by Anni Taylor
Charlie Keenan’s words came back to me about Stella fighting her own battle.
Everyone was fighting their own battles.
29
ISLA
I roused from sleep in a clammy sweat. I’d been dreaming of the house with the long corridor again.
Dark rooms.
Piano chords crashing.
Scarecrow hanging by a rope.
Symbol of a cross with a rose in the middle.
In my dream, I tried another room.
Trent, sitting on a chair in a hospital gown, staring back at me.
I tried the door that was always shut. But it was still locked tight.
Pivoting, I walked to another room.
Stella, on the floor, covered in blood.
As I woke from the dream, it took me a second to register that parts of the dream had been real.
Was I going to spend the rest of my life dreaming that dream, collecting every bad thing that happened and keeping it in a room there?
I liked it better when I was Alice-on-the-outside, unable to enter the strange world I was peering into. But yet again, I’d been compelled to walk inside the house. Instead of fading away, the dream was becoming stronger, more real.
An image of Stella being taken away in the ambulance inserted itself into my mind. I shivered.
It had been so hard to see behind the screen that she put up. A pang of guilt twisted in my chest. Had I pushed her past her coping point by asking her questions about Elodie and the past? If she’d died, I never would have forgiven myself.
I sat up in bed, bracing the chilled air. Stella might have died during the night for all I knew. The last I’d heard, Stella’s condition was critical but stable. But things might have changed while I slept.
My heart in my mouth, I called Rory. He told me that Stella had improved and her doctors thought she’d make a full recovery. Hamish was okay and would be coming out of hospital later today.
Breathing slowly and deeply, I dressed myself. My leg felt stiff and sore as I pulled my track pants on. My head felt a bit faint from the anaesthetic I’d had yesterday.
Stella was going to be okay. I cursed myself for not thinking of the playhouse sooner.
The merest and most random of events could mean that things carried on as normal or that everything changed.
My memories were suddenly swept back all the way to my childhood, when Jake and I had stood in front of the shed at the bottom of our garden, peering through the cobwebbed window and seeing the pair of legs dangling mid-air. Could something small have stopped our dad from taking his life that day? A special dinner with his family? A phone call from a friend? The thought of that had haunted me all these years. But now I knew that the people closest to the suicidal person could only too easily miss that they were about to tip over the edge. Because the person had often been standing on an edge for a long time and showed few signs that they were about to fall from it.
Maybe it was you, Dad, who led me to Stella. You found a place where you wouldn’t be disturbed to end your life—a small, familiar place—that’s what Stella did, too. Maybe that’s why I connected the pieces.
It occurred to me now that maybe Stella wanted to be found. She must have been there in the playhouse since she’d run off from the Keenan’s place. I’d just taken too long to work it out. Almost.
I was at a loss to know what to do with myself today. I could stay here in the cottage and edit photos, but my mind was restless. Too much had happened in the past few days and I could barely grasp any of it. I wanted to be out, roaming somewhere outside. Only, because of my leg, I couldn’t go far or risk doing anything too active. I decided to rug up and just go for a walk.
Winding a thick scarf around my neck and lower face, I set out.
There’d been snowfall again, overnight.
I had my camera in my backpack, not expecting to use it. I wasn’t in the right head space. My legs were safely encased in the rain boots I’d found in the bicycle shed, so that I wouldn’t chance getting my bandages wet.
Alban’s Volvo was gone—it was just Jessica’s car sitting in the driveway, beneath a frosting of snow. I glanced up at the house to see if the shy Rhiannon was peeking down at me. I’d gotten used to seeing her up there. But she wasn’t.
I trudged up the snowy hills, taking it slow.
My back started to ache. I was placing most of my weight on my good leg and throwing myself out of kilter. Maybe I should just head back to the cottage. This walk might be considered too strenuous for fresh stitches. Stopping, I rested my leg for a moment, debating what to do. I hated the thought of going back and sitting inside. I decided to keep going.
The air temperature seemed to drop as I climbed the hills, the wind picking up and stinging my eyes.
I headed for the entrance of the old stone house. It’d be a refuge from the wind.
I squinted in the sharp light that bounced from the white-blanketed hills. A figure moved up at the point where the largest hill crested, next to the ruins. Who would be roaming around on the McGregors’ property?
The thought came to me that it could be Trent. What if he was stalking me, like Mum had said he could be? But if so, why would he be up there poking around in the ruins? Wouldn’t he be watching the cottage instead?
It hadn’t been Trent who’d followed me that day in the forest. That had to be someone else—someone who hadn’t wanted to be seen. So far, Trent hadn’t made an effort to hide himself from me, and anyway, he’d been in hospital that day.
I could turn back. But it was daylight and out in the open. I was safe, wasn’t I?
I tugged my scarf down from my face as I headed towards the stone house. It was instinctual—if I had to scream, I didn’t want a woollen scarf covering my mouth.
The figure had stepped inside the ruins. They hadn’t seen me. At least, I didn’t think so.
Keeping my distance, I trudged through the snow until I had a view of the interior.
Alban—it was Alban.
I walked inside behind him.
He stood inside, his hand against the stonework, staring up at the sky through the missing ceiling. He wore a long jacket that had seen better days and faded jeans.
There was nothing left inside the ruins—no signs of domestic life. There was just a crude wooden shelf that had been hammered into the only protected part of the crumbled house—a part that still held a roof over it. The shelf contained a couple of lamps. I wondered if Alban sometimes came up here at night and lit those lamps.
He turned, noticing me.
“I thought you were out.” I pushed my hands down deep in my pockets, unable to think of anything more sensible to say.
He shrugged. “Jess took Rhiannon out shopping in my car. Mine is safer in conditions like this. Hers needs new tyres.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to disturb you. I was just taking a bit of a walk.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be out and about so soon after the accident.”
“I just needed to get out for a while. Probably shouldn’t. I should be resting my leg, I guess.”
“I heard you got stitches. Lucky it wasn’t worse. Hamish always was a bit of a reckless driver.”
I gave a dry laugh. “Wish I’d known that before I got into a car with him.”
“It’s been quite an introduction to Scotland for you, hasn’t it Isla? Not a good one, I’m afraid. hard to believe that all of this has happened. We’re normally a quiet little hamlet.”
A hint of pain entered his eyes and I wondered if he were thinking of the last time before this week that the peace was disturbed—the night a stranger came to Braithnoch and hurt Elodie.
I felt guilty as I thought of all the things I’d been speculating about Alban over the past few days. The line painting on his office wall. The strange words that Elodie was supposed to have told Stella. When I was alone, it seemed that Alban being his daughter’s abductor could all add up and be true. But standing here, in f
ront of Alban, I didn’t know whether I could believe it.
“If I didn’t know better,” he said. “I’d say that you coming here has shaken Greenmire up. I’m not saying you caused any of it, understand.”
“I’d hate to think that I was like an ill wind blowing through this town.”
He laughed unexpectedly. “Bringing both bad and good, eh? Well, I can guess that you’re anxious to get home. And I haven’t exactly been helpful, I know. But I’ll help you get on your way. You need portraits of me, right? It’s as good a time as any.”
I eyed him in surprise. “Now? Here?”
“Why not? Whatever you come up with will be fine with me. This is me, as I am. No pretences.”
I gazed at him with a photographer’s eye. He looked windblown and a bit ragged—in a masculine sort of way that I guessed could work. But it certainly wouldn’t make for the usual kind of portrait.
“I’ll just let you know that you won’t look exactly…professional,” I said hesitantly. “Are you sure you don’t want to prepare first, or something?”
“No one needs to see me sitting at my desk, looking like a numpty.”
“Like a numpty?”
“Och, you know, like a big idiot sitting up straight and looking all pleased with myself, like the cat that ate the cream.”
I grinned. “Okay then, it’s settled. The portrait shoot happens now.” I unpacked my camera.
“Right. Tell me where you want me.”
Stepping about for a bit, I looked for the best spots for backgrounds and light. I decided to start with a crumbling archway that looked out to the distant mountains.
“Could you stand just inside the archway? I think it could look kind of epic with that scenery behind you.” I frowned as Alban moved into place. “Just…relax and open up your expression.”
“Are you saying I’m scowling?”
“I can’t say that you’re not scowling.”
“I think I’ve got a permanent scowl on my face these days. I’m probably even scaring Rhiannon. I don’t know if I can change it.”
I exhaled. “I think I’ll take it, at this stage. I don’t know if there’s going to be another time that you’ll be this agreeable.”
That elicited another short laugh from him. “You’re a blunt woman, aren’t you?” His eyes lingered on me.
My skin heated under the thick scarf I had around my neck. He wasn’t flirting, exactly. Maybe it was me who was flirting with him. I realised in that moment just how attracted I was.
I shouldn’t be.
As I took a few photographs of Alban, the small, narrow world inside the camera lens seemed almost too intimate. Everything else disappeared. A rushing sensation pulsed through my body. The look in his eyes—that intense, searching gaze—seemed to be for me rather than the camera.
No, his expression isn’t for me. I asked him to open up and he’s just trying to do that.
“How about we take some photos outdoors now?” Inhaling deeply and silently, I stepped out into the biting air.
I had to focus on getting the job done. He had such an easy charm that he’d jammed every one of my senses. No wonder Jessica loved him. And Greer and Rhiannon, too. Being with him felt safe and I somehow felt alive. He seemed larger than life and part of the surrounding landscape.
He went to stand in front of his centuries-old family home—the walls moss green in the crevices between the stones, snow white on the tops of the walls and distant mountains. The wintry light was sharp and clear. Despite his messy locks and old jacket, he seemed regal. Through the lens, the photos looked perfect. Alban McGregor, in his element, in his own little kingdom.
Hints of a weary sadness began to show in some shots. I kept taking photos, wondering if Alban was aware of that.
“How about some with the mountains in the background?” I suggested.
“Okay, but you’re going to have to do a wee bit of climbing.”
We headed around the back of the ruins and climbed the hills. Sharp, high boulders stuck up out of the ground, bare of snow cover.
The mountains were beautiful, mystical.
I stepped around a bit on my new vantage point, taking photos of the mountain range.
“Hang on there.” Alban grabbed my arm. “Did you not see the steep drop off there?”
Taking the camera away from my face, I looked down—straight down. He wasn’t joking about the drop off. It was dangerous. Broken-bones-and-death kind of dangerous. The drop off led into a valley and moors.
“That’s the Flanagans’ land,” Alban told me. “Don’t go wandering up here alone. You need to keep your wits about you, Isla, and not blunder about like that.” He grinned then, still holding my arm.
I nodded, exhaling, my head buzzing from the sight of that steep drop and the fact that Alban was so close to me right now. He seemed reluctant when he released his hold.
Or was it me who was reluctant to move away?
I could no longer tell.
30
ELODIE
Greenmire, Scottish Highlands, December 2015
Voices crowded into Elodie’s head.
She could hear Stella. Stella was telling her to never be alone with someone. Who didn’t Stella want her to be alone with? Why was her head so fuzzy?
Don’t be alone with him. Don’t go to the playhouse with him, Stella had said.
Who was he?
She couldn’t picture his face or who he was. She knew he was close to her and that he’d always been in her life. She remembered snatches of the things that he’d said to her: Love comes from respect. You will respect me. And you will love me, Elodie. Come here now and give me a kiss.
Someone else’s voice jumped into her head now.
Mia Dunning.
Mia was her best friend at school. At least, she had been. Elodie had told Mia some of the things she’d been told. About love. About respect. Days later, Mia told her that her mother said she wasn’t allowed to play with her anymore. Her mother said that everyone who lived at Braithnoch Square was strange. Elodie knew that Braithnoch Square included four properties—belonging to her family, the Keenans, the Chandlishes and the Flanagans. Mia even said that Stella Keenan was a bad influence and that Elodie’s parents shouldn’t allow her to come around and babysit.
Elodie had pushed Mia after she’d said that. Then she’d gotten in trouble from Mr Kavanagh.
But Mia shouldn’t have said what she did. She was wrong.
Elodie remembered running through the forest. She’d been trying to get away from someone. But who had been chasing her?
She could feel wet branches scratching her face as she ran through the forest. She wanted to ask Mr Kavanagh if he’d seen her footprints and if he could tell how fast she had run. He’d once told her you can tell a lot by footprints. He said that you can tell that someone is running for their lives, by how far apart and deep their footprints are, and how jagged their route. And you can tell by the sharp way the prints twist in certain spots that the person kept checking behind.
He looked funny—Mr Kavanagh. A bit like a King Charles Cavalier dog—the kind that are tri-colour. Cavvy Kavanagh. His hair was the same kind of brown and it was shaggy, his eyebrows thick and black, and his beard and moustache kind of blond. Tri-colour. She knew that Hamish called him the mad professor. Stella called him the weirdo.
Sometimes, Mr Kavanagh call her to stay after class and he’d talk about her paintings. He always told her how good they were, what a good artist she was. She felt proud in those moments. But then he’d ask other stuff—stuff that made her feel strange, stuff that she didn’t want to answer.
She tried to push herself away from those thoughts. She wanted to escape this hospital bed and run away. But she couldn’t.
She saw herself now, standing in the hallway outside Daddy’s office. She could see all the photographs of herself and Mum and Dad. She saw the pictures of herself that she hated, because she could see the things in her eyes that she wasn’t te
lling. She saw those pictures every day. She wanted to slap them down from the wall and smash them to pieces.
Come in, she heard Dad saying. He was asking her into his office.
Dad worked hard in his office and she wasn’t usually allowed in there.
I heard that you pushed another girl at school, he said. Mr Kavanagh called me. Why did you push Mia?
She said bad things about us, Elodie told Daddy.
Dad asked her to sit on his lap. He stroked her hair and told her that Mia was just jealous. He told Elodie to remember all the things that were special about her. He told her that he loved her and asked her if she loved him.
She asked him if he loved Mum the way he loved her, because she wasn’t sure. His eyes grew distant when he answered, even though he said he did. He never looked at Mum the way that she looked at him. She never saw him hug Mum anymore. She didn’t even remember the last time she’d seen the two of them cuddle each other. When he kissed Mum, it was just a quick kiss on the cheek, like a chicken pecking at the ground.
But when he held Elodie, sometimes he held on too long and too tightly, bending his head to her shoulder—as if he would never let go.
Dad never seemed excited about the baby. Elodie would prattle on and on about who the baby would be and what he or she would do. Dad would listen for a while, but he always seemed distracted.
Her mind flipped back to the woods. She recalled being inside the playhouse, on the cold floor. Wind baying and snapping outside.
She remembered the person who chased her in there telling her that she had to be grown up now, that Mum was in the hospital having the baby, and Elodie was here all alone. She’d been confused. Mum had gone to get potatoes, not to have the baby.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, the man who’d told her that—the man with her inside the playhouse.
31
ISLA
After uploading the photos I’d taken of Alban, I heated myself up a can of soup. Relaxing my sore leg on a stool, I ate the soup with a thick piece of bread.
