I was in the back of the hall when you graduated and I sneaked into the back of the church when you got married. Each time I wanted nothing more than to walk up and introduce myself, but my own shy nature and lack of courage would not allow me too. Instead, I watched on from a distance, with pride squeezing my heart. It’s a wonder you didn’t hear me sob.
But enough of my emotional outpourings and on to the matter at hand. You will by now know of my library and I hope and pray that you have enjoyed being in that space as much as I enjoyed creating it. I did so partly with you in mind, and I hope that you might enjoy for years to come the haven it provides.
If you are reading this letter, then, as I feared it might happen, that haven is under threat.
You might ask why I didn’t make the conditions of the trust tighter – impossible to breach. My reason may well yet prove to be foolish, but I wanted you to have a choice. You have been such a slave of life’s misfortunes, Ranald, I wanted you to eventually have an element of control, even if the choice this control delivered meant the breaking up of the one thing I hold dear.
Your cousins, Marcus and Rebecca, are the other beneficiaries of my will. They each benefit handsomely, although I fear their distinct lack of moral fibre will mean my bequests are wasted. My gift to them comes from duty. They are family and for the Fitzpatricks that connection is paramount (another reason your grandmother found it difficult to forgive your mother for walking away).
My gift to you, however, comes from a place of affection and I hope that reading this letter you come to see that affection as being very real indeed.
To the point, dear Ranald. As I write, I am aware of your cousins’ financial difficulties and I am also aware of both their hope that they might inherit this house, and their plans for what they would do with it. (They have forgotten all about you, and I don’t plan to remind them. I’ll leave that to the reading of the will, which, if you forgive my indulgence, gives me a moment of pleasure in its consideration.)
I warn you that they will do what they can to persuade you to join in their project. And I pray that this warning is not diminished in any way as it moves from my mind on to the page. William’s offspring are my family, but they inherited none of his charm and all of his venereal, wasteful ways.
William was a terrible, terrible man. An affront to the grand Fitzpatrick name. He even claimed to have had relations with another member of the family, but I paid that no credence whatsoever. The man would have said and done anything to get a reaction out of me.
I will draw a line there, Ranald. There is only so much I can commit to paper before my guilt at this betrayal – I acknowledge the contradiction with a faint smile – stops me from continuing. I must sign and seal this letter before I reconsider and tear it up.
The word ‘apology’ is a collection of letters, an arrangement of syllables. A word that I fear comes nowhere near to explaining the sense of responsibility and sorrow I feel when I think about how our family has failed you. The library and the house is my way of redressing that balance, giving you a home, a haven and the security that you have lacked for most of your adult life.
With love and affection (and some tears)
Alexander Fitzpatrick
29
Ranald read the letter again. And again. He imagined his uncle leaning over the desk, writing the letter, his face full of concentration as he carefully chose his words.
He followed the lines of the man’s signature, wishing he knew enough of the science of handwriting to glean from it any of the signs of his uncle’s character. Following that thought he reflected that the letter itself was full of clues.
Several words and sentences echoed in his mind. ‘Venereal’. Sexually indulgent – was that what Alexander was suggesting? Was he referring to William and his mother? He all but discounted it in his letter, though. So did William have a series of scandalous encounters with women?
The door behind him opened, the base brushing over the thick carpet. Footsteps, a cough and Quinn took his seat on the other side of the desk.
‘You’ve read the letter, Mr McGhie?’
Ranald nodded.
‘Your thoughts?’
‘I…’ Ranald shook his head. ‘I can…’ He coughed as if trying to free the words, and as he did so he knew this was a betrayal of his uncle and his intentions. ‘I can use the proceeds to buy another, smaller house, but one that still has enough space for all the books.’
‘Would that be the same, Mr McGhie?’
‘They’d be safe. And still be together as a collection.’
‘Right,’ said Quinn.
Ranald studied him, looking for some sort of absolution. Permission.
‘I’m not here to offer an opinion, Mr McGhie. I’m simply here to pass on my client’s instructions and to record the result. And to enable what comes next.’
‘Yeah, but you’re looking at me like I’m a piece of shit.’
He wasn’t, but Ranald needed to strike out. He knew he was in the wrong, but was tired of constantly aiming his scorn against his own life inwards.
Quinn was too smart to be affected by Ranald’s words, though. ‘You have two days to consider the words of your great-uncle,’ he said. ‘A meeting has been called by the other signatories to the trust: Marcus, Rebecca and myself. That’s when we will all vote for the motion to change and sign the necessary papers if that is required.’
‘You’re also a signatory, Mr Quinn?’ Ranald asked.
A nod.
‘You don’t need me, then, do you?’ This was great, this could happen without Ranald betraying Alexander. ‘You just vote along with my cousins, and the developers can move in.’
‘That’s assuming I think that is the right thing to happen.’
This was a surprise. Ranald assumed Quinn and Marcus were as thick as thieves.
‘You’re going to vote against it?’ asked Ranald.
‘The trust states a majority vote is required. You, Marcus and Rebecca will be enough to carry the motion regardless of what I think should happen.’
Ranald stared at Quinn, trying to get a sense of which way the man might vote, but the lawyer’s face was as blank as a mask.
Ranald pushed himself to his feet and as he did so, noticed the weakness in his thighs. Even his body was telling him this was wrong.
‘One last question, Mr McGhie. As you know, Alexander did not trust Marcus and Rebecca. Can you confirm that whatever you decide to do is your own free will? Your cousins haven’t offered you any enticements?’
Ranald stared at the top of the desk. He wanted to say there was no need for enticements – he had managed to mess everything up all on his own. For a blink of a moment he considered coming clean. But then he imagined himself in a jail cell waiting to be tried for murder. He shuddered.
‘No.’
Before Quinn could say anything else, he left the office.
Walking in the front door of the house he immediately felt himself relax. He hadn’t realised he was apprehensive about being away from these walls until he came back inside them and felt an easing.
This was home. At last.
Just a short time ago he was anxious about walking in that door. All this space had served only to highlight his aching sense of loneliness and the lack of people in his life. Now – was it the drugs, or was he growing into the place? Whatever it was he should access this new feeling, for the good of his health. Grab a blanket and a book and go into the lift for a little reading session.
And the thought of what he was about to do came crashing down on him.
He made his way through to the library as if he was dragging a block of concrete behind him and sat behind the desk. He fired up his laptop to check his emails, trying to ignore his feeling of discomfort. What choice did he have? Sell the house or go to prison … it was no choice at all.
But he did kill someone. Didn’t he? He had prodded at the memory but nothing came back to him. At the least he was complicit in someone’s
death. He should be punished for that.
The first email was from his agent: ‘Still on holiday?’
He ignored it and hoped the fact that it had gone unanswered was all that was needed.
The next email was from an address he didn’t recognise. There was an attachment, and despite his best intentions – it would have gone straight to his spam box if it was in anyway dodgy, right? – he clicked it open.
It was the image he’d last seen on Marcus’s phone. Poor Liz in the foreground and him, clearly there, behind her. He jerked his seat back from his desk, as if to get away from the picture.
Fuck.
He did that. Whatever happened in that conservatory a woman was dead, and he was a worthless piece of shit. He crossed his arms, held himself tight. He deserved nothing good. Should he just give himself up to the police?
Ranald saw himself in a prison cell. An aluminium toilet in one corner, a snarling cellmate in another with a shank in his hand, bars in the small head-height window and nothing but grey skies beyond.
He didn’t have a choice, did he? He had to sign the papers.
Anxiety making his body tremble, he stood up. Unable to stay in one place, he wandered through to the kitchen and absentmindedly began to make coffee – for want of something to occupy his hands. As he waited for the kettle to boil he had a thought: this email from Marcus – who else could have sent it? – had arrived just when he got back home from talking to Quinn about saving the house and stopping the development.
Was Quinn in on it? How else would Marcus know to terrorise him on this particular morning?
And what about the developers – were they in on the act, too? He realised he didn’t know the first thing about the company – what was its name … McIntyre? He needed to know more about what was actually happening with the project. But how could he find out?
He slapped his forehead. Of course, Marcus had given him a folder with all the particulars. Refusing to look at it, Ranald could remember throwing it down on the flower table in the hall. How long ago was that? It seemed a different age.
Mrs Hackett chose that moment to walk past the doorway. He got up from his chair and chased after her.
She turned when she heard him, looking at him as if assessing his state of mind. ‘I’m just about to finish for the day, Ranald. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a folder,’ Ranald said. ‘Last I saw it, it was on the table in the hall.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Hackett said, her mouth pursed in disapproval. Then she gathered herself. ‘It’s still there, Ranald. Now, I must go. Danny will be waiting for me.’
Ranald blinked at the mention of Danny, realising he hadn’t seen him for … how long? Since the day he’d got rid of Liz’s body. Was Danny avoiding him? How had he been affected by having such a job to do? He’d have to be a pretty callous bastard to dispose of a human being like that. When he looked at Danny, Ranald always got the feeling of a man who knew his place in life. He was a servant and took pride in doing a good job. Like his wife, he was loyal to the family. But that kind of action was beyond loyalty. What was Ranald missing? Was Danny more than the humble gardener? Or did Marcus have some kind of hold over the Hacketts?
As Ranald walked to the hall he thought about Mrs Hackett’s reaction to his question. She wasn’t happy with him. Or, to be fair, she was even less happy with him than she normally was. He needed to get to the bottom of that. Things were bad enough without losing her support.
Sure enough, the file was on the table. He wondered whether Mrs Hackett had read it. Why shouldn’t she? She was bound to be curious. This was going to affect her as well.
Back in the library he sat down at the desk and opened the folder. It contained lots of paper. With lots of diagrams. Most of it was meaningless at first, but his mind slowly made the shapes on the pages correspond with the house as it stood.
His bedroom and the other rooms off that corridor made up one apartment, as did the rooms below. The pool was to be given an extension, turning that area into a two-bedroomed apartment.
He turned over the page and studied the one below it. This was of the gardens. There, at the side, it looked like the garage would be converted into a mews cottage and in the far corner a block of four apartments, two storeys high.
He positioned that in his mind, turned in his seat and looked out of the window.
But that apartment block was where the Hackett’s cottage was. Where were they going to go? Had Marcus made them an offer they couldn’t refuse?
Was that why Mrs Hackett was being more off-hand with him?
Ranald closed the file and pushed it away from him, shaking his head. He needed answers. There was too much going on here that he knew nothing about.
How to get those answers? It wasn’t like he could phone Marcus and demand to know if he was planning on putting them all out of their homes.
Oh, come on, that was stuff and nonsense. It was as if he heard Great-Uncle Alexander in his head. That was something he might have said. And he would have had a point. Admit it, Ran, he thought, all this crap about some grand plan of Marcus’s was displacement. He sighed; he knew his mind was seeking a target, someone to focus on, someone else who could be a villain; someone – anyone – who could replace the crushing thought that he was a killer.
Seeking a way to corral the crazy in his head, Ranald pulled Alexander’s letter out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. Smoothing the paper out with his palm, he read it again. He imagined seeing an old man, hunched in the last pew of the church. He sent him a smile of thanks and saw his uncle’s eyes twinkle in response.
He sat back in his chair, shaking his head at his whimsy.
Looked back down at the letter. How could he keep the house and satisfy his uncle’s wishes, without going to jail?
Wasn’t that what he deserved? For probably the thousandth time, he cast his mind back to that afternoon. The last he remembered of Liz was her heading over to the showers. Then he fell asleep. Next thing he knew Danny was shaking him awake.
What really happened in the interim?
He had been sleepwalking. Had he struck Liz in his sleep? That kind of thing happened, didn’t it? Was he a murderer? He crossed his arms, as if protecting himself from the thought. He didn’t have a violent bone in his body. Even when he was a kid, he walked away from every fight. He couldn’t remember ever striking anyone. So, why would he do it now, in his sleep?
Her.
Had she affected him somehow? She was clearly jealous of any thoughts he might have of another woman. Had she – could she – influence his behaviour in that way?
Ranald planted his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead on the heels of his palms. He stayed like this for a long moment. The drugs were keeping the worst of his emotions at bay, but still, he needed answers.
How could he get them when he wasn’t even sure what the questions were?
He had to do something. Sitting around the house under the combined weight of his guilt over Liz’s murder and the subsequent part he had to play in Newton Hall being sold was too much for him to bear. He should either increase his prescription or go looking for answers. On top of what he now knew about his mother, what was his family history? Who exactly were these people? He thought about the old man at the barbers’ – Ken Welsh. Ranald was in no doubt that he had some opinion about the Fitzpatricks. And was it a coincidence that wherever Ranald went, Ken seemed to be nearby? Surely it wouldn’t take much to get him to talk. Before he knew it he was shrugging himself into a jacket and was on his way to Dan and Stan’s.
Once there, he was pleased the place was all but empty. He was directed towards Dan’s seat with a grin. He looked around himself, noticed a Halloween display in the window. It was nearly the end of October already?
‘What can I do you for?’ Dan asked.
‘Same again, please.’
Dan reached for his water bottle and sprayed Ranald’s hair. ‘I suppose one hairstyle chan
ge every ten years is enough, eh?’
‘The old guy who was in here the last time I was in…’ Ran said, getting straight to the point.
Dan stopped spraying and looked at him in the mirror. ‘Old guy?’
‘Aye, he let me go before him. Said he was in no rush.’
Dan stared off into memory. Sifted. Sorted. ‘Oh, aye. Mr Welsh? What about him?’
‘Is he all right?’
Dan looked surprised by the question. ‘As all right as any of the old duffers that come in here.’
Stan sent a look of warning across the room. ‘That’s our bread and butter you’re talking about, mate.’
Dan waved a hand in the air, dismissing Stan’s comment. ‘They know I’m only joking.’ He gave Ranald a look in the mirror that said, I’m not joking. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said to Ranald.
‘Just something he said to me about my family.’
Dan nodded slowly. ‘If anyone knows anything about folk in this area it’s old Ken Welsh. He’s like a walking community notice board.’ He began to snip at Ranald’s hair.
‘Not much of a notice board if he wouldn’t give me any details.’
‘The thing with people like that’ – Dan waggled his comb at Ranald – ‘is to pretend you’re not that bothered hearing about the gossip he has. It will drive him nuts. Then he feels he has to tell you everything.’
How on earth could he manage to do that? Ranald wondered.
‘Talk to him about something he might be interested in and see if the conversation develops from there,’ suggested Dan.
‘First, I just need to engineer a meeting with him that will feel random.’
Dan pointed towards the window. ‘I see him popping in across the road, into The Station. He’s in there almost every day.’ He turned to look at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s just gone two pm. He’s usually in there about four. Must be for a wee pre-dinner snifter.’
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