by Aly Sidgwick
No daughter of mine …
I can’t go home. Besides, that house is no longer my home. The only place I’ve ever truly felt at home is miles away.
Tim’s jacket is inside out. I see the car keys hanging out of the pocket. For a long time, I look at them. Rising and falling with Tim’s gentle breaths.
I look at the clock: 4.15 a.m.
I’m so sorry …
Painfully slowly, I lift Tim’s keys. They clink once. The space invader hangs out over my hand. I stare at it. I stare at Tim. Then I edge away. By the time I reach the entrance, my face is pink with tears.
#
I don’t listen to the radio. Silence is all I can handle now. My driving skills are rusty, but after Inverness the roads grow simpler. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the sun is already on its way down. Browns and lilacs flood in as the landscape grows more ragged, and dark mountains loom in to shelter me. At intervals, rumpled slopes choked with silver birch roll down to meet the road, and ravines widen out into vast straw-coloured plains. Hills erupt into towering, oddly shaped formations, their peaks pocketed with snow, and twice I snatch glimpses along glens to Aegean-blue lochs. The road is twisty here, with many bumps and drops and rises, and I never seem to be driving in the same direction for more than a few seconds. On I go, until Loch Oscaig opens out below me and the road zigzags down to its side. Faced with this familiar scene, I’m tempted to stop. But the fuel gauge is a millimetre shy of empty, and I must reach the farm before the car packs up. So on I go, spewing smoke, till the old post office swings into view. By now, the car has gone into spasms. But it’s okay. I’m close. I pull in behind the petrol pumps and rattle to a stop. Already I recognise the roll in the hill. The bank of ash trees that shadows the track. The clouds on the horizon are ruffled, like a womb awaiting my return.
Sighing heavily, I lean my head on the steering wheel. For many minutes I remain this way. The sky is royal blue now. The silence so deafening I can hear my ears whistle.
I don’t know what makes me turn the radio on. Fear, maybe. The need to hear a friendly voice. But the first, preset station I find is halfway through the news headlines.
‘—was unavailable for comment at this time. Police are appealing for witnesses after a brutal hit-and-run in the Tyneside area yesterday morning. The woman, whose name has still not been released, was rushed to Tyneside General and died from her injuries several hours later …’
No …
No …
I get out of the car. I walk across the ground. I throw up.
The shaking takes some time to subside. I loll on the ground, feeling wind pick through my hair. By the time I uncurl, hours could have passed. Dragging my feet, I go back to the car. Voices twitter quietly from the radio. I turn off the ignition and put my head back on the wheel. Exhaustion finally claims me, and when I open my eyes again I have no idea how long I’ve been gone. My head feels dull. Injured beyond repair. In my head I see the farm, and this gives me the strength to open the door. I sit here for a long time, listening to the waves. Then I get up, and I go.
The first house I pass is the large one, which belonged to the younger farmer. We stayed there one summer when the McLennans were sick. I remember the bedspread that was too heavy to lift, and the slanted windows in the kitchen. I see myself sitting there, eating Coco Pops from a thick pottery bowl with a spoon that was too big for my mouth. The farmer’s wife had painted-on eyebrows, which frightened me, and lipstick the colour of balloons.
Across the road is the field where Coral lived. But the brown caravan is gone now. The grass plush where it once was scraggly. Further down the track, the cattle grid remains, but a polished steel sign now rises behind it, embossed with the words The Hawthornes – private. I strain to see further, but the bushes have grown into a jungle and it’s hard to make out more than the barn roof. What are The Hawthornes? I cross the grid and continue. The track is curved for the last part of the way, so I walk on the right-hand side, waiting for the full view to greet me. Despite everything, I realise I am smiling. The trees thin out. Behind them only sky. That’s strange. I start to run. But all that rushes into sight is more emptiness. Then the track widens and I come out of the trees.
At first I think I might throw up again. The hill is there, where it ought to be. The beck is still there, and the little bridge. But the house is gone. Completely and utterly gone. Dumbstruck, I turn round. Then the biggest shock of all hits me. What I took for the barn was not the barn at all. There, across the car park, stands a modern three-storey building. On the bottom floor I recognise the original barn doorway, but the rest of the building is completely new. Pale pine planks form most of the façade, and on the very top floor the walls are made out of glass. Above the entrance, a stark balcony sits atop steel pillars. The door to the room where Mr McLennan sheared sheep is double-glazed.
I remember the greasy smell of wool and the muscles in Mr McLennan’s old arms. I remember feeding the kittens in the hay bales while rain drummed on the roof. I remember the chickens in the rafters, and the games of hide and seek with Coral. But all of that is gone. In the back of my mind, I think I’d expected to find the McLennans here. And if not them, then their children. When I told them who I was, they’d’ve asked me in for tea. I might have got a job on the farm and lived out my days in safety. Everything would have been all right.
But no. No …
I fall to my knees, and like a clap of thunder my composure finally snaps. Fast, fast, it rushes past my ears. All at once, like a hundred slaps in the face.
Oh God …
Oh God …
Oh God …
A squeak draws my attention, and I turn to see a woman leaning through a window. She talks loudly in a posh English accent, and for a moment I think she is talking to me. Then I see the phone in her hand. Wireless Internet, she’s talking about. Bandwidth.
‘This is my livelihood!’ she snaps. ‘I don’t care about the call-out charge …’
This can’t be happening …
Rising, I float back to the road. The trees pass in a blur. Tim’s car is still parked at the post office. But I don’t stop walking. I can’t. I see the rocks and head for them. Past the trees, past the caravans, past everything, till it’s just me an’ the sea an’ the sky. The rocks are brown an’ black. Though it’s March, the water is shockingly cold. Neon blazes across my vision. Mrs McLennan is singing as she pegs out the washing. Magnus’s face outlined in white. I slide downwards, dragging the pain behind me. I think I am screaming. I feel it, all of it, stuffed inside my chest. Too big. Too much. The darkening sky lashes down, and I see it see me. I want to smash that sky and its knowing, patient eyes. I want to break everything. I want it all to end. The water flounces up to my chest, an’ as I slip further in my heart gives way to a memory. Magnus, singing to me for comfort. I feel him brush my cheek. One last hug. Then blackness drags my feet away, an’ the crashin’ folds over my head.
Tiny shapes. Glitter. Sting.
Try not to struggle.
My face pierces the surface. Alive, boilin’ water. Mouth tastes of blood. I laugh. Fingers hurt. Noise. Static. I see jelly-fish. All around. Floating blancmanges. Welts on my arms. Sea crunches into me, an’ I follow it down. Stingin’. Gulpin’ acid. Another wave. Hard, like fists. The bubbles blink out, an’ down I go.
Oh you silly girl …
You fool …
33
Acka acka ack ack ikk likk likk lakk
Oh God …
What’s that? Church bells?
Water is round my face now. I snort out a salty torrent. Bobbled weeds strangle me, like Coral’s fancy necklace.
I look up and the sky is electric. With my feet I strain for a foothold. But there’s nothing down there. Craning my head round, I look for shore. There. It seems miles away.
Acka acka acka
A wiggling, buzzing purr rises up behind the bells. On and on. Drawing me out of myself. Back to a place I had wanted to leave behind.
‘Fucking shut up!’ I yell. And that is when the speedboat rounds the headland.
I gasp as a wave slams me under. In my head, Rhona’s face. Eyes closed, as if sleeping. I start to cry.
Here they come. They’re coming to get me.
I claw for the surface. Thrash my arms in slow motion. On my feet, one deathly heavy shoe remains. I kick it off.
On board are three figures. The holes of their mouths blink like eyes.
No …
I try to swim for shore, and get nowhere. Stones hit my knees. Rush sideways. Head stings. When I break the surface I have lost my bearings.
Acka acka acka acka acka ack ack acka ackaacka ack!
Black triangles fringed with white pull me with them. Froth smashing in from left and right and behind. Pulling me away till the slurping of the sea is all I hear. A wave boosts me high into the air, and from this fleeting vantage point I glimpse the headland. Blacker and flatter, and impossibly far away. The boat is nowhere to be seen.
Oh God …
Are there islands close by? I can’t see. What if there are none and the tide sweeps me right into the Atlantic? No one would even find my bones then.
Behind me the horizon whirls. Dark slabs, hiding the land from me. Then my vision retreats into light and dark, and my eyes swarm with dots.
#
On the beach, Dad kicks the football. I run after it, kick, and it sails into the sea. Stupid little … Mum wiping my face, Dad shouting. From high above, we watch the ball cross the bay. A brilliant white speck, bobbing northwards. In the car we follow it. Rushing peninsula to peninsula. Running down to the beach, too late every time. You’ll pay for that with your pocket money … Sobbing snottily into my sleeves. Desperately watching the sea from the back seat. Dad drives fast, but the ball’s progress remains faster. The last beach we reach, it’s gone altogether. On its way to Atlantis now, says Mum, as she wipes my tears.
There, I see our house. A red-brick council semi. Dying window boxes, flaking gate. My room is at the front, above the door. The curtains, burgundy velvet. I can see them from here. The long, sloping street that’s exactly four hundred, and twelve steps long. The stunted laurel bush across the road, where I hide for hours in the den I made.
#
Nose stinging. I roar into the air. But the image remains. Clearer now, against the sky. Eleven Stainton Street. Is my mother still there, cutting scones in the kitchen? I have to go back. I have to know what happened. But now I might never get a chance.
Stupid girl …
I flail uselessly. Craving something solid to grab. But I know I can’t go on. My limbs are losing sensation. A wave rushes me upwards, and for a split second I glimpse land. Dull brown.
Oh please …
I crash back. Yell out bubbles. A tiny white spot traverses the brown. Close, then far, then close.
Shapes. Black zigzags. The white spot blinks away.
Ee!
‘EE!’
I open my eyes. Rocks. Wet. Black. Water crashing. A single figure, high up. White blob … a car.
‘Kathy!’ screams the figure.
I’m close to the rocks. The rolling maelstrom where salt water hits stone. I force my legs to kick. Bright patches flood my eyes. The current scoops me backwards, and for some time all I feel is the rushing.
Dark clouds roll across me. A wide brown bay. Twin headlands, rising steadily to a barren skyline. Mountains like a pack of reclining greyhounds. Stubby islands crowned in gold and brown. I’ve been here before.
Concentrate …
Was that Rhona’s voice? I want to believe it.
Time drags. Thoughts simplify. Waves roughen into scallops of brown. I’m going back out again. Round the next headland. On the land, thousands of white dots dance. Faster than before, and in all directions. Rhona? Arms reach out. Blackness curls high, shunts, and crushes down.
#
Are those my legs? Were they kicking all along? Don’t stop. Can’t. Must …
Concentrate.
Bang my leg. Gasp. Look down. Smash head. Go under.
Bubbles. Hard threads curled around. Whipping.
Seaweed!
Shore …
Bellowing, I thrash my legs. Sky opens up and I reach for it. A bulbous formation slams down, curtseys backwards. Blackness. Circling water. Then rocks slam back, and I pile into them. Head goes smash. Elbows scream. Slowwwww. Scrape. Up. Then I’m out in the freezing whiteness, and I weigh a million tons.
#
Warm body, not my own.
‘Stay with me.’
A rush of movement dizzies me. Ground. Gravity. Air.
‘Kathy! Wake up! Wake up!’
I roll into a grainy surface. Splutter. Hands shaking, burning. Can’t feel legs. There’s someone … Somethin’ hap’nin’. Hands. Focus. Hands round my own. Movin’ fast.
‘Whuh …’
Wind blasts into me, colder than any wind I’ve ever felt. I jolt. My whole head is chattering, not just my teeth.
‘You’re all right, you’re all right,’ babbles Rhona. In technicolor, her face comes into focus. Red and white and yellow, with that blue plaster still hanging on. I watch her eyebrow, caked in blood.
‘Didn’t know you could swim,’ I mumble.
‘Yeah, well. There’s lots of things you don’t know.’
I stare down the cliff. One of Rhona’s shoes is there. Bobbing in the sea like a slice of bread.
My neck is crunched up, like a ton weight has been hanging from it. I bring my eyes in line with hers. Try to let her know I’m all right. But my mouth won’t form the words.
‘We have to get you to the car,’ she blusters. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Uh …’
‘You have to walk!’
She drags me up, and seems surprised I stay on my feet. With my arm round her shoulder, we climb. It takes an awfully long time. Halfway, Rhona swears and dumps me in a hollow. I watch her rushing away. By the time she climbs back down, I am laughing like a drain. She shrouds me in a tartan blanket and keeps rubbing my arms and legs.
I’m alive …
For a long while, all I can do is laugh. Rhona watches with an alarmed expression.
I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead …
‘We have to get you to the doctor,’ she insists.
‘No.’
‘You’ll get hypothermia.’
‘No.’
‘This is serious! You’ve been out here for over an hour!’
‘I’m all right!’
I wave my arms to prove it. Reluctantly, Rhona deflates. We huddle side by side, getting our breath back. She watches me like a hawk.
‘Are you angry?’ I ask, when I’m able to speak.
‘No. They are. But I’m not.’
‘Why did you help me?’
‘Katherine … I’ll always help you.’
This statement brings tears to my eyes. I try to scowl them away.
‘By sending me away?’
Rhona does not answer. She doesn’t even seem to breathe.
‘I’m not going to that place,’ I tremble. ‘I’d rather die.’
Wind blows my hair across my face. I don’t bother to pull it away.
‘Were you going to kill yourself?’ asks Rhona. ‘In the water?’
I move my eyes away from hers. When I look back, Rhona is wiping her eyes.
‘I thought so,’ she hiccups. ‘Thank God someone did, or your wish might’ve come true.’
‘That boat,’ I ask. ‘Was that the police?’
‘I don’t know, but I know they’re looking for you on land. They found that file you dropped near the inn.’
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘I just know what Joyce told me.’
I flinch.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Rhona. ‘I left her in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be hours before she raises the alarm.’
‘What? What happened?’
‘She was driving me to th
e surgery in Invercraig, but I stole the car and drove back.’
‘Why?’
‘Have you still not got it? I’m on your side! I’m the only one who still is!’
I draw a breath. Flick my eyes up to Rhona’s. For a moment I’m so happy I can’t speak. Then I remember to be cautious.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘The only thing I can do. Take you back.’
‘You can’t!’
‘Look, this all rests on me. I’m the one you attacked. As long as I don’t press charges—’
‘No! They’ll find out about Hans!’
Rhona sighs. ‘So you meant what you said back there?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s him, in the newspaper clipping?’
‘Yes.’
She leans forward and puts her head in her hands. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled.
‘Look. Even if you did do it … I’m sure you had a good reason … The police will take that into account.’
‘They already think I’m crazy. They’ll lock me away!’
This time Rhona is quiet for longer. I watch her clasping and unclasping her hands around the back of her head.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she mumbles.
‘Let me go!’
‘You know I can’t!’
‘Say you couldn’t find me! Tell them I drowned!’
‘You’re sick! You need help! Can’t you see that?!’
‘What kind of help? Locking me up, all alone? Drugging me up to the eyeballs?’
‘Look, the sedatives were never a permanent solution. I admit Joyce overreacted. But in Dundee you’ll get proper treatment.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s out of my hands! There’s protocol to follow.’
‘Rhona, I’m scared. It’s not just the transfer. It’s Hans’s … people.’
‘What people?’
‘I’ve seen them do things …’