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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: The Enceladons Trilogy
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
When three people suffer strokes after seeing dazzling lights over Edinburgh, then awake completely recovered, they're convinced their ordeal is connected to the alien creature discovered on a nearby beach … an adrenaline-soaked, deeply humane, life-affirming first-contact novel from one of Scotland's most revered authors… **Selected for BBC 2 Between the Covers 2023** 'All the drive, curiosity and wonder of his crime and mystery novels … science fiction gains a new author' Derek B Miller If you read one life-affirming book this year, make sure it's this one' Nina Pottell, Prima 'The main characters, their lives and their struggles, are portrayed very vividly. I was straight into this, just like a thriller' Ivo Graham on Between the Covers –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Connecting will change everything… Lennox is a troubled teenager with no family. Ava is eight months pregnant and fleeing her abusive husband. Heather is a grieving mother and cancer sufferer. They don't know each other, but when a meteor streaks over Edinburgh, all three suffer instant, catastrophic strokes... ...only to wake up the following day in hospital, miraculously recovered. When news reaches them of an octopus-like creature washed up on the shore near where the meteor came to earth, Lennox senses that some extra-terrestrial force is at play. With the help of Ava, Heather and a journalist, Ewan, he rescues the creature they call 'Sandy' and goes on the run. But they aren't the only ones with an interest in the alien … close behind are Ava's husband, the police and a government unit who wants to capture the creature, at all costs. And Sandy's arrival may have implications beyond anything anyone could imagine… –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 'All the makings of a film … such relatable characters' Sunetra Sarker on Between the Covers 'So readable and accessible … I was really rooting for the characters' Alan Davies on Between the Covers 'A gateway book to SciFi … I loved it' Sara Cox on Between the Covers 'A moving as it is magical and mysterious. Doug Johnstone has hit it out of the park again' Mark Billingham 'A delicious, demanding departure from Doug Johnstone' Val McDermid 'Prioritising pace, tension and high stakes … a plea for empathy, compassion and perspective … shot through with vivid characters and a sense of wonder' Herald Scotland 'An entertaining, fast-paced story of first contact … an emotionally engaging read' Guardian 'A gloriously hopeful story and a perfect road trip movie just waiting to be made…' James Oswald 'An adrenaline-filled ride of a novel, laced with empathy and understanding' Rachelle Atalla 'Pay attention, Steven Spielberg! This could be your next film' Marnie Riches 'Clever and unusual … I was on a journey with these characters, and completely transfixed' Susi Holliday 'A mesmerising tale of wonder and hope' Marion Todd What readers are saying ***** 'I wish I could adequately convey how much I loved this book' 'A beautiful story … it brought me to tears' 'A masterpiece … compassionate, full of love and hope' 'Riveting' 'High stakes, high adrenaline and somehow so gentle and moving' 'I don't think I'll ever forget these characters'
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PRAISE FOR THE SPACE BETWEEN US
‘A delicious, demanding departure from Doug Johnstone … out of this world’ Val McDermid
‘All the drive, curiosity and wonder of his crime and mystery novels … science fiction gains a new author’ Derek B Miller
‘A sci-fi novel that is as moving as it is magical and mysterious. Doug Johnstone has hit it out of the park again’ Mark Billingham
‘If you read one life-affirming book this year, make sure it’s this one’ Nina Pottell, Prima
‘An unexpected delight! Doug Johnstone is acclaimed as a crime writer, but this science-fiction thriller propels him into bold new territory. Fast paced yet thoughtful … a first-contact tale full of heart and high-octane action. Highly recommended’ D. V. Bishop
‘Doug Johnstone held me spellbound in this mesmerising tale of wonder and hope … A gloriously absorbing story of menace and magic – I loved it’ Marion Todd
‘A perfect road-trip movie just waiting to be made … another brilliant read from Doug, who just keeps getting better and better’ James Oswald
‘An adrenaline-filled astral adventure, with a tender and authentic introspection about the beauty of true human connection that really can traverse the space between us’ B. S. Casey
‘A clever and unusual read … I was on a journey with these characters, and completely transfixed’ Susi Holliday
‘Beautifully lyrical writing, a heart-warming, fast-paced, often tense look at friendships that surpass all boundaries, an exploration of the very basic need for connection and a place to belong … It’s divine’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘Riveting speculative fiction, a thought-provoking novel and solid sci-fi’ Scrapping and Playing
‘Absolutely loved this book … about connection, kindness and so much more, all mixed in with a kind of sci-fi element but totally relatable’ Sally Boocock
PRAISE FOR DOUG JOHNSTONE
SHORTLISTED for the McIlvanney Prize for Best Scottish Crime Book of the Year LONGLISTED for Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year SHORTLISTED for Amazon Publishing Capital Crime Thriller of the Year
‘An engrossing and beautifully written tale that bears all the Doug Johnstone hallmarks in its warmth and darkly comic undertones’ Herald Scotland
‘Gripping and blackly humorous’ Observer
‘A tense ride with strong, believable characters’ Kerry Hudson, Big Issue
‘The power of this book, though, lies in the warm personalities and dark humour of the Skelfs’ Scotsman
‘A touching and often funny portrayal of grief … more, please’ Guardian
‘Wonderful characters: flawed, funny and brave’ Sunday Times
‘A lovely, sad tale, beautifully told and full of understanding’ The Times
‘Exceptional … a must for those seeking strong, authentic, intelligent female protagonists’ Publishers Weekly
‘Keeps you hungry from page to page. A crime reader can’t ask anything more’ Sun
‘This may be Doug Johnstone’s best book yet … Tense, pacey, filmic’ Ian Rankin
‘As psychologically rich as it is harrowing … one of the genre’s premiere writers’ Megan Abbott
‘A brooding, intensely dark thriller with a defiant beating heart. Evocative, heartbreaking and hopeful … STUNNING’ Miranda Dickinson
‘A noir heavyweight and a master of gritty realism’ Willy Vlautin
‘The perfect free-range writer, respectful of conventions but never bound by them … each book is something new in this world’ James Sallis
‘Bloody brilliant’ Martyn Waites
‘Pacy, harrowing and occasionally brutal’ Paddy Magrane
‘If you loved Iain Banks, you’ll devour the Skelfs series’ Erin Kelly
‘A poignant reflection on grief and the potential for healing … A proper treat’ Mary Paulson-Ellis
‘A thrilling, atmospheric book … Move over Ian Rankin, Doug Johnstone is coming through!’ Kate Rhodes
‘An unstoppable, thrilling, bullet train of a book that cleverly weaves in family and intrigue, and has real emotional impact’ Helen Fields
‘A total delight … Johnstone never fails to entertain’ Gytha Lodge
‘Compelling and compassionate characters, with a dash of physics and philosophy’ Ambrose Parry
‘Balances the cosmos, music, death and life, and wraps it all in a compelling mystery’ Marni Graff
THE SPACE BETWEEN US
DOUG JOHNSTONE
For my siblings, Karen and David
CONTENTS
1
LENNOX
He knew they were following him. A shift in the shadows as he entered Figgate Park. He pressed pause on the Self Esteem track he was listening to but kept the headphones over his ears. If he dropped them round his neck they would know he was onto them. He kept his stride regular, changed his grip on the skateboard from the deck to the wheel axis, so he could swing it better.
He heard whispers, the scuff of trainers. He sped up. The path split round the pond and he had to choose which direction. Left was quicker but darker so he went right, into the light overspilling from the railway sidings up the hill. He cut across the grass between trees, then left around the water. The sky was clear, sprayed with stars, full moon like a coin pressed into the dark. Lennox spotted the resident heron standing on one leg on the island, hunched over, waiting for prey. He sensed movement behind him, gripped his board tighter.
He reached the wooden platform for feeding the ducks, saw something ahead to the left, coming round the pond from the other direction. Two guys, and he knew them. He sped up but they were too close. They loped into a casual run to cut him off from the path by the burn. They emerged from the shadows. At the front was Blair, thick neck and shoulders, grey top and joggers. Behind was Kai, one of his simpering minions, taller than Blair, mouth-breather. Lennox turned and saw two more of Blair’s gang behind him, Carson and Cal, little and large. Lennox turned back and Blair was only a few feet away, scratching his chin and smiling.
‘Sup, Scarecrow.’
Lennox swallowed, didn’t speak.
Blair stuck his chin out and tapped at his ear. ‘Lose the cans.’
Lennox pushed the headphones down round his neck, felt his hair spring up where the headband had been.
‘That’s better,’ Blair said. ‘Let that beautiful mop free.’
He looked at the rest of them and they sniggered.
When Lennox started at high school he was self-conscious about his Afro, kept his hair buzzed short. But he gradually got more confident, helped by some girls starting to notice, and when he turned sixteen he grew it out. Most kids loved it, and girls like to touch it without asking, which made him feel weird. But it also attracted attention from bottom feeders like Blair.
These four were in Lennox’s year at Porty High, but not in his classes. Lennox wasn’t exactly academic, but he did OK. He liked physics and engineering, how things worked. But these guys were in the bottom classes, treading water until they could leave at the end of the year to become drug dealers or join the army.
‘You not saying hello, Scarecrow?’ Blair was performing, leading the gang. Without him they were nothing, he made them feel part of something.
Lennox shuffled his feet, looked at the path beyond Blair. ‘Hey.’
Blair smiled and held his hands out. ‘There you go. And where you off to so fast?’
Lennox shrugged.
‘We could hardly keep up with you, right, lads?’
‘Just heading home.’
Blair took a step forward. ‘Past your bedtime in the Kiddy House?’
The truth was it was hours after curfew at the children’s home where Lennox stayed, but he was almost an adult, they didn’t give a shit.
‘Watch out going through Junkie Town,’ Blair said.
This was what Blair called Northfield, which was fucking rich, given the number of junkies around where he lived.
Blair took another step forward and Lennox could smell his breath – weed and energy drinks. Lennox saw Carson and Cal closing in behind, Kai on Blair’s shoulder. He was used to getting shit from arseholes because of his hair, brown skin, the poor-little-orphan bullshit. But that didn’t make it any easier.
‘Leave me alone,’ Lennox said, and tried to walk past.
Blair blocked him, the rest closing in. Blair raised his hands like he was affronted. ‘We’re just talking, Scarecrow. Just talking.’ He nodded at the two guys behind.
Lennox began to raise the skateboard but felt a thud of pain in his ear knocking him sideways. His arms were pulled behind him and he dropped the board. Blair threw a fist into his stomach, winding him, then punched his cheek.
‘We’re just trying to be friendly, fuck’s sake,’ Blair said, punching Lennox in the gut again.
Lennox wheezed, tried to suck in air.
‘You think you’re fucking better than us,’ Blair said. This was his standard bullshit, anyone smarter or better-looking thought they were some fucking elite. Bullying 101, pick an easy target and find a reason.
Another fist to the face made Lennox’s knees buckle, and his shoulders burned as he slumped, still held by Carson and Cal. Kai was leaning over Blair’s shoulder, laughing, eyes shining.
Blair picked up Lennox’s skateboard and swung it against a park bench, splitting the deck, splinters flying. He threw the pieces on the ground in front of Lennox and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling his head back.
‘Try showing off your fucking tricks now, Darkie.’
‘Fuck you, Dick Breath,’ Lennox said.
Blair’s eyes hardened and he swung his fist hard into Lennox’s eye, a burst of pain and light in his mind, tears on his face and blood from a cut on his brow.
Then the light seemed to get brighter. Lennox closed his eyes, sensed brightness against his eyelids, opened them again.
The park was bathed in shimmering blue-green light, odd shadows moving round the trees. It was brighter than daylight, a hundred floodlights in weird colours, like they were underwater.
A crackle came from the west, above them, and Blair let go of Lennox’s hair. They all stared at the sky as a fiery throb of light swept over them. There was an enormous hiss, mixed with an underlying scream and rumble, and Lennox felt the air vibrate, the ground shudder. It was shimmering, impossible to say how high, and it was fast, shadows sweeping around the park, making Lennox dizzy. The noise and the blue-green wash faded as it thrust eastward, leaving a trail of colourful sparks which floated and danced in the air.
Everyone was still staring after the ball of light. In the silence the world seemed different, a residual throb in the air.
Lennox stood and Blair turned to the others.
‘What the fuck was that?’ He was met by shrugs.
Lennox smelled something, like baking or an experiment from his chemistry class, acrid but with an underlying sweetness.
Blair stared at him, shaking his head. ‘Where were we?’
Lennox braced himself. But Blair swayed like a sapling, lifted a hand to his temple. He cricked his neck and looked at the others, his eyes glassy.
‘What the fuck?’ he said, then his knees crumpled and he fell like a bag of sand, cracked his head on the concrete. Kai did the same, keeling over like a comedy pratfall. Lennox turned to see Carson and Cal reach out to each other then faint, falling hard on the ground.
Lennox looked at the four flat-out guys. He stared at the sky where the ball of light had gone then the world started spinning, trees spiralling, the park and the pond racing around him. He leaned over and vomited hard, hands on his thighs, then he slumped to the ground and let the darkness overwhelm him.
2
AVA
She lay in bed and held her breath so she could listen better. Michael lay next to her, his breathing ragged and slow. She wondered about the dosage she’d put in his food. Really, she had no idea. She’d been stealing pills from Rowan’s handbag in the staffroom at work, storing them up. She’d experimented with half a pill in his food for the last couple of nights, then crushed up three in tonight’s casserole, putting in too much garlic to cover it. He berated her about the food, but that was nothing new.
She stared at the swirling pattern on the ceiling, strands intertwined like the arms of some creature. His breathing slowed even more and she felt the baby kick in her belly. Ava was eight months gone, and the baby was letting her know she couldn’t wait much longer. It was one thing for Ava to be controlled and dominated by this monster, another to bring a new-born daughter into this home. That’s why she had to do this now.
Michael turned towards her, face slack in sleep. She flinched. How had it come to this, the sight of him making her cower? She was ashamed of who she’d become, coerced and bullied. No more.
She smelled stale garlic on his breath and stomach acid rose up her throat. If she puked now, he would surely wake up. He was normally such a light sleeper, aware of movement in the room even when he was dreaming. Some primal state of alertness, watching for anything that could threaten his world order.
She lifted her side of the covers, pulse beating in her neck. She listened to his breath as the baby pressed against her kidneys and bladder. There would be time to pee when this was over.
She moved her legs, feet onto the floor, rolled her body in a smooth motion until she was standing. Michael was snoring, hands above his head like he was fighting off birds. She stepped to the door, waited, opened it, heard it creak and froze.
Michael snuffled and wrinkled his nose like he was disagreeing with something. He muttered under his breath and fire flowed from her heart through her body. She imagined herself a marble statue, here in the bedroom doorway for hundreds of years, ignored by everyone. She heard a car in the distance, faint rumble of the boiler downstairs. He snuffled again, moved his arm to the empty side of the bed. His hand moved across the bare covers and she was sure it was all over. She began to think of excuses, needing to pee or she had to take another antacid.
He scratched his nose then shifted his weight and went back to snoring.
She watched him for a long time then crept out of the room and downstairs, feet on the outer edges of the steps because some creaked in the middle. She reached the bottom and walked across the hall to the cupboard full of raincoats and boots. She shifted a pile of old jumpers she’d placed there weeks ago, lifted out a small suitcase full of all the things she would need. Change of clothes, money she’d been siphoning from the shopping, toiletries, the passport she’d taken from the locked drawer without him knowing. She could sort everything else once she was free.
She wore loose pyjama trousers and an old St Andrews Uni sweatshirt of Michael’s, warmer than she would usually wear in bed this time of year, but she would be outside soon. Her feet were bare. She had trainers in the suitcase, there would be time to put them on once she was out.
She went to his jacket hanging near the door and rifled through the pockets. Keys for his New Town office, ID, wallet. She’d read about human-trafficking cases where women were locked in cages or basements, brought there as sex slaves. She wasn’t in that situation but she was still imprisoned by him, by his fucking gaslighting, demeaning her, always making her more reliant on him.
Everyone at the school thought she lived a happy life. Her mum thought she was in love with a wonderful husband. Everything looked good from outside this expensive Longniddry house. How could she be in a prison with a handsome, rich husband and a baby on the way? But that’s what had changed, the realisation that it wasn’t just her anymore. She’d become used to her situation, excused it and normalised it. But a daughter made everything different and she needed to get out.
She found the car key and took the cash from his wallet. She lifted her case and went to the front door. The alarm was on, he always set it before bed. He changed the combination regularly but she’d found the note on his phone with the most recent number. She just hoped it was up to date. She punched in the numbers, cringing at each beep, holding her breath. Waited a moment, expecting the loud wail. But silence. She glanced upstairs, waited for him to shout out or appear.
Nothing.
She opened the door and walked across the driveway to the Mercedes. She unlocked it and cringed again at the blip of the lock, the flashing lights. She placed the case in the passenger seat then took off the handbrake. She didn’t want to start it here with the engine noise, so she heaved at the car, door open, hand on the steering wheel. Eventually the car wheels nudged forward. She leaned her shoulder into the doorframe, felt the baby squirm, did a little pee into her pyjama trousers but kept pushing. She turned the wheel to angle the car through the driveway and climbed in, closing the door as quietly as she could. The car had some momentum on the road and she waited until it was another thirty yards down the street then put her foot on the clutch and pressed ignition. It kicked into life, a ping warning her she didn’t have her seatbelt on.
She pulled it on and drove away, expecting something to happen – Michael to run down the street, the police to turn up, lights flashing. She drove past the big stucco houses, everyone safe and warm inside. She looked in the mirror. The street was dark and she laughed, feeling the release, then the baby kicked.
She turned left then left again, looping round to Links Road. She didn’t want to take the A1, if he woke and found her gone, it was the first place the police would look for the car. She drove along the coast, Firth of Forth to her right. She saw clear skies, stars bulleting the blackness, the full moon. She thought about the distance to that rock, how far she might need to run to really escape.
She reached the Port Seton caravans, beach alongside, moonlight shimmering across the water. She glanced in the mirror again, nervous, still waiting for him to somehow appear.
A bright light appeared in the sky, blazing an eerie blue-green, streaking overhead in front of her. There was a hiss and a roar, a trail of sparks behind. It seemed to be descending, heading for the sea to the east. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. The sound penetrated her skin, the car shuddered and rocked, then she smelled something sweet and salty at the same time, tasted it in the back of her throat. The road in front of her rose up and spun round and she felt dizzy, unable to get her bearings. Bile rose in her throat then she puked down her sweatshirt. She pissed herself as the car drifted and she couldn’t control it, didn’t know which way was up. The car mounted the pavement and went over the grass verge to the rocky beach where it thumped into the sand and she passed out.
3
HEATHER
She stood with her toes pushed in the sand and tried to make sense of the lighthouses. Just offshore was the Fidra lighthouse, sticking up from the small knuckle of land that inspired Treasure Island. Beyond that was the blinking light from the Isle of May, then to her right was the beacon on the Bass Rock, a shadowy lump in the gloom.
She’d spent plenty of time on Yellowcraigs Beach over the years, living up the road in Dirleton. Tonight she was in her usual spot, away from where kids sat and got stoned round campfires. In all her visits, she’d never managed to get the lighthouse signals to synch up. She had a feeling they would mean something if she could just decode their timings and ratios, some great truth would be revealed. She’d looked up their patterns online, but that information didn’t correlate with what she saw.
Four flashes spaced out to her left, longer blinks from further away, a more hesitant glimmer from the Bass Rock. She opened her eyes wide, maybe the light would go directly to her brain and solve it. Cure her. But that was a fantasy, nothing would cure what was spreading through her synapses. She’d been offered chemo and radiotherapy treatments, aggressive invasions trying to stop her cells from killing themselves. But she’d seen how that was for Rosie, still felt the visceral sickness at the memory of her daughter, bald and sunken-eyed in a hospital bed, defeated.
She breathed deeply, tried to calm her heart. She had to pull herself back to what she was doing here. She looked at the sky. This far away from streetlights it was bristling with stars, shimmering freckles above the Firth of Forth, the moon blazing a trail across the water. She spotted Jupiter and maybe Saturn, the peachy tinge of Mars. So beautiful, yet so far away.
The gentle shush of the sea brought her back to earth. She saw the rockpools in the sweep of the Fidra beam, like shadows of sea creatures hunching their way onto land. She turned to the heap of large stones next to her.
She crouched and began placing the stones in her pockets. She wore loose yoga pants and felt stupid as the pockets started to bulge. She tied the waistband tight to make sure they didn’t fall down. She stuffed rocks into her hoodie pockets too, then zipped them up. The weight was already making her hunch. Over the hoodie was a fleece, three more zip pockets, one each side and one on the left breast. She filled them in turn, closed them. They would be hard to open in a panic.
She felt stupid with the weight, an ancient lumbering beast, soon extinct. She walked with a cumbersome gait to the water. It wasn’t far but each step was slow progress.
She stopped at the edge of the water, heard the ripple and slurp. She looked at the expanse of sea, the yellow lights of North Berwick to her right. She looked behind her at the beach where she’d been most days for the last twenty years. Single, married, pregnant, a mum, a grieving woman, divorced, a terminal brain tumour patient.
Now she was just Heather, ready to go. She’d had enough.
She stepped into the icy water, the material of the trousers clinging to her skin. The shock jolted her chest but she breathed through it, kept walking, felt her trouser pockets enter the water, the weight pulling her down. She was up to her waist, then her hoodie and fleece were soaked. She felt so heavy, like she was a rock herself, part of the rockpool alongside her. She’d been here for millennia, waiting for this. Anxiety rose in her chest but she stepped forward, the sand soft under her feet as she sank but kept going, up to her chest, neck. It got deep quickly in this stretch, that’s why she’d chosen it. She instinctively raised her chin to keep her mouth above the surface, kept walking and stretching her neck.
Between the flashes from Fidra, she sensed another light to her left, a glow shifting from aquamarine to teal, getting brighter until it was fierce. She saw a glaring ball of fire streak across the sky, ripping between her and Fidra, a crackle and fizz in her ears, a glimmering trail of sparkles in its wake as it tore into the sea a hundred yards away.
She waited for waves or steam or an explosion, but the night was silent and dark. She stood like that for a long time, the pull of the rocks in her pockets, the push of the water against her body. Then she stepped forward and there was no more sand under her feet. She tried to swim, arms beating the water, but the weight made her head sink under. She thrashed back to the surface, gasped in air, sank again. She stretched her toes, feeling for the seabed to kick against, but there was nothing. She began trying to remove her clothes, but her fingers fumbled. She tried to unzip a pocket, but the zip stuck as she yanked. She heaved her arms and legs in the water and rose for a moment, gasped in air, smelled something like scones which confused her, then sank again.
She opened her eyes underwater and they stung, the sand and seaweed she’d kicked up making it like she was drowning in soup. She felt dizzy, unsure which way was up, then vomited, the bile drifting away from her face as she sucked in sea water against every impulse in her body.
She lost all energy and stopped thrashing, her vision spinning and limbs like lead. Then she saw something in front of her, a tangle of bright seaweed but more solid, the same blue-green colour as the light in the sky. It came closer, arms reaching out and holding her, squeezing her, like a hug from her daughter. Finally she could give up fighting and rest.
4
LENNOX
He dreamed he was underwater but he could breathe. He felt at home in the cold darkness, fish and other creatures swimming around him. He opened his eyes. Throbbing strip light over his bed, scratchy sheets against his skin. He was in a small hospital ward, watery light seeping through the window, four beds with papery curtains pulled back. Televisions hung on robot arms to the side of each bed, playing local news with the sound off. He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth, spotted a plastic cup and took a sip of water. He moved his head, it didn’t hurt. He remembered blinding pain, sickness, the rest of them collapsing around him at the Figgate.
He cleared his throat and sat up. In the bed across from him was a middle-aged woman, straggly blonde hair, washed-out complexion, eyes closed. To his left was a younger woman, redhead bob, pregnant belly obvious under the bedsheet. He recognised her, a maths teacher from school, Mrs Cross. She was pretty but sad too, ghostly bags under her eyes. She seemed to be sleeping.
He looked at the final bed and his throat closed when he recognised Blair from the park. He got out of bed and walked over. There was a machine on a stand next to Blair’s bed, a digital display linked to an air bag, from which a tube ran into Blair’s throat, stuck with tape to his cheek.
‘Blair?’
He opened his eyes and coughed, gargling like he was choking. He turned and Lennox saw that the right side of his face had collapsed, muscles drooping his eye and mouth. Dribble had formed a wet patch on his bedsheet.
‘What happened?’
Blair tried to lift his hand but his arm flopped to the side. The effort made him sink back into his pillow and close his eyes.
‘Ah, the dead have arisen.’
Lennox turned at the voice.
A thin guy in a pink striped shirt with a big collar had come in. ‘And you are?’ he said.
Lennox spotted a nametag, Dr Ormadale. ‘What?’
Ormadale waved a hand. ‘You had no ID when they brought you in last night.’
‘Where am I?’
‘RIE, of course. Stroke ward.’
‘Stroke?’
Ormadale looked impatient, pointed at the bed. ‘Perhaps sit?’
Lennox stared at him then went to the bed. He sat on the edge and noticed that the two women in the other beds were awake now, thanks to Ormadale’s foghorn voice.
Ormadale opened a folder, took out some scans, held them up to the dirty window. ‘You suffered a severe stroke. A huge haemorrhage in your cerebellum. Very rare, only two percent of strokes are cerebellar haemorrhage. Usually.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘Except all four patients in this room had the exact same stroke. Which is impossible.’
‘Right.’
He was addressing all of them now. He waved around the room like an actor on stage.
‘All four of you suffered exactly the same very rare and serious stroke at the same time in the middle of the night. How do you explain that?’
Lennox looked at Mrs Cross, who was sitting up cradling her belly. Then at the other woman, wide-eyed. Then at Blair, blinking and breathing through his tube.
‘And it gets stranger,’ Ormadale said, lifting more scans from the folder and fanning them out. ‘Three of you have recovered completely.’ He prodded at the pictures. ‘Within five hours, before we had a chance to attempt any treatment.’
Lennox glanced at Blair, it was obvious which one hadn’t recovered.
‘Six impossible things before breakfast,’ Ormadale said under his breath.
‘What?’ This was the blonde woman across the room.
‘Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass. “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”’
Lennox shook his head, remembered the blue-green light overhead, the dizziness, the smell of burning biscuits. And something else.
‘What about the others?’
‘What?’
Lennox pointed at Blair. ‘The others who were with us in the park?’
Ormadale seemed to deflate, his theatricality gone. ‘They didn’t make it to the ward, dead on arrival.’
Mrs Cross looked anxious. ‘What?’
Ormadale nodded. ‘They’re not the only ones. There’s been a four hundred percent increase in stroke cases in the last twenty-four hours. It’s an impossible health emergency. The government have been told, but what do you do about something like this?’
Lennox remembered that he’d not answered Ormadale’s question at the start, no one here knew who he was.
‘What about us?’ Mrs Cross said. She picked at the blanket over her belly.
‘That’s why I’m here.’ Ormadale looked at Lennox and the two women. ‘You’re free to go once OT and PT have signed you off. In fact, the sooner the better, we need the beds for other patients. Things are crazy. And you all seem fit and well.’
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out. ‘Jesus.’ He put the scans back in the folder and turned to leave.
‘Good luck,’ he said, shaking his head, then under his breath: ‘Six impossible things before breakfast.’
Lennox stared at the doorway then the two women. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Blair with his tube and drool.
‘Put the volume up,’ the older woman said, getting out of bed. She was wearing cheap, blue hospital pyjamas.
‘What?’
She pointed at the television screen above Mrs Cross’s bed. Lennox saw a news reporter standing on a beach. He walked over and lifted the remote, turned the volume up.
The female reporter was talking about some unfortunate creature found washed up on Yellowcraigs Beach in East Lothian. There were rocky outcrops in the background and a stubby lighthouse on an island. Lennox had never heard of it yet he felt sick with recognition, as if he’d been there. He remembered his dream, swimming in the ocean.
The older woman joined them at Mrs Cross’s bed.
The reporter talked to a marine biologist who said she wasn’t sure of the exact species, but it appeared to be a cephalopod, an octopus, squid or cuttlefish. She’d never seen one this big and it had unusual markings. And it only had five tentacles, but maybe it lost the others in a fight.
Then he saw it. A shot of the creature, long, domed head, blue with green ripples and striations running down its length, darker tentacles splayed out beneath. A feeling swept over him, a nagging in his heart like déjà vu. He somehow knew that the creature was usually thicker and fuller in colour, pictured it in his mind swimming alongside him, scuffling over rocks and shells on the seabed, wrapping its tentacles around him. He felt sick and exhilarated at the same time and wondered for a moment if he was having another stroke. The camera moved to the other side of the creature, then panned out to give a sense of perspective. It was maybe six feet long including its tentacles, waves nudging its body.
There was a final shot of the reporter thanking the biologist then it was back to the studio, and Lennox felt as if he’d been snapped out of hypnosis. He shared a look with the two women.
‘What is that thing?’ he said.
Mrs Cross shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I was there,’ the other woman said.
‘What?’ Lennox said.
‘Last night.’ She looked at her pyjamas as if she’d only just realised she was wearing them. She touched the pockets of the trousers. ‘The beach is near my house.’
‘Did you see something?’ Lennox said. ‘In the sky?’
Both women stared at him and he knew.
‘You can take us to it?’ he said, surprised at his own words.
‘Why?’ the woman said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you have to,’ Mrs Cross said, pulling on her earlobe.
There was noise in the corridor behind them then a man in a dark suit strode through the door. He walked towards Mrs Cross’s bed like he owned the world.
‘Ava.’
She shrunk into herself, gripped her bedsheets.
‘I’ve been worried sick,’ he said, sounding anything but worried. ‘These morons only just called me. Are you OK?’
She nodded, eyes lowered.
He pulled back her sheets and grabbed her arm, guided her firmly out of bed. She was in the same hospital pyjamas as the other woman.
‘Wait,’ the blonde woman said. ‘Who are you?’
The guy stared at her. ‘I’m her husband, who the fuck are you?’
The woman stepped back at the venom in his voice.
Mrs Cross looked panicky while she typed on her phone one-handed. She pushed the phone under the pillow before her husband turned back.
‘Come on,’ he said.
He spotted a small suitcase next to her bed and paused. Stared at it, then at her. ‘Where were you going?’
She shook her head, fringe falling over her eyes. ‘Nowhere.’
‘That’s right.’ He lifted the suitcase and took her arm, hustled her towards the door.
She was wide-eyed, resisting. They were halfway to the door when she pulled free.
‘Wait, I borrowed the boy’s phone.’
She stepped back and pulled her own phone from under the pillow, handed it to Lennox. Their fingers touched as she passed it over, giving him a look.
‘Thank you,’ she said, nodding at the screen.
Her husband grabbed her arm and they were gone. Lennox touched the phone to wake it up. The Notes app was open, a few typed words:
15 Gosford Road, Longniddry. Help, please.
5
EWAN
Thirty years as a journalist and this is what he’d come to, writing up a dead fish. Ewan looked around Yellowcraigs and grudgingly acknowledged it was beautiful. Nice for walking the dog or playing with your family. If you had a family who weren’t on the other side of the planet forever.
A few bystanders were looking at the washed-up thing on the wet sand. Vikki the marine biologist had told him she’d never seen anything like it. Wasn’t the whole point of being an expert that you had answers? Four years of university to stand on a beach and declare you have no idea about the octopus that’s just washed up. And she wouldn’t even speculate how it had died, which made his article for the Standard even more boring.
It was gross, for sure. He looked at the cephalopod, a word he’d just learned from Vikki, who was now giving the same non-answers to a woman from BBC Scotland. Ewan stepped closer to the thing, coated in sand on one side. He had his notebook out, thinking of a way to describe it that might paint a picture. Not that it mattered, they would run a photo of it. Words were irrelevant these days. Every social-media post was accompanied by a picture, video or GIF. Imagine reading a piece of writing longer than 280 characters? Being a reporter felt obsolete, but what else could he do?
He watched Vikki chatting to the beautiful BBC presenter. He used to be on television when he was younger and gave a shit. Politics was his beat and he enjoyed the cut and thrust of it, but as he got older and started refusing to work crazy hours for virtually no pay, work dried up.
So here he was, thinking of ways to describe a dead octopus. It wasn’t cordoned off yet, the council hadn’t decided whose responsibility it was. When a whale beached a few years ago in Aberlady Bay it took days for anyone to take charge. People thought the authorities had rules in place for stuff like this, but in his long experience, no fucker had a clue. No one wanted the ball ache of getting rid of a stinking dead animal. Ewan remembered famous footage of a whale being blown up on a beach in America in the 1970s. The case of dynamite sent whale flesh and blubber for miles, raining down on onlookers, smashing nearby cars.
The octopus was pale green and blue, blank eyes on the bottom of its … head? Body? He crouched down and was about to prod it with his pen, then remembered he chewed the end of that pen. A wave reached the creature’s body, making it rock a little. Ewan thought he saw something else, a movement that wasn’t because of the force of the wave. Probably imagined it. A cloud passed overhead and the change in light did something to the octopus’s skin, a shiver or ripple of thickness. The more he stared at it, the less he was sure he would be able to describe it properly.
His phone buzzed. It would be Patterson hassling him for copy, even though deadline was hours away. He was so hands-on as an editor he might as well type the thing himself.
Ewan straightened up, felt a twinge in his back. He’d been getting that since he turned fifty. He pulled his phone out. He’d entered Patterson in his contacts as ‘Cuntybaws’, puerile but it made him smile.
‘McKinnon.’ Patterson was a hard-bitten cliché and he loved it. Barking was preferable to speaking, and he dispensed pearls of wisdom rather than having conversations. ‘Have you finished with the killer squid?’
‘Cephalopod,’ Ewan said, just to annoy him.
‘Fuck your pod.’ Which didn’t make sense. ‘Are you done or not?’
Ewan stared at the thing, looking for another shimmer on its skin. It had a translucent quality, shifting from solid to ghostly as clouds passed overhead.
‘I’m just about to type up my notes.’
‘Throw them in the bin, I’ve got something else.’
Ewan sighed. Spiked before he’d even written it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Get yourself to the hospital. A bunch of people have had strokes.’
Ewan frowned. ‘What do you mean, “a bunch”?’
He sensed annoyance down the phone and smiled.
‘That’s what I want you to find out, dickhead.’
6
AVA
‘Well?’ Michael stood at the mantelpiece and lifted their wedding picture, young and smiling at Dirleton Castle. It was a small ceremony, he persuaded her she shouldn’t invite most of her family. He was cutting her off even then, isolating her so he could have complete control.
Ava looked around their living room. Part of her couldn’t believe she was back here, but another part felt it was inevitable, like some Kafka nightmare she couldn’t wake from. She felt the baby nudge her inside, wondered how she could keep her safe once she was out in the world.
‘Well?’
There wasn’t a good answer. Anything she said would enrage him. His silly little wife didn’t know what she was doing or thinking. He’d said that so often she began to believe it, let him destroy her confidence, her sense of self.
‘I just needed some space,’ she said, flinching.
He turned and beamed, a smile she used to love. Now it meant something totally different.
‘Space.’ He ran a finger across the wedding picture, down the length of her dress, across her face like he was trying to remember something. He rubbed harder, like he was trying to erase her. Then he threw the picture against the marble fireplace, glass shards flying.
‘Fucking space.’ He walked to the sofa, stood over her with fists clenched. He didn’t hit her, that wasn’t his way, too easy for her to escape, evidence a doctor could see. He was careful.
‘Have you seen our fucking house? There’s loads of space.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Is this not enough space for you? It cost plenty. Haven’t I fucking provided for you? Haven’t I given you everything?’
He stared at her belly. This was his line, he provided everything, gave her the baby she apparently craved. Without asking whether she wanted children or asking permission to fuck her all those times. Rape her. She needed to use the correct term. She hadn’t physically resisted but hadn’t wanted to either, so it was rape. He was a rapist. She said it in her head while he stood over her. She looked down at her belly, then the ground.
They stayed like that for a long time, then he sat down and took her hand. She jumped at the contact. His hands were warm and smooth.
