by Grace Monroe
I was present in Heriot Row after having
been instructed by Mr Alistair MacGregor to
attend a home confinement. The mother was
one Kailash Coutts, aged approximately thirteen
years. At 9.04a.m. she was delivered of a
healthy baby girl weighing 5lbs and 8oz.
I do not know what happened to the mother.
I left with the baby and arranged a private adoption.
All of this is the truth as I shall answer to God.
I looked at the testing clause.
The affidavit was signed in the offices of Lothian and St Clair before two witnesses. I didn’t recognise the first signature–Gregor MacGregor–but that of the second, Roderick Buchanan, felt like it was scalding my eyes.
FORTY-EIGHT
Lord MacGregor looked at me expectantly.
I remained calm.
‘It says nothing about doping her with heroin. It doesn’t take the court much further. It doesn’t really help.’
The old man and Moses looked at each other.
‘Get real, Brodie–of course this McIntyre woman wouldn’t confess the full extent of what she had actually done. It’s an affidavit not a fucking self-signed death warrant.’ Moses was looking at me as if I was an imbecile.
‘I see you’re feeling more like yourself again,’ I snapped at him.
‘The value of that affidavit can only be seen when read in conjunction with the second one.’ Lord MacGregor was more deferential; with eyes cast downwards he handed me the second document.
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, already busily reading ahead, anxious to prove that these papers were of no real import.
At Edinburgh on 2 December 1976 I, Mary McLennan, residing at 42g King William Court, do hereby solemnly swear that on 4 October I was delivered of a baby girl.
That’s right, I thought, that’s my birthday. Hardly surprising that my own mother should remember when her only child had been born. But why had she needed to sign an affidavit to that effect? And why did Lord MacGregor have it in his possession?
The baby was delivered at home.
In attendance was Nurse Jane McIntyre.
My heart ran cold.
My baby girl was 4lbs in weight. Prior to her delivery I was told that she had Porters Syndrome, which meant that her internal organs were missing or damaged, she was not expected to live.
Nurse McIntyre found out about my sadness, and told me that she was attending a home confinement. The patient was a young girl from a wealthy family who was not keeping her baby. Nurse McIntyre had been asked to place the baby for a private adoption to save the family from scandal.
I gave her my life savings of £2000 to cover her expenses. Nurse McIntyre advised that it would be best if I registered the baby as my own child.
I took possession of Brodie on 7 October. Nurse McIntyre took my own sweet child to get the proper hospital treatment. I subsequently learned from Lord MacGregor that she threw my baby into the Forth.
Lord MacGregor has asked me to continue to care for his beloved grandchild, as it is the only way he can see to keep her safe.
As God is my witness I promise to love her and care for her more than any mother to make up for the great sin I have committed.
It was signed and witnessed as before.
Tears streamed down my face as Lord MacGregor held my hand.
‘You’re the missing girl, Brodie.’ Moses had his hand on my back, patting it as if anything in this moment could bring me comfort. ‘The truth’s out now and that should serve as some sort of comfort to you.’
I turned on him, screaming.
‘Comfort? And where exactly do you think the fucking comfort lies, Moses? That Mary McLennan wasn’t my mother? That a thirteen-year-old Kailash Coutts is? Or that my father was this old bastard’s perverted son? What sort of monster am I with those parents? And when does the comforting begin?’ I cried, because I didn’t know what else to do.
Lord MacGregor had his eyes averted from me. He was holding a letter and an envelope. He handed me the first one, which was dated January 1986.
Dear Lord MacGregor,
I am writing to you to make amends. I have lung cancer and I don’t expect to see the summer.
As you know, your son employed me as a midwife to attend at a delivery ten years ago.
He told me that the girl was to deliver a baby that he and his wife intended to adopt. I did not know how young the girl was when I took the job.
My instructions were to keep the house clean, deliver the baby and take it to a safe place to check it out; if the baby was healthy then your son wanted it, if not then I was to dispose of it. He left me a syringe of morphine to sedate the girl.
I didn’t like your son and I liked his wife even less. That is why I gave the baby to Mary McLennan. Her baby was going to die anyway–I was just quickening its end.
I had to get this off my chest before I die–I hope I may be forgiven by those greater than yourself.
Yours truly
Jane McIntyre. SRN
‘Does that mean Mary’s baby was alive? McIntyre drowned it?’ I asked. Somehow I had always imagined that the baby girl washed up on the shore was stillborn. I gave my empty glass to Moses, and asked for a refill–I wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer this time. I was getting no answers from Lord MacGregor–for he had more to show me. He handed me an envelope addressed to me in my mother’s hand. I tore it open.
Dear Brodie—
If you are reading this then I am dead, and I never found the nerve to tell you the truth about your birth. I would have liked to have found the courage to have introduced you to your grandfather, but in fairness to myself we were worried about how your father or his wife would react.
You were meant for a better life than the one I could give you, but your grandfather decided that it was best if I brought you up in my ways. I am very proud that you have achieved so much, my only wish is that I could have given you more.
Your grandfather, Lord MacGregor, wanted to give me an annual allowance for your care, but I said that would make me feel like your nanny not your mother, and so I refused.
I hope you can forgive me. I made a vow once to love you, I kept it.
I could not love you more if I had given birth to you myself.
Lots of love always–Mum
FORTY-NINE
Four eyes stared at me expectantly, but what was there to say?
I just sat there holding the letters; accidentally dropping the one from Nurse McIntyre, it slithered across the floor stopping at Lord MacGregor’s toes. He picked it up, and placed it back in the box.
Was that it? Was everything to be put back in the box again? I wished that it could.
Wished that the box had never been opened.
That Kailash had never killed Lord Arbuthnot; or more accurately that my mother had never killed my father.
Even at a moment like this, I realised that my new life, my new identity, sounded like something from a Jerry Springer show.
‘Does she know? Does Kailash know?’
I stared straight into Lord MacGregor’s eyes. He couldn’t answer me as he was so choked with tears. I suspect he believed I might fall into his arms and caress him, the homecoming grandchild. It was the furthest thing from my mind. He finally nodded and Moses spoke.
‘Of course she knows–why do you think she asked for you? Why do you think she bought you those new clothes? Why did she send Malcolm to fix you up?’
‘That’s a good question, Moses–how did she know? How did she know I’d been hurt?’
‘Because she’s been paying me and the Dark Angels to keep an eye on you for the past few years.’
‘I’ve seen you around, at court, in the streets near my offices, but always assumed that was just because you were pretty good clients for my world. I never thought you were there for me–it never seemed like that at all.’
‘We’re only spotted when we want to be.’
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‘When did she find out?’ I couldn’t help it–I wanted to know why she hadn’t got in touch after my mother died. My mother. That was still Mary McLennan to me.
‘Roddie Buchanan knew–he told her and he threatened to ruin you. That’s why she got in first. Then Roddie phoned me to apologise–I’d sworn him to secrecy for your sake. He begged me to call her off–I’m one of the few people Kailash listens to.’
Lord MacGregor finished speaking and was now sipping on his whisky, staring at my features as if mesmerised.
‘I pointed out to Kailash that the publicity could bankrupt you–she then agreed to sign an affidavit, but she didn’t want to completely exonerate him because she knows that it is always important to be able to turn the thumbscrews.’
‘Why did she kill Alistair MacGregor now? I mean he last abused her twenty-eight years ago? Why did she wait until now?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ sneered Moses. I stared at him blankly.
‘The fucking photograph, Brodie. She showed you the picture he sent her the week before we killed him,’ Moses mocked.
It was very hard to swallow, my tongue seemed to have swelled to twice its size. Gulping I tried to breathe in.
‘We? Who’s “we”?’ I asked.
Moses nodded, circling me, his wolf eyes flashing demented sparks in my direction.
‘Finally the right questions, Brodie. We killed him to keep you safe–all of us: Kailash, me, the Dark Angels. We had to live with what he had done to us–but you, you had to be protected. Kailash’s little girl had to be protected at all costs.’
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ I said sulkily.
‘No, you didn’t–but do you think you could have survived? Even if he hadn’t killed you–could you have lived with the memories that we have to live with?’ Moses was persistent with his questioning.
I took one look at him and remembered the time I had spent in his lair, forcing him to relive his past.
‘No,’ I answered and it was the truth.
Lord MacGregor interrupted. ‘I’m too old, Brodie–but you are my kin. Like it or not. We MacGregors don’t renege on our responsibilities. You have been helped by a lot of people. However, there is still a lot to do–and it’s time for you to take the lead.’
‘OK, I admit it, I owe them my life.’ I was slurring, the whisky and tiredness taking effect.
‘Then you agree–it is your duty to save Kailash. I’ll set up the necessary meeting.’
‘But I’ve–she’s got court tomorrow,’ I muttered.
‘Haven’t you learned yet, lass? The only way to save her is blackmail–an old and honourable family tradition.’
He was sombre.
‘As I said, I’ll set up the meeting–the only condition is that you will have to come alone.’
‘Of course I’ll go alone.’
I did not want the truth of my parentage to leave those four walls. The doorbell rang. In the time Jack Deans had parked his car, my life had changed forever.
I was left with one question and the knowledge that it could never be answered:
How can you clean your own blood?
FIFTY
‘Graves? You shook my bones for four hours in that bloody draughty old car of yours for this?’
The tight wind had bitten into me, shortening my temper. Driving over nauseatingly winding Highland roads had filled me full of loathing for my driver. My pleas to Lord MacGregor that he put the roof on his Morgan had been summarily dismissed. At least now I had some idea of what it would be like to travel in a Spitfire. Every other car on the road was a foe, which had to be beaten. It crossed my mind that the car was fuelled by testosterone and adrenalin. I was short on both.
‘Don’t be impatient, Brodie, my girl–open your eyes; drink in the scenery.’
‘I’ve seen scenery before. Why did we have to meet them here? Wouldn’t it have been more appropriate to have met at Parliament House or the Old College?’
Like nails on a blackboard the whingeing tone in my voice was even irritating me. But I had a point. The hamlet of Kilmartin is situated in the Highlands on the west coast of Scotland. It is remote and tiresome to get to. And I still didn’t know why we had to have this meeting here–or who indeed I was meant to be blackmailing.
‘It wasn’t always like this,’ said Lord MacGregor. ‘Once it was an important centre, easily accessible by sea. Their lordships thought it would be more appropriate and safer for the meeting to take place here. I want you to meet them–they can help you. They wanted to meet here–this place is important to them. Now I’m going off to keep watch for them–you think about what you’re going to say.’
Wearily he walked off to stand guard at the steps that led into the graveyard, leaving me to think of mysterious lordships and even more mysterious things to say to them. I felt as if I was observing him through semi-precious stones. As the sun set behind the hills, the sky was aglow with soft tones of red and orange.
This time of the evening is known as the gloaming, it is a period that fosters intimacy as the world quietens, ready for sleep. Left alone, I wandered through rank after strictly regimented rank of weather-beaten flat stones. Some were so old that they had sunk deeply into the ground, and grass was growing over them. Others were clearly defined, set amongst more modern tombs and family burial plots.
An owl hooted, it was the only sound apart from my breath, and heartbeat. Running my fingers over a seventeenth-century mottled stone, feeling the roughness of the lichen and velvety moss, I noticed that it was in better condition than some of the earlier ones. Jamie Sinclair lay beneath the sod; his memorial proclaimed to the world that he had been a Freemason. It showed Masonic tools, a skull and crossbones.
Edgily, Lord MacGregor paced, waiting for his cohort. The older flat stones called to me, some of them worn smooth by time. Others were anonymous, apart from the engraving of the deceased’s sword. This intrigued me, for I knew that in the Middle Ages, lineage and clan allegiance was even more important in death than in life, and I could not conceive why eighty fighting men would choose to be buried anonymously.
These knights were obviously wealthy because swords were very expensive in the Middle Ages. In addition to this these weapons were not the traditional ones used in Scotland at that time. The Scots favoured the claymore, which was longer, heavier, and more unwieldy than the swords shown on these stones.
Seeking clarification of this, I looked for my newly-found grandfather but he had gone, probably to the pub across the road to phone his associates as there was no mobile signal in this area. Every cell in my body seemed to ache, as I suddenly realised I was completely alone.
The hills around Kilmartin are wild and primeval; desperate to shake off this feeling of foreboding I began in earnest to examine the graves. Who were the fighting men buried here? The land surrounding Kilmartin belonged to the Campbell clan; Sir Neil Campbell had been the brother-in-law of Robert the Bruce, but the majority of the land belonged to the MacDonalds.
Maybe that explained the way I was feeling. The MacDonalds and the Campbells have hated each other for centuries. In some parts of the Highlands, which are dominated by MacDonalds, there are signs up in public places, which state ‘No Campbells Allowed’ much like one would ban a dog.
The rocks and soil in Scotland give off a strange energy, as if they reflect the memories of the past. To understand this you only have to drive through Glencoe, known as the ‘Weeping Glen’. The crags themselves still resound with MacDonald tears after they were massacred as they slept by the Campbells.
There was still no sign of my grandfather; I had to trust him, he must have had his reasons for arranging the meeting here, presumably one that had something to do with those ancient fighting men and one that went beyond the need for secrecy.
Sitting on a tombstone, I racked my mind going over history lessons given in stuffy classrooms at school. Staring without blinking at the shape of the sword I did not notice the cold of the grave seeping th
rough my jeans.
The point of the knife on my jugular pricked my skin, causing a tiny red bubble of blood to flow freely to the surface. I almost sensed the blade rise and fall as my blood pumped quickly round my body. An unknown assailant yanked my head back so that I was unable to see their face. A handful of my hair lay on the ground around my feet, like a piece of sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire.
Forcing my face down, the stone grazed my cheek. The rawness of the wound hurt as the tiny pieces of grit and lichen were rubbed in.
‘Are you giving into fate? Or do you want to fight? In other words–are you a lamb like your mother or a lion like your father?’
From behind me, a woman spoke, her cultured tones ringing throughout the burial place. Squinting my eyes until they hurt, I tried to see round corners. My heart punctured my ribs, making it difficult for me to hear my own thoughts.
The scent of my fear was acrid, and pungent like rancid vinegar, it choked me as it mixed with the fresh night air. Feeling warmth on my thighs I panicked that in my confusion I had wet myself. Struggling to assess the situation, pulling my head round to see, I felt my hair being ripped out, follicle by tiny follicle.
Fleetingly out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the heat, which had not diminished, was coming from a flaming torch. Bizarrely, I was relieved that I had not shamed myself.
Roughly yanked to my feet I was hauled and dragged across the graveyard to a ruin that housed yet more gravestones. A Hermès silk scarf was tied around my eyes. It smelled of stale Chanel No. 5. Rough hemp rope chafed and burned my wrists as my hands were tied behind a flat stone that had been excavated, and now stood upright against the wall. Just before the blindfold was applied, I saw the engraving on the stone, a cross of equal lengths, useless for torture–the cross of the Templars.
The ruin, which had no roof, was surprisingly warm. The wind carried the smell of the burning wood to me. Although I had not seen it, I sensed that there was a brazier, with a fire burning intensely.