by Dan Scottow
Diana stumbles backwards, lowering herself into a chair. She looks at the floor, shaking her head.
‘That’s not how I work, Val. I have integrity. I can’t simply churn out rubbish and expect people to buy it.’
Valentina sighs, pulling another cigarette from her bag. Diana opens her mouth to speak as her friend lights up, to remind her she doesn’t like smoking in the house, but Val shoots her a glare, and she thinks better of it. She takes a few drags, inhaling deeply, letting the nicotine calm her. She closes her eyes again, tapping her foot.
‘Diana. People are worried about you. That poor girl out there… she is trying to help you. But you are scaring the shit out of her now. To be honest, you’re scaring me. If you’re not careful, she will leave. I can see it in her eyes. This isn’t what she signed up for. She’s here to help Richard. Not babysit a mad, drunk woman. And that will be two home helps you’ve lost in a year. The agency won’t send a third. Not when she goes back there and tells them what has been going on. And then you’ll be alone. You’ll be the only one here, to bathe him, cook for him, feed him, wipe the shit from his arse. Are you up to that? Because in my opinion, I don’t think you’re even capable of looking after yourself right now.’
Diana continues to stare at the floor, the wind knocked from her sails.
‘This has to stop. You need to get a grip. Stop talking about ghosts, and spirits, and seances… and Ouija boards! You need to grow up and start working. Otherwise this…’ Valentina waves her hand between the two of them, ‘this is over! Capiche?’
Diana nods. Her friend tosses her cigarette into the sink, running the tap to extinguish it. She crosses to the hall, turning back to Diana before she leaves.
‘Pull yourself together. Go see the doctor, get your meds upped. Whatever. I don’t care. But sort yourself out.’
She doesn’t wait for a response. She strides through the hallway, exiting through the front door, slamming it behind her.
68
Diana
She listens as her friend’s sports car speeds away. Always drives too fast that woman, she thinks. She supposes it’s the fiery Italian in her. Diana reaches up, brushing her fringe out of her eyes. Her hand drifts to her plait, which she caresses with her fingertips.
She’s aware that her speech is not right. She doesn’t think she’s had a drink today. Or has she? Everything seems cloudy. She can no longer be sure. She crosses to the wine cabinet, pulling the doors open. There’s an open bottle of red from when she had her bath. The rest lie neatly stacked on the rack.
She opens a drawer, rummaging inside for a pen. She finds an indelible marker and uses it to draw a line on the label. She places the bottle back on the shelf and closes the cupboard, suddenly feeling very alone. Lucy has gone off somewhere with Mylo. Diana smiles as she thinks of him. Such a sweet boy. Such a shame. She shakes away the thoughts.
Had it been a mistake calling Annette? In hindsight, she can understand how it might make her look unhinged. Usually so rational, she doesn’t entertain stories about ghosts and ghouls. But the events of the past month or so… they have changed her.
She walks to the hall, staring down at the marks on the floor. The bleach removed some of the stain, but it will need to be sanded again; revarnished.
She knows she needs to start painting, but she feels sick whenever she thinks about going into her studio. Can’t bring herself to do it. Aside from when she was recovering from the accident, she can’t recall a time in her life when she has gone so long without picking up a brush. It’s heartbreaking.
Her art has got her through so many hard times. She painted through the loss of Claire. As soon as she was able, she painted to forget the accident; or at least to stop herself thinking about it.
It has been her therapy for as long as she can remember. For many years, it has been all she has had, and now she doesn’t even have that.
She has nothing.
She holds her hand up in front of her face. It trembles, shakes manically. Couldn’t paint if she wanted to. Her fingers feel weak. She’s not sure she could even grip a brush. Valentina was right.
She is pathetic.
Opening the fridge, she notices there’s still some soup left that the girl cooked for lunch. She has to admit; it was quite tasty. The first meal, the terrible, tasteless casserole, must have been a blip.
That all seems so long ago now. She can’t even recall when it was. Days? Weeks? Longer?
She takes the broth, ladling it into a bowl, and throws it into the microwave. Thick brown liquid sloshes over the lip, splashing onto the glass plate. Jabbing her fingers on the buttons, the machine beeps frantically. She presses start, and it begins to spin. She watches, mesmerised as it rotates before her. She sways from side to side. The appliance pings on completion. She pulls the dish from inside, burning herself. She drops it down on the worktop, spilling more. Running her hand beneath the cold tap, she rubs fingers together, wincing.
Grabbing a spoon, she gobbles the soup up. It drips down her chin. She doesn’t care. She’s suddenly ravenous. She picks it up, licking the last of its contents greedily from the surface, tossing the bowl into the sink. Lucy can clean it up later. It’s what she’s paid for, after all.
Opening the wine cabinet once more, she pulls the open bottle from the shelf. Sod it, she thinks. She doesn’t even bother with a glass. Swigs it directly from the bottle as she heads down the hall to her room, leaving the cupboard doors open.
69
Lucy
She hopes he isn’t going to take her to his house. It doesn’t seem right. It’s too soon to be in that kind of setting with him, after the rejection. Her jaw is clenched, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. Her eyes flick to Mylo sporadically. He’s watching her as he steers the boat.
In the warm orange glow from the approaching sunset, she can see the sadness written all over his face.
‘You know, I don’t believe in ghosts. And I don’t think for one second that Rose is haunting us. But…’ He shifts uncomfortably.
‘Go on,’ Lucy replies, intrigued with where this conversation is heading.
‘I touched on it the other day when we were talking, but I don’t think I made myself clear. It’s very odd… and I don’t know how to explain it… but you have said in the exact words sometimes, many things that Rose said, during some of our most private conversations.’
He pauses, looking away from Lucy briefly.
‘Your comment about the view from my window being my own personal work of art, that’s constantly changing with the light. This was exactly what Rose said the first time she was there. Not just the sentiment. Those precise words.’
Lucy shrugs, and Mylo continues.
‘Then again, when you mentioned the colours of the landscape, making you feel like you’re living inside a rainbow. Rose’s words once more. It scared me if I’m entirely honest.’
‘That’s understandable, I guess,’ she replies, nodding slowly.
‘And then all Diana’s nonsense about Rose being here, haunting the cottage… briefly, you know, it did make me wonder. But that’s just stupid, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I think so.’ She pauses, considering what to say next.
‘It’s odd, I’ll admit. But I suppose the whole scenario with you and Diana both ending up living here, of all places, proves that weird, spooky coincidences happen. Sometimes you can’t explain things. You simply have to accept them.’
They continue in silence for a while. Watching the peach hues in the sky.
‘Are you okay?’ Mylo asks.
She shrugs.
‘I should be the one asking you that.’
‘I’m fine. I’m used to Diana’s behaviour. I witnessed a lot of it… you know, when Rose lived there. She’s an odd character. But I don’t think you can blame her. We’re not meant to live so isolated. It’s not good for a person’s mental health. We need company.’
Lucy frowns.
‘She seems so intent on pushin
g everyone away from her though. As soon as I feel like we are making some progress with our relationship, I’ll say something that will somehow piss her off, and she says something spiteful in retaliation. Reminding me of my place, or whatever.’
Mylo nods.
‘Perhaps she’s afraid to let people close to her,’ he offers.
Lucy sighs, a long, drawn-out breath, shaking her head.
‘Do you still think she had something to do with Rose’s death?’
His jaw clenches, shoulders tense.
‘Sometimes I wonder. But in reality… I don’t think so. I don’t know. Is she a killer?’
‘Who knows. Maybe it was an accident, but she didn’t want to be implicated?’
He pauses, looking her in the eye.
‘We’ll never know for sure, will we?’
Lucy shakes her head.
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a beach around the corner that I think you’ll like. You get some terrific views from there. And there’s also something I want to show you.’
She doesn’t reply. Just nods and returns her gaze out to the water.
70
Lucy
He pulls the dinghy right up on the beach, as shallow as he can, before hopping out to drag it onto dry land with Lucy still sitting in it. Once it’s clear of the water, she climbs out. Mylo ties the boat to a huge tree trunk that has been washed ashore and returns to her side. She stares out across the loch.
The cloudless sky is a pale shade of lilac, changing to blue, before fading to a peach colour towards the horizon. The trees on the opposite side of the loch are silhouetted in black against the orange sky, with layers of pale olive-green hills fading to grey, rising up behind them. Lucy inhales deeply. A fresh scent lingers. She still can’t get used to this. The clean air. The huge skies.
The sheer joy of being somewhere so… wild.
‘This is lovely,’ she whispers.
She can tell he isn’t looking where she is. His face is pointing towards hers. She pretends not to notice.
‘Yes. It really is,’ he replies, without glancing away.
Eventually, he turns to look out across the water.
‘I love this time of year when the light is like this late into the evening. As the colours begin to change. These are my favourite moments. The light is… special. I sometimes wish I had Diana’s gift. So I could capture this on a canvas. It brings back so many happy memories of summers with my parents when I was a child.’
Lucy smiles, shaking her head.
‘I’m not sure Diana could paint this. Recreate this beauty. Her work isn’t beautiful. It’s… frightening.’
He nods.
‘I know what you mean, actually. Some of them are downright disturbing. I suppose with all she’s been through, it’s to be expected.’ He pauses, looking over his shoulder.
‘Come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.’
He turns, crossing the beach towards a row of large pines. Lucy follows close behind. They push through a scattering of trees, across soft ground. It’s darker amongst them, with the light fading. But Lucy isn’t scared. She feels safe with him now. He leads her into a small clearing. She stares ahead of them.
‘What on earth is that?’ she asks incredulously.
‘It’s supposed to be Maggie Guthrie.’
She turns her face towards him, narrowing her eyes and cocking her head.
‘The witch. The one that Cassie told you the story about… who used to live in Willow Cottage.’
‘Ah, right!’
She takes a few steps closer.
A fallen tree trunk, carved to look like a crude body, is supported by rocks and twigs around its base. Parts of it are painted bright colours. Reds, greens and turquoises adorn it. On top, on a flat stump, a large rock has been placed on its side. It is triangular, with the long point facing out to the left. It has been dabbed with two Picasso-esque eyes, both on the same surface. The perspective is all completely wrong. Rows of jagged teeth cover the long point, framed by two snarling lips. It resembles a wolf, or an alligator more than a woman. It’s grotesque.
Lucy shivers, but can’t bring herself to look away from it.
‘It’s horrific!’ she says finally, turning towards Mylo. He laughs.
‘Yeah. Not the nicest thing, is it? But I kind of like it. It’s… quirky.’
‘I don’t. It gives me the creeps.’ She wraps her arms around herself. ‘Who made it?’
Mylo steps closer to it.
‘Nobody knows. It turned up one day. It wasn’t here, and then it was. Overnight. No one has taken the credit for it. It’s become part of the local folklore. The weirdos reckon Maggie did it herself. I’m more inclined to think it was Diana… the artistry is fantastic.’
Lucy crouches, reaching out her hand, caressing the rough surface of the tree trunk. Paint flakes off as she runs her fingers along it. Dried leaves and twigs cover boulders at the feet. She shivers again, staring up at the face. Mylo crouches beside her.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.
‘I’m thinking that I really, really hate it.’
He laughs, placing his hand on her shoulder. He turns her head towards him, leaning in closer. She stands, suddenly.
‘Let’s not,’ she says, brushing leaves from her clothes as she straightens up. He looks hurt.
‘Mylo, you’re clearly very confused. I like you; you know I do. But I’m not sure now is the right time… for either of us. After what happened this afternoon. You’re in shock. Understandably, you’re feeling vulnerable, maybe even lonely. But I don’t think you want this. I don’t think you want… me.’
She turns her head away, so he can’t see her heart breaking. Her voice wavers as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.
‘I do. I do want you. I was watching you on the beach, and you’re beautiful.’
‘Because I remind you of her.’
She doesn’t mean it to sound spiteful, but that’s how it comes out. Mylo’s jaw tenses. He opens his mouth, but she doesn’t let him speak.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean that negatively. I’m not being obstinate. But you said it yourself. I remind you of Rose. And maybe that’s what is driving your actions tonight. But I don’t want you to want me because I remind you of your dead fiancée. I want you to want me… because I’m me.’
The pain is written all over Mylo’s face, but he says nothing, telling Lucy what she needs to know.
‘Let’s be friends, like you said. If things are going to develop, they will. To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll be sticking around anyway. Things aren’t going that swimmingly at Diana’s.’
He looks panicked.
‘I’m not saying I’m leaving, don’t worry. But you don’t know what’s around the corner. The atmosphere is so tense between her and me… I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she were to give me my marching orders when I get home tonight.’
He nods. Lucy sits on the grass at the base of the statue, patting the ground beside her. He sits, cosying up to her, and she drapes her arm around his shoulder. They sit in silence for a while, two friends, giving each other the love and support that they both need. No words are required.
Lucy smiles as Mylo rests his head on her shoulder. She thinks he is crying, but she doesn’t look. Doesn’t want to embarrass him. Eventually, he wipes his eyes.
‘How come you’re single, Lucy?’ he asks, matter-of-factly.
She straightens up, fidgeting with her fingers.
‘I wasn’t. Not for a long time. I had a very tempestuous relationship with a guy from back home.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. That was the problem. We simply drifted apart. We were together for years and years, but towards the end, it was like we were two single people, living totally separate lives whilst inhabiting the same space. It was very odd. But I think that’s often how it goes with relationships, isn’t it? The turning point, or in
hindsight what I now see as the turning point… we were out in town one night for a friend’s birthday. We both spent the evening working the room, entirely independently. And I didn’t even miss him. It had become so utterly normal for us. There was nothing left. And neither of us cared.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘It was, yes. I remember we took a taxi home. We sat in silence for about half the journey until I burst into tears. I was very drunk, of course. A grown woman, drunk in the back of a cab, bawling like a baby. He looked embarrassed… rather than concerned. I told him I was fine. But I wasn’t. And he knew it. But rather than comfort me he just pulled his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling through his social media. That’s how much he cared. And that’s when it suddenly hit me that we were over.’
Mylo’s face crumples. Lucy can tell her words are affecting him. He’s kind like that. She knows it’s a sad story. The end of a relationship is rarely a happy time.
‘Didn’t he fight for you though?’
‘No. But it wasn’t as simple as that. I had… I have a lot of issues. Things from my past which I struggle with. He also struggled with them, because I wouldn’t let him help me through them. I pushed him away. If I was feeling self-conscious about my scars, and he would try to comfort me… I’d get angry and shout at him. I suppose he got to a point where he didn’t know what to do or say anymore. Whatever he did was wrong, so he stopped trying.’
‘He’s an idiot.’
She laughs, but there is no humour in it.
‘He is. But it wasn’t all him. It takes two to make something work, and somewhere along the way we both stopped trying. It didn’t end that night, of course. We struggled on, dead in the water for a few more years… the way so many couples do. Too scared to admit what they know is true in their hearts. I wish I could put all the blame on him, but I can’t. I’m as guilty as he is. It’s too easy to lump it all on to the other person without accepting any responsibility yourself. Part of being an adult is being able to admit stuff like that.’
