In Servitude: a psychological suspense novel full of twists

by Heleen Kist

  Chapter Seven

  Traffic was light on the M9 up to Stirling and disappeared on the stretch of the A9 that ushered me home to Perth. Or ‘the Fair City of Perth’, as the locals called it. It didn’t carry the official stratus of city but its residents held an unshakable confidence in the superiority of their town because it had once been declared a ‘royal burgh’ by King William the Lion. So just ‘Perth’ would never do.

  Being alone for the hour-long journey did me good. I knew the route so well that it required no mental effort but I still had to concentrate to remain safe, meaning that thoughts couldn’t wander too far. I was ripped from this meditative cocoon, however, as soon as I turned into Viewlands Road and my old high school came into view. Memories fluttered as I drove past the imposing concrete structure, now surrounded by professional-looking playing grounds I would have killed for in my day.

  Back then, when the kids gathered for Games on what was not much more than a flattened surface with faint white lines, I had outrun them all. The PE teacher identified my potential early on. I could be a great athlete. She had tried to convince my mother to let me join a range of clubs in the area. But the religious Mary McBride wouldn’t hear of it. Her daughter running around in skimpy clothes? No, sweat belonged on horses, not on women.

  The Catholic ethos was a constant guide to my parents, yet they had chosen this non-denominational school for us. Perth being primarily a Church of Scotland area, they wanted us to fit in better than they had. But being called Grace and Glory had put a target on our backs.

  Do you remember how they teased us at first? ‘Look, the Hallelujah girls!’ and ‘Why aren’t you wearing your halo?’ But we showed them, didn’t we? You were so popular in the end, and they learnt not to mess with us.

  I cruised into Buchan Grove, a small cul-de-sac a few streets away. My father’s blue Vauxhall estate rested under the carport that gave access to the garage, the garden and the rear door. Dad took exceptional care of his cars and liked to change them every two years—a luxury he curtailed after selling the shop to fund their retirement. Only every three years, now.

  They kept the little bell that hung above the door to announce the arrival of a new customer and its spirited chime welcomed me as I entered the kitchen. Dad appeared at once, conditioned over many years to drop everything on being summoned by that sound.

  ‘Hello darling.’

  Exhaustion had ravaged his face, his complexion dull grey and wrinkles etched into his features like notches on a belt, each representing a heroic but mundane effort in caring for his ailing wife. And now this.

  ‘Hi Dad.’ I rushed to him and sunk into his giant frame, bathing in the comforting familiarity of his hug and the faint cigarette smell that always pervaded him. I smiled. Dad had pretended for years he didn’t smoke. And we’d pretended to believe him.

  I was home.

  ‘It’s awful Dad. I can’t believe she’s gone. How are you?’

  ‘No parent should lose a child.’ He turned away. Not going there. Again.

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s in the living room. I’m not sure she has processed it altogether yet. Let’s talk in here for now.’

  Just as we settled at the kitchen table, a shout came through: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Grace, dear.’ He let out a sigh of regret for his foiled plan. ‘Come,’ he said, getting up again.

  The inner door led to the narrow, carpeted hallway lined with a mixture of family portraits and kitsch floral prints. Left was the open-plan lounge and dining area in varying shades of burgundy. Mum was sitting in her armchair facing out, scrutinising the immaculate garden beyond the glazed double door. She craned her neck and moved side to side as if searching for something.

  ‘Hello Mum.’ I reached over the padded armrest to hug her.

  She stroked my shoulder for a while and patted my arm twice to signal the greeting was over, while she zeroed in on the pigeon she had discovered trespassing among her plants. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  Dad hovered in the doorway. Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure, thanks Dad. But I’m also happy to make it.’

  ‘No, no, you stay here.’

  Perhaps he wanted out of this room as much as I did.

  Mum kept her eyes on the garden while I noticed more dust than usual on the fire surround. Dad came back, carrying a tray with tea cups and the biscuit tin reserved for real guests. I took it as code that there would be no open sharing of emotion, only dignified lamentation.

  Don’t judge them for it, Gi. They’re just being who they are.

  He sat down. ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘So ...’ I waited, praying he’d say something that would give me permission to break through the platitudes and bemused murmurs, and let my grief pour out.

  ‘God took her too soon, darling. And we’ll never know why.’ He sniffed and sat upright. ‘Now we need to make sure Adam and Noah survive this. How are they? Are you helping? We would, of course, but we’re tied to the house.’

  ‘That’s okay, Dad. Mum, it’s fine. I went to the house straight away. I was there when the police came to help us tell the boys. They were very good at explaining what might have happened, and what would happen next.’

  My mother stirred. ‘Typical of Glory to get herself killed. She was always an irresponsible child. And now she’s abandoned her children, too.’ A cold chill raced through my veins as I took in the most heartless thing I’d ever heard come out of my mother’s mouth.

  ‘Mum! That’s a horrible thing to say. It was an accident. You know that.’

  She gave a barely perceptible shrug and kept her gaze on the pest outside. I turned to my father in horror, looking for support or an explanation—anything. His desolate expression and gentle shaking of the head suggested such an outburst was nothing new. My confusion grew as he changed the subject, casually whitewashing the last few minutes. ‘Now, did you find those bank statements?’

  ‘No, no yet. God, Dad. Will you please tell me what that’s about?’

  ‘Do you remember Alastair Evans?’

  ‘Your old accountant? Sure.’

  ‘Well, he came with a clever tax structure for Glory, one that worked for people who owned their own business. Your mother and I had to buy shares in the café for a token pound. And then we had to gift those shares to trusts set in the boys’ names. It was all very complicated. Glory would then be able to transfer the profits of the café into these trusts tax free. Now, the money could only be used for the benefit of the boys. School fees, that sort of thing. But the sense we got is that nobody ever checked.’

  ‘But why can’t Stephen know? This just sounds like a tax thing.’

  ‘I think she was leaving him.’

  My eyes jerked open and I squeezed them shut a few times, as if the correct retinal focus would help it all make sense. Thrown by my apparent shock, Dad tempered his statement.

  ‘Well, she never said so. Not in those words. And we didn’t want to pry. We reckoned that if she had something to tell us, she would do so when she was ready. But there was something about her behaviour. Jumpy. Terrified Stephen might find out. She even swore us to secrecy.’

  Those secrets, again. Secrets kept from Stephen but also from me. Why didn’t you tell me? The yearning for my sister—the sister I thought I had—rendered me adrift and I rested my head in my hands until the undulations abated and I could think clearly again.

  Glory had wanted to leave her husband.

  Of course.

  A new wave of energy filled me as a logical plot appeared to unfold.

  ‘I found over three thousand pounds in cash stuffed in a shoe box. That must have been her escape money,’ I said.

  The juvenile thrill at holding this piece of the puzzle was doused by Mum’s icy cold words. ‘She’ll be off with another man. The slut.’

  ‘Jesus Mum, what’s gotten into you?’

  ‘Always with the b
oys, that girl. Sex, sex, sex.’

  Too stunned to respond, I soon noticed she wasn’t even speaking to us. Her words were being cast into the void, her volume rising like a priest spewing threats of damnation to an invisible congregation of fornicators. ‘Harlot. Jezebel.’

  Dad got up, lifted me by the arm and swooped me into the kitchen.

  ‘What was that all about? What’s wrong with Mum?’ I pointed towards this unrecognisable, possessed being. ‘Is it grief? This can’t just be grief can it? I mean we’re all sad, but this ... Do you think it’s true? Was Glory cheating?’

  Two large hands pressed down against my shoulders, acting like a pause button. He bent through his knees to be at eye level with me and waited until I seemed ready to listen.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never found a good moment to tell you girls ... Darling, Mum has dementia. She’s had it for a while. Since the stroke. It comes and goes, but since I told her about Glory’s accident it’s gotten worse. Right now, I don’t think she even knows you’re here. You need to forgive her.’

  He stepped forward to comfort me, but I slapped his hands away, head shaking in disbelief. My legs were jelly and my arms scrambled for support as I sped towards the exit. I had to get out.

  Chapter Eight

  Alice’s door had only just come off the latch when I burst through, my childhood friend pushed aside by this sudden invasion. I stood in her hallway, tears drowning my face, not remembering why I had come, why I’d run the three streets from my parents’ to land on her doorstep. But then her hands touched my forearm and her familiar hazel-green eyes rested on me, projecting a myriad of questions but not a hint of impatience. Sanctuary. I’d fled here for peace and a listening ear, as I’d done so often in the past.

  ‘Grace? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s all too much. I’m sorry, Alice, I didn’t know where else to turn.’

  ‘It’s okay, come with me. It’s nice to see you. It’s been a while.’

  She took my hand and guided me to the kitchen. The sprawled-out cat was shooed from the rattan seat near the radiator as she settled me down. Almost instantly, the cat returned and leapt onto my lap.

  Although the decor was very different to when her parents owned it, the house maintained its comforting intimacy, its walls harbouring the secrets, laughter and mischief shared between teenage girls many years ago.

  ‘What’s all too much?’ she asked.

  It did not take long to describe Glory’s death and my mother’s increasing infirmity. And Alice wept freely, both with and for me. It took a second pot of tea for me to spill the rest: the money, Stephen being kept in the dark, Mum’s shocking insults.

  ‘Your mother was always a hard woman, but she loved you girls very much. You shouldn’t take it too personally. She’ll be in shock, and these kinds of patients can exhibit strong behavioural changes.’ She had shifted into professional mode, speaking in the warm but authoritative tone to which her therapy clients no doubt responded well.

  ‘Do you know the saying in vino veritas?’ I fidgeted with a damp tissue, shredding it beyond recognition.

  ‘Yes. In wine truth. Why?’

  ‘Well, could it be a case of in dementia veritas?’

  ‘Do you mean is it conceivable that Glory took a lover? That your mum sensed it? I couldn’t say. What do you think?’

  I smirked. That was the oldest trick in the psychologist’s playbook. To bounce the question back. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. I mean, you know what Glory was like.’

  And Alice did know. She’d seen that my sister, as the youngest, had enjoyed less anxious parents and had learnt to charm everyone into giving her what she wanted. And by age fourteen she wanted boys. While other girls donned flannel and jeans in true 1990s grunge style, Glory wore flowing dresses in colours that flattered her skin and hair. Boys fell over themselves to walk her home after school and she let them, even though she only lived two streets away and it meant abandoning two of our supposedly inseparable trio.

  ‘Still, she’s been married for years. She’s got adorable kids, a beautiful house and a café she loves. She seemed happy when I saw her only a few months ago.’ Alice sounded unsure but seemed determined not to sully her dead friend’s reputation by speculating.

  ‘But come on ... can’t you imagine her growing bored with Stephen? You know how much she liked bad boys. Surely Stephen is too dull? Remember how she forever asked us to cover for her while she hung out at the Inch with the guitar players and the bottle smashers?’

  ‘Yes, but I bet she learnt her lesson, don’t you?’

  Straight away, I understood the incident she was referring to. I’d gone to fetch Glory from the park and brought a clean pair of trousers because some bastard had torn off her skirt and forced her into the mud—all for smiling at another man. I had taken her to Alice’s to recover, and with Glory shaken and humiliated, we vowed never to speak of it again. I’d even washed her clothes and stacked them into her wardrobe again, so she wouldn’t have to face that. She’d recovered well, and my mistrust of men outlasted hers.

  ‘Okay. If she wasn’t leaving her husband for another man, what’s with the cash? The secrecy? What if Stephen beat her? I mean, I always thought he could be quite controlling.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Grace. Next you’ll tell me he found out about the other man and killed her. Look, I get it. You’re angry. You need it to make sense. To fall into place. But sometimes life doesn’t all make sense. You know that. Your mind has gone racing, and you need to stop, or you’ll blow things out of proportion. Even start resenting her.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Trust that she’ll have had her reasons. Maybe she was ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed of what? She should have told me. I could’ve helped her.’

  ‘Well maybe that’s it. Perhaps this time she didn’t want you to save her.’ That comment stung. She must have seen it in my expression because she came over for a hug. ‘I’m sorry. The truth is I can’t second guess why Glory was keeping secrets. All I am certain of is this: she’s gone now and we must let it lie. And remember her with love.’

  We remained huddled, letting the finality of her death sink in, our long hairs intermingled, moist cheek against moist cheek. Bored with the cramped darkness, the cat wriggled free and jumped away with an accusatory look that made us both laugh.

  ‘More tea and biscuits,’ Alice said and bounced up.

  ‘And I need a wee.’

  When I came back from the toilet, she poured another cup of tea and I opened the biscuits. ‘How are things with Dave?’ she asked.

  ‘Ugh. I was hoping to avoid that particular subject.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, it’s been really awkward lately. I think I love him. I really do. I certainly love being with him. But we can’t live together right now, and he won’t accept that.’

  ‘Why can’t you live together?’

  ‘My landlord doesn’t allow me to have anybody else living in the flat and even though Dave is there all the time, that’s not a permanent solution. So he wants me to live with him. But his apartment is a bit of a shit hole. And in the Gorbals, of all places.’

  Alice scrunched up her nose in sympathetic repulsion. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Right? I mean, I understand he’s from there and all. And to be honest, his is one of the nicer homes in the neighbourhood. But I just don’t want to live there. I don’t feel I belong. Until we can scrape the cash together to do it up and sell, we’re stuck in limbo.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I prefer to wait for us to be in a position that we can afford to move to a nice place together. But Dave says I’m stalling.’

  Without missing a beat, my ever-intuitive girlfriend pounced on what I didn’t want her to ask. ‘Are you?’

  I squirmed. ‘Surely it’s not stalling when what you’re suggesting makes the most sense? And who thinks it’s a good idea to start a life together in a place that’s too small? We’d just get on
each other’s nerves.’

  ‘Of course you’re going to get on each other’s nerves, but that’s going to happen wherever you live. I mean, we’ve always known you’re a control freak. Look what you’ve done to the biscuits.’ She chuckled and pointed at the plate.

  I stared at the Custard Creams forming a neat pyramid and shook my head. Nothing ever slipped her attention.

  Alice leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands. ‘What are you really afraid of? she continued. Why are you not letting this man in?’

  Why indeed? That is where I drew a blank. Dave was fun. We loved working out together. Had great sex. What’s more: he didn’t need me. And maybe that’s what unsettled me most.

  ‘I don’t know ... I don’t know how it will play out. I guess I’m worried that once I let go and re-plan my life to include him—you know, permanently—something will go wrong. What if I open myself to him and then for whatever reason he leaves? You know I couldn’t cope with that.’

  She leaned forward, frowning. ‘Sweetie, we all worry about that. That’s completely normal.’

  ‘Besides, what kind of freak puts up with someone who does this?’ I pointed to the carefully stacked biscuits and we both chuckled.

  ‘Who cares? Grab him while he does!’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I said. ‘But now I have to go. Stephen will need me.’

  Alice nodded and led me to the door. We hugged each other goodbye. ‘I’ll come visit soon,’ she said. ‘Let me know about the funeral. And if there’s anything I can do to help. But in the meantime, honey, take care of yourself. And remember: love isn’t only about giving, it’s also about being willing to receive. You deserve love, my friend. He’s a good man. Take the plunge.’

  Chapter Nine

  Was I stalling? Alice’s question haunted me the whole way home, the intermittent drizzle on the windshield mirroring my feeble indecisiveness. Thoughts of Dave, Glory, her secrets, mum, the dementia merged into a distressing, unfixable tangle, like wind-struck streamers on a kite that had flown far and fast out of reach.