‘Tea would be lovely,’ he answered.
Mrs Hackett ushered him into a small kitchen, with dark wood cupboards and a small pine table with three seats in the far corner.
‘Have a seat. The kettle is just off the boil.’ She smiled and set about making the tea. Before long he was taking a careful sip.
‘It’s not like you to come up here,’ Mrs Hackett said, as she sat down beside him.
‘Where’s Danny gone?’ Ranald asked, looking through the kitchen door into the hall.
‘He was just off on some errands,’ she explained and made a face. ‘At least that’s what he tells me. You men need your time off on your own, don’t you?’
Now that Danny had left, Ranald didn’t know what to say. On the way over from the big house he’d thought about Alexander’s letters: the story about his love affair with Jennie; going off to war and coming back to find out his love was dead. How he’d then devoted his life to protecting her spirit and keeping her company.
And how he wanted Ranald to do the same.
Ranald couldn’t deny that he relished the job. Jennie fended off his loneliness. But surely she was stopping him from forming a relationship with a real, flesh-and-blood woman. Was Jennie worth that sacrifice?
He took a sip of his tea, fighting for time. Now that he was here, could he ask Mrs Hackett about Jennie? Could he broach that subject and expect a sensible response?
‘This is lovely,’ he said, finding safe ground in the banal. He was struck by how this place felt like a home – such a contrast to all of that space and grandeur just beyond the trees.
‘My family has lived here for a long time, Ranald.’
The way she said it made Ranald start. He looked into her eyes. Was that a challenge of some sort? Something shifted in her expression and the congenial servant was back.
‘Yes,’ said Ranald, thinking he would park that and come back to it later. ‘Mrs Winters was your mother, I believe?’
Mrs Hackett sat back in her chair, taken by surprise. ‘You know about my mother?’
‘My uncle left some diaries and notebooks around the house. I found her name in them.’ He paused. ‘He mentioned you, too. He said you were great comfort to him in his later years.’
‘Why, thank you, Ranald,’ she said, placing her hand over her heart. ‘You don’t know how lovely it is to hear that.’
‘I’d really like to talk to Danny,’ Ranald said. ‘When will he be back?’ And he silently added, Is he avoiding me?
‘No idea, Ranald. He goes off on his wee trips and I see him whenever I see him.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘My husband is his own man. He likes his own space now and again. I’ve learned not to ask where he goes.’
Ranald couldn’t disguise a look of surprise.
‘Oh, he’s not doing anything dodgy,’ she went on. ‘I know that. And he always comes back in time for his tea, so where’s the harm?’
Where’s the harm? He could be off hiding more dead bodies for all she knew, Ranald thought.
‘That afternoon,’ he began. ‘What happened? How come Marcus and Danny were there?’
‘Now, now, son,’ Mrs Hackett said, reaching across the table. She placed her hand over his. ‘Now, let’s not upset ourselves. What’s done is done.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And everything is sorted.’
Something wasn’t quite right here.
‘How can you be like that? Someone – a woman – died in my pool and you’re saying, what’s done is done?’ He stood up. ‘Why aren’t you terrified of me? It could well have been me. I could have killed that poor woman.’
She looked up at him as if he was nothing more than a recalcitrant child.
‘Ranald, if there’s one thing I know it’s people. And you are not a killer.’ She looked at his chair pointedly; it was a look that said, Please, sit back down. He did.
‘Besides. It’s all taken care of. Marcus Fitzpatrick is one of the finest lawyers in the country; if this is an outcome he is happy with, then I’m happy with it, too.’
‘Your loyalty to the family goes that deeply?’ Ranald asked, wondering as he said it what she knew about William’s relationship with his mother. If she suspected even a little about that, surely it would stretch her loyalty very thin?
‘Why, yes,’ she answered, as if he was insane to think anything else.
‘I don’t understand how you can be like that. Don’t you know they take your existence for granted? Don’t you know they plan to demolish your house?’
‘Yes, well.’ She crossed her arms, her look accusatory. ‘That part of the plan has been shelved. Marcus has come up with something else. Something more suitable for all parties concerned.’
Ranald thought of the plans back on his desk. They’d been changed? Why hadn’t Marcus informed him? This was all very strange. He felt that he was missing something vital and for the life of him he couldn’t think what it might be.
‘Marcus said something that troubled me…’ He scratched at this side of his head as he considered the best way to get the information out of her. ‘About my mother and his father, William.’
‘Really? What?’ Mrs Hackett looked mystified.
Ranald studied her. He would have been surprised if anything got past her nowadays, but she had only been a young woman back then. Had she missed what was going purely through naivety?
‘Something…’ He could barely bring himself to say it. ‘Something untoward.’
She snorted and crossed her arms. ‘Why on earth would Marcus say something like that? Surely you misheard him.’
‘I heard him very clearly, Mrs Hackett.’
She looked at him as if assessing his state of mind, and he knew she was wondering if he’d only imagined Marcus saying that while he was ill. ‘Your mother and William argued a lot, like siblings often do, but I remember nothing untoward.’ She reared back in her chair as if to get away from such a strange topic and took a quick sip of her tea.
‘What else has the old fella been saying in his notebooks?’ Mrs Hackett asked, as if it was her turn to move the subject onto less contentious issues.
‘He told me about Jennie.’
‘Ah,’ she said after a long pause.
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘She was a big part of his life, Ranald. Even though she was only in it for a short time.’ Her face pinked a little as a thought moved across the screen of her eyes.
‘Have you met her, too?’ he asked.
‘Met her?’ she asked. Then, as if realising he was speaking in the present tense. ‘Met her? Good Lord, no. Your uncle was a sick man, Ranald. He imagined all sorts. If you read any more of those notebooks, please ignore them. Alexander punished himself for many, many years. Retreated from life for an absurd ideal.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my place to talk about these things, but I would hate to see you influenced by your uncle’s words.’
‘What do you know about her?’ Ranald asked.
‘Please don’t ask me this, Ranald.’
‘Did Uncle Alex fall asleep in the lift as well?’
She said nothing, placing her hand over her mouth as if to keep it shut. But almost involuntarily, she gave a tiny nod. Her eyes widened, as if that small action was a huge betrayal of a confidence.
‘Isn’t it strange that I’m doing the same things as him? I look like him. I dress like him. Doesn’t this all strike you as very, very odd?’
‘Ranald, please.’
‘These letters.’ He looked up from studying the back of his hands and stared into her eyes. ‘He told me everything about Jennie. About how he wanted to marry her. How his parents refused. And how your mother accused her of eating her own baby. How messed up is that, for God’s sake?’
Mrs Hackett studied the surface of the table.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again as if she was afraid of the words that might spill out.
Finally, she raised her eyes and stu
died his. It looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted to hug him or harm him.
She stood up. ‘Time you were away home, Mr McGhie. While you still have the place, eh?’
‘What about the mirror?’ he asked.
She paled. Her eyes large.
‘Tell me about the mirror.’
She shook her head turning away.
‘Please, Mrs H, I need to know.’
‘I told him to get rid of it, all right?’ Her voice was suddenly raised. ‘I told him. But he refused. Told me I was imagining things.’ She tutted. ‘Me, imagining things? Every now and then I’d go in the lift and give everything a dust, you know?’ She shivered. ‘Gave me the creeps. I used to hear whispers coming from it. From the mirror. Thought I was going nuts.’ She took a curious double breath as if one had got stuck in her throat. ‘One weekend, when Mr Fitzpatrick was away on business I moved it, as a kind of trial. Carried it out to the garage.’ Her eyes grew large. ‘I couldn’t believe it. I was sure Danny was playing pranks on me, but when I asked him, he looked at me like I was a crazy woman.’ She paused, her hand held over her heart as if to slow its rapid beat.
‘Next morning the mirror was back in the lift.’
33
It was the night before Ranald was due in at the lawyer’s to sign the necessary papers. He half expected another emailed image of the newly deceased Liz to appear in his inbox. Not that he needed the reminder. It was a sight that would be forever locked into memory and one he dwelt over at least once a day.
He was lying in his bed, the curtains drawn, thinking again that he should go to the police and put himself at their mercy. Let them know how Marcus had manipulated the tragedy. But, he discounted this; his cousin would find a way to make such an accusation spring back on him. He was dealing with a clever, cunning man; even if his brain had been clear enough to think and plot, he was certain Marcus would get the better of him.
What should he do?
He dismissed the question. Prison or a nice big flat in a desirable part of the city – it wasn’t much of a dilemma, he thought.
Except it was. It wasn’t so much about the books; he’d simply buy a place with enough room for all of them. No, the real dilemma centred around Jennie.
Alexander was clearly upset about the idea of her spirit somehow being uprooted. What affect would the renovations have on her? He cast his mind back to the plans. He couldn’t remember the lift being noted anywhere. In which case, it would simply be rooted out, filled in, and the space would become part of something else.
The mirror, then. Why was she focused in the mirror? Perhaps if he took that with him, he would take her along, too? Then he remembered what Mrs H said about the time she moved it. Would it then reappear in some poor buyer’s new home, just where the lift used to be?
He crossed his feet at the ankles, crossed his arms over his chest and thought about life away from this house. He felt himself grow sad. Sure, it was huge and sometimes accentuated his loneliness, but there were compensations. He would miss the place. And he realised that he would miss her.
Her presence hung in his mind and it was so real he sat up, shuffled to the end of the bed and peered out from behind the drapes. He almost expected to see her standing there, so strong was his feeling of anticipation.
Without another thought, he walked down the stairs and along to the lift. There was a book on the chair from the last time he’d sat there: The Cone Gatherers by Robin Jenkins – it was set during the Second World War in a country estate in Scotland, and he had thought the time and setting might appeal to Jennie.
He picked the book up and sat down, his naked skin retreating from the cool of the material. He considered going back upstairs for a blanket of some sort but decided against it. The day had been a warm one for this time of year
He relaxed into the seat. Felt the house grow calm around him, as if now that he was still it could settle, too. Looking into the mirror, he sent her a silent message. Then, stretching his legs out in front of him, he located the place he’d last read from, rested the book on his chest and began to read.
He snored himself awake. The book was resting on his chest, pressed there with his left hand.
He couldn’t remember falling asleep.
He’d dreamt; he could remember that. He was standing in a place he knew she loved. He couldn’t see around him as everything was clouded in a thick, comforting mist, but he knew – just knew – this was a place of quiet joy.
She was walking through the haze, waving her hand, as if clearing condensation from a window. Then she stopped and with a delicate finger drew a heart shape. Next they were sitting side by side on a park bench, hands as close as they could be without actually touching. The space between them sparked. Electric. He reached out a finger and touched hers. Her answering chuckle delighted him.
They were surrounded by children. Their children. And they all, as if given a silent cue, lay down, folded and became books.
They were on a beach and she was saying that the young master once brought her here. She loved the expanse of sand, the whitecrested waves and there … footprints. He turned and looked behind him. Nothing. Ahead, his and hers, side by side stretching off into the horizon. She gave his hand a squeeze as his mind sent her his understanding.
She was telling him that death has a wondrous shadow.
She was telling him that they would have their time.
And that time was nigh.
34
Ranald was in the chrome-encased lift in Quinn’s building, tucked into the corner, arms and legs crossed, heading up to the lawyer’s office. He had dressed with care that morning. Grey herringbone suit, white shirt and red tie. He wanted to make a point; show them how much he had changed.
And he didn’t need the drugs. He’d barely been taking them over the last week or so. He hated the way they made him feel, so the previous morning, in an act of defiance and with a sense of satisfaction, he had tipped all of the pills he could find into the toilet and flushed them away.
Whatever had happened that day to Liz, he wasn’t a murderer. It was only his delusions that helped him to take that on. There was a complete absence in his mind, when he sought answers for what happened that night. Nothing had flicked forward from deep memory. However Liz died, there was no way he was a killer. Over the years his illness had made him do, say and see strange things, but he’d never harmed another soul. Unlike his mother. He’d go along with this whole thing because, as he saw it, he had no choice; but no drugs would be his stipulation.
Just before the lift began its ascent, the door pinged open again; but his mind was so caught up in his thought he didn’t raise his eyes from his shoes to look at the couple who had entered. He could just see that they stood side by side in front of the doors.
The woman was humming a song. He heard her whisper to her friend. ‘Heard that in the car as I came here. One of my favourites.’ She began to hum again.
The man dismissed her with a loud, ‘For God’s sake.’
Ranald recognised his voice. He finally looked up. It was Marcus.
Marcus must have caught the movement in his peripheral vision because he turned and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Perhaps it was too much effort for him to actually speak, thought Ranald. You’d think, now that he was about to get everything he wanted, he would be a little more energised.
Ranald looked at the woman by Marcus’s side. Rebecca. She was wearing a bright red leather jacket, a pair of black jeans and high-heeled sandals with bare feet. He opened his mouth to address her but the lift slowed to a stop and the doors opened.
Marcus gave him a small smile as if fighting to acknowledge his moment of triumph and walked out of the lift with his sister. If she was aware that Ranald was even present, she gave no sense of it; she simply adjusted the straps of her large handbag onto the crook of her left arm and walked with Marcus along the corridor to the lawyer’s room.
Marcus pushed the door ope
n for his sister and followed her inside, Ranald behind them.
‘Ah,’ Quinn looked up from his desk. ‘Good. You are all here. Have a seat everyone.’ He gestured to the three chairs arranged in front of him.
Rebecca sat at one end and Marcus sat in the middle, leaving the seat at the other end for him.
‘Right,’ said Quinn placing his hands on the desk in front of him, either side of a manila folder. ‘We all know why we are here, so let’s get on with proceedings.’ Was Ranald imagining things or did Quinn give a slight sniff of disappointment after he said that?
‘Yes, let’s get on with it, Quinn,’ said Marcus, his voice high with excitement. ‘I have a building site to get organised.’ He rubbed his hands together.
Ranald felt another twist. He wanted to run out of the office, but his legs were leaden. The role had been chosen for him, he’d played his part to perfection and now he was reaping the dubious rewards.
Quinn was speaking, but all Ranald could see was Jennie’s face, white and silent among the shadows, the plump pale of her lower lip quivering as if emotion was contained just under the surface of her skin.
I’m sorry, my love, he sent her.
‘What did you say, Mr McGhie,’ asked Quinn.
‘Nothing,’ he mumbled. Then cleared his throat and repeated: ‘Nothing.’
‘God, he’s even talking to himself,’ said the woman at the end. Then she laughed – a loud mocking noise. Ranald’s head shot round. He recognised that sound. He’d heard that laugh before. But where?
As if aware of his scrutiny Rebecca looked across at him. Her eyes sparked from behind heavy eye make-up and a long black fringe. Her lips formed a small moue of disapproval, and her eyes flicked from him to Quinn. ‘The papers, please?’
Marcus appeared to grow nervous at his question, but when Ranald shifted his position to look away from Rebecca, he could sense his cousin relax a little. What was up with him, wondered Ranald. From the corner of his eye, he looked at his cousin and tried to assess what was going on in his mind.
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