by Helen Grant
“Why not?”
“What about your jacket?” I asked.
James shrugged. “Someone will bring it into the office tomorrow. I’ve got everything important in my pockets anyway. And besides,” he added conspiratorially, “As long as it’s on my chair, they’ll think I’m coming back for it. That should give us a good head start.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “You’ll freeze, though,” I said.
“We’d better find somewhere quickly, then.”
We went to a pub; there was less chance there of running into the others, who would probably go to a wine bar if they went on anywhere. James ordered a beer; I went for a soft drink, having had wine already. I wanted to keep my wits about me – the evening had already taken an entirely unpredicted turn. In spite of James’s apparent interest, I couldn’t help suspecting that once we started talking properly it would turn out that he wanted to pick my brains about some professional question. Perhaps he wanted the inside dirt on his publisher. In that case, it would be very embarrassing if I had taken his invitation to have a drink with him as some kind of personal declaration. With these thoughts going through my mind, I was a little subdued at first. Gradually, however, I realised that it wasn’t publishing he was interested in. It was me.
I’m used to James and his impulsive nature now. He makes up his mind very quickly; if he likes something, if it interests him, he pursues it. He doesn’t worry about where the pursuit is going, but more often than not it leads him somewhere useful. The idea for The Unrepentant Dead, for example, came from a chance remark from a folklorist he met in a bar in the Highlands; once he’d heard about the sluagh he wasn’t content until he’d learnt everything he could about them, and once he’d done that he had to put it into a book.
Back then, I didn’t know any of this. I was mainly bemused; I kept wondering if I’d got the wrong end of the stick. The feeling wore off, though. The sharpness and sense of mischief that had made him pick up on the Genghis nickname the first time we met made him very entertaining company. By the end of the evening, I felt as though we’d swapped life stories. I’d even told him about my secret desire to pack it all in and go and live in the country, which was something I never, ever mentioned at work, in case it marked me out as lamentably unambitious.
It was late by then, so James offered to get a taxi and drop me off at home before he went back to his hotel. I was grateful, but I wondered what he thought of the block when we stopped outside it. By the look – and sound – of it, there was another party going on in the ground floor flat.
I kissed James – on the cheek – before I got out of the cab, and I guess we must have said something about meeting again very soon. But mostly I remember looking up at the apartment block with its dark upper floors and then glancing back into the cab at James, and wishing I could have left it all behind and gone with him instead.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, I wake up late, to find pale Scottish sunlight streaming through the window. I’m alone. James’s side of the bed is empty and when I put my hand on the sheet it’s cold.
For a little while, I just lie there. The memory of last night is like a hangover: it makes me feel weak and drained. I feel as though I’ve lied to James, although I didn’t really lie – I just didn’t tell him everything. All the details. I could rectify that, of course. I could get out of bed right now and go downstairs and tell him everything. But I know I’m not going to do that. I can’t even get things straight in my own head.
What is happening to me?
I’m not a superstitious person. I’ve always thought dreams were just random things my brain threw up like driftwood, tattered scraps of stress and hope and anxiety with no particular logic to them. I didn’t think of them as omens or messages. But I’ve never had dreams like these before, reoccurring and gruesomely specific. They’re so realistic that while I’m dreaming them they are indistinguishable from real life. I don’t just see and hear things in exquisite and painful detail, I smell and feel them, too. And then there’s this repeating theme of being in my coffin, being buried alive.
I rub my face with my hands, like someone trying to rub away sleepiness. It’s no use; the memories will press in on me: the curious old-fashioned ceiling rose, the scent of old tobacco, the sound of nails being hammered down. The whole experience was so intensely and agonisingly vivid that it is hard to avoid the conclusion that it means something – that my subconscious is waving a red flag at me for all it’s worth.
What about Belle’s dream? I say to myself defiantly. That didn’t come from my subconscious.
For a moment I feel the relief of self-reassurance, but then the misgivings come creeping in again, gnawing like evil insects at the edges of my fragile complacency. Perhaps Belle dreamed what she did because she is my oldest and closest friend and she sensed the same wrongness that spawned my own dreams.
No, I tell myself. There is no wrongness. I chose to leave London and come here, to Barr Dubh House. I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with James. I’m happy with my choices. I think about these things, examining them carefully, and I know that this is true. There is no lurking doubt, quietly obtrusive as grit in my shoe. I love living in Scotland, I love Barr Dubh House, and most of all I love James, with all my heart.
James. I glance at his side of the bed, empty, the hollow in the pillow where he laid his head still visible.
I throw back the covers with an energy that is almost angry. Sliding out of bed, I grab my robe and shrug it on. I’m halfway down the stairs before I’ve finished tying the belt.
James is not in the kitchen; the lights are off and the hob is cold. I pad through into the living room and he’s not there either. I pause by the big plate glass window and stare out at the land beyond, remembering the day I saw someone walking along by the distant treeline. I often find myself looking towards that same spot, but I have never seen them again, and I don’t now.
The door of James’s study is open just a crack, and so I go softly up to it and peep through the gap, not wanting to disturb him if he’s engrossed in his work. Yes, he’s in there, sitting at his desk with his laptop open in front of him, but he isn’t working. He’s gazing out of the window, at something I cannot see from here. I know he’s not working because the laptop’s screen has gone dark. So I knock lightly, and then I push open the door.
It takes James a beat longer to react to my knock than I expect. For a moment, his gaze remains on the view through the window, and at this apparent preoccupation my heart sinks a little – has what happened last night disturbed him too? But then he turns and smiles at me, and I can see at once that it’s alright.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes,” he says drily.
“Ha,” I say. “I’ve almost certainly got bed hair.”
“Hard to tell from here. Perhaps you’d better come a bit closer.”
“‘Come into my parlour, said the Spider to the Fly’?”
“Something like that.”
I cross the room and stand by his chair, looking down at the laptop. “How’s the writing going?”
“Oh,” says James, “You know. Fits and starts.” He puts his head back and looks at me. “And how are you this morning? That was one hell of a fright you gave me last night.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, not quite truthfully.
“It sounded like you were being murdered.”
I smile uneasily at that. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that the problem wasn’t that I was being murdered, it was that I was not dead enough when they started nailing the lid down. But in the end I say, “It was just a really horrible dream.”
There is nothing I want to add to that, so for a moment there is silence. Then I say, “Where did that come from?”
James follows my gaze. “I thought you put it there.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I lean ove
r the desk for a closer look. The thing is a kind of small casket, about eight inches across, with two squat little glass bottles slotted into the top of it. Apart from the bottles, it is entirely made of some smooth black material that I’m pretty sure is ebony. So the thing is old; that wood is protected nowadays. It stands on four tiny clawed feet and on the front face of it there is a relief carving, of a limp hand holding a wreath. The entire effect is deeply funereal. I think it is horribly ugly. “I didn’t put it there.”
“That’s a relief,” says James. “I thought I was going to have to pretend I liked it.”
“James! Why would I give you something as ugly as that?!”
“Because it’s for a writer. It’s an inkstand. Look.” James lifts up one of the little bottles and shows me the dark stain of ink in the bottom of it.
“Well, it may be apt but it’s still ugly,” I say. “And I’ve never seen it before.”
We both look at the inkstand.
“Belle must have put it there,” James says. “She probably unpacked it from one of the boxes.” He glances at me. “You don’t have to love it just because it was theirs, you know.”
“I know,” I say.
The silence that follows makes me uncomfortable. “Shall I put it away?” I say eventually, in the lightest tone I can manage.
“Sure,” says James. “I can always put it out again if I decide to start writing with a quill pen.” He grins, and I smile uneasily.
I reach over and lift the inkstand. It’s heavier than I expected, and the glossy wood has a waxy feel to it that I find unaccountably repulsive. If it weren’t so obviously an antique, the proper place for it would be the dump. Instead I carry it into the dining room. The sideboard is already crammed with stuff, so I set it down on top. Then I look at the inkstand again and decide I don’t want it where I can see it. I open the sideboard, take out an innocuous box of tarnished silver napkin rings, and put the inkstand in its place, next to a stack of gilt-edged plates. I shut the door on it and straighten up, instinctively rubbing my fingertips together as though I’ve been handling something sticky. It’s no use; once the idea has got into my head, the idea of contamination, I can’t let it go until I’ve washed my hands. I go through into the kitchen and run the tap until the water is hot. The feeling of the water running over my hands is comforting, and I stand there for longer than I need to, listening to it pattering down into the sink.
You’re making too much out of this. The inkstand is only a thing. The other stuff in those boxes, the ones you haven’t opened, are only things. They have no meaning other than the meaning you give them.
I turn off the tap.
The dreams, too: they can’t hurt you unless you let them.
I tell myself: Change is hard. Even good change is hard. The dreams are just a by-product of normal stress. Industrial waste from your brain.
I know that this is the most plausible explanation, but it still leaves me with the question of what to do about it. I consider that while I make myself a very strong, very sweet cup of tea and two slices of toast. The obvious answer is: keep yourself busy. It’s a strategy that’s worked well for me in the past. Consume yourself with work and there’s no capacity left for thinking about other things.
There is loads to do, of course: decorating, unpacking boxes, eventually gardening, and of course, a wedding to organise. As regards most of those things, I am my own foreman. I could do any of those tasks today or tomorrow or in a month’s time. The wedding is more urgent; we haven’t even set an exact date for it, because we don’t have a venue yet. But I can’t spend every moment on that; James has to come with me to view places. That leaves my freelance work. If I had a deadline, that would be something to focus on. Something to give shape to my time.
I think about this some more when breakfast is finished, when I’m upstairs pulling on my clothes and fastening my hair into a knot at the back of my head. I stand in front of the mirror applying eyeliner and sheer lipstick and doing my best to avoid catching my own eye. I know what Belle would say about the decision I’m close to making – I even pick up my phone, debating on calling her, before putting it down again.
In the end, though, I do it. I go downstairs and boot up my laptop. Then I email my former employer back and tell them I’d love to copyedit that thriller.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t remember that ebony inkstand, the same as I don’t remember the white porcelain flower arrangement that Belle put into that sideboard. But I do remember the gilt-edged dinner service that is also stored in there. There is one plate missing from that service, and I know why.
I remember sitting at the highly polished table in the dining room with one of those plates set out in front of me, flanked by silver-plated cutlery that was cumbersome for a child’s hands. I remember this very clearly. It is strange how selective memory is: there are so many days that have vanished completely, yet specific incidents remain, as though varnished into a state of perfect and unchanging preservation.
To my right, at the end of the table, sat my father, the judge, broad-shouldered, grey-haired and florid, with his hands placed palm down on the table top, as though he might propel himself to his feet at any moment and deliver a blistering tirade. At the other end of the table sat my mother, straight-backed and as grim-faced as a gorgon. Opposite me sat my older brother, Stephen. I was afraid to look at either of my parents, but once I raised my eyes from my plate and glanced at Stephen. He was terribly pale and kept biting his lip to try to keep his composure. I didn’t want to catch his eye in case he broke down.
I looked down at my plate again. Arranged on it were slices of lamb, which I hated, three small potatoes and a large heap of boiled vegetables. There was also a comma of pale brown gravy, already congealing. It was a meal that a child was supposed to eat, but almost certainly wouldn’t like. I had still fared better than Stephen though. The plate set in front of him was empty, as clean and white as a bone. That was part of his punishment: to be sent to bed that evening without any dinner. The other part was to watch the rest of us eating ours – not just the loathsome cut of lamb but the pudding, too. He was not to be allowed to go until the last drop of coffee had been drunk at the end of the meal and my father had set his cup down on the saucer.
None of us was eating at that moment. My father was watching Stephen, to ascertain that there would be no protest, and no attempt to leave the table. My mother was watching my father, her hands smoothing the napkin over her lap. I did not dare to begin without them.
I think the three of us thought that Stephen would submit to his punishment and say nothing at all. I hoped he would, because it would mean less trouble in the end, and I think my parents expected it. And for a moment it seemed that he would. But just as my father sat back and reached for his knife and fork, Stephen said, “They were only mocks.”
He spoke in a very low voice, hardly more than a mutter, but my father heard him all the same. He leaned forward again with deliberate slowness, fixing Stephen with his cold gaze.
“They were only mocks,” my father repeated. He paused. “Only mocks. Only.”
I clenched my fists in my lap. Don’t say anything, Stephen. Just shut up. It will just make it worse. But it was already too late.
Unbelievably, Stephen didn’t shut up, although he winced under my father’s glare. He spoke up, this time quite clearly, although he didn’t look at either of our parents. He looked straight ahead, at me, but not seeing me.
“I’ll do better in the proper exams.”
“Really? You’ll do better in the proper exams?” There was a silkiness in my father’s tone that I recognised as dangerous even then. I suppose it was a trick he had acquired in his days as a barrister: to make his voice soft and encouraging, to lure a defendant into saying something very unwise. Stephen should have known better than to fall for it, but he did.
“Yes. I’ll
work really hard, honestly I will.”
“Well, Stephen,” said our father, “This is a very laudable intention, on the face of it at any rate. But I think we have to examine the balance of probabilities here. You have made the statement that you intend to work really hard, but what evidence do we have to support it? Is it probable that someone who lacks the motivation to make an effort on one occasion will miraculously discover it on the next? Is it probable–”
“I promise I’ll work harder,” said Stephen, his voice rising.
“Don’t interrupt your father,” said my mother.
“But I will. I–”
“Stephen,” said my father, and my brother instantly fell silent. “Nobody knows better than I do how important it is to offer a second chance, nor indeed how often such chances are wasted–”
He went on in this way, as though he were summing up the case for the prosecution, and of course Stephen didn’t have a hope of defending himself. Perhaps it was the fact that he tried to, uselessly, at the beginning, that made our father go on for so long. Both of us knew very well that the best way to deal with one of our father’s scathing lectures was to endure it without interrupting, as though it was a bout of savage weather passing over our heads. Arguing back was fatal.
At first, I gazed down at the unappetising slices of lamb and gelatinous gravy and prayed silently for Stephen to stop talking. But as my father went on and on, I began to feel indignant. There was nothing I could say. I could not think of any argument strong enough to counter what my father was saying. It was probably true that Stephen hadn’t worked hard enough for his mock exams; I knew he liked picking out a tune on the piano or lying full length in the long grass at the very end of the garden, watching insects going about their business, more than he liked poring over his school books. It was logical to think that no miraculous change was going to come over him before he sat the actual exams. Quite possibly he would fail some of those, too. I could not refute any of this. But at the same time, I felt that my father was wrong. He was brilliantly good at arguing – there was no way that a fifteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old were ever going to win – but that didn’t mean that he was right.
