He acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. He stood up, obviously just as nervous as she. Somehow that made her feel better. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He sat back down again and she instantly regretted her refusal. He probably needed something to do and she would also have welcomed the distraction. The moment had passed, though. He seldom looked at her, but when he did she made sure she held his gaze. She’d heard the stories from the older folk, about the people who could make things happen with the power of thought. She knew it was all mystical bunkum but she was trying it anyway. She listened while he spoke but her mind was urging him to take her away.
‘Will you be staying on after the funeral?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m not welcome here, you must know that.’
‘Where will you go?’
Take me with you.
‘Back to the mainland,’ he said.
Take me with you.
‘So where do you call home now?’
He paused. ‘Stayed in Glasgow for a time. I’m over near Edinburgh now.’
Take me with you.
‘Is there . . .’ She stumbled over her words, for this was a hard question, an important question. ‘Is there someone there waiting for you?’
He gave her a look that was as surprised as it was quizzical. ‘Waiting for me? How do you mean?’
‘I mean, a wife, a partner, a significant other? A family?’
He understood. He even looked relieved. ‘No, I’m unattached.’
She was delighted to hear that. Now was her chance. She took a deep breath, stared at the carpet. ‘Do you ever think of me, Roddie?’
Take me with you.
‘Think of you?’
She looked up, met his eyes. She saw it then. He had thought of her. She knew it. ‘Of me. Of us. Of the way we were together?’
He held her gaze and she thought for a dreadful moment he was going to say he hadn’t. Then his eyes softened. ‘Of course I have.’
‘It was good, wasn’t it? What we had? You and me?’
He smiled, a small one, but a smile just the same. ‘Yes, it was.’
She swallowed. This is your chance, Deirdre, you have to go for it. This is why you came. You’ve opened the door, time to step through.
Take me with you.
‘I think about you, Roddie. Sometimes I feel I do nothing but think of you, of what we had, of what we could have been. You remember our plans? To go away together? To get away from this rotten island and Carl and all the small minds? You remember?’
‘I remember,’ he said.
She leaned forward again, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘We can still do it. It’s not too late. We can leave here, start a new life. I still love you, Roddie. I know we’re older, but I still feel the same. We can be together again. We can make the past fifteen years just go away, like they never happened. We can make it like it was before . . .’
She stopped. She couldn’t say the name. Roddie said it for her.
‘Before Mhairi?’
She nodded. ‘That didn’t happen, not as far as we’re concerned. I know you didn’t kill her, I don’t care what the rest of these narrow-minded islanders think. I know you didn’t. We can wipe that slate clean.’
‘Just like that?’
She almost leapt to sit beside him on the couch. She didn’t need to use telepathy. She was getting through to him, she knew it. She took his hand, threaded her fingers through his, the sensation of touching his flesh pleasing her. She was heartened that he didn’t pull away. She was completely energised now, something she had not felt for many years. Being with Carl had sapped all the life from her, but right at this moment she felt it surging through her again. ‘Yes, just like that. Wash it away. Start fresh. The two of us. Away from here.’
She wanted to say more but she couldn’t find the words. It was up to him now. He sat beside her, very still, his eyes fixed on their hands and intertwined fingers. Then, slowly, gently, he disentangled them and stood up, walked to the window and looked out into the sunlight.
‘Some things you can’t just wash clean,’ he said, his back to her, his shoulders stooped.
‘You won’t take me?’ She thought she’d been getting to him. She thought her words had struck home. She thought he had wanted to regain what had once been as much as she. But he was rejecting her. Again.
He faced her. ‘Deirdre, I can’t. My life . . . is . . .’ He couldn’t find the words to describe his life so he merely sighed and shrugged.
‘And mine is so wonderful,’ she said, an edge now to her voice. No matter how he had lived since leaving the island, it was nothing compared to what she had endured. ‘You know what Carl is like.’
He nodded, averted his eyes.
‘You’re really not going to take me with you?’ she asked.
‘I can’t. You don’t understand . . .’
She saw tears forming in his eyes, but she was unmoved. She’d seen men’s tears before and they meant nothing. Roddie was just like Carl in the end. He’d used her, drained her. Carl kept her close because he didn’t like the idea of anyone else having her. She was his and his alone. Roddie didn’t even want that.
‘He’ll kill me, you know that,’ she said. ‘Sooner or later he’ll go too far.’
‘Then leave him.’
‘That’s what I want to do. But with you.’ The truth was, she’d thought of it often, packing a bag, grabbing the ferry, vanishing onto the mainland. But Carl would come looking for her and find her, she had no doubt about that. He could be resourceful when he wanted to be, and when he found her it would be all the worse for her, she knew it. Seeking help wasn’t an option, not to her, not simply because of the repercussions that she was certain would follow when he found out she had confided in an outsider, but also because she was ashamed of what she had allowed to continue for so long. That shame wore heavily upon her. She also didn’t want to be alone, which made her even more ashamed. For years she had been told that without Carl she was nothing, less than nothing, useless, functionless. Her father had said the same to her mother and, when she grew older, to her. Sometimes the message was enforced with his fist, just like Carl. Part of her had come to believe it. The part that had lived with her father and had lived with Carl. But the other part, the part that was hers and hers alone, had only been lying dormant, waiting for this moment, this opportunity. She couldn’t let it pass. Her future, the future she deserved, was standing right in front of her and she refused to give it up without a fight.
She could do this.
She stood up, placed both hands on either side of Roddie’s face and forced him to look at her. She stood very close, almost but not quite pressing her body against his. She softened her tone. ‘We can make this work, Roddie, I know we can. I don’t know what your life has been like but I can fix it. We can fix it together. We were good back then, weren’t we? You loved me, you said you did. I know I’ve thrown this at you, but we can find that again.’
Then she kissed him. He didn’t try to pull away but he didn’t respond either. His lips were unpliable, his hands remained at his side. Still she worked at it, her hands snaking under his arms, pulling him closer to her. But there was no response. No returning pressure, no gentle caress, no passion. Nothing. She knew then with utter certainty that she had failed. The hope that had sustained her so far withered and died. She found she couldn’t look at him any more so she turned away, a finger wiping at her bottom lip. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. Her emotions had raged all morning, from anticipation, to excitement, to nervousness, to joy and now disappointment. She felt tired, so very tired, and all she wanted to do was leave, to get away from this neat little room looking out to the neat little garden with some classic rock track playing in the background. She didn’t want to say anything more. She just wanted to go.
She was almost through the door when Roddie said, ‘I’m sorry
, Deirdre.’
His voice snapped something inside her and she experienced a fresh emotion. She whirled back, the need to lash out, to wound him, strong and unstoppable. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? You’re still hung up on that slut, even after all these years. Even though she’s dead. She’s still there beside you.’
She saw her words had hit home. ‘Deirdre . . .’ he began, but she didn’t want to hear anything further from him.
‘Poor little Mhairi Sinclair, all the boys loved her, didn’t they? You, Donnie Kerr, anyone who fell under her spell. She had you all panting after her. And she loved that, loved to play you. She was nothing but a whore.’
‘Don’t . . .’ he said.
‘Oh, I know, believe me. I know what she was like. She let Donnie get her pregnant and then she moved on to you. But even you weren’t enough. I know, Roddie, I know! And you know what? I’m glad she’s dead. I meant it when I said you didn’t kill her. You didn’t, you couldn’t kill her. I know that. Because that would’ve taken balls and that’s something you don’t have. You always were a gutless, simpering child. And now? I don’t even know what I saw in you.’
She left, her anger giving her the strength to keep her head high. But deep down she knew it wouldn’t last.
23
Compared to a supermarket on the mainland, the Portnaseil General Store was small potatoes, even though the shoppers could find almost everything they needed on its shelves. Prices were slightly higher, of course, and many islanders made a monthly trip across the water to bulk buy, but if they wanted fresh bread and milk, a daily newspaper—although fewer and fewer people looked for them—or to simply replenish vital supplies, then the Sinclairs’ general store was the place to go.
Rebecca peered through the window and saw a man standing at the register. He was small and his stomach bulged against his work coat, his head thatched with thick grey hair swept back from his forehead. He chatted to customers as he ran their purchases through the till, technology no longer requiring any great attention on his part, although he did keep his eye on the read-out for anomalies. Scanners may have replaced push button tills but Rebecca would lay odds that Hector Sinclair knew the price of every item on his shelves.
The shop was busy. Pupils from the high school wandered among the aisles, picking up items they knew they really shouldn’t be having for lunch. Rebecca’s stomach grumbled—a reminder it was that time of day. She’d eaten a hearty breakfast—far more substantial than normal—but she’d always had a prodigious appetite, even as a child. Her mother often wondered where she put it all, prompting her father to come out with another of his catchphrases: You can’t fatten a thoroughbred. Rebecca never fully understood the saying—she’d seen plenty of overweight full-blood Labradors—but it was one she regularly used herself.
Before he dropped her off in the Square, Chaz had told her that the family lived in the flat above the shop, which was accessed through an alleyway between the store and the old bank building. They agreed to meet for dinner in the hotel that night so she could fill him in what she’d learned.
The door to the Sinclair home was of modern PVC, with a glass panel set in the top half. Although a gauze curtain hung on the other side, Rebecca could make out a narrow carpeted stairway. She thumbed the doorbell but heard no associated buzz or ring, though that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t working. It was while she debated giving the letterbox a rattle that she saw, first, a pair of brown moccasin slippers, then legs in black trousers, then a woman wearing a shapeless, overly large blue cardigan.
Molly Sinclair hadn’t aged that much in the fifteen years since her photograph had been snatched as she walked into the court building. Even her hairstyle was the same. It was short and grey then, and it was short and grey now. She was small, like her husband, but she had kept herself trim. Her eyes were sharp and wouldn’t miss much, but there was a hint of sadness there too. Those eyes were wary as she studied Rebecca, as if she knew what she was going to hear, her hand clasped round the edge of the door as if preparing to slam it at any moment.
‘Mrs Sinclair, I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Rebecca Connolly. I’m from the Highland Chronicle.’
Rebecca’s impression had been correct. The woman didn’t seem surprised to see her. It could just as easily have been Donnie Kerr dropping by. She wondered if perhaps Sawyer had been here ahead of her.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Sinclair said, her voice flat.
‘I wonder if I could talk to you about . . .’
‘Roddie Drummond.’
Rebecca hesitated. Yes, someone was acting as her advance man and she suspected not in a good way. ‘Well, yes, that’s ri—’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’ Molly Sinclair began to close the door again.
‘Mrs Sinclair, I’m not here to cause trouble . . .’
The woman pulled the door back once more. ‘Of course you are. That’s what you people do, cause trouble.’ There was no heat in her voice, no rancour. For her, these were merely statements of fact. ‘That’s what you live for.’
‘That’s not my intention. The Highland Chronicle is a local paper and we are very sympathetic to the feelings and views of our readership.’ Christ, Rebecca thought, I sound like a company press release. She made an effort to loosen her voice. ‘We don’t want to cause trouble for anyone. But the fact is, Roddie Drummond is back and someone is going to write about it. It’s better us than some red top from Glasgow.’
Her argument was falling on stony ground because Mrs Sinclair merely sneered and swung the door towards her. Rebecca had to think of something to convince her and she needed to do it fast.
‘Mrs Sinclair, I’ve already spoken to Roddie Drummond . . .’
It was the truth, but only barely. She had spoken to him, but only on the ferry and he hadn’t said anything of consequence. It was the only thing she could think of under pressure and she was banking on what would be a natural antipathy towards the man who had been accused of murdering her daughter.
It worked. The door opened again and Mrs Sinclair gave her that probing look once more.
‘I’ve heard you’re here to prove him innocent,’ she said.
That sounded like Sawyer. ‘I’m here for the truth.’
A slight laugh coughed at Mrs Sinclair’s throat, but there was no humour in her eyes. Her eyes remained sceptical but her words were all contempt. ‘You won’t get much truth out of Roddie Drummond.’
‘That’s why I’m here. To get as many sides to what happened as I can.’ An old lecturer of hers had once said that everyone had their own version of events, which often came close but failed to hit the mark, so if you gathered as many viewpoints as possible you stood a greater chance of finding out what had actually happened.
‘That was what the trial was supposed to do, but the truth still didn’t come out.’ The woman stared at Rebecca and the meld of disdain and suspicion gave way to indecision. She hooked her bottom lip with her left incisor as her fingers drummed slightly on the edge of the door. Then, with a slight sigh, she threw the door open wider and turned away. ‘You’d better come in then,’ she said, her back to Rebecca as she climbed the stairs. ‘I know what you people are like, you won’t stop until you get what you want. Even then you’ll print a load of rubbish.’
Rebecca closed the door behind her and followed. It was a steep climb and it made her calf muscles grumble again. The woman, more than twice her age, went up them like a mountain goat. There was another door at the top, which led to a long hallway and a series of doors. As Rebecca was led past an open one, she glanced in and caught a glimpse of the sitting room and a glass cabinet bearing framed photographs of their dead daughter. A small utility room opposite housed a tall, grey cabinet. Molly Sinclair led her the length of the hallway and Rebecca guessed they would talk in the kitchen. She was used to that. Reporters are often interlopers in the lives of others and to take them into the centre of family life was an intrusion too far. Even Maeve Gallagher had taken her into the com
mon sitting room of her boarding house, keeping her away from the personal space.
Molly Sinclair motioned for her to take a seat. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked.
Highland hospitality. Rebecca was unwelcome but still must be fed and watered. ‘Tea would be lovely.’
‘I’ve only got Tetley. We don’t go in for that posh stuff you folks drink.’
You folks. Rebecca didn’t know if she meant reporters or mainlanders or anyone under thirty. She gave her host what she hoped was her most winning smile. ‘That’s fine. I’m not a fan of posh teas either. It should be dark and strong and not taste like perfume.’
The woman gave a curt nod, satisfied with this common ground, flicked the kettle on, then took down two mugs from an overhead cupboard. Rebecca took the opportunity to glance around. The Sinclairs lived well. The kitchen was large, bright and the fixtures modern—all mod cons, as her mother would say. The windows looked out on a back yard with a washing line draped diagonally across a patch of grass and propped up by two poles. A small shelter, housing various wheelie bins, stood beside a low fence beyond which was a stretch of long grass undulating in the breeze drifting from the Sound, a glimpse of which Rebecca caught to the right. She could see patches of sand dotted between the clumps of vegetation. Beyond the grassland stood a couple of cottages and then more open land. It was a pleasant room with a nice view. Rebecca’s own kitchen in Inverness was a small square with barely enough room for a sink, a cooker and a fridge. Her view was across a tiny courtyard into another kitchen. She would often stand washing her few dishes and see the tenant opposite doing his.
Molly Sinclair carried the mugs of tea to the table, then fetched a sugar bowl and milk. No biscuits or cake. Her need to offer hospitality didn’t stretch that far.
‘So,’ the woman said as she took a seat opposite Rebecca. ‘Better get on with it.’
Rebecca took out her notebook and held up her recorder. ‘Do you mind?’
Thunder Bay Page 16
