Ranald was back in the kitchen. He put the photograph wallet on the table and thrust his hands into his pockets, as if that would stop them trembling. What the hell was going on here? Was he losing it? What could possibly explain the fact that he knew that girl’s face?
He sifted through memory and all of those dreams. She’d sat on his lap, head in the crook of his neck as if enjoying the deep rumble of his voice as he read. They’d walked hand in hand through shadow in the garden. At no point could he remember her face being clearly visible, so how did he know it was her?
Even though he was disturbed by all of this, he still felt a longing for her. He wanted to take that last photograph out, sit down and stare into her eyes.
But he dared not.
Despite this, he reached across the table. Allowed his hand to hover above the brown plastic. He retreated. He couldn’t do this. Shouldn’t be doing this.
Part of him recognised the displacement. He was lonely. His reallife relationships were all failures. He never failed to push women away, eventually. And that was why an affair with a dead woman – a half-face he’d imagined in a mirror – was preferable to flesh and blood, and certain disappointment.
But then…
It still didn’t explain the dreams, the lift and the fact there was a woman in the mirror.
He stood back from the kitchen table and the wallet, creating distance. That was the thing. Distance. Get the hell out of here and maybe the fog in his mind would recede and he would be able to make some sense of all of this.
He marched along to the front door, and pulled it open to see Marcus standing with his finger poised to ring the bell.
‘Ah, Ranald. Do you have a moment?’
Without waiting for him to respond, Marcus walked past and through into his usual space. Once there, he made straight for the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky.
‘Aye,’ said Ranald when he caught up with him. ‘Do come in.’
Marcus threw his head back and drank the whisky down in one. Swallowed. ‘Cousin,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘If you are going to try and change my mind, Marcus you’re wasting your time.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Marcus said, and slammed the crystal glass on the top of the cabinet, so hard Ranald was surprised not to hear the sound of breaking glass.
‘I’m sorry, Marcus, I can’t not see to my great-uncle’s wishes. I would feel awful.’
‘Oh, give me a break,’ Marcus said as he squared up to him. ‘You didn’t even know the old bastard. He ignored you for most of your life. Where does this ridiculous sense of loyalty come from?’ There was a tightness in the man’s face, the chords on his neck were standing out and his eyes were red.
‘Marcus, what’s wrong?’ Ranald asked. Again, Ranald had the impression there was an importance here. A desperation even. Was his cousin in deep financial trouble?
Marcus turned away for a moment, as if he was using that time to gather his thoughts, but he turned back to Ranald, hard eyed and mouth a tight line of anger, as if he was a mere breath from losing control.
‘You sanctimonious little prick … don’t pretend to care about me.’
‘What the hell …?’ Ranald felt a surge of irritation in response, and his hands form into fists. Words crowded his brain. Smart answers. Cutting answers. Alexander, where are you when I need you? he sent out.
His shoulders slumped. He looked over at his cousin.
Marcus stared at him as if building up for another insult. And sure enough it came. ‘You fucking inbred,’ he said.
Wait. Inbred?
‘What did you call me?’
‘There could be two different lots of Fitzgerald blood in your veins, Ranald.’
Ranald looked at his cousin. Wanted to punch the smug out of his face. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘Do I need to spell it out? I gave you enough hints before.’ His mouth stretched into a poisoned smile. ‘My loving father. Your mother. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It’s why she left. And it’s why she couldn’t stay away.’
Ranald was in his face. His breath a harsh pounding. ‘You’re full of shit.’
‘If only, Ranald old boy. Your mother’s first child was fathered by her brother, William. The stillborn thing was another family lie, she had an abortion. Couldn’t handle the guilt of fucking her own brother. I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I were brothers.’
‘Utter crap.’ There was a ringing in Ranald’s ears. The world had narrowed to the pounding of his heart and Marcus’s mouth. ‘Lies. All lies, you arsehole.’
‘My father told me all about it on my twenty-first birthday. How’s that for a loving parent, eh?’ He stepped away from Ranald and sat in his usual spot, as if pleased to have told Ranald the story of his inception. His posture perfectly displayed his attitude. If he couldn’t get Ranald to change his views, by God he would spoil his peace of mind. Marcus rested his right foot on his left knee, back in control now that he had spat out all of his bile. ‘We could be brothers as well as cousins. How messed up is that?’
Ranald opened his mouth to speak. To shout. To deny. His mother and Marcus’s father? He could see the taunt in Marcus’s eyes. Even he didn’t believe they were really brothers. It was just a provocation. Something to set him off balance.
He turned away, closing his eyes. Remembering his parents, how they’d interacted with each other. On her good days, there was no one who could match Gordon McGhie in his mother’s eyes. Once she had left that house – this house – all she cared about was his father. More even than him, her own child, Ranald realised with a lurch and a grip of disappointment.
And his father shared that love. He would have made any bargain to keep her. Life without her would have been an inconsolable ruin. He would have opened a vein for her, of that Ranald was certain.
But, knowing all of that, she had beaten him to that final, irrevocable blow.
With a half-walk and a half-run Ranald made his way down to the Cross, wearing only his shirt, hunkered against the rain and the cold. He stood at the intersection under the watchful eye of the war memorial and watched the traffic flow as the lights changed. People. People in cars. This was life. Real life. People doing things in the here and now. Actions that were not debatable. This was visible. Verifiable.
How he envied each and every one of them. What he would give to be able to just do the simple things, engage in life, without this unceasing, accusing monologue going on in his head. Everyone else knew what they were doing, where they were going and why it mattered.
At the traffic lights, on automatic, he reached out to press the button that would make it switch to pedestrian mode. As he lifted his hand up he saw that his right wrist had a huge slash across it and his hand was coated in thick blood. Part of him shrank back in horror, another part wondered if it really should have the consistency of treacle. He held his left hand out to see a similar wound and a spouting of blood.
Had he managed to kill himself? Was he dead?
Would anyone care?
The lights changed. People walked past him to cross the road, but he stood there, unable to move, studying his hands.
He looked up and away, blinking, heart a furious bluster in his chest. No, this can’t be happening. Then he looked back down to see his skin was an unblemished healthy pink.
Distracted, and without realising he had sent the command to his brain, he stepped out into the road.
The van swerved. The horn blared. A hand with finger extended and a loud voice shot out of the window: ‘Wanker. Watch where you’re going.’
Ranald staggered back onto the kerb, his hand to his heart, adrenaline sparking all over his body. He forced a breath.
‘Ranald?’ He heard. A female voice. ‘My God. What are you doing?’
It was Liz, her face long and pale with shock. ‘Did you just deliberately step—’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he interrupted her. ‘I was just in a wee dwam.’
‘I’ve been in plenty of daydreams, Ranald, but I’ve never stepped in front of a van. Good job he managed to swerve out of your way or you’d be spread all over the road.’
Ranald looked down the street. The van was long gone and he felt a crush of disappointment that the van driver had been paying attention. Then all of this would have been over. No more of this constant distracting chatter in his head. And how could that not be a good thing? He would be doing everyone a favour. No more Ranald McGhie to worry about.
‘You’re soaking,’ she said, touching his shoulder. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
Ranald tried to smile. ‘Not got your man’s tea to make tonight?’
He walked away, judging the traffic with more care this time, and crossed the road safely. He didn’t bother to check whether Liz was following him, but thought that his rudeness must have scared her off. Which was just fine by him.
By the time he arrived at the café, however, he wanted to go back and apologise to Liz. There had been no need to have a go at her. She was just trying to be a friend. Before he pushed open the door he paused and looked back down the road. Liz was nowhere to be seen.
He walked inside and took a seat.
‘Usual?’ the waitress shouted over.
‘Please,’ he replied, then sat back in his chair and looked around the room. It was busy this morning and everyone was staring at him. Probably thinking, there’s another of the Fitzpatricks losing their shit. To hell with them. He adjusted the wet material of his shirt, pulling it away from his shoulders.
There was a familiar face at one of the window seats. Suzy looked up as if aware of his attention. Without acknowledging him she went back to her book.
Somebody else he’d pissed off.
His coffee was delivered. He nodded his thanks and took a sip. An old man on the table across from him was reading a newspaper. One of the sections lay on the edge of the table, as if it was no longer needed.
‘Mind if I…’ Ranald pointed at the paper.
‘Aye, nae worries,’ the old man said.
Ranald picked up the paper, but found he couldn’t focus on reading. He kept seeing the photograph. His mother. A woman who had a twisted relationship with her brother, if even a little of what Marcus had told him was true. The woman who ran away, only to bring her shadows with her and destroy everything she loved.
The girl with her hand on Alexander’s shoulder. The aching smile on her face. Who was she? Her clothing suggested that she was a maid or servant of some sort. Who got a photo taken with the staff?
His grandmother looked decidedly unhappy, but that seemed to be her default position. In every single image he’d seen of her she looked like her teeth were coated in lemon juice.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. Suzy was preparing to leave. He got to his feet and walked over, unsure of what was motivating him to do so. Just a second ago he was mentally cursing at everyone in the room.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I just want to apologise for the other day.’
She looked at him. Expression blank.
‘I was being a dick.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘You were being kind and I was a total arse.’
‘Yup. A dick and an arse.’
‘Just wanted to say sorry.’ He gave her a small smile, then turned and walked back to his seat.
As he sat, he realised she had followed him over. She stood, looking down at him, holding her books in front of her with both hands.
‘And I’m sorry if I touched a nerve,’ she said. ‘You’re new to the area. Must seem like everyone is staring at you, trying to work you out.’
‘Och, I don’t mind that, to be honest. People will be people.’
‘You should put that on a t-shirt.’ She grinned. ‘Preferably one that’s dry.’ She nodded at his chest. ‘Not bring an umbrella?’
‘It’s only rain.’ He gestured at her books. ‘What is it this time?’
She brandished the top one. It was large and looked like an educational text. ‘Just something for uni.’ She made an unhappy face. ‘I’ve got some resits, but studying in the house all day makes me feel claustrophobic. So, I have a wee change of scenery every now and then.’
She made as if to move away. Ranald stood up.
‘You said your mum knew my mum?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you think she’d be happy to talk to me about her?’ He scratched his head and looked at the floor. ‘I’ve … never met anyone who knew her during that part of her life.’
Suzy’s face was a study in empathy. She reached out and lightly touched his forearm. ‘Of course.’ She thought for a moment. ‘She’s at home this afternoon. I’ll text her and tell her I’m bringing the arsehole I met the other day for a blether.’
Ranald managed a smile. ‘Deserved that.’
Suzy rested her bag and books on the table, took out her phone and thumbed out a text. When she’d finished she nodded towards the door. ‘C’mon,’ she said.
Ranald followed her out, feeling anxious what he might learn about his mother. Who was she before all of that? Before her innocence spoiled. Before her mind turned. He was back in the room with Marcus and listening to the accusations spew from his cousin’s mouth.
What kind of people did he share his genes with?
Suzy and her parents lived in a modest bungalow just a few minutes’ drive from the café. Ranald was afraid that when he sat in the car that there might be some awkwardness, but they managed to keep up a polite run of conversation until she pulled into the drive.
They were met at the door by a woman who was an older, shorter-haired version of Suzy. Tight, blue jeans and a pale-blue, short cardigan. Button nose. Plump lower lip. This was where Suzy got her good looks from, then.
‘Hi there,’ she held out her hand. ‘You’ll be Ranald. I’m Eve.’ They shook hands. ‘C’mon through to the kitchen.’ She turned and, walking down a short corridor said, ‘…that’s where all the interesting stuff happens in our house.’
The corridor was filled with the light coming in through the glass front door and the walls were painted cream and displayed lots of family photographs, mainly of Suzy at various stages of her life.
Walking just behind Ranald, Suzy spoke as if she could read his glances.
‘Man, they make me cringe every time I bring someone home.’
Ranald found himself wondering how many of these ‘someones’ were men and noted a stab of envy. He shut it down. He didn’t deserve someone as nice as she was.
In the kitchen they sat around a small table on which sat a tray containing three mugs, a large teapot in a knitted cosy, a small jug of milk, a sugar bowl and a plate of sliced cake. It took Ranald straight back to his mother’s kitchen and summer afternoons when neighbours would pop in for ‘a wee blether’. Back then he hadn’t been too bothered about the chat or the tea, but the slices of cake and the biscuits were a strong attraction.
‘Haven’t seen one of these in ages,’ Ranald gave a weak smile, pointing at the piece of knitting enclosing the teapot. ‘I thought people were too into their coffee to bother with tea these days.’
‘Can’t beat a nice cup of tea,’ said Eve. She glanced at Suzy, pride evident in her smile. ‘It’s how we put the world back to rights. Shall I be mother?’
‘You’re the one with the credentials,’ Suzy smiled back.
Ranald felt himself relaxing into the warm, accepting atmosphere generated by the two women, and registered a note of sadness drift into his mind, like a scent in the breeze; it had been so long since he had been included in such a mood. To disguise his emotion he reached for a slice of Madeira, and bit into the soft cake.
‘Haven’t tasted this for years,’ he said mid-chew. ‘Mum used to buy it every New Year.’
‘It’s like Brussels sprouts,’ said Suzy. ‘Why do most people only bring them out at Christmas?’
‘Cos we can’t stomach them any other time of year?’ said Ranald.
‘Sprouts are good for you, young man,’ said Eve. ‘Make your hair and nails shiny.’
‘Mum, I don’t think Ranald is all that bothered about shiny nails.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ranald, and held his right hand out as if for an inspection. And wondered at his capacity for hiding his true state of mind with a little dredged up humour.
They each picked up their drinks and sipped in a companionable silence.
‘So, Helena Fitzpatrick was your mum?’ asked Eve, just as Ranald bit into another slice of cake.
He heard Helena and for a moment forgot that was his mother. ‘Yeah,’ he collected himself and swallowed. ‘You’re about the only person I’ve ever met, outside of family, who knew her from that time in her life.’
‘Can’t say that I knew her all that well, to be honest. We had a friend in common. A girl who lived next door to me when I was a teenager was in her class.’
‘What do you remember of her?’ Ranald asked, trying not to look too interested in the answer. But of course, he was fascinated. When his mother was alive, she was just a normal person. She was Mum. And now he was realising that there was, of course, more to her. Much more, if Marcus was to be believed. Helen McGhie hadn’t just appeared fully formed in that position. She’d had a life before him.
Eve paused, a flicker of memory lighting her eyes. ‘I was a little bit in love with Helena FitzGerald. What style she had. What grace. All of us girls were incredibly jealous. Her brother, though – William – he was another story altogether. He liked to be seen as a bit of an eccentric, you know? Seemed to revel in the family’s … strange … history.’ Eve sipped her tea carefully. ‘He was long finished with the academy when I arrived, but his legend seemed to follow Helena about.’
Ranald’s heart gave a lurch when he heard William’s name. ‘I know next to nothing about my family, Eve,’ he said, trying to control his tone. ‘I’ve met my cousin Marcus, and his sister, Rebecca.’
‘They’ll be William’s kids.’ Eve stared into space. ‘He died when Marcus and Rebecca were in their early twenties. From what I heard, they got too much money too soon and kind of went off the rails.’
‘Really? Marcus is a bit arrogant, but other than that he seems to be fairly level-headed.’
‘Well, bear in mind all this is based on small-town gossip. And to be fair, it was a few years back. I dare say Marcus has had plenty of time to have done some maturing.’
‘Must be nice to find you have this other family,’ said Suzy. ‘After being on your own.’
‘I only just met Rebecca, and I couldn’t make head nor tail of her. But Marcus?’ Ranald made a face. ‘Bit of a dick.’ He toyed with the idea of telling them about Marcus’s demand that he sell the house, but decided to keep that to himself for the moment. ‘You said something about the family’s “strange” history…’ He tailed off, hoping Eve would pick up the thread.
‘You don’t want to listen to that, son – it’s just rumours and talk.’
But there was something in the way she spoke – a strange light in her eyes, a twist in the corner of her mouth – that made Ranald think she believed there was much more to it than that.
‘I won’t pay it much attention,’ said Ranald. ‘But it would be kind of helpful to know what I’m dealing with.’
‘Well, there were the usual high jinks when Marcus and Rebecca were younger.’ She turned to Suzy and smiled. ‘Close your ears, young woman.’ Back to Ranald. ‘Drugs and sex parties, that kind of thing.’ Then she added in a lower tone, as if afraid she might be overheard. ‘Rebecca was a bit of a wild child. Far worse than Marcus apparently.’
‘What about William? Did you mean he tried to live up to the family’s … eccentricities? Do you know about those?’
‘Not really. I heard my mother talking to one of her pals about Alexander Fitzpatrick making someone pregnant when he wasn’t married. I’m not sure who the woman was, or what happened. She clammed up as soon as I walked in the room.’
‘That was nothing to do with my mum, though?’
‘No. But perhaps the pregnancy situation with Alexander was why her mother gave her such a hard time?’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?’ She smiled. ‘All of us girls admired Helena. She turned her back on all that wealth for love. It was like something out of a novel … but it was just down the road.’ She laughed. ‘Listen to me. I’m talking rubbish. Don’t pay me any attention, son.’
Turned her back on all that wealth for love? Did she really love him, or was Dad just some convenient patsy? Was he her chance to get away from a perverse relationship? He was doubting his own memories now.
They talked for another ten or fifteen minutes on more general topics, which was a relief to Ranald. Having come here to find out about his mother he realised that the more he discovered, the less he wanted to know. He’d hoped that Eve would say something that would cancel out Marcus’s accusations, instead, subtle as her words were, they served only to add confirmation.
Ranald looked out of the window, to see that the rain had stopped.
‘Best be off,’ he said, standing up. ‘Thanks for the chat and the tea.’
‘You’re welcome, son,’ said Eve. ‘I enjoyed talking about those times.’
‘Want a lift back up to the Cross?’ asked Suzy.
‘Thanks,’ said Ranald. ‘I need the walk.’ As he spoke he wondered if there was more to the offer, but Suzy’s open, guileless face suggested she was just being kind. ‘You’ve got studying to be getting on with, anyway.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ She made a face.
‘Yeah,’ said Eve with a mock expression of reproach. ‘My Suzy having a resit. Who’d have thought that would happen?’
‘Don’t start, Mum.’
‘What?’ she asked, assuming an innocent expression.
‘My cue to leave,’ said Ranald and he felt a pang of envy at their closeness. ‘Never get between a parent and child talking about exams.’ He thanked the women for their time and walked with Suzy to the front door.
As he stepped outside, he felt worried that he might have offended her by refusing her offer of a lift.
‘You like movies?’ he asked on the doorstep.
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s a great TV room in the house. Why don’t you come up some time and have a look through the selection. See what you fancy…’ His voice tailed off as he worried that now he’d overstepped the mark. He ducked his head as if getting ready to take the blow of her rejection.
‘That would be cool,’ she said with a big smile. ‘Would be great to have a break from all this studying.’
‘Excellent,’ Ran said, his grin as big as hers, and for a moment, remembered that this was what normal people did. ‘It’s a…’ Just in time he stopped himself from saying the word ‘date’. ‘…Just whenever, eh? I’m rarely out in the evening.’
As he walked along the road, he felt a couple of spits of rain on his shoulders. Looking up he saw, just ahead, a cloud towering like something out of a biblical epic – a jumble of greys formed a column from dark to light and every shade in between.
Picking up his pace, he reached the Cross and took a right. As he did he heard a car slowing down and a voice calling out.
‘Still here?’
He turned. It was Liz. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘It’s about to bucket down.’
He opened the door and climbed in. ‘Sorry, I was a bit of an arse earlier.’ It seemed to be his day for apologies.
Liz pulled away without a word.
‘Who was the girl you were talking to in the café?’ she said, after a minute or two.
‘You spying on me?’ Ranald asked, trying to inject a light tone into his voice.
‘Aye,’ said Liz. ‘Cos I’ve nothing better to do.’ She threw him a glance. ‘I drove past just as you and she were walking out the front door.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ranald asked, although he knew exactly where. He felt a weight descend on him. He wasn’t quite ready yet to face the woman in the mirror and find out the answers to the questions the photograph posed.
‘I’m just taking you home. Then I’m off to make my man’s tea.’
‘Right,’ Ranald said, with a slight feeling of disappointment. He didn’t want to be on his own again. ‘Want to come in for a wee while?’
‘Please don’t ask me to do that, Ranald. You know how I feel about that house.’
‘You could just come round to the pool. It’s a much newer part of the building. There’ll be no weird shit going on there.’
Liz checked her mirrors. Indicated. Turned into his drive and drove slowly to the front door. She parked and pulled on the handbrake then twisted to face him.
‘You really want me to come in?’ There was doubt in her eyes. ‘What does a young man like you want with a woman my age?’
Ranald decided to plump for honesty. ‘Yes, I want you to come in. It’s such a big house, I’m still not comfortable in all that space on my own. And as for your last question: you’re good company.’ And you shed enough light to keep the shadows away. He paused. ‘And you’re not that much older than me, anyway.’
‘And I like some fun?’ she grinned.
‘I wasn’t going to go there.’
She gave his shoulder a wee punch. ‘See you.’ Then. ‘You sure the pool area is a newer part of the building?’
‘Course it is. I don’t think swimming pools were big in the Victorian era, do you?’
‘Probably not,’ she answered in a small voice. ‘Fuck it,’ she released her seatbelt. ‘Anything spooky happens here, any weans greeting in the walls, and I’m going to have you, understand?’
‘You’ll be perfectly safe.’ But as he said it, he thought about her the last time he’d entertained thoughts of another woman, and considered recanting the invitation.
Liz would be safe, he thought. But we wasn’t sure about himself.
Ranald went in the front door and told Liz to walk round the side of the house to the pool conservatory, where he would unlock the door for her.
‘This is lovely,’ she said as she they met at the back of the house and she stepped inside. ‘Do you use all of this?’ She pointed to the exercise equipment.
‘I’m full of good intentions,’ he said. ‘But I do swim a lot.’
‘Looks really inviting,’ Liz said looking at the cool, blue water.
Feeling a surge of energy Ranald stripped off and dived in. Surfacing, he pushed his hair away from his eyes. Treading water, he said, ‘Come on in, the water’s lovely.’
‘I don’t want to get my hair wet.’
‘Why so coy?’ asked Ranald. ‘There’s nothing like a skinny-dip.’
She sat on the edge of a lounger, her feet crossed at the ankles, her hands on her knees. She looked uncertain. Demure. Nothing like the sexually hungry woman with whom he’d previously spent time.
‘You okay?’ he asked, swimming over to the side of the pool. ‘Can I get you something?’
‘I’m driving, but a small glass of red would go down nicely.’
He climbed out of the pool, and picked up a towel. Wrapping it around his waist he walked along to the kitchen and moments later he was back with a bottle and two glasses.
‘Just a wee one, mind,’ Liz said. ‘Does the sauna work?’
‘I assume so,’ Ranald replied. He walked over to it and flicked a switch. ‘It’ll probably take a while to heat up.’
Liz looked up at him and reached for the towel. ‘I wonder what we could do until then?’
After, they were in the sauna – Ranald on the upper bench, Liz below him, grinning at each other like a pair of teenagers.
Ranald’s pulse was still recovering. He let his head fall back against the pine cladding and exhaled slowly. He could feel the push of his own personal darkness. It had been dimmed by Liz’s presence but now it was starting to reassert itself. That piece of charred meat that wore his clothes, spoke with his voice, limped through life, was working its way back into the forefront of his mind.
‘You’re definitely getting the hang of this, Mr McGhie,’ said Liz.
‘Why, thank you …’ Ranald replied as he tried to shake his head free from the path it was surely heading down. ‘Sorry, I’ve just realised I don’t know your surname.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Liz replied. She leaned forwards and touched his knee. ‘I’ve never told you.’ She cocked her head to the side. ‘I like to maintain an air of mystery.’ She was holding a towel in front of her and used a corner to dab her forehead. ‘Warm, eh?’
‘That’s the general idea,’ Ranald said, with some effort. He wanted to sleep. That was of course, his other comfort. Sleep and sex, if he could spend all of his time doing that he might have a healthy mind.
Liz stood up. ‘I need a shower.’ She walked to the smoked-glass door, pushed it open and turned to Ranald who was enjoying the view.
‘Don’t stare, it’s rude. And don’t fall asleep in here. That wouldn’t be too healthy.’
With a groan, Ranald sat up, jumped off the bench and followed her out of the sauna. Lying down on a lounger, he closed his eyes. He heard the shower come on and a tuneful hum from Liz as she sang under the hot water. He sang along, grateful to have the energy of another human being nearby, an energy that would hopefully keep him from diving into the hell of his own thoughts.
‘See that girl/ watch that scene/ digging the dancing queen.’
‘Don’t give up your day job, Ran,’ Liz shouted.
He smiled. Thought about a retort, but couldn’t think of anything funny. He breathed deep and slow. Deep and slow.
Deep and…
He was in the garden. The grass was cool and wet on his bare feet. Mist swirled round his legs. Shapes shifted in the fog ahead. Formed. Faded. Reshaped themselves. A breeze on his neck, like a kiss. Perfume. Her perfume. A sweet, light and heady mix of citrus, cinnamon and wood oil.
Her hand in his. Her skin warm and dry. Her bones, in his light grip as insubstantial as the mist that flowered and shifted around them.
Where have you been, he sent her. I’ve missed you.
Her hand was gone. The mist faded and coalesced at his side, like a long skirt might flare in a quick gust of wind.
Her face was in his. He could feel her breath on his nose. He leaned forwards, his mouth formed as if for a kiss.
‘Liar.’ Loud. Like a bark.
Teeth bared. Dripping blood. Gore wedged into the space between them.
‘LIAR. You will pay.’
Fear squeezed his heart. Stole air from his lungs.
He saw her in a small room. Her hair hanging from her head in damp rags. Her shift was white and open, exposing her breasts and a pool of blood at her groin. She was holding something in her arms. Something pink and fleshy. Part of it was hanging from her mouth. Her eyes wide with the grief of a hundred bereaved mothers.
‘Ranald. What have you done, Ranald?’
He tried to wake up, but he was snared in the fog of his dream as if it was netting.
‘Ranald.’
A cold hand on his shoulder.
‘RANALD.’
Reality thrust its way through the sludge of his mind. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes. Saw the face of Danny Hackett. His open mouth. Uneven teeth. The pale pink of his tongue flecked with saliva.
‘Ranald, what the hell have you done?’ Danny shouted at him, shaking his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
‘What…’
Danny stood back and looked towards the water.
Ranald stood up and looked in the same direction as Danny, He couldn’t make sense of what he saw at first. It was too strange. As if it came from his dream.
A fully clothed Marcus was standing in the water. He was holding Liz’s slack body and wading to the side of the pool.
Ranald looked at Liz, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
‘She doesn’t want to get her hair wet,’ he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.
Then finally the truth hit him. His knees buckled. He was desperate to look away, but he couldn’t. He stared. Fixed his eyes on Liz. Taking in everything – the angle of her legs and arms as they hung from her body. Her head tilted back. Her soaked hair, one side of it plastered over the lower half of her face.
Above that, her eyes staring into an endless nothing.
Terrified and lifeless.