by Jane Shemilt
‘Your rats?’ Verdandi regards him scornfully. ‘Animals belong to themselves.’ She leans to retrieve the swimsuits and Urth begins to fold paper around the remains of the food. They seem in a hurry. Albie senses a gap closing, time slipping away. If he scares them off with accusations he won’t get the answers he needs. He crouches down near Skuld. He’d last seen her in the lab when he changed the vials; had she been there to steal some rats that night? He pushes his suspicions aside, he has to. ‘Let’s forget the rats for now. I came to find you because I was hoping you might be able to help me.’
She leans forward and pulls up a strand of ivy, running her fingers over the glossy leaves. Her sisters pause, they inch closer.
‘Around three years ago, you let me know what had been discussed at the consultants’ meeting, the very first one you helped at.’
He studies her face for a sign that she remembers but she doesn’t look up. She might have forgotten but the moment is as clear for him as if he has just closed the door on her, has just met Bruce in the lift, has just encountered Ted on the steps of the hospital. ‘What you told me back then turned out to be prophetic. I was hoping you might pass on what happened at their last meeting too.’
‘What makes you so sure she was even at that one?’ Urth demands fiercely, forestalling her sister’s reply.
‘Skuld said she served coffee for the consultants at their meetings on a regular basis,’ he tells her, surprised. ‘You’d asked her to.’
Urth frowns but she doesn’t reply; he turns back to Skuld. ‘The last meeting would have taken place about a month ago, just before you left.’
‘What exactly is it you want to know?’ Verdandi demands.
He pauses but they are unlikely to tell anyone about this conversation. ‘Ted would have resigned around that time, appointments are discussed at those meetings. I need to find out if my name or Ed’s was mentioned as his replacement. I’m in charge now; if I’m to take over permanently I’d like to make plans for the future of the lab.’
‘I heard the Professor give that post to his son.’ Verdandi’s eyes shift over his face. He’d forgotten she was at Ed’s engagement party.
‘He held the post for a while, but Ted remained in control,’ he replies. ‘He’d already given me the strong impression that when he retired, the leadership of the lab would come to me.’ He addresses Skuld again. ‘I’m hoping you’ll tell me what was decided at the meeting. There’s so much I want to do.’
She lifts her head, her pale eyes gaze serenely into his, his thoughts crystallise. ‘I share Ted’s vision you see,’ he continues. ‘We worked together. I want to dedicate my life to making a cure for brain cancer in children a reality.’ These words are, he realises, completely true. His ambition has become, if anything, more pure. The desire for money, houses, safety has faded. There will be no family to house, no children to keep safe. Beth won’t want grandeur now. Her image, thin and tearful in the garden as he last saw her, flares then dims again. ‘I’m convinced Ted would have wanted me, not Ed, to carry on with his work in the lab. I’m certain he—’
‘Yes,’ Skuld’s lilting voice calmly interrupts. ‘That is what he said in the last meeting.’
He stares at her, scarcely believing what he’s hearing. He may be deep in the woods but perhaps he can still hack his way out.
‘I was there with the coffee as usual.’ She is more fluent than he remembers, much more confident. ‘The Professor had resigned like you say, he was sad actually. He warned there would be difficult times ahead. He told everyone he had asked his son to step back, and let you take over—’
‘So now you have the information you wanted.’ Verdandi’s voice cuts sharply across Skuld’s.
So Ted had trusted him after all; more than he did his own son. A soft clattering sound breaks the silence as rain begins to fall on the leaves above them. The air turns colder. He could weep. Ted had made good on his promise in the end, but he never breathed a word; he must have meant it as a surprise, a gift, secretly planned.
The girls stand. Urth crams the food into a rucksack. Verdandi folds the rug, her lean white arms flashing in the air. Skuld is shivering; none of them are wearing warm clothes. They are more vulnerable than they realise; with their misplaced notions of freedom for animals, they are drifting into danger.
He turns to Skuld. ‘I won’t mention those missing rats to anyone, but you need to take care. The woman you work for is an old acquaintance; if she knew what you were doing, she’d call the police.’
Verdandi smiles and Urth chuckles. He stares, confused. Perhaps they think themselves beyond the reach of the law. He has warned them, that’s all he can do.
Skuld throws a broken roll towards a couple of mandarin drakes swimming beyond the water lilies. There is a splashing rush as they paddle close, their eyes naked as beads. The larger one puts his webbed foot on the other’s back, pushing him under.
‘We should go. Come, Urth, hurry, Skuld.’ The strange Norwegian names fit these women, he should look up what they mean. Verdandi weaves her way rapidly through the ivy and stinging nettles, closely shadowed by Urth. As Skuld turns to follow he puts a hand on her arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know what was said at the meeting.’ He smiles at her; if she hadn’t been interrupted by her sisters, she might have shared even more. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised that the consultants are so free with—’
‘What they say in front of me?’ She wrenches her arm away; for the first time her voice lifts in anger. ‘It’s very simple. I don’t talk so they don’t see me. They treat us like they do their animals; if you don’t speak as they do, you don’t exist.’ She spits neatly on the ground and, with her side-to-side stride, hurries after her sisters.
‘Goodbye,’ he shouts but she doesn’t turn round. He wipes his forehead and cheeks with the cuff of his shirt; it’s as though she had spat directly at his face. He feels shaken and stands by the pond staring at the ducks as they swim away, their quarrel forgotten. He can’t tell which was the aggressor now and which the victim.
Back at the fence the bikes have disappeared; he swings himself over the gate and begins to jog towards Kenwood House. His damp trousers flap uncomfortably against his legs. The pain in his abdomen is back, he feels racked by sorrow. Ted had cleared the way for him at the last meeting, regardless of what had happened before that point. He’d been appreciated at the end, trusted by the man he killed. He’s on the edge of an abyss scrabbling for a handhold and then he has it. Ted’s words come back in time, the ones he quoted whenever Albie regretted an operative decision or a faulty diagnosis. You make a decision based on the information available at the time, that’s all you can do. Ted gave the lab to his son; Albie’s decision to hijack the trial followed that. How could he have known then what would ensue?
He enters the gate to the grounds of Kenwood and the vista opens up. The rain has stopped. He pauses by the sloping lawns in front of the great white house to turn on his phone. He ignores a voicemail from Beth, scrolling down to the text from Suria: ‘Billy seems stable.’ Another from Bridget asking him to call in urgently, which he can do on the way to see Billy. Beth’s message can wait until he has more time; she is slipping below the surface of his thoughts, while Ted has emerged as if dripping from the deep. A couple of runners speed by, startling him, their faces sweaty, feet thudding on the path, oblivious to everything but their own efforts. He follows them, picking up speed. He feels released. The way ahead has opened up.
Bridget then Billy. A list; he is used to dealing with lists. The abdominal pain has receded. He sprints towards the Highgate exit.
28
Jura. Summer 2018
Early each morning the deer stand in a group of six, watching her. They position themselves on the green-grey bluff above the house, their delicate heads outlined against the sky. The fawns are spotted, their hooves a polished black; they seem to have stepped out of a fairy tale, too perfect to be real. The boldest runs a few paces towards her then away. His an
tler buds are visible already. The hinds keep very still; there are no stags but the group seems complete. They observe her as if from another, more ancient world, waiting to see what she will do, this female on her own with no young. She sits cross-legged on the grass outside the gate, hoping the brave fawn will come close, maybe put his soft nose in her hand for the salt. Deer tracks are everywhere on the island, in the mud, on nibbled grass and printed on the beach, thick exclamation marks pressed into the damp sand. She fastens the gate open for them at night but they never enter the garden, or if they do, they leave no footprints. The grass is longer now, turning silky, threaded with sea campion, pink thrift and clover.
Today she is too late to see the little herd. She had lain awake most of the night, waiting for a call from Albie, incoherent terrors flaring like summer fires on the heather, one thought lighting another. The sky was pale by the time she slept. When she wakes she is sweating, the sun across the bed and the phone in her hand, her neck stiff from lying awkwardly against the pillows. The tooth in the back of her mouth is hurting again. There are faint sounds in the house that could be voices, low mutterings, her name amongst them. She lies still, her heart beating so hard the sheet over her chest moves with the pulse. Is it her imagination or could it be burglars? Most likely the police. They said they might return; she must have forgotten to lock the door again. By the time she has dressed and crept downstairs, they have disappeared, leaving no trace. Harris is whining to be let out, his drinking bowl is nearly empty, the water looks green. Outside the grass looks tired and yellow in the midday heat. The deer have long gone to the shade of the wood.
The fridge is still crammed with bacon, cheese and butter. Two chickens stand in a pool of pale pink blood, the grey skin studded with the tips of feathers, dark splinters, digging in. She jams the bacon in the freezer. In the bread bin, patches of mould have spread, blue starbursts through the loaf. There is wine, though; the bottles stand in the pantry on the lead sink, a round-shouldered group, gathering dust. Albie must have planned for drinking every night and at lunchtimes as well, anticipating laughter, clinking glasses. Convivial chat. That’s what would have happened, would still be happening if she had confessed nothing of the past. She has to hold to a doorway as the thought arrows through her mind, leaving a track of fire. If she is to blame she is being punished now. Albie might leave her as Ted did, as her parents did; he might have left her already. She pours a glass of wine and drinks it quickly, it’s midday after all; her parents had been drunk at breakfast. She pours another then another, the toothache begins to fade. She rinses out the dog bowl, scrubbing the slimy base with her fingers, running fresh water in, slopping it over. In the garden the noise of the birds and the sea beat against her, louder than usual. There is no message from Albie. She phones him but he doesn’t answer, she leaves a voicemail. ‘Be careful,’ she whispers into the phone. ‘Very careful. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t trust anyone. The police were here, snooping around.’
The patch of nettles growing by the trees has doubled in size. There is a trowel in the outhouse but she sits instead, already tired out; her back against the wall of the house, wine glass in hand, trowel on her lap. She sleeps in the sun until a cold fall of shadow wakes her. She opens her eyes to see Ed, back again after his night in the hotel. He looms over her, suitcase in hand, blocking the sun.
‘Hi there.’ He sounds impatient, he looks hot already. ‘Okay to start searching again?’
She stands slowly, fuddled with sleep and wine, and leads him inside. He disappears upstairs. Jake is up there already, shouting something inaudible, cupboard doors are slammed. The loft hatch slides open and the ladder thuds down. She retreats to the garden again with a newly filled glass of wine. The nettles under the tree are difficult to dislodge, the roots are deep. After an hour she has made little impression. Despite gloves, her hands and arms are covered with weals, which burn and itch. She retrieves her glass, but coming in for camomile lotion, sun-blind, she trips and falls. The glass shatters against the floor and the fragments lodge deep in her palm. They must have caught a vessel; the blood seeps out very quickly. Whimpering with pain, she pulls out two jagged pieces of glass and wraps her hand in a tea towel, then begins to sweep the fragments up before Harris gets a splinter in his paws. Ed comes running downstairs.
He inspects the wound. ‘You’ll need stitches.’ He sounds angry. ‘And a tetanus jab.’
‘No.’ She can’t face a doctor or questions. She backs away, shaking her head. ‘It’ll heal on its own if I keep it clean.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Ed pulls car keys out of his pocket. ‘Besides blood loss, your hand function could be compromised. It looks deep.’
Blood has soaked the tea towel; Ed binds another more tightly round her hand and shepherds her towards the door, picking up his case as he goes. Jake’s still upstairs, she hears him moving furniture. He calls out as they leave, but Ed doesn’t bother to reply. Once they are on the road he drives very fast.
‘About you and Dad,’ he says after ten minutes, his eyes on the road. Her heart begins to beat wildly, like the wings of a bird that’s been caught by a hawk. ‘I never really knew when it ended.’ He looks sideways at her then back at the road. ‘I couldn’t tell Jake, he worships Dad; I didn’t want to let my father down. All the same, Jake picked up on something between you and Dad, so now I’m not sure if it ended after all.’ His voice is quiet; his face has become very pale. He’s near to tears. ‘I can’t bear the thought that you were keeping him hanging on.’
‘Jake’s wrong.’ So Jake had worked out a connection, but in grasping for one truth he’d missed the darker one. She had been bound to Ted by hate, not love, but if Jake thinks she was still involved with Ted when he died, the net might begin to close around Albie, the jealous husband. ‘There was nothing going on between me and your father. We were over years ago, long before I was married.’
‘He lost everything: Naomi, Mum, you, his career.’ Ed wipes his eyes, an angry swipe. ‘In the end he lost his life.’ He glances at her again, the car veers and he rights it quickly. ‘I’m glad Jake was wrong. To be honest, I’ve always wondered if it was you who ended it and whether he was still unhappy because of that.’ His fingers grip the wheel so tightly that the tendons on the back of his hands jump out like thin yellow ropes. ‘I can’t stand the thought that he suffered over you as well as everything else.’
The opposite, she wants to say, Ted discarded her. She’d been hurt, not him. But she needs to be careful, or he might guess it was she who’d had her revenge, she who made him suffer in the end.
‘He called time, Ed, but there were no hard feelings. It had run its course.’
He nods, seeming glad to accept what she says. He’ll let Jake know, it might lessen his suspicions. She feels sick now, her hand throbs badly. In Craighouse, Ed calls at the shop to ask where the surgery is and the shop owner comes to the door to point the way, the same blonde woman she saw on their honeymoon. She looks neater now, slimmer. She wears her hair up and holds a toddler by the hand. Her life has gone forward, not backward.
They arrive at a wooden building in time to catch the GP, who is turning his car in the forecourt. She recognises the bearded doctor who had been chatting to Albie by the shop a lifetime ago. Close up he has bulging eyes that give him an air of surprised enquiry. He introduces himself as Dr McAleer, his patients call him Andrew. He unlocks the surgery and ushers them both inside. The surgery smells of disinfectant and new carpet. They walk into his room, a spartan place with a brass-rimmed photo on the desk of a happy-looking girl in jeans on a beach, a baby strapped to her chest. Beth looks out of the window to the sea, a line of blue in the distance between the roofs; she can’t remember when she last felt happy.
Ed gives the details of what happened, and his name as a contact along with his mobile and email. Beth is now registered as a temporary patient. The doctor nods, tapping the keyboard. He glances up when he hears where she is staying.
‘I he
ard what happened. I’m sorry.’ He must say this many times a day but it sounds genuine. Her eyes fill, as though she has a right to be sad and is deserving of compassion. Ed’s fists are balled in his pockets; his head is lowered.
They are taken into a room equipped as a small operating theatre; there are high lights, a beige couch with a neatly folded blanket and wrapped instruments on a trolley. Andrew takes off his jacket and washes his hands at the little sink.
‘I need to go soon if I’m going to catch the Glasgow plane. The ferry leaves in fifteen minutes.’ Ed stares at Beth as he rattles his car keys; does he think she has done this on purpose?
‘I can drop Beth back at the house; you won’t have time.’ Andrew doesn’t look up; he is absorbed in positioning her hand on a towel and then swabbing the skin around the injury with pink disinfectant.
‘You’ll have to catch a later ferry anyway, won’t you?’ she mutters to Ed through clenched jaws, sweat trickling down her back as the stinging liquid seeps into the wound. ‘You need to pick up Jake.’
‘He’s gone already.’ Ed turns to go.
‘When? He can’t have done.’ Grief must be making him forgetful. ‘I heard him rummaging about upstairs earlier. He shouted something as we left; if you don’t go back he’ll be stranded.’ Like me, she adds silently.
‘Beth, I saw Jake off on the ferry last night,’ Ed says. ‘He organised car hire on Islay and left me his.’ He exchanges a glance with the doctor. The noise of paper being ripped as the packets of equipment are opened sounds loud in the moment of silence. Beth stares at Ed, certainties tipping like instruments on a tray.
‘His son’s ill, he left in a hurry.’
‘Billy’s ill?’