A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘Fancy a cheeky wee scone?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She hated scones, but appreciated that the woman was trying to be nice.

  ‘Drink coming up,’ the woman said breezily, and Damaris won­dered about the parallel world this woman lived in, where people had nothing to worry about and could actually be cheerful.

  The drink arrived. A tall glass, lots of ice and a red-striped straw. She sipped and felt the sweet bubbles hit her tongue. It revived her a little. Helped her to think.

  If she went to the police who would she talk to? What would she say? And then, what would happen? Would her mum and dad end up in prison? And if they did what would happen to her? Some kind of foster home?

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket. The screen lit up, showing her she’d had some missed calls. Again. Mum had been calling her every day since she moved to Chrissie’s.

  Take the hint, Mother, she thought.

  Dad had sent her a few texts. Saying he was sorry, how he understood he had let her down badly, and hoping they could mend things eventually.

  Chrissie had sent her a couple of texts as well. Wondering where the hell she was and why she wasn’t sitting in French class that very second.

  When her drink ran out the server noticed and came back over.

  ‘You been stood up, wee pal?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Damaris said.

  The woman cocked her head and placed both hands on her hips. ‘Should you not be in school?’

  ‘Study time,’ she lied and was impressed by how smoothly the words came out of her mouth.

  The woman waited as if expecting her to get up and leave. When Damaris stayed in her seat she asked, ‘Are you needing help?’

  Damaris shook her head, finding the strength from somewhere not to unload everything onto this kind woman. How good would it be to get all of this off her mind?’

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go to, dear? Someone to talk to?’ The woman sat in the seat beside her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. Then she pulled a five-pound note out of her purse, put it on the table and by way of reassuring the woman, said, ‘Keep the change.’ And left.

  Outside the café she wondered what she was going to do next. Mum usually had her book group on a Monday afternoon. She looked at the time on her phone. And usually around now. There was enough time for her to wait at home until school was out and then go back to Chrissie’s. Fifteen minutes later she was standing just down the street from her mother’s. Her white Range Rover wasn’t in its usual place, so she made her way inside. As she walked past the space where the giant machine usually sat a thought crashed in. How could her mother afford a car like that? She re­membered all those years ago that her mother had used Amelie’s cash card to withdraw money. Every time she thought about that her toes curled up with embarrassment. But the money needed for the Range Rover would be on a whole other level. Did her mother steal more money? What was Cammie into and did he pass some of that on to his sister? Or was her mother’s work as a bookkeeper that lucrative?

  Inside, curled up on the sofa, she mindlessly scrolled through the television channels. She needed to stop thinking; it was hurting her head. There was so much she didn’t know and jumping to conclusions wasn’t helping. Unable to settle on anything on the TV she turned it off, and went into her bedroom. There was a pile of folded laundry on her bed. She needed clean clothes so she took her small suitcase from the floor of her wardrobe, carried it to her bed and filled it up. It occurred to her as she did so that her mother would now know she’d visited.

  Too bad. She really didn’t care what her mother or father thought.

  Looking around she thought about the nights she’d spent in this room completely unaware of how her mother had betrayed her. As she scanned the room she noticed that the top drawer of her bedside cabinet was slightly open. She pushed it shut; Mum had obviously been in here for a nosey. Then with a sharp charge of worry, she wondered what her mother had found.

  She got to her knees and looked under the bed. With a sense of relief she saw that the small box, holding what she thought of as her ‘cutting set’, was still there, tucked behind the leg of the heavy-framed bed. She’d chosen her hiding place well. It looked exactly as she’d left it.

  Pulling the box out, she got off her knees and placed it in the middle of the bed. With a shock of surprise she realised she hadn’t missed it at all. For the last few years she’d barely gone a week without thinking of placing a sharp edge to her skin, or a month without actually doing so. Yet, since she moved over to Chrissie’s a couple of weeks ago it hadn’t entered her head.

  Opening the box she assessed the contents. The sharp little knife, the razor blade, the antiseptic wipes and the plasters. Looking down at them, neatly arranged, it felt like the kit be­longed to someone else.

  She pulled her left sleeve up a little, plucked out the razor and held it against the tender pale of her inside wrist, lining it up against the pucker of an old scar. Even then there was no urge to press the blade into her flesh, to see the blood well onto her skin.

  There was a sound at her doorway and a deep male voice boomed, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  She jumped in fright, accidentally applying pressure to the blade. Looking up she saw Uncle Cammy standing in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked again. He reached her in a couple of steps and took a grip of her arm, holding it in the air. ‘You’re cutting yourself? Why?’ His brows were tight, his mouth a thin line of anger. This wasn’t the Uncle Cammy she knew so well, and looking at the fury in his eyes she was suddenly scared of him. Sure, she’d heard the rumours, but dismissed them as just that: rumours. He was her uncle. He loved her. He could never harm a fly. But looking at his face as he shot hot shards of disgust at her she shrank from him.

  ‘Look. You’re dripping on to the carpet.’ He started tugging at her arm. ‘Right. Bathroom. Now.’

  Once there he turned on the cold tap and pushed her wrist under it. Then he picked up a small towel and clamped it to her skin. ‘Sit.’ He pointed to the bath. She sat on the side as ordered.

  ‘When did you start doing this?’

  This was her worst-case scenario. One of the grown-ups in her life finding out about her compulsion. She hung her head, her long hair falling to each side like curtains.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he shouted.

  ‘I … I…’

  Cammy pulled at her other arm, and lifted up the sleeve. When he saw the scars he dropped her arm.

  ‘You stupid little bitch. You’ve been doing this for years, haven’t you?’

  She could only nod, her face so hot with shame she was sure it would combust.

  ‘Ever since…?’ A realisation, and the hinge of his jaw relaxed leaving him open-mouthed. Anger clouded his eyes. ‘I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.’

  Chapter 61

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t put the urn there?’ Amelie asked Dave.

  ‘Why would I put it on the kitchen table?’

  ‘Who would move it then?’

  Dave slumped onto one of the kitchen chairs as his mind chased down one theory after another. ‘The cleaner isn’t due in until Friday. There’s been no one over from the office.’ His words tailed off. He was at a loss as to how he could explain this. Unless he was mistaken and it was there, on the kitchen table, when he left for the funeral service that morning.

  He gave that some thought. Recalled the moment he’d thought of his mother, how much he missed her, and caressed the polished wood with a fingertip kiss just before he left.

  ‘No,’ he asserted. ‘It was definitely on the mantlepiece this morning.’

  ‘Maybe you should call the police?’

  ‘And say what? Someone sneaked in my house and moved an ornament from the living room to the kitchen?’

  ‘No need to be snide, Dave,’ Amelie replied. ‘I’m trying
to be helpful.’

  He bit down on his next response. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘This is freaking me out,’ she said as she crossed her arms. She told him about being followed when she first moved out to France, and as she spoke it was all Dave could do not to take her in his arms. ‘It’s been such a long time since that stuff happened, I thought I was over it.’ It looked to Dave as if every part of her was now vibrating with tension.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked. ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘Yeah, tell the guy who’s had an attempt on his life while in prison that I’ve been followed into a church by a good-looking guy in a leather jacket.’

  ‘Oh, you had time to notice he was good-looking, did you?’ Dave asked with a mock serious voice.

  Amelie dutifully laughed, but there was little real humour in her response.

  ‘Do you want to go back to your hotel?’ Dave asked, simulta­neously wanting her to leave and stay.

  There was a knock at the door, and then the doorbell rang.

  ‘Who could that be?’ Amelie asked.

  Dave remembered the last time they were together and the door had sounded. He shuddered, but got to his feet. ‘Better see who it is. Probably one of Dad’s old buddies who couldn’t make the service.’

  Another loud knock as he walked down the hallway, and a man shouting. Then the door burst open.

  ‘Who the hell are you…?’ Dave demanded, looking around for something he could use as a weapon.

  The man was in his early thirties with dark hair, and was wearing a black leather jacket. Something about him was very fam­iliar. He was holding an arm up, pointing at Dave.

  Amelie appeared by his side.

  ‘You,’ she hissed. Then she gasped. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  Dave looked at the man’s hand. On delay, as if his brain was just catching up, he noticed the man was holding a small gun. ‘Okay,’ he said, taking a step forward and holding an arm in front of Amelie. ‘Whatever you want, leave her out of this.’

  Then finally he realised who this man was.

  ‘You’re Claire Brown’s brother.’

  ‘What?’ Amelie said. ‘This is the man who was following me in Bordeaux.’

  Amelie and Dave glanced at each other.

  Fuelled by a sudden anger, Dave stepped closer to Cammy, his arms spread wide. Cammy whipped his arm round. A metallic taste in his mouth and immense pain bursting across his head, Dave fell to the floor.

  Move, he urged himself, do something, but the commands he sent to his muscles didn’t, couldn’t, get there. He was aware of Amelie shouting, of the sounds of a scuffle. Then someone tugging at his feet. He was powerless to do anything.

  Then darkness took him.

  When he regained consciousness, he was sitting on something soft, his neck lolling so deeply his chin was almost on his chest. The sofa. He must be on the sofa. The heavy throb in his head…

  Gritting his teeth against the pain he managed to set his head upright. He could feel that something was binding his feet and hands together. Amelie was on the sofa beside him, and he could see her hands were also tied.

  ‘Good, you’re with us,’ Cammy said.

  He had pulled a chair over and sat in front of them, elbows on his knees, the black hole of the gun tip unwavering. ‘I’ve just been getting to know your lovely ex-girlfriend a little bit better. She is your ex, right?’

  ‘Just let her go. She’s done nothing wrong.’ Jesus. Even speaking caused pain to explode in his skull.

  ‘And neither has Dave,’ Amelie said.

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you.’

  ‘Let her go. She won’t tell anyone. Will you, Amelie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cammy. ‘A woman with the press at her beck and call is going to quietly go back to France and leave you here facing a gun.’

  ‘If you leave him alone, I will,’ Amelie said.

  ‘Not happening,’ Cammy said. ‘I’ve got a plan for you two.’

  ‘Why don’t I know you?’ Amelie asked. ‘Your family lived next door to me for ages.’ She turned to Dave. ‘Did you ever see him there?’

  ‘Didn’t see him at Thorntonhall, no.’ Dave could see that Amelie was trying to distract their intruder. Playing for time. ‘I think I saw him in town with Claire a couple of times. That must be it.’

  ‘And Roger’s uncle’s in the police. Quite high up. Must have been awkward for you,’ Amelie said. ‘You loving your family so much and having to keep your distance.’

  ‘Fucksakes, shut up the pair of you, or I’ll end this right now.’ He waved his gun.

  ‘It was you at the prison, wasn’t it?’ Dave asked, one part of his mind feverishly trying to work out how they were going to get out of this safely. ‘You were behind those guys who attacked me.’

  ‘Do you think you were going to get away with molesting my niece, you pervert?’ His face was inches away from Dave’s now. The force of his anger so strong, saliva was spraying Dave’s skin. ‘You hurt mine. I hurt you. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Why go after Amelie in France? She had nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Pull the other one, arsehole. Expect me to believe that you were grooming Damaris and she knew nothing?’

  ‘Dave wasn’t grooming anyone. Damaris was just a lonely little girl he passed the time of day with.’

  Cammy laughed, but there was no mirth in it, only menace. ‘Is that a French euphemism, or something – “passing the time of day”? I’m glad we stole your money, you whore.’

  ‘You stole my money?’ The insult meant nothing to Amelie. ‘That was your sister.’

  Cammy crossed his arms, pleased with himself. ‘She didn’t even think about using your card until I put the thought in her head.’

  Dave felt Amelie stiffen in the seat beside him. The heat coming off her body was incredible. He felt her shift position, and then she screamed, ‘Help. Somebody. Help.’

  Cammy laughed. This time for real. ‘This is a big house, with thick walls, set back from the road. No one can hear you, doll.’

  Amelie shouted again.

  ‘Shut up.’ Cammy was on his feet. He reached her in a stride, and slapped her.

  ‘Touch her again and I’ll kill you,’ Dave raged.

  The insults life had heaped on him over the last few years tore through his mind. Enough. He’d had enough. Somehow he got to his feet, but Cammy simply prodded his chest hard enough that Dave lost his balance and fell back onto the seat.

  ‘God, you’re pathetic,’ Cammy said, and moved back to his chair, Dave staring up at him with impotent rage. ‘So, here’s what’s going to happen. Or, I should say, what it will look like happened. Dave’s going to kill you, Amelie. Sorry, Solange.’ He tapped the barrel of the gun against the side of his head. ‘You should have stayed away. I can’t let you go now.’

  ‘You’re never going to get away with this,’ Dave shouted.

  ‘Where was I? Right. Yes. Dave, driven mad by grief and knowing Amelie doesn’t love him anymore…’ He looked at Amelie. ‘She doesn’t, right? Else, why did she stay away so long?’

  Dave flinched.

  Cammy spotted the tiny movement. ‘Yeah, shitty, right? So, as I was saying: the newspapers will state that mad with grief, etc., Dave Robbins killed movie star Amelie Hart before turning the gun on himself.’

  Chapter 62

  Without a word, Cammy had turned and left Damaris with her wrists and shame bare.

  ‘Uncle Cammy, no,’ she shouted. She ran to the living-room window and watched him charge towards his car and drive off. She knew exactly where he was going, and she had to follow him and stop him.

  Her only problem was that Cammy was already on his way and she had to get the bus.

  Grabbing her jacket she ran out of the door, down the stairs and onto the street. Just in time to see the brake lights on Cammy’s
car as he reached the junction at the top of the road.

  Lungs bursting and panic sparking in her mind, Damaris made it to the nearest bus stop. Ignoring the strange looks from a couple standing there, she brought out her phone. Her hand was shaking so badly it took a few attempts to key in her passcode. She lifted her head to look at every passing vehicle, praying it was a bus that would take her where she needed to go.

  Eventually, just when her phone said it would, the right bus arrived. She chose the closest available seat to the door, judging that every second was crucial. And from this vantage point, she stared at the bus driver’s back, willing them on, swearing at each red light, and every passenger that stopped the bus so they could get on.

  As she travelled across the city she cursed herself. When she was actually cutting herself, she would have never been caught out like that. She should have heard Cammy walking in. And then she could have safely hidden her stash, and not put Dave and Amelie in danger.

  Because, judging by the look on Cammy’s face, danger was very definitely heading their way. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his; those long, dark lashes, the dusted amber. And clearly readable, even to her, the threat and purpose. The will and cer­tainty. And most scary of all, the anticipated pleasure. In just a few seconds she’d read all of that in his face. And more.

  She crossed her arms against the realisation that he’d really just been waiting for the excuse; and like an idiot she’d given it to him.

  Maybe she was wrong. She tried to tell herself she was over-re­acting. Maybe he was just going over there to give them a talking to. Maybe shout at them a little. Having said his bit, he’d leave them in peace. That’s what Dad would do.

  Dad.

  She should have gone to his and asked for help. He would have come over with her, and told Cammy the truth. Because he sure wasn’t going to listen to her.

  Looking out of the window, she judged her whereabouts, and whispered, ‘Shit’ to herself. Dad’s house was now well behind her. If she got off the bus, to get another bus back to his, it might be too late.