Lorna realized she’d been staring into her coffee cup, only half-listening.
“No, look. I’m sorry. I haven’t been completely honest with you about why I asked you here.”
Maeve sipped her coffee, smiling at a little terrier crossing the street with its owner, but the sadness in her eyes was clear. “There’s no job, is there? Well that’s all right. The chap at the unemployment office is lovely. I can at least tell him I tried to get an interview.”
“Maeve . . .”
“No! It’s fine. I’ll make something up. I’ve got quite good at that, as it turns out. Besides, it’s still a holiday, isn’t it?” She finally noticed the crumb and brushed it away.
“There is . . . there is something I’d like you to do. Something I’d like us to do together. And I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you straightaway. Plus, it’s not something I wanted to put in an email.” She sipped her flat white. It had gone cold. “It’s about Caldwell Street. About Callum.”
Maeve pushed the plate to the end of the table, suddenly more interested in a loose thread on her coat than looking Lorna in the eye.
“Have you ever felt bad about what happened?”
The sound of milk being steamed drowned out Maeve’s initial reply. She repeated herself.
“I don’t like to think about it.”
“But doesn’t it bother you that Oliver and Ellie, even Hollis, have gone on with their lives like it never happened?”
“Oliver was on Dragons’ Den. Did you see that? The cheek. Watching him get shot down by all four investors was the happiest I’ve been since . . . a long time.” She folded her arms and watched out the window, doing what Lorna suspected she’d done for most of her adult life: trying not to think about Callum McAllister.
Lorna leaned across the table. “Callum loved you.”
“Stop it. Just stop it.” Maeve sat up straight, her hands clasped in her lap, out of sight, tears welling in her eyes. “If that’s all you brought me up here for—to guilt-trip me—well, I don’t need to be in Edinburgh for that. I’ll go. And not just from this coffee shop. I’ll get my bags and I’ll figure out how to change my train ticket and—”
“Maeve, I’m sorry.” She reached across the table, but Maeve remained unwavering.
“I thought you invited me because we’re friends.” She looked into her lap. “We were friends. Why does everything we do have to be . . . be tainted by what happened at Caldwell Street? Why can’t we just talk about the weather or stupid coworkers or weird shit our family does? Why . . .” Her voice rose as she spoke, and a pair of backpacking tourists eyed her from the next table. Maeve grabbed her mug, coffee spilling over the side onto her hand. She raised the mug but didn’t drink, using it to hide her face.
“Is that what you want?” Lorna whispered. “To forget him? Pretend he never existed? Write him out of history? Because I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. I’ve tried to live my life like none of it ever happened. And then I’ll see an ad for Scottish Rugby. Or it’ll be a Wednesday and for one second I’ll think, ‘What’s he got for me today?’ Or someone will show me a picture they took on their phone and I’ll think, ‘Callum would’ve framed that better.’ And it might be one moment. Just one flash, and then for the rest of the day everything I see will remind me. Remind me of the one person who I didn’t find constantly annoying. The one person other than my dog who didn’t judge me for my sexuality. Who called out those idiots for heckling me during class. He stood up for me every time I needed him. And when he needed me, needed us, we turned our backs. If you want to keep looking the other way, I suppose I can’t blame you. Honestly. It’s not like I don’t understand. But I’m too tired to keep turning.”
Maeve shook her head before speaking. “No. I want . . .”
She laughed, once. A laugh tinged with so many years of sadness.
“What I want is a TARDIS. I’d go back in time and rescue him in a TARDIS. Can you imagine the look on his face? God, he loved Doctor Who. Don’t you remember? I couldn’t get him to shut up about it sometimes. When they started it back up again, every time I watched David Tennant, all I could think was how much Callum would’ve loved this. A tall, lanky Scotsman playing the Doctor. He’d be in heaven.” Maeve wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “I buy the box sets every year. I tell myself they’re for my niece and nephew, but really I imagine giving them to Callum. Pretend that one day he’ll come by and we’ll binge-watch them all together. And he’ll tell me random facts about Daleks and I’ll pretend to be interested and . . .”
Lorna handed her a tissue. Gave Maeve time to compose herself.
“I always thought Doctor Who was stupid,” Lorna said.
“Well, nothing could compare to your beloved Hitchcock, could it?” Maeve blew her nose and folded the tissue into quarters. “It’s more stupid for me to watch it. Because he’s never going to come by. He’s never going to call or text, and I won’t need to wow him with all these random facts about the show. He won’t friend me on Facebook or any of those other stupid things he never got to do. Because there’s no such thing as a TARDIS. No time machine that can stop us from doing what we did.”
Lorna rested her hand on Maeve’s. “What they did. Hollis. Oliver. Ellie. Maeve, this was their fault. They took him from us. What happened at the party, we had nothing to do with it. Maybe we could’ve done more to stop them, but in the end, it was them. And they have faced zero consequences. I mean, look at this.” Lorna pulled out her phone, showed the news article she’d found. David and Eleanor Landon, a picture-perfect couple being lauded at a gala for their charity work. Ellie beaming in an expensive gown, dripping in jewelry, on the arm of a handsome, well-dressed man. “Doesn’t that make you sick? Princess Ellie and her perfect life. Hunt the Cunt getting her happy ending while Callum gets nothing. Not even the acknowledgment that he was murdered. Don’t you think it’s time they paid for it?”
“Pay for it how?”
“You know I love horror films, right? Have you ever heard of the Final Girl trope?”
Lorna leaned back in the chair, listened to milk being steamed, dishes clanking. People laughing. While Maeve stared at Ellie’s picture on the phone. Maeve’s face hardened.
She handed back the phone. “Let’s order more coffee.”
Present
The others never tried to hide the bad parts of themselves. Oliver was an arrogant ass. Maeve a cloying sycophant. Hollis a chummy conflict avoider. Lorna a people-hating bitch. They wore these traits like badges of honor. But not Ellie. Eleanor Hunt always had to pretend to be what she wasn’t. Beautiful Ellie Hunt pretended to be kind. She pretended when she needed a cup of tea and got one of the others to make it for her. She pretended when she needed to borrow a fiver or a tenner and, in her silly lightheaded way, always forgot to pay it back. She pretended when she needed a good cry and arms to hold her. Over the months, the tally of things sweet, kind Ellie had needed increased, while those she had given in kind were nonexistent. Lorna was the first to notice, followed by Oliver. Maeve, for once, was not the last. Hollis took the longest. He might have continued to condone her to avoid stirring up conflict, but he noticed.
But Callum never did. Callum took people at their word. Whatever side you chose to show him, that was the person you were. Which is why, to Callum, Ellie was always kind. Until she wasn’t. And then it was too late for him, for any of them, to do anything about it.
This was what Lorna wanted to say to Ellie before she killed her. As she and Maeve made their way up the main staircase, Lorna rehearsed it in her head, wanting to get every word right because she would only have one chance. She thought of villains in action movies. How their monologuing always got them in trouble. How if they would just shut up and kill the hero, they would win. She used to wonder why they fell into such a trap. Now she understood. She needed to say these things to Ellie. She needed to say them to her face because, if she didn’t, they would build up inside her to a crescendo that would tear her a
part. So she would say them, and then she would kill Ellie. And then she and Maeve would find Oliver and finish the job, quickly. There was nothing she needed to say to him.
They reached the top of the first landing and continued up the next.
“Do you think she rang Mr. MacLeod?” Maeve asked. Lorna had been so lost in thought, she couldn’t understand the question. “Was it Ellie that got Mr. MacLeod to return to the house?” Maeve repeated.
“I already told you I don’t know.”
“But Ellie must know that we killed Hollis. What if she’s found a way to call the police? She might go to the police. She might—”
“I think she cares more about the police not finding out what she did to Callum.”
“And Caskie’s body? That was you and not—”
“Yes, it was me. I used the passage we used to move Hollis’s body to sneak upstairs and downstairs. I pushed the body downstairs to get your attention and keep up the ruse for Oliver.”
“Did you know about that other passage? The one to the ballroom?”
“No. Caskie never told me about it. Maybe he didn’t know.”
“Or maybe he only told Ellie about it. She does have more money than us. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced he was a double agent and she turned on him and . . .”
The conversation was drawing her attention away from Ellie, the words Lorna needed to say to her. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to keep them in. She’d smacked her head harder on the ground in that utility room than she’d meant to and a headache had blossomed behind her eyes. But Maeve kept talking.
“Ellie could have tipped him off but—”
Lorna turned and placed her hand over Maeve’s mouth. “Maeve. I understand you want to figure this all out, but right now MacLeod and Caskie are both dead, so for the moment, I’d rather focus on the people we came here to kill. Okay?”
“Right. Sorry.”
At the top of the stairs, Lorna stepped around an armchair and continued down the hall, but Maeve stopped. Lorna was afraid she’d been too crass and prepared to backpedal until Maeve asked, “Where are you going?”
“It’s down here, isn’t it?”
“No.” Maeve pointed. “It was this door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, because I put her in her staged room. It was already unlocked, so I didn’t have to worry about Oliver seeing me with the keys out.”
Lorna returned to Maeve’s side. Stared at the chair angled awkwardly in the hall.
“But,” Lorna said, “this door’s open.”
They looked into the room. It was empty.
The sound of breaking glass flooded their ears.
Oliver
3 months prior
The doctors had said she should’ve succumbed to the cirrhosis by now. Had promised she would. But each day she persevered. The smell bothered Oliver most. She’d lost control of her bladder and bowel movements a few months ago, a side effect of one of her many prescription drugs. Adult diapers wouldn’t have been so bad, except most days she was too drunk to change them herself. He either had to let her sit in her own filth or clean her himself. So he bought boxes of latex gloves. Unable to carry her anymore, he laid the plastic sheet under her, changed the diaper, and wiped her down. Each day he told himself this was what children were meant to do. Parents changed nappies for years and then they got old, and the kid had to return the favor.
Except Oliver’s mum wasn’t that old. She was just an alcoholic. He was, too, but not like her. He’d never be as bad as her. He’d need a drink or two to get through the day, but he could get through the day. He found work, paid bills, took care of the house. She lay on her backside and watched day-time talk shows and Antiques Roadshow, her bedroom full of empty Carling cans and vodka bottles because he refused to take them out anymore. He’d buy them, but she had to clean. That was a woman’s responsibility after all, wasn’t it? He didn’t care that he always kicked them when he entered her room, or that the drips of stale beer stained the carpet, so rough and brittle now. No, that he could handle. All that bothered him was the smell because now he smelled of it too. It was his sister who hadn’t been afraid to tell him.
They sat across from one another at a Pizza Express behind Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank. He watched the feet of the people passing on the pavement outside and she watched him, her long brown hair flat-ironed to within an inch of its life, black liner lengthening her eyes so they resembled her father’s side of the family more than their shared line.
“You’re starting to look like her,” she said.
“She’s my mother. I’ve always looked like her.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
The waiter approached and Oliver ordered a beer, but his sister kicked him under the table. He asked for a Coke Zero instead.
“You’re starting to smell like her, too,” she said when the waiter had gone.
“I shower every morning.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not with the state the house is in. It’s in your clothes. Your hair. Your skin.”
“How do you know what state the house is in? Not like you’ve seen it in years.”
“Is it any better?”
He didn’t answer.
“So I can only assume it’s worse.” She reached across the table and took his hand. He kept his eyes fixed on the menu. “You have to get out of there, Oliver. Come stay with me.”
“You’ve said this before.”
“She’s killing you.”
“And that.”
“Well, I mean it!”
The couple next to them glanced their way then turned their heads. It was obvious what they were whispering about. Oliver lowered his voice.
“She’s going to die soon.”
“So will you.” From her Marc Jacobs bag, she pulled out a brochure. The letters of Wolfheather House Rehabilitation decorated the front in an obnoxious cursive font. It looked shoddy. Slapped together. “Visit this place. They’re having an open house. I’ll cover the cost. Please.”
The waiter returned with their drinks, and they ordered a pizza to share. Not another word was mentioned regarding their mother, but the brochure found its way into his coat pocket. He took the train and stopped at the pub for a few pints before going back to the house, where he found her passed out in her bed, bathed in the glow of the television. He pulled out the yellow paint sample from Homebase and compared it to the tint of her skin. Still ‘Happy Daze’ but moving closer to ‘Lemon Punch.’ He sighed and kicked a pile of cans, hoping the sound might wake her. It didn’t. His sister was wrong, though. He was a survivor, and he could survive her. So he went to the front room to watch television with a beer but before he got too involved in Top Gear reruns, he found the brochure in his pocket and dialed the number.
Present
Oliver’s breath clouded in front of his face, the cold air biting his cheeks as he shoved the quivering key into the door and locked it. He took a step back. Waited to hear someone pounding on the other side as Ellie had. But there was nothing. The sounds of the house were locked away. Whatever horror was happening inside could no longer reach him. He staggered into the gravel car park, clutching the diary with both hands. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it. He only knew that he needed it. And that he needed to get it away from the house.
As he ran to the parked cars, his bad knee gave out and buckled underneath him. He fell hard, the gravel cutting his palms, the diary skidding out of his hands. He tried to stand but couldn’t put any weight on his leg and crawled behind the nearest car instead, a Vauxhall, and collected the diary along the way. He sat with his back against a taillight, looking out at the loch in front of him. One hand clutched the diary, the other massaged his knee. All of these cars were about as useful as his own body. He could risk a rest—his knee gave him no choice—but what then?
As the rain speckled his clothes, he reached into the pocket and pulled up t
he near-ruined brochure his sister had given him at the Pizza Express. That had been the last time he’d seen her, but he hadn’t thought it could be the very last time. Wolfheather House Rehabilitation. What a joke. Why hadn’t he bothered to google the place first? A simple google search, and he would have realized this was all a lie. Why did he always have to be so fucking lazy? He crumpled up the fake brochure and tossed it toward the loch. When he got out of here, he was going to find a real rehab. And his sister would pay for it because she’d feel so guilty about leading him into this mess in the first place. Even if she did find out about the whole embezzling thing, she would still take care of him after this, especially if he did what she wanted and left Mum to her own devices. He snorted. Maybe Wolfheather House had rehabilitated him after all. Now he just needed to get out.
He waited until the pain in his knee had finally faded to a dull ache and hoisted himself up, using the boot of the Vauxhall, gently testing out his knee. It wouldn’t take his full weight, but he wasn’t falling over. He turned on the spot, taking in the useless cars, the house. A rancid smell reached his nose, as though a deer lay dead somewhere in the gorse. The gray gravel drive blended into the gray cloud-covered sky. He remembered his walk down that drive, how sore his knee had been by the end. He would barely make it back to the main road, let alone all the way to the quay.
Then he noticed the tire tracks in the car park. In the mud formed by the rain, a set of tracks wrapped around the house. Oliver followed them, dragging his leg, past the dining room windows, around the side of the boarded-up east wing. He thought the tracks stopped at a dumpster behind the house. And then he saw the old Land Rover behind it. He had to stop himself from shouting when he saw the keys hanging from the ignition.
They Did Bad Things Page 24