The Ice Twins

by S. K. Tremayne

  The what? What is she saying?

  I gaze at her. Bewildered. And with tears ready to roll. My tears for Kirstie, and what he did to her.

  No. I have to look at the phone. Its happy friendly screen glows in the darkness of the badly lit cottage. It tells me that I have no signal. Of course. I press two buttons and I reach CONTACTS. G or F, G or F.

  Gordon Fraser. Here’s his number.

  Running with the phone in hand to the dining room, I grab the heavy old receiver and dial, with frenzied patience, 3, 9, 4, 6, and the phone rings at the other end – pick up, pick up, pick up – and eventually I hear a crackled voice, frail and yet gruff, transported through the storm.

  ‘Gordon Fraser.’

  ‘Gordon, it’s Sarah. Sarah Moorcroft from Torran.’

  A slow, frustrating pause.

  ‘Aye. Sarah. Well now. How are you?’

  ‘We’ve got a problem, a big—’ The line is popping and seething. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m not—’ Hissssss ‘—atching you—’

  ‘F—’

  ‘Sarah …’

  ‘We need help, please help—’ the landline goes dead, even the fuzz of static disappears, and I almost throw it at the wall in frustration: of all times, it chooses now to give up? But then the static whistles in my ear, so loud it hurts, and the line suddenly clears, and I hear that voice again.

  ‘Are ye in some trouble now, Mrs Moorcroft?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘My husband, Angus, is on the mudflats – we lost the dog, he went out to save him, at low tide, in the dark, and now I’m worried, he’s been gone so long, ages, I don’t know what to do – I’m worried for him and—’

  ‘On the mudflats, ye say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On his own, off Torran?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I can hear the disapproval in the hissy silence that follows.

  ‘OK now, calm yerself, Mrs Moorcroft. I’ll get some of the boys from the Selkie.’

  ‘Oh thanks, thank you!’

  I put the phone down before the line gives out on me, as if this is some deadly computer game and the phone is your life-force seeping away until you hear bzzz game over; and then I turn and there she is again: Lydia. I almost fall back against the wall in alarm, and surprise.

  She is simply standing there. Blank-faced. Tranced. Eyes open wide and saddening blue, right behind me.

  How did she do that? These floorboards creak from the slightest pressure. I heard nothing.

  Lydia is a mere three feet away. Rigid and silent, and staring, her face pallid with anxiety. I didn’t hear her come in. I certainly didn’t hear her standing right behind me.

  How does she do this? How many Lydias lurk in this house? This is crazy. I have the dizzyingly insane sensation that there are two identical Lydias in this house, playing games in the shadows and cold, between the cobwebs and the rats, just like Lydia and Kirstie used to play games in London, especially that last summer: this is me, no, it’s me, their girlish laughter ringing down the hallway as I first chased one then the other, hiding and seeking, trying to perplex me.

  But this is my mind misting up; I need clarity.

  ‘Daddy is coming back, with Beany, isn’t he?’

  Frowning and sad, she gazes. The pain inside her must be unbearable, losing a twin, and now frightened of losing her dog, and her daddy. That will complete her destruction.

  As much as I despise Angus, he has to survive.

  ‘Mummy, he is coming back, isn’t he? Please, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I kneel down and crush her into my arms and hug her tight tight tight. ‘Sweetheart, Daddy will be coming back soon, I promise.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Really promise. A million times. Come on, let’s go into the kitchen and make some tea and wait for Daddy and Beany.’

  I don’t mean this. I just want an excuse to stand in the kitchen and look through the window, to see if anything is happening. And so, as I funnel brackish water from the vile tap into the kettle, my eyes fix, furiously, on the blackness.

  Just blackness. Maybe a smear of moonlight as the clouds and fog part for a moment. Closer to hand, the pathetic light from our kitchen shows a green patch of cold wet grass, a silly oblong of lurid colour. Sodden washing flaps wildly, on the line. The wind’s howling is unabating. As if it could go on for weeks.

  This is real winter coming in now: the new regime announcing itself.

  ‘Look, Mummy!’

  Prickles of light pierce the murk. Misty beams from car headlamps. Torches maybe? Lights on boats? It must be Gordon and his friends: yes, there are shadows of men on the pier, their torch-beams mingling and crossing, like lights in wartime, seeking bombers above London. The men are clearly going out onto the water. The boats are rounding Salmadair, several of them, I can see them quite well now.

  One mighty beam shines from a boat, rocking on the waves and the rippled sands: a handheld searchlight. Scanning the mud, I try to follow it, but then the mist thickens and I am defeated.

  The entire Sound is a valley of fog. How will they find Angus in all that? Do I care?

  Yes, I do. Maybe in the wrong way. I want him back and alive, so I can confront him.

  ‘Let’s go into the living room,’ I say to Lydia.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘What are those lights, Mummy?’

  ‘Just people helping Daddy, that’s all, everyone is helping out.’

  I grasp her hand and lead her firmly into the living room and together we bank up the fire; it had almost extinguished itself in the last hour, neglected and unwatched. Now Lydia hands me the smaller logs, dutifully and carefully, and I feed them into the flames, which grow and thrive.

  ‘Mummy, what would you like it to rain if it didn’t rain water?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Lydia looks at me, squinting, thoughtfully. Her pale pretty face has a smut of soot on the chin. And I smile, and try not to think about Angus or Kirstie or the hugging and the kissing and I say, ‘What?’

  ‘If rain wasn’t water, what would you like it to be? I’d like it to be flowers, raining flowers – that would be so pretty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or people.’ She quietly laughs. ‘That would be funny, wouldn’t it, Mummy, raining people, everywhere, oh look, LOOK, it looks rainbow!’

  She is pointing at the flames in the hearth: one particular small flame is jetting from the logs, purple and blue. Together we watch the flames and the fire, then we go back to the sofa and we sit cuddled under the blanket which smells of Beany, and we talk about the dog in a nice way, because I want to keep Lydia’s anxious mind diverted. Lydia listens to me and she nods and she laughs, and so I laugh as well, but even within the laughter I can feel my sadness and anger.

  This is still taking too long. Where is Angus? They cannot find him. They’ve lost him. I imagine the boys from the Selkie scouring the sands, from the boat, and tiring, and rubbing cold hands together and blowing warmth between fingers, not quite looking each other in the eye, knowing they have failed, there’s no sign of him, we’ll have to wait …

  If Angus dies, would we survive? Maybe we would. At least there would be an ending.

  The fire rises and the fire subsides. I stare at my daughter as she stares at the fire, the flames reflected in her shining blue eyes.

  ‘Sarah.’

  What?

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  It’s Angus. He is in the frame of the living-room doorway, covered in mud, almost a mud-man, his eyes like slots of dark life in the muck; but he is alive.

  Behind him is Gordon and some other men, they are all laughing. Their voices fill the house, they smell of diesel and seaweed and thick oily mud – and Angus is alive. Lydia scampers off the sofa and runs to him and he holds her at a distance, and kisses her on the forehead.

  ‘I kno
w you want to hug me,’ he says, walking painfully to the sofa. ‘But I wouldn’t advise it. This mud stinks.’

  Lydia jumps up and down.

  ‘Dadadada!’

  ‘Jesus we thought—’ I almost say, but I don’t say it. For Lydia’s sake. For everyone’s sake.

  Gordon interrupts: ‘We fished yer husband out about ten feet off Ornsay pier.’

  Angus looks sheepish. He comes near me and pecks me gently on the cheek. I try not to flinch. He gives me a strange, suspicious glance and says: ‘I had no idea where I was – in the fog.’

  I gaze past him.

  There is no dog. Where is the dog?

  ‘Beany?’

  Lydia is gazing at her father, rapt, but also worried.

  ‘Yes, Daddy, where …?’

  Angus smiles, but his smile is faked.

  ‘He escaped! He got out of the mud, and ran off. We’ll find him tomorrow, but he’s fine.’

  I’m guessing this is a lie. Perhaps Beany got away, but there’s no guarantee he will survive, or be found again. I’m not pressing this now. I lay a caressing hand on my husband’s cold, muddy face; I want to slap him. Very hard. I want to punch him cold, and claw at his eyes. Hurt him.

  This caress is for Lydia’s benefit, and Gordon, for everyone but me.

  ‘You must be freezing, Angus. Jesus, look at you – you need a bath!’

  ‘A hot bath,’ says Angus, ‘is just about the best idea on earth, Sarah. Can you give Gordon and Alistair a glass of the Macallan, the good stuff. I promised them a dram. By way of thanks, for …’ He glances at Lydia, he hesitates, and says: ‘You know, just for helping out. Sarah?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, and I force out the smile of fake relief.

  Angus squelches his way carefully into the bathroom. I hear hot water being slowly poured: I turn to my daughter.

  ‘Lydia, can you fetch some glasses, sweetie?’

  Whisky is brought, and poured. The men apologize for their dampness and I say, Think nothing, and we sit on the sofa and the chairs, and the fire is refuelled. We sit and we drink, and Lydia gazes at the men, as if they are brilliant new animals in the zoo. Gordon looks around him, at the half-painted walls, and says:

  ‘You’ve made a real go of the place, it’s coming along nicely now. Good to see Torran cottage getting some attention.’

  What can I say? The sadness dilates, until it fills the room. I mumble a faint thank you and no more.

  We drink in silence. I can hear Angus splashing in the bath. I look at the door of the bathroom. We are all safe. Yet we are in real danger.

  Breaking the silence, Gordon starts talking about Torran and Sleat, and the Gaelic college, I join in thankfully. I am happy to talk about anything. I don’t care. What am I going to do about Angus?

  Alistair, the younger man, red-haired and clean-shaven, rawly handsome, takes his third very large glass of Macallan, and interrupts Gordon’s chatter: ‘A thin place. That’s what they called this.’

  Gordon shushes him. Lydia is now fast asleep on the sofa, curled up. A soft, mist-blue blanket over her shoulder.

  I tip my own Scotch; the firelight flickers. I am so tired.

  ‘What?’

  Alistair is clearly a little drunk. He burps and says sorry and then says: ‘The locals, they used to call Torran a thin place. That means a place where there are spirits –’ he chuckles into his glass – ‘real spirits, where the spirit world comes close.’

  ‘Ach, load of nonsense,’ says Gordon, eyeing me, and then Lydia. Carefully. He looks as if he wants to clout his young friend.

  ‘No,’ Alistair says, ‘it’s true, Gordon. Sometimes I think they’ve a point, y’know, Thunder Island and all that, it’s like there is something, an atmosphere. Remember when the squatters left? They were terrified.’

  He clearly doesn’t know any of our family history. Or he wouldn’t go near this subject.

  ‘Aye, a thin place. Where you can see the other world.’ Alistair grins. And slurps down his Scotch, and looks at me. ‘That’s what they said.’

  Gordon Fraser tuts loudly, and says again: ‘Just pish. Sarah, I wouldnae listen to it.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s OK. It’s interesting.’

  I am being sincere. I’m not fazed by historic folklore or ancient superstition: my present anxieties are disturbing enough. Gordon sips with delicacy his Scotch, savours the flavour, and then he tilts his glass at my sleeping daughter.

  ‘Looks like it’s time for us to be going.’

  They make their departure swiftly. I wave to their boat as it disappears around the darkness of Salmadair. The lighthouse flickers in valediction. I notice the dinghy lashed to the railings; the shopping bags have all disappeared, snatched by the tides.

  I go back inside the kitchen. I pull out the knife drawer.

  And stare at the armoury. The gleaming knives. I like to keep them sharp.

  Quickly, I shut the knife drawer, with the knives untouched. I am having fantasies about murder?

  I walk across the living room and down the hall and I open the bathroom door – he is in the bath, rinsing himself, soaping his muscled arms, his hairy chest black-and-white with suds.

  I hate his physical presence.

  ‘You’ve got to go get some more shopping,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow. You left it by the boat and the tide has taken it. Taken all the bags.’

  ‘What?’ he says. Understandably bemused. I can see the thought processes in his head. I nearly died saving the dog and she’s talking about shopping?

  But I can’t fake it any more. I just want him out of the house while I work out what to do. How to confront him properly.

  ‘Tomorrow. Shopping. Thanks.’

  23

  We search for Beany all morning. Lydia shouts, desperately, as we circle the island, ‘Beany! Beany!’

  The tide is in. I don’t think the poor dog is going to emerge from the waters. But Lydia is fraught:

  ‘BEANY!’

  As we scan the waters, we are cat-called by black-headed gulls. The oystercatchers look at us, sceptically, hopping further down the beach as my daughter runs, shouting, and yelling.

  And then crying.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, placing an arm over her trembling shoulders. ‘I’m sure Beany is fine. He probably ran off into the woods. We’ll put up posters.’

  ‘He’s not coming back.’ She shakes my hand away. ‘He’s dead. He’s not coming back. NOT.’

  With that she runs into the house. I have no notion of how to console her. The world itself is inconsolable: from the tearful grey seals on Salmadair, to the weeping wet rowans of Camuscross.

  And now the hours melt into each other, imperceptibly. As Lydia reads in her room, I actually do some wall-painting. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I have vague ideas that we must somehow finish the renovation, and sell the house. Soon.

  When I need a break, I go into the kitchen to wash the paint from my fingers – and then I see Angus boating over, chalking the slate-grey water of the Sound with white backwash.

  He’s a solitary figure in his boat, standing, hand on the tiller, staring straight at me. Coming for us. Bringing the shopping, as requested.

  The hatred uncoils. Abruptly. I hope his fucking boat hits a hidden block of basalt down there, under the lighthouse. I hope it is holed, and ripped. For all my desires to be logical, to have it out, to confront him with the evidence, I could easily watch him drown in those cold tidal waters and I would not budge. Not an inch. Right now, I would just stand here: and watch myself be widowed.

  But of course the boat doesn’t sink; Angus is quite expert at this island life, now. And he’s probably being extra careful after the scare on the mudflats yesterday. With skill he slows the boat, and deftly beaches its stupid orange rubber, stepping out onto the grey shingle. He drags the dinghy out of any tide, takes out two big Co-op shopping bags, and marches up the slope to the cottage.

  His walk is determined, fast. Maybe even menacing? The anxiety fl
ashes through me.

  Does he know that I know? How could he have guessed? He’s obviously sensed my new hostility: but how could he have pursued my thoughts that far?

  He’s getting closer. The sense of purpose in his stride is unignorable. I edge back to the kitchen drawer, and gaze closely at the shiny cutlery, again – and this time I do it: I pull out a kitchen knife. The biggest and the sharpest. Then I hold it in one hand, behind my back. I recognize the insanity of this, even as it seems perfectly explicable. This is the correct thing to do.

  ‘Hello,’ he says. Gruffer than normal, shunting through the door, dropping the bags to the kitchen floor. He is unsmiling. I have the knife in my hand, sweatily grasped, and badly concealed. Could I use it? Am I capable of actually stabbing my own husband?

  Perhaps.

  Yes definitely, if he goes for Lydia. Who knows if the abuse has stopped. Perhaps he is calling her Kirstie. Pretending his favourite is still alive.

  Does all the confusion come from him?

  ‘Where’s Lydia?’ he says.

  His stubble makes him look villainous now, not handsome. More like a criminal on TV news: Do you know this man?

  No, I don’t.

  What did he do to Kirstie? How could he do that? For how long? Six months? A year?

  ‘She’s asleep,’ I say, and this is a lie. Lydia’s in her room, reading. But I’m not letting him near our surviving daughter. If he tries I really will use the knife. ‘She’s exhausted, Gus, I think we should let her sleep.’

  ‘But she’s all right? Despite. You know.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Considering all that, yes, yes, she is doing OK. Angus, please let her sleep. She has to go back to school, she needs her rest. Please.’

  And it is so hard for me to say please. To this man, this thing. He is monstrous now; an entirely inhuman presence, and I want him gone.

  ‘OK,’ he says, looking me deep in the eyes. And the charge of hatred passes between us; he does not strive to hide it. We are two people on our very own island, with the ravens of Salmadair roosting and chattering, and we hate each other and we both know it; but I still don’t quite know why he hates me: perhaps because he realizes that I have guessed his secret?