[Nine Fragments bi Sandy Fleemin] (In Scots)

VII

y an weeks gaed by an never a sign o Cranmore or Suphy. She doutit thay wis destroyed in the fire like she’d howpit. I wis gey dumfooonert at aa this. We ken Hamilton Haa wis burnt thon simmer an we wis telt it wis wi a blawlamp hivvin been cowpit while aa the fire doors wis aff for pittin in new fire safety meisures, but here wis a lassie tellin me she wis the ane haed startit the fire. Aither aa this happent or she wis a helluva leear. An yit my first impression haed been that she coudna lee tae save her life. I startit tae wonder gin the warna some truith ahint aa this, I’ll no say.

Ísabel coud still dree daylicht an haed nae mind tae gae soukin onybody’s neck, scientist or no, but she kent her vampirism wis advancin slaw, an come the winter she wis skippin lecturs an tutorials for tae jouk the sunlicht, an gangin aboot the toun in the nicht oors, an thinkin what a peety she’d perished Suphy athoot first gittin a haud o the formula for thon paste o hers.

But it wis ane o thae winter nichts whan she wis stravaigin the toun she turnt the corner at the tap o the Pends an thare wis met bi Cranmore hissel on the vera spot she’d first ran intae him. “Did ye think fire wad perish a vampire, ye fuil?” qo he as he grippit her. “A peety puir Suphy mistimed her exit. But tell me, Ísabel, what ken ye o Suphy’s discoveries? What did she tell ye?”

“Sun paste,” Ísabel startit wi the ane that wis forritmaist in her hert, “an she got some road wi some kin o airtifícial bluid, an she sayed vampirism is the only disease that spreeds fae species tae species.”

“What rubbish,” qo Cranmore, “some guid her paste did her in the end. Tae think I cam aa the road here an aa the war gaun on wis sic nonsense.”

“Suphy seemed tae think the species tae species discovery wis a gey wechty maiter,” qo Ísabel.

“The flu spreeds fae species tae species,” sayed Cranmore, “it’s a watterfoul disease that spreeds tae humans throu sous.” He lat oot a souch that pinglt like a snell northern blast on Ísabel’s still ower human face an neck, syne he snirlt, an she teuk that for a smile. “Ye ken, fae the landin at Whitby,” he sayed, “technology haes ca’d forrit lowpie for spang. I’v duin my bit an aa, no hauf. It wis the radio I made first, but the ae thing I’m espaecially prood o’s the televísion set.”

“Wis that no John Logie Baird?” spiered Ísabel.

“Ye hae tae lairn tae think on the leevin as tools, my dear,” qo he. “But Suphy … guid tools, I dinna …