Chapter 56
It was as well he put trainers on today, the upside of his dress standards slipping as the trial goes on. When he thinks back to himself on the first day, all booted and suited, he can hardly recognise that person. Now he’s in jeans and a sweatshirt, even the chinos and smart shirt abandoned.
It’s not just his clothes. He looks like shit, too.
His patients wouldn’t recognise him. Knackered, haggard, his eyes bloodshot and strained.
He might have shaved but only roughly. The rash is still troubling him; the itch of it has been building, the burning intensifying.
It’s spread across his cheek now as well.
He runs his fingers along his cheek gently, feeling the bumps under his skin.
As soon as this is all over he’ll get himself to a dermatologist, sort it out once and for all.
He’s fought his way past the tourists on the Royal Mile, the queues waiting for tours outside the palace.
The Scottish parliament is on his right and he walks past that quickly, dodging a camera crew interviewing some man in a green tie, a lone protester with a placard that he doesn’t bother to read.
On to the path now, up the hill, Salisbury Crags to his right.
The sky is beginning to turn grey, a couple of drops of water on his face an indication that rain is on the way, but Matthew doesn’t break his stride.
There’s a compulsion driving him now, a sense that he must get to the top regardless, the single most important thing that he can do.
It’s not like the fear that drove him up North Berwick Law – then, he was running away.
Now he is driven towards the summit, by a force he can’t describe, but which he certainly can’t resist.
He’s broken into long strides, easily overtaking groups of teenagers as they straggle up behind a keen teacher in an orange cagoule.
It’s still drizzling, but there’s a break in the clouds above.
He’ll get there and back without getting soaked.
If he can keep up the pace, that is. His breathing has started to get heavy, his heart pounding harder with each step. He’s let his fitness slide lately, too.
Everything’s slipping out of his control, he can see that now.
Fitness, skin, his own cognitive skills.
Matthew is used to being decisive, to knowing what course of action needs to be taken on any given occasion and enacting it.
He never sits in uncertainty – he’s known for it in the wards and operating theatres of the hospital.
That’s why he gets on so well with work. They can trust him to know what to do.
He should know what to do with this trial.
It should be obvious. It’s obvious to everyone else, he knows that.
Eliza is innocent of everything, Isobel is guilty of the lot.
It makes the most sense. Occam’s razor – the simplest explanation is always the best. The evidence against Isobel is the most compelling; it makes no sense that so many witnesses would lie.
He’s nearly at the top now, his steps heavier and heavier.
Once he’s there, he can rest, at least for a moment.
He glances at the trig point at the very top before crossing over to the top of the crag on the westerly precipice.
It’s quieter on this side, fewer people coming and going.
He’ll just sit for a moment, get his breath back. Gather his thoughts.
There’s shouting around him, a lively game of It with small children darting from one side of the trig point to the other.
Matthew keeps his back resolutely turned.
Seems to him this is a straight choice – Eliza or Isobel.
One of them is lying. It’s as simple as that.
Their faces dance around him, angel, devil, plausible, implausible, easy, hard.
It’s clear what the easy path is – go along with the crowd, the majority who have already made their views clear.
They like the look of Eliza, simple as that.
They’re right. He knows they’re right, at the core of him. But why is he resisting this so much? Why does he feel that there’s something else at play?
Because she’s mine
A roar in his head. Around his head. He clutches it in both hands.
You will not deny me
Now he’s trying to shake off the noise, escape it, dancing from foot to foot until he’s close to the edge.
Isobel is telling the truth
The roar continues, the words taking shape in front of him, patterns in the clouds forming Isobel’s face, the sulky expression gone, pure love there instead.
A breath of air, only the faintest whisper and the clouds have shifted shape, Eliza’s face emerging, a forked tongue flickering round her lips.
Eliza is too proud. She must be punished
Globe-shaped hearts bouncing around her, distended so much they’re about to burst.
Isobel is not guilty. Say it, say the words
Matthew opens his mouth to speak but the words won’t come out. Fear or no fear, he still doesn’t know, isn’t sure. Can he say it if it isn’t true? What does he actually believe?
Come closer to the edge, Matthew, closer. See what I can make you do
And now he’s right up at the point on the edge of the hill where one more step will have him falling down headlong. But he still can’t say it, still can’t bring himself to make the commitment to the words that are teetering on the tip of his tongue.
Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Dance a little closer, Matthew, dance a little closer
He’s over the edge now, one leg balancing just a little closer now, just a little closer and—
‘Matthew!’
The scream brings him back to his senses. He looks down and sees the drop properly for the first time, how far he would fall. His head spins and for a moment his eyes are dark again before he brings himself back under control, stepping back carefully on to firmer ground.
‘What are you doing?’
It’s Gill. Of course it’s Gill, always popping up where he expects her least. The grim inevitability of it.
‘Why do you keep following me?’ he says.
Rage starts building in him at the sight of her, the face that he once thought so beautiful repulsive to him now.
She’s not a Hitchcock blonde; she’s a harridan, a virago, constantly interfering with him and making him break his oath to the court.
Everything that’s happened has been her fault. He’s sure of it.
‘I was worried about you,’ she says. But instead of words, he hears hissing instead, the forked tongue that he saw in Eliza’s mouth also flicking out from Gill’s.
Her eyes are rimmed with red. There’s a scent coming off her but it’s not delicate, floral; it’s rank, decay, the rot of meat left unattended too long, riddled with flies.
There are flies buzzing round her head too, great clouds of them, darting towards him, ducking away, forming themselves into giant horns that protrude on either side of her head. He runs at her, his fist raised. This has to stop, she needs to leave him alone.
Stop
A roar in his head and suddenly all is calm. The sky is clear blue now, Gill the blonde woman again, her face full of concern. A fragrance of roses on the air. He falls to his knees.
‘What are you doing?’ she says again and now it’s in words, not hisses, or buzzing, or any of the terrible noises that were coming out of her mouth before.
‘I wanted to get some fresh air,’ he says, pushing himself up to his feet. He looks at her closely, waiting to see if any more demonic signs present themselves. There’s nothing, though. It’s safe.
For now.
‘Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?’ she says. A faint crackling in the distance, a whiff of sulphur. Matthew shakes his head. He’s saying no more to her.
They walk downhill together, but at the bottom of the Royal Mile he tells her he needs to return on his own. She doesn’t argue. But as he walks away, she calls him back.
‘I’m still on Isobel’s side, you know,’ she says. ‘I know you agree with me. Don’t let yourself get pulled along just because it’s what everyone else thinks.’
Matthew nods. One grim movement. This is the last encouragement he needs. He turns, walks away. Resolution running right through him.