Whit

'I'm so glad.' Something rattled in the hall outside her door. 'You'd better be off soon, or they'll catch you.'

'All right.' I got up, quickly remade the other bed, took the cover from the bottom of the door and replaced Zhobelia's clothes on the bed.  I ran a hand through my hair and rubbed my face.  I squatted at the side of her bed, holding her hand again. 'Do you remember what I asked you last night?' I whispered. 'Will you come back to stay with us?'

'Oh, that?  I don't know,' she said. 'I'd forgotten.  Do you really mean that?  I don't know.  I'll think about it, dear, if I remember.'

'Please do, Great-aunt.'

She frowned. 'Did I tell you last night about the things I used to see?  About the Gift?  I think I did.  I'd have told you before, but you weren't old enough to understand, and I had to get away from her ghost.  Did I tell you?'

'Yes,' I told her, gently squeezing her soft, dry hand. 'Yes, you told me about the visions.  You passed on the Gift of knowing about them.'

'Oh, good.  I'm glad.'

I heard voices outside in the corridor.  They went away, but I stood anyway and kissed her on the forehead. 'I must go now,' I told her. 'I'll come back to see you, though.  And I'll take you away, if you want to come home.'

'Yes, yes, dear.  You be a good girl, now.  And remember: don't let the men know.'

'I'll remember.  Great-aunt… ?'

'Yes, dear?'

I glanced at the shoe-box, which sat on her bedside cabinet. 'May I take the pay-book and the ten-pound note with me?  I promise I'll return them.'

'Of course, dear.  Would you like the photographs as well?'

'I'll take the one of Grandfather, if I may.'

'Oh, yes.  Take the lot if you want.  I don't care.  I stopped caring a long time ago.  Caring is for the young, that's what I say.  Not that they care either.  But you do.  No; you take care.'

I put the photograph, pay-book and bank-note in my inside jacket pocket. 'Thank you,' I told her.

'You're welcome.'

'Goodbye, Great-aunt.'

'Oh yes.  Mm-hmm.  Thank you for coming to see me.'

I peeked through the curtains to check the coast was clear, slid up the sash window, dropped my kit-bag onto the path beneath and jumped out after it.  I walked smartly away and was at Hamilton station within the hour.

A train took me to Glasgow.

* * *

I sat looking out at the countryside and the buildings and the railway lines, shaking my head and muttering to myself.  I neither knew nor cared what sort of effect this behaviour had on my fellow passengers, though I noticed nobody sat beside me, despite the fact that the train seemed full.

Zhobelia.  Visions.  Money.  Salvador.  Whit.  Black… All this on top of everything else I'd learned in the last few days.  Where did this stop?  What extremity of revelation could still lie in store for me?  I could not imagine, and did want to envision.  My life had changed and changed again in so many ways in such a short time recently.  Everything I'd known had been exploded, thrown into chaos and confusion, mixed and tumbled and strewn, made nebulous and inchoate and senseless.

I scarcely knew what to think, where to begin trying to think so that I might piece everything back together again, if that were even remotely possible.  At least I had had the presence of mind to ask Zhobelia for the ten-pound note and the pay-book.  I supposed that I was clinging of necessity to the most practical course that presented itself, clutching at reality like a shellfish to a familiar rock while the waves of something unimaginably more vast and powerful washed over me, threatening to dislodge my sanity.  I focused upon the immediate practicalities of the moment, and found some relief and some release in thinking through what had to be done now to bring the more mundane problems I was faced with to some sort of resolution.  By the time the train pulled into Glasgow Central station, then, I had decided on the plan for the next part of my campaign.

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

'Yeah?'

'Good morning.  I would like to speak to Topee, please.'

'Speaking.'

'Brother Topee, it is I, Isis.'

'Is!  Well, hello there!' My relation whooped, painfully loudly.  I held the phone away from my ear for a moment. 'Really? he laughed. 'You're kidding!  But, hey!  You aren't allowed to use the phone, are you?'

'Not normally.  But these are desperate times, Topee.'

'They are?  Whangy-dangy!  No one ever tells me anything.  Where are you, anyway?'

'Glasgow Central station.'

'Yeah?  Wow!  Great!  Hey; come on round and meet the guys; we're gonna have some brekkers and then head out for some jazz.'

'Breakfast would be appreciated.'

'Great!  Brilliant!  Hey,' he said, as his voice went echoey and small for a moment. 'It's my cousin Isis.' (Topee and I are not, of course, actually cousins; the real relationship is more complicated, but I understood the elision.) 'Aye.  She's coming round here.' I heard a lean chorus of male cheers in the background, then Topee's voice again, still echoey. 'Yeah, the neat-lookin' one; the messiah-ess.  Aye.'

'Topee,' I said, sighing. 'Don't embarrass me.  I don't have the emotional resilience just at the moment.'

'Eh?  What?  Na, don't worry.  So,' he said, 'how come you're using the phone, Is?'

'I think I might need some help.'

'What with?'

'Research.'

'Research?'

'In a library, or maybe a newspaper.  I am unused to such things.  I wondered if you might be able to assist me.'

'Dunno.  Maybe.  Give it a go, I suppose.  Yeah; why not?  You comin' over, then?'

'I shall be there directly.'

'Ha ha!  I love the way you talk.  Great.  The guys are dyin' to meet you.  You've got a fan club here.'

I groaned. 'See you soon.'

'You got the address?'

'Yes.  I'll be about half an hour.'

'Okay-doke.  Give us time to clean the place up.'

* * *

I could only conclude that Topee and the three male friends with whom he shared the flat in Dalmally Street had not bothered to do any cleaning whatsoever, or that they normally lived in a state resembling the interior of one of those municipal rubbish lorries which compresses each binload of refuse it picks up.

The flat smelled of beer and the carpet I first stepped onto in the hall stuck to my feet, like something designed to let astronauts walk in a space station.  Topee gave me a hug which lifted both my kit-bag and me off my feet - the hall carpet only parted with the soles of my boots reluctantly, I believe - and proceeded to squeeze most of the breath out of me.

Topee is a lively lad, tall and skinny with outrageously good looks: he has long, black, naturally ringletted hair which - happily for him - suits, indeed thrives on, not being combed or cared for, and an electrifyingly dark, exquisitely sculpted face with eyes so piercingly blue the impression they give is of cobalt spikes.  He put me down before I fainted.

'Isis!' he yelled, and took a step backwards, going down on his hands and knees, laughing and salaaming. 'I'm not worthy!  I'm not worthy!' He was dressed in ripped jeans and a ripped T-shirt under a frayed check shirt.

'Hello, Topee,' I said, as tiredly as I felt.

'She's here!' Topee cried out, and jumped to his feet, dragging me through to the flat's living room, where three other young men sat grinning at a table, playing cards, drinking tea and eating greasy food out of cold aluminium containers with spoons.

I moved a pair of grubby-looking socks off the seat I was offered and sat down.  I was duly introduced to Steve, Stephen and Mark and invited to share their breakfast, which consisted of the remains of a communal take-away curry and ditto Chinese from the previous night, bulked out by a plate piled high with huge soft floury rolls.  Tea was provided, and such was my hunger I found the cold, oily debris from the previous night quite palatable.  The rolls were more appearance than substance, seemingly compose mostly of air, but at least they were fresh.