The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  And then I understood.

  I know I didn’t speak the words. I couldn’t. I only thought them. But thought was enough.

  .

  Let me go, Hector. It doesn’t matter.

  .

  This is not what was meant to happen!

  .

  I don’t care. It’s what I want. And it’s what you want.

  .

  No!

  .

  It’s the only way! How else can we be together?

  .

  We aren’t meant to be together. Fight, Ruth! Fight, God damn you! Don’t give in! You’re meant to live. And I’m meant to leave. It’s finished. I’ve seen your future - and it isn’t this!

  .

  Hector took my face in his hands and fastened his mouth on mine. His lips were warm, warm in a way that his body had never been. I lifted my hands and laid them on his bare arms. They felt warm too and hard, not like Hector’s at all, but like a man’s. I could feel firm muscle, bone beneath the muscle, rigid strength where once there had just been flowing energy. I wrapped my arms round Hector’s naked body and clung to him, rejoicing in his warm solidity.

  But I knew what this transformation meant.

  I wasn’t afraid. This was the end and I was about to join him. I knew all this, but I felt no fear. The fear was all Hector’s.

  I raised my head from his shoulder and looked into his tortured eyes. I tried to smile, but couldn’t find the strength. He gripped my arms and opened his mouth wide in a long, silent scream. Then I saw something move swiftly across his face, like a shaft of light. Indecision was replaced by a fearful resolve. Grim-faced, Hector folded me in his arms and crushed me to his living, breathing body.

  .

  Goodbye, Ruth. Live! Be happy.

  .

  I felt his muscles tense as he crouched, as if ready to spring. Then there was a rushing sound in my ears and we seemed to move very fast through the darkness. There was a sudden, bone-shattering impact, then an almighty crashing sound. Shards of something hard and sharp scraped my head, tearing my skin.

  The last thing I remember is being enveloped by warm air, bathed in a light so dazzling, my eyes hurt. I tried to breathe, but my mouth and nostrils were full of stinking mud. Blood trickled down my forehead, into my eyes, all but obliterating my view. When I finally looked up, I saw a pale and terrified face hanging over me. Snowflakes fell slowly out of a bruised grey sky, spiralled and settled like confetti on curling red hair.

  ‘Hector?’ I croaked.

  Then the daylight went out.

  I surfaced into light again. And noise.

  Traffic?...

  A wailing siren...

  I was numb. And horizontal. I tried to move, but nothing happened, so I concluded I was dead. I thought about this for a while and decided I didn’t really mind. Living had become a chore and I didn’t seem to have much of a future. It might be nice just to sleep for a very long time. For ever, in fact. And surely, if I was dead, I could now spend eternity with Hector, which I vaguely remembered was the thing I’d wanted most before the ground gave way and everything had gone black.

  I tried to focus on the light, but it was a world away, on the other side of my eyelids. I could sense it though. Movement too. So perhaps I wasn’t dead? I could feel vibrations coming up through the floor, or whatever it was I was lying on. (Where was I?) I tried to raise my eyelids, but they were too heavy. How could eyelids possibly be this heavy? They must be frozen over. Sealed shut. With ice.

  I gave up on my eyelids and was lying there, doing a creditable imitation of a corpse, when I heard voices coming from a long way off. Male. One man sounded a bit like Hector. But that wasn’t possible. Hector didn’t chat. And he didn’t really sound like Hector. For a start he wasn’t Scots. But the other man was.

  I realised they were talking about me. I thought about my eyelids again and the logistics of opening them, but it all seemed too much effort. I couldn’t actually remember how you did it.

  After pondering the problem for some time - it felt like hours - I managed to peel one eyelid back far enough to view my surroundings through a slit, like a letterbox. Things were blurry and the light hurt. It seemed I was in hospital. A mobile hospital. Equipment rattled and occasionally swayed about. It was weird. What was weirder was, I appeared to be wrapped in tin foil, like a roasting turkey.

  Hector was talking to the other man. I knew it was Hector straight away, because of his hair - so bright, it dazzled. The other man was pointing at me, which struck me as very rude. Hector turned round and both men leaned forward to peer at me. Just before my leaden eyelid collapsed, my brain took a snapshot of the two men. One of them I’d never seen before. The other was Hector.

  Except that he wasn’t.

  Straining, I wrenched one eyelid open again and then the other. Hector wasn’t in uniform. His legs were near my face and they appeared to be clad in denim. I swivelled my eyeballs upward. He was wearing a green polo neck and a fleece jacket. The jacket was filthy and smelled of mud. But not Hector’s mud.

  My eyes travelled laboriously upward, toward Hector’s face. That was wrong too. His chin was shadowed with auburn stubble. (Hector hadn’t needed to shave since 1915.) His hair was different too. It was still the same astonishing colour, but it had grown. It now curled over his ears and flopped over his forehead, so he looked very like the angel in the memorial window. Apart from the stubble, that is. His expression was the same as the angel’s, too. Worried. As if something awful was about to happen. Or had happened.

  I tried to say Hector’s name, but my tongue lay inert in my mouth, like a dead thing. He must have realised I was trying to speak, because he leaned forward again and spoke close to my ear - softly, but it was still too loud.

  ‘You’re going to be OK, Ruth. These guys are taking us to Inverness - at about 100 mph, just like in the movies! Don’t try to talk now. And don’t be scared. Everything’s going to be just fine.’

  But everything wasn’t fine. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  This wasn’t Hector.

  The vehicle swerved suddenly and Hector’s face swung out of my eye line, then back again. The other man said something I didn’t catch. Hector nodded, then looked back at me, smiling, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes. I suddenly felt frightened and wanted to go home, to Tigh-na-Linne. I just wanted to sleep.

  Hector appeared to read my mind. (So maybe it was Hector?...) ‘You’re in good hands, Ruth. Dougie here has everything under control - isn’t that right, Dougie?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ came the laconic reply from a long way off. That was followed by a whimpering noise that sounded like an attention-seeking puppy. I realised it was me.

  Hector leaned forward again, his voice sounding urgent now. ‘Hang on, Ruth! I’ve come a long way to be with you. Don’t go giving up on me now!’

  My eyelids abandoned the struggle and crashed. As everything gradually faded to black, my brain processed an avalanche of new information.

  The smiling man looked like Hector, even sounded something like Hector. But he didn’t talk like Hector.

  Yet he talked like someone I knew. Someone I knew, but... not someone I’d met.

  I knew that voice. And I knew that face.

  But they didn’t go together.

  As darkness engulfed me and I began to drown again, I realised the man at my side, holding my hand, reassuring me in a warm Canadian baritone was - dear God in Heaven, would wonders never cease? - Dr Athelstan Blake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I woke, there was an angel at my bedside. The glass guardian was sitting perched on a chair beside my bed, in a room that wasn’t my bedroom. I assumed I must be dead and was surprised to find the Afterlife lit by fluorescent tubes. Clearly, this couldn’t be Heaven. Perhaps I was in the other place.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the angel was still there. He was dressed in white. At least, what I could see of him was white, but as m
y eyes began to focus, I saw no folds of classical drapery, just a simple white Henley T-shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, revealing a chunky watch.

  I tried, but could think of no possible reason why an angel might require a watch. I began to re-assess.

  ‘Hector?...’

  The angel leaned forward, put his glorious auburn head on one side, and looked down at me. ‘Hector’s not here, Ruth. At least-’ He looked over his shoulder, glancing round the room. ‘I don’t think he is.’

  And then I began to remember...

  I’d almost drowned. Hector had nearly let me, then evidently changed his mind, since the next thing I could recall was opening my eyes and seeing the sky partially occluded by his familiar, beloved face. But it hadn’t been Hector. It had been Stan. Stan, who appeared to be a Hector clone.

  Studying the man at my bedside, I could see now that there were some subtle differences. Stan’s eyes weren’t as uncannily pale as Hector’s and they weren’t as sad. His brows weren’t as thick and his nose wasn’t quite as straight, but the mouth was identical. So was the hair colour. I doubted their own mothers could have told them apart.

  But who was Stan’s mother? Or for that matter, his father?

  My voice, when I finally managed to construct a sentence, sounded alarmingly frail. ‘You aren’t Hector in disguise, are you?’

  ‘Indeed, I’m not.’ The erstwhile-angel smiled and extended his hand toward me. ‘Athelstan Blake. I’m delighted to meet you at last. Albeit under such sorry circumstances.’

  ‘You’re... Stan?’

  ‘Yes.’ His smile faded. ‘If that’s OK?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Perfectly OK. Just... confusing, that’s all. You see - well, you’re not going to believe this, but I assure you it’s true - you’re the absolute living image of...’ I swallowed and then said, ‘Hector.’ Stan didn’t look surprised, so I assumed he hadn’t understood. ‘Hector is the ghost,’ I explained. ‘My ghost. And you look exactly like him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know? How can you know?’

  A fleeting look of apprehension passed across Stan’s face, then he seemed to square his shoulders (which I noticed were broader than Hector’s) and said, ‘Because I saw him.’

  I reeled mentally, as if he’d dealt me a blow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Hector. I guess.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Well, I saw something. I thought maybe it was just some kind of... snow mirage or something. Some kind of reflection. Because - well, because—’

  ‘Because it was like looking at yourself?’

  ‘Well, yes. Apart from the kilt.’

  ‘Did Hector speak to you?’

  ‘Why, yes, he did!’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t speak exactly...’

  ‘But you heard what he said. Inside your head.’

  ‘That’s right!’ The fearful look passed across Stan’s face again and I watched as his Adam’s apple moved up and down convulsively. Then, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, he said, ‘You get that too?’

  ‘Sometimes. In a crisis. I think perhaps it takes more energy for him to speak. And he doesn’t actually need to. He just does it so he seems... more like us. I mean, like a mortal. What did he say?’

  ‘He told me not to go in after you.’

  ‘Good grief, Stan! Were you going to? You could have died!’

  ‘So could you. I thought maybe if I lay down on the ice and spread my weight evenly, I could reach you and if you were anywhere near the hole in the ice, I might be able to grab hold of you.’

  ‘But you’d never have been able to haul me out! The ice would have broken up.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t just stand and watch you drown, could I?’

  ‘Some people would!’

  I thought of Tommy and the accident long ago, then felt a pressing need to cry my eyes out. Stan appeared to read my mind and in a pre-emptive strike, handed me a box of tissues from the bedside table.

  ‘Hey, don’t go getting upset. You’re OK. Everything’s going to be fine now. You just need to rest. You’ve had a hell of an ordeal.’

  I plucked a tissue from the box. ‘So have you - coming face to face with a ghost. When Hector reappeared at Tigh-na-Linne, I thought I must be going mad.’

  ‘Well, you know, that thought did cross my mind.’

  Stan smiled. I blew my nose and felt a little better. I lay back on my pillows and tried to order my teeming thoughts.

  ‘You said Hector told you not to go in after me?’

  ‘That’s right. He said - don’t ask me how - “Leave this to me.” Then he just... disappeared! Well, then I started to crawl on to the ice, because I assumed I’d just been hallucinating, that I was in shock, or something. And then...’ Stan’s pale skin seemed to turn even paler, as if he’d suddenly recalled some horrific detail. He passed a hand over his face and moistened his lips. ‘Ruth, I don’t mind telling you, it scared the bejesus out of me. Feeling the ice vibrate. Sensing you trapped underneath! I thought I could hear you knocking. Or maybe that was Hector?’

  I surveyed the backs of my hands, bruised and blood-crusted where I’d punched frantically at the ice. ‘No. It was me... How did I get out? I don’t remember much. Just Hector holding me.’

  Holding me and saying goodbye... I reached for another tissue as Stan resumed his account.

  ‘Well, I hadn’t got very far across the pond, when there was an almighty explosion of ice. It just erupted! And then you suddenly appeared. It was terrifying. The most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. You were black, Ruth. Black with mud and trailing weed. And Hector was carrying you in his arms. But he wasn’t black. He wasn’t kilted either, not any more. He was naked. And kind of... transparent. I couldn’t really see where Hector ended and the snow began. But I could see his face and I’ll never forget it! I was convinced you must be dead. If you could have seen his expression, Ruth... Broken-hearted doesn’t begin to describe it.’

  I thought perhaps I had seen that expression. As I struggled to control my emotions, I murmured, ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Well, I’d crawled back on to terra firma by then, so I rang for an ambulance. Hector handed you over and I took off my jacket and wrapped you in it. You weren’t breathing, but Hector told me you weren’t dead. Well, he didn’t tell me, I heard him. In any case, I knew you had a chance because people have been revived twenty minutes after a near-drowning incident.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, sure. Low temperatures slow down body functions. It can take you sixty minutes to drown in freezing water. So I started on CPR.’

  ‘Lucky for me you knew what to do.’

  Stan smiled and seemed to relax a little. ‘Oh, I’ve picked up some basic First Aid over the years. I go canoeing and white-water rafting when I get the chance. It blows away a few musicological cobwebs.’

  ‘But I gather an ambulance must have come?’

  ‘Yes, but it was pretty tense, waiting. When you started to breathe again, you coughed up a lot of muddy water, then I carried you indoors and laid you down beside the stove. I’m afraid there’s mud all over your kitchen floor.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that! The ambulance brought me here? Where am I? Is this Broadford?’

  ‘No, Inverness. Raigmore Hospital.’

  ‘Good Heavens! And you came all that way with me?’

  ‘I said I was your husband. I hope you don’t mind. They let me travel with you and they’ve let me sit by your bedside. They think I’m family.’ (Now didn’t seem the moment to inform Stan that, in all probability, he was.) ‘While they were loading you into the ambulance, I tried to find a key to lock up the house. Then a big blond guy arrived at the door. He seemed to know his way around.’

  ‘Tom Howard.’

  ‘That’s right. He said he’d take care of things at the house, so I jumped in the ambulance and they drove us to Inverness.’

  ‘It
was very good of you to come.’

  ‘You didn’t think I was going to stay behind on my own in that big old house with a ghost, did you?’

  I peered up at Stan and saw the teasing light in his eye. ‘Well, thank you anyway. I’m glad you’re here.’

  We were both silent for a moment and then I started to cough. I struggled to sit upright, still coughing, but I seemed to have no strength. Stan stood up and put an arm round my shoulders, supporting me. He handed me a glass of water from the bedside table and I took a few sips, then he lowered me back on to the pillows.

  When I’d got my breath back, I said faintly, ‘Did you see Hector again?’

  ‘No, which was a pity, because I wanted to thank him. And if we’d had more leisure, I’d have liked to ask him why he looks like my twin brother. Does he always look like that? Or was that some kind of “welcoming committee” doppelgänger effect?’

  ‘He always looks like you.’

  Stan’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No. When I opened my eyes in the ambulance, I thought you were Hector. With longer hair.’

  Stan’s look of consternation was almost comic. ‘So... this is just some bizarre coincidence, right?’

  ‘You didn’t see the window, I suppose, before we left? The stained glass memorial window upstairs?’

  ‘I didn’t move from your side. You were breathing, but unconscious. I wasn’t taking any chances. I opened the stove doors and covered you with all the coats and towels I could find.’

  ‘Well, if you’d seen the window, you’d have realised it’s you who look like Hector, not Hector who looks like you.’

  ‘But how? I mean, why? Do you think I could be related to the family in some way?’

  ‘I think you must be.’

  Stan seemed to sway a little on his chair, blinking several times as he tried to assimilate this new information. ‘Then... that would mean I’m related to Janet Gillespie! Oh, my...’

  ‘Stan, didn’t you tell me you had a grandmother who emigrated from Scotland to Canada?’