Ranald was back in the kitchen when they walked back in, sitting on a chair, cross-legged, as if he’d hadn’t moved since they left. He kept his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling.
They looked at him, but their eyes were back in the rooms upstairs.
‘Absolutely fascinating,’ said Donna.
‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ agreed Martie.
Ranald gave her a taut smile, and she cocked her head to the side as if she couldn’t read its purpose. He was saying, without speaking, I heard you, I know everything, and I understand but I don’t know if I’m capable of forgiving you. Or myself.
That he’d given her this burden was surely the greater sin.
‘So, that was your great-grandmother’s space?’ asked Donna. ‘And your great-uncle Alexander had the wing at the front?’
‘Did Alexander ever marry?’ asked Martie.
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Ranald.
‘Your grandmother had your mum, Helen—’
‘Turns out her real name was Helena,’ Ranald interrupted, aware that his mouth was soured with a bitter taste. This was all becoming too much. He needed them to leave.
‘Your gran have any other kids?’ asked Donna.
‘Yeah, William. He had two kids, Rebecca and Marcus,’ Ranald replied, thinking, Go, please go.
‘You met them?’ asked Martie. ‘What was it like to find out you had this other family?’
‘Interesting,’ said Ranald. It was the best he could come up with.
Please just go.
Martie tutted. ‘You’re one of them now, Ran.’
Donna’s eyes narrowed. ‘These cousins of yours, I wonder how happy they were when they found out about you. All this –’ she looked around ‘– they must’ve thought it was going to them.’
‘They must have been shocked,’ said Martie.
‘Aye,’ Donna leaned forwards. ‘Family intrigue. This house must be worth a couple of million at least. Bet when the old fella was on his deathbed they were counting the pennies.’
‘If they were, too bad. They got stuff. I got the house. It’s all about the library, apparently. Alexander wanted his books protected.’
‘The whole house is like a library,’ said Donna as she looked over at a couple of bookshelves in the kitchen that, unsurprisingly, contained cook books.
‘Except the rooms above here,’ said Martie. ‘Now that I think about it, I don’t think I saw a single book.’
Her tone prompted a rebuke from Donna.
‘A lack of books doesn’t make you a bad person,’ she said.
‘Yes, it does,’ Martie and Ranald said at exactly the same time, and he was relieved that his mask was back in place.
‘We need to have a movie night soon,’ Donna said. ‘I’d love the chance to get a good rake through his film collection.’
‘There are so many classics up there you wouldn’t believe it,’ said Ranald.
They settled into a few moments of silence before Donna finished her coffee and placed the empty mug on the table.
Please leave.
‘I think our work here is done, Martie,’ she said. ‘I detect a positive change in Mr McGhie since we arrived.’
Ranald breathed, felt the air flow as if down to his toes. He’d managed to fool them both. He exhaled and, dragging up some last ounces of vigour, he smiled. He worked hard to make it as genuine as possible.
‘Yes,’ said Martie. ‘I believe the intervention has worked.’
They phoned a taxi from the library and then walked to the front of the house to wait.
When it arrived, after kisses and hugs and promises of more visits in the very near future, Martie ran to the car.
Donna paused however, reached a hand out and took a grip of his forearm. ‘See all that stoic man stuff – it’s total rubbish, Ran. I can see through your act. If you need someone to talk to, give us a shout, eh?’ She gave him a little smile, her eyes deep wells of sympathy. ‘There’s folk here that care about you.’
Throat tight with emotion, he didn’t trust his voice enough to speak; he could only nod his head in response.
Message delivered, Donna took a step back, turned and walked quickly to the taxi. The car then drove off and Ranald was left alone on his doorstep.
He stepped back into the house and closed the door. Then he turned and slid down the wood until his legs were spread out in front of him. They’d left just in time. He had no idea how he could have kept that performance going.
The maw of the house yawned in front of him. He unfocused his eyes and looked out into the cave-like gloom. Furniture, doors, stairs, windows, all of it blended into wraiths and shadows and whispers. None of it held meaning. All of it held threat. He was real once, and now he was falling, falling, falling into a deep shaft. His lips felt swollen, his throat constricted, his limbs encased in concrete.
He was upside down.
He was wearing his organs on the outside of his skin.
A black snake was sliding across the wooden floor towards him, risen from a swamp, and the house shivered in anticipation of its bite.