Idea in Stone (34 page)

“Ste’s been explaining a theory to me about our city,” said Fiona, flaring her eyes and shaking her head.

“Peter, the statues are disappearing,” said Ste, jumping up.

“Ste, the
city
is disappearing,” he answered.

“Och, not you, too,” said Fiona.

“This is what I’ve been telling you,” said Peter. “These development sites that Rab’s been taking us to, the restoration contracts that are going out—they’re destroying the city.”

“Thank you,” said Stefan, dropping back down to his seat, his hands in the air.

“There’s a demonstration tomorrow, Ste, a protest against a new development that’s taking over a whole section of the Old Town. I’m going with Rab and the boys. I didn’t want to speak for you, but—”

“No, I’m there,” said Stefan.

~

Someone at the front of the crowd shouted into a megaphone. From where he stood, Stefan couldn’t make out the speaker's words.

“What’s she saying?” asked Iain.

“No idea,” said Peter.

“This is rubbish,” said Calum. “Let’s go.”

“Can we stay till the end?” asked Rab.

“What are we protesting, Rab? It’s just two hundred hippies standing around on a Baltic day, freezing our bollocks off, yelling at—oh, no one in particular! When I agreed to come here, I thought there would at least be someone to protest
at
.”

“There was supposed to be,” said Rab. “They were supposed to do the ground-breaking today, the official opening of this new project.”

“What’s it going to be?” asked Iain.

“A shopping mall built into this old site,” said Rab.

“Great,” said Peter. “Just what we needed: more outlets for sweatshop clothes and slave coffee.”

“I’m going,” said Calum.

“Yeah, okay,” sighed Rab, “let’s go.”

They walked a few short blocks and descended the stairs to Dig Nation. Fiona was behind the bar, and nodded to them as they came in, unsurprised to see them. They proceeded to their usual booth deep in the back. Peter went to the bar to get them a round of drinks.

Fiona whispered:
Pay for them.
She nodded toward the back, where he saw the owner of the bar moving about the kitchen.

“Hello, Peter,” said the owner as he came from the back. In his tidy Argyll jumper and crisp grey slacks, he looked strangely out of place in his own bar; but then, he was not its target audience. “How are you doing today?”

“Alright, thanks. Just came from a protest. It was rubbish.”

“Oh yes. I went to a few protests in my day. What was this one about?”

“A development project that’s starting up in this area.”

“Oh,” said the man, looking troubled. He was in the process of picking up a glass, but put it back down. “Yes, about that. I’ve been meaning to talk to you both.”

“Why?” asked Fiona.

“I’ve been offered a rather tidy sum for this place, and I’ve been thinking—”

“You’re
not!
” said Peter.

“You two know as well as I do that this place doesn’t make a profit. The people who come here don’t spend much, and they stay for a long time. It’s dark and murky in here, and young people today want lights and atmosphere.”

“This place has loads of atmosphere!” insisted Peter.

“Yes, but not the kind that draws people in. Besides, they implied quite unmistakably that if I didn’t sell, I would be crowded out. So I can either accept their generous offer now, or make nothing later on.”

“So we’re out of work,” said Fiona.

“Well, not tomorrow.”

“You’ve already accepted the offer then?” asked Peter.

“I have. I’m sorry.” He looked at the floor and walked back into the kitchen.

Fiona looked at him and gave a heavy sigh.

“We’ll talk about it at home,” said Peter. He held out a ten-pound note.

“What’s that for?”

“The drinks.”

“Forget that,” she said. “They’re on the house.”

Stefan came to help carry the drinks back to the table. “What happened here?” he asked, seeing their faces.

“We’ll tell you later,” said Fiona.

Peter and Stefan divided the different pints among them. “What are we talking about?” asked Peter.

Iain moaned and said, “Rab’s being a nutter.”

“I’m serious,” insisted Rab. “We’ve got to do something about this. What are we going to do, sit around and wait for some historic trust group to stop this? By then it’ll be too late. And these people have enough money to buy their way through any kind of opposition.”

“So what are you thinking about?” asked Peter.

Rab crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Sabotage.”

Nineteen

Paper Chase

Stefan leaned over Peter’s sleeping body, put an ear next to his open mouth, and listened. His deep, glottal breaths sounded like ocean waves. Stefan kissed Peter’s mouth. The ocean receded with a quick inhalation and Peter’s eyes fluttered open.

Stefan smiled, then shuffled himself down to kiss Peter’s neck, making him shudder. Then he moved his lips lightly down Peter’s torso, following the thin line of hair to his belly button.

“Huh?”

Peter sat up slightly, leaning on his elbows. “What?”

Stefan tugged at Peter’s navel.

“What are you doing?” asked Peter. His eyes widened as he watched Stefan uncoiling paper from him like one of the rolls of caps he used to play with as a boy. “What the hell—?”

“It’s okay,” Stefan assured him, smiling. “I guess my dad wanted to put this somewhere I’d find it.”

“That tickles!”

“Got it. Finished,” said Stefan.

“You realise that this is weird for me, don’t you?”

“Dad’s got a sense of humour,” said Stefan, uncurling the paper, which turned out to be several strips.

“What is it?” asked Peter.

“I’m not sure. Looks like someone tore across a bunch of papers, some kind of document. But I don’t know what it’s from.” He held up a strip, looking closely at it. “This one’s got my father’s name and signature on it.”

Peter prodded his belly with his fingers. “Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know,” answered Stefan. “Where does belly-button lint come from? I wear a white T-shirt, I get blue lint. This makes as much sense as anything else.” He sat cross-legged and laughed. “When I was little, my mother used to tell me that’s where they filled me with soul and tied me up so it wouldn’t leak out.”

“She sounds like an interesting woman.”

“Yeah,” conceded Stefan, “I suppose she is.”

“Does she even know where you are?”

“No.” He pictured Helen croaking a confession under duress. “I suppose somebody’s probably told her.”

“You’re a bit of a jerk, aren’t you?”

Stefan gave him a look of incredulity. “This, from you?”

“What?”

“Okay, let me illustrate my point: Peter, I love you.”

“I love you too, Ste.”

Stefan blinked. “Oh.”

“You expected me to hit you or something?”

“Yeah.”

Peter took a pillow from behind his back and clobbered him.

~

“How’s that?” asked the barber.

Stefan sat up in the chair. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Perfect,” he said.

He paid the barber and walked to the local co-operative grocery store. The older women and the teenaged boys working the tills were surly, but Stefan liked the idea of a co-op, even if it didn’t look any different than a regular store. He noticed that the music was generic, a succession of sound-alike singers covering popular songs.
Discount muzak,
he thought,
we pass the savings onto you.
He filled a basket with vegetables, taking advantage of several bags of “Reduced for quick sale” produce, paid for it all with some of his remaining money, then headed back to the flat. He’d offered to cook supper for Peter, Fiona, and himself, and was even tempted to lure out the other flatmate.

He stopped to look at a tiny old church that caught his eye. Its spires were lower than the clay chimney-pots of the surrounding tenement buildings, and its eaves were covered in elaborate gables like wooden spider webs that had caught flowers. The body of the structure was surrounded with scaffolding.
Like Peter said, a city on crutches.
He wondered what was left of the inside of the building, and wished he could see it.
Cute
, was his final verdict: not so much a house of God; more like a cottage of God.

A sign stood in front: “Modernisation by Morton”.

He picked up the groceries and continued his walk home.

~

Stefan and Peter walked over wet black cobbles, through a foggy night pierced only by the dull yellow of occasional sodium lamps.

Supper went well, though the flatmate didn’t answer Stefan’s knocks, and Peter was preoccupied with the plan Rab had cooked up for the evening.

“I don’t see why he needs us,” said Stefan.

“I think he wants
someone
to know he did this, since he can’t exactly go telling people.” He turned to Stefan. “Besides, I
want
to be there. I don’t agree with what they’re doing, either.”

They reached the construction site. Peter pointed up at the gauzy floodlit sign that clung to the front of the building. It read “Morton: The face of tomorrow”.

“See, that offends me,” said Peter.

“It’s just an ad,” said Stefan. “They paid to put it there. It’s their building; they can do what they like.”

“Well, that’s arguable,” countered Peter. “I’ll give you the fact that they’ve bought the building. But that message doesn’t just hang on the building. When you look at it, it goes into your head. They didn’t pay you for that space. It’s an invasion, a violation of your mind. Besides that, they should have worked with the amazing building that was there and done something decent. Do you think the developer was thinking about how their plans fit in with the surroundings, or whether the work they do is going to last more than ten years? No, they don’t care about any of that. They just want a big, fat contract.”

“Okay. So this is why Rab wants to change the sign?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re supposed to help him.”

“Yeah. Hey,” said Peter, pointing at Iain, who walked toward them. “Alright, Iain?”

“Heya,” he answered, looking ruffled. “Do you guys know what Rab is up to?”

“More or less,” said Peter. “What’s wrong?”

“All sorts of things, as a matter of fact. For starters, this is illegal in I don’t know how many ways.”

“And you don’t like heights.”

“And I don’t like heights. But that’s not the point.”

Stefan interjected. “We’re supposed to go up there with him?”

“That was the idea. He’s got the equipment, but he can’t operate it and paint at the same time.”

Iain grabbed Peter’s shoulder. “Can’t you talk him out of it, please.”

“No. I’m not going to do that.” Peter looked around. “Where’s Calum?”

“He didn’t show up. We were at a pub earlier, and he got to chatting up this bird. You know how he is when he’s on the pull.”

“He just left you? Nice friend,” said Peter. He turned to Stefan. “See, didn’t I warn you about Calum?”

“Yes. Yes, you did. I’m just finding your sense of right and wrong rather interesting at the moment.”

“Come on, Rab’ll be waiting for us. Coming, Iain?”

“I—I can’t, Peter. You know I’d do anything for you guys, but I don’t see what—”

“It’s okay, Iain. You shouldn’t do it if you don’t feel right about it. But I do. I’ll tell Rab something or another. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, Peter. Goodnight. I’ll see you guys. Be careful.”

“Will do.”

Iain walked away. He was soon blurred out of focus by the fog, then totally erased.

“Same goes for you, Ste. Don’t feel like you have to do this just because I am.”

“No, I—” Stefan started. But he couldn’t finish the thought. It was a lie. He shook his head. “I’m with you.”

Peter put his arm around Stefan and they walked down a side road that led to the back of the building. Two panels of high metal mesh like the sides of shopping trolleys had been pried apart. Peter and Stefan slipped through the opening. The wall facing them had been battered open, a crumbling cave-mouth. Stefan gawked at the ruin: the building’s innards had been scooped out entirely. Work-lights illuminated the rubble, the windows, the pillars, and the ruin of it. An enormous crane rose to an impossible height in the sky. Beside it rumbled a diesel generator the size of a camper-van.

Peter saw the expression on Stefan’s face. “This is what they do. First they gut out the buildings. They throw away all that history and style and pour in something completely bland and whitewashed. After that, they claim that it’s unsteady or something, and knock it all down to put up a block of concrete and glass and steel.”