Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “I swear on . . . on Rover’s life that it does not hurt at all.”

  I raised my eyebrows. The dog he’d had when he was a boy? It was obviously dead. Not much point swearing on his life.

  “Honestly. It’s not your fault. You were upset. That was pretty scary, man. When you fell in, for a moment I just couldn’t see you. Like there was something above you . . . Like something covered you.”

  I looked down into my cup.

  “Tell me what happened, Inary,” he said gently.

  I shrugged and showed the palms of my hands, as if to say I can’t. My notebook was in my jacket pocket – either in shreds or soaking like everything else. There was no point in even looking for it. It was a good excuse, anyway.

  “Sorry, I forgot about . . .” He touched his throat, embarrassed. I smiled and shook my head – I didn’t mind. He’d been great. I was pretty sure he’d saved my life. And got a black eye as a thank you.

  I looked into Taylor’s frank, clear blue eyes and I wondered if I could explain what really happened. About the way I see things . . . About the girl in the loch.

  Could I? No. That wasn’t an option.

  Many people in Glen Avich knew that the Sight ran through the McCrimmons and a few related families. But only six people in the world knew about the true extent of my gift, and four of them were dead: my parents, my grandmother, Emily, Logan and Lewis. Nobody else. Nobody else could have imagined that the gift, for the women of my mother’s family, was a lot more than the occasional dream that hinted of the future, or feeling a presence once in a while. It was so much more than that – so much stronger, more vivid. Real. And, my grandmother had said, nobody in the last few generations had had a gift as potent as mine. Which was why when it ended so suddenly, she was astonished. I never told her – or anybody else – about the girl in the loch.

  I’d regretted telling Lewis. I’d regretted it at once, as soon as I saw his face when he realised I wasn’t joking. I’d told him in a moment of weakness, an intimate moment when I felt I wanted him to know everything about me. At the beginning, he thought I was messing with him. When he grasped that I was serious, he was spooked. And he told me never to mention this to his parents – as if I would – because they would not want me in the house again. As if my gift were somehow demonic, akin to witchcraft – something intrinsically evil, when it was really just like a sixth sense. Neither evil nor good in its substance, just the way I was, the way many women in our family were.

  “Inary?” Taylor said softly and pulled me gently out of my thoughts. “Wait. I’m sure we’ve got . . .” He hunted around and landed on a pile of printed sheets that looked like spread charts, and a capless blue biro. “There you are,” he said, handing me one of the sheets and the pen. “You can write here.”

  Oh.

  What excuse could I find for what happened today?

  “More chicory?”

  God no, no more of that brown broth. I shook my head so hard I was dizzy for a second.

  I paused and rested the tip of the pen on the paper, biting my lip. What about I see dead people? I chuckled to myself, somewhat hysterically.

  “What’s funny?” whispered Taylor, amusement replacing the concern in his eyes. He was sitting very close to me, and his arm was brushing against my bare leg. Dusk was falling outside, and the light in the caravan was grey and opaque, a prelude to darkness. The fire shone warm and orange on Taylor’s face, like a window in a darkened house.

  “I’m sorry I asked you out on the water. I could tell you were worried and I should’ve listened. I’m sorry you felt obliged to come and see the excavation . . .”

  I shook my head again, more firmly this time, and lay a hand on his arm. I couldn’t stand the idea of him feeling guilty for something he had no responsibility for. I should have said no.

  So much had happened, and I was cold and shaken and I had so much on my mind. I sprang to my feet. I just wanted to go home.

  *

  I stepped into the house in a daze. Thoughts of the ghostly child filled my head in a messy tangle, and I couldn’t pick up the threads.

  The girl’s empty black eyes.

  Her pleading words.

  Drowning in the black waters.

  Take me home.

  And then I was shaken out of my reverie, as I noticed something on the kitchen table – a little parcel, tied with string, and beside it a note in Logan’s handwriting: This came for you. I didn’t need to open it to know who it was from.

  Inside the parcel was something nestled in layer after layer of bubble wrap, and a small, flat present encased in lilac tissue paper and held together by a raffia thread. I ripped the bubble wrap – within was an exquisite porcelain owl, white and blue, and Blu-tacked to it was a tiny Danish flag. I then untied the raffia thread and gently opened the lilac tissue. Inside, a purple leather notebook, its cover soft and buttery.

  Owl number two, and something to use until your voice comes back.

  A.

  PS. You might guess I’m in Copenhagen.

  Now I had two owls, sitting side by side on my desk. I was glad that the Polish one had another little owl to keep it company.

  The day had been so long, so eventful. It was definitely time for a Lesley chat. She didn’t even know about what had happened between Alex and me yet . . . and I needed to find out if he’d said anything to her. Maybe that could give me an insight into his thinking, because right now our relationship was so jumbled up I couldn’t make sense of anything.

  From Inary@gmail.com

  To LesleyGayle@aldebaran.co.uk

  Hi Lesley,

  I wish I could phone you and actually talk. Everything is okay here. Relatively speaking. Things between Logan and me are a wee bit better, it seems. He’s stopped having a go at me on a regular basis, so that helps. What worries me is that he’s not doing that great. I try to keep an eye on him and hide bottles away, but it’s not really working. He sits there and drinks. I just wish I could ask Emily what to do, what to say to him. She always knew how to take him, you know? How to make him snap out of his black moods. It doesn’t bear thinking what would happen if I weren’t here, Lesley.

  Will you come up? I mean, if you can? I know you came for the funeral, and it’s a long way, but with my voice gone, I’m still scared to leave Glen Avich. I haven’t been anywhere yet. Also, I don’t want to leave Logan. But if you can’t, I understand . . . I know it’s a lot to ask.

  Alex sent me a purple notebook. I’m writing instead of talking. It helps. At least it’s a way to communicate.

  So . . . Something happened between Alex and me before I left. It shouldn’t have happened and I’m not sure how to deal with it now. It’s too much. I told him it was a mistake and I hurt him a lot. Has he mentioned anything to you?

  I thought it was better if we didn’t speak for a while, but everything was so painful and horrible here, I texted him, so we’re back in touch.

  Well, please visit if you can. I just can’t wait to hear your voice and see your face.

  Inary xxxx

  From LesleyGayle@aldebaran.co.uk

  To Inary@gmail.com

  Oh, Inary. The two of you, honestly. He didn’t mention anything, no, but I did feel he was a bit weird. I thought it was just because you were away.

  I’d love to come up. Let me just sort out a few work things and I’ll get back to you . . . I’ll let you know the earliest I can make it.

  Take care,

  Lesley

  23

  She isn’t you

  Alex

  I was in one of my favourite places in the world, Copenhagen, having a coffee in Café Kys and logging a few new colours into Chromatica, when I got an email from Inary.

  Hi Alex,

  I got your Danish owl, thank you

  – wow, the courier had been faster than light; I’d only sent it the day before –

  And how’s Chromatica going? Any more purples found?

  I don’t think I’ll be ba
ck for a while. Months, probably.

  Apart from the fact that I can’t speak, which is bad enough, the worst thing is Logan. Yesterday he spent three hours chopping wood – without stopping. Afterwards, his hands were all blistered. He acts normally, but I can see that inside it’s a different story.

  So I won’t see you for a while. I’m really sorry.

  Dismay filled me like a tidal wave. Suddenly, the coffee tasted like dirty water.

  I think I owe you an explanation, about what happened between us, and the way I was afterwards. You know, the way I said it had been a mistake. I never planned to be in a relationship again, after Lewis. But with you . . . I don’t know, things just seemed to happen. The problem is, my life is a bit of a mess right now. I can’t think of anything but Emily and I can’t speak and my brother is in a bad way. Yes, it’s all a big mess. I just couldn’t cope with more complications. It’s so much better if we are just friends. I hope you understand, and please don’t be hurt. It’s just me being all wrong, right now.

  Inary x

  I closed the email without replying.

  As soon as I got home I phoned Kamau, and we went out places. Various places, not sure exactly where. I don’t remember much of the night – just a few hazy scenes, blurred words, the sense of nothing being quite right. I recall having a long, loud conversation in a club, shouting over the noise and downing brightly coloured, unidentified cocktails.

  “So that’s what happened. And now she’s gone . . .”

  “That’s tough.”

  “It is tough indeed, my friend.” Words were quite difficult to form at that stage, but I soldiered on.

  “She won’t be back for months. If ever . . .”

  “Can you not go see her?”

  “I don’t know. Can I? Does she want me to?”

  He shrugged. “Worth trying.”

  “Nah. Not after what she said to me . . .”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she couldn’t cope with any more complications and it’s better if we are just friends. And I quote. Because I know that email by heart.”

  “You’re in a bad way, mate,” Kamau concluded.

  I downed another bright-blue concoction, and after that it all went black.

  Kamau must have dragged me home sometime in the early hours. He’d taken my shoes off and put me to bed. I woke up in my clothes, hating myself and the whole world.

  As I got up and as everything spun and unidentified sludge sploshed in my stomach, the thought hit me again: Inary and I were to be just friends – in case I didn’t get the message before. Then why did she keep talking to me, turning to me every time she needed someone, like some kind of torture she’d planned for me? Why?

  I dragged myself to the kitchen. Kamau was still there, and he was awake, smartly dressed and sitting with a smirk on his face.

  “Rise and shine! How you feeling?”

  “Rise and shite, more like.” I moaned. “How come you had a change of clothes?”

  “I sort of knew what kind of night it was going to be.” He smiled. He was sober, not hungover in the slightest. And he was smug. Had I not been so grateful, I would have hated him too, like the rest of this planet.

  “Drink this. And take . . . these.” He handed me a cup of black coffee and pushed two Nurofen out of their packets.

  “This coffee is practically solid . . .”

  “It’s what you need. And by the way, it’s half past eight, so you have to finish that and get dressed in the next ten minutes. I’ll drive you to work.”

  I nodded, and it was so painful I just wished somebody would chop my head off. “Ouch . . .”

  “Well, you only have yourself to blame, like my mum always used to say!” laughed Kamau. “’Mon, get going.”

  A few agonising minutes later, we were out. The fresh air did take the edge off a bit, but by the time we were in front of my office I just wanted to lie down and die.

  “Thank you, mate,” I said as I opened the car door.

  “Any time. Oh, and Alex?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “You know something else my mum used to say?”

  “What?”

  “What’s for you won’t go past you.”

  “Ah.”

  “I mean, if she’s meant for you, she’ll come back. Or you’ll go to her. It’ll work out.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  *

  I walked into my office, every step a stab between my eyes. It was just Sharon and me.

  “Hi, Sharon,” I called. My voice sounded very loud. I winced.

  “Hi. Good night?”

  “Not exactly,” I replied, hanging my jacket up. The office was oddly quiet for this time of morning. “Where is everyone?”

  “Gary is on holiday, Molly and Clark are in Manchester, and Alena is sick with the flu. She phoned this morning. Looks like it’s just you and me. You look terrible. Coffee?”

  “God, no.”

  I sat at my desk, and for a second I thought I was having some alcohol-induced hallucination. There was a toy owl sitting in front of my computer. It was a plush one, baby blue, with huge round eyes and a patchwork of textures. How did that thing get there?

  For a wild moment, I thought – I hoped . . . of course, it must have been Inary! I looked around frantically, as if she were about to jump out of a filing cabinet. I lifted the owl up, and a small envelope – the same blue as the owl, appeared from under it.

  I opened the note.

  For your collection, it said.

  What?

  I met Sharon’s eyes over my computer. She was smiling. Her lips were very red and her hair styled in smooth, silky waves. Sharon wasn’t just pretty – she was beautiful, cinnamon-skinned and dark-eyed beautiful.

  It dawned on me.

  “I got it for you,” she said.

  “Oh. Oh, thanks.” I didn’t know what to say. Why an owl? How did she know . . . ?

  “Gary told me you were hunting for owls. Not literally!” she laughed. “He said you were looking for a nice one in Copenhagen. That you collect them. So I thought . . .” Colour was rising in her cheeks.

  This couldn’t be happening. And my head was killing me. Oh God please make the drilling in my head stop, I prayed.

  “Well, they were for a friend . . . But thank you.”

  A cloud passed over her face. “Oh.”

  Oh indeed. I suppose if a man is buying statuettes and says they’re for a friend, it’s likely they’re for a woman.

  “Well, you can give it to your friend.” She laughed a brittle laugh. I felt terrible for her. What a mess.

  But we were adults. Professionals. We could handle it.

  We were professionals who left plush toys on people’s desks. I pressed my fingers to my temples. Please Lord, make me die. I’ll never touch a drop of vodka again, ever, as long as I live.

  “You okay?” she asked. “Look, I’m sorry. It was a bad idea. What was I thinking? Honestly, just give it to your friend and let’s forget about it. I’m going for a coffee across the road . . .”

  “No, I’ll keep it for myself.”

  “You don’t have to . . .”

  God, I felt for her. She’d really put herself on the line. Like she really cared about me, and she was willing to take a risk to get closer to me.

  Like I mattered.

  “Listen, Sharon . . .” I took a breath.

  “I’ll be back in ten, okay?”

  “Sharon. Please stay.”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  I had to move on.

  “Yes?”

  I had to try again to free myself from Inary.

  “Alex?”

  I owed it to myself. It’d been three years, for fuck’s sake. And she still felt confused.

  I’d had enough.

  “I’ve been in the mood for Thai food for ages. I don’t suppose you . . . ?” I blurted out.

  “Oh . . . I love Thai food,” she replied, a tentative smile on her lips
.

  “Great. I’ll book somewhere. Should I come and get you at eight?”

  “Sure.” She was smiling now. “Sure.”

  *

  It was a good night. We never ran out of things to talk about, we made each other laugh, and whenever she brushed my fingers with hers – not on purpose, of course, by complete accident – her skin felt soft as silk. There was a candle on the table, and its light made her eyes liquid, like dark honey.

  Later, I invited her home and into my living room. On the very spot I’d held Inary, I let Sharon wrap her arms around me. She smelled deep and dark and womanly, like some night-blooming flower. I stood still for a few seconds, and then I took her face in my hands and kissed her.

  *

  I woke up sated and starving all the same time. She was in a peaceful, undisturbed sleep, her dark hair scattered across my pillow, her arms cradling her head. She looked very young, though I knew she was my age, thirty-one. She looked vulnerable. Spending the night with her had been . . . good. And it hadn’t been enough, somehow.

  I stroked her hair and wished with all my heart I could fall in love with her. And I would – once Inary was out of my system.

  24

  In our blood

  Inary

  Taylor was around a lot. He was a live wire, full of life, full of energy. He told me stories of his work and how it had taken him around the world before he’d landed a job with the Scottish Underwater Archaeology Association. He’d dived off the coasts of Turkey and Japan, swum among the ruins of long-lost cities in Greece and recovered Viking jewellery from frozen lakes.

  Everything he said took me a million miles away from all that weighed on me those days. He didn’t seem to mind my inability to speak – he simply kept talking. The purple notebook lay mainly untouched.

  One afternoon he’d come up to the house for coffee (me) and herbal tea (him). I’d been at the kitchen table, jotting down a few notes about what I knew about Mary, everything I’d uncovered from my visions. She was different from any other spirit I’d seen. She moved me in a way that no other had done – like I was meant to get closer to her. Like I needed to get closer to her.