Books set in Scotland, from Glasgow tenements to the Isle of Harris

Her boy was stooped slightly, the rucksack a little hump on his back. Unsure of what he should take, he had packed it with half-hearted nonsense: an oversized Fair Isle jumper, teabags, his dog-eared sketchbook, a game of Ludo, and some half-used tubes of medicated ointment. Yet he wavered on the corner as though the bag might tip him backwards into the gutter. Mo-Maw knew the bag was not heavy. She knew it was the bones of him that had become a dead weight.

This was all for his own good and yet he dared stare up at her with a doleful look. It was too hot for his nonsense. He was fraying her nerves. Go! she mouthed again and took a swally of the cold tea.

The two men idled at the bend. They shared a sigh and a glance and a chuckle, before putting down their bags and lighting cigarettes. Mo-Maw could tell they were itchy to be gone – these narrow streets didn’t like unknown faces – and she could see it took patience not to goad her boy on. The men were canny enough not to pressure Mungo, not so close to home, not when he could still bolt. Their slitted eyes kept flicking towards him, watching, waiting to see what the boy would do next, while their hands ferreted inside their trouser pockets as they peeled their ball sacks from their thighs. The day would be muggy and close. The younger man fiddled with himself. Mo-Maw licked the back of her bottom teeth.

Mungo raised his hand to wave up at the window but Mo-Maw glowered down at him. He must have seen her face harden, or perhaps he thought waving was childish, because he aborted the gesture and grasped a fistful of air, which made him seem like a drowning man.

In his baggy shorts and his oversized cagoule, he looked like a waif dressed in hand-me-downs. But as he pushed the cloud of curls away from his face, Mo-Maw saw his jaw tighten, and she was reminded of the determined young man that he was becoming. She tapped the glass again. Don’t you scowl at me.

The younger of the two men stepped forward and laid his arm across Mungo’s shoulders. Mungo winced at the weight. Mo-Maw saw him rub at his sides, and she was reminded of the tender purple bruises that were blooming across his ribs. She tapped the glass, Oh fur God’s sake, jist go! At this, her son lowered his gaze and let himself be led away. The men were laughing as they clapped her boy on the back. Guid lad. Brave lad.

I took my catapult from my belt, selected a half-inch steelie, sighted carefully, then sent the big ball-bearing arcing out over the river, the telephone poles and the little suspension bridge to the mainland. The shot hit the ‘Keep Out – Private Property’ sign with a thud I could just hear, and I smiled. It was a good omen. The Factory hadn’t been specific (it rarely is), but I had the feeling that whatever it was warning me about was important, and I also suspected it would be bad, but I had been wise enough to take the hint and check my Poles, and now I knew my aim was still good; things were still with me.

I decided not to go straight back to the house. Father didn’t like me to be there when Diggs came and, anyway, I still had a couple of Poles to check before the sun went down. I jumped and slid down the slope of the dune into its shadow, then turned at the bottom to look back up at those small heads and bodies as they watched over the northern approaches to the island. They looked fine, those husks on their gnarled branches. Black ribbons tied to the wooden limbs blew softly in the breeze, waving at me. I decided nothing would be too bad, and that tomorrow I would ask the Factory for more information. If I was lucky, my father might tell me something and, if I was luckier still, it might even be the truth.

I left the sack of heads and bodies in the Bunker just as the light was going completely and the stars were starting to come out.

Sudden meant Rebus hadn’t been able to say goodbye. It meant his last words to Michael had been a joke about his beloved Raith Rovers in a phone call three months back. A Raith scarf, navy and white, had been draped over the coffin alongside the wreaths. Kenny was wearing a tie that had been his dad’s, Raith’s shield on it – some kind of animal holding a belt-buckle. Rebus had asked the significance, but Kenny had just shrugged. Looking along the pew, Rebus saw the usher make a gesture. Everyone rose to their feet. Chrissie started walking up the aisle, flanked by her children. The usher looked to Rebus, but he stayed where he was. Sat down again so the others would know they didn’t have to wait for him. The song was only a little over halfway through. It was the closing track on Quadrophenia. Michael had been the big Who fan, Rebus himself preferring the Stones. Had to admit, though, albums like Tommy and Quadrophenia did things the Stones never could. Daltrey was whooping that he could use a drink. Rebus had to agree, but there was the drive back to Edinburgh to consider.

The function room of a local hotel had been booked. All were welcome, as the minister had reminded them from the pulpit. Whisky and tea would be poured, sandwiches served. There would be anecdotes and reminiscences, smiles, dabs at the eyes, hushed tones. The staff would move quietly, out of respect. Rebus was trying to form sentences in his head, words which would act as his apology.

I need to get back, Chrissie. Pressure of work.

He could lie and blame the G8. That morning in the house, Lesley had said he must be busy with the build-up. He could have told her, I’m the only cop they don’t seem to need. Officers were being drafted in from all over. Fifteen hundred were coming from London alone. Yet Detective Inspector John Rebus seemed surplus to requirements. Someone had to man the ship – the very words DCI James Macrae had used, with his acolyte smirking by his shoulder. DI Derek Starr reckoned himself the heir apparent to Macrae’s throne. One day he’d be running Gayfield Square police station. John Rebus posed no threat whatsoever, not much more than a year away from retirement. Starr himself had said as much: Nobody’d blame you for coasting, John. It’s what anyone your age would do. Maybe so, but the Stones were older than Rebus; Daltrey and Townshend were older than him too. Still playing, still touring.

The North Atlantic Drift is cooling and Dylan MacRae has just arrived in Clachan Fells caravan park and there are three suns in the sky. That's how it all begins. On Ash Lane, along a row of silver bullet caravans, a blackbird lands on a fence post. His eyes reflect a vast mountain range. Standing at the back of no. 9 looking toward the parhelia are Constance Fairbairn, her child Stella and the Incomer. Neighbors step out onto porches and everyone is unusually quiet, nodding to each other instead of saying hello. Stella imagines the brightest sun is for her, the second is for her mother and the last is for clarity, most recently lost. Her mother wants this back in their lives, but the child does not know why she should want it so much when clarity is no ally. It isn't any kind of a companion at all. Stella stands, arms folded, frowning—right in between her mother and the Incomer, while three suns climb higher in the sky. Constance does not see her child in the parhelia. She sees two lost lovers and herself in the middle—reflecting light. Caleb will be in Lisbon from now on and, after this last fight, she will never speak to him again. Alistair is back with his wife. Three suns to herald the beginning of a great storm. How very fleeting—any moment of stability. Constance is weary from matters of the heart but more so from worry for her child. Dylan MacRae shades his gaze. He wears a fisherman's jumper and a deerstalker hat, Chelsea boots, tailored trousers, he is overly tattooed, immodestly bearded—he is clearly taller than a man was ever meant to be. He rolls a cigarette and lights it. His eyes are red-rimmed in this brightness and he is dazed from seeing a woman polish the moon. In all his days. Three suns, seven mountains and so, so close to the sea. Dylan looks up at the parhelia and he sees Constance, her child and him. There is a curious coruscation to the Incomer's eyes. The mother stacks wood. The child has two spirits.

All of the others seem to have fallen asleep, even baby Priya. Giles is actually snoring.

Look, I want to say, look how beautiful it is!

I’ve planned this trip, so I feel a certain ownership of it—the anxiety that people won’t enjoy themselves, that things might go wrong. And also a sense of pride, already, in its small successes … like this, the wild beauty outside the window.

It’s hardly a surprise that they’re all asleep. We got up so early this morning to catch the train—Miranda looked particularly cross at the hour. And then everyone got on the booze, of course.

Mark, Giles, and Julien hit the drinks trolley early, somewhere around Doncaster, even though it was only eleven. They got happily tipsy, affectionate, and loud (the next few seats along did not look impressed). They seem to be able to fall back into the easy camaraderie of years gone by no matter how much time has passed since they last saw each other, especially with the help of a couple of beers.

Nick and Bo, Nick’s American boyfriend, aren’t so much a feature of this boys’ club, because Nick wasn’t part of their group at Oxford … although Katie has claimed in the past that there’s more to it than that, some tacit homophobia on the part of the other boys. Nick is Katie’s friend, first and foremost. Sometimes I have the distinct impression that he doesn’t particularly like the rest of us, that he tolerates us only because of Katie. I’ve always suspected a bit of coolness between Nick and Miranda, probably because they’re both such strong characters. And yet this morning the two of them seemed thick as thieves, hurrying off across the station concourse, arm in arm, to buy “sustenance” for the trip. This turned out to be a perfectly chilled bottle of Sancerre, which Nick pulled from the cool-bag to slightly envious looks from the beer drinkers. “He was trying to get those G-and-Ts in cans,” Miranda told us, “but I wouldn’t let him. We have to start as we mean to go on.”

Miranda, Nick, Bo, and I each had some wine. Even Samira decided to have a small one, too, at the last minute: “There’s all this new evidence that says you can drink when you’re breastfeeding.”

Katie shook her head at first; she had a bottle of fizzy water. “Oh, come on, Kay-tee,” Miranda pleaded, with a winning smile, proffering a glass. “We’re on holiday!” It’s difficult to refuse Miranda anything when she’s trying to persuade you to do something, so Katie took it, of course, and had a tentative sip.

The booze helped lighten the atmosphere a bit; we’d had a bit of a mix-up with the seating when we first got on. Everyone was tired and cross, halfheartedly trying to work it out. It turned out that one of the nine seats on the booking had somehow ended up in the next carriage, completely on its own. The train was packed, for the holidays, so there was no possibility of shuffling things around.

“Obviously that’s my one,” Katie said. Katie, you see, is the odd one out, not being in a couple. In a way, I suppose you could say that she is more of an interloper than I am these days.

“Oh, Katie,” I said. “I’m so sorry—I feel like an idiot. I don’t know how that happened. I was sure I’d reserved them all in the middle, to try to make sure we’d all be together. The system must have changed it. Look, you come and sit here … I’ll go there.”

It had taken some time to find the perfect place to worship, a solitary phone box that wasn’t back-to-back with another. When his father precented the psalm, the expectation was Cal would sing it back to him in Gaelic with the full power of his belief. But when a particularly handsome man would stroll past he would cringe and lower his voice and, without fail, John would ask him why he was wavering. It was mortifying to deal with the glances of passing strangers. For this reason, he spent a good portion of their time together with his eyes closed or with his back turned to the path. He found he did his best singing while his fingers searched the calling cards left by the prostitutes and masseuses.

For all that, he liked the Meadows. The rolling fields helped slow his mind. It was one of the few spaces where the city took a breath, and he found it helped match the rhythm of his thoughts to his father’s unhurried talk. He knew his father was staring out at the sea.

“Ciamar a tha thu an-diugh?” his father asked in Gaelic. And how are you today?

“Fine. And you?”

“Not bad. Upright. All praise to God.”

Their conversation was always censored, missing the things they couldn’t talk about. Cal never mentioned he had nowhere to live. He never said that since graduating he had been abusing the charity of his classmates, surfing from one settee to the next, waiting for them to leave for work so he could forage like a wood mouse, taking just enough food to sate his hunger but never so much as to get caught. He never mentioned how he dripped dry after a shower, or how he studied the tideline of a milk bottle so he could replace what he took with tap water, or how he wandered the Edinburgh suburbs of an evening so his friends wouldn’t feel the burden of feeding him.

He didn’t mention that he had found work with a band of Albanian women cleaning the sick-splattered toilets of Negociants and the Rose Street pub.

She wanted to see the future.

She was a beautiful child, with long bones and glossy dark hair that waved around her oval face and framed her blue eyes and even features. But it was her determination that one saw, the glint of steel showing in those lovely eyes, usually hidden under a layer of courtesy and training, but now, unwatched except by the creatures of sea and air, her jaw was set and her gaze unfaltering.

She thought of herself as Scottish, but in truth her blood was mixed. She’d been formed by fiery Picts, ancient Caledonians, and ferocious Norsemen on her father’s side, triumphant Normans and passionate Celts on her mother’s. She knew of their intermingled histories, had heard the stories of the old days and the battles for dominance, of foes who had come from the south and from the sea, of courageous people who had held the Romans at bay and fought off the Vikings. But all that was in the past, and she gave it little thought. It was what was to come that interested her now, and only the old woman could help her to see it.

She’d seen much already this evening, had watched as the rituals of Lammas Night, the first of the harvest festivals, were carried out, the storing of the seed corn and the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire that illuminated the sky. She’d watched the clanspeople her father led devour the Lammas feast and had tasted the Mass Loaf, made from the first flour ground after the harvest. And after the meal, when many of the others were worse for drink, or lost in the wonderful music, she’d watched her father clasp the hand of his latest mistress and slide from the hall. And watched her mother’s eyes darken as she saw them go.