by Mairi Wilson
“But that’s nonsense! You threw Ross at me—”
“I did? So you fired the weapon directly at your own child?”
“No. No, that’s not it at all. I was trying to save him!”
“Not sure a jury would see it like that.”
“It’ll be my word against yours, and with your reputation—”
“Don’t forget the eyewitness account, my dear.”
Helen felt icicles stabbing at the back of her eyes. What was he talking about?
“Ah. I see Evie didn’t tell you about that. Yes, Helen. That’s right. A witness. Someone who saw the whole thing through the door little Ross left wide open when he came running in, too frightened to knock or to push it to behind him.”
“But the door … it wasn’t … Who could have …”
“Darling, surely you remember? Richard had brought me home, hadn’t he? He was coming up to warn us of the danger, urge us to make good our escape when he happened upon our little domestic drama. Saw everything, didn’t he, heard every word. And you know what that man’s memory is like – astonishing. Verbatim, photographic, whatever.”
“Richard wasn’t anywhere near the house that night.”
“Well, his written affidavit says otherwise.”
“His what?”
“And we can’t really expect you to remember very clearly. You were very distraught, darling, and we had been having cocktails, maybe one or two more than we should have done. And then there was all that laudanum you’d been taking for your nerves as well, as Dr Tembe will testify. Made you forgetful, and temperamental, as your poor maid Felicia knew only too well. Who would have thought someone as gentle and caring as you would strike a servant? Amazing what drugs and alcohol can do to a person. And amazing too how much people can remember when you ask them nicely, motivate them well, to think very, very carefully.”
“What are you saying? You’ve bribed these people?”
“Heavens, no. What an ugly word. No, no. They only needed a little encouragement, support, in advance of their testimony. After all, it’s only right that the truth be properly recognised. It takes courage to come forward and speak out against someone of Helen Buchanan’s standing.” He smiled, leant back against the verandah railing, feigning an interest in his perfectly clean nails. “Incidentally, darling, you were right. Felicia’s son is a bright boy and he’ll make a marvellous doctor, I’m sure, with that scholarship to medical school in the States. Dr Tembe was only too happy to provide a reference, and as the newly appointed chief medical advisor to the government, his word was probably what swung it for the boy. Did you know old Tembe was Richard’s uncle on his mother’s side? Amazing, that family, they’re simply everywhere.”
“Anyone who knows me would know I’d never harm a child, hit a serv—”
“Really? Would you risk your future, your children’s future, and very possibly your life itself, on that? And if so blameless, why have you been hiding out here the last few months? How do you explain that then, Helen, hmm?” He sucked air in between his teeth. “No, doesn’t look good. Ask Richard, if you don’t want to take my word for it. He knows everyone in the legal system, from high court judges to clerks to prison officers; he knows how these things can go. And believe me, he’d advise you to keep a very low profile. These things can be so very … uncertain.”
“You can’t frighten me. I know I’m innocent—”
“Yes, innocence. The last bastion of the naive. Or the downright stupid. Wake up, Helen. You’re dead and staying that way for as long as it suits me. And that, from where I’m sitting, is highly likely to be the rest of your life. Rise up from the dead and you’ll simply exchange one life sentence for another, or maybe even a noose. Either way, you won’t get your old life back, or your children, unless I say so.”
Helen pushed herself up from the bench reluctantly. Time to start the day. A day exactly like the one before, and the one before that. The relentless monotony of their life here would continue unabated until Izzie arrived. There was no knowing how, but that all their lives would change was certain. Hand on the doorknob, Helen stopped and turned her face to the sky before closing her eyes and hanging her head, not quite able to go in, to wake Ross, to get them through another long, empty day. Ross needed her, needed her more than the others did, always had, even before. And she loved him, deeply, but not a day went by when she didn’t remember …
And Izzie. How much did Izzie remember? Of her life in Africa, her escape from it? How much had she suffered? Had she cried? Had she called for her mother? For Rusty? Oh God. Helen felt the familiar guilt wash over her, burning like acid, searing its way through to her very core. Thank God for Fredi. Dear, frivolous, dependable Fredi. Helen breathed deeply, let the cool morning air fill her lungs, soothe her. He would have charmed her, distracted the little girl with some ridiculous magic trick or by inventing some outrageous drama: dressing up essential, dramatic talent optional. Yes, Izzie would have loved Fredi. But still, such a journey for such a small child. Her daughter, she knew, was a fighter, a survivor, possessed of an inner strength that had passed both her brothers by, but even so, Helen hadn’t slept properly for days, not until the Mission car had wheezed over the hill again and Sister Agnes had got out, her face beaming. She’d heard from Denmark. Fredi had done it. He and his “niece” had arrived safely and had already booked passage on to Scotland to visit relatives there. Oh, what it was to have friends in the right places. Diplomatic immunity made light work of officialdom and border controls. And then he’d done it all over again, coming back for them when Ross was well enough to travel. He would have already been ill, although he’d hid it well, and she’d had no idea. The “African disease” as they’d euphemistically called it then. She’d wept when Ursula told her he was dead.
28
Ross-shire, June 17th
The single-track road coiled like a lethargic serpent beneath the craggy peaks of Stac Pollaidh and the shores of Loch Lurgainn. Lexy had seen no other vehicle for the last few miles and was beginning to wonder if she’d somehow lost her way. The possibility of taking the wrong road seemed remote, though, as there’d been no alternative to this for several miles. Indeed, the last turning that was anything but a track or glorified footpath had been over half an hour ago. Nonetheless, she pulled into a passing place in the unlikely event that there’d be anything coming behind her on this godforsaken road and opened the map she’d bought when she’d filled up with petrol before leaving Inverness, a prudent move she was relieved she’d made, as roadside service opportunities had been as non-existent as traffic jams. Or traffic lights, come to that. There’d been none of those since Inverness either.
She pulled the map across from the passenger seat but instead of opening it let it rest in her lap as she looked around her. She rolled her neck and heard the cracks of tension snap like kindling. She’d been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours and the inside of her eyelids felt like they’d been pebble-dashed, as if she’d been drinking too much caffeine, even though she’d had nothing but half a polystyrene cupful of lukewarm watery tea on the train from King’s Cross. She was exhausted but too jittery to sleep.
But perhaps she should just rest up for a little, anyway. This road was treacherous to the uninitiated, and that was certainly Lexy.
* * *
She woke up with a start as a rusty red pickup rattled past, a blast on the horn suggesting annoyance at finding her parked at the side of the road. It was a passing place, not a parking one, and perhaps the locals took badly to tourists using them for snoozes.
The cricks in her neck were even louder this time as she rolled her head from side to side to help her come to. The sun was in her eyes now, lower on the horizon. Seemed she hadn’t been too jittery to sleep after all. Nearly an hour of unconsciousness hadn’t improved things, though, and if anything she felt worse. The hangover without the party.
She shook herself awake and checked the map. As far as she could see she hadn’t taken an
y wrong turnings. There had been none to take. It looked like it was straight ahead to the end of the road, or a T-junction at least. Things might get a bit trickier after that.
She turned the key in the ignition, and as the engine kicked into life, she glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard: 20.53. Long late evenings this far north. She was thankful for that. The road was anything but straight ahead as it meandered up and down and through twists and turns that alternated between being mesmeric and nauseating. Occasional sheep slowed her progress and she had to concentrate hard. This wasn’t a style of driving her city upbringing had accustomed her to, nor was the road itself in any condition to encourage speed. She juddered and jolted past shimmering lochs and the green lower slopes of mountains she could see in her peripheral vision, but nothing was encouraging her to take her eyes off the road.
Eventually the mountains fell behind and the landscape opened into flatter terrain. The car rattled over a cattle grid and then a small bridge over a river tumbling its way down to the open sea on her left. The road widened so Lexy slowed and risked a sweep of her eyes over the open country. The road was straighter here, stretching like a grey ribbon across a flat plain. Far ahead of her she could see the red pickup again, all but throwing up clouds of dust in its wake as it sped through the green expanse, silhouetted against the low evening sun. As the thin ribbon of road swept down toward the promised T-junction, the pickup turned left and she found herself mildly disappointed. She’d seen no other cars, no sign at all of any living being, for the last hour and there was something comforting about knowing she wasn’t entirely alone, even if its horn had shattered her slumber.
But at the junction Lexy turned right, driving into a blood-orange sky streaked with purples and deep blues as the sun glowed and dipped behind a headland. She wondered how long she had before darkness fell, if it fell at all this far north. She was regretting her gung-ho decision to leave Inverness so late in the day. She should have checked in to a hotel for the night and then headed out in the morning. Still, the Cul Beg Hotel, the only hotel Google had offered her on this remote peninsula, couldn’t be far now.
And there it was. A weather-blasted green board with almost illegible gold letters rusted by rain, a hand-painted white arrow on a thin piece of ply tacked to the post beneath it and another murderous shriek from a cattle grid at the foot of the track leading up to the small hotel, and she was finally there. She hoped she wouldn’t be too late for dinner. She’d seen nothing resembling a shop of any description and doubted it would be the kind of hotel that had a room-service menu. She pulled her bag out of the back seat and reached in for her jacket. As she shrugged it on she was surprised to hear the sound of a car. She looked up and saw a red pickup slow down and pause at the entrance to the hotel and then speed away again. Strange. Disconcerting, in fact. How many vehicles of any description had she seen since she’d turned off the main road, and what were the odds of seeing two rust buckets like that in such a remote area within ten minutes of each other? Probably about the same as her getting locked in a room with a snake, or her mother being killed in a hit-and-run, or Ursula falling down the stairs.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her. Had she been followed all the way from Malawi? To Malawi?
She didn’t want to pursue that thought. She wouldn’t let her own suspicions intimidate her, scare her into giving up now. Not when she was so close to finding out the truth, the last piece of her particular puzzle. She was tired, overwrought. Maybe it was just coincidence. After all, it was a rural area, hardly affluent, and perhaps strangers were such a rarity that any unrecognised car merited a second look. But she doubted it.
With one last look back down the driveway, she picked up her bag and walked briskly into the sanctuary of the gloomy hotel.
An hour later she scraped the last of the lukewarm cream of tomato soup onto her spoon and swallowed, grimacing as she did so. Never one of her favourites, but there had been little choice. None, in fact. She crammed the last triangle of sliced bread spread with margarine into her mouth and reminded herself to be thankful. The night porter or whoever he was hadn’t offered anything other than the restaurant opening hours, which were long past. She’d had to push hard for this impromptu supper, for which she would no doubt be charged a king’s ransom, but, as Izzie would say, beggars can’t be choosers. Nutritional content zero, but at least she wouldn’t feel guilty about ordering the full Scottish breakfast in the morning. She’d need all her strength to confront her uncle and, she hoped, her grandmother.
29
Taigh na Mara, June 18th
Helen stared at the door. The echo of the knocker still reverberated around her in the cold stone-floored hallway.
It wasn’t Izzie.
For a moment she’d thought it was, the long curls swinging, the features blurred with distance, slowly coming into focus as the woman walked up the track from her car towards the house. But as she drew nearer, Helen’s mind began to work. This woman was too young. This wasn’t Izzie. It couldn’t be. It was a version of her, perhaps, but it wasn’t Helen’s baby girl. She rebuked herself – of course it wouldn’t be. In Helen’s memory Izzie was a toddler, but in real life that toddler had grown into a woman, a middle-aged woman, with a child of her own.
Helen had gasped and stepped back from the window, stumbled into the windowless sanctuary of the hallway. It was Izzie’s daughter. That woman had to be Izzie’s daughter. Why? Why hadn’t Izzie come? Was she so angry, so unforgiving that she wouldn’t come herself, that she’d sent this young—
The knock on the door had stopped her thoughts. She had a decision to make. Izzie would have known she was expected, so Helen couldn’t very well pretend not to be there. Or could she? No precise date or time had been arranged. But what if Ross appeared from the workshop? He was usually so absorbed in his work that he was hard to distract. But this. A car, then a knocking at the croft door. It was so unusual even he—
The knock came again, louder this time, more impatient. What should she do? She pressed herself back against the wall behind the coat stand as the letter box rattled and lifted.
“Hello? Hello? Anyone in?”
The letter box flapped shut again. Helen’s heart was racing, her hands shaking. Why was she so frightened? She’d agreed to see Izzie, so why was she so reluctant to see Izzie’s daughter, her own granddaughter?
But this woman was a stranger. And even though Helen knew Izzie, the grown Izzie, was a stranger to her too, there was a connection. She’d held Izzie in her arms, loved her. And Izzie had loved her back. This woman at her door had no reason to love Helen. The woman who had abandoned her mother, refused to reclaim her, let her grow up an orphan when all the time—
More knocking. And the letter box again. Then a voice.
“I know you’re in there. Please! Just open the door. Let me speak to you.”
Helen knew she wouldn’t give up. She had no choice really. But she didn’t have to admit to anything.
“Yes?” Helen’s voice was cold, her head tilted as she peered down her nose to the woman on the doorstop below her.
“Oh. Thank you. I’m looking for … Are you … are you Helen Buchanan?”
“No.”
“Oh.” The younger woman looked surprised, lost for words. Helen took her chance, stepped back and started to close the door.
“No!’ A hand shot out to hold the door back. Helen looked at it pointedly, avoiding the eyes that were so like Izzie’s staring up at her in puzzlement, doing her best to keep her face completely expressionless, to suppress the curiosity that was surging through her. Praying all the while that Ross would stay where he was.
“Please, wait. I … I think you are.”
Helen didn’t move.
“I’ve seen photos, you see. Old ones. And … and …” The younger woman swallowed, cleared her throat. “And I can see my mother in you. I’m Lexy. Izzie’s daughter, you see, and I just want to—”
“I’ve no idea what yo
u’re talking about. I don’t welcome visitors. Take your hand off the door and leave, please.”
“But I’m your granddaughter!”
“I don’t have a granddaughter. And I’ve asked you to leave.”
The younger woman’s face moved from puzzlement to anger, as quick to change mood, as revealing of that mood, as Helen knew her own face used to be. Until she’d mastered the mask she now presented to the outside world.
“No! I won’t. Why are you being like this? I know you were expecting my mother.”
Helen caught her breath, and the younger woman leapt on it.
“See? I’m right. You were, and I’ve come because … I’ve been looking for you and because … she … My mother …”
Tears welled in the visitor’s eyes. Helen watched her struggle to contain them, struggle to find the words to finish her sentence. Despite herself, Helen felt compassion. She wanted to reach out and touch this girl, this woman, comfort her. Yet she couldn’t, was too afraid.
“You’re mistaken,” Helen began. “I can’t help you and I think you should leave.”
“My mother’s dead.”
The words fell like stones onto the doorstep between them. The young woman dropped her hand from the door and turned away as she wiped tears from her eyes. The hands dropped to clench in fists at her side. Helen watched this as if in slow motion as her own brain struggled to take in the words. She knew, of course she knew, this was Lexy, Izzie’s daughter, so if this woman was saying her mother was dead, then it meant Izzie was—
Helen slammed the door, pressed her back against it, breathed hard. It couldn’t be true, could it? Izzie dead? Why wouldn’t Ursula have told her? Why would Ursula have arranged for Izzie to visit, hounded Helen until she agreed to meet her daughter? Why?
There was a thudding at the door.
“Open up! Don’t shut the door in my face! I need to talk to you. I need to understand. Why did you do this? Why did you all lie to me?” The voice was shrill, ranting, shouting.