‘I didn’t…’ Did he? He thought about his mother, and crossed his arms against his fear that in this, he was his mother’s son.
‘Sit your arse down.’
Ranald did as he was told.
‘If you don’t go back on the drugs, I will have you committed.’
‘What?’ Ranald jumped to his feet so sharply, his chair clattered to the floor behind him.
Marcus crossed his arms. ‘You were found sleeping in the lift. You were seen walking naked in the garden and through the house. You’ve been heard talking to yourself. And today, one of my friends in town phoned me to say they’d seen you step in front of a van. With your medical history and all of that, there’s enough evidence to commit you to a mental institution.’
‘You utter, utter bastard.’
‘And you’ve been sectioned before.’
So he knew all of this?
‘Sit down, Ranald. I know everything about you…’
‘You complete—’
‘Now.’
Ranald sat down again.
Marcus smiled as if he was preparing to deliver his coup de grâce. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. No prison. No loony bin. Instead, your mental state will be managed by the proper medication. We will find you other lodgings, large enough to house all those fucking books and you can lose yourself in them well past your dotage.’
‘What a minute. What about the house?’
‘The developers are waiting to begin work. They will be here by the end of the year. All we need to do is get things in motion. You will sign the necessary forms and authorise the trust—’
‘I won’t do it. I’ll not do it.’
Marcus slammed the palm of his hand on the table. ‘You. Will. Fucking. Do. It. You murdering little shit.’ He lifted up his phone. Turned it around and showed the screen to Ranald. It showed Liz’s body in the pool and Ranald, slack on the lounger in the far corner.
How the hell did the cold bastard have the presence of mind to take this photo after walking in on what appeared to be a dead body?
As if he read Ranald’s mind, Marcus said. ‘I’ve been at lots of murder scenes. Seen lots of dead bodies.’ He paused a beat. ‘And I’m always working an angle, cousin.’ He put his phone back down on the table. ‘I’ve not seen anything yet that fazes me.’
Ranald fought for a solution. Tried to force his mind to think, but all he could see was Liz … lifeless. He felt the emotion build. Bit down on his lip. Didn’t want his prick of a cousin to see him any weaker.
‘Think about it, Ranald.’ Marcus tried to adopt a more conciliatory tone. ‘You’ll receive a fair share of the proceeds – enough to buy a house that can accommodate you and all of our mad great-uncle’s books, and give you a small annual income on the side. The drugs will keep your murderous rage under control. And in this space’ – he held out his arms – ‘a beautiful development will be built.’
Ranald sagged in his chair. Alexander’s library would be lost. Which, in the grand scheme of things, hurt him, but it paled against the knowledge that he may have inherited a sick woman’s impulses.
Liz was dead.
Could he really be a murderer, like his mother?
Marcus tapped the back of his phone. ‘We will have the papers drawn up straight away. And just in case you change your mind, the wine bottle and glasses have been preserved in a safe place. Lots of lovely DNA there. We have the photo here and we can release the exact location of the car and the body.’ With a triumphant look he sat back in his chair.
Ranald felt a flare of rage. In that moment, he thought he might well be capable of another murder. He imagined himself reaching into the kitchen drawer, pulling out a bread knife and slashing it across Marcus’s throat.
The image took his breath away.
‘You will sign the papers, cousin, won’t you?’ Marcus asked, his tone level.
‘Fuck off,’ replied Ranald, but it was an empty gesture. Nothing but a last act of defiance. He had no other way out of this situation.
27
Mrs Hackett sat in the doctor’s reception area with Ranald while they were waiting to see the GP. She’d been adamant that he leave his usual practice and join one that was more local to them. He was in too fragile a state to argue.
‘You don’t think I did it, do you?’ he whispered to her, yet again, before his name was called. ‘I couldn’t … I wouldn’t…’ Who was he trying to convince?
‘It doesn’t matter what I think, son. I’m here to serve the family I’ve served all my days.’
‘I didn’t do it, Mrs H, I promise you.’ As if to reinforce his argument, he placed his hand on top of hers. With a barely disguised shudder, she snatched it away.
‘It will all be fine, Ranald,’ she murmured. ‘Once you’re back on the medication, you’ll be your old self once again.’ The cheer in her voice was false.
A buzzer sounded and his name popped up on the announcement screen.
The doctor was a young, Asian guy with designer stubble and a huge Adam’s apple.
‘What can I do for you, Mr McGhie?’
Ranald nodded. Thought about saying, I think I might have killed someone. Instead he said nothing and stared at the patterns in the wood of the doctor’s desk.
‘Mr McGhie?’
The doctor might be young but he already had that deep, soothing voice to which patients would respond.
‘I was on some stuff at my last doctor’s and … I came off it without, you know, checking it was okay to do so.’
‘Right.’ The doctor sucked on his lower lip. He swivelled in his chair and faced his computer screen. ‘Let’s see…’ Pause. ‘Yup, your records have been transferred across.’ He read quietly. ‘You were on…’ He read out a couple of scientific-sounding names that Ranald vaguely recognised. He’d always been in denial about his condition and invested as little time as possible in his own care.
‘Why did you come off them?’
Ranald shrugged a ‘dunno’. Wrists resting on his lap, he used the nail on his right index finger to dig dirt from behind his left thumbnail. He quickly realised that this made him look like a recalcitrant schoolboy and sat on both hands. He looked squarely at the doctor. He was a grown-up, for crying out loud. Why was he reverting to this childhood state?
‘New situation,’ he answered. ‘New house. Some security? I didn’t think I needed them any longer.’
‘What was the effect?’
‘A mix of stuff. I saw things and I was incredibly, you know … horny.’ His memory served up a memory of him making love to Liz, followed by her dead body; he nearly gagged. The thought came to him that he’d never be able to do that again. If he did, might he also kill? Was his lust and the killing linked? The sooner Marcus sold the house and he bought a little cottage in a forest somewhere, the better. Preferably a forest no one ever visited.
The doctor was saying something else. Ranald refocused. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘A return of libido is quite normal for a young man of your age. When you say you saw things, what do you mean?’
The woman in the mirror.
Could he say the words out loud?
‘Ghosts and stuff. It was quite scary.’
‘Have you been sleeping okay?’
‘On and off,’ replied Ranald. ‘Some nights like a baby. Some nights I sleepwalk, and some nights I can’t sleep at all.’
The doctor made some reassuring noises. Then he read from the screen. ‘According to your hospital notes you were diagnosed with bipolar and hospitalised after a manic episode that saw you on top of a roof…’
…Thinking he could fly, and Ranald felt a stab of resentment that the doctor would bring that up, but he knew the guy was reading all of this out to remind him that if he let things get away from him, the next journey up onto the roof might end very differently.
‘…it also says you suffered from hypersomnia and insomnia. Agitation…’ Ranald stopped listening. He didn’t need to
hear this. ‘… episodes of psychosis … displayed evidence of suggestibility.’ The doctor paused, clearly noting that Ranald was distracted. ‘If you take one thing from this meeting, it’s that you should never go cold turkey with these drugs. You need to taper your way off them.’ He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. There were a couple of hairs growing out of it that he obviously missed each time he shaved. Ranald stared at it. It had to be better than the mess going on in his head. The doctor continued. ‘There is a lot of evidence that stopping and starting your meds actually makes your condition worse. It can dramatically shorten the time between episodes.’
‘So, anyway,’ Ranald said, ‘I need to go back on them.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Soon as, please.’
‘Any other symptoms of withdrawal?’
‘I get very fucking annoyed, doctor.’ He quickly reined his frustration in, forcing a laugh. ‘Mood swings. Anxiety. You name it. I’m a basket case.’
‘Not so, Mr McGhie. These drugs contain powerful compounds. Anyone would find themselves reacting like that if they came off them without proper management.’ His tone was supportive.
Aye, but, would they murder someone?
Ranald didn’t say it, even though, just for a moment, he wanted to. Perhaps then the doctor would phone the police and he would pay for what he’d done. He shouldn’t get away with it. The family of that poor woman would be sick with worry. What would her husband be thinking?
All of this remained firmly locked behind his tongue, though, like ground glass in his throat. He deserved to pay, but he didn’t have the moral courage to make sure it happened.
‘I was saying…’ the doctor raised his voice slightly ‘…two months’ course for now. Get you back on an even keel.’ He paused. ‘No thoughts about self-harming?’
‘No.’ He realised as he said the word that he was nodding. ‘I did step in front of a moving van. But that was just cos I forgot to look,’ he lied.
‘Happens to the best of us, Mr McGhie.’
The doctor typed. Clicked his mouse and a completed prescription came out of a small printer at the side of his computer. He signed it and handed it over to Ranald.
‘And I’ll refer you back to your mental health practitioner to get you back into some good habits, okay?’
Mrs Hackett was waiting for him at the front door of the surgery.
‘These places make me nervous,’ she said to Ranald when he walked up to her. ‘God knows what germs there are.’ Her expression softened. ‘Ready to go home?’
Ranald nodded, trying to work out how she was feeling about him. One minute she seemed scared to even look at him. The next she was as solicitous as a new mother.
At the chemist, while he was waiting for his pills to be handed over, he bought a bottle of water, so he could take the first dose immediately. The sooner the mess in his head was silenced, the better, he thought.
By the time he got home, the early sedative effect of his pills was taking hold. He walked in the door, his chin almost on his chest. He made for the stairs, wanted to say, he’d just go to his room, but the words were beyond him. When he got to the top, he remembered this was why he usually took these pills at bedtime.
He made his way to the side of the bed and allowed himself to fall forwards onto the mattress, from there managing to worm his way up to the pillows.
He closed his eyes and allowed the pills to work their magic. This was a world where nothing happened. Nothing could go wrong. Every thought was edged in cotton wool. Each word bandaged with care.
He opened and closed his mouth, and realised how dry it was already. He considered going to the bathroom for a glass of water. In a minute, he thought, turning on his side and pulling his knees up to his chest.
Here he was safe. Warm and dry. He could wait out the world. Pretend nothing had happened. No Liz. No dead body.
No her, he thought, with a pang of missing.
28
The next few weeks passed in a haze. Everything came at him as if from a distance. As if it was happening to someone else and he, the owner of his body, was sidelined. Food tasted either of cardboard or nothing at all, and he wouldn’t have bothered eating if Mrs Hackett hadn’t prepared each meal and then sat with him until he had eaten at least part of it.
Soup was a good choice, she said to him one day. And look, she added, you barely needed to chew.
Which was a bonus. Chewing took effort.
He passed his days lying on a Chesterfield sofa in the library. Picking a book – making that sort of decision – was beyond him. Instead, he lay among them and pretended they were whispering down at him. Laying a carpet of soothing words over the soft mush of his mind.
Work was beyond him, so he emailed his agent a short message. He wrote ‘On holiday’ in the subject line and hoped that would be enough. Clarity of thought and the ability to express ideas – they really were on holiday; but explaining that was outwith his ken.
Thoughts of his parents regularly popped into his head. They were the reason he first went on the pills. Such a lot of grief for such a young mind to handle, his doctor had said. He was an older man, close to retirement, lined and worn down by his service to the community. Ranald often thought of putty when he looked at him. Wanted to push his finger into the man’s cheek to see how long the indentation stayed there.
He thought about the moment he found his parents. Now, under the influence of a chemical removal from emotion, he was willing to prod the memory.
His mother did that.
And she had a baby with her brother. Ranald knew Marcus was lying about the two of them being brothers … but even that thought was simply another stone on the dark path he walked down.
Here he was keeping up the family’s murderous tradition.
But the further he went, the more he realised that the sadness he felt was now only vague, as if his parents’ sudden deaths were no more than a shame. A shitty thing to happen. Perhaps the truth was that he was still that emotionally inarticulate young man, frozen in that moment, unable to deal with what had happened. Unaware of his stuckness – as a self-help book Martie bought for him had termed it.
The good thing was, nothing much mattered anymore. The drugs saw to that.
Now and again his mind went to the body in the pool, and the thought also occurred to him that he was complicit in betraying his great-uncle’s dying wishes. But these musings were no longer accompanied by any bone-crushing guilt.
Eventually the fog began to recede a little. His emotions were still on hold, but he could function to a degree – make decisions about when to go to bed, when to get up, when to eat, what to eat. How much work to do. He’d even got back into the pool and felt the pleasure and caress of cool water the full length of his body.
One particular morning he received a phone call from Quinn.
‘Mr McGhie, I have something for you.’
‘Right,’ said Ranald. ‘How am I going to get it?’ he asked, thinking, Can’t you just stick it in the post?
‘I can’t put it in the post,’ Quinn said, as if reading Ranald’s mind. ‘The instructions are to put it directly into your hand. I have space in my diary for you this morning. A taxi will be at your door within the hour. I’ll see you when you get here.’
For the first time in a long time, Ranald dressed with some care. A dark-blue suit, pale-blue shirt and a red patterned tie. Checking himself in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognise himself. His haircut had almost grown out, the layers on the top of his head falling forwards into his eyes. And it was those eyes that struck him most. They looked haunted among the shadows of his face.
Quinn started when he saw him walk into his office.
‘The resemblance is…’ He stopped, as if remembering his own personal diktat not to exchange personal comments with clients. ‘Good to see you, Mr McGhie. Thank you for coming in.’
‘Why do you need to see me, Mr Quinn?’
‘Your great-uncle,’ Quinn began in a not
-beating-about-the-bush tone, ‘left instructions, telling me that, were you enticed into adapting the trust to allow for the sale of Newton Hall, I was to give you this.’ He opened the file on his desk and lifted out a small brown envelope. Ranald recognised the shape and colour of it. There was a pack holding similar envelopes in his desk back at the house.
His desk.
Ranald reached forwards to pick up the envelope. He looked at Quinn.
‘I believe everything you need to know is within the envelope. Mr Fitzpatrick was a highly articulate man. I’ve no doubt you’ll understand everything he wants you to.’ Quinn stood up. ‘I’m to leave you here to read it, so I can … assess your … temperature once you’ve digested the contents.’ And with that, Quinn left the room.
There was a small, silver paper knife on the desk. Ranald picked it up and used it to slice open the envelope. The sharp, clean tearing noise seemed to echo around the large room.
He pulled out the paper and began to read.
My dear Ranald,
As I write, a clock is chiming the hour in my ear. Midnight. An illustration, just when I don’t need it, of the relentless march of time. For assuredly my time approaches, leaving me with just enough to make right some of the mistakes of my life.
One of those mistakes was not to ignore the wishes of your grandmother and take more interest in you and your development. She was a vain, proud woman, and she felt the loss of your mother (into what she argued was a deserved life of penury) very deeply. On her deathbed, she made me swear that Helena’s progeny (that was how she talked about you) would not receive any of the benefits his mother had denied him by walking out.
Deathbed promises are not something one breaches lightly, and it is only now, as my end approaches, that I feel able to follow the instincts that told me your grandmother was a bitter and lonely old woman who should have been ignored.
I did intervene when your parents died. I couldn’t sit back and watch as you struggled to deal with this. And I had to protect the reputation of the family. There is no benefit in detailing here what steps I took, but I did have occasion to meet the wonderful young woman you eventually chose as your wife, and I approved of her thoroughly.
House of Spines Page 21