8

Martie left soon after the wine bottle was opened. She only had half a glass. Any more, she said, and she’d get a taste for it and would soon be over the drink-driving limit. But Ranald guessed, with a slight drop of his shoulders, that she was afraid sharing some wine with him might send him the wrong signal.

At the front door, she pecked him on the cheek, as if he was a brother of whom she was hugely fond. ‘I’m so happy for you, Ran, really.’ She stepped back from her hug and looked into his eyes. ‘Keep in touch, eh?’

‘Aye,’ he replied, faking a smile.

She took a few steps towards her car.

‘Still got that old mini I see?’

‘I love my wee car,’ she said. Before she stepped inside, she faced Ranald again. ‘Good luck on the date. Let me know how it goes?’

Ranald smiled and thought, Sure I will.

He watched as she drove off and stayed at the front door until she was long gone, the vast hulk of the house behind him suddenly feeling like a mausoleum. He looked up at the night sky but the lights from the house made it difficult to see what was happening in the atmosphere above his head. There was a full moon, its silvery light diffusing across part of the night sky. He shivered despite the fact that the heat of the day hadn’t dissipated, and walked back into the house. It was great that Martie wanted to come and see him, but did she have to always go on about his illness? He was better, much better – he hadn’t had an episode for a couple of years now.

He hated hearing those words, even in his own head – bipolar – the three syllables of his personal shame. Why did she have to remind him? That faux concern of hers really irritated him. He took a step forwards and kicked out at the stones under his feet, listening to them as they bounced and clicked off into the darkness.

Moving back onto the step he took a seat and listened to the sound of Martie’s car as she wound her way back into her own life. She could stay there for all he cared, if all she was going to do was badger him about his medicine.

Anyway, what did she know? What did she matter? He had a house that he had to pay nothing for – he had security for the first time since his parents died. He was a man of property – even if that property did chill something inside him. And he was on his own and that was just fine by him.

Upstairs in his bedroom he hung up his suit and put the shirt back on its hanger. Wearing only his boxer shorts he climbed onto his bed and centred himself on the massive mattress and threw out his arms and legs, making a star shape. This is what you called a bed, he told himself, trying to search for the undeniable positives in his new situation. His old one, back in his flat, sagged in the middle and gave him a sore lower back. This one was the height of comfort.

He reached over to turn off the bedside lamp. But the bed was so wide he had to do a graceless, crab-like scrabble to the edge.

Light off, he clambered back across to the middle of the bed, pulled the covers back and edged under them. He made a clear attempt to savour the cushion of the pillow and again, the comfort of the mattress. He closed his eyes and felt the heat build up. He kicked off the covers.

Opened his eyes again.

Had he locked all of the doors?

The front door locked automatically when you closed it, but was the door of the conservatory locked? He tried to recall what he’d done when he’d come back inside after Martie left. He couldn’t remember if he’d turned the key or not.

Shit. Better check. It was a good area, but a house like this – far from any other – would surely be a target for thieves. Was there an alarm system? He’d have to check with Mrs Hackett in the morning. But first he had to check the pool door.

He ran down the stairs and when he neared the door that opened to the corridor that led down to the conservatory, he became acutely aware once more of the huge space he was inhabiting – the darkness that surrounded it. Apart from the Hacketts in their house at the far end of the garden, there wasn’t a living soul for miles.

A mad axeman could be waiting for him behind any of the doors in this house and no one would hear his screams.

For God’s sake, man.

But still.

He pushed open the door, and before he stepped into the corridor he reached for the light switch. Only when the way in front of him was fully lit did he step beyond the doorway. Arms crossed, walking as fast as he could, but pausing at each doorway to listen for noises he made his way to the fitness suite.

With a start he realised that the pool door was indeed unlocked. He turned the key, then raced his way to the other side of the house and back up the stairs to his bedroom as if he was being chased by a demon.

Heart racing from his sudden exercise, he lay in the middle of his bed and closed his eyes once more.

Right, Ranald, don’t be stupid. You’re safe, he thought. No one was going to touch him. And how nice was this bed? he reminded himself as if that might push the fearful notions from his mind.

He turned onto his side, pulled his knees up and let his head sink into the deep cushion of his pillows.

Despite himself, he opened his eyes yet again.

There was just so much space around him. And it was so hot. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, thinking he should really open the window.

He looked up at the ceiling; it was sliced in two by a long, narrow blade of moonlight entering through a gap in the curtains.

Moonlight.

Dancing in the moonlight with his mother: the memory was so sharp it was like he was back there once again.

He recalled a sobering moment: looking into his mother’s eyes and seeing a cold stranger there. He tried to pull his hands out of her grip, but she held him fast.

What was this house doing to him – dredging up these memories from a past so deeply buried that ten years of therapy had been unable to reach them? Ten years of experimenting with a combination of legal drugs. Eight of them before his official diagnosis.

He needed air. It was so warm his pulse was pounding in his neck, thumping in his ear against the pillow.

He edged off the bed, walked over to the window and opened it. The breeze was a welcome relief against his bare chest. He took a deep breath, left a space open between the curtains to allow the fresh air to circulate in the room and went back to the bed. Without thinking about what he was doing, he pulled the white gauze curtains of the four-poster closed. It was only as he lay down that he understood the impulse he’d had to do it: he’d automatically been aiming for that feeling he had as a wee boy when he would create a den in the dining room. He’d place the biggest bed sheet he could find on the table, so that it reached down to the floor on every side and no one would be able to find him. Then he’d pull every cushion off the sofa, stuff them under the table and set up his little reading station.

When he was there, nothing could intrude and he would be lost in the worlds of Enid Blyton, C.S. Lewis and Robert Louis Stevenson. And so his love of books had been fostered.

With the thought of this old sanctuary soothing his mind, Ranald drifted into a state somewhere between sleep and a haunting memory.

He woke with a start. His arm was numb. He was cold. Where had his quilt gone? Where the hell was he?

Bright light pushed at the thin skin of his eyelids. Then he realised he was not lying on the soft cushion of his mattress, but on a harsh, thin carpet. He rubbed his eyes as he tried to work out where he was. He sat up. He must have sleepwalked.

That hadn’t happened for a long time.

He looked around.

At his back was the door of the lift.

He scratched his head. How weird was that? And he realised with a start that he was naked. How had that happened? Hadn’t he gone to bed in his boxers as usual? He cupped a hand over his groin and listened, trying to hear if anyone was in the house. It wouldn’t do for Mrs Hackett to come in for work and find him sitting naked in the corridor.

He got to his feet, putting a hand on the lift door for support. The door felt warm. Where was the cold buzz he got from it the previous day?

His mind felt foggy – a sense that his dreams were still with him. There was danger and comfort there. A woman. A smile. A kiss. But also something feral. Disturbed. A voice echoed in his memory: You’re mine now.

Wasn’t that what Liz thought she’d heard? A voice saying that very thing?

He rubbed at his forehead. Shut up, McGhie.

He took a breath and dismissed his thinking as idiotic.

He looked along to the door into the conservatory. He should go for a swim, that would clear away these bizarre thoughts.

One of the benefits of swimming he’d somehow forgotten was the meditative state he would go into, as he felt the stretch and pull of his muscles, and the rhythm of lifting his head and to the side, breathing in, then dropping it again and exhaling into the water.

Forty laps later, with a satisfying ache in his arms, chest and shoulders, he climbed out of the pool, located a towel and wrapped it round his waist and looked out of the expanse of window at the ordered greenery, saw nature curbed by blade and brawn. Judging by the clear sky he was in for another day of sunshine, and he vaguely wondered why that thought didn’t fill him with cheer.

Fortified by a plate of bacon and eggs and carrying a mug of coffee, he walked into the library and took a seat behind the desk. The heat of the day fell on his back through the window. He would take time to enjoy the sunshine later, he thought; first he’d like to get a handle on Alexander Fitzpatrick.

The notebooks. He’d discounted them the day before, but if they were full of stuff that the old fella found important then that would surely be a good indicator of how the man’s mind worked.

He pulled the four notebooks out of the drawer and arranged them before him on the desk. Only four? There must be more somewhere. He took a sip of his coffee and opened one of them in the middle. At the top of the page was a quote from a movie:

‘Film: In a Lonely Place. “I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.”’

Ranald wasn’t sure how to take that.

He read it over again – ‘when she kissed me’ – and he was back in his dream of the previous night. A pair of ruby lips poised over him mid-pout, and then a sudden and sharp arousal.

He tried to distract himself by dipping back into the notebook. A few pages on was a quote from the man who was thought by many to be the Godfather of modern Scottish crime fiction, William McIlvanney: ‘Praise is lovely, but it’s like a hotel: you can’t live there for any length of time.’

Choosing another notebook, he opened it near the back and read a few lines that weren’t attributed to anyone. They read like scraps of poems. Was his great-uncle a writer like he was? This set off a surge of excitement. How sweet would that be if they had that in common?

He read on. The words seemed pressed onto the page with no discernible pattern – random thoughts that had blown through his great-uncle’s mind. Nothing linking them other than the fact they’d come from him.

‘…the day the sky fell in … her smile has a shadow … like a wordless tongue … her name was Jennie … Jennie full of grace … regret is a weight, a sodden cloak.’

Were these memories or random impressions?

Then on another page, Ranald read a short poem:

I should learn to listen.

Allow the words to settle

in that padded room between denial and acceptance.

But it would be easier to place one foot

on the low wall of a high bridge,

spread my arms crucifix-wide, lean forward

and will flight into the span of my arms.

What was that about? Something in it spoke to him. The words carried a sense of needing … and foreboding? Who should Fitz have listened to? What had he denied?

Closing the notebook he was studying, Ranald pushed his chair back from the desk, his fingers clasped as if in prayer, pressing on the underside of his nose. From what he had read he was sure he would have liked Fitz. But did he and Great-Uncle Alexander have more in common than blood?

A phrase echoed in his brain and found a point of resonance. He winced at the recognition.

‘…in that padded room between denial and acceptance…’