by Caro Ramsay
I didn’t have my hearing aids in, they were in the pocket of my dress, and Molly was running around, ears pricked and happy. Then she stopped dead.
Ears forward. A low growl in her throat, then I saw her tail wag. I now had my aids in my hand and nearly in my ears when I saw a man coming along the path. I vaguely recognized him in the distance but couldn’t quite place him. I leaned over and caught Molly by the collar.
And then I recognized him, he had the soul of creeping Jesus. He moved up to my shoulder.
‘So you are here again sniffing around, doing whatever you are doing?’
‘You got me, I’m not going to deny it.’
‘And why are the misfortunes of our family of any interest to you, mysterious Mr Murray?’
‘Because it is mysterious Detective Sergeant Murray. May I walk with you? And ask you a few questions about the night of the wedding, when Carla McEwan, Carla Sullivan died?’
‘There was an inquiry and criminal charges, it was all covered at the time. Tom McEwan did time for it. You know all this.’
‘Tom wants to see you. He feels there was a bond between you and his daughter. Or he knows that you and your family killed her.’ He walked on, forcing me to follow if I wanted to hear. ‘I need to get a feeling for what it was like. Carla sounds like a monster, drinking vodka, sleeping with older men, stealing, causing bodily harm, winding everybody up. What could a girl like you want with a girl like that?’
‘Tom was the one who brought about Carla’s death. Not my dad. It was an accident.’
That was the version I had to believe. Any other theory was for me alone. Surely Melissa didn’t hate me that much. But when I was awake in the ebony hours of the night, waiting for the rooks to batter on the windows, leaving their blood trails on the glass, I know how alike Carla and I looked. Of all people, Melissa knew our habit of going out on the Curlew. We had seduced her husband.
She had said sorry.
Drew was walking on, holding back the overgrowth away from the path, inviting me to follow him round the Benbrae path back to the road.
‘Tom swears he secured that petrol. Your dad had told him that there was going to be fireworks. Tom McEwan was not an idiot. He loved his daughter. So somebody tampered with it, I know we only have his word for it but he seems genuine to me. It was a wedding, all those people around. He was the only one who admitted seeing Carla get in the boat.’
‘I guess the fact he loved her was lost on the original inquiry.’
‘He loved her as much as your dad loves you. And yes, points were scored because much was made of Carla’s reputation, and Tom had a new baby with a new wife who walked the minute he was convicted.’
‘I had heard that.’
‘You are not stupid, you must have theories. Petrol doesn’t burn like that, not on water.’
‘But it did, we saw it.’
‘Because somebody made it happen, Megan.’ He shrugged. ‘Somebody had access to rope and petrol. The rope that was attached to the Curlew had been soaked in petrol and used like a fuse, and the boat had alcohol in the bottom. Carla went up like a roman candle. That’s the gist of it. Pre-planned.’
We stood in silence, considering its horror.
‘Tom is right that your dad was very keen that he was found guilty of some recklessness while he was equally keen to ignore the fact that somebody committed murder.’
‘That’s ridiculous; you’re saying that my dad helped to derail a murder enquiry.’
‘I’ve read all the documentation. Yes and no. The team did investigate, of course, and found nothing. All the material is there. Nobody saw anything. There was no evidence to convict anybody. And it was Tom McEwan’s job to keep an eye on the petrol and the boats. So yes, he failed in his duty of care, and was reckless to the endangerment of human life.’
‘But it was his daughter who died.’
‘A point your father made many times, hence why Tom got such a light sentence. I doubt he served more than a few months, and that was in a low security establishment. He lost more than anybody. But that does not help us.’
My recall of that night walked a very narrow path. I can’t dwell on the noise of my best friend burning to death. I refuse to revisit that but I do recall the way Melissa and Jago were whisked away. I’ve always thought that smacked of my dad’s efficiency.
‘Tom was sentenced when it was obvious he had very little to do with the big problem. Nothing else we could do, the team involved had looked at it closely and judged that any other prosecution was not worth going to trial with. And the fiscal knew your dad well, of course, a fact that didn’t escape my uncle in the original investigation.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Talking through it. I know the boathouse could not be seen from the house that night. Your dad told me that. He told the police that, he showed them the alignment of the house, the carousel and the boathouse. Who was paying attention to where anybody else was? All eyes were on Melissa. And nobody spoke to you, Megan, you were missed as a witness.’
‘Melissa was missing for a part of the day. Never said where she was. She wanted to get some peace.’ I walked on for a little way, enjoying the sensation of the pine cones crunching under my feet. Then I turned, still not used to the fact that others can hear easily even when they cannot see.
‘That was what you said at the inquiry, and at the court case. The evidence did not support that.’ He closed his eyes, ashamed of how brutal it sounded. ‘Has your dad ever mentioned to you that he thought you might have been the intended victim?’
‘Never.’
He looked away and nodded. ‘I think if you ask him that question, he won’t be able to look you in the face.’
The whole wedding day was a mirage for me, memories and dreams, falsehoods and images floating through my mind. I no longer knew what was real and what was not. The fire didn’t start in sparks of little fires dotted over the surface, as if the embers fell from the sky and landed on the water. It was a still night, there was no breeze to drift the sparks away, they would have rained down on the Benbrae. There was one, only one, one match dropped.
‘Carla is gone but I also don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Be careful, Megan. I think your dad was very quick to get you away after the event. He made a huge play about reckless endangerment of the petrol cans being left unattended. He made sure that Tom was well compensated with a great new job. It all smacks of something but I can’t quite put my finger on what. And now, you and I are here together right here where it all happened.’
‘Are you trying to frighten me?’
‘No, I am warning you.’
ELEVEN
Carla
Oh, the lovely DS Murray. I knew he was a bloody cop the minute I saw him. He was walking around the Benbrae poking and probing like he was searching for something. From the look of his boots, he might well have gone as far in as the faerie pools in the Tentor Wood, which made him either very brave or very stupid.
He wasn’t good looking but he wasn’t plug ugly either. He does look a bit like his uncle, his features were soft and friendlier than the average Melvick face. Melissa was chiselled like her dad, and stunningly beautiful, but not the kind of face you want to be giving you a bed bath. What made Ivan so handsome even at his decrepit age made Melissa a little hard looking and haughty. Megan’s face had a softer contour.
I was glad to be down at the Benbrae with her, strolling around the outer edges with the rather lovely DS Murray.
Megan was a worrier when she was born. I would never have grown up; as things turned out I never got the chance. But I lived life to the full, as they say you have one life so live it well and live it the best you can; I think I had that sussed.
As the Americans would say, I got all my bad shit in at the start.
Megan was born with a frown, as it turns out she was only trying to concentrate on what you were saying, and that
took a lot of effort for her. Then she told me that people raise their voices to deaf people and in the human face that is the same as shouting. The face we pull as we speak loud is that of an angry person, imagine everybody you meet being angry with you all the time. No wonder deaf people kick off.
It’s better, she said, to speak clearly and slow down, enunciate properly. She was like that with the big words. So shouting at deaf people helps them hear as much as shouting at a Spaniard helps them understand English.
One day we were sitting at the Benbrae and she was asking why people were so nasty to me. I had no idea. I have clear memories of the people in those houses, the bruises and the broken bones, but the houses, the bedsits and the hostels all roll into one mass of bad smells, bad men and shared toilets. I don’t think I deserved any of it, I guess I was unlucky.
Once on the Curlew, on a summer day like this one. She asked me why nobody ever told the deaf jokes. Well, I took that as challenge and gave her one of my best.
‘A bit of string walks into a pub, are you that wee bit of string that everybody is talking about, no, says the wee bit of string, looking forlorn. I’m afraid not.’
Her brown eyes stared at me, the furrow came back into her forehead and she said very quietly, ‘And you wonder why it’s good to be deaf.’
But she was smirking, I punched her on the arm. ‘Here’s one,’ I said, ‘listen. This man goes into a pub.’
‘The same pub?
‘Yes, people in jokes are always in the pub, usually with an Englishman, a Welshman and an Irishman, but anyway …’ I had kind of lost the thread, a fish had jumped and caught my eye, distracting me with a streak of silver.
‘The man goes into the pub?’ Megan prompted showing me that she actually was interested.
‘Yes, he goes into the pub and he buys a talking centipede in a wee box.’
‘Sorry, I heard that as a talking centipede?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s right, go with the flow, it’s worth it.’
‘I was checking that I had heard it right, a talking centipede.’
‘Yeah, so the guy goes home with the centipede and they watch some TV.’
‘How does he do that, the centipede?’
God, she really took her jokes seriously.
‘He opens the box and puts it on a cushion so he can see the football.’
‘OK.’
‘So, the guy and the centipede are watching the football then the guy says, “Let’s go out for a pint, my treat.” And the wee centipede doesn’t answer.’
‘Was it deaf?’
‘No, it could hear perfectly fine. So, the guy says again, “Hey wee centipede, I asked you a question, do you want to come for a pint or not?” And the wee centipede looked up and said, “Give us a break, big man, I’m just putting my fucking shoes on”.’
For a moment she looked at me, staring deep into my eyes and then she burst out laughing, I didn’t think I had seen her laugh like that before.
She shook her head. ‘So, the centipede was just putting his shoes on. That’s great.’ She rested her chin against the rim of the boat, her finger playing with the oar lock, twirling it round. Clicking and rusty ‘He was putting his shoes on …’
At times like that I really wanted to be inside Megan’s head, those quiet moments when she looked out into the distance as if she knew all the truths of the world, devoid of the spoken bullshit. What really did go on between those ears?
Megan
Drew and I were sitting at the seat over the mosaic talking about nothing in particular. I preferred being there with him, rather than up at the house with Jago and his family. I found myself telling him about the mosaic, and then all my Carla stories; he had to see her humour, her courage, her zest for life. She was a better person than me, by a long way.
Then I told him why my father’s actions might seem like protection to him. I told him about my diagnosis and the confusion in my head.
I answered his questions: who was where, what had I eaten, where was Heather, how well did I know her and on and on it went. I realized there was something else going on here, a slow but definite interrogation. But I didn’t mind, at the end of the day, whatever he got out of it personally, he would find some justice for my friend.
The sun was starting to lose its heat; a slight wind ruffled the surface of the water. It was hard to believe it happened here. The new boathouse, built of brick and wood with a sharp angled roof, looked Alpine; there were brackets of swinging colourful flowers hanging from the roof. The boathouse with the blue loch behind, the hills in the background. ‘Were you involved in the investigation?’
‘At the time, I was very much on the periphery. My uncle knew your family better, you and Carla. I knew you and Melissa by sight, of course.’
‘Your uncle?’
‘Yes, he had a few run-ins with Carla over the years. He always had less paperwork when Carla was out of town. She was a wild one. He never thought she was a bad kid, not compared to some. He died a few months ago, but it was one of his constant nagging thoughts, it ate away at him. Who killed Carla Sullivan?’
‘And he knew her? I’m glad.’
‘And he knew Deborah, of course.’
I feel myself smiling, somebody else who thought about her as I did. An unforgettable, elfin face. ‘I remember your uncle. He took Carla away the day I got the scar. So you must have known me?’
‘I had seen you around. All the boys in the village were very aware of you and Melissa, the local tottie.’
And there was the truth. ‘Yes, all the boys liked Melissa.’
‘No, not all of them. There were a few that preferred you, the odd ones!’
I found myself laughing. It was a kind of compliment, the type that rang true for its understatement. ‘What? Did you have a league table?’
‘Oh yes, you, Kylie, Melissa, a few Kardashians, Sally McGuire because she gave the boys free doughnuts in Greggs.’ He was teasing me now. Then his face went serious, a crease appeared across his forehead. ‘But your dad knew that Melissa was unwell, and that part of her illness was hating you. Maybe she regretted that in the end.’
Sorry. Her final word.
Drew went very quiet, hesitating about what he was going to say next.
‘If the police have it closed officially, then why are you here, now?’
He turned and looked at me, wiped the back of his hand across his chin. ‘Your mother. Nobody knows what happened to her.’
‘She’ll be here on Friday, for Melissa.’
‘And if she isn’t.’
‘Not you as well. Look, Deborah herself saw Mum. Mum was on the phone. They had a brief conversation. Mum asked her if everything was OK. Debs got the impression she wanted to be left alone. Heather saw her, and spoke to her. Alistair Connolly saw her as he drove home. She left.’
‘And nobody has seen her since. Her live footprint left the estate through the front gate on Thursday the twenty-sixth of May 2016.’
‘Live footprint?’
‘The last time we had irrefutable evidence of her being alive. Megan, it’s impossible now to walk through life without leaving evidence, credit cards, ID, mobile phone. There’s nothing, Megan, nothing.’
‘Because she doesn’t want to be found. She ran off with another man. She texted, she left her stuff behind.’
‘That’s what you’ve been told.’ His voice was low, quiet. His logic was chilling.
‘Is it not true?’
‘It’s not untrue. But it’s not actual evidence of life.’
‘So what happened to her?’
‘What do you think?’
‘She left Dad.’
‘I have combed through your mum’s life, she wasn’t having an affair; she had nobody to run to. Nobody. Sorry.’
I looked at his face, his floppy fringe bright, the sunglasses pinning the rest of his hair back to the top of his head. His sleeves were rolled up, he had strong forearms, his fingers were devoid of rings. He was patting
Molly on the head, properly. Stroking her, not patting her like he was testing a bed.
Mum had no live footprint.
And now Melissa was gone, Carla was gone. And here I was, not remembering attacking people and having a chat with a detective. For some reason I wanted to laugh, Drew Murray suddenly looked very young and rather foolish.
‘Some people believe that your mother walked away from the family and decided not to return.’ Drew pursed his lips. ‘But my opinion is different. There is the outside world, then there is the Italian House. If you are in there, you have been invited. And somebody had access to your mother. You should think about that.’
I stood up and put my hand out, he placed his in mine. I shook his hand, thanking him for his interest.
He screwed his face up a little, maybe realizing that he had gone too far too fast.
‘I must go,’ I said.
‘Megan?’
‘Yes?’
‘You look after yourself. Be careful. Here’s my number and I want you to call me if you are’ – he paused – ‘uneasy about anything.’
I walked away, back up the Long Drive, looking at his phone number, committing it to memory before ripping the paper into tiny pieces and setting them free to the wind.
TWELVE
Carla
The trouble with my family was that it wasn’t a family. My parents couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Then, they couldn’t stand the sight of me. But I should be grateful that they took turns when it came to disliking me. And my tiny world was wide; I could wake up in one country and go to sleep in another, to be dragged out my bed and stuck in a coach to be carried five hundred miles. I saw an awful lot of wallpaper, none of which belonged to us. I liked to think that Dad was back in Sandbank, in some rented little room somewhere, or living with Gran in Dunoon where I imagined that I was welcome-ish to kip on the floor in a sleeping bag he kept rolled up under his own bed. Then Fishface came along and although things got more complicated, the same rules applied.
My rules weren’t their rules.