand and my purse in the other, I got up from my knees into a crouching position. I stared at Magwitch’s feet, aligned my body, took a deep breath and launched myself upwards, head-butting him in the groin.

  He fell over backwards, screaming. I yelled ‘Run!’ and without waiting to see if Garth followed, ran as fast as I could towards light, noise and traffic, shedding my high-heeled shoes at the earliest opportunity. Only when I hit the busy thoroughfare of Lothian Road did I pause for breath. I was overjoyed to find Garth beside me, laughing and weeping, black eyeliner coursing down his whitened cheeks. We stood on a street corner, hugging and congratulating each other until Garth had the wit to hail a taxi. I hobbled over to the cab and gave the driver my address, then Garth pointed out that my keys were still lying in the alley. I explained that, since the time Marianne had lost her key, I’d left a spare with a neighbour.

  When we arrived home, I told Garth that under no circumstances was I spending the night alone in the flat since Magwitch now had my keys, my address book and a motive for murder. Garth lived alone in a seedy area populated by Magwitches, so I wasn’t the least surprised when he agreed to stay.

  And that’s how it all started.

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  When I woke something was different. Everything was different. The sounds, the scents, the smell and feel of the duvet cover, the chill in the air, all of this was unfamiliar. As I surfaced from sleep my heart began to pound and I tried to work out where I was.

  There was a smell of frying bacon. (Louisa never cooked breakfast, never ate breakfast, but succumbed as often as not to coffee and a Danish mid-morning.) There was the sound of someone trying to be quiet in a kitchen: loud, metallic noises followed by quieter sounds as memory and consideration kicked in. There were other smells: coffee, wood smoke, something herbal and soapy. Gradually my senses assembled the jigsaw: I was upstairs in Keir’s house. He was below, in the kitchen, freshly showered, brewing coffee, cooking breakfast, tending the stove.

  I lay still on my pillows, absorbing my surroundings. There was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, something that was different from yesterday… The burn. I couldn’t hear the burn. It had been faint indoors but I’d fallen asleep to the sound of it murmuring. Now I couldn’t hear it at all.

  At the foot of the stairs the wind chime rang, then rang again, a little louder. I heard Keir’s footsteps on the stairs, slow, deliberate.

  * * * * *

  ‘Marianne? Are you awake?’

  She sits up in bed pulling the duvet around her, even though her body is well covered by fleece pyjamas. ‘Yes. Are you in the room yet?’

  ‘No, on the stair. I’ve made you some breakfast.’ Keir ducks his head as he enters with a tray. ‘Or are you one of those bloodless females who start the day with yoghurt and herbal tea?’

  ‘I could murder a bacon roll.’

  ‘Now that’s what I like to hear. I’ve got a tray here and I’m putting it in front of you. There’s coffee on your right and a bacon sandwich on your left. Sliced white so you can relish the full slum-dwelling experience. There’s plenty more coffee, just give me a shout. I thought about bringing up the pot but I imagine a mug is easier.’

  ‘Thank you. This is all just wonderful.’

  He stands at the end of the bed and watches her bite into the sandwich; thinks how different she looks with her smooth, ashen hair disordered. ‘It’s nice and warm in the kitchen when you want to come down. I’ll teach you how the shower works.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She waves the sandwich in the direction of his voice. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’ Swallowing, she says, ‘Keir, there’s something odd about the sounds outside. What is it?’

  He smiles. ‘Can you sense that? Is it quieter? Even with me banging around in the kitchen?’

  ‘It seems quieter outside.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I can’t hear the burn.’

  ‘No, you won’t. It’s sluggish now. With ice.’

  She lifts her head as realisation dawns. ‘Has it snowed?’

  ‘Aye, it has. Inches of the stuff. Are you up for a snowball fight? You can blindfold me to make it fair. We’ll do it like Jedi Knights in training. Feel the force, Luke…’

  Choking, she exclaims, ‘Your jokes are in appalling taste!’

  ‘Aye, but they make you laugh.’

  ‘Only because I have a macabre sense of humour. Sit down. You don’t have to hover like an old family retainer.’

  Keir sits at the end of the bed and says, ‘It must be bad enough being blind, but not being able to laugh about it – that would be terrible. Wouldn’t it?’ he adds, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘You’re right, it would. I don’t mind, but Louisa woul
d have forty thousand fits if she heard you. Her illusions would be completely shattered.’

  ‘Louisa’s illusions? What might they be?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know exactly. I don’t ask.’ Marianne takes another bite of her sandwich. ‘I think she perceives you as a tall, dark stranger, whisking me off for an adventure. Who knows what Louisa thinks? She scarcely lives in the real world.’

  ‘And you do?’

  She stops chewing and says, ‘That was a bit cutting.’

  ‘No, I meant, d’you feel as if you’re living in the same world? As me? As Louisa? Your world must extend only as far as you can reach with your stick. As far as you can hear, smell. Am I wrong?’

  ‘No. It is a much smaller world.’

  ‘But deeper. More intensely felt, I’d imagine. Or do you worry that you imagine too much? Or inaccurately?’

  ‘Six foot rabbits, you mean?’

  ‘Well, the feedback must be very limited where you can’t touch.’

  ‘Not as limited as you might think. I’m aware of your every movement sitting at the end of the bed. The mattress transmits it to the muscles of my legs. Even if I hadn’t already read you with my hands, I’d know you were a big man because of the way the mattress is responding.’

  ‘In bed with an elephant… They say that’s how Scotland felt after the Act of Union – like a mouse in bed with an elephant. However friendly the elephant, we’d not get a good night’s sleep… Does Louisa’s world include a man?’

  ‘No.’ Marianne leans back on her pillows, licking her fingers. ‘I don’t know why. I’m sure she’d like one. I don’t know what she looks like, of course, let alone from a male point of view, but she’s kind. And rich. And not nearly as stupid as she likes to make out. She cultivates the daffy blonde bit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To redress the balance, I suppose. She probably thinks it reduces my sense of being handicapped, makes me feel more competent. Lou means well, but it can get a bit irritating.’