I have to see for myself.
Climbing in the car I drive too fast, down the Sleat road, to Kylerdale School, on its green promontory, by the wind-tousled waves. The cold metallic sun has emerged: making Knoydart shine gold and bronze. Above a steely sea.
It’s the end of lunchtime. All the kids will be in the playground, having eaten. I want to watch Lydia again: to see if things have improved. I want to discover if she is interacting, or if she is being teased and mocked.
But I don’t want to be seen, myself: so I creep up the side of the playground, on a little-used path, which wanders down to the shingly beach just beyond. I am sheltered, by winter’s thorny shrubbery, from the screaming happy kids beyond the chainwire.
Girls are hopscotching. Boys are ragtagging. I scan all the little pink faces, the white socks and blue trousers, looking for the blonde hair of my daughter. I cannot see her. All the kids are, apparently, out here playing. But Lydia?
Might she be inside? Reading on her own? I hope not. She must be out here. Please let her be out here, playing with someone else.
There she is.
I close my eyes and calm myself. Then gaze, properly.
Lydia is standing in the far corner of the playground. Entirely alone. The nearest child, a small boy, is ten yards away: with his back to her. But even though she is conspicuously alone, Lydia is doing something. What?
I go closer, still concealed by trees and bushes.
I am just a few feet distant, now. I see that Lydia is facing away from the school, from her classmates, isolated from the world.
She is quite alone – yet she is talking. Animatedly. I can see her lips move, and her arms wave. She is talking to the air, to the trees and the chainwire, she is actually smiling and laughing.
Now I can hear her.
‘Nnneeooo nononon yes free up thrre up fff … Wakey wakey no yes paka. Sufffy sufffffy nnnn. Mmmmm. Nana nana nana.’
As she says this Lydia waves her arms, then she stops, and listens, as if someone is talking right back at her. But no one is talking back at her. Then she nods and laughs and babbles some more.
It’s the nonsensical twin language she shared with Kirstie. The twins kept it going right to the end. We never worked out what it meant.
Lydia is talking to her dead sister.
15
‘An t-Eilean Sgithenac – the winged isle – Skye.’ Josh spun the wheel as they rocked south. ‘That’s about the only Gaelic I learned.’
Angus said nothing. The morning was bright and fiercely cold. Perhaps the first morning of proper winter.
‘Molly’s learned quite a bit more, she’s into all that Celtic stuff. But it’s all so bloody gloomy. I mean – you know that little cove near Ardvasar, Port na Faganaich, it’s really cute, right?’ Josh chortled, and went on: ‘Then you find out what that means, Port na Faganaich? It means the Port of the Forsaken Ones, really. Port of the Forsaken Ones. Charming.’
Josh accelerated up a hill, momentarily leaving the sea behind, though you never left the sea behind for long, not on Skye. His friend buzzed open a window, and inhaled the icy fresh air.
‘Winter, at last, love it. Proper cold, so where was I – yeah – and there’s some lake here, Lagan, something. Lagan—’
‘Lagan inis na Cnaimh.’
‘That’s the one. I keep forgetting you’re a local. Yes. Lagan inis. And that means – Molly told me last night – the hollow of the meadow of bones. For fuck’s sake. Why? What’s that doing for real estate values? Do you want to buy a nice bungalow in the hollow of the meadow of bones? No? OK, then we’re building a condo, yeah, by the Ridge of the Night-hags.’
Josh chuckled at his own jokes. Angus stayed quiet. He already knew the quaint and macabre local folklore. He could remember it word for word: all the stories his grandmother used to tell him. They were sacred in his memory. Happy holidays and scary fables. Bonfires on Torran with his brother. His dad not there. Everyone happy. Listening to the old tales. The bonny road which winds around the fernie brae – ach, that’s the road to death and heaven, the auld place of the fairies …
Angus gazed from the window of Josh’s car, Torran was hidden now, behind headlands. He thought of Lydia – Lydia – and Sarah, alone, together, in the cottage. Sarah and … Lydia. He had to accept she was Lydia. It was for the best. It was his doing. His daughter with her damaged soul, and her scarred hands and wrists. She was harmed: by life, by death, by Angus.
And by her mother.
Now the car rattled over a cattle grid; they were crossing the top of the Sleat peninsula, east to west. Taking the road to Tokavaig. This narrow road cut through an expanse of brown and rolling moorland, studded with little silvery lochans, shivered by kittiwakes. It was not beautiful. But soon they would see Loch Eisort.
‘It’s just down here. Through the wood. And it’s all broadleaf: oaks, hazel, wych-elms.’
Angus grunted a reply. ‘My granny loved it here. Said it was a sacred grove, called Doir’an Druidean, the Grove of Quarrelling.’
‘Yeah? That true? The Grove of Quarrelling! Again! This stuff is priceless. No really, mate, you’ve got to tell Molly all this.’
Why was Josh being so upbeat? Angus guessed that his friend was trying to keep things happy, following the morbid events at the supper party. Josh and Molly had barely mentioned the incident since.
Yet they had to talk about it. Soon.
The car ducked between some gnarled old trees, and a summit of basalt rocks, then they began the hard descent, to the western shores of Sleat, and the tiny hamlet of Ord.
The view was just as Angus remembered, and quite spectacular: behind them the wide, green, heathery slopes were wooded with oaks and alders, these milder inclines faced onto the blue-grey calm of Loch Eisort, which reflected, in turn, the sobering grandeur of the Black and Red Cuillins, across the waters.
Soay was visible to the south. And Sgurr Alasdair sang on the western skyline, with its sister peaks. Their lofty snowcaps gazed into the darling wastes of water.
It was so beautiful, Angus felt a brief urge to cry. For Lydia, for Kirstie, even for Sarah; for all of them.
The two men got out of the car and walked down to the chilly loch shore. A seabird called from a distant island. A heron winged its slow and lonely way, down towards Loch a’ Ghlinne.
Josh said, straight out: ‘Are you all right, mate?’
‘Yes. Yes I’m fine.’
‘Just that you’re a bit quiet? Is it – are you – are you still – y’know – if you want to talk about things?’
Angus shrugged, helplessly. In truth, this minute, he wanted to tell his friend everything. He needed to unburden to someone, to explain and share the nightmare unfolding on Torran. His wife, his daughters, and the past that could never be properly examined.
The heron was a speck in the blue, and then nothing. Angus resolved: he was going to tell Josh, in a minute.
Angus shook his head and picked up a flat round stone and skimmed it on the water. One, two, three, plop. Then he turned to Josh and said, ‘So, why have you brought me here?’
Josh grinned. ‘Because we need you to build.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Could you build something here?’
Angus gazed. ‘Me? Build? Don’t get it, Josh. This is all owned by the Macdonald estate. All of Tokavaig and Ord. No?’
Josh smiled. ‘Molly and me bought a patch of land, just up there, a few years ago. See, past the barbed wire – the field, with the blackthorns in the hedge.’
Angus nodded. Josh explained. ‘It’s about half an acre, maybe a bit more.’
‘Half an acre of nettles and hazels? Nice for redstarts, but it’s just a field.’
‘We got planning permission. Last week.’
Angus gaped. ‘You did?’
‘We did. Yes, we really did. In fact we got permission for a five-bedroom cottage – and we’d love you to design it, mate. The council want us to build a nice place. You know, somethi
ng serious: award-winning. Making the most of the view.’
Angus looked at the field, sloping down to the shell sands of the loch shore. At once, his thoughts teemed. He could already see it: first you’d level half the field away. Then you’d use the simplest and purest materials: stone, wood, steel, slate. Then fill the whole place with gorgeous light: floor-to-ceiling windows, a glazed enfilade, make the entire thing half glass, so the place just melted into the air and sea and sky. At night it would shine.
‘Gus?’
‘It could be incredible.’
‘Hah.’ Josh grinned. ‘So you’re up for it? Good man! We want to rent it out, maybe to artists in the winter, and holidaymakers in the summer.’
‘You have the cash?’
‘Everything, mate, everything. Molly’s inherited a hefty sum from her granny. Good job I married well!’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s go back to my place, I can show you the papers.’
Angus walked to the car, slightly dazed. He wondered if this was Josh and Molly’s way of helping him and Sarah through their anguish. If so, he was fine with that. Completely fine. He was pathetically grateful. A chance to build something good, a real design!
Josh drove them to the Freedlands’ big airy house, with the enormous steel kitchen, and the pots of blueberries cooking on the stove, and Molly making him taste her latest jam. And the big window in the living room.
Angus tried not to think about that night. He tried not to look at that vast window, now repaired, as Josh commandeered the dining-room table, and showed him the paperwork. The Planning Permission. The capital investment required. The dream that could come true. The Freedland House in Tokavaig, winner of the Architecture Scotland Award, by Angus Moorcroft.
In Angus’s mind, it was already a house, not a cottage: because it was going to be big. Maybe he could mix some larch cladding with Caithness stone; of course he would incorporate solar panels; maybe he could make the entire north face a door of sliding glass: so the house would literally open onto the Loch …
For a while, Angus was happily distracted, drunk on Rooibos tea and daydreams. Perhaps this was the turning point? Perhaps things could change now? As the afternoon faded to wintry dark, Angus decided. The moment had arrived. He was going to tell Josh.
At least half of the truth.
The papers were filed away. Angus put on his coat, and looked at Josh. Meaningfully. ‘I’m going to have a quick one at the Selkie. Fancy keeping me company? We can talk some more.’
The sweet smell of stewing blueberries filled the house. Josh gave Angus that look which said I understand. They both said goodbye to Molly and walked downhill, through the sharp winter twilight, to the pub. Angus inhaled the cold Ornsay air as they walked; the frostiness malted with coastal scents – of lobster pots, and chopped wood, and sweetly rotting kelp.
‘Let’s sit outside,’ said Angus. ‘More private.’
Josh squinted at him, and agreed; Angus went inside the bar, bought two drinks, made his way outside again. Then he set the glasses on the wooden table, and gazed out towards Torran lighthouse, its beam now visible, in the tranquil chilliness of dusk.
Angus sipped his whisky. Trying to locate the courage. Josh broke the brief silence: ‘So, mate, how is Lydia, now? She doing better?’
Angus shrugged, and sipped more fiery whisky. Savouring its smoky alcohol. Then he answered. ‘Kinda. Sometimes. But … she’s still acting up, too.’
‘How?’
‘Talking to her dead sister, acting like Kirstie was – or rather is – there with her.’
Josh stared. ‘She does that a lot?’
‘Yes. A lot. She does it at school. At home. In the car. Sometimes it’s just normal talk, but often it’s in their twin language – so it’s eerie. Sometimes she moves and mimes, as if her twin is there, physically interacting. That is pretty strange to watch.’
‘OK. OK. Jesus.’
‘That’s what freaked her out at your house, I reckon. She thought she saw the ghost of her sister in the window. Reflected.’
Josh nodded. ‘Well, yeah, it would freak you, wouldn’t it? Christ. I’m sorry.’ Josh hesitated, sipped a little more juice, then leaned forward, a fraction.
‘So. Does she really believe all this, Gus? Does your daughter, I mean, you know – does she—’
‘Is she mad or is there really a ghost? Or is she just pretending?’
‘Um.’
‘Clearly there isn’t a ghost.’ Angus stared at Josh, without blinking. ‘But nor is she mad.’
Josh frowned. ‘So she’s pretending? Is that it? Why on earth? Look, you don’t have to tell me, of course, but …’
Angus said nothing, feeling the bitterness inside him. And the urge to confess. He was tired of lying. Tired of deceiving people close to him. But did he have the courage to be honest? He couldn’t and wouldn’t tell everything – ever. But he would unburden himself of something.
After one more drink.
Angus lifted his empty glass.
Josh nodded: ‘Another?’
‘Ardbeg. Double. But let me pay. You don’t have to cough for my functional alcoholism, Josh.’ He reached in the front pocket of his jeans for a note.
Josh managed a smile. ‘Just this once I will subsidize your addiction.’
Collecting Angus’s glass, Josh disappeared inside the bar. The faint noise of folk music filtered out, as the door swung open and closed. Through the glass door, the saloon of the Selkie looked happy and bustling. All the locals were in there: drinking their whiskies and McEwan’s, enjoying a weekend of relaxation, talking about the football and the horses, and the weird new family on Torran.
Angus slumped forward, his arms crossed on the table, his forehead resting on his arms. Staring into deep, deep darkness. He was defeated by events.
The bar door opened.
‘Hey,’ Josh said, ferrying the drinks to the table. ‘Gus. Come on. It’s not that bad.’
Angus looked up.
‘Yes it is.’
Josh sighed, and sat down opposite, in the shrouding dark. With the drinks set on the table, he was unwrapping a packet of cigarettes.
Angus raised an eyebrow: Josh Freedland, smoking?
Josh shrugged. ‘Secret vice. Don’t tell Molly! Yes I have the odd cigarette at weekends. You want one?’
‘No thanks.’
More silence. Just the laboured breathing of the sea, and the wind in the birches.
Angus stared to his left: at Torran and the humble lighthouse, and the squat whiteness of the cottage. He could barely make out the lights of their little kitchen, through the gloom and mist. What might be happening in Torran cottage, right now?
Angus closed his eyes. He was going to do this. He opened his eyes.
‘Josh, you asked about Lydia.’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to know the truth?’
‘Yes. But only if you want to tell me.’
‘I do. I think. Yes I do. You used to tell me that it was good to share, confess, that it helps, right? That’s what got you off drugs? What they taught you at NA meetings?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK, but what I’m about to tell you is a total secret, you must never tell anyone, ever. And I mean that. No one EVER.’
Josh nodded. Sombre in the gloaming. ‘Understood.’
‘All right. Good.’ Angus took a deep breath, and rubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling his own stubble. The cold air seemed heavy. A dew falling on the Sound. Angus spoke, his words misting in the brisk night air: ‘First you need some backstory.’
‘OK.’
‘You have to remember that Sarah always preferred Lydia. Lydia was quite emphatically her favourite.’
‘All parents have favourites,’ Josh said. ‘Or so I’m told.’
‘Yes, but this was exceptional. She really favoured Lydia, the quiet one, the soulful one, the one like her, the one who liked reading. She favoured her so much it became distressing to Kirstie. I tried to balance it out
by being much nicer with Kirstie, but it didn’t work. Father’s love isn’t as important or impressive. Can’t match a mother’s, not when they’re young, anyway.’
A pause. Angus couldn’t properly see his friend’s expression in the evening light. And that was fine. It made his confession more anonymous: like an actual religious confession, in a church, to a priest, the faces concealed. Angus continued,
‘A couple of days before the accident, Kirstie actually told me she hated her mummy, ’cause of all this, and I got very sharp with her. In fact I almost slapped her. I’ve never slapped my kids before. Ever. But I was drunk, and I lost my temper.’ He shook his head, and went on, ‘And Kirstie was seriously upset. As you’d expect. First her mum favours her twin sister, then Daddy shouts?’
Again, Josh was silent. But the tip of his cigarette glowed, as Angus went on,
‘And then the accident happened. You know. The balcony. After that, Sarah fell apart, and we all fell apart, and it got worse, and worse … And then, six months ago …’ he paused, taking a deep sip of whisky, for courage. ‘Six months ago my surviving daughter came to me and said to me: “Daddy, I did it. I did it. I killed my sister. I pushed her. ’Cause Mummy always liked her more, and now she’s gone.”’
Josh said, very quietly: ‘My God.’
‘Quite.’
‘Jesus …’ Josh extinguished the cigarette under his boot heel. The silence was painful. Then at last, he spoke again: ‘But – Gus – could she – did she kill her? Can you believe her? Did you believe her?’
Angus sighed,
‘Yes. Maybe. But she was just six when it happened, seven when she said this. Did she even know what she was saying? Do they ever really know what they are saying at this age? Trouble was: her new explanation made sense, Josh. She had a motive, her mum’s absurd preference for Lydia. And it fitted with the evidence. I mean: why were Lydia’s injuries so bad? From a twenty-foot fall? Kids normally survive falls like that, of that distance. So – why?’
The Ice Twins Page 16