Rise by Karen Campbell

God’s.’
    He scowls. ‘You’ve blood on your head . . .’
    ‘What?’ She pats her forehead. The pad’s damp. Her fingers are rouged with blood. ‘It’s fine, I’m fine.’
    ‘What do you want? There’s nothing here to steal.’
    Is that what he sees? An instant thie f ? Pour one cup boiling water, stir, then serve. Justine opens her mouth and her brain pours into it, quick as you like and bypassing any sense of planning.
    ‘Excuse me? Steal what? You’ve a bloody cheek. I’m . . .’ She scans the landscape behind him. ‘Doing research. Looking for my father, if you must know.’
    ‘Your father?’
    ‘Yup. My dad. Frank. I think he might have come from here.’
    Because that would give you a reason. People are safe if they have a reason. And questions; questions pad out time and build nests; they help folk help you to build your nest and she is not a shit-scared zombie, she is smart. Could read before she went to school. Justine is not crap. It is important she remembers this.
    The minister wriggles, so his back is against a tombstone. ‘Frank what?’
    ‘Um . . .’ Her eyes range the graveyard for inspiration. On one of the taller plinths, an angel weeps. Her marble heels are feathered, in her hand she holds a bow and quiver. Decades of moss and birdshit clag her breasts.
    ‘Arrow. Frank Arrow.’
    ‘No such name.’
    ‘Aye there is.’
    Why did she not say Moss?
    ‘Not here there’s not.’
    The man is being unreasonable. Her father grows in stature. ‘So you know everyone that ever lived or died here, do you? Frank. Big guy. Bright-red hair. This,’ she wiggles the umbrella, ‘was his actual brolly.’
    ‘I see. Sorry. I didn’t realise he was . . . passed. So you think he’s buried here?’
    She shrugs. ‘I don’t even know he’s dead. Not for sure . . .’
    Change the subject, doll . ‘Are you all right, though? Seriously. No disrespect, but you look like utter shit.’
    The minister creases like an ironing board, like she’s kneed him in the balls. ‘Are you—’ he reaches wide, squeezes her ankle.
    ‘Ouch! You fucking old pervert.’
    He pulls his hand away. Covers his eyes. ‘Oh God. Just get lost. Get lost before I call the police.’
    ‘Maybe I should call the police,’ she bluffs. ‘It’s not me lolling like an old drunk in the middle of a graveyard. Groping folk.’
    ‘Get away from me! Do you hear?’
    She retreats a little. Watches him shoogle the tombstone, testing it for sturdiness. He hauls himself to his feet. Arm trailing. His fist quails, in and out.
    ‘Is there anyone I can get to help you?’
    His laugh is mirthless. ‘No.’
    It’s doubtful there are any cops within a ten-mile radius; she suspects Lochallach is the nearest station. Justine has a nose for these things. But given that he is a minister, with a hotline to truth and justice, and that she, Justine the unjust, would like nothing less than to provide her name, address and current location to the police, and given that he appears entirely unhinged – and we all know what that is capable of doing – she concedes.
    ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
    ‘Yes.’ Then, briefly contrite. ‘Yes. I will be fine.’ A dry whisper. ‘Thank you.’
    Satisfied he isn’t going to keel over again, Justine leaves the minister clutching at his grave. Told you. All loonies here . Out of the churchyard, past the Kilmacarra Hotel – ah, there it is. Looks all right: clean-white, wee glittery lights making the thickened window neuks all cosy. It’s getting damp again – and dim. What they call gloaming; the light of day gone thin. She flicks up her hood. A gash of brighter light as a man emerges, wearing a kilt. A kilt. Of course he is. Black socks, green tartan kilt, black waistcoat, black Glengarry with a red rosette, and masses of thin grey hair. What do they drink here? He makes himself comfortable against the outside wall. Lights a cigarette. Should she say about the minister?