Come to Harm

by Catriona McPherson

  And then the quick sprint down the back garden, hugging the side hedge, out of view, to where the burn passed along just behind the fence, and over it went. It hit the water with a sharp smack and floated away, spinning, as bright and white as the moon, until it was gone.

  Monday, 11 November

  At five a.m., with gritty eyes and a bitter taste in her mouth, Keiko blundered to the kitchen for a glass of water, gulping it straight down, tepid. She breathed in the warm, foul drain smell, then bent over the sink to let the water wash back up again, holding on to the taps, resting her forehead against the porcelain. Then she laid a cool pad of kitchen paper on the back of her neck while she rinsed the sink out and poured herself another glass to take back to bed and sip carefully, working up to swallowing two painkillers and two vitamins before lying down again.

  The second time she opened her eyes, in the light of near dawn, a hot, sour feeling was pricking her high up in the stomach and her limbs were leaden. Perhaps if she just stayed there, lying still and cosy for a couple more hours? But she was not cosy, she was somehow hot and cold at the same time, her feet icy but her hair damp, so she threw back the bedclothes and fanned her nightie.

  How much of that had happened? The line between the end of the day and the start of the short night was blurry. She wasn’t sure if she had really asked Craig about his cousin, whether Nicole had got fat before she vanished, like Tash, or wasted away, like Dina. She couldn’t remember his answer anyway; perhaps she’d been dreaming. The rabbit carcasses and the snarling dog face in the kitchen were dreams for sure. She hadn’t rolled and rolled naked on the living room floor with Malcolm, mashed against the hairy flab of his chest, while Fancy and Craig watched and laughed and Mrs. Poole jabbed her with her mop. But had she really thrown herself at Murray, and what had she said to make him slam out again? She swung her legs to the floor and stood, trailed into the living room, and lifted the phone.

  “Fancy?” she croaked. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Jeezy-peeps,” Fancy cackled. “Maybe compared to you. Bloody Craig McKendrick and his bloody Pink Squirrels.”

  “I’ve been sick,” said Keiko shuddering again at having to say the word. “And I’ve had the strangest … I really need to talk.”

  “Get round here right now,” said Fancy, “and I’ll cure you.”

  Keiko stood beside the bath and looked into it for a while, then tottered back to her bedroom and pulled jeans on over her nightie, tucking the bulk of it down into the waistband. She put underwear and socks into a bag and tossed her contact lenses and hairbrush in on top. Then she tied her hair back, shoved her feet into shoes, grabbed her coat, and let herself out.

  Viola was eating breakfast in the upstairs kitchen, prim in her school uniform with her hair battened under grips and bands, ignoring Fancy slumped beside her in a dressing gown. Keiko sat carefully and, after one glance, looked away from Viola’s spoon dipping in and out of her bowl, racing against the spreading slick of chocolate melting into the milk. But when she got to scraping the spoon along the bottom, slurping over the last dribbles, Keiko couldn’t help a small moan escaping. Viola laid her spoon down very gently.

  “I’ve got to go now,” she said. “Me and Katie are walking backwards this morning.”

  “Oh yes,” said Keiko, not really listening. Downstairs the doorbell gave a long peal, another even longer, then after a pause and a scuffling sound, a third short chirp.

  “That’s Katie’s wee sister,” said Viola. “She can’t really reach it yet. Yeah, we’re walking backwards this morning cos we fell out on the way home on Friday. So, you know, we’re rewinding.”

  “What?” said Keiko.

  “You should try it,” Viola said. “You and Mum. Rewind and it never happened. That’s what we do.”

  “If only,” said Fancy. “Brush your teeth,” she called in a half-hearted voice as Viola bounded out of the door.

  “Look who’s talking,” Viola said, coming back and standing in the doorway with her hands on her skinny hips. “Your breath stinks like cheese this morning, Mum. That’s why I’m not kissing you. I’ll give you two kisses tonight.” She threw a final pitying look at Keiko and left.

  Keiko put her head down on the table with a groan.

  “I can’t stand having a hangover when Vi’s here,” said Fancy. Keiko giggled. “Right,” said Fancy, louder and firmer, “what are we looking at? One puke, but you’re up and walking and you’re dressed—”

  “Not really,” said Keiko sitting up and leaning back in her chair, “I’ve still got my nightie on underneath.”

  “Well, near as damn it. So … I think hot shower, port and brandy, and some breakfast. Trust me.” She glanced over her shoulder to check the position of the fridge and took a couple of backwards steps towards it, then stopped and put her hand out to steady herself. “Not good,” she said, swallowing hard. “Don’t try it.”

  Under the hot water, Keiko felt streaming off her not only the sweaty horrors of last night, but six weeks’ film of bathtub; it lifted and washed away, globules of suet rising to her skin and thudding out of her pores. She squeezed another dollop of Fancy’s gel onto the scratchier side of a washing mitt and scoured herself without mercy.

  Back in the kitchen, Fancy handed her a glass. Keiko swirled the resinous mixture around, breathing through her mouth so that she couldn’t smell it. She couldn’t remember ever tasting port or brandy before.

  “Honest,” said Fancy. “Down in one, trust me.” Keiko glanced at the sink; it was piled with dishes, so if this didn’t work she would need to make the bathroom. She pulled her chair back from the table in readiness, swigged, gasped, then swallowed hard with her hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Fancy and, as the fumes cleared and the good taste of toothpaste flooded back, Keiko felt a kind of calm settle over her insides like a thick blanket, like an x-ray blanket, and she breathed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Everyone says to trust them, trust them, and I’m beginning to think it’s not always such a good idea, but this time—thank you.”

  “Who’s everyone?” said Fancy, putting a plate down on the table. It was, Keiko saw to her relief, just a sandwich. She began to fold back one corner of the top slice to peek inside but, since Fancy was watching her, she made herself lift the whole thing towards her mouth.

  “That’ll finish you off,” Fancy said, “Careful though, the sausages are red hot and the egg’s runny.” She prodded a sausage out of a frying pan onto a fork, nipping the end with one precise bite, so that it flapped back on a hinge of skin and steamed. Keiko shut her eyes and bit.

  “So who’s everyone?” Fancy asked again a few minutes later. “Who says you should trust them? Apart from me and I’m right, because I’ve just cured you, haven’t I?”

  Keiko nodded. “The Pooles,” she said, “Well, Murray. I don’t know. I had nightmares and I’m confused.” Fancy waited. Keiko thought back over the previous day and then shook her head. “Murray came round late yesterday and he was upset, but I have no idea why.”

  “Look,” said Fancy. “Last night was stupid. I’m sure Murray was upset.”

  “Last night?” said Keiko. “It was lunch. What happened at night-time?”

  “Nothing,” said Fancy. “Nothing at all. Nothing of any importance anyway.”

  “But why would Murray suddenly be angry with me? He was friendlier than ever—more than friendly—when he arrived.”

  “Good for you,” said Fancy. “I’m glad to hear it. So … he was probably jealous. Don’t knock it, Keeks. It beats the other thing.”

  “Jealous of Malcolm?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he was jealous of Craig.”

  “But Craig was there for—”

  Fancy quelled her with a stare. “God knows what Craig was there for,” she said. “God knows what Murray was doing not b
eing there. God knows what poor Malcolm thought he was doing. It was just an awkward situation and we all drank too much and nobody’ll mention it again and no harm done. We won’t see Craig again till the Christmas holidays now anyway,” she said. “With any luck.”

  “I should forget about everything and concentrate on work,” said Keiko.

  “Get lost. I’m the one who should forget, since there’s nothing to remember,” said Fancy. “What you should do is get Murray out on a proper date—not in Painchton, with no home-cooking and absolutely no pink cocktails.”

  “He said he wanted to get away,” said Keiko, this memory suddenly lurching forward in her.

  “There you go then.”

  “No, he said he wanted to get away and he wanted me to get away and this was a bad place for both of us.”

  “Are you sure?” said Fancy.

  “Not really,” said Keiko. “That might have been in one of the nightmares. Did I ask Craig about his cousin’s weight? Or is that another one?”

  “Definitely a dream,” said Fancy. “How did you even know Craig had a cousin?”

  “She’s one of the missing girls,” Keiko said without thinking. It was only the silence that followed which made her, too late, wonder whether it was wise.

  “What?” said Fancy finally. “What are you talking about?” She had finished the sausages in the pan and now she wiped her lips with a square of kitchen paper.

  “It probably doesn’t seem that way to you,” said Keiko. “But I heard about them all one after the other. Dina from next door and Nicole from across the road and Tash from round the corner.”

  “What are you on about?” said Fancy. She held the sausage pan under the tap and let it fill with water. “What’s leaving got to do with being fat or skinny? Are you sure you’re not still drunk?”

  “You gave me port and brandy,” said Keiko, “so it’s not my fault if I am.” She wiped her mouth. “I think I must have talked to Murray about the missing girls. I know I said something … and that would explain why he talked about getting away.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying ‘missing girls’ like that,” Fancy said. “People move around. Look at you—you’re thousands of miles from home.”

  “But Murray doesn’t want to go somewhere,” Keiko said. “He just wants to leave here.”

  Fancy was scrubbing at the sausage pan so hard that her whole body shook. Keiko waited, and eventually she banged the pan down and turned round again.

  “What?” she said. “What do you want me to say?” Her voice was clear and much louder than it need to be, but she did not meet Keiko’s eyes. Then she sighed. “Look,” she said, more calmly, “there’s any number of reasons Murray might want to leave, you know.” Keiko waited. “His dad died.”

  “But parents die,” Keiko said. “I know I sound harsh, but it’s not like a child dying. It’s sad but not a tragedy.”

  “And his mum made him give up doing what he loves and work in a bloody butcher’s shop that he hates. Why would he not want to get away? Why would he not want to take you with him? Be flattered—I would be.”

  So Keiko went home, her brisk return matching Painchton’s Monday-morning tempo, shop doors propped wide to let the floors dry, open vans parked with their lights flashing. Only the petrol station sat as bare and dusty as Sunday night, with its window stickers faded out to three shades of beige, and the stout padlock on Murray’s workshop door the one flash of brightness about the place.

  Keiko remembered Malcolm’s story and wondered if Mr. Byers was in there now and could see her crossing the Green. She could have sworn that someone somewhere was watching her. She looked up the street and down it, into the shops, up at the flats above, and inside her a little weight settled back into its place. She shouldn’t have let Fancy shout her down. The very fact that Fancy was so upset meant something.

  Upstairs as she stood at the kitchen window waiting for the kettle to boil, she almost caught it. It was there somewhere, not spoken, not seen, not even as solid as a scent, not so much as a memory; something as faint as the turn of a season and just as real. She saw movement in the yard—Mrs. Poole and her buckets, no doubt—and stepped back out of view.

  Work, she told herself, going to her desk and sitting. Good mindless busy work, starting by clearing her desk.

  It made her smile to see Mrs. Watson’s questionnaire there on the top of the pile, her name printed out in full—Mabel Nadine Taylor Watson—below the sentence ensuring anonymity. Then her smile wavered as she remembered again Mrs. Watson’s stricken face when she saw the letter in Keiko’s hand that first day. She shook the thought away.

  The next paper down was Mr. McKendrick’s, without his name but signed just as clearly by the strokes of that fine blue fountain-pen ink. She fanned through the rest of them, down to Mrs. Campbell’s sheet, the last one. She glanced at the sample sentence There’s no smoke without fire. Mrs. Campbell had made her mark right up at one end, a definite yes, a thick confident line made of three strokes on top of each other. She touched the paper, feeling the dents where the pen had been pressed into the page, and remembered Mrs. Campbell’s sudden chill as soon as she mentioned Murray, remembered Malcolm’s explanation for it. Did that make any sense, really? And why should Malcolm remember it in so much detail? And now that she thought about it, had Keiko even said Mr. Byers’s name?

  She walked through to the hallway and stopped where she had stood to tie her shoes, trying to bring the words to mind. She had said to Mrs. Campbell not to worry, that Murray had machines in his … workhouse, workshop, backshop, outshop? The English slid around inside her head, slick enough to be out of her conscious control, but still strange enough that she could never be sure exactly which word she had spoken. Surely, though, she had only said that Murray had a gym in his workshop. Would that be enough? Would even hearing someone mention the place where Byers worked flood Mrs. Campbell with shame?

  twenty-two

  Whatever memories might still prick at Janette Campbell, surely no thoughts of her troubled William Byers. Did he have an inner life at all?

  Young Yvonne at Janette’s salon liked to use the question as a mental workout. “Imagine him cooking!” she’d say. “Where do you think he does his shopping? Who cuts his hair? I wonder what he dreams about. Somebody had a little baby once and it was him!”

  That’s what Mr. McKendrick was thinking as he strode towards the Green on Monday afternoon. He’s somebody’s son. He may not be anyone’s husband or father or friend, but he must have been somebody’s son once and there must be some way to get through to him. Mr. McKendrick’s step faltered for a second, as a different thought struck him: in the eyes of the world he himself, James McKendrick, was just the same—nobody’s husband or father, just like Byers. But he didn’t even to have to shrug to cast the notion away. He was entirely different, a man whose life had been spent growing into itself, whose stature was a comfort as well as an example to everyone around him, whose place in the world was secure. His wealth was solid and considerable and plain to see, his clothes were ever more correct and expensive, his every car was bigger and came quicker than the one before. Mr. Byers, though, Mr. Byers was a man of the same age who, if he hadn’t been a mechanic, would not have had the wherewithal to keep even his ancient Volvo going. He wore tee-shirts and baseball caps, and Mr. McKendrick hated to see a baseball cap on grey hair. He wore the kind of canvas shoes you used to see hanging in bunches from shop doorways—an acceptance of failure, shoes like that, an admission for all to see that his life had unravelled like re-used string. So there was no doubt that Mr. McKendrick would get his way, but he would proceed with tact. He would be kind.

  And he would keep in touch with Byers once the man was gone. He saw himself at a Traders’ meeting in the future, announcing Byers’s death in a sombre voice, talking about their “friend and colleague,” pretending not to see the surprise on the faces aro
und him, watching everyone being impressed with the kind of man he was, the span of his influence, the depth of his dignity.

  Unless Byers outlived him. The easy leap of Jimmy McKendrick’s imagination was not always a friend to him, and unbidden thoughts like that one came more and more frequently now. What have you started, Duncan Poole? he thought. Weren’t we all going to live forever? Well, God rest you, you bugger (which was as close as he would ever get to a prayer), you’ve opened the door and let the draft in now.

  Mr. McKendrick shook his head like a dog shedding water and, sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, he turned and walked across the Green.

  “Willie!” he exclaimed as he neared the filling station and Mr. Byers wandered into view.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Byers said. Mr. McKendrick let out a sigh. They both knew (and knew they knew) that there was only one possible motive for the visit, but to have his friendly overture sneered at this way, to have the decision of how to broach the subject wrested out of his grip so neatly before he had even started … Mr. McKendrick’s moment of fellow-feeling, his generosity in acknowledging even to himself the echoes of Willie’s life in his own, were snuffed out and left nothing behind them but annoyance and the desire to deal with the matter swiftly and get away from the source of the annoyance as soon as he could.

  “Willie, my solicitor wrote to you and you haven’t answered the letter,” he began.

  “And that’s my answer,” said Mr. Byers, pulling a bristling bunch of keys out of his overall pocket and picking over it. “If you don’t understand, I’m sure ‘your solicitor’ could explain it.” He found the key he was looking for and fitted it into the boot-lock of his car. Mr. McKendrick concentrated on breathing slowly but didn’t trouble to keep the sneer from forming on his face. He was not about to let a man of sixty-odd who drove a car without power locking stand here in the middle of his town … (He half-shied away from this thought, lifting one hand as if to scratch his nose; then he steeled himself and leaned his hand on the car roof instead.) … stand here in his town, his town, and make a fool of him. Mr. Byers finally got the boot open and lifted out a couple of petrol cans, which he set down at the side of the car.