The Last Witness

by Claire McFall

  Dougie. Who else could it be?

  I try to shut the thought down before it can grow into hope. A new witness—it could be a local resident who knows about the cairn; it could be a dog walker none of us saw. It could be another doctor eager to have a poke inside my head.

  But it isn’t. I know it’s Dougie. He’s awake. Finally, he’s awake. “I want to see him,” I say.

  Immediately, Dr. Petersen shakes his head. “No.”

  “I want to see him.”

  Neither of us has even put a name to the new witness. We don’t need to. Dr. Petersen is refusing to meet my eye, and that tells me everything. No wonder he’s on edge. If Dougie backs me up, I cannot be called crazy. If Dougie backs me up, I cannot be called a murderer.

  If? There is no if… He will.

  “I want to see him.”

  I am going to go on saying this until Dr. Petersen realizes it is nonnegotiable.

  Unfortunately, I am not in a position to negotiate. Petersen waves away my demand with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  “Your hearing is scheduled for Thursday, the seventh of July. I will accompany you there, and your parents will also be in attendance—”

  “I don’t want them there,” I say automatically.

  Dr. Petersen shrugs. “You are still under the age of eighteen, Heather. Your parents must be present.”

  I make a face, but I don’t really care. My mind is whirling. Thursday, the seventh… I try to guess today’s date in my head. It’s Monday; I know that much. Last week’s marathon, nightmarish session was the anniversary—I shudder discreetly—so that makes it…

  “What day it is today?” I ask. Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely sure.

  “Monday,” Dr. Petersen responds.

  I resist the urge to sigh—he knew what I meant.

  “What date is it today?” I rephrase, trying to repress the acid in my tone. I feel the urge to be nice to him today. I don’t want him to be difficult at the hearing just because he is annoyed at me. Of course, I am probably a year too late for that.

  Dr. Petersen sighs. “It’s the fourth.”

  “Of July?”

  “Yes.”

  I process that. My hearing is in three days. In three days, I might be free.

  In three days, I might be heading to jail, a trial date wrapped around my neck like a hangman’s noose.

  In three days, I might be heading right back here.

  * * *

  Three days is both a lifetime and a heartbeat. I spend it completely alone. The orderlies don’t particularly engage with inmates—“patients”—anyway, but I refuse to leave my room for exercise or for weekly treats like the seventh showing of a bad film. Before I left Dr. Petersen’s office, I repeated my request to see Dougie, but he ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken. That was the last thing I said, and by Thursday morning my throat is tight, my voice croaky from disuse. I eat my breakfast in silence, walk silently to the showers, wait silently in Helen’s little office/waiting area. As promised, Dr. Petersen is escorting me, and he emerges exactly on schedule, pin-striped suit hidden beneath an expensive-looking charcoal-gray wool coat. A huge folder is tucked tightly under one arm. This is the condensed version of my file. All the juiciest parts.

  If I am released today, will I get to read it? Somehow I doubt it.

  I expect to travel in the “ambulance” that I arrived in, but instead we walk sedately out the front door. It’s the first time I’ve seen the official entrance to the place, and I can’t resist glancing around before I clamber into the back of a sleek sedan. It looks…expensive. Like a mansion. There is no clue of the madness within. Sticking to my vow of silence, I don’t comment. I just hope I will never see this sight again.

  For July, there’s not much warmth in the air. Cloudy, misty rain is descending from the leaden ceiling of the sky. I tell myself this is not an ominous sign, but anxiety is writhing like snakes in my stomach. The car moves off, purring smoothly. Beside me, Dr. Petersen is flicking through his notes. I’m tempted to try to read across him, but adrenaline is starting to fire through my veins and it’s making my vision shake. Besides, I don’t want to seem like I’m interested in anything Dr. Petersen has written, to give credence to his “professional” opinion. Instead, I stare out of the window and wait to see something I recognize.

  It takes a while. We weave through buildings that must be commercial, then almost imperceptibly the view melds into a residential area. A pricey one, though. This is an upper-class neighborhood. I wonder what the residents think about a madhouse on their doorstep. I wonder if they ever wake up in the middle of the night afraid that a crazed lunatic is creeping across their immaculately mown lawns. Probably not.

  I don’t make sense of where I am until we hit the highway. There is only one route going north, and the names on the signs are recognizable. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I am farther from home than I’d thought. In fact, I am closer to Black Cairn Point than I am to Glasgow. I crane my neck west, as if I might be able to see the sea. I can’t—it’s miles and miles away. I get the feeling, though. Anxious, afraid, uncertain. I stop trying to look.

  My hearing is in the Glasgow Sheriff Court in a side room. It could be a conference room in a fancy hotel. There are a long table, a big window overlooking another building, and tasteful art on the wall. At first nobody else is there, just me, Dr. Petersen, and my minder, but almost as soon as we arrive, others begin to trickle in. A man in a suit with a shiny, black briefcase arrives, who I’m sure is a lawyer. He ignores me but shakes Dr. Petersen’s hand. Then there is a very awkward moment for me as my parents are escorted in. I try not to look at them, but I can’t help it. My dad smiles tightly; my mom looks pained. I wonder if I should say something, but with Dr. Petersen and the lawyer in the room, I’m suddenly shy. I fidget in the chair I have been placed in and stare at the door, waiting for someone else to enter and take the pressure off.

  Someone does enter. The door swings wide, and two wheels glide into view. At first I can’t see who’s sitting in the wheelchair because whoever is pushing it is making a mess of it, colliding with doors, being overly helpful, and getting in the way. I hear a sigh, and a very familiar voice mutters, “I’ve got it.”

  Dougie. My mouth forms an automatic smile that freezes halfway as I see how terrible he looks. He seems to have shrunk, hunched in the chair. His cheeks are hollow, and there are dark rings under his eyes. His hair is lank and greasy. He smiles when he sees me though, and takes a second out from maneuvering the wheelchair to wave at me.

  But we don’t speak, because striding in directly behind Dougie is a portly man with graying hair and a serious expression who must be the judge. He goes straight to the seat at the head of the table, and everyone else assumes positions around him.

  I am the farthest away, at the bottom of the table. I have a sinking feeling that most of the talking is going to be done at the other end of the long, mahogany oval, far away from me.

  “All right, then.” The judge’s booming voice cuts off any muttering from around the room, calling everyone to order. “This is the hearing of Heather Shaw, is that correct?” He glances around, and the lawyer nods curtly. “Good. It is”—a quick glance at his watch—“eleven forty-seven a.m. on the seventh of July. Present are—” As he lists the attendees, beside him a mousy-haired woman is typing away on a small laptop, minuting his every word. She’s nothing like cool, collected Helen; her expression is anxious as she struggles to keep up with the judge’s brisk speech. “I am Judge McDowell, presiding over today’s hearing. There, we’re done with the pleasantries. Where are we starting with this?”

  We start with the lawyer. He reads from a typed sheet in front of him, which I soon realize is a report on my case so far. Judge McDowell nods in several places, so either he’s already read the report, or he was the judge on my initial hearing, the man who signed
me over to the care of Dr. Petersen. I hope it is the former. I squirm in my seat as the lawyer reads the details of my initial testimony to Dr. Petersen. Every detail, every word. My cheeks grow hot. If it were not me being discussed, I would say the person who claimed this was insane, no question. Throughout the statement, Dougie listens intently, a slight frown creasing his forehead. There are a few occasions where his eyebrows twitch as if they are about to lift in surprise, but I can’t read why. There is no way to ask.

  At last, it’s over.

  “So we are here today to hear the testimony of Douglas Fletcher. Is that right?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  “And remind me why we haven’t heard from Mr. Fletcher before now.”

  “He suffered a head injury that left him in a coma, Your Honor,” the lawyer says.

  “For a year?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That’s a bit inconvenient.”

  I am tempted to laugh, so I bite down on my tongue hard enough to make my eyes water. The judge is smirking at his own wit, but my urge to laugh is encroaching on hysteria. “A bit inconvenient” is not how I would describe Dougie’s injury and its impact on my life for the past twelve months. A living nightmare would be closer to the mark.

  “Your Honor, if I might interrupt?” Dr. Petersen leans forward and smiles ingratiatingly. My stomach clenches. I now regret every snide, belligerent thing I ever said to him. I even regret trying to stab him. Because he has the power to keep me locked away, and I have handed him the desire. I wait, breath bated, to hear him pour honey into the judge’s ear. He doesn’t get a chance, however. The judge frowns him into silence.

  “I want to hear from Mr. Fletcher first, Dr. Petersen. Then you can have your say.” He turns to Dougie. “This is a formal hearing, Mr. Fletcher, but I’d like to make it as informal as I can for you. May I call you Douglas?”

  “It’s Dougie.” His voice is quieter than I remember, and I wonder if that is because of the year he spent asleep—my throat feels like sandpaper after just a few days—or whether he’s as nervous as I am. I smile at him, but he isn’t looking at me.

  Judge McDowell gives him a look before continuing. “Douglas, I am going to ask you questions about your trip to Black Cairn Point last year. I want you to answer as fully as you can. I need you to bear in mind that I am a judge and this is a court hearing; you must tell the truth at all times. Do you understand?”

  Dougie pales, but nods again.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, then. Run me through the trip as you remember it.”

  Dougie starts with the car journey, talks Judge McDowell through the camping, the drinking, the tension between Martin and Darren. It’s weird, hearing his version of events. Like watching the world through colored glass. He explains Martin’s disappearance, Darren vanishing, Emma’s strange behavior. I close my eyes when he gets to the final, dramatic scene on the beach, but that doesn’t stop his words from piercing my imagination. I resist the urge to stick my fingers in my ears so I can’t hear, don’t have to relive it, aware of how that would seem. I must not look like a crazy person today.

  Dougie’s story finishes a little earlier than mine. He describes how he was jerked backward, how he felt himself flying through the air. How the world went black for the length of a year. When he finishes, there is a brief moment of quiet. Someone coughs. I open my eyes to see it is my dad. Our eyes lock for the briefest second, then I look away.

  Dougie’s story, bar one or two small details, matches mine. One or two small details, and one major one. He has not mentioned a wraith, a being. He has not explained how Martin, Darren, and Emma disappeared. Just that they did. There is a big, gaping hole in the middle of Dougie’s story, and I know that Dr. Petersen is waiting to jump right in.

  “Douglas, my name is Dr. Petersen,” he begins. Dougie nods, and then his eyes flicker to me. A look passes between us, and I realize that Dougie understands. Dr. Petersen is my jailer, but more than that, he is a snake in the grass. I watch Dougie steel himself; he knows what’s coming. “I would like to ask you one or two questions, if I may?”

  I want to jump in between them, to shield Dougie from Dr. Petersen’s sly, manipulative ways, but I am glued to the chair by the occasion, and I have already given as much warning as I can.

  “Sure,” Dougie croaks.

  “You say that Darren Gibson and your friend…Martin Robertson?”—Dr. Petersen turns Martin’s name into a question as he quickly checks it against his notes—“disappeared. Can you explain to me what happened to them?”

  “I told you. Martin walked off alone, and Darren vanished from the cove when he and Emma were collecting firewood. Heather was with me. Both times.” Dougie’s expression is set, defensive. I shoot him a grateful look, but he doesn’t see.

  Dr. Petersen smiles. “It is noble of you to defend your friend, Douglas. But you are here to explain to us what happened, not to give Heather an alibi.”

  “It’s the truth,” Dougie says bullishly.

  “Were you with Heather when Emma Collins disappeared, Douglas?”

  Horrible silence. It goes on and on. My eyes are on Dougie, but at the edge of my vision, I see Judge McDowell frowning.

  “Douglas?”

  “We were all on the beach.”

  “Together?”

  Another awkward pause. “No,” Dougie finally says.

  “So you didn’t see what happened to Emma Collins?”

  No. That’s the truthful answer, but I can see that Dougie doesn’t want to give it.

  “They were only a hundred yards away. I could see the flashlight. Heather was only gone for a few minutes.”

  But a few minutes would be enough. That’s the thought I can see on Dr. Petersen’s face, the lawyer’s. I scrutinize Judge McDowell, but his thoughts are unreadable.

  “You were ill during the trip, were you not?” the lawyer asks. Dougie twists his head to look at him, confused by the change of direction. “I’m sorry, Douglas. I am Mr. Thompson, I work for the Procurator Fiscal. Can you tell me, were you ill during the trip?”

  “I had a little bit of a cold.” Dougie hedges.

  “Just a cold? It says in your medical records that you were admitted to the hospital with a fever. You had a dangerously high temperature as well as your head trauma. The doctor at the time commented that you would likely have been suffering dizziness, nausea, possible vomiting. Do you remember having any of those symptoms, Douglas?”

  “So what if I did?” Dougie asks. “What are you trying to say?”

  The lawyer smiles, accepting the yes hidden in his words. “What I’m suggesting, Douglas, is that you may have been so ill that your memory is lying to you. Taking that into account along with the trauma to your head, you—”

  “I’m not lying,” Dougie interjects.

  The lawyer smiles wider. “I’m not suggesting you are,” he assures Dougie—and the judge. “But you might be remembering things differently than how they actually happened. Because of your illness. I understand you want to help your friend, but it is important that you don’t bend the truth, or fill in gaps, even the tiniest amount, Douglas. Being absolutely honest about what you remember is the best way for you to help Heather.”

  “I’m telling you what happened,” Dougie spits out through his teeth. “I felt a little sick, but I didn’t imagine anything. I hurt my ankle as well. Are you going to tell me I imagined things because of that too? Or that it was Heather who broke the branch, trying to kill me?”

  “Douglas.” Judge McDowell steps in, a half-raised hand acknowledging the rising tension. “Take a breath. We are all here to try to help Heather.”

  This time I do snort a laugh, but it’s so quiet I don’t think anybody hears it. I have only one friend in this room, and I am terrified that he is not going to survive the interrogation tag tea
m of Dr. Petersen and the lawyer, Thompson.

  “Douglas,” Dr. Petersen leans forward again, and Dougie shifts position in his wheelchair so he can face him. “You need to understand that Heather is ill.” I lock my face down so that no one will see how mortified I am to be discussed as if I’m not here. “She believes an evil spirit is responsible for the deaths of your friends. A dark shadow who swooped down and stole them away.”

  I catch my breath, aware that this is a very dicey moment. Petersen has just laid a trap for Dougie, a very clever trap.

  Agree with me, and he’s as delusional as I am; maybe we were in it together. Disagree, and I’m a lunatic. Lunatics do crazy things…like killing people. Disagree, and Dougie sends me back into Petersen’s clutches.

  He doesn’t do either. He laughs.

  I stare at him, not understanding, but Dougie looks confident, not thrown off.

  “That was a story,” he says. “A ghost story I told to try to freak everyone out. It wasn’t real.”

  “It’s real for Heather,” Dr. Petersen says quietly.

  Under the table I grip the arms of my chair with both hands, ignoring the searing pain in my right. This is not going at all the way I want it to. I want to speak, but I know no one will listen. I am the crazy person, after all.

  “Is it?” Dougie asks, somehow cool and calm. I suppose it’s not his head on the block. He continues before Petersen can confirm his words. “There was no wraith, no monster.” Dougie pauses, looks at me, takes in my horrified face, and smiles grimly. “But there was a man.”

  A man? I blink at Dougie, but he doesn’t wait to see my expression. He turns and levels a look at the judge.

  “I saw a man. Several times. At first I thought he was a dog walker, up high on the hill, but I never saw a dog with him. Not that first time, or the next day, when he came back. He was there, high up, watching us, just an hour before Martin disappeared.”

  “A man?” the judge says slowly.

  Dougie nods at the same time as Thompson barks out, “What did he look like?”