The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

by Stephen Jones

  I stopped at the Little Chef in Dumbarton, not because I was hungry, but because I’d had to realize I was in no fit state to drive. I needed to stop and think.

  The café was soothingly anonymous, and, so late on a weekday morning, almost empty. I ordered the all-day breakfast and coffee – although I felt jittery enough already – and got out my pen and notebook to write down the list again.

  It was a list I thought only I could have made. These weren’t the only lovers I’d had in my life – in fact, two fiancés were missing – but they were, to me, the most significant. Yale hadn’t even been my lover, except in fantasy, and I wasn’t sure there was anyone now alive who knew how I’d felt about him. I’d never told anyone about my two-week fling with the man I’d called Chas – which wasn’t even his real name! Only I had called him Chas, the personal nickname adding another layer of secrecy and fantasy to the forbidden passion.

  I wondered, as I dug into my eggs and bacon, if I’d ever written down this list of names I knew so well. Perhaps, one lonely night, on a piece of paper, or in a notebook which had later gone missing . . .? That might explain how she knew it, although not why she would have been driven to copy it down on a blank page in one of her old notebooks. Was it possible that she’d become obsessed with me? That she, or her daughter, had been spying on me for some strange psychological reasons of their own, eventually manoeuvring me into the idea of the biography . . .

  No, no, that just wasn’t possible. There had been no outside influence – I had suggested Helen Ralston’s name to Selwyn, not vice versa. Even if Alistair Reid and “My Death” could have been a plant, no one could have influenced, or predicted, the chain of thoughts which had led to my decision. If I’d had some other idea on the journey to Edinburgh, or if I’d decided to go shopping instead of look at pictures . . .

  Another possibility, which I thought of as I pushed my varifocal specs up on my nose and frowned in a futile attempt to make out the headlines on a newspaper at the other side of the room, was that I hadn’t seen what I thought I’d seen. It was not unheard of for me to misread a word or two even in the best conditions, and in the dim light of Helen’s bedroom I might have read “Dale” as “Yale”, “Ivo” as “Ira”, and been fooled by that into imagining a list of perfectly ordinary male names was something uniquely personal to me.

  I’d written too many stories about people with weird obsessions. It did not follow that just because Helen had read my stories, that she was obsessed with me.

  IX

  By the time I’d finished eating I’d convinced myself there was a wholly rational, non-threatening explanation for it all. Yet some fearful, pre-rational doubt must have remained, because although I wrote a note to Helen, apologizing for rushing off as I had done, and promising to be in touch again soon, I did not suggest a date for our next meeting, and I was in no hurry to arrange anything.

  For the next two weeks I didn’t write or think about writing. Instead, I cleaned house. I had a major clear-out, giving my own piles and stacks of stale belongings the same treatment I’d forced myself to apply to Allan’s things a year earlier. I burned and recycled box-load after box-load of paper, made donations to the charity shops in Oban, and invited a Glasgow bookseller to come up and make me an offer. It wasn’t easy, getting rid of so much stuff – I had to steel myself to it. But this was the obvious and necessary first step towards a major life-change. If I was going to be moving, I didn’t want to be laden down with clutter, paying to shift box after box of stale memories, books, clothes and other stuff I had not used in years.

  The rain had been short-lived; the weather that spring was magnificent. It was the warmest, driest March I could remember since I’d moved to Scotland, and I took a break from my chores indoors to work outside, sanding down and repainting the window-frames, and clearing and cutting back the normally wild and overgrown garden, getting everything ready for the change that I felt sure was coming, although I did nothing to make it happen.

  And then it was April, with blue skies, fresh winds, and a warm and welcoming sun that seemed to say it was already summer. One morning the telephone rang, and it was Clarissa Breen.

  A great wash of guilt made me hunch down in my chair, as if she could see me, and my cheeks began to burn. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, I was meaning to call,” I said, and came to a sudden halt, unable to think of an excuse for my silence.

  “That’s okay. Mum was pleased to get your note. I did wonder . . . is everything all right?”

  I couldn’t remember what I had said, or hinted, about my reason for rushing out of the house. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been busy, you know.”

  “That’s good. Look, I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy—”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean – it’s good to hear from you. I’m glad you called.”

  “I just wanted to let you know – there’s no pressure, and I’ll understand if you’re busy – but we’re going to be in your part of the world this weekend.”

  This news was so unexpected that I didn’t know how to respond. “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “Oh, no! That’s not why – I didn’t mean – only, if you’d like to meet for coffee, or a meal, some time. We’ll be staying at the Crinan Hotel.”

  “That’s great – of course I want to see you! You must come here for dinner one night. How long are you staying? Have you made a lot of plans?” All at once I was eager to see them again.

  “Just for the weekend. Three nights. I really can’t take any more time off right now, but Mum has been so desperate to get back up there lately, and with the weather being so fine, for once, and the forecast good – well, the time seemed right. I haven’t made any plans yet; there’s just one thing Mum really wants to do. I thought I’d ask at the hotel after we arrive. They might know someone who could take us out sailing one day.”

  “I’ll take you out.” I didn’t even stop to think, although my heart was pounding so hard, I knew this was no light promise. I’d already guessed where Helen would want me to take her.

  “Really? You have a boat?”

  “Yes. And I’m fully qualified to sail her, so you don’t have to worry. I haven’t been out since . . . I haven’t been out yet this year, and the forecast is good, as you say. It’ll be fun.”

  In fact, I hadn’t been out since Allan’s death.

  We arranged that I would meet them at their hotel at nine o’clock Saturday morning and go out for a sail. I would bring provisions for a picnic lunch.

  After her call, I went straight out to the boatyard, to find out if Daisy, to whom I’d given no thought whatsoever in more than a year, was in any state to be taken out on the water in a mere two days’ time.

  Fortunately, the manager of the boatyard, Duncan MacInnes, was the best friend Allan and I had made during our years in Scotland, and without needing to be told, or intruding on my grief, he’d taken as good care of Daisy as if she’d been his own, doing everything Allan would have done, and a bit more.

  With the arrival of spring and the approach of the Easter holidays even our quiet little boatyard was all bustle and go as everything was made ready for the start of the tourist season.

  When I set eyes on Daisy she was back in the water after her long winter’s sleep, barnacles scraped, rigging and sails repaired, the engine recently serviced, all neat and tidy and absolutely ship-shape, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

  I turned a look of wonder on Duncan. He stared at the boat, not at me, and rubbed his chin. “I thought, if you were interested, I could lease her out this season. There’s always a demand for a sweet little boat like this one, and it can be a good way to make extra money.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m going to want her for myself.” I had thought about selling Daisy once after Allan’s death, but she had been so intimately a part of our marriage that I had been unable to go through with it, even though keeping a boat, even one that you do use, is, as they say,
a hole in the ocean for throwing money in.

  Now he looked at me, still rubbing his chin. “Oh, aye, but we mostly do short leases anyway. One or two weeks at a time. You could book her for when you wanted her for yourself, and the rest of the time, you get paid. There’s the upkeep, of course, but you could pay me a commission and I’d take care of that, and the expenses would all come out of the rental fees. I handle three other boats like that. All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll add Daisy to the list.”

  As he spoke, I thought that perhaps he had mentioned this to me before, but I had been too deep in grief to take it in. I maybe hadn’t understood, and he would have been too different to persist. Now I saw immediately how sensible it was, and how useful it would be to have another source of income. I told him so, and agreed to a meeting early the next week to agree the details and fill in the paperwork.

  I went home and surprised myself by actually writing a book proposal. It was only three pages, and it hinted at more than it explained, but I thought it might pique an editor’s interest. I sent it as an e-mail attachment to Selwyn without agonising further. The time for procrastinating and running away was over. I was going to write Helen Ralston’s life.

  X

  Saturday morning was bright and dry, the sun warm and the winds westerly and not too stiff, a perfect day for a pleasant little sail down the coast. The sight of Helen and Clarissa waiting for me in the lobby when I entered the Crinan Hotel made my heart beat a little faster, partly with pleasure, and partly with fear.

  Helen Ralston fascinated me; she also frightened me.

  If my feelings for Clarissa were uncomplicated, the emotions Helen aroused were anything but.

  This time, I didn’t run away. It would have been easy enough to go forward, smiling and falsely apologetic, to claim there was something wrong with my boat and offer to take them out for a drive instead. Clarissa, I knew, would be on my side – I sensed she wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of taking a ninety-six-year-old woman onto the ocean in a small boat – and Helen’s anger, annoyance, disappointment could all be weathered.

  The whole sequence of events for a safe, dull, socially uncomfortable day flashed through my mind in a split-second. I had only to say the word to make it happen, but I did not.

  I decided instead to confront my fear and the mystery at the heart of Helen Elizabeth Ralston, and when she announced that we were going to pay a visit to the isle of Achlan, although my heart gave a queasy lurch, I still did not back down.

  “Oh, yes, Eilean nan Achlan. The island of lamentation. I have your painting of it – it’s in the boot of the car. I brought it to give back to you.”

  The old woman looked at me with her hooded, hawk’s eyes, unreadable. “I don’t want it. You keep it. It’s yours now.”

  Clarissa was frowning. I thought she would ask what we were talking about – I was eager to explain, ready to get the painting out of its wrappings and show it to her – but she was following her own train of thought.

  “Mum, we can’t go there. It’s an uninhabited island. There’s nowhere to land. You told me yourself how you had to swim ashore – I hope you don’t imagine we’re going swimming today!”

  “You’ll get us ashore, won’t you?” Helen put her cold, claw-like hand on my arm and gave me an appealing, almost flirtatious look with tilted head.

  I spoke over Helen’s head to her daughter. “There’s a dinghy on board, a little inflatable. We can go ashore in that.”

  “There, you see?” Helen looked as triumphant as she had in that old photograph with Virginia Woolf. This was a woman who liked to have her way.

  “I still think it sounds like too much trouble,” Clarissa said, offering me another chance to back out. “It’s up to you, of course.”

  I was as curious, and almost as eager, as Helen to visit Achlan.

  “It’s not far away, and it’s somewhere I’ve always meant to go. We – Allan and I – always meant to go ashore and explore, but we never did. I think it was because it was so close, too close – once we were out in the boat we wanted more of a sail.”

  “Well, if you really don’t mind,” Clarissa sighed.

  I looked at Helen. “I’d like to get a picture of you there, today. For my book.”

  “You mean my book, don’t you?”

  “That’s what I said.” I gave her a bland, mock-innocent smile, and she snorted delicately.

  I could see she was happy. And why not? I felt happy, too. It was only Clarissa who looked a bit out of sorts.

  “Do you sail?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. I can sail Daisy single-handed.” Despite my long absence from her, she seemed to welcome me, and the old skills came rushing back. It was all very easy and smooth, pulling away from the dock, and putting slowly out of the busy harbour until I was able to cut the noisy engine and felt my own spirit crackle and lift like the crisp white sails as we went gliding through the Sound of Jura.

  There are treacherous waters there, whirlpools and rocks of legendary fame, but I knew my way and was going nowhere near the local Scylla and Charybdis. I knew I had only a short and easy sail ahead of me, never very far from shore. As I breathed in the fresh, salt air and eased Daisy along the familiar sea-lane, I imagined Allan close beside me, his hand resting lightly atop mine on the tiller. He had taught me to sail. I felt an unexpected ease in the thought. I still missed him badly, but the memory no longer crippled me with sorrow. I could take pleasure in the good memories, and there were many of them, so many aboard this little boat.

  Helen murmured, “Allan would have loved this.”

  It was as if she’d spoken my own thought aloud. I whipped around to stare at her, deeply shocked, but she didn’t even notice, staring out at the water.

  I thought of the list in her journal, and I moistened dry lips to croak, “Who?”

  She turned to give me one of her filmy, blue-eyed stares. “Your husband, dear.”

  “How did you . . . I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “I met him in London. This was years ago – before you were married to him. He worked for Collins at that time, I think. My agent introduced us at a party, I do remember that. I was very struck by him. A lovely young man, so kind, yet so witty. That combination is rare, you know. And he reminded me more than a little bit of – but never mind that.”

  This was plausible. Allan had worked for Collins in the 1970s, years before I had known him, and he’d been a stalwart of the publishing party scene. And it was not surprising that Helen Ralston should have been drawn to him, recalling the photograph of Clarissa’s father.

  “But – how did you know—”

  “That he was a sailor? We talked about it, of course! He told me about his holidays with his family, when he was a child, and how he learned to sail in the very same place where I came on holiday with Logan.”

  What I’d meant was how had she known that the man she’d met once, thirty years ago, had been my husband, but I realized there was no point in asking her. She might have claimed that I’d told her, or maybe she’d read it on a book-jacket. Anyone might have told her; it wouldn’t have taken much effort to find out.

  Plausible though her story of meeting Allan was, I didn’t believe it. Allan had a wonderful memory for the people he’d met over the years, and he knew how much I loved In Troy. If he had ever met its author, he would have told me.

  I was sure that Helen was teasing, just as she had been with the story of “her” dream, and that I would find out why before too much longer.

  Eilean nan Achlan came into view within a few minutes, but I waited until we were much closer before pointing it out. Clarissa shaded her eyes with a hand to look. Helen turned her head with no change of expression.

  “Did you ever come back?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “Never. I didn’t want to, until now.”

  I stee
red Daisy into the little bay at the south-westerly end of the island and after some finicky manoeuvring, hove to. I had judged it very well, I thought: the view from here was just about exactly what Helen Ralston had been looking at when she’d painted “My Death” more than seventy years before.

  When I got a chance to rest after hauling in the sails and making everything tight, I looked at Helen to see how she was responding.

  She was sitting very still, staring up at the gorse and bracken-covered hills. Feeling my gaze upon her, she turned to meet my eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Something about her look or her tone sent a shiver down my spine.

  “You’re welcome. Shall we go ashore?”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  Clarissa fought one last-ditch effort, casting an uneasy eye on the little rubber dinghy. “You know, I really don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mum . . .”

  “Then you can stay here.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. You meant that I should sit down and shut up like a good little girl. I’m not your child, Clarissa.”

  “No, but you do act like one sometimes!”

  “It’s my right.”

  “Why won’t you be sensible!”

  The two women glared at each other, driven past endurance by the unfair role-reversal which ageing forces upon parents and children. I felt sympathy for them both, but gladly removed from it all. This was not a situation I would ever confront: I had two sisters, better qualified by geography and temperament to look after our parents (both still in good health) if the need arose, and I had no children. When I was as old and frail as Helen Ralston, assuming I made it that long, there would be no one left to care if I looked after myself properly or not. And unless I had the money to pay for it, there would certainly be no expedition for the elderly me like today’s.