‘You should have a seat,’ he heard. ‘It’s tiring, isn’t it?’
Almost paralysed with fear and uncertainty, he managed to nod his agreement, and sat.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, hearing the panic in his voice. He sent the command to his legs to rise from the chair and leave, but his limbs remained unresponsive.
‘I know who you are. You are my love.’ He heard a smile threading through the answer.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, and heard a note of anxiety in his reply.
He looked up at the mirror. And there she was. The woman from his dream. Her shoulder. Dark cloth with a white lace trim. The back of her head. A quarter view of her face. Long, brown hair in waves and curls.
‘What do you need to understand?’ Her cheek moved as if her face was forming a smile.
‘This isn’t happening,’ said Ranald, thoughts jumbling in his head, commands he sent to muscles going unheeded. He should leave.
Run.
This wasn’t a dream. He was wide awake.
‘And yet here we are, my love.’
Not happening, thought Ranald. Not fucking happening.
And yet.
‘Who are you?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Why are you in my dreams? My head?’
‘Why not? Can’t you feel it?’
‘Feel what?’
‘Our love.’
Ran exhaled. Glanced down at his hands. They were quivering. He needed to get out of here. But again his muscles refused to obey his brain. Then a moment. A memory. Walking in the garden. Catching a glimpse of a slender ankle. A long skirt, its edges damp with dew.
‘We do enjoy our walks.’
‘We do? What’s happening here?’ He knocked his forehead with his fist. He should get back on his drugs. That was the explanation. He needed to be taking his medication.
‘Close your eyes.’
He did.
‘Lean back.’
He did, questioning at the same time why he was being so acquiescent.
‘Keep your eyes closed.’ Her laugh was a chime. Silver on crystal. Somehow he didn’t feel at risk.
Then he felt a hand slip into his loose grip. The weight of someone sitting on his lap. A head on his shoulder.
‘Please hold me.’
He did, knowing he had finally slipped beyond the veil and into madness.
17
From that day, Ranald felt like his normal, everyday life was dimming. His physical presence fading into inconsequence. If he were to die, who would even notice?
He began to follow a simple and apparently straightforward routine. On waking he would shower, go for his morning swim, then it would be coffee and breakfast. Then he would go to the library, answer his emails and work on the project Douglas had sent him. Lunch. More coffee. Then work.
But all of this he performed as if on automatic, his body behaving at a level that would ensure functionality. Pushed to a dark corner of his brain, there was a version of him cowering in a corner, terrified for his sanity. Was he going mad? Really mad? Had a life of cruel disappointment, mental health issues and powerful medication pushed him over the edge?
Because, in the late afternoon, after all the mundane tasks were taken care of, he would select a book from the shelves of his library and carry it along the corridor to the lift, biddable as a puppy. Once inside, he would be welcomed, then he would sit and begin reading aloud to her.
He didn’t need to be informed that she would enjoy being read to, he just knew.
The first book he chose, completely at random, was Heart of Darkness. He picked it out because it was a slim volume. Then, when he saw it was the Conrad classic, he thought, why not?
‘Did you like that?’ he asked, when he closed the last page. Not sure himself how he felt about it yet.
‘I like to hear your voice.’
For their next read he picked another short book: The Awakening by Kate Chopin. When he finished it, his first thought was that, to his modern sensibilities, the actions of the main character were nothing that would cause concern. But to someone of that time, it must have been scandalous. Women were mere chattels then, surely? That this woman had the audacity to pay attention to her desires would have caused a bit of a fuss.
He waited for her reaction. Wondered if it might give him more of a clue as to who she was.
‘So sad. Why are these people all so sad?’
He didn’t know how to answer that.
His next read, again at random was The Turn of the Screw. Sure, he’d heard of the book. Who hadn’t? But he knew next to nothing about it. There was a film, wasn’t there? A governess, some strange children in a big lonely house. Her ‘wanderings’ in the garden. Wishing someone would appear to her. It all felt so familiar. Then a male figure appeared to her in the tower. Everything grew silent, the hour no longer friendly.
‘“…and even as he turned away still markedly fixed me. He turned away; that was all I knew.”’
Ranald stopped reading. He felt a moment of clarity. A stab of insight into his fog of dreamlike acceptance. He was reading a ghost story to a…
‘Why stop, my love?’
‘I’m tired,’ he said as he stood up.
‘See you in your dreams.’ Her voice followed him as he walked along the corridor. A feeling of unease both stippling the length of his spine and thrilling his mind.
And yet, a thought that felt like a betrayal: Dear God I hope not.
18
His body betrayed him time and time again. He gave in fully to her demands. She would beckon, and he was like a spark shot from the fire, only to fall back into the flames. His mind lived in two places. Regret and joy: shame that he was so easily seduced and elation at the seduction.
This was not real, he would tell himself.
But the feeling, he would reply, was like nothing else. The pleasure centre in his brain was sending up flares, firing messages to every atom in his body, telling it to relax and let it happen.
But. It. Is. Not. Real.
It certainly felt as if it was, he would think as his head fell back onto the cushion and he rested, allowing his breathing to adjust to normal.
Then, when the sweat had dried and his pulse slowed, the reality check. That’s when his work would come in handy. Losing himself in the act of trying to inject sense into an educational text, he found most worries would recede.
From time to time he would walk into the Cross. Buy food in the supermarket. A coffee in the café. People were beginning to recognise him now. A few actually stopped to chat, despite his monosyllabic responses. Most would just give him a nod or a smile.
And the further he walked from the house, the stronger the feeling grew that he was not in charge, that he was a pawn in someone else’s game. But still the pull was there, like a curser blinking in the corner of a computer screen. It was tiny, but he was incapable of ignoring it, and soon, with a heavy mind and light heart, he’d be winding his way back to Newton Hall, almost singing, ‘I’m home, honey,’ as he walked in the door.
One day, as he left the café, intent on the internal voice telling him to get back home, he brushed against someone going in. He mumbled an apology and took a step outside.
‘Ran, are you okay?’ It was Liz; her face was pulled into an expression of concern.
‘I’m fine, thanks. Why do you ask?’
‘Just…’ She withdrew slightly. ‘Sorry. Just wondering. Haven’t seen you about for a few…’
Ranald mumbled something and walked off.
She was there again the next day.
This time she put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Ran, are you sure you’re okay?’
Pulling himself out of his thoughts felt like an exhausting climb to a high peak. He looked at her, puzzled why she should ask this, and why she would ask it two days in a row. ‘Yeah. I’m fine. Tickety-boo.’
‘Join me for a coffee?’ Smile. ‘I do hate sitting on my own.’
‘I’m just…’ Ranald looked of
f into the distance.
‘Please? Five minutes?’
With barely disguised reluctance, he stepped back inside the café and took his usual seat.
Liz sat across from him. She seemed smaller, less confident than when they had been together. ‘I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to me,’ she said. ‘I was pretty rude.’
‘S’okay,’ Ranald replied. ‘You were freaked out.’
The waitress came over to the table, and stood over them with pen poised over her small notepad.
Smiling up at her felt like a barely remembered reflex. But he found he almost enjoyed the sensation. It was like he was greeting an old friend. He tried to remember the last time it had happened, and then heard a vague nagging thought: he should try harder, before he completely lost touch with the real world.
‘These older women,’ he addressed the waitress while nodding over at Liz. ‘Can’t keep their hands off me.’ And a sense of humour? Wherever that came from, it was welcome. Then he remembered that had been his habit. Whatever was going on in the battleground of his mind he could usually disguise it with the mask of a smile and a well-timed joke.
Was he so out of practice at being around other people?
Ranald, you need help.
He stiffened his spine and sat up. Nonsense. He was fine. Completely in control.
Liz laughed. ‘You’d be so lucky.’ She sat back in her chair, relief evident in her pose. They gave the waitress their order and she hurried away.
‘So, what have you been up to?’ Liz asked, reaching over to play with the sugar dish.
‘Oh, you know. This and that,’ Ran replied, watching Liz arrange the paper straws that held the sugar. ‘You?’
‘Trying to ignore the fact that I’m still married. That I had a good wee thing with you…’ She pushed the sugar dish away. ‘Why do I always have to tidy things up?’ She put her hands under the table as if hiding them away and laughed.
Ranald joined in, catching some energy from her good humour.
Their drinks arrived. Ranald nodded his thanks at the waitress and picked up his cup. As he put it down, he noticed an old lady in the far corner looking over at them.
‘Do you know that old dear over there? The one with the cropped white hair?’
Liz turned to look. The older woman waved. Liz turned away, shifting her chair slightly so that the woman was no longer in her view.
‘No idea who that is,’ Liz said under her breath. ‘Crazy old bitch. Look at her waving.’
‘Looks like she’s certain she knows one of us.’
‘You know what they say: old age brings along a few unwelcome friends.’ She sneaked another glance at the woman and then ducked her head, holding her hand up as if hiding. ‘Christ, she’s coming over.’
The lady arrived; she wore an aquamarine scarf and tan raincoat. ‘I knew it was you soon as I saw you,’ she beamed at Liz. ‘How are you, dear? I haven’t seen you in an age. Don’t often get a chance to come over to Bearsden. Not since my sister died.’
She turned her attention to Ranald and, as she did, she shook her head and held a hand to her throat. ‘My, I must have just taken a wee turn. You look so like someone I used to know.’ She held a hand out as if to touch Ran’s face but then remembered herself and pulled it away. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, confusion in her eyes. But then it was replaced by certainty: ‘I never forget a face…’ Her eyes flitted from Ran to Liz.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liz. ‘I’m pretty positive we’ve never met.’
‘I never forget a face, dear. A name, maybe.’ She smiled.
‘Sorry,’ Liz said, her face a little twisted; she was clearly torn between telling the old dear to piss off and feeling sorry for her. ‘I’ve never met you.’
‘You were at school with my daughter, Hannah Talbot, weren’t you?’ Then to Ranald: ‘Thick as two peas they were.’ Her smile was radiant at the memory, but faded suddenly, and she held a hand to her throat once more.
‘How is … Hannah?’ Liz asked, making a quick face at Ranald as if to say, might as well try and please the old dear.
‘She died…’
‘I’m so sorry…’ Liz began. But the woman waved off her sympathy, her hand in the air.
‘It was a few years ago now, dear. Time heals, or so they say.’ She looked once more at Ranald. A moment of study. ‘Still waiting on it, though, son.’ Her smile was pained. Turning back to Liz, she said. ‘Anyway. I could have sworn…’ Her eyes glazed over.
Liz gave her a conciliatory smile but said nothing. Ranald could see the indifference in her expression.
Mrs Talbot accepted the unsaid message and, trying to disguise her discomfort, stepped away; but Ranald could see the hurt in her eyes.
When she was out of earshot, he said, ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Crazy old bat,’ said Liz in a whisper. ‘Accosting random strangers in public.’
‘She was certain she knew you. You have no idea who she is?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Liz replied. ‘And she was giving you the once-over. Wonder who she thought you were.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘At least it kept us from another awkward silence.’
‘We were having an awkward silence?’
Liz raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, maybe a little,’ Ranald said.
‘Jesus, she’s coming back. Quick. You pay the waitress for the coffees and I’ll get you outside.’
Liz rushed out of the door and a bemused Ranald walked over to the café counter to pay. As he walked past Mrs Talbot, she held a hand up.
‘Oh, dear, looks like I’ve upset your friend.’ She looked away, and then back at Ranald, as if determined to assert her sanity.
‘Don’t worry about it. She often runs out on me, too,’ he managed a smile.
The old woman peered into Ranald’s face. And then her eyes widened in surprise and not a little shock. ‘My. It’s finally come to me…’ She held a hand to her chest. ‘You’re the spitting image of Alexander Fitzpatrick – from the big house.’ She searched his face. ‘You’ll be the great-nephew that just moved in? Had a wee fancy for him when I was a girl. Such a handsome man. But I was too young, and he wouldn’t have been interested in the likes of me, anyway.’
‘Right,’ said Ranald, wondering how he could politely escape.
‘I heard it wasn’t too easy for him at the end.’
‘Aye,’ said Ranald, without commitment.
‘They say the house got the better of him,’ she said with a sage nod and a look full of portent.
A sudden panic seemed to grip Ranald, and with a quick, ‘Got to go’, he left the café.
Outside, Liz was waiting on him, tapping her foot.
‘What did the old dear say to you?’
‘Nothing really. Just apologised again.’ Ranald didn’t want to discuss the woman’s comments about Alexander. What she said about the house had rattled him. If that’s what she’d heard, was the rest of the town saying it, too? Whatever they thought happened to him, were they all waiting for him to go the same way?
He felt himself walking faster. He told himself to calm down and managed to rein in his anxiety. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know where you’re going, but I’m going home.’ Liz looked up at the darkening sky. ‘Hopefully I’ll get to my car before the rain starts.’
‘Where do you actually live?’ Ranald frowned. ‘You know, I know very little about you.’
‘I prefer to preserve the mystery, Ranald. Don’t you?’
They stared into each other’s eyes.
She gave him a little shove. ‘It was good to see you, Ran,’ she said.
‘Good to see you too, Liz.’
As he watched her walk away, his phone sounded an alert. He plucked it from his pocket. It was a text from Martie: ‘Hey Ran. Soz not been in touch. How’s life in the big hoose? Don’t be a stranger, eh?’
She’d finished with a double x.
He read it and felt a
surge of resentment. Then gave himself a telling-off. In any case, they weren’t really kisses. They were exes. A double reminder he and Martie were no longer together.
Back at the house, Ran made straight for the library.
He checked his email. There was nothing. Not even a phishing email for Viagra. He soon found himself perusing the shelves for a book to read; it was only after he had discounted a number of them that it occurred to him that he was choosing a book with her in mind.
Was that such a bad thing? He was experiencing a whole side of literature that he had previously ignored. But perhaps he should go with something that was home grown. Since briefly studying his fellow Scots at university, he had passed by much of their writing. Time to remedy that?
From his previous browsing he knew his great-uncle had reserved an entire bookcase worth for Scottish writers, so he walked over to it. Something modern, he thought as his fingertips lit on a number of spines.
His hand came to rest on Jackie Kay’s Trumpet.
He loved her poetry but hadn’t read her longer work. He looked at the cover, turned it over and read the blurb. It was about a jazz trumpeter called Joss Moody who pretended to be a man. Even had a wife and foster child. He wondered how someone could keep that pretence up, and at how the author might keep that narrative running.
He opened the book to the first page and began to read as he walked over to the leather sofa. Before he even sat down, he was there, in Joss’s world.
Only when the light was so weak that he could feel his eyes working too much over the words, did he surface. Must be past ten, he thought, so he took the book to bed and lay, propped against a mound of pillows, on top of the covers with the four-poster’s curtains pulled shut.
His eyes soon grew heavy and he realised that his focus was wavering and the words were having less of an impact. He’d close his eyes just for a minute, then he’d finish the chapter.
The bed really was very comfortable. His breathing slowed. He should go and switch off the light. He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy.
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