He’d taken the train into the city centre, and leaving the lawyer’s office he walked back to Central Station, head hunched into his shoulders as if that might reduce the impact of the rain. He was just in time for the next train and took a seat in the first carriage with relief. Speaking to the lawyer, pretending to be human, had really taken it out of him.
Someone sat opposite him, by the window. He raised his eyes and saw that it was War and Peace girl – Suzy. As he looked for a book, she pulled one from her large handbag. It was The Girl on the Train.
She saw him and smiled. ‘Nearly didn’t recognise you with all that hair.’ She gestured at his head. Then followed his gaze to her book and laughed. ‘Girl on the train reads The Girl on the Train.’ She shrugged. ‘Does that make me a cliché?’
He nodded. ‘How did you get on with War and Peace?’
‘I finished it,’ she said with a big grin.
‘Congratulations.’
She gave a small bow.
The train moved off and a mother huffed into the space between them, along with her two young children. Whatever energy had been starting to build between Ranald and Suzy dissipated. She opened her book and began to read.
Ranald took his notebook from his pocket and, opening it at a new page, noted down the gossip from Quinn. Then he closed his eyes. Last time he’d written anything in here it had been like he was channelling Alexander. Should he have another attempt?
He began to write, allowed himself to scribble any old nonsense at first.
He looked over at Suzy, but her eyes were locked onto the page of her book.
He dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes again. The house appeared before his mind’s eye. He opened his eyes again and began writing:
The rain hides the house behind a squall of rain.
The door slams and birds scatter like seeds shot
from a blunderbuss into the fertile air.
Disappointment contains itself to a grunt, a moan,
a blemish of brown.
He paused and read over his words. There was no sense in them whatsoever. So much for that idea. The train slowed to a stop and Suzy stood up, making ready to leave. He was so caught up in his thoughts he almost failed to realise it was his stop too.
He jumped up and got off the train just in time, and he and Suzy walked almost side by side along the platform and out of the station. With every step, Ranald debated whether or not he should ask if she wanted to join him for a coffee. And with every other step he told himself she would only say no.
She walked over to a small red Ford parked outside the station.
‘Bye,’ she said and ducked inside.
Fool, Ranald said to himself. You’re a fool.
‘Hi.’
He looked up.
She had stepped back out of her car, an uncertain smile on her face. ‘I’m just heading to the café at the Cross for a wee coffee. If that’s where you’re going I can give you a lift.’
‘Am I that predictable?’ Ranald asked, walking towards her car.
‘I’m Suzy, by the way,’ she said as he got into the passenger’s side and buckled up. ‘In case you forgot.’
‘I hadn’t.’ He had. ‘I’m Ranald.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ranald. Great name. Very Scottish. And a good combination with an Irish surname.’ She put the car in gear and drove to the car park exit.
Ranald turned to look at her. Irish surname? ‘My surname’s McGhie, which is solidly Scottish.’
‘Oh,’ she looked surprised. ‘I thought you were one of the Fitzpatricks.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ he said and instantly regretted the defensive tone in his voice.
She made an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. In many ways Bearsden is really just a wee village. The waitress in the café…’
‘I am a Fitzpatrick, kinda. The one that got away and then got pulled back in. But my surname’s McGhie.’
‘Sorry. I must sound like a total gossip.’ She braked as she approached a T-junction and took a left.
As she did so, Ranald spotted a barber shop and made a mental note. It was high time he got the mop on his head sorted.
‘I’ve a secret wee parking place,’ Suzy said as they approached the Cross, aiming a wink at him.
‘The benefit of being a real local instead of an incomer.’
‘If you’re an original Fitzpatrick, you’re not really an incomer, are you?’
He chewed on that. ‘Do you think people will give me the benefit of the doubt, then?’ And after asking that he worried it might make him look pathetic.
‘I think people are … curious.’
‘Ah, right. So what are the gossips saying?’
‘My mum knew your mum.’ Suzy paused. ‘Not that my mum’s a gossip.’ She made a face. ‘Says she was a couple of years above her at the academy. Doesn’t remember too much about her, to be honest. Said she was nice.’
Ranald nodded. That was what people did to show that they were listening, wasn’t it?
‘And everyone was impressed she ran away with the artist guy and gave up on all that money.’
That artist guy.
Dad.
Ranald felt his breath shorten. He saw his parents again in that bed, but this time with the knowledge of how they had ended up there. A noise sounded in his throat, like a throttled hiccup. Then he felt a flare of panic. He needed to get out of here. He put his hand out to the door and scrabbled at the handle.
‘Sorry, Suzy. Could you just let me off? I’ve just remembered I need to…’
‘Oh, right,’ she said in a small voice, looking disappointed.
‘It’s not…’ Ran began and shook his head unable to form a complete sentence. The thoughts of his parents began to wind round new thoughts about Alexander and the supposed scandal he’d been involved in. Brows would have been fevered as that situation was discussed and dissected. Reading between the lines, Alexander had not only signed up for a war, but had avoided any relationship with women for the rest of his life, because of the kind of small-town mentality Suzy was highlighting. Ranald felt claustrophobic at the idea of it. ‘Could you just…’ He looked ahead. ‘Right here will do.’ He tapped loudly on the dashboard. ‘Please.’
She drew in to the side of the road. He opened the door.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, without looking at her he jumped out.
Such was his need to get away from Suzy, his movement along the road was half walk, half run. Almost out of breath he slowed up and found that he was outside the barber’s he had seen from her car.
He’d said to himself he’d have a haircut, hadn’t he? That’s what normal, everyday people did. He needed to be normal and everyday.
He read the sign above the door – Dan and Stan’s. Heart still thumping and breath still short, he pushed it open with a jangle. All the heads inside turned towards him and Ran felt himself shrink from their judgement, then they all went back to whatever they were doing – watching TV, reading newspapers, cutting hair. Both chairs were occupied, two barbers standing beside their customers. Another three men waited on the bench along the wall. Everything was calm. He was safe. The smell of the products and quiet buzz of the clippers was almost soothing.
‘Have a seat, mate,’ said the barber closest to the window. ‘It’s goin’ like a fair the day.’
Two of the men on the bench bunched closer together to create space for Ranald to sit down. He nodded his thanks, sat and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as if that would diminish his presence. He was the son of a murderer. Did someone in this room know it? Did everyone? He shook himself and tried to focus on something other than his thoughts.
Both of the barbers had cropped grey hair. One had a full lumberjack beard and was skinny, while the other was clean-shaven and looked like he spent a lot of time in the gym.
Ranald worked out from the conversation that the muscular guy was Dan and guessed that his thin colleague must be Stan. The latter cut hi
s customer’s hair in silence while Dan kept up a monologue that was funny and camp and interspersed weirdly into the corrosive chatter in Ranald’s head.
The word loser was still being chanted in his mind when he felt a nudge from the old man beside him. ‘On you go, son. I’ve got all day. You’ve probably got a thousand more exciting things to do than me.’
‘Hey,’ said Ranald and took the seat in front of Dan.
‘You’re new,’ said Dan, sizing him up.
‘Just moved in.’
Dan stood behind him and looked down at his hair. ‘Did they no’ have barbers where you came from?’ Wink. Then a smile. ‘Just pulling your leg.’ He began to run his fingers through Ranald’s hair, pulling the strands high off his head, measuring where the cuts might be placed. ‘What you for havin’? Want to keep it longish? Want to go soldier-boy crew cut?’
‘Leave the man alone,’ said Stan. His voice was deep, as if he grated his voice box every morning and smoked cigars of an evening. ‘He’s new. You need to break him in gently.’
‘Oh, I’ll break him in gently awright,’ said Dan as he stood back, crossed his massive arms and studied Ranald’s hair.
Ranald gave a shrug. He’d only ever gone into the barber’s for a trim. And it usually ended up in the same formless cut. In the mirror he caught sight of a line of framed photographs on the far wall. Headshots of young men with a variety of styles, but he felt unable to suggest what Dan could do to his hair. It was suddenly beyond him to make this simple choice.
‘Just whatever you think,’ Ranald said.
‘Short back and sides. Long layers on top,’ said Dan as he fingered Ranald’s hair. ‘That will suit your face shape and that strong, masculine jaw.’
‘Don’t be fooled, mate,’ Stan shouted over. ‘When we leave here at night, he’s as butch as a builder.’
‘How very dare you,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve got a reputation to live down to, here.’ He picked up the protective cape, placed it round Ran’s shoulders and got to work.
Ran closed his eyes and focused all his attention on stopping himself jumping up and running out, still wearing the cape and his hair half cut.
A while later, the job was done and mirror was presented to the back of Ranald’s head so he could nod and accept Dan’s handiwork.
When Dan whipped off the cape, Ranald rubbed at the back of his neck. It had been a while since the skin there was bare to the air.
‘Thanks,’ said Ranald. ‘What do I owe you?’
He paid at the till and included a generous tip.
Dan winked his thanks. ‘You’re the new boy in Newton Hall, aren’t you?’ He asked. And before Ranald could confirm the fact he continued: ‘You settling in all right?’
‘Aye, fine.’ Ranald turned to fetch his jacket.
‘Shame you don’t have that long to enjoy the place, eh?’
Ranald swung back round in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I thought…’ Dan looked taken aback by Ranald’s reaction. ‘Or, I should say, I heard that when the old boy died the family were going to sell to a developer who was going to turn the place into luxury flats.’
So, everyone in the town was gossiping about him. ‘You heard wrong,’ said Ranald. ‘I inherited it from the old boy and the family trust stipulates that the house and the library are to remain intact.’
‘Shame,’ said Stan. ‘I heard one of the other big houses up your way went through something similar. The owners made millions.’
Ranald bit down on his irritation and left the shop without another word.
He was already a few steps along the road when he heard a voice behind him.
‘Haud oan, son. I’m trying to have a word with you here.’
He stopped and turned. It was the old man who’d let him go for a haircut before him. And only then did he realise he was the old man he’d bumped into outside the house on his first day there. He hadn’t recognised him without the flat cap.
‘So you are one of the Fitzpatricks.’ The man said, rubbing the back of his neck, as if annoyed the barber hadn’t got rid of all of the hair clippings. ‘Now that you’ve got that haircut…’ He studied Ranald’s face for a moment. ‘Aye. I can see him in you. I used to see Alexander tripping around the town like he owned it. Bit of a prick, to be honest.’
Ranald wanted to defend his uncle, instead he hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
‘Once he got back from the army he was a different guy. But as a younger man he was up his own arse.’
‘That’s an accusation that could be aimed at any one of us, Mr…’
‘Welsh. Ken Welsh.’ He offered Ranald his hand.
‘Ranald.’
They shook.
‘Aye…’ Ken began to walk along the pavement in the direction of the Cross, so Ranald kept pace with him. ‘So they managed to rein you back in?’
‘They did,’ Ranald answered, wondering where he was going with that comment.
‘I wonder how your mum would feel about that.’
Wanting to tell him to mind his own business, Ranald said, ‘I knew nothing about her family growing up, so I had no reason not to accept the place when it was offered to me.’
A hearse drove past. An arrangement of flowers read “Son” on top of the coffin. The car that followed was a long, sleek limousine. Three people with black jackets and short white hair sat in the back, staring straight ahead. Ranald looked from the car to Ken Welsh and back again. He seemed to pay it no attention. Hadn’t he seen it?
‘True, son. True.’ Ken slowly shook his head. ‘Good job we don’t know what’s in front of us, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows, signalling he had seen the car. So, it wasn’t just in Ranald’s mind.
‘It’s a small place this,’ Ken went on. ‘Folk have got long memories. Best not stir them up again.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Ranald could barely contain his frustration now. He felt like shaking the old man, insisting that if he had something to say he should just say it.
‘Your mum was in my niece’s year at school. She was a nice lass. Not stuck-up like the rest of your family. I’m surprised she didn’t leave you something to explain…’ Ken slowed down as he reached a small Ford. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
‘Why don’t you explain, Mr Welsh?’
‘Not my place, son.’ He opened his car door. ‘Not my place.’
Back at the house, Ranald made straight for the pool. He didn’t really have the energy, but it was a good habit and one he should try to maintain.
As he swam he fought to contain the mash of anxiety in his head and reviewed his meeting with Quinn, feeling a little pleasure at the way he’d handled the man. Aim for small victories, his psychiatrist once advised. His thoughts soon turned to Dan the barber and his take on the gossip about the house. If he sold it off as Dan suggested, and the trust made millions on the deal, how much might his slice be?
He swam a couple of lengths of the pool in a daydream, fantasising about what he could do with that amount of money. As he touched the wall of the pool and turned, though, he realised that, materially, he already had everything he had ever wanted. So, what would be the point of selling up? And wouldn’t he be betraying Alexander if he did such a thing?
Considering poor old Alexander led Ranald quickly to the ‘scandal’ Quinn had mentioned. How could he find out what that was? And what about Ken Welsh? What the hell was that all about? Why hadn’t he just come out and said what was on his mind?
He dived under the water, and as he resurfaced, the image of Suzy just before he got out of her car came to him; her crestfallen expression. She was worried she had offended him. Everyone he’d spoken to that day had shared some sort of gossip about his family with him. He’d felt annoyed, panicked, even.
Perhaps the idea that Alexander had fled the country because of all the talk was something he could identify with; he’d certainly had his fill of gossips t
oday. And how sad was it that Alexander had withdrawn from society and never met another woman?
He made another turn at the end of the pool. He should have asked Suzy for her number. Then he could have phoned her, told her he was an idiot and not to pay any attention to his strange moods. He should be fostering any friendships he could, not turning people away. No wonder he had no friends.
Tired from the swim, he climbed out and lay on one of the loungers. He began to feel drowsy and considered getting dressed and doing some work, but he couldn’t be bothered. And yet the rest of the day and evening stretched ahead of him like a featureless landscape. Not for the first time he wondered at his own capacity for acting in his own worst interest. Work was surely the best antidote for loneliness, but here he was avoiding it, wallowing in his feelings of isolation.
His breathing slowed as he felt his body relaxing into sleep.
And what seemed like a moment later, she was there.
But this time she was snarling. Her teeth were large and sharp and stained with blood, ribbons of flesh stuck between them.
Ranald jumped up, out of his sleep, shouting a horrified ‘No!’ Adrenaline was sparking in his every cell.
‘Again, you betray me,’ he heard.
And then she receded. Her absence as final as a door being slammed.
And despite his revulsion at what looked like pieces of raw meat hanging from her mouth, he couldn’t help but send out the message to her: Please, no. I need you here.
23
He heard the front doorbell ringing in the distance.
‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, although there was no way anyone at the door could hear him. Without bothering to make sure he was completely dry, he stepped into his boxers and jeans and pulled his t-shirt over his head. As he walked towards the door he tucked it into his waistband. But when he got to the door and saw who it was, he wished he hadn’t bothered.
House of Spines Page 16