I’ve had a little wine tonight, Da. A lot of wine. Help me sleep. But I’m wide awake with a furred tongue and a furred mind. I saw Kirstin today. Of course, I told you that already. You know that. Maybe you knew it before I told you. You know everything now, Mr Spirit Daddy. Do you know it even before it happens now you are dead? Or do you have to wait until it unfolds, like the rest of us?
I hurt for you when I heard Kirstin doubted you. And then I felt ashamed because I’ve been doubting you too. Now I’m a bit angry. With Kirstin. With Mother. Even with you for going. And for not talking back to me. I always get angry with everyone else when it’s myself I’m really angry at. That’s why Sarah cops it so much.
I cannot imagine what it took for you to love Sarah. Were you aware, always aware in everything we did together, that she was another man’s child? Did you see the shadow of her father in her eyes; did you feel him in the weight of her when you picked her up? She was already a few months old when Mother died. I guess at the start you learned to love her because it was the only way you could stay with Mother. But when Mother died, what then? What links to Sarah were you left with? I guess you started off loving her for Mother’s sake and ended up loving her for her own. She is worthy of love, I know that.
You shed your old life like a snakeskin for me and for Sarah. You simply left the detritus behind and grew a new skin, scale by scale. You know, I think I understand about the accountancy and the bus driving now. You wanted to leave everything that was past, in the past: the house by the loch and the yellow and white crockery and the furniture and the job and the people. You didn’t even want the money for the house. You took what was worth taking, and that was Sarah and me.
I remember you talking about Grandpa leaving Donegal once and you said he never completely moved on, that he left a bit of himself there on that rocky old hill. You must have done the same in the Highlands. I am curious about how much of you was missing in the Da that we knew. Which bits of you got left behind in that bay at Lochglas, stranded like the little boats on the sand when the tide goes out?
I am surprised to hear myself say it, but I think I understand why you didn’t want us to know about Mother. I’m not sure you were right, but I do understand. I have the same dilemma myself now, with Sarah. It is not so easy. I see what happens. You make a decision in a crisis and there is no going back. No changing minds.
Two years after your decision, you couldn’t suddenly decide you’d tell us about Mother after all. Or five years later, or ten. You had to go on going on. You wanted us to believe in the new life. You wanted us to believe in you. Never have that belief tarnished by the kind of lingering doubt that eats up your soul. Peggy was right after all. She did destroy you, didn’t she?
Listen to the wine, the comforting glug, glug, glug of it as it pours into the glass. Cheers, Da. Here’s to old friends. Have you met Mother again wherever you are? They say when you die that you go down a long tunnel of light. That there’s always someone familiar there to meet you. Who met you? Was it Mother? Did you see her? Did you love her still? Maybe Mother can love you in death more completely than she loved you in life. Maybe that would even be worth dying for.
Am I making sense? It’s cheap, this wine. We liked a good red, you and I, but you wouldn’t think much of this. It’s thin and bitter. And you know what I keep thinking? I keep thinking I am drinking blood. Too much talk of murder. Too much Catholicism. Blood of Christ. Bathe me in your wounds. You know, I expect Father Riley would say the wine in heaven is so much richer, so much more mellow, than here on earth. I should bloody hope so. I wish we could swap glasses.
What can I tell you now? No response, eh? Did I tell you Shameena will sing for us at the funeral? Sing for you. Dear Shameena. Remember when she sang after Tariq died? Answer me Da, for God’s sake. Do you remember?
Oh all right, don’t answer. I’ll just keep talking anyway. If you want to join in at any time, please do. Walk around in my mind, why don’t you? Oh. My phone is buzzing. Ha! Is it you? Clever old you! What’s the O2 reception like in heaven? Well, well. Another text. ‘Go home.’ Not very friendly round here, are they, Da? Not like Glasgow.
So, what were we talking about? Yes, the night Shameena sang. The night of the benefit concert for the Heart Foundation. It was her idea, of course, to raise funds for the charity, for Tariq. But I think maybe she also thought this would be Tariq’s way of helping her get into opera. If Khadim and Nazima could just hear her sing publicly…
What you won’t remember is that Tariq visited that night. You won’t remember because I never told you. That’s right. Dead Tariq visited. This is not the wine talking, Da. Well maybe it is, partly. Loosens my tongue. We all have little secrets, don’t we? I just didn’t realise until the last few days how many. I find myself talking to you in my head and saying, “You never knew because…” or, “I never told you because…”
Shameena had worked so hard to put that concert on. She wrote to the council herself to ask for permission to use the local school hall. Her own music teacher, Miss Macintosh, agreed to accompany her but Shameena practised and practised on her own for weeks before. Sometimes, I would go round and listen to her rehearse, just to encourage her. She sang for Tariq. She sang for love. I’m sorry. Was that sentimental? I always get maudlin with alcohol. Excuse me while I pour another.
Do you remember I left you in the audience and went backstage to see her and wish her luck that night? That’s when it happened. The chairs were laid out in the hall, the legs scraping along the wooden floor, the hum of chatter growing gradually louder. I just meant to pop my head around the door but Shameena was sitting in an easy chair with tears streaming down her face.
“Shameena?”
She didn’t answer.
“Shameena,” I repeated, coming in and closing the door. “What’s wrong?”
“Becca, he’s been here. He’s been here.”
“Who’s been here?” I knelt down beside her chair.
“Tariq.”
I didn’t want to hear. I was frightened by what she was saying, by the way she looked. And because I was frightened, I was sharp. You know how sharp I can be, Da.
“Shameena, what are you talking about?”
She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.
“I was warming up.” She stood up and walked to the table. “I was standing here with my music. And I felt someone enter the room.”
“You felt them?”
“Yes, but when I turned around” – she swirled around to show me – “there was no one there.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Shameena, it’s natural you’re thinking about Tariq. Tonight is all about him, about his memory. It’s not surprising that you feel… maybe feel close to him… and…”
She shook her head.
“It was him.”
“Tariq’s dead, Shameena.”
“I don’t care what you say. I know what happened. I know Tariq was here. The room suddenly went so cold. I could feel a tingle on my skin. I knew it was Tariq. I just knew it was. And then I felt him pass through me.” She began to cry. “He passed right through me. I could feel the pressure of him. He wanted to wish me luck. It was his way of holding me.”
“Don’t be frightened,” I said, though it was me who was frightened.
“Frightened?” she said, as if she didn’t understand. “I’m not frightened! It’s just so… so emotional, so good, having him back. Even for a little while…” She looked at me. “You think I’m mad but I don’t care. It happened. There is nothing you can ever tell me, Becca, that will convince me Tariq wasn’t here. I know what I felt. I know it was him. He was real.”
She slipped off the heavy gold bracelet she wore round her right wrist, and held it up to me. It had been her grandmother’s. I knew it was her favourite piece of jewellery.
“Real as that. You might as well tell me this bracelet doesn’t exist.” She was beginning to get agitated.
“Okay, okay,” I said.
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I remember the look Shameena gave me then, like she could see right inside me. It made me uneasy.
“You loved him, Rebecca, didn’t you?”
I stared at her, unable to say a word.
“I think he loved you too.”
“Did he say?” I asked instantly.
She hesitated and I knew he hadn’t.
“He didn’t have to say. I knew.”
And this is the bit, Da, where it gets really odd. I felt something then at my back, and I turned around and Shameena whispered delightedly, “He’s back. He’s back, isn’t he, Becca? You can feel him.” And suddenly the room temperature plummeted. I felt a weight, the pressure of a weight forcing its way through my body. I looked at Shameena. There were tears streaming down her face and I could feel tears streaming down mine, and then within seconds the feeling had gone and Shameena and I clung together in the centre of the room. But it was so quick, Da, all so quick that even though I was there, even though I felt it, I wasn’t sure later what had happened. It happened to me and I’m still not sure I believe it happened. Maybe it was the power of her suggestion. Nothing like that has ever happened to me again.
Do you know how that makes me feel, Da? When I think of Shameena and how certain she was, I think of you, and I wonder why you won’t talk to me. Why you won’t come. If you are really out there, give me a sign. Other people get signs. Is it that I didn’t love you enough? That you didn’t love me enough? Am I not worth it? Did Tariq love Shameena more than you love me? Or is it that there really is nothing of you out there? You’re gone. Spent. Finished.
I’m not going to séances to find you, Da. Glasses and Ouija boards and darkened rooms and fraud. Is there anybody there? I’d never be sure that way, would I? I’d never be sure it was really you. I don’t want to involve anyone else in this. If you want to give me a message, you don’t need anyone else as medium. If you want to, you’ll find a way. How do spirits communicate? I don’t know. I’m hoping I’m going to find out. But no one else needs to be involved. This is between me and you, Da. Me and you alone.
The night Tariq visited, Shameena sang for her audience like it was her last ever song, like it was her death song. I always hated that opera stuff you played on Saturday mornings when you weren’t working, Da. Bizet and Verdi and God knows what. All that screeching coming from your old tinny stereo.
Shameena’s voice wasn’t fully trained yet, of course. But there was a beauty about the freshness of it, the possibility of it. She sang arias from Madame Butterfly and Carmen as well as the Puccini. But it was the unknown song at the finale that left me in bits. Do you remember it, Da? It was an old Pakistani song that she said the Melody Queen used to sing. It was about a girl whose brother went riding off to war on a black steed and never returned. The Goddess of War said her brother would be returned to her if she sang a song so beautiful that it silenced the nightingale. The girl ran to the forest and she sang and she sang, but always the trill of the nightingale accompanied her. Until she realised she must sing with her heart instead of her voice, and at her first notes the nightingale stopped. But it was too late. A second past midnight. Her brother never returned.
Shameena would have silenced the nightingale that night. She sang with her heart. For the first time, I listened with mine. In the dark, next to you, Da. The rustling stopped in the audience. Maybe it had such an effect because nearly everyone who was there knew about Tariq, but there was a stillness that bound all of us. There was a great lump in my throat, the size of a cricket ball, and I couldn’t swallow.
There was silence when she finished, for at least four seconds. Four seconds is a long time after someone has sung. One. Two. Three. Four. Then the clapping started, and the cheering. It was just a dusty old school hall with no atmosphere, but people got to their feet and whistled and Shameena smiled. She looked different. Like she was really alive. Like every hair on her head and every nail on her finger and every muscle and every cell of her was living and breathing and pulsating.
Someone told me once that taking LSD was like that. You could see the life force in everything, every tiny little thing. In an orange skin or a flower petal or even on a pen on the desk. Everything in the world was alive and everything was good and everything was connected. I was envious of Shameena right then but glad for her too. She didn’t need LSD. She had her singing.
I looked among the crowd to find Khadim and Nazima. They weren’t on their feet, but Khadim was clapping stiffly and I could see the muscles in his face quivering. Nazima had her dopatta over her eyes and her head bowed.
I want Shameena to silence the nightingale for me on Friday. I am relying on her. Though I am relying on this wine first to get me through another night. Just one more glass. Maybe I’ll sing myself then. I wish I could sing, Da. I wish I could sing to you. But you’ll know when Shameena sings, it’s my song really. My song to you.
CHAPTER SIX
A neighbour has been to my door, asking me to turn down Shameena’s CD. I was very apologetic. I had not realised how late it had got, how absorbed I had become in the past, in writing down my memories. How far I had travelled from the present. It has been like walking through the wardrobe door into Narnia, like falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. Eventually, the visited world becomes so real that you forget where you have come from. Until the knocking and ringing starts at the door. Until the polite apologies spill from your mouth. Those apologies make me smile wryly to myself as I close the door. Five years ago, I might just as easily have told the neighbour to fuck off.
Flicking back through what I have just written about Shameena’s concert, I can see that you might have questions about Tariq. Perhaps you wonder why he is in my mind so much, why I dreamt of him during this time. (And, I may say, still do.) What does he have to do with my story? There is only one word I can use in answer: everything.
Tariq helped form what I thought love was, helped form me. He shaped my life, just as Da did by his presence and Mother did by her absence. Everything I did after he died was an expression of my hopelessness, just as everything Da did after Mother died was an expression of his. What was that idiotic period with Father Dangerous but an expression of my grief, my defiance, my resentment? My self-destructive need for things to go wrong? I see that now. When I set off for Inverness, my whole identity was in question. Tariq was part of that identity.
Even now, more than fifteen years after he died, I think of Tariq. Yes, I was young and inexperienced. And yes, I admit it, it might have come to nothing. Perhaps my feelings are wrapped up in the nostalgia of teenage infatuation, when every emotion feels so intense and unique to you alone. But I still think Tariq was meant to be the love of my life. I think some of the anger I carry inside me, have always carried, is because people I love always leave me sooner or later. Or perhaps I’ve just been to too many psychology classes in the last five years.
The attraction Tariq and I experienced transcended everything that stood in its way. Our skin colour, our religions, our differing cultures and experiences. There was something that was stronger than all of that. I regret almost every man who followed him but the only thing I regret about Tariq is that we did not get to prove what we could have been.
Love shapes you, moulds you, influences your behaviour, whether that is for good or ill. Da discovered that and I discovered it too. We were both doomed that way. Do you understand where I am going with this? You see, if you think this story is about murder, you are wrong. You are wrong. It may not be a love story exactly, but it is certainly a story about love.
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER ONE
Shameena’s voice is a mere whisper now as I write, but I keep the CD on repeat. I feel a strange superstition that the memories will stop if the music does. Not that I remember much of that drunken night in the B & B, though I certainly remember waking up in the morning.
Sunlight through closed curtains. It filters through the dense jungle ferns of the fabric, washing the room in an und
erwater light, grey and green and rippled with shadow. A breeze finds the crack of open window, slithers through to blow gently on the hem of the curtain, a tiny wave of movement spreading across the mottled carpet. Squinting through half-shut eyes, I watch the waves lap gently on the shore of the wardrobe and then, it seems, the whole room begins to move, undulating softly on a calm sea.
Where is this? Swathed in leafy green fabrics, clean as mint. Rough pine and polished glass and hand-picked daisies in a pottery vase. The room tilts disconcertingly, the bed a boat cast adrift in unknown waters. Where? An empty bottle stands by the bedside, and a glass, with a mouthful of red wine abandoned in the bottom. Oh God. I remember. I try to lift myself from the pillows but my head is pounding and I feel sick. I sink back down slowly, glad of the softness that moulds around me. Lying flat, the movement continues but the nausea partially subsides.
I raise my wrist without shifting my head, looking for my watch. The light is brokered by the closed curtains, but it is a light that has grown strong, not the soft, tentative light of a breaking dawn. Nine o’clock! I had meant to be outside the offices of Cory Construction by eight o’clock, waiting for James Cory to arrive.
I have played out the scene in my mind a hundred times since standing outside his office yesterday. How he’ll look. What I’ll say. How he’ll reply. I always get the script’s best lines, obviously. Cory walks towards the offices and I step out of a doorway and stand in front of him. He is shocked when I introduce myself, on the back foot. My questions destroy him. He crumbles in front of me physically, morally, disintegrating into the dust of his own lies. He is nothing.
In reality, it is going to be me on the back foot. Now I have to get through receptionists and appointment diaries and office protocol. Shit. I sit, then lie across the bed, moving my legs without raising my head, shuffling to the edge, feet feeling for the rough, sack-like surface of carpet beneath. In the bathroom, I put the toilet lid down and sit tentatively, leaning against the cool, white tiles of the wall, reaching for the sink awkwardly, running water into a glass. I force myself to drink glass after glass. A dull thump beats in the centre of my head.
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