by S. E. Lynes
I stroked his hair and whispered with my mouth to his ear. “Hi Zacky.” I kissed his head, put my hand back over his mouth, carried him down, one stair at a time. By the time I got to the bottom, the sweat was prickling on my back.
There was enough light to light my way back to the stable but, as I stepped inside, the moon returned to hiding. I had to edge towards the cot, feeling ahead with my foot before sliding the other one forwards. The sweat cooled, covered my back with an icy second skin. Shivering, I laid Zac in the cot on one of the blankets, covered him up with the rest and gave him the bottle. I could hear the warm boozy milk straining through the plastic teat before I’d even stood up. He hadn’t noticed the brandy. He’d be flat out in no time, dead to the world.
It was getting on for half past two. But more haste, less speed. Outside was still black. Arms out in front of me, feet big and slow, I made it out of the stable. It was even darker than it had been two minutes ago. I could not see the hand in front of my face. That’s the countryside for you. Dark as all hell. My jaw would not stop juddering. My whole head shook, my whole body. From cold or fear I couldn’t tell.
The moon teased, a burlesque feather dance amongst the clouds – hidden, revealed, hidden once again. I made out the white rendering of the side wall, the miniature silhouette of the oil lamps on the tray outside the back door. I picked up both lamps, elbowed the door open and stepped inside once again.
The police would find other lamps – in the kitchen cupboards, one on our bedside table, plus the ones they’d actually used tonight. The chief detective would conclude that we – sorry, they, used these lamps a lot. It was a quirk, a romance. This evening, the bobbies would think, had been one of soft light, of rich food and red wine, of love gone awry. That’s the trouble with passion – the scant regard it has for health and safety.
The smell of kerosene was strong but I was on the home straight. I struck the match and tipped it. The flame held. I lit both wicks, put one lamp on the kitchen table, under the picture of Mikey and me and Isla taken just after she was born. I slid the other one across the counter, over to the curtain’s edge. Tut-tut, Shona, did you forget to vent those lamps? That is highly dangerous, young lady.
In the half-light, I stood back and watched. The walls flickered. The flames began to elongate, a slow belly dance. It would take maybe half an hour for them to grow long enough. The flame reached up and up, millimetre by millimetre, pawing ever nearer at the curtain’s edge. It would get there sooner or later. I opened the kitchen window, threw down the arm of the latch and brought the window shut with the latch dangling outside. That’s another danger – the pesky breeze that blows the catch – terrible for wafting a perfectly innocent flame. Before you know it, your house goes up in smoke.
And that’s where we come full circle. Once upon a time. That woman, here in the deep dark wood, frozen in the February night, staring at a home that was never hers in a fairy tale that never was. That woman is me, Shona McGilvery from Govan, a woman beside herself. There she is, someone I no longer recognise. She is a mistress, a stalker, an outcast. She is an impostor. She is humiliated, homeless, a lone horse left to graze in a field. Inside, the legitimate family sleep in their warm home. It is all she ever wanted: that family, that warmth, that home. She stands outside, fingers pressed up against the invisible screen that separates her from her own life. She is no longer the daughter her parents raised, she will return to them a changeling. She is vengeful, bitter. She has been emptied of trust, filled with hate. From now on, everyone she has loved or will ever love will know her only by the lies she herself will tell. They will not know her at all.
She is no longer Shona. Burnt out and nameless, I can only watch her as she walks over to the stable door, takes Valentina’s phone from her pocket and opens up Facebook. Once that’s loaded, she dials 999. A woman’s voice asks which service she requires.
Shona takes a breath.
“The fire service,” she says in her best English accent, her best panicking voice. Because, you see, Valentina, Wendy, Georgia or whoever the fuck you are, Michael, Mikey, Captain fucking Hook, Shona can put on a voice too, if the circumstances demand it. She’s a great mimic.
“I can’t get back in,” she cries when her moment comes. “There’s too much smoke!” She sounds so damn afraid, she almost laughs. She sounds so exactly like her former friend she could be her.
The lady on the phone is very sympathetic, very soothing. In her tight Aberdeen brogue she stresses the need to stay calm.
“Can you tell me your name, darlin’?”
“Georgia,” she sobs. “Georgia Smyth-Banks.”
“That’s wonderful, darlin’. Now, Georgia, my love, if you can tell me where you are, we can send help as quickly as possible. Can you do that for me, dear?” How skilfully the nice lady coaxes the address out of the poor shaking woman.
“Burns Cottage, Burns like the poet,” Shona stutters, gives the postcode through gasps and sobs. She doesn’t joke about the irony of the name. In the circumstances, she knows, that wouldn’t be authentic.
“That’s wonderful, dear ...”
“Oh God!” Shona cries. She is sobbing.
“Georgia, my love,” says the nice lady. “Listen to me, darlin’. The fire response unit is on its way. Did you hear me? They’ll be with you very soon. Stay calm, Georgia. Can you do that for me?”
“My baby!” She breaks down. Check her out – she is good.
“Is the baby in danger? Georgia? Is the baby in danger?”
“He wouldn’t sleep! Oh God, I put brandy in his milk. I only wanted him to sleep.”
“Georgia, can you tell me where the baby is?”
“We’re in the stable. I had to get him out of the house. I was in the kitchen ... I only lit the lamps to ... oh God ... I was on Facebook, I wasn’t concentrating. There must’ve been a draft from the window. I think the curtain ... I didn’t think it would catch, you know? I wasn’t thinking ... oh God, my husband’s still inside ... I’ve got to go back for him ...”
Too much? Shona doesn’t think so.
She hears the woman radio this nugget of info: baby in the stables, repeat, check the stables, spouse inside ...
The next thing she will tell Georgia, who is of course Shona, is not to go back in the house – but Shona rings off before she says that. She wipes the phone down and throws it so it skitters under the cot. She doesn’t need the nice lady’s advice and she doesn’t need to be told the baby’s going to be all right. She knows he’ll be all right. Funny, when the real Georgia actually tries to call for help, she won’t be able to use the landline because she’ll never get downstairs. When she looks then for her phone, she’ll shout and swear because she’ll remember that she thinks Shona took it. No need to worry, Georgie! Shona wants to shout up to her. You’ve already called the fire brigade!
It’s out of her hands now, to be honest. In a minute or two she’ll be away back to Govan to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. In the morning, Davie will take the van back to wherever he got it. He’ll come back with a paper, maybe some extra milk for Isla. He likes an early morning walk. A little before eight, her mum will bring her a cup of tea in bed and ask if she’s had a good sleep. She’ll tell her she slept like a log.
The firemen will smash the bedroom window and pull them to safety. Husband and wife will live, of course. Shona’s not a murderer. But they will be frightened and they may be scarred. Like her.
But you, you’ve stuck with her all this time and what she, what I, Shona McGilvery, really want say to you is this:
They will know, the people who stole my life from me. They will sit in their separate interview rooms and they will hear Georgia’s desperate voice crying for help in the night, sobbing down the line to the nice lady from the emergency services. And they will know that voice is not Georgia at all. They will know that the voice is me, Shona. But how can they pin the crime on me without telling the police all about the whole Valentina deception? I prete
nded I was Australian, Georgia will say. I told her my name was Valentina.
And if they squawk, which they surely will, the police will beat a path to my door right enough. The police officer will sit me down and ask me do you know a Ms. Valentina D’Angelo?
Valentina? I will say, confusion all over my face. Valentina who?
They will try another name. What about Georgia Smyth-Banks? And there my face will clear and I will say Georgie? Of course I know Georgie! She’s my best friend. Why? Nothing bad’s happened to her, has it?
So you see, all the evidence will contradict everything they say, back up what I say. Shona drove off in a fury in the dead of night, officer.
Nah. I drove calmly down to Glasgow to see my folks. See me, waving at the CCTV at The Horn? There I am, calm and happy with my wee girl.
She burnt us to the ground!
Er – I don’t think so. I was in my bed in Govan and three people can testify to that.
Fingerprints in the Fittie house? Did you no’ hear me, pal? We were best friends, me and Georgie. We practically lived in each other’s houses. But I had no idea, no idea whatsoever she was sleeping with my partner, let alone married to him. Give me a minute – I think I’m in shock.
And so, the truth they found so flexible, that they twisted and manipulated for so long, has become brittle. One more manipulation and it will snap in their faces. It will take their damn eyes out. They will look like lunatics. They will have no home.
Like me, then, mad, homeless, lost to the flames.
I’m half a mile away, maybe more, when I hear the sirens coming up the lane.
Glasgow Tribune, Monday, 9th February
MAN KILLED IN COTTAGE FIRE
Police and fire fighters were called to a cottage in the Banchory area of Aberdeenshire at around 03.05 GMT yesterday morning.
A man, confirmed as in his late twenties and named as Mr. Michael Quinn, was found dead in an upstairs bedroom. The survivors, his wife, Ms. Georgia Smyth-Banks, also in her late twenties, and their one-year-old boy, lived with the man at the property, which was extensively damaged by the fire. The child was found safe in an outbuilding.
The property is situated in a remote area of Aberdeenshire. No neighbours witnessed the blaze.
Ms. Smyth-Banks is being treated in hospital for extensive injuries. Police confirmed that she sustained two broken legs after jumping from an upstairs window and has suffered serious burns.
The fire appears to have been started by oil lamps found at the scene, however police said officers are unable to rule out the possibility that the man died before the fire began. Ms. Banks will be taken into custody pending post-mortem examination and will face questioning. No more information is available at this time.
Colleagues of Mr. Quinn and his wife, who worked together, say they had no idea the couple were married but that they were often seen chatting at work.
“They were very private,” said a colleague. “They only joined the company recently. We thought they might be together but you don’t like to ask, do you? It’s no one’s business, is it, other people’s romantic arrangements?”
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
These Questions Contain Spoilers
What were your first impressions of Mikey? Of Valentina?
The reader knows something is wrong before Shona. How accurate were you in predicting what was amiss?
How often are we truly ourselves?
Is early friendship a little like the early stages of romance?
What does the novel say about trust? How important is it to trust people?
Have you ever felt like a friend is taking advantage of you? How have you reacted, if at all?
Shona believes the role of a friend is not to judge. In fact she says a best friend should help bury the body. How far do you agree with this?
How often are we willing to stand up and be honest about situations or do we buy into realities presented to us even when we know they are fake?
When Shona and Valentina first meet, how does their high-energy interaction compare to your own experiences of making a new friend?
How does Shona change from the feisty woman who takes on a bunch of thugs to the woman she is after weeks alone with a baby in the cottage?
Shona’s whole life is revealed to be a lie. To what extent is this a metaphor for how it feels when trust is shattered in one’s primary relationship?
How do things like loneliness, extreme tiredness and change in status affect our social choices?
Do Michael and Georgia have a point when they imagine a life lived beyond convention?
Have you ever found yourself at a low ebb? How did that affect you?
Is Shona honest with herself or does she close her eyes to the things that don’t square up?
Georgia is placed in a no-win situation by Mikey. To what extent does she wrest back control?
Do you think there is ill feeling or judgement between women who work full time and stay-at-home mothers? Have you ever judged or heard anyone judge another woman for their life choices?
How does having a baby affect a woman’s confidence?
What did Shona’s parents teach her about love and life? Valentina’s? Mikey’s?
How did Valentina’s father’s cold treatment and abandonment of the mother affect her feelings about men?
How did her mother’s suffering affect Valentina’s attitude towards control?
Structurally, how effective was it to hear from Georgia only in part two?
Georgia talks of the advantages of a part-time relationship. Can you identify with what she says or see the attraction? Do we all need freedom and is that lacking in most relationships?
How limited is Shona in her worldview?
How effective was the women’s direct address to the reader? How did the narrator/reader relationship change in both instances?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Like ageing, writing a novel is not for wimps and any writer needs all the support they can get. So the thank yous are many and they are all big ones. Thanks to Sara Bailey, my first tutor, for getting me into this whole writing malarkey and telling me to stop fretting and carry on. To the woman who read Valentina and said not no, finally, but yes: Blackbird Commissioning Editor, Rosalie Love, you were that mythical person I’d heard about, you exist! To mother Blackbird, Stephanie Zia, who agreed with Rosalie – you have both dedicated to this project your expertise, generosity and patience but most of all your unwavering faith, and have returned to me the confidence I had lost somewhere between the sofa cushions many years ago. To my Richmond Writing Group, aka the Turbots: Zoe Antoniades, Callie James, John Rogers and Sam Hanson, for sharing their own excellent work and for giving feedback on mine, not to mention many pints of beer and laughs along the way. To my Kingston MA Writing Group led by most excellent alpha dog, Hope Caton, with Robin Bell, Catherine Morris, Colette Lewis, Andrew Baird, and Sam Hanson (again) for giving all that time and energy, again with much laughter, cheap plonk and plenty of cheese. To the Creative Writing tutors on the MA programme at Kingston University – this course fostered new ways of thinking about writing and process and gave me a group of writers who became trusted friends. To David Rogers, who keeps us loosely tethered through Kingston Alumni and who lent me much needed support in the early days when I could easily have given up. Thank you to all my students at Richmond Adult Community College for their support, enthusiasm and for forcing me to think about what works and what doesn’t, then figure out how the hell to explain it – inspiration works both ways and you have all inspired me. To strange fruits Jayne Farnworth, Richard Kipping and Melanie Mortiboys, who for years have been reading my stuff and cheering me along. To my pals who don’t see me from one month to the next when I am hibernating like a badger with a laptop but who make me laugh, lift me up and help me persuade the pub landlord to do a lock-in. To chief listener and devil’s advocate on many a long dog walk, Fi Kelly, who has suffered much droning on, plot wrangling, existentialist d
oubt and muddy boots. To my dad, Stephen, who isn’t a reader but who supports me in many other ways and always shares his lettuce plugs. To my readers who read excerpts or early drafts, I add apologies to the thanks: my sister, Jackie Ball, who saves the world, raises three kids and still makes time to read my early drafts, to Sally Franklin, Hope Caton, Susie Donaldson, Barbara Wheatley, Lucy Aliband, Sue O’Dea, Elizabeth Bazalgette, Jackie West, Bridget McCann and Jean McLeish. This book is dedicated to Jean, who read the manuscript just before she was taken from us far too soon. To Susy Smith, I owe you a favour. To my beta readers and gremlin spotters, Susie Kelly and Diana Morgan-Hill, thank you. To my brother, Robert M Ball, for the iconic cover design – you are a genius – it runs in the family, ha. To my kids Ali, Maddie and Franci, who must bear the fact of me being in the room but away with the makey-uppy folk. And most of all to two very important people: my mum, Catherine Ball, who has read every embarrassing first draft, every lame story, every cringe-worthy metaphor, every toe-curling piece of dialogue, and without whose unfailing belief and support I would never have continued beyond that first monologue. And finally, to my husband, Paul, who encouraged me from the very beginning to take writing seriously, who rushed home from work so that I could do the MA or get to writing group, who didn’t complain when I wanted to teach in the evenings and at weekends because I thought it was important, who has given me the time and space to try and make a go of my dream: you are beyond brill, but I can’t say more just now because someone might read this.