Aftershock

Ninety-eight

Caitlin Summers smiled as the interview began. It was the third time she had watched it, having recorded the original transmission on the Sky + box that she had discovered as an added bonus when she had moved into her new home.

‘Why this location?’ the BBC arts correspondent asked. ‘Isn’t it a bit of a contrast from your last home in the United States. . New York, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right, and the choice is quite deliberate. I’m a creature of extremes, a risk-taker, and I like to think it shows in my work.’

‘Being an artist in Scotland has been a risky business lately. I suppose you’re aware that three young painters have been murdered this year.’

Caitlin watched herself smile mischievously at her female inquisitor. ‘Are you saying I’m live bait?’

‘Hardly, but doesn’t it worry you?’

She saw her face grow serious. ‘How many soldiers have died in Iraq this year? Do armies knock off when a man is killed? Should I set my work aside because of some nutcase? Should I abandon my walks every morning, and shut myself up in my lighthouse? No, thank you. As I understand it, two of those crimes have been cleared up, and the third might have been. If there is still a madman out there, tough.’

‘Going back to your past career, you’ve exhibited in several major cities, and now you’re coming home. Where to next?’

She was about to hear herself reply, ‘Glasgow, probably,’ when her mobile rang. She picked it up and checked the caller ID.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d call to see whether you were okay.’

‘And I am.’

‘Listen, I know that this leap into the spotlight has been very sudden. I just want to say that although it’s going to look good on your resumé, if you feel you’ve been rushed into it, you can still back off.’

Caitlin laughed. ‘And miss the chance to meet the First Minister, the second most famous Scotswoman, after Lulu? No chance.’