And then another slice of recall slid in, like his brain was choosing random shots. She was there; her pale arm reaching for him; a blue thread of vein. She was beckoning. Telling him to come with her. Join her on the other side. And he had followed her, despite everything. Despite all sense and logic. Despite his mind telling him that she was simply a product of his fevered, drugged imagination, his heart had insisted she was real, and had instructed him to obey.
He had entered the water.
Then.
War and Peace girl there in the pool. Suzy. Holding his head. Saying something. Her mouth moving, but the noise coming at him as if through wool. Movies. She was saying she came round to see a movie. Or borrow a book. A fake laugh, tinged with desperation. What a shock you gave me.
Breathe, she commanded. Begged. Please breathe.
A breath.
He turned his head and she was there at his side. Curled up on the hospital armchair.
Suzy opened her eyes as if she heard his thoughts. ‘Great, you’re awake.’ She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. Then she leaned forwards and reached for his hand. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like…’ Ranald croaked. Sat up. Cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Like I swam a marathon.’
Then, as if his brain noted that he was now able to cope, it released all of his memory at once. Slapped it into the forefront of his mind. He groaned. Pushed it away. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
‘Welcome to The Death Star,’ said Suzy, and Ranald could hear note of humour in her tone, as if she was seeking the same in him. ‘The Death Star’: that was the name the citizens of Glasgow had given the colossal new hospital.
‘Something to drink?’ Suzy turned from him to the tall bedside cabinet and poured some water into a glass. She handed it to him.
Relieved that he had something to do – something that did not involve sifting through the events of that day – he accepted the glass from her, set it to his lips and drank. He savoured the cool and wet of it as it coated the inside of his mouth and slid down his throat.
But he’d have to go there, wouldn’t he? Or he’d end up back in that pool. Face down again. He took another sip.
‘It’s the simple things in life, eh? A glass of water. This is nectar.’
‘Refill?’ Suzy asked.
‘Sure. Thanks.’ He held the glass out to her, grateful for the time this afforded him. No awkward questions. No recriminations. If Martie was here…
‘I met your ex-wife,’ said Suzy, as if, again, she’d read his mind. ‘And your neighbour, Donna. They’ve just popped downstairs for a coffee. I said I would sit with you in case…’ she brightened ‘…this.’ She held a hand out like a magician who’d just performed a trick.
‘You saved me,’ Ranald said and slumped back onto his pillow. He sent his thoughts inward. Probed for her. Found nothing. There was nothing in there but numbness. Only him. He opened his mouth as if to explain. This was a silence that needed to be filled.
Suzy put a hand out. Held his.
‘If you’re not ready, now might not be the time.’
He met her gaze and found a wealth of understanding there. Understanding without judgement. She knew and she didn’t find him wanting. The relief of this cheered and choked him. He felt his throat tighten with emotion. Tears flooded his eyes. He resisted the impulse to turn away and hide them. But she saved his life, if anyone deserved to see him truly naked, it was her.
He cried.
He cried for the nine-year-old so desperate to be loved by his mother that he joined her naked and danced under an uncaring moon. He cried for the eighteen-year-old unable to articulate his horror at finding his parents dead, realising that this was the first time he’d cried in all these years since he’d stood at their grave.
He cried for the father he accused of abandoning him, murdered by his own wife.
He cried for the woman whose genes he shared, and her unceasing pain. He wept for the young man stuck for years in an emotional limbo, desperate to articulate his feelings, but not knowing how to work them into language: how to force them from the dark of his mind and out between teeth and tongue.
Once the tears eventually stopped, he offered her a smile. A smile that said a simple thank you, for what else was there?
Then he asked.
‘So, you read any good books lately?’
40
Ranald willingly gave himself up to the advice of his doctors. If they said he needed three months in hospital to get himself back on an even keel, then that was what he would do.
Being there over Christmas and into the New Year was difficult, but the medical staff did their best to make the place feel homely, and Martie, Donna and Suzy all visited regularly. Reminding him that outside those walls the real world still went about its business.
Quinn also visited, and each time he did he apologised again for not realising the depths that Marcus and Rebecca had reached. Danny and Mrs Hackett, he assured him, were making sure everything was being looked after at Newton Hall until the doctors said he could return.
Newton Hall.
Could he go back there?
Of course he could. It was just a house, right? There were no ghosts. There was no Jennie. He could see now that it was all a product of his fragile mental health, and his willingness to adopt the burdens and delusions of his great-uncle; a combination that had made the illusory so, so real.
Eventually, the specialists all agreed that he had recovered and that he was no longer a risk to himself. He was reminded of the effectiveness of charting his moods, how to read them and what to do if they suggested he was at risk of another episode, and how the correct medicines, exercise and a healthy diet would help make sure that another collapse was reduced to a remote possibility.
The day came for him to return to Newton Hall and he was cheered that when he went downstairs to the main hospital entrance his taxi driver was the same man who took him home all those months ago. All those months. It felt like years. Almost as if it had happened to someone else.
Other than the chatty driver the journey to Newton Hall was very different this time around. The skies were a stark winter blue, the air looked sharper and the trees were bare.
What had also changed was Ranald himself. Older and shrewder. Calm and centred. He was a man of property. A man who knew his place. He was a Fitzgerald and proud of it.
He asked the driver to take him on a little detour before he went home. There was a small pile of letters he wanted to deliver, decades late, to their proper recipient. He’d had Martie collect them from Newton Hall and bring them to him on her last visit, along with the address of the man who should now be their owner.
With a churn in his gut at the thought of how huge this was going to be for Ken Welsh, he knocked on the old man’s door. It opened quickly.
‘Ranald,’ he said with some surprise. ‘You’re looking well. Have you been away?’
‘You could say that, Ken.’
The old man looked down at Ranald’s hand, at the folder he was holding. ‘Is that for me?’ he asked with an inquisitive smile. Then he stepped back, a wariness in his posture, as if he was afraid to come across as too friendly. ‘Want to come in for a cuppa?’ he said, almost grudgingly.
‘No, thanks,’ Ranald said, and turned his head to the side to indicate his waiting taxi. He coughed. ‘Remember that last time we spoke, you mentioned something about a letter from your sister, and I ran off like the hounds of hell were after me?’
Ken pulled his head in. ‘Aye. You weren’t quite yourself that day, son.’
‘Well, I found these up at the house…’ he held the folder out ‘… and thought you should have them.’
‘What’s that, son?’ Ken accepted the folder from Ranald. ‘What is it?’ he asked again as he opened it.
But one look at the handwriting and his question was instantly answered.
‘Oh my,’ he said. His bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. His right hand was over his mouth and
it was shaking hard. He looked from the letters up to Ranald. ‘It’s our Jennie,’ he said as if he could scarcely believe his own eyes.
‘She wrote more than that one letter, Ken,’ said Ranald gently. ‘It’s to my shame that they were never delivered.’
‘Oh my,’ Ken said again, in a whisper. ‘Jennie.’ He stepped forwards and pulled Ranald into a hug, and Ranald could feel the force of the little man’s emotions, his body quivering within his arms.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Ken managed a whisper to the side of Ranald’s face.
‘I do,’ said Ranald. ‘Sorry.’
With that, he gently disengaged from the old man and turned and walked away up his garden path and climbed into the taxi.
Minutes later, the car stopped again, in that familiar wide drive, and after paying the driver Ranald climbed out. The front door opened and Danny and Mrs Hackett stepped outside to welcome him. The house looked like it had been sleeping, waiting for him to return before resuming its position in the world.
With a huge sigh Ranald realised just how much he was looking forward to being at home. The first thing he was going to do was jump in the pool. Then spend a few hours in the library before going up to his bed. Just then he looked up at the first floor windows. He wasn’t sure what grabbed his attention. Some movement behind the window? A flicker of sunlight? But there, behind the glass, just beyond the thick, dark drapes he saw her slight frame, her ageless, pale face, and a slender hand raised in greeting.
Acknowledgements
To my first readers of this book – Douglas Skelton and Mike Craven. Thank you, you saved me from some silly mistakes.
When I turned this book into the editing team of Karen Sullivan and West Camel, I thought it was a good read. Their diligence, patience and hard work has made it SO MUCH better. Thanks for pushing me.
To everyone on Team Orenda – you guys rock!
I thank my lucky stars for the day I met my publisher, Karen Sullivan. Is there anyone in publishing today who works harder? Anyone who invests so much of her time into author care? I seriously doubt it. Thanks, Karen it is very much appreciated!
And finally, to all the bloggers, reviewers, booksellers and readers – all of those dedicated people who make the world of books such an amazing place to work, a HUGE thank you.
About the Author
Michael J. Malone is a prize-winning poet and author who was born and brought up in the heart of Burns’ country, just a stone’s throw from the great man’s cottage in Ayr. Well, a stone thrown by a catapult. He has published more than 200 poems in literary magazines throughout the UK, including New Writing Scotland, Poetry Scotland and Markings. His career as a poet has also included a (very) brief stint as the Poet-in-Residence for an adult gift shop. Blood Tears, his bestselling debut novel won the Pitlochry Prize (judge: Alex Gray) from the Scottish Association of Writers. Other published work includes: Carnegie’s Call (a non-fiction work about successful modern-day Scots); A Taste for Malice; The Guillotine Choice; Beyond the Rage, The Bad Samaritan and Dog Fight. His psychological thriller, A Suitable Lie, was a number-one bestseller. Michael is a regular reviewer for the hugely popular crime fiction website www.crimesquad.com. A former Regional Sales Manager for Faber & Faber, he has also worked as an IFA and a bookseller.
Follow Michael on Twitter @michaeljmalone1; on Facebook: www.facebook.com/themichaeljmalonepage, and his website: www.mjmink.wordpress.com.
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the UK in 2017 by Orenda Books
Copyright © Michael J. Malone 2017
Michael J. Malone has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–910633–86–1
eISBN 978–1–910633–87–8
Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
House of Spines Page 29