The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  “Glasgow,” repeated the woman. “Oh my, that’s quite far, isn’t it?”

  A scent of lavender filled the air as she sat down gently on a third chair. “Glasgow. Goodness – oh, hello, Margaret. I won’t be staying, thanks – just collecting young Martin here.”

  At that moment, the girl dared to allow her eyes flicker upwards for a second. She caught the woman’s eyes. They were kind.

  “Have you a car, or a lift, dear?” the lady asked gently, bending her head to try to catch the girl’s eyes.

  The response was a shake of the head.

  “Oh dear!” The lady’s voice was grave. “Well then, you’ll have a long way to go.”

  Martin spoke again then. “Didn’t you say, Mrs T, that Mr T was heading Glasgow direction tomorrow though?” he said loudly.

  The girl’s eyes flickered up toward him. She felt helpless in the face of these people.

  “Did I? Oh, I did. That’s right, dear – my husband, Mr Turnbull, is driving to Glasgow tomorrow – or the day after perhaps – and if you like I could see if he’d give you a lift?”

  Panic. “No, it’s fine, really, I can make my own way,” she mumbled, praying that they would just leave. She’d stayed too long now. She had to get back on the road. A wave of exhaustion washed over her and she closed her eyes for a second.

  There was another pause. Mrs Turnbull again looked at Martin and back at the girl who didn’t see the expression of alarm that crossed their faces.

  “It would be no trouble,” Mrs Turnbull said. “In fact, the company would be good for Mr Turnbull, wouldn’t it, Martin? We live up at the castle, dear. Dubhglas Castle – we work there. If you like, you could come up with us now. I was planning on some cold cuts for tea – Mr McAllister has been growing tomatoes in the greenhouse and they’re lovely with the cold ham, aren’t they, Martin?”

  The boy grunted in affirmative response, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and bent the stub of the roll-up into the ashtray, squashing it down with his forefinger.

  “You’re more than welcome to join us,” the lady went on, “and come to think of it you could spend the night – heaven knows there are enough bedrooms there. And then Mr Turnbull would have you to Glasgow in no time in the morning. Dubhglas is very far from anywhere actually so it’s easy to get lost round here . . .”

  She left the sentence hanging.

  The girl knew that she shouldn’t say yes but the idea of it all was so tempting. A bed, and some food. And maybe Glasgow was a good place to go after all? She was so tired . . .

  “And do you know, that silly Esther has left the stove burning all day – in this heat, imagine, Martin! So we have so much hot water I don’t know what to do with it. So much of it we could all have hot baths tonight if we fancied . . .” She let her voice trail off again.

  The thought of it. The girl didn’t think that she’d ever had a fully hot bath in her life. There was always her father first, then her brothers, then her mother before her.

  There was a silence. The girl could feel herself wanting to give in. It was just for one night . . .

  “You’d be perfectly safe with us,” the lady said suddenly.

  It was such a simple thing but in an instant the girl felt safe too. She forced herself to raise her eyes to the lady, who was smiling kindly at her, and nodded. It was barely perceptible but the lady nodded back, breathing a sigh that seemed strangely like relief.

  “Right then,” she said brusquely. “That’s settled. Martin – did you get the cakes for tea by the way?”

  “Six custard slices, just like you asked!” He grinned as he stood up sharply and slid his chair in to the table with a flourish, then picked the cake box up by its string with one finger.

  Mrs Turnbull tutted and stood up herself, looking at the girl with a glance that indicated she should follow. “You know very well that I asked for five cream-and-jam puffs, Martin, and that Esther doesn’t like custard.”

  The girl stood as quietly as she could. She was used to doing that, trying to stay in the background, to move as noiselessly as she could, to never draw attention to herself in case she did something wrong. And she always did something wrong . . .

  She gathered the ancient coat to her, and the small hemp bag which carried her purse with its few shillings, her bible and a comb. All she had in this world. For a moment she hesitated, a thrill of panic running through her. What if it was a trap? She should run, now, keep moving . . .

  But somehow she found herself pulled along gently by the warmth from the lady and the boy with the curly hair and the big smile. They were bickering now over the change for the cakes, the boy saying that he’d been tricked by a circus clown who’d happened to pass while he was enjoying his tea, and the woman was cuffing him gently over the ear as she laughed.

  Mrs Turnbull bade Mrs Fairlie goodbye with a friendly wave as they left the shop and stepped out into the warmth of the small village street.

  “You’re a rogue, Martin Pine,” she said as they sauntered toward a parked car further along the street.

  And the boy was grinning, swinging himself in a circle around a lamppost that they passed along the way, “But you love me, Mrs T, isn’t that right?” he said in his strange accent.

  The girl watched it all as if in a dream, warmed by the sunlight on her bones.

  “What’s your name by the way?” he demanded suddenly, turning his attention to her.

  She flinched, recoiled a little, and raised a hand to smooth her hair down again. She’d vowed that she wouldn’t tell anyone, she reminded herself. But that felt so long ago . . .

  “I’m Claire,” she offered timidly, in her habitual whisper. “Claire Drummond.”

  CHAPTER 8

  November 5th

  Martha jumped as her mobile phone vibrated against the desk unexpectedly and started to ring. She groaned inwardly. All morning she had sat at the kitchen table at Calderwood, doing everything in her power to avoid doing some work – she had spent hours on internet forums and reading online newspapers, made five cups of coffee, plucked her eyebrows – she simply couldn’t think of a single thing to write. And now that she had a sentence in her mind – a single sentence – the phone had to ring. She would have killed for a phone call in the last three hours. If she made one, then that was actively avoiding work. If she received one, however – well, that was totally out of her control.

  Martha was well aware of how ridiculous her logic was as she clicked out of coffeebreaktimes.com and leaned across the desk to pick up the ringing phone, clicking also out of her online banking and scotgossip.com which had also been open simultaneously. Her eyes remained focused on the computer as she did so and when she finally turned her attention to the phone it went immediately silent, its screen blank.

  “Dammit,” she whispered and placed it back down, opening a new blank document and taking a deep breath before typing: Sometimes, in her dreams, Mhairi Abernethy still saw the beaked mask of the plague doctor and thought about the man she had lost back in Mary King’s Close. Martha knew that a draft of the third in her series of children’s books was due soon, but today she had promised herself a start on the novel which was rolling around in her mind for so long, inspired by the characters that she encountered through the ancient books with which she worked.

  This sentence was all that she could think of, however, and was glad when her phone gave a ‘ding’ to indicate that a message had been left and she could check it as yet another distraction. As she dialled the mailbox number and waited for the commands to be called out, she inwardly chastised herself. Nothing was going to get done at this stage of the morning. Plus, she should be concentrating on earning money, not setting off on some flight of fancy that might take her nowhere. Lonely Pony had been a moderate success and her first royalty cheque had been a pleasant surprise but certainly not enough to live on. That hadn’t been a concern when she still had some of her nest-egg, before Calderwood, back when Dan still paid his way . . . Martha blocked the su
bject of money from her mind.

  She suddenly sat bolt upright, all other thoughts banished, as she heard the voice on the other end of the line. It was a shock after so long, such familiar tones. Once the message was done, she hung up and looked at the phone, contemplating what to say when returning the call, because return it she must. She made to press ‘redial’, but then thought better of it and stood up suddenly. At the door of the room she hesitated for a moment and then carried on, picking up her bag and keys from the hall table and putting on her winter coat as she left the house.

  She parked in the Niddry Street Car Park and made her way across to the Grassmarket through a blustery wind which whipped brown leaves off trees and almost blew an empty crisp packet right up into her face. From now until the end of November, the wind served to make sure that all of the old, dead leaves were blown from the trees – nature’s clearout, leaving the branches bare until the spring.

  The man who had phoned was sitting just inside the front door of an old-fashioned tea room. Martha pushed open the door and smiled as he turned his head. The cafe was cosy in contrast with the day outside. Steam came from the coffeemaker behind the counter and a smell of baking filled the air as an almost empty tray of scones was replenished in a display case where it sat alongside brownies, shortbread and an array of cakes – chocolate, carrot and lemon, each cut enticingly open to display creamy fillings. Martha was glad of the cosy atmosphere as she pushed the door shut behind her and weaved between two tables to take her place opposite her friend.

  “Gabriel,” she said aloud, unsure whether she should have hugged or kissed the big Scotsman before she sat down.

  The moment was awkward – Martha hadn’t seen Gabriel since the night in his flat when he and Will had fallen out. She had picked up her phone to text or call at least ten times since then but, never knowing what to say, had always put it down with a promise to do it later. She felt guilty looking at the man who had done so much for her and Ruby the previous year, hundreds of miles away in that godforsaken cottage. And yet she hadn’t sent as much as a text since the spring. She had no clue how to acknowledge the enormity of her omission, the length of time spent apart and the fact that by her silence she must be seen as condoning Will’s opinion when, in reality, she felt he was being unreasonably harsh about the whole thing.

  “Gabriel, I –” she began, but the medium cut her off, ignoring her completely as she tried to speak. “My God, woman, what the hell took you so long to get here? You can pay for a hot pot of tea!” he barked, picking up his fork and shovelling a huge piece of chocolate cake into his mouth.

  Martha smiled. It was all right then. He wasn’t mad at her. Things could go back to the way they used to be. “I’m sorry, Gabriel, but the traffic was terrible coming in the road and then I had to drive round for ages in the car park . . .” Martha’s voice trailed off as she realised that Gabriel was staring at something out of the bay window in which they sat.

  “There!” he barked. “There, do you see him?” He pointed out of the window to the square outside, the area where public hangings had once taken place.

  Martha’s eyes followed where his finger was pointing and she craned her neck to see what Gabriel was looking at. There were a number of passers-by outside – groups of tourists taking pictures, local business owners going about their daily affairs – one man sweeping the pavement clear of dead leaves outside a pub opposite. Martha didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking at.

  “Who, Gabriel?” she asked, again trying to follow the line of his finger as it began to move.

  “Oh, he’s on the move!” announced Gabriel and shoved his chair back, standing up as if he was about to run out after whatever it was Martha was supposed to be looking at.

  “Who?” she asked again, beginning to feel a shiver down her spine.

  “The skinny chap in the brown suit,” Gabriel said, annoyed. “He was over there in that pub doorway – didn’t you see him? And now he’s . . . oh, bloody hell, where’s he gone?” He sank down again onto his seat, searching the market area outside but now clearly unable to see what he had so desperately wanted Martha to observe.

  Martha was unnerved – and more than a little confused. This is exactly what he had seemed to do in the park the previous weekend and then, too, there was nothing to be seen – at least not by her. It had to be one of Gabriel’s spirits – as a medium, he’d confessed to her once that he saw them everywhere in all of their various incarnations. But why did he think this one was any different? Why should she be able to see this one when she couldn’t see all of the others? Most of them anyhow . . .

  Martha had a clear view of the pub doorway where Gabriel claimed to have spotted the man, and she was fairly sure that there had been no one there at any time in the last few moments. Now, the man who had been sweeping the leaves was walking back through the doorway but he sported dreadlocks and wore a parka.

  “Gabriel, what’s going on?” she asked.

  Gabriel turned away from the window, an exasperated look on his face. Martha actually thought he was about to burst into tears and reached out to touch his arm as he covered his face with his hands. She withdrew suddenly as Gabriel took a deep breath and looked her in the eye for the first time since she had arrived.

  “He’s bloody everywhere, Martha. I can’t go to the shops or for a drink or go to work but he’s somewhere, just waiting for me to see him. All he does is stare at me – I’ve tried calling him, following him, shouting at him – I’m going out of my mind because he’s quite clearly there – he’s so solid – but I can’t seem to get him to communicate and I want to know what the bloody hell he wants! Are you sure you didn’t see him?”

  Martha sat back in the chair, silenced. She was taken aback by this. She had seen Gabriel upset in the past, but never this desperate. She knew also that he saw spirits all the time – beings just going about their business or trying to make contact with him ­– but he almost never remarked on them. There were so many that he probably wouldn’t have made it through a single conversation at any time without indicating that he could see at least one soul who had passed over somewhere in the vicinity. Sometimes he might flinch if the spirit presented in some visually unappealing way – like when they had walked into a shop on the ground floor of an old building once and he had immediately turned to leave again because all he could see was a body hanging from a stairway that was no longer there, blue and buzzing with flies. She didn’t know how he coped with it all, but she had never seen him once respond like this. Maybe this was it and he was finally having a breakdown brought on by years of seeing dead people? Martha recalled Sue’s words that previous week, about how her life was weird, and it struck her now that Sue was absolutely correct.

  Martha shook her head. “I swear, Gabriel, I didn’t see anyone who looked like that. Are you okay? I saw you in the gardens last week . . .”

  Gabriel rubbed his eyes, not listening to what Martha was saying, and it struck her how tired he looked. He sniffed loudly and again looked out the window, checking to see if the man had returned.

  They sat in silence for a moment, Martha unsure of what to say. It was eventually Gabriel who broke the silence.

  Still with his eyes firmly fixed out the window, his cake and tea untouched before him, he spoke.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever say these words, Martha, but I think I’m being haunted.”

  CHAPTER 9

  They walked, against the wind, to Gabriel’s apartment. Martha had offered to drive but he refused, saying that the fresh air would do him good. Martha was inclined to agree. With a sideways glance, she noted a greyish tinge to his pallor. He looked exhausted, like a man who had barely slept for weeks.

  Gabriel talked while they walked, explaining things to Martha. How he had first noticed the young man, popping up now and again, never quite within reach. Around the same time that Laurence had vanished.

  “I don’t know what to do with myself with Laurence gone. I mean he’
s been with me for years,” said Gabriel, looking at his feet as he walked. “He’s my brother – and my spirit guide – and without a spirit guide I’m finding it really hard to get in touch with spirits and since I took that stupid TV job it’s my bread and butter to talk to people who have passed over. Luckily, the production team for that show are so dense that they haven’t noticed yet that I’m having to bluff. Too bloody busy throwing spoons and pulling chairs round with bits of string. I feel such a bloody sham though.” Martha remained silent about this, aware of a growing level of bitterness in Gabriel’s voice as he talked about the TV show.

  “I mean, Laurence was there one day as usual and the next – poof! – totally gone. Now there are no spirits coming through to me at all. Makes me feel like I’ve imagined the last seventeen years or so, like my gift has never existed. All except this skinny guy – I mean, I’ve been convincing myself that he’s a real person, that I’m being followed for some reason. I’ve tried to convince myself he’s someone I must owe money to or a creepy fan of the show or else it’s a case of mistaken identity but I’m just kidding myself. So you saw me in Princes Street Gardens?”

  Martha nodded. “Myself and Sue. She was staying with us for the weekend.”

  Gabriel nodded slightly. “There was no one there, was there? He frightened the life out of me –made me drop my cappuccino and then scarpered and I chased him like a mug. Must have looked like a total moron.” He made a tutting noise and rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “And me on the telly and all now! What must folk be thinking when I suddenly take off after nothing at all? Talk about attention seeking!”

  Martha grinned. “And that wouldn’t be like you at all, Gabriel, now would it?” she asked softly and was rewarded with a smile from her companion.