Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  Isla lifted her gaze from the bunch of white tulips, tied with a simple white ribbon, to the grey marble stone they rested against. The engraving hadn’t been updated yet, so only one name glittered gold in the morning sun.

  ‘Briony Howard.’

  Below it were the dates of her birth, and death, along with a brief inscription naming her a beloved wife, and daughter.

  There was no mention of Ethan, or of the child they were to have together. And there never would be. In a few weeks, Anthony’s name would join Briony’s, as his body already had. The earth would settle over the freshly-dug grave, and their story would come to an end.

  Far neater than the reality, which Isla still reeled from at almost every waking moment. Someone had died. She’d almost died herself. And Ethan had come closer to death than Isla allowed herself to admit.

  During the daylight hours, she held the realisation at bay, keeping herself busy. There was always something to do in the aftermath of a tragedy, she was discovering. But at night it snuck up on her, catching her unawares, stealing her breath from her as she closed her eyes to sleep, filling her dreams with sounds, sights and smells she’d rather forget. Gunshots, blood and smoke, and always, always, Ethan.

  He’d had it far worse. Isla knew that. This wasn’t his first brush with death, wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone that had meant something to him. But in her darker moments, Isla envied him. He’d spent two weeks sedated in intensive care, oblivious to everything, including her agony at not knowing when - or if - he’d ever wake up. Even now, fully conscious, and climbing the walls of the respiratory ward, he was still spared the terror that gripped Isla whenever her phone rang in her bag, and for a split second, she thought it might be one of the ICU nurses calling to tell her that he'd taken a turn before she remembered. He was okay, he was going to be okay, it was going to be okay. Some days she thought she needed it tattooing on her forehead.

  Isla got to her feet and stepped back from the grave that Anthony had been lowered into only days before. Hers weren’t the only flowers, but there weren’t many. Anthony had left the country after the accident, Connor had told her, travelling to the other side of the world to make a new life for himself, but his hatred of Ethan had ruined any hope he had of starting over, and in the end, his desire for revenge had seen him board a plane, and make his way back to Edinburgh, and then to Rosehill.

  The police thought he might have been squatting in the old groundskeeper’s cottage for weeks, before Isla’s arrival had ruined his plans. Not even his parents had known he was back in the country, not until his death, anyway.

  Isla’s eyes filled with tears at the senselessness of it all. So much grief, so much loss, and for what? Her hand went to her stomach, a gesture she caught herself doing more and more often these days. She couldn’t seem to help it. Nor the tears that welled in her eyes almost constantly, but then she’d had a lot of reasons to cry. She couldn’t blame everything on hormones.

  Isla swiped a gloved hand over her damp cheeks. “I hope you’re both at peace, now.”

  She spoke aloud in the empty kirkyard. A pair of blackbirds peered at her from the frost-covered branch of a nearby tree. They quirked their heads at Isla, as she walked away from the grave, toward the gravel path that would take her back to her car.

  She didn’t want to be late. Not when Ethan was waiting for her. Not when he was finally coming home.

  *

  Ethan scraped the razor along his jaw and felt the sharp nick of the blade against his skin.

  “Fuck.” He slammed the cheap plastic razor down onto the side of the sink. This was impossible. He ran his good hand over his bandaged one, wondering how long it would be until it healed, and how well it would function when it had.

  A second-degree burn, the doctors had told him, albeit a ‘superficial’ one. Courtesy of dragging Ant to safety, only for him to succumb to smoke inhalation on the way to the hospital. Another life gone.

  Ethan still hadn’t processed it. He knew it would hit him later down the line, but right then all he could think of was getting through each day, and getting out of there.

  “Mr MacRae, it’s time for your physio.” The sing-song voice came through the door of the en-suite, and Ethan groaned.

  “Mr MacRae?”

  “Aye, I heard you. Give me a minute,” he grumbled

  Ethan ran a hand across his face, frowning at the uneven stubble creeping across his jaw. He wouldn’t care if it was just the nurses that had to look at him, but Isla would be there soon, and he wanted to at least resemble the man she deserved, and not some unwashed, unshaven, invalid.

  He had his own clothes now at least, courtesy of his brother, so he was no longer prancing about in a nightgown. Between Ethan and Ryder, Connor had practically lived at the hospital this past couple of months, but Ryder at least was home and recovering well.

  Ethan unlocked the door of the en-suite and stepped into the room he’d spent the last three weeks in. He easily made it to the bed, even without his cane, but then there wasn’t exactly a lot to memorise- just the bed, a chair, a table, and a locker.

  “Oh, there you are!” Rosie chirruped. She was undoubtedly sweet, and probably a pleasure to know in real life, but her unfailing optimism, and the fact she dropped by to torture him twice every day meant she and Ethan had a strained relationship at best.

  “Are you ready, or should I give you another minute to get settled?”

  Ethan bristled at the word, and the image it conjured of an old man in slippers settling into his armchair for a day of crossword puzzles.

  “No, I’m ready,” he muttered, climbing onto the bed. He lay on his front, and Rosie got to work on his back with her usual tapping and jostling, stopping occasionally for Ethan to cough into a tub, which she then inspected. All very dignified.

  “Ethan?” At the sound of Isla’s voice from the doorway, Ethan pushed up suddenly, almost headbutting Rosie who leapt back.

  “We’re almost done,” Rosie said. “You’re welcome to stay if that’s alright with Ethan.”

  There was a pause where Ethan had to assume they were both looking at him, waiting for an answer. He groaned and lowered himself back onto the bed. “Sure, why the hell not?” he muttered into the pillow by his face.

  He heard Isla crossing the room and rounding the bed.

  “Hey.” Ethan felt her breath against his cheek as she leaned towards him. “You okay?”

  “Oh aye, never better.”

  She pulled up a chair with a scrape.

  “Are you seriously going to sit and watch?” Ethan asked as Rosie continued to use his back as a percussion instrument.

  “I need to pay attention. Rosie says there’s a chance you might need this doing for a while yet.”

  Rosie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an agreement.

  “So?” The word was muffled by the pillow.

  “So, it would be easier if I could learn the techniques to save you having to come into the clinic.”

  “Oh no.” Ethan shook his head. “No, no, no, no.” He heard the snap of Rosie’s rubber gloves. “Are we done?”

  “Yes, all done for today. Your girlfriend is right though, Mr MacRae.”

  Ethan startled at the word ‘girlfriend’. Was that what Isla was? Just a few months ago, she’d been a stranger to him, and then she’d been something else altogether, and now...now she was going to be the mother of his child. Another fact Ethan still hadn’t processed.

  He was going to be a father.

  Ethan was vaguely aware that Rosie was still talking about secretions, and postural drainage, and other things that made him sound like a condemned building.

  “You may be ready for discharge, but it will take months for your lungs to recover fully.”

  Months? Ethan groaned and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. It was bad enough having been trapped there for six weeks. Not that he remembered anything about the first two, but ever since he’d come round, he’d been
bombarded with memories of his first stay, five years ago. Of the months of grief, and agony and rehabilitation after the accident. He didn’t want to come back here for therapy every day...but he didn’t want Isla to be stuck caring for him either.

  “I am’nae sure I like the idea,” he said truthfully.

  “Why not?” Isla moved to his side, taking his hand in hers.

  “It isnae exactly romantic,” he muttered. “You bashing me on the back, and me hacking up god-knows-what into a wee plastic pot.”

  “Bashing?” Rosie sounded offended.

  “They’ll show me the proper techniques,” Isla said. “And as for romance, not everything in our lives is going to be, Ethan. Some of it will be like this.”

  “Aye, I know that,” Ethan said. It didn’t mean he was happy about it.

  Isla told Rosie they’d discuss it, and let her know. Ethan listened to their chatter and felt his panic building. Six weeks was a long time to spend trapped in a place he hated, but on the other hand...what was waiting for him outside these walls? A burnt-out castle, and a truckload of delayed grief?

  “Ethan?” Isla’s sweet floral scent enveloped him as she draped her arms around his shoulders. “Everything okay?”

  Ethan shook his head and buried it into her neck. With her standing, and him sitting on the edge of the bed, they were almost the same height.

  “What is it? If it’s the physio thing, forget about it. Whatever you want to do is fine by me.”

  “That’s just it,” Ethan said, pulling back. “I dinnae want to do any of it. I just want to take you home, shut the door, and have everyone leave us alone.”

  She planted a kiss on his forehead. “I would love that too, but it isn’t going to happen, Ethan. Your lungs are a mess, and Rosehill is a crime scene.”

  She was right. Officially, the investigation was over. There could be no doubt that Anthony had started the fire, or what his intention had been, but it would take months to repair the damage the fire had caused.

  Although it could have been much much worse. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut against the possibilities. Not that it helped.

  “Hey.” Isla ran her thumbs across his cheekbones. “I didn’t mean to be such a downer. I was only saying that I understand how you feel. It’s going to take time, but we’ll get there.”

  Her words sliced through Ethan’s growing panic. We. A reminder that there was something else waiting for him beyond this room. A future with Isla.

  Ethan kissed her. Her lips were soft, and she tasted like sweet tea. Isla’s fingers skimmed over his beard, and she pulled back smiling.

  “You’re very hairy.”

  “I did try shaving, but between this-” Ethan held up his bandaged hand, “-and the plastic tat they gave me for a razor, it wasnae happening.”

  Isla rained kisses across his jaw. “I like you scruffy.”

  “Scruffy?” Ethan said, mock-offended. He ran one hand across the gym vest he wore. “This is my Sunday Best, I’ll have you know.”

  Isla laughed, and the sound cheered Ethan more than he’d have thought possible.

  “Is that right?” She plucked at the waistband of his joggers.

  “Not interrupting am I?” Irene asked from the doorway, with the tone of someone who knew full well that she was interrupting.

  “No.” Isla took a step backwards, and Ethan had to steel himself not to reach out and pull her back to him.

  Irene made a sceptical noise in the back of her throat.

  “Ethan was just complaining about the razors you stock in this place,” Isla said.

  The wee clipe.

  “Well, in that case, he’ll be very pleased to hear what I have to say,” Irene said. “I’ve just spoken to Dr Singh, and the discharge paperwork is complete. You’re free to go.”

  Fifty

  The gates swung open before them, and Isla sucked in a breath at the sight of the castle. It didn’t matter how many times she’d been back to Rosehill since it happened, the damage wrought by the fire never failed to take her breath away.

  The west wing had taken the brunt of the damage since that’s where the blaze had started. The fire crews had worked tirelessly from the moment they’d arrived to tackle the flames, but even so, the devastation had been catastrophic, and the charred stone and broken windows Isla could see from the car were only the start of it. Inside would be even worse. Not that she, or anyone, had been permitted to enter. The building still hadn’t been declared structurally sound. They would have to wait to see what- if anything- of Ethan’s past remained.

  At first, Isla had assumed that Ethan would go back to stay with his parents until the castle was declared safe to inhabit, but Connor had quickly put paid to that idea, explaining in minutes, the months of sorrow he’d passed there after his accident.

  “It would unravel him, Isla,” Connor had said. “There has to be another solution.”

  So they’d found one. And they hadn’t needed to look far.

  Connor brought the car to a standstill outside the old groundskeeper’s cottage, and even though she’d left it only a few hours before, to visit Anthony’s grave, Isla blinked a few times, adjusting to the transformation. The tangled rose bushes had been pruned, and the windows gleamed in the winter sun. Beyond the panes, Isla could make out the drape of the curtains she’d hung. The front door had been painted cherry red, and the crooked step up to it mended so that Ethan’s first experience of his new home wouldn’t involve falling through the front door.

  They’d worked non-stop for a month to get it ready. Connor pulling strings, and calling in favours, Ryder had been relegated to making phone calls and placing orders, which he’d hated when he’d far rather have been shifting furniture or painting walls, but Connor had forbidden it. And Isla had been busy with ‘stock rotation’, as Len had called it.

  Somehow, between the three of them, they’d pulled it off, so that Ethan had somewhere to come home to. One that wasn’t a step backwards, where he’d be surrounded by memories of his past trauma, but a step forward into his future- unknown, but surrounded by love.

  Isla only hoped he was ready for it.

  Connor opened the car door for his brother, and Isla stepped out, rounding the car to join the two of them, and Ryder who stood waiting in front of the cottage.

  “The three of you are suspiciously quiet,” Ethan said. “If I didnae know better I’d think you were up to something.”

  Ryder caught Isla’s eye and grinned. The gash above his eyebrow was healing, but he’d always have a scar there, she suspected. A homage to Ethan’s own scars, a sample of what he’d been through reflected in Ryder’s face. Not that Ryder seemed bothered. He’d been philosophical about it from the start. “Just one of those things,” he’d said when Isla had asked how he was coping in the aftermath. “Could have happened to anybody.”

  Isla thought the notion was harder for Ethan to bear than if he’d been somehow responsible. At least that way he could assign logic, and blame, but there was no evidence of tampering or foul play. Ryder hadn’t been speeding, or drinking, or distracted. It was, as he said, just one of those things. But accepting that meant Ethan would have to accept that at any moment, anything could happen to someone he cared about, and Isla knew it was that thought that terrified him more than anything.

  She offered him her elbow, as they trod the unfamiliar path up to the cottage door.

  “You’re sure about this? Last I heard, the place was in squalor, and littered with dead wildlife.” Ethan frowned, as Connor unlocked the door.

  “We’ve been busy, brother,” Connor said.

  Just how busy became apparent when they stepped through the door. Isla had already seen the freshly painted cream walls, and the sunshine yellow curtains. She knew every piece of furniture in the place because she’d chosen it, but she’d left before Connor and Ryder that morning, so she hadn’t seen the finishing touches they’d added. Her eyes welled up at the sight of the framed ultrasound picture on the mantelpiec
e, alongside a vase of red roses.

  “Those are for you,” Connor said, with a wink.

  Ethan’s brow creased. “What is he talking about?”

  But Isla could only sniff in reply, trying to hold back her tears.

  It was the same in the kitchen. She’d left it clean, and respectable, but they’d gone the extra mile. A coffee maker sat on the side, alongside an electric kettle. No more waiting an eternity for a cup of tea.

  “Well, it certainly smells better than I’d imagined,” Ethan said, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

  “That’s the muffins,” Ryder said. He pulled a tea-towel from a rack on the side, to reveal a row of chocolate-chip muffins. “I was testing the oven.”

  Isla’s mouth watered at the sight of them. “Are you serious? I can’t believe you both did all this after I left.”

  Ethan had already made his way over to the side, his cane tapping against the slate floor. Ryder handed him a muffin.

  “You mean to tell me that all this time you could bake, and never once have you made me anything?”

  “I didn’t think you’d appreciate it,” Ryder said, with a frown. “Besides, that range up at the castle is a relic. Good for a museum maybe, but not baking. This one, on the other hand, is a delight.” He grinned.

  “Well, you should feel free to come round and use it anytime,” Isla said, polishing off the remains of her muffin.

  “Wait, you’re staying here too?” A frown clouded Ethan’s face.

  Isla saw Connor and Ryder exchange looks.

  “Well, we’ll leave you to it,” Connor said. “I’m glad you like the finishing touches.” He pulled Isla into a brief hug. “And you take care, brother.” He moved over to Ethan. “I mean it. I cannae live at this speed, you’re prematurely ageing me.”

  Isla’s eyes glistened as she watched the two of them hug.

  Ryder came over to her. “Do you need anything else before we go?”

  Isla shook her head.

  “Well, if you want any furniture moving around just give me a call, okay?”

  “I think Connor might have something to say about that, but thanks for the offer.”