‘The official version was that it was a double suicide, some sort of lovers’ pact. They said that Ranald’s mother’s state had become so desperate that she’d killed herself, and his dad found her, and full of grief swallowed all of her remaining pills.’
‘And that’s not what happened?’ asked Donna.
‘I was there when the post-mortem verdict was delivered. Just me and the old guy … The doctor who did the post mortem was some kind of family friend. They were suspiciously pally – him and the old guy – and suddenly I was asked to leave the room and told to forget everything that I’d just heard.’
‘And what did you hear?’
‘No,’ murmured Ranald. He clasped his hand over his mouth. No. He didn’t want to hear this. But he was frozen solid. Unable to move.
‘His dad was the first to die. And from the contents of his stomach they were able to tell that he’d been fed a fatal dose of drugs with his evening meal, and then…’
Oh, dear God, thought Ranald. He caught an image of his mother at the stove. Dad never cooked a meal in his life.
‘Donna, I can never forgive myself. I’ve kept this back from Ranald all of these years.’
‘But you did it with the best of intentions, Martie.’
‘I did, and I hate myself for it, Donna.’ Martie paused. ‘But when’s the right time to tell your damaged boyfriend that his mum killed his dad before she killed herself?’
20
Ranald was back in the kitchen when they walked back in, sitting on a chair, cross-legged, as if he’d hadn’t moved since they left. He kept his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling.
They looked at him, but their eyes were back in the rooms upstairs.
‘Absolutely fascinating,’ said Donna.
‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ agreed Martie.
Ranald gave her a taut smile, and she cocked her head to the side as if she couldn’t read its purpose. He was saying, without speaking, I heard you, I know everything, and I understand but I don’t know if I’m capable of forgiving you. Or myself.
That he’d given her this burden was surely the greater sin.
‘So, that was your great-grandmother’s space?’ asked Donna. ‘And your great-uncle Alexander had the wing at the front?’
‘Did Alexander ever marry?’ asked Martie.
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Ranald.
‘Your grandmother had your mum, Helen—’
‘Turns out her real name was Helena,’ Ranald interrupted, aware that his mouth was soured with a bitter taste. This was all becoming too much. He needed them to leave.
‘Your gran have any other kids?’ asked Donna.
‘Yeah, William. He had two kids, Rebecca and Marcus,’ Ranald replied, thinking, Go, please go.
‘You met them?’ asked Martie. ‘What was it like to find out you had this other family?’
‘Interesting,’ said Ranald. It was the best he could come up with.
Please just go.
Martie tutted. ‘You’re one of them now, Ran.’
Donna’s eyes narrowed. ‘These cousins of yours, I wonder how happy they were when they found out about you. All this –’ she looked around ‘– they must’ve thought it was going to them.’
‘They must have been shocked,’ said Martie.
‘Aye,’ Donna leaned forwards. ‘Family intrigue. This house must be worth a couple of million at least. Bet when the old fella was on his deathbed they were counting the pennies.’
‘If they were, too bad. They got stuff. I got the house. It’s all about the library, apparently. Alexander wanted his books protected.’
‘The whole house is like a library,’ said Donna as she looked over at a couple of bookshelves in the kitchen that, unsurprisingly, contained cook books.
‘Except the rooms above here,’ said Martie. ‘Now that I think about it, I don’t think I saw a single book.’
Her tone prompted a rebuke from Donna.
‘A lack of books doesn’t make you a bad person,’ she said.
‘Yes, it does,’ Martie and Ranald said at exactly the same time, and he was relieved that his mask was back in place.
‘We need to have a movie night soon,’ Donna said. ‘I’d love the chance to get a good rake through his film collection.’
‘There are so many classics up there you wouldn’t believe it,’ said Ranald.
They settled into a few moments of silence before Donna finished her coffee and placed the empty mug on the table.
Please leave.
‘I think our work here is done, Martie,’ she said. ‘I detect a positive change in Mr McGhie since we arrived.’
Ranald breathed, felt the air flow as if down to his toes. He’d managed to fool them both. He exhaled and, dragging up some last ounces of vigour, he smiled. He worked hard to make it as genuine as possible.
‘Yes,’ said Martie. ‘I believe the intervention has worked.’
They phoned a taxi from the library and then walked to the front of the house to wait.
When it arrived, after kisses and hugs and promises of more visits in the very near future, Martie ran to the car.
Donna paused however, reached a hand out and took a grip of his forearm. ‘See all that stoic man stuff – it’s total rubbish, Ran. I can see through your act. If you need someone to talk to, give us a shout, eh?’ She gave him a little smile, her eyes deep wells of sympathy. ‘There’s folk here that care about you.’
Throat tight with emotion, he didn’t trust his voice enough to speak; he could only nod his head in response.
Message delivered, Donna took a step back, turned and walked quickly to the taxi. The car then drove off and Ranald was left alone on his doorstep.
He stepped back into the house and closed the door. Then he turned and slid down the wood until his legs were spread out in front of him. They’d left just in time. He had no idea how he could have kept that performance going.
The maw of the house yawned in front of him. He unfocused his eyes and looked out into the cave-like gloom. Furniture, doors, stairs, windows, all of it blended into wraiths and shadows and whispers. None of it held meaning. All of it held threat. He was real once, and now he was falling, falling, falling into a deep shaft. His lips felt swollen, his throat constricted, his limbs encased in concrete.
He was upside down.
He was wearing his organs on the outside of his skin.
A black snake was sliding across the wooden floor towards him, risen from a swamp, and the house shivered in anticipation of its bite.
21
He didn’t remember making it back up to his bedroom, but he did remember standing by the window, thinking he should open it and jump out. But it took less energy to move across the room to his bed, so that’s where he went.
He was unsure how long he was there. It was certainly days, but how many, he couldn’t count. All he knew was that he was weak with hunger and that he had a good length of stubble on his chin. Dragging himself up, he managed to shower, shave, and eat something.
In the kitchen, having established some sort of normality, his mind finally began to filter through what he had overheard.
Dad.
His dad hadn’t abandoned him after all.
He had always known his mother was unwell, and great though her loss was, there was an explanation for it. Difficult as they were to process, her actions could be understood. But that his father had also chosen to abandon him had been a way more difficult idea to bear.
Now, he didn’t have that to worry about. But that relief was tainted with the knowledge that his mother had killed his father. The news left him reeling.
Why would she do something like that? He knew paranoia was a frighteningly real aspect of bipolar for sufferers, having been there himself. Had his mother become convinced that his father was somehow a danger to her?
Or perhaps, desperate need to end her own torment, and knowing how much he loved her, she decided to take him over
to the other side with her to save him from living through that bereavement?
Jesus.
He should know better than to try and rationalise the irrational thoughts of someone in that manic phase.
But there was another thought he had to lock down. If that was what his mother was capable of, was the son …?
This house. He looked around at the thick walls. The Fitzpatricks. He was one of them, and whatever set his mother on that path was part of him.
As if in search of answers to questions he couldn’t begin to articulate, Ranald made his way along the corridor and up the dark, narrow staircase to his grandmother’s wing.
The previous time he’d been here he’d heard Martie tell Donna the truth about his parents. The memory of her admission was almost enough to make him sag to the floor. Just in time, he stuck a hand out and bolstered himself against the oak bannister. From there he lowered himself onto the top step and took a breath. Poor Martie, what had she done to deserve him?
Then he felt a moment of panic. When he’d been in the hospital, the nurses and doctors had taken his full history – spent a lot of time asking about his mother. The word ‘suicide’ had hung in the air above every conversation. But now – now he knew she was a murderer – not just a suicide victim. How might that knowledge have affected his treatment? Surely that would have been important. Had his team missed out on a vital piece of information that would have improved his chances of a full recovery? That would have meant he would now be more stable?
That Martie would never have left him…?
Enough. Stop, he told himself. Breath. There was nothing that could be done now to change any of that.
He heard a noise. His head whipped round. It came from the end of the corridor to his left. Everything told him to go back downstairs to the safety of the library, to hide himself behind the wall of spines. But he found himself getting to his feet and walking carefully along towards the sound.
There was a small window at the end, bracketed by rich brocade curtains that tumbled to the floor. The light coming in through the glass was weakened by the branch of a giant tree that was in heavy leaf. He examined the window. There was nothing to suggest the noise had come from here.
He turned to his side. This door then?
He placed a hand on the wood as if that might transmit something of what was inside. Listened. Got nothing. With care, he reached for the handle, turned it and pushed the door open.
This was a much smaller room, and although the furniture was solid, it was much more basic. A single bed had been pushed against the far wall, dressed in a plain, navy-blue bedspread and pillows. A desk sat under a window. He stretched his neck and could see that, if someone was sitting at this desk, they would have a good view of the gardens. He moved closer and looked down to the left; from this vantage point he recognised the patio that was just outside the pool conservatory.
Looking around the room, the furniture set was completed by a chair and a wardrobe that looked like it was a smaller cousin to the one in his grandmother’s bedroom.
A door was tucked into the far corner of the room, by the window. Something caught his eye on the glass. A small crack and a blot of blood. Had some poor bird just flown against it? That must have been what he just heard. He let out a sigh, suddenly realising he had been holding his breath in anticipation. There was always a reason, he reminded himself. No need to go scaring himself.
He opened the door to see a small bathroom with the same type of dated fittings as the other bathroom on this floor.
He turned from the door and surveyed the room. Was this a servant’s quarters? Did his grandmother have her own maid? Or would that have been his great-grandmother. They lived in a grander style back in those days.
He moved over to the chair by the bed and realised with a start that it was the same chair as the one in the lift. Standing in front of it, he felt a mix of anxiety and anticipation. He sat down and closed his eyes.
After just a brief moment, he felt her ease herself onto his lap. Her head lay on his shoulder. Her hand sliding into his.
Her words in his ear.
‘You came, my love.’
22
It felt like he’d been hidden away for so long in Newton Hall, and so altered by the things he’d learned and his time there, that when he did venture back into the city he was somehow convinced that everything there would have changed. And yet, here he was, in the real world, in Quinn’s office just off Gordon Street, and it was exactly the same as the last time he’d been here. He found himself constantly touching things to check if they were solid, not imaginary.
How long ago had it been since he last visited? A couple of months? Was that all?
A gust of wind and rain hit the window as if aimed there by a powerful hose.
‘This weather?’ said Ranald to fill the silence, adding a smile after he mentally checked that his mask was in place. He felt a sudden urge to go up to the glass and press himself against it, as if the rain outside would somehow reach him and dampen the heat in his brain and heart. She was back and he wanted nothing more than to be in Newton Hall with her. Being here, he felt too far from her.
‘Very autumnal, yes,’ Quinn said as if impatient to begin. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr McGhie.’ Quinn’s tone was at odds with his words. ‘I would have come out to the house … but I have to charge the trust for more time when I do it that way. I’m sure you understand.’
Ranald offered him a smile, hoping that it was convincing. ‘S’fine, Mr Quinn. Time’s money and all that.’ He realised he was staring, and turned his face away.
‘Quite.’ Quinn pushed an open folder across the desk to Ranald and offered him a pen.
Ranald took the pen, felt the weight of it and looked down at the document in front of him. ‘What am I signing?’ An ant crawled across the page. He slammed a hand down on it, so hard that Quinn sat back.
‘An ant,’ Ran explained, but when he looked at the paper it was perfectly clean. No squashed bug.
Quinn coughed and focused on the papers. ‘This transfers the car into Daniel Hackett’s ownership, as per your request.’
The use of Danny’s full name threw Ranald momentarily. ‘Ah, right. The car.’ He’d almost forgotten he’d done that. He scribbled his name in the place provided, aware of the slight shaking of his hand as he wrote.
‘And there are some … ah … other papers for the trust. You are required to be a trustee and you need to accept your position by signing here.’ Quinn flicked off the top page and with a long and surprisingly lined finger indicated where Ranald should sign.
He did so.
Feeling strangely reluctant to leave the man’s company, despite how obvious it was that Quinn had little time for him, he anxiously sifted through his mind for a question. A moment ago he had been anxious to go home, and now he didn’t want to leave.
‘What can you tell me about my grandmother and my great-uncle?’
Quinn pulled the papers towards him and closed the file. ‘I’m not sure I’m the one to ask. I am the family lawyer, not chief gossipmonger.’ He flicked a smile at Ranald.
‘Oh, come now,’ said Ranald and wondered at his use of such an old-fashioned phrase. ‘It’s perfectly understandable that I might be curious about a family I never knew I had.’
‘Why not give Marcus a call?’
‘The impression I got from him was that he’d rather not spend any more time in my company.’
‘That’s not quite fair, Mr McGhie. I’ve always found Marcus Fitzpatrick to be a perfectly amenable chap.’
‘To the family lawyer, perhaps. Not to the prodigal child. What does my cousin Marcus do, by the way?’
‘He’s a lawyer for a prestigious Edinburgh firm.’
Ranald leaned forwards in his chair, tucking his hands under his thighs, hoping that he didn’t look too desperate. He needed to dig more into his family’s past. There was so much that he needed to know. Why was he the way he was? Did the reason
lie in the family tree? This man obviously knew something, why didn’t he just answer the question? He decided that being direct was his best option.
‘My grandmother took over her mother’s rooms in the house. Isn’t it unusual for siblings to share a house like that?’
‘Not in families like yours – with such large houses. Your greatuncle never married. Your grandfather died while Helena and William were very young. The family investments hadn’t yet recovered after the war so it was felt more prudent for everyone to remain living in the house. An elegant solution was worked out. Everyone was content.’
‘Alexander never married?’
‘There is one piece of the family story that I do feel permitted to share, Mr McGhie.’ Quinn leaned forwards, a light now shining in his eyes. And Ranald had the distinct impression Quinn was a gossip, despite his protests.
‘There was a scandal concerning your great-uncle. Just before he set off for the war…’
‘He was in the war?’
‘He had a posting in London, doing some admin type of thing … Initially. Then to everyone’s apparent surprise, he actually sought out some front-line position. Not many did that when they had a cushy number.’
‘And the scandal?’
‘You have to remember this was a different age. Fine society in Glasgow in those days had barely moved on since the Victorian age. A young woman died. Anyway, the family kept it all hush hush because they were terrified of the possibility of scandal. It all calmed down when Alexander went off to war.’ Quinn shook his head. Then, as if remembering who he was and who he was talking to, he sat up in his chair and brought his arms in to his sides, drawing himself back in.
‘My next client will be here shortly, Mr McGhie…’ He stood up.
Ranald got to his feet, his mind whirring with this new information.
Quinn escorted him to the door of his office and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Give Marcus an opportunity to prove you wrong, Mr McGhie. He is family, after all.’
‘There’s more to family than shared genetic material, Mr Quinn. That day you visited, Marcus made it quite clear how much interest he had in the new member of the family.’ He nodded. ‘Good day.’
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