Mosaic

by Caro Ramsay

  We were both covered in fish shite. ‘Give me a hand with this and stop being so bloody pathetic.’ Drew lifted me by the hood, steadying me as I got on my feet. ‘Let’s drag the sandbags over, leave the hose, let go of the hose. It’s pissing down now, the rain will fill it.’

  It took on a dance of its own twisting up and down the whole Benbrae, spraying it with clean water. Drew was pulling one of the sandbags across to the breach in the wall, a collapsed sodden mass.

  I tried to roll the other towards him. We got them together and pulled the sandbag across the breach. Then we put one, then two, on top providing a small triangle that allowed the Benbrae to retain a few inches of water, enough to save some of the fish. Drew walked round and picked up some of the stranded, gasping fish and moved them into dips that had more water, or at least were starting to fill up.

  Then he spotted the canvas trolley in the boathouse and we moved the sandbags in that. In the general scheme of things, it was nothing but it made us feel that we were doing something. He caught hold of the writhing hose and wrestled it so it was spraying a definite mist all over the bed of the Benbrae. He moved it back and downwards, a bit here and bit there, saving a little of this and a little of that.

  Then I saw it. The bank where the mosaic was. Missing. Devoid of support the outer edge of the mosaic had crumpled, broken bits of blue sky hanging, jagged in the air. Hypnotized, I squelched towards it, moving slowly, being sucked in by the mud. The bank had collapsed at this point and I looked at the hole in the earth. A tunnel into the fabric and foundations of the mosaic.

  I saw it clearly for what it was.

  Some woollen cloth, black and grey. That used to be black and white.

  But I would have known it anywhere. I couldn’t help but see the ribbed cuff and what lay behind, a few bones held together in a little knot. Then holding my head to one side and wiping the tears from my eyes, I peered in. It didn’t look like a human hand. Animals do die, they can be buried. But they don’t cover their bones in a funeral shroud.

  I looked, thinking what I was seeing. Something woollen.

  ‘Drew?’ I pointed at the broken blue tiles hanging off the bank at the waterside, now a small precipice of sienna and cerulean.

  ‘What is that?’ He put on the torch on his mobile phone and looked more closely, digging around in the sandy earth of the bank with the end of his pen. Then he jerked his hand away.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The bones of a foot. A human foot. Be careful,’ Drew said, ‘just be careful.’

  I clambered closer, through the mud. I pointed to the blue tiles, two of them had come away, the rest, held together by some fabric webbing the mosaic had been glued onto. That formed a roof over a hole about a foot in diameter where the water had eaten away the side bank of the Benbrae. The tidal water had got in and worked its way in to the soft earth, earth that had been disturbed when the mosaic was built and then restructured when the boathouse and the pontoon where rebuilt a couple of years after the fire.

  I felt Carla was being taken from me all over again. Our sunflowers had gone.

  I closed my eyes, willing Carla back. But it stayed dark, nothing, Even the memory of her had gone.

  Drew pulled on a pair of gloves and placed a finger onto the overhanging tiles at waist height. He pointed his phone in, noticing a muddy piece of fabric poking out.

  ‘Did you look at that?’

  I realize he had spoken to me.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Can you see that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But I didn’t want to look.

  ‘There’s more in there, it’s the cuff of a jacket, isn’t it?’

  The cuff of a nylon jacket, a quilted nylon jacket, muddy and sodden.

  He shone the torch in a little more then he switched the torch off and swiped a number into his phone. ‘David? You know where I am? We need a whole crew out here. Now.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Maybe you should look.’ He pointed. ‘Have a look in there. I think the bottom of the mosaic was filled in by sand, the water broke in and swept it away.’

  I looked round, not making out anything, just shapes here and there, indifferent shades or darkness. Then the beam of the torchlight glistened over something, red and golden, a familiar shape, a pretty pony, not like the Munnings on the wall. And the small clasp. A Past President’s Badge of the Highland Pony Society. Not many of them going around.

  ‘Well, Megan, if we haven’t found your mother, at least we have found her clothes.’ He spoke down the phone again. ‘And can you keep this low key for now? I want to talk to Ivan Melvick. We’ll get there quicker if we “do the right thing”. You always get further with sugar than with vinegar.’

  After that, things moved very quickly. Drew made a few phone calls but never let me leave the boathouse, or out of his sight. He didn’t let me speak to anybody. He made me hold the hose to give me something to do, spraying it around, watching the deep parts of the Benbrae fill up. It was stinking.

  Then Drew was waving over at the long grass, signalling to a man.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He is a scene of crime guy, Megan. We can’t keep this between the two of us, we need a witness.’

  I recognized the man from somewhere. He was carrying a small case and something that resembled a rolled umbrella or a small tent.

  ‘It’s going rain all night, and this area has high evidential value, it has to be protected.’

  ‘I recognize the jacket, her quilted green jacket.’ I said, quietly. ‘And the badge.’

  ‘You need to show me again.’

  It was difficult for me to walk and follow a conversation, so the three of us walked in silence along in single file, in the grass around the side of the Benbrae. Anybody looking out the upstairs windows of the house would have seen us easily, as would anybody out on the high veranda, but I doubted there would be anybody up there in this weather. They were safely tucked up on the sofa or watching the telly, in the kitchen having tea and kippers. I trudged round to the Benbrae, its well of emptiness open, dying fish flickering, birds starting to dive and feast. The smell was strong. I heard some chatter, stunned words of amazement passed between the two men following me. Then I stood to one side and pointed to the mosaic that looked as if it had been corrupted by an earthquake, looking again at the little bones of a human foot, wrapped in a rotting sock.

  Carla

  I can almost feel it all slipping. Dying is worst, this time I am calling for her but she does not hear me, this confident young woman. Me with my permanent scowl and bad hair.

  But I loved her, the one real constant, one day we cut each other’s arm and mixed our blood, children’s stupid games from something we had seen on the telly but to me it really meant something. It made me almost a Melvick. She was the anchor I could have based my life around. And there was a sense that she needed me.

  As much as I needed her.

  Dying for the second time was going to be painful. This time I am going to be forgotten.

  Megan

  Dad was dressed and sitting in the study, a tray beside him of toast triangles sitting in their polished silver rack, a cafetière of coffee and a cup on a saucer sat beside it, and a folded up copy of the Telegraph, not read yet judging from its neat folds. He was scrolling through his phone, something that caught his interest, his hand was reaching out for the coffee when he noticed us squelching in through the door. He looked at our feet, at the mess, folded his newspaper, but had the good sense not to comment.

  He was back, the master of the house.

  The study was a dark, quiet room, it’s Dad’s place of seclusion. Never to be entered without knocking or without good reason. It had reverted to its custom formality after the cosiness of the previous night.

  ‘Megan. How lovely. Have you come to join me for breakfast?’ His eyebrows arched over his rimless reading glasses in quiet curiosity, then narrowed on seeing Drew behi
nd me, but being my father, his mouth did not miss a beat. ‘And Drew, would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am here as DS Murray.’

  Dad flicked his eyes to me then back to Drew, there was a glimmer of fear there, at our clothes, our muddy faces. I couldn’t help but wonder how hard had he tried to look for Mum. ‘Of course, do sit down.’

  ‘Better not, too dirty. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr Melvick. Megan was out walking this morning looking at the damage of the storm and the high tide.’

  ‘As I was also going to do after breakfast.’ Dad nodded impatiently, he flicked his fingers against an invisible speck of dust on his trouser leg, wanting Drew to say his piece, but he was here as a police officer and wasn’t going to be hurried.

  ‘If you took your normal early walk this morning, you must have noticed the damage to the mosaic down at the Benbrae?’

  Dad’s eyes settled on me then moved back to Drew, seemingly relieved that this was only about property damage.

  ‘I noticed the sink tunnel had opened and had drained much of the water, and I noticed some damage to the mosaic but I was more interested in the damage to the roof and the stables. Why?’

  ‘The Benbrae has gone completely now, and there’s damage to the mosaic and it has revealed something underneath. Bones in fact.’

  Dad twitched a little at that.

  ‘Human bones’ – Drew took a deep breath – ‘and sir, we believe, have reason to believe, it may be the deposition site of the body of your wife.’

  Dad’s eyes narrowed, a slight rotation of the head, in disbelief. ‘But Beth wasn’t murdered, she left.’ Even as he spoke I could see a different version of events dawning on him.

  ‘Nobody actually knows anything,’ I said, and Dad looked at me, as if he had never realized I could speak. ‘The president’s badge, the one she wore, is on the lapel of the jacket still in the hole, Dad. I think it might be her. I think it’s her.’ And I started to cry.

  Dad looked at Drew for help, in return Drew studied him intently as if he was looking for a sign of guilt.

  There is no help coming. ‘And there are signs of human remains.’

  ‘Dear, dear God. Bloody hell.’ He sank back in his armchair, the great wings seemed to devour him. The skin of his face went very pale, he closed his eyes. He looked old and defeated. I went towards him, he stretched his hand out and covered my small hand with his, and closed his eyes. For a long moment there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the study, then he opened his eyes and patted my hand. ‘So, DS Murray, I guess we are on professional terms now.’

  ‘Indeed we are.’

  And the power shifted, just like that,

  ‘I presume you now have a protocol to follow, and you must follow it. I want no favours or entitlement, you do what you have to. Please.’

  ‘Of course. I have already set the wheels in motion. We will need to do some tests to confirm to whom the remains belong, we do need to tick that box, sir.’

  The ‘sir’ did not fall naturally from his tongue and my dad gave a brief nod of consent.

  ‘And I know that you are great friends with the deputy chief constable, he shoots on your land, I believe.’

  My dad shook his head. ‘That means nothing. You do what you need to do.’

  ‘Of course we will, but I was thinking, that with your consent there might be a better way. I was wondering …’ Drew was leaning forward in the chair, his auburn fringe flopping over his forehead, Dad leaned forward to meet him halfway. ‘I don’t want anybody to know what we have found, just you, me, Megan and our scenes of crime for now. I feel it’s very important that this stays with us, and at the highest level only.’

  Dad’s brows furrowed.

  ‘The banks of the Benbrae have been breached in four locations, I noticed that.’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘So I am thinking it would be helpful if we put some tents up on the other three areas, making it look as if we were doing some engineering work. The mosaic was a breach. Let’s leave it at that. And the fourth tent can be the scene of crime tent.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Physically yes, it would help us if there was no gossip or rumours – that stuff seems to follow this family around. We, and only we, and whoever put that person in there will know. Just a small controlled group of people. You must tell nobody else. We will do plain clothes. We will say a sewer has been breached, that will explain face masks and keeping people away. But I cannot do that legally, I will need some help from above, your friends in high places might be able to swing it for me. Or to be more precise, for you.’

  ‘And why would he?’

  ‘Because it gives us an advantage. And you could ask him. He’d do it for you.’

  ‘Would you mind showing me where … The mosaic?’

  ‘Of course, sir, and to be clear, say nothing to anybody else, not Deborah, not Heather. Nobody.’

  I handed him his scarf and his hat, his jacket would be on the stand at the kitchen door.

  We walked quietly along the hall.

  Heather popped out the drawing room door. ‘Ivan, what’s happening?’

  ‘A problem down at the Benbrae that’s all. I’ll be back soon.’

  He couldn’t quite bring himself to lie, so I did it for him.

  ‘There’s a broken sewer, it stinks,’ I said, watching as Heather withdrew like she could actually smell it. Or was it alarm, had she been found out?

  Dad took my hand and we walked out the front door together, side by side.

  Carla

  And here she goes, Megan on her daddy’s arm. Where she belongs. With the events of today her fate is sealed, there’s no way she’s going to walk out on her dad and the Italian House now.

  The house itself has a buzz around it. Heather is walking back and forth, Mum has been in and out that gate, then out once in the Land Rover. The women are like the birds, they are circling for their advantage, ready to pick off the vulnerable.

  But it’s all slipping from Megan and now the house is being affected as well, the Benbrae has gone, it’s like the end for Megan and me, all those summer days lying on the boat. Ah yes, even the Curlew, the boat that burned underneath me had reappeared like some deadly phoenix.

  There will be something symbolic in all this, something that the minister will drone on about at Beth’s funeral, now that they can have one. But I feel diminished.

  I will be the last to go and I know that as the breaches in the wall of the Benbrae are filled, repaired and strengthened, as Beth is buried, as the door closes shut on the Italian House, the gates will swing closed on me, too. The cross struts where I placed my feet to climb these gates have now got spikes on them. I have been removed from the wedding photographs. I wonder how long it will take Drew to remove me from Megan’s affections, replacing me with every memory, every touch, every kiss. I am being erased, slipping from everybody’s memory, I am slowly, but permanently, being rubbed from history.

  And there’s nothing I can do.

  Absolutely nothing.

  But wait, watch and wait.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Monday

  Megan

  We had been stuck in the house all day.

  I stayed up in my room reading, ignoring the comings and goings below, easy for a deaf person to do. At one o’clock Dad knocked on the door and said that Deborah had made sandwiches for everybody and that we would be eating in the drawing room.

  ‘The drawing room?’

  His eyes flicked nervously, he was in a situation out of his control, and he didn’t like it. When I came downstairs I was surprised to see who was there. Dr Scobie, the ever-present Heather, and Tom McEwan, Carla’s father. He stood up, ready to shake my hand but I hugged him. We had a bond, I would have liked to sit down, him and me together, just the two of us, and talked about his daughter.

  Debs was moving around the plates, putting them back on the tray, a restless nervousness about her. Sh
e went over to open the window to the low terrace, to let the fresh air in. The action seemed to imply her ex was stinking the room out.

  They all said hello to me in turn and Dad asked if I had my hearing aids in.

  Then the door opened. It looked like Drew was playing Cluedo now as he didn’t smile at me when he saw me. He merely nodded at us all and told us to take a seat. Deborah went to excuse herself, he said he’d like a fresh pot of coffee in ten minutes.

  So it wasn’t going to take long.

  We were all gathered in one room, the duck egg blue drawing room, with the big bay windows. The settees were the same but had been recovered, it looked so different from the day I had climbed off the sofa with Oodie, blown out my candles and trotted off down the Long Drive after Papa.

  That memory was clearing now. Why I had my lacy dress on, why I had that feeling of the wet lace clinging to my bare legs like a thousand little beasties. How young I had been to see something so awful. I’m glad the real horror has not come back yet, I hope it never does.

  Papa dancing on a rope.

  And a hand … giving him a push.

  And I had fallen in the pool.

  Dad had to get me out.

  Melissa chasing me.

  Everything was so different then, so many people had gone and those that were left were gathered here in this room. The bit players.

  There were some murmurings as Drew sat down and placed the file he had been carrying in his lap. I knew him well enough now to notice the tension in him. I looked out the window and noticed that even the weather had given up. There was no wind, the sky had drifted to a translucent grey. No rain. No sunshine. Nothing.

  My dad sat on the settee. On the table sat a big pot of coffee, a pot of tea, eight mugs, and a plate of biscuits ready. The coffee pot looked big enough to me, maybe it was going to be a long meeting after all. They had already helped themselves to the sandwiches. I wonder what my dad had been doing before he came to get me. Heather was sitting on the end of the big sofa beside me, folding and refolding the pleats of her linen skirt, brushing away non-existent crumbs. I thought she might have been scowling slightly at Tom or even at me, maybe we were keeping her from her game of bridge.