The Sweetest Poison

by Jane Renshaw

  She laughed out loud, and batted the heather in case of late-to-bed bees before lowering her bum and leaning back against the rock, and letting her breathing slow and her eyes wander, down the hill and across the fields and treetops to the grey bulk of the House of Pitfourie. By road it was nearly three miles away, because you had to go round by the junction at Kirkton. But as the crow flew – or the eye looked – it was less than two.

  She didn’t lift the binoculars straight away. She held them in her hands, running her fingers over the snakeskin-effect plastic. They had a magnification of ☐25. When she was thirteen she’d saved up for a year to buy them, but she’d known it had been worth it the first time she’d sat here and focused them on the first floor windows. Often they didn’t draw the curtains, and if the windows were lit up you could see the people inside. Tiny people, so small it was difficult to tell the Laird and Hector apart.

  But you could actually see them.

  If they came near enough to a window. And if they were in a room on this side of the house, obviously, and on the first floor or above. You couldn’t see any of the ground floor because, even though there were just the gardens and fields directly in front of the house, the woods between it and the road were on higher ground, so the tops of the trees hid a lot.

  But the library, where they tended to sit in the evenings, was on the first floor.

  And so was Hector’s room.

  Every sighting of him had been carefully noted down in her diary, like she was a scientist observing the habits of some rare and wonderful creature. She’d document the time; what she thought he might have been wearing, although that was pretty much guesswork at this distance; which window or windows she’d seen him at; what he’d been doing; and who else she thought might have been with him. FK, usually. Fiona Kerr. Twice she’d watched their two figures pressing together – kissing, presumably, and touching each other.

  Of course he’d only been home during his school holidays, and then his holidays from Sandhurst. And then, after the Laird married Irina, he hadn’t been home at all. No more ‘badgers’. He’d spent his Army leave jetting off to exotic places with his dubious friends, as Irina called them, instead of coming to Pitfourie.

  He hadn’t even come back when Stinker was born.

  That had been in December, just after Dad had died. Everyone had been sure Hector would be home for Christmas to see his new little brother. It had been the one thing she’d been able to hang on to: Hector will be here, Hector will be here.

  Only he hadn’t been.

  And then into her misery had come the letter.

  The first letter he’d ever written her, with her name, ‘Helen Clack’, and her address in his neat sloping writing. Inside, a single sheet of writing paper. And his words, telling her how sorry he was about Dad, how much he’d liked him, that he wished he could have been at the funeral. That he hoped she was all right. That it was something, that Dad hadn’t had to suffer through a long illness, that his death had been so sudden, at home at the Parks rather than in an anonymous hospital ward.

  And then the words that she’d never forget as long as she lived: I’ve been thinking a lot about you –’

  Well, you and your mother. But still.

  She’d carried the letter around for days. Suzanne had found her staring at it, and snatched it away and read it, and then perched on the kitchen table and said, ‘So. Have you replied?’

  And when Helen had said she hadn’t, Suzanne had offered to help.

  ‘They don’t think like us. They don’t spend – how many days have you been mooning over this? – six days analysing and pulling apart and putting back together every little thing we say. You have to treat them like they’re simpler forms of life. Stimulus–response.’

  ‘Hector’s not a “simpler form of life”. That’s the whole problem.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. God, I’d hate it if Rob suddenly went all New Man on me, trying to work out what I was thinking, and greeting at films. Yuch. Might as well be a lesbian and have done with it.’

  ‘So what should I say?’

  ‘Keep it light. Ask him questions, so he has to write back: what’s the Army food like, do they have a TV, is it cold? Does he have any funny stories to cheer you up? No harm in playing the dead parent card. But whatever you do, don’t ask when he’s coming home.’

  ‘Could you help me write it?’

  That had taken another week. Somewhere in the process, Helen had managed to lose Hector’s letter – tragedy! – but, as Suzanne had said, so what? They both knew its contents off by heart. In the end, Suzanne had taken their latest effort, shoved it in an envelope, slapped on a stamp and posted it to the address for his regiment that she’d found in the Laird’s desk, a PO box number in Aberdeen.

  They’d plotted together like a couple of witches to reel him in. But all the other letters had been her own work. And she hadn’t let Suzanne see any more of his, and had sworn her to secrecy about the whole thing. Hector didn’t want anyone knowing they were writing to each other because his father would go ballistic if he found out. Nothing personal – but he was a hide-bound old Tory who felt the peasants should know their place.

  She hadn’t thought the Laird was like that, but it turned out that Hector had never really got on with him, and had been champing at the bit to get away for years.

  She reached into her pocket and unfolded the warm sheets of paper, and scanned down to the sentence that had been putting a feelie’s smile on her face all day:

  Not much looking forward to seeing the old goat or the slut, and very little desire to spend time with an infant with the soubriquet of Stinker – but there must be some reason why I’m counting down the hours to the prodigal’s return... Hope maybe you are too...?

  She put the letter back in her pocket and lifted the binoculars.

  The windows on the first floor were big Georgian and Victorian ones, a row of sixteen. The Laird and Irina’s bedroom was all lit up, and so were the library’s three windows, but she couldn’t make out if that was a person sitting on the sofa with their head sticking up, or if it was just a vase or something on the windowsill.

  Hector’s room was at the end of the house on the right-hand side. There was no light on, but that didn’t mean anything. Suzanne said the Laird was fascist about people switching lights off behind them.

  She panned back along to the library window. The shape that could have been a vase wasn’t there any more. And now there was movement, in the next window along, the middle one of the three. Two people were standing at the window looking straight at her.

  One of them had to be the Laird, and one of them had to be Hector. The one on the right – yes –

  The binoculars dipped in her hands.

  The one on the right was Hector.

  Standing talking to his father and looking out at something in the garden, maybe, or the horses in the field, and little did he know that she was up here on Craig Dearg looking down at him. Or, all the time he was talking about what he’d been doing, and what had been happening at Pitfourie, and about Stinker and the christening, was some sixth sense telling him she was out here?

  ‘Hector,’ she said out loud, to the air.

  She really was going to see him, and speak to him...

  She lifted the binoculars again, but instead of turning them immediately to the library window she panned up to the second floor.

  Suzanne’s room faced the other way, over the courtyard at the back. It had eaves sloping in and a little iron fireplace where she was allowed to light fires. She did light them, even when it was really hot, because then she could say the smell of cigarettes was the fire if anyone accused her. She wasn’t meant to smoke near the baby.

  ‘Stinker’s getting a thirty-a-day habit,’ she’d say. ‘When he starts speaking he’ll be –’ And she’d make her voice deep and growly ‘– You lookin’ at me?’

  Helen counted along to the dark window of the nursery bathroom that was acro
ss the corridor from Suzanne’s room. If both doors were open, maybe she’d be able to see into her room. But there was just the darkened window. Would Rob be with her? He wasn’t allowed to stay the night – he wasn’t really allowed in her room at all – but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be there.

  She panned back to the library windows, but Hector had gone. She lowered the binoculars, retrieved the letter from her pocket and turned to the second page.

  You should be getting your invite soon, thanks to yours truly. Relevant part of phonecall went something like this:

  H: So, which of the tenants have you invited?

  OG: The Taylors, the Duncans... Jim and Ina Clack...

  H: What about Helen Clack? Doesn’t she help Suzanne with Damian?

  OG: We can’t ask everyone. We’re up to over a hundred already.

  H: But how many of them have wiped vomit off his romper suit, and shit off his arse?

  Tom and I (Do you know Tom Strachan? Bit of a prat to be honest) have organised an unofficial shindig up on the Knock for afterwards, at the stone circle (Bring Your Own Druid), so warm clothes required. Needless to say, the ‘adults’ don’t have to know about it. Tell your mother you’re staying over with Suzanne. Could be an all-nighter.

  Better play it cool at the official do – make out we’re just two old schoolmates catching up. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder the whole time. Let’s wait till we’re up on the Knock, under the starry heavens – ugh, I’m starting to sound like Mr Beattie. But seriously, we don’t want the old goat ruining it. Plenty time to tackle him later.

  Re christening present: I’m swithering between a reversed pentagram and a skull ring. What is the well-dressed young Antichrist wearing this season?

  See you on Sunday.

  Love

  Hector

  She touched his name on the paper. No kisses, no flowery words, no telling her how wonderful she was and how he couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms at last. The word ‘Love’ looked as if it had scratched itself out of his pen against his will. Even ‘starry heavens’ was something to apologise for. He was a lot more comfortable making jokes about his baby brother being the Antichrist.

  It was as if, to Hector, love was something you had to edge around and about and not look in the eye, like a wild creature you’d come across in the woods, muscles bunched, head lifted into the wind, ready in an instant to kick out its legs and run.

  Probably it was because of his childhood. His mother had died when he was six, and it didn’t sound like his father had ever really given him any love. When he was eleven he’d been packed off to boarding school to live with strangers who whacked him with a cane if he put a foot wrong. It was tantamount to child cruelty, Mum said, the way the upper classes brought up their children, and it was no wonder they turned out the way they did.

  She folded the sheets of paper together and pushed them against her mouth.

  5

  At first she wasn’t sure what it was that made her stop, just at the point where the path passed near to the badgers’ sett, and stand and listen. And then she heard it: a noise in the undergrowth, a snapping and crashing – something moving in there. Something big.

  A deer or a badger.

  She couldn’t see what it was. There were too many trees in the way.

  She started moving again, down the path, trying not to make too much noise so she could listen.

  The noises were moving too – level with her.

  She stopped.

  The noises stopped.

  The trees were still blocking her view through to whatever it was. It was probably a deer.

  She moved again, more slowly, and immediately the noises were back, but not as loud now, as if whatever it was was mocking her, imitating her stealthy steps.

  She made herself stop and call, in a normal voice:

  ‘Hello?’

  She made herself move to the left, so she could see round the trunks of two birks.

  And now she could see that it wasn’t a deer, it was a person, moving amongst the trees. Moving towards her.

  It was Rob Beattie.

  And right at the back of her head a little girl screamed:

  Run!

  But she stood where she was, and smiled, and said, ‘Oft, Rob! I thought you were a mad axeman or something!’

  ‘Hey, not with my coordination. Probably end up chopping my own head off. Sorry – didn’t mean to scare you.’ He came panting up, lurching to a halt in front of her and steadying himself by grabbing her arm.

  Hally-wrackit, Auntie Ina called him. He was always bumping into the furniture and breaking things, hytering about as if he hadn’t got used to the length of his legs and arms yet.

  He wasn’t all that tall, but he was lanky, and the wide head made him look even lankier. A neep on a stick, Norrie called him. But his face wasn’t fat like it had been when he was a kid, and the jutting brows and chin sort of balanced the width of it and made him, actually, almost handsome – although if you had to cast him in a film, you’d make him the goofy side-kick rather than the hero.

  Unless you were Suzanne of course.

  She took a step backwards. ‘What’re you doing up here?’

  She could smell the sweat on him. His hair was dark with it; almost the same colour as Hector’s.

  ‘Your mum sent me to fetch you back.’

  ‘Why?’

  Since Dad died, every unexpected summons, every Helen, can I speak to you a min’tie? from a teacher, every trill of the phone had her stomach lurching.

  ‘Getting a bit late.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘Getting daaaaark... But I’m here to protect you from any mad axemen that might really be lurking in the undergrowth.’

  ‘Well thanks. I think.’ She smiled at him, and started to walk down the path.

  He fell into step beside her. Cough-cough cough. ‘It’s spooky enough at the best of times, isn’t it, up here?’

  ‘Not really. You’re a lot safer here than you would be on a street in Aberdeen. Or even Aboyne.’

  ‘True.’ He was walking too close to her side, their arms touching now and then. Like he didn’t quite know where his body ended and the rest of the world began.

  ‘What were you doing at the Parks?’ She took advantage of a narrowing of the path to walk ahead.

  ‘Suzanne sent me with those – things – for your hair. For tomorrow.’

  ‘The hairclips! Oh, God, I completely forgot! Thanks, Rob.’

  ‘Vitally important, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, vitally.’

  ‘And she told me – can you stop a second?’

  Helen stopped; turned. He smiled at her, and lifted both hands to her head.

  She pulled back. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘For a proper demonstration I really need the clips, and I left them at your house, but... Suzanne gave me strict instructions about where you should put them – and I was to show you. Stand still.’

  Big white fingers pushed into her mop of hair. ‘Here – and here.’

  ‘Right. Okay.’ She made herself not flinch. She made herself wait until he took his hands away before turning back round; setting off again down the path.

  Just when she thought she was okay with him, something like this would happen.

  ‘Hey Helen, you’re good at puzzles. Here’s a riddle for you. One of the old folks at The Pines told me it last week and it’s been tormenting me ever since. Help me out?’

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. ‘If I can.’

  He had stopped walking, so she had to stop too.

  He started in a sing-song voice: ‘I am a garden of delights... I am a wasteland frozen.’

  On frozen, he thrust his chin out.

  She stepped back.

  He took one step forward. ‘I am the dagger in the night...’ He opened his eyes wide, and brought his face right up to hers, as if he was about to kiss her. ‘I am the sweetest poison,’ he whispered, so close she could feel the warmth of his b
reath on her cheek. ‘What am I?’

  She couldn’t even move away from him. She couldn’t move at all. Oh God.

  He knew.

  He must know.

  She had thought at the time that he must, when he’d come back to school after his ‘tummy upset’, raised from the dead like Lazarus in Mrs Beattie’s Sunday School story. He’d come running in at the gates and danced about, as if he was saying, Ha ha ha, I’m not dead. And into Helen’s sick little eight-year-old head had come the picture of Lazarus, jumping up from his grave, white shroud trailing.

  She’d run, past Katie and Jennifer, and Katie had shouted: ‘Smellie Smellie Nellie, pees in her wellies!’

  Robin had run after her, but instead of grabbing her he’d grabbed Katie by the hair, and said into her face: ‘Don’t call her that.’ And he’d come and put his arm round Helen. ‘We’re friends now.’ His white hand had flopped on the top of her arm, and Suzanne had come and put her arm round Helen on the other side, and they’d walked round the playground like that until the bell went.

  She’d said Thank you to God, and ‘Thank you for making Robin be nice to me’ when she saw Hector, because she wasn’t sure which of them had done it. She knew Hector had told Robin to stop bullying her, but the rising from the dead aspect suggested divine intervention. Maybe God had said, Well, okay Jesus, raise Robin Beattie from the dead if you want, but then we have to make him be Helen’s friend.

  But Helen didn’t want him to be her friend. She wanted him to be dead.

  She’d known that sometimes God did things to test you. Like telling Abraham to kill his little boy Isaac, and then, when Abraham had the knife ready, saying, ‘Only joking.’ Maybe God had made Robin her friend as a test: Okay, now he’s your friend – do you STILL want him dead?

  Yes please.

  But God helped those who helped themselves, so she’d asked Mr Cowie in the library van if he had any books about laburnum, and a few weeks later he’d produced a book on trees. She’d said it was for school, and got Mum to help her read the relevant section. There’d been a bit about the seeds being poisonous, but then it had said that they usually only made people a little bit ill. So getting more seeds would probably be a waste of time.