The woman paused, obviously giving careful thought to what she was about to say next. Kirstin realized she looked more than tired. Worried. What was going through her mind about Morag? Whatever it was, she couldn’t ask her and wouldn’t be told.
Dr Lockhart finished her coffee and looked again at Kirstin. ‘As you know, Morag is extremely isolated. Both from her past friends and from her family. I realize that you’ve known her for only a short time, but she’s told me some of your background. You’ve been very supportive to her.’ She paused to take a deep sigh. ‘So, I wondered if you felt able to take on any further responsibility, above and beyond what you’ve already done? I’m talking really about being prepared to call her, drop in on her regularly this next fortnight while I’m away?’
Dr Lockhart was raising a quizzical eyebrow, awaiting some response. Kirstin leant forward, her lower lip pouting as she gathered her thoughts.
‘You’re right. I…I don’t know Morag well. But if Morag is happy for me to be her ‘minder’, then that’s okay by me. I’ll be staying further up the river from her, in my ex-father-in-law’s house, so I’ll be reasonably close by. But…I do have one reservation. Do you think she’ll have a relapse?’
Dr Lockhart pinched at her tired eyes and pushed her spectacles back up into place. Kirstin sensed a hesitation. ‘Do I think she’ll try it again? Huh. It’s always the question in these circumstances. Well, I’m neither God nor a prophet. But what I will say is this. If I considered Morag to be a serious danger to herself, then I would have no hesitation in having her sectioned until I got back. However, I’ve just spent some time talking to her, assessing her. It’s tricky. Let me put it this way. I believe that the…how can I put this? The conscious, self-aware part of her did believe that she intended to kill herself. It’s common knowledge that she tried suicide once before in prison. So it is part of her make·up;. But from speaking to the medical team here, it’s clear that she didn’t consume nearly enough tablets. I think part of her unconscious didn’t want to end it all. Somewhat oversimplified, but there you have it.’
Kirstin frowned. ‘What? You mean she didn’t mean it? Could’ve fooled me. Morag’s either a brilliant actor or just lucky, surely?’
Dr Lockhart sat back and removed her glasses. ‘It’s a hard one to get your head around, I know. Put it this way.
She did and she didn’t mean it. Look, let’s leave it at that. We’re both too tired. But you can be sure of this. Morag is incredibly resilient. A real fighter. Frankly, I’m astonished that she’s survived so much pressure. I’ve had other patients who have gone under on far less than Morag has suffered. She is psychologically strong. Very strong. But everyone has their breaking point. I think Morag is testing herself to the limit.’
Dr Lockhart leant forward again, replacing the spectacles. ‘So, no. I don’t think Morag will try this again, given the professional support I’m leaving in place for her. And whatever you can do for her personally will be a great bonus.’
Kirstin stood up and wandered to the nearby bin to discard her cup. Was this too great a responsibility? What Dr Lockhart was asking was a lot, especially since she wasn’t being given the whole picture about Morag. That felt slightly uncomfortable, although it wasn’t really her business. And there was professional support in abundance. All things considered, it wasn’t that much to ask. She sighed, exasperated with herself. Come on, Kirstin, all you’ve done for the past two years is be self-indulgent. Where’syour naturalaltruism gone? The Jamieyou knew would be disappointed in you.
Kirstin stepped back to the waiting area, suddenly ashamed at having even considered baulking at Dr Lockhart’s request.
‘Okay. Can I see her tonight?’
Dr Lockhart held up a restraining hand. ‘No, I’m afraid that’s not possible. She’s asleep now. Call in the morning and they’ll tell you how she is. Now, I wonder if I can ask you a last favour? I’d do it myself, but I have to be at the airport in a few hours. Morag needs some bits and pieces from her place. You know, toiletries, a change of nightclothes, and something to wear when she gets out. Is there any chance you could fetch some and bring them when you visit tomorrow?’
‘Of course. I’ve still got her keys. I’ll swing by her place tonight.’
They walked in weary silence until the cool night air of the car park hit them.
Dr Lockhart held out her hand. ‘Thank you again. You have the number of my clinic. And I have your mobile number, which I’ll pass on to my colleague if that’s okay with you? D’you need a lift?’
Kirstin smiled her thanks and accepted the outstretched hand with a firm grip. ‘I’m okay. I drove here after the ambulance took Morag away. Good to meet you. Enjoy your trip.’
The tall figure strode over to the far side of the car park and disappeared into the shadows.
Kirstin sank into the driver’s seat of her darkened car, head back, gritty eyes closed. Morag, Jamie, Ross, Glen. Her life had become so busy and complicated. Busy with other people, complicated with their emotions, their despair. And a little joy of course, when it came to Glen. After nearly two years in self-imposed exile, with only navel-gazing and herself to consider, now her emotional life was full to brimming. Her crusade to race up here and mourn Jamie’s death had turned into something quite unexpected. And yet, wouldn’t he be doing just the same for Morag? Probably more, in fact. He’d have installed her at Mill House, warding off all the evils that threatened her.
She jumped at the mobile’s raucous ring. Glen. Damn. She’d forgotten all about him. He had been the first person she’d thought to ring after the ambulance had taken away Morag’s near-lifeless body. She’d rung off promising him an update.
‘Kirstin? What’s happened? How is she? You never called me back. Is she…?’
‘No, she’ll be fine. Long story. Look, sorry I didn’t call you again. It was all a bit of a panic. I left the phone in the car and I’ve been in the hospital until now. Listen, can I call you tomorrow? I’m shattered. I’ve got to go back to Morag’s and then I must sleep.’
He offered a brief goodbye and was gone. She knew her tone had been impatient and harsh. Too bad. She couldn’t take on his hurt feelings as well. She felt at breaking point tonight. But there was one more call to make. She should tell Bonnie what had happened, no matter how late it was now. As far as Bonnie was concerned, she had left Morag sleeping it off in the safety of her own home. Kirstin fumbled in her pocket for Bonnie’s card and punched her home number into the mobile. Strange? One single tone. Unobtainable. Kirstin tried again. And once more. She shrugged. It would have to wait until the morning. Finally, she pulled out of the car park, barely able to keep her squinting eyes open.
The last thing she would notice was the car waiting at a safe distance from Morag’s house, headlights dimmed, the driver patiently intent on choosing their moment.
Twenty-Four
As soon as Kirstin entered the house, she knew. Staying the night was the only option. In her state it would be impossible to drive safely the mile or two back to Jamie’s house. Morag wouldn’t mind. The best thing was to go straight to bed and organize what Morag needed in the morning.
The hall and kitchen lights were on, just as she had left them. She searched through a couple of cupboards and then tried the living room. There was a drinks cabinet. In the corner. An eclectic mix. Some of the liqueur bottles looked sticky and ancient. At least this wasn’t one of Morag’s current problems. Stuck at the back was what she was looking for: a decent cognac. She sloshed a double shot into a balloon glass and made her way to the stairs. The nightcap was essential. She was so tired, yet wound up. Sleep wouldn’t come without a bit of help. She reached the bathroom. Shit, she had no toiletries, no nightclothes. Brilliant! And then she remembered her bags in the car.
The cool air outside was welcome. She hauled a bag out from the back seat. Heading for the house, she paused and turned round, momentarily tense. Was it the faintest of noises or a movement that her senses had picked up?
Forget it, she was tired. Letting nerves get the better of her. It was probably some night animal. This place was semi-rural after all. She shrugged off the worry and stepped back inside the house, securing the array of locks behind her.
Minutes later she was settled. She’d chosen a top-floor spare room at the back. Night sounds flowed in through the open window; an owl’s cry, the light breeze rustling the trees. But the river was silent. Out there, flowing, but silent. The cognac was having its effect. She managed to switch off the bedside lamp before her eyes closed again and the night sounds faded away.
He’d gained entry easily. Morag might have thought she lived in a fortress, but she’d never even noticed the dodgy catch on the utility-room window. It had been some time since he’d set foot in here. In those days, although not exactly a welcome visitor, he’d been included in all her party invitations. Craig would have insisted on that. And what parties they had been! Now, life was so very different. He could have, maybe should have, invited himself in months ago. Had it out with her face to face. But, even until recendy, there had been a modicum of caution and control left in him. Not now. He paused halfway across the kitchen to listen. Nothing, she wasn’t stirring. The drinks cabinet was already open and welcoming as he padded into the living room. He eyed the unstoppered cognac bottle. So, she was on the booze, eh? Not exactly a surprise. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long satisfying pull. And another. Replacing the bottle soundlessly on the sideboard, he turned, looked up at the ceiling and nodded.
He knew where the creaking stair was and heaved himself up and over it with ease. Her first-floor bedroom door was wide open, but the light from the landing couldn’t reach into the far corner where he knew her bed lay. Slowly, silently he crossed the threshold. He could feel his heartbeat rising, breathing quickening, leg muscles flexing. With a lightning last few steps he was on the bed, its frame complaining under his weight as he leapt on to the firm mattress. Immediately he knew she wasn’t there. Only a handful of pillows lay crushed beneath his white-knuckled fists. Where the hell was she? He’d seen her. Spied her shadow moving behind the blinds. This was her bedroom. He knew the layout of her house. Suddenly, a wave of panic shivered through him. What if she’d seen or heard him entering and was cowering in some cubbyhole calling the police? Shit! He strained his ears, willing them to pick up her frantic whispering. Nothing. Slowly, he released his grip on the pillows, backing off from the bed until he was standing, hands hanging loosely by his sides. Again, he craned his neck back and looked up at the ceiling, his visual memory sketching the layout above him. The fop floor! She was hiding up there.
This richly carpeted flight gave out no creaks. Confidently, and with a firm hand on the banister, he hoisted himself up to the top, two steps at a time. The upper-landing light was far dimmer. A mere glow-worm. Good. Instinctively he knew which room she’d chosen, and then he heard it. Even, gentle breathing. The rhythm of sleep.
He had her.
Twenty-Five
Swim,Kirstin! Swim for your life! Try as bard as she could, she was unable to make it. The sheer weight, as the waters of the Cauldron pressed down on her, was too much. She could feel her lungs collapsing under the pressure. Only one or two seconds of air left. And what was this? Some long, slim green tendrils. Reeds encircling her throat, squeezing the life from her, wringing out the very last breath. Above, through the shimmering water, she could see them. Lined up along the riverbank. Jamie, Morag, Ross, Glen. Their bodies bent at the waist, leaning over, staring down at her quizzically. As if she was some curious specimen in a fish tank. Why wouldn’t they help her? Please…please…!
Kirstin tugged at the reeds—no, hands, iron-strong hands —welded to her neck, and kicked off the duvet, struggling to free herself, nails clawing at the strangling paws.
She gasped out the words. ‘Stop! Please…please!’
Without warning, the hands were released and the bulky figure jumped back, almost toppling from the bed.
Kirstin slid off the other side of the mattress and backed away, keeping the king-sized bed between them. But it wasn’t enough. Alistair Sutherland had the advantage of her. He was guardian of the door. All she had behind her were locked windows and a two-storey drop. Her shaking hands were still wrapped protectively round her neck. She was beyond coughing. Instead, she bent forward, gasping for each precious, painful breath. Her chest felt crushed. He must have been levering his full weight on her at one point.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he barked at her. ‘Where’s Morag?’
After two more heaving breaths, she tried to respond, her voice a rasping whisper. ‘I…I know you, you’re Alistair Sutherland. My name’s Kirstin. I was Jamie Munro’s daughter-in-law. I’m…I’m sorry about your sister. Really. But look, Morag’s in hospital.’ Kirstin paused, trying to swallow. Although the room was warm, she shivered in her skimpy vest and shorts. ‘Morag tried to kill herself today…whatever you wanted to do tonight she almost did for herself already. And I know what happened a few nights ago by the Cauldron. I saw you coming back to your home afterwards. Morag and I drove to your house. Please, please stop all this. If I can help you, I will. But, please, leave Morag alone.’
She tried to stand up straight and failed. Instead, she backed further away, eventually finding support on a windowsill. The words had come out as a weak and pitiful plea. But she’d tried her best. And somehow, the atmosphere had changed. He seemed less threatening, less frightening. In fact, he seemed…glared. As if he was in shock.
He took a half step back, frowning. ‘When? When did she try to kill herself?’
Kirstin returned the frown. His tone was measured, inquiring, as if he was trying to work something out. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly when. Yesterday afternoon, maybe early evening. I don’t know exactly when. Why?’
He began shaking his head violently, muttering more to himself than her. ‘She’s dead. But she still could have done it. She’s dead. She’s dead! Dead!’
Kirstin stood up at last. What in God’s name was he gibbering about? She tried to keep her voice light, conversational. ‘Who’s dead? Morag’s not dead. I told you, she’s in the hospital.’
His head was shaking and he was simultaneously fumbling with and cursing at a cigarette packet. At last his trembling fingers struck the match and he drew heavily on the first drag, the acrid stench of exhaled smoke making her feel instantly nauseous.
He swallowed a lungful of smoke and looked at her, his head stilled again.
‘Bonnie. Bonnie Campbell’s dead.’ He looked down at the burnt-out match still clamped between his fingers and thrust it towards her face. ‘Burnt. Like this! Gone. She was going to see her. She was going to see Morag, I’m sure of it. She must’ve done it. Destroyed Bonnie so she couldn’t tell me where that witch was running away to. I’m going to get her for it.’
He stumbled backwards until his legs hit a chair. Slowly, he slumped into it, muttering, ‘I’m going to, going to.’
Kirstin took a step forwards, her brain straining to take in the information. ‘Bonnie? No, that’s not right. I saw her, here, today. She was here visiting Morag, before she tried to take her own life. Bonnie’s fine, really.’ But somewhere the first flicker of anxiety was stirring. Remember…Bonnie’s number…unobtainable.
He flicked ash on to the carpet, his head drooping. ‘Her cottage. Further up the river, round the bend. Burnt out. Bonnie was in it. Didn’t you hear sirens, see fire engines? She’sgone. The police say it was an accident. All those candles. She always had bloody candles on the go, hundreds of them sometimes, silly woman. But no, it was that…that witch, Morag. Going to get her, going to…’
His voice had faded away, head still drooping, the glowing cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Kirstin moved forward, keeping a safe distance, one hand reaching out for the cold brass of the Victorian bedstead, her mind reeling at his news.
‘Oh, God…no, look, I’m sorry, sorry about Bonnie.
I…I do
n’t know what to say. But whatever you’ve got in your mind, I can tell you Morag was nowhere near Bonnie’s. She spent most of the afternoon in bed and took her overdose sometime between then and when I found her late last night.’
She took a long, slow breath, trying to think carefully about what to say next. ‘I…I don’t know these people like you do, but I’ve seen both of them today…well, yesterday now. Morag isn’t, wasn’t, an enemy of Bonnie’s. There is absolutely no reason to think she was. Bonnie helped Morag yesterday, when she was upset, and Morag was grateful. Believe me. It’s true.’
He jumped up, cigarette butt ground out beneath his foot, the reek of burning carpet filling the air. ‘No, I don’t believe it! That lunatic did it. Somehow. She didit.’
He was moving towards her, gripping the other end of the bedstead as she looked from his face to the doorway and back again. She steeled herself to make a run for it, momentarily forgetting the aching in her chest and throat. One, two, three.
As she made her move, he caught her, his fist encircling her arm and pulling her to him in a mock embrace. ‘Tell me! What hospital? What ward? Then I’ll let you go.’
Suddenly, they both heard it, their eyes darting to the door. A heavy thud of running feet hammering up the stairs. A second later, the tall figure was silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.
‘You’ll let her go, now.’
Kirstin gasped at the sight of Glen, relief bringing on the tears she’d been holding back since the attack. Alistair Sutherland dropped her aching arm and turned to meet Glen’s approach. Instead of stopping when he saw her arm released, Glen kept marching across the room and hurled himself at Alistair Sutherland, pushing him against the wall with such force that she heard the breath winded out of him.
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 15