Deviant

by Helen FitzGerald

  Stick’s father didn’t seem to notice. He smiled with a politician’s mock humility. “What did you think?”

  “About unemployment and poverty? I thought you were right. Something has to be done.” Abigail’s heart thudded in her chest. When she was this nervous, she knew it was always best just to stick to the truth.

  “Smart girl,” he said. “My son seems to disagree.”

  All eyes were on Stick now. He did a duck and dive: “I’m gonna go find Becky.”

  “I’ll come with you!” Abigail knew she sounded over-enthusiastic. “Nice to meet you, Howard—I mean Mr. Howard.”

  Mr. Howard nodded. She followed Stick, but couldn’t help glance back at the two men. They were already huddled in deep and serious conversation.

  THE SHOES WERE A nightmare to walk in. Abigail wriggled each step, and felt ridiculous. How are legs supposed to do their job with a four-inch spike of red leather under each foot? Shite, that reminded her. The shoes were making her butt point upwards like a horny simian. She banished monkey-mating images from her mind and tried her best not to stare at the butt in front of her. It was difficult, though. The shape of him! Feck, now she was a man-monkey.

  She focused on the carpeted stairs. She couldn’t believe the gooey feeling. So yes, Stick was model-perfect and rich. But he was a vandal and in love with her sister. Annoyance with herself turned to anger at him. And now he was already ten paces ahead, halfway down the hall toward Becky’s room. She would not be weakened by such stupidities. What did she care?

  “Hey, wait!” she called. She stumbled, losing a shoe but still hobbling ahead.

  He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you leave Becky alone?” Abigail said. “You’re going to get her into trouble.”

  Those eyes. For God’s sake. Stick paused thoughtfully. “We’re all in trouble,” he said.

  She sniffed. Well, no wonder he was in love with her. They were both riddle-ridden wankers. He knocked on the door, uninterested in further conversation.

  Becky opened immediately. “Hey you two, how’s the party? You getting to know each other?” She jerked her head toward Stick. “He cleans up all right, don’t you think?”

  “Apparently I lead you astray, Becky,” Stick said.

  “Aw. So you do …” Becky kissed Stick full on the mouth. “And I lead you.” She slapped him gently on the cheek, but her touch made both sides of his face turn red.

  Abigail’s stomach churned. So, what was between these two? It angered her that her sister got to kiss those lips and she didn’t. And it angered her that it angered her.

  Becky had made a tiny effort to dress nicely, in silk trousers and a shoulder-less top. Even with the tiny effort, she was so much more beautiful than anyone at the party, certainly much prettier than Abigail. There’s no point in competing, Abigail realized. She would never win. And why would she even want to, anyway? She didn’t want to win. Win what?

  “I’m sorry I threw you in the deep end last night,” Becky said, ignoring Stick.

  “It’s okay,” Abigail answered, still wondering about the kiss.

  “It’s not. But I won’t do that again. Now let’s go and do our family duty, shall we?”

  Becky threw an arm over each of their shoulders and escorted them down the stairs. On the way, Stick leant down and picked up Abigail’s missing shoe, passing it to her.

  As if I’m Cinderella, she couldn’t help but think. Too bad that was a lie, as well.

  WHEN THEY REACHED THE garden, Grahame started to clink his glass with a spoon. Abigail asked a waiter if she could have a pineapple juice. The answer was no. He filled her glass with champagne instead. She’d never tasted champagne before. She sipped, keen to discover what all the fuss was about, and winced. Yuck. Stick veered off into the crowd. Becky led Abigail over to their father.

  “As you all know, we’re here to celebrate the arrival of my daughter,” Grahame announced. His eyes were moist. His voice was thick. “Usually when you say that, the new arrival comes in a swaddling blanket and diapers. Well, as you can see, this one is potty trained.”

  The crowd burst out laughing.

  Abigail’s face flushed. Everyone, everyone in the room was now imagining her sitting on a potty. Some of them were imagining her in a nappy. A smaller amount had probably moved on from this image to consider her in her underwear. She looked down at her stupidly tiny dress. Perhaps they could see her underwear. Perhaps Stick could see it. She fidgeted with her bra strap, then touched her dress to make sure the line of her new lacy pants (now giving her the wedgie of the century) were within the boundaries of the red material. Stick was looking at her as she fidgeted. He probably had the nappy image in his head. A poo-filled nappy. AGH!

  “I didn’t know she existed till three days ago,” Grahame continued. “As some of you know already, her mother was very unwell. I’m sad to say, she spent most of her adult life in institutions. She never told me about this wonderful gift …” He was tearing up.

  Abigail smiled nervously. She’d never mastered crocodile tears, even in emergency situations like at US Immigration. She wouldn’t be able to do it now, especially with all the underwear concerns bashing around in her screwed-up head. Becky must have noticed, because she grabbed the shaky hand at the bra strap and shoved it down between them, holding it tight.

  “I don’t know everything about her yet, but I know enough. Family is like that. I can tell that despite the difficulties she’s had to endure, Abigail is a sensible, wonderful girl.”

  Sensible and wonderful. Not the adjectives Abigail would have used, but like he said, he didn’t know everything about her.

  A few people clapped.

  “I feel so blessed that she’s my daughter.” He wiped his eyes.

  Becky’s hand fell away. Abigail almost shouted, Becky’s your daughter, too, but bit her tongue.

  “So, everyone raise your glasses to my daughter Abigail!”

  “To Abigail!” everyone chanted in response, everyone but Becky.

  “And here’s lookin’ up yer kilt!” Grahame Johnstone attempted to joke in his best brogue. There were a few nervous laughs. He downed his champagne in one gulp.

  Thank God. It was over. As the crowd applauded, Becky had already slipped away. Before Abigail could chase after her, Melanie appeared to continue parading her around.

  ABIGAIL ANSWERED QUESTIONS AS best she could, repeating herself fifty percent of the time due to her stupid accent. But she could only concentrate on one thing: Stick and Becky, sitting close together on a bench in a dark corner of the garden. For the first time in her life, Abigail thought she might be going a little mad. She recalled late night parties at the camp on Holy Loch where the adults would get very drunk. There’d be toasts. Then guitars cracked out, then a heated political debate, then often an entertaining fight. Everyone would love everyone, except for a couple who would head out onto the main road to argue loudly. It would be hours before people went to bed.

  Here, it was different. Eleven P.M., and the party was over. People had to drive home.

  One hundred double-sided air-kisses later, the house was empty—except for Mr. Howard and Stick, who’d since vanished upstairs with Becky.

  “Matthew!” Mr. Howard hollered from the door. “Time to go!”

  Stick bounced down a few seconds later. He looked pleased, flushed, rumpled. Had he and Becky …? Who cares?

  “Thanks, Mr. Johnstone. And nice to meet you, Abigail.”

  Abigail extended her hand to shake Stick’s. He leaned in for an air-kiss. She quickly corrected her mistake and withdrew her hand at the same time as he withdrew the air-kiss option and extended his hand.

  He laughed. “Let’s just nod at each other, cool?” His tone was dry, cheeky. “Great to see, er, meet you.” Before he turned to follow his father out, he winked at her.

  Mmm.

  STOMACH STILL CHURNING, ABIGAIL watched as the hired staff whisked away leftovers and tidied the house. By mi
dnight, she’d never have guessed there’d been a party at all.

  “You did great,” Grahame pronounced, as the last of them exited. “A proper little Johnstone. I’m so proud and happy.”

  Abigail found herself rubbing her eyes, too frazzled to question the compliment. She’d never been called a proper little anything before. “Thanks, Grahame … Dad. And you too, Melanie. It was lovely. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can get some sleep!” Melanie yawned—an actress yawn, with an exaggerated stretch to match. “That’s what I’m going to do.” She headed upstairs to the master bedroom.

  Grahame was already heading to his den. “Night!” he called, closing the door him.

  Abigail raced upstairs knocked on Becky’s door.

  “It’s me!” she whispered. “Can you come to my room?”

  “Okay,” Becky’s muffled voice replied. “Just give me a minute.”

  Abigail shut herself in her bedroom and opened her Nike backpack. Suddenly she was wide awake. She took out the grimy Mitchell Library books, placing them on the shelf in the corner. She dug past the plastic bag that contained her social work file: #50837. Finally, she removed the photograph of her mother, the letter, and the money, spreading them out on the bed.

  Becky barged in wearing a bikini. “Midnight swim?”

  “Sit down for a bit first.” Abigail patted the mattress. “I need to show you some things.”

  Becky immediately zeroed in on the photograph. “Is that her?” She plucked it from the bed, almost reverently, and sat down beside Abigail, legs crossed.

  “Aye. In Glasgow years ago.”

  Becky covered herself with the duvet. “Can hardly make her out,” she whispered.

  “I enlarged it. The only one I have, I’m afraid. Do you have any?”

  “Are you kidding? He erased her. I always knew she existed, but she was off-limits. All he ever told me was that she was nuts. Said she heard voices and thought everyone was out to get her. Used to attack him and set fire to things. Hadn’t brought her up in years until three days ago, when he told me about you. Even then, he said he didn’t want to talk about that ‘crazy woman.’ ” Becky squinted to look more closely at the photo. “She’s pretty, I think.”

  “She also left us some money,” Abigail went on. “Twenty-five thousand pounds each.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “You have twenty-five thousand pounds, care of our mother.” Abigail pushed the letter and the bundle of bills toward her sister.

  Becky’s eyes widened.

  “And a letter. Do you want me to leave you alone while you read it?”

  Her sister’s forehead creased. She chewed a nail.

  “Becky, I—”

  “No, stay,” she insisted. “I want you here when I read this. I wouldn’t have known any of this if you hadn’t shown up.”

  With trembling hands, Becky opened the envelope. Abigail hadn’t reread her mother’s letter since the day she received it, but she could almost remember it word for word. She tried to look at something other than Becky—the window, the bathroom, the walls—but couldn’t help returning to her sister’s eyes as they flitted from line to line. For a few seconds, Becky was expressionless. Then her lashes moistened. She was probably reading the part where her mother said she remembered her beautiful face.

  Abigail hung her head, embarrassed.

  Finally Becky let out a loud sigh. She folded the letter carefully. She chewed at her thumbnail again and whispered, “She knew.”

  “What do you mean? She knew Grahame was rich—” Abigail stopped mid-sentence, ashamed. She might be focused on the money, but why would Becky care?

  Snapping out of it, Becky smiled. Her lips twitched. She struggled to slide the letter back in the envelope. She was anxious all of a sudden, and in a hurry. “No. Not that. I meant to say, I wish she knew. I wish she knew us. You and me.”

  Abigail nodded. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay.” Becky stood. A thousand thoughts were obviously whizzing around behind those frantic eyes. She grabbed the fuzzy photocopy. “Can I take this? Sorry, but I think I do need to be alone, after all.”

  Fair enough. Abigail nodded again.

  As if in a trance, Becky took the money, the letter, and the photo and walked toward the bedroom door.

  “When you’re ready, I’m here,” Abigail called softly after her. “Just knock.”

  But Becky was already gone.

  Abigail hadn’t slept well since Nieve had died. Survival depended on keeping one eye open in the beds she’d been forced to use since. Anyone could come in. Anything could happen. Not that she felt unsafe here. (No intruder, no matter how clever, could possibly bypass Grahame Johnstone’s elaborate security system, with its buttons and codes at every point of entry.) But still she felt unsettled. Exhausted but not sleepy. To pass the hours as before, she tried to read.

  The three books she’d brought from Glasgow annoyed her. The Principles of Biochemistry: too serious. The Silence of the Lambs: too dark. Funny Physics: not funny in the least. Anyway, she didn’t feel like laughing. She could smell Glasgow in the pages, something old, oozing, and rotten. It was a smell she wanted to forget. She tossed the books under the bed beside the discarded Scottish prints and tiptoed out into the hall.

  Becky’s door was closed. The crack beneath was pitch black. No surprise. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk about the letter. Abigail made her way down the stairs into the living room. She switched on the soft library lights and crept inside, closing the door behind her. It was an old-fashioned place, packed with leather-bound books that did not smell of Glasgow. She touched the spines of some limited edition classics: Mark Twain, Robert Burns, Robert Frost, Walter Scott, Tolstoy, Dickens … She checked her fingertips with a secret smile. No dust.

  The old vinyl seventy-eights in the corner were arranged neatly, their aged paper covers beautifully preserved. At first she’d been put off, but this was an okay hobby for a dad to have. Not quite cool, but nerdy and nice. She plucked one from the shelf and gazed at it. “Tonight I Am in Heaven.” She put it back in and flicked through some others—then stopped. Her fingers landed on a song that Nieve used to play all the time: “Stormy Weather.”

  Before Abigail was even conscious of what she was doing, she took the record from the sleeve and set it on the gramophone. It had to be wound up, this machine, a proper antique. She rotated the gorgeous carved handle and placed the needle on the vinyl, cringing at the soft burst of noise. Was this even music? It sounded even worse than the stoned guitarists that used to sit around the commune campfire—fast one second and slow the next, never quite in tune, scratchy and awful. The version Nieve had played on her portable CD player wasn’t as bad as this. Abigail remembered loving the song at the time, even the words:

  Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky

  Stormy weather since my man and I ain’t together

  Keeps raining all the time

  Keeps raining all the time

  Abigail imagined Nieve sitting at the small bench in the van, swaying as she listened. She flipped the record over. There was an inscription on the back of the paper sleeve.

  To my darling Gray,

  I miss you,

  Forever, S x

  Abigail squinted at the words. S could stand for Sophie. Was this a present from her mother to her father? She tried to picture it.

  Grahame and Sophie, sitting on a couch. No.

  Grahame and Sophie, dancing on a porch. No.

  On the other hand, “S” had missed Grahame, if he was “Gray.” They must have been apart a lot. That made sense. And if this was “their song,” it was a bloody depressing one. That made sense, too. Their relationship had been doomed from the beginning.

  Can’t go on, ev’rything I had is gone

  Stormy weather since my man and I ain’t together

  Keeps raining all the time

  Keeps raining all the time

  Abigail hurri
ed back to her bedroom and shut the door.

  SHE WOKE TO A man yelling. It was her dad, she realized. She threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs to see what the commotion was about. Becky was already a few steps ahead of her.

  “What’s wrong?” Abigail asked.

  Becky shrugged.

  “Come here now!” The voice boomed from the library. “Now!”

  Abigail felt queasy as she walked in behind her sister. Her dad was standing beside the gramophone, “Stormy Weather” in hand.

  “Who touched this?” he demanded. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, and looked nearly the same as he had last night. Yet his face was almost unrecognizable—his cheeks flushed, his eyes blazing, his jaw set.

  She wanted to own up. But the words didn’t come out.

  “Do you know how valuable this is?” he snapped at Becky.

  Abigail knew the accusation was aimed at both of them. Becky shot a quick glance at her. She could feel the blood draining from her face. She imagined that her skin now looked like the yellowed record sleeve.

  “Well, do you? Tell me. Who’s been handling my collection? Becky? Or Abigail? I understand you’re new here, and perhaps where you grew up it’s acceptable to fiddle with other people’s precious things?”

  Abigail swallowed, consumed with dread. It wouldn’t be customs that would send her home. It would be her dad’s rage.

  Melanie appeared in an apron. “Honey, it’s not damaged, is it?” she asked Grahame calmly. “There’s nothing to be mad about, is there?”

  Becky cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. A friend at the party last night wanted to hear what it sounded like.”

  Grahame’s eyes bored into Becky. “A friend? You know no one touches these but me. No one! Especially this one.” With hands shaking, he put the record back on its shelf; Abigail saw now that she’d shoved it back in the wrong spot. “No allowance for a month,” he said to Becky, storming past them all.

  Moments later, the door to his den slammed shut.