Who needs trunks? This was his pool. He could just skinny-dip. Then he thought of Liz’s reaction to him putting his boxers back on. She found that strange. Was it really? And that memory of his father. Why had he been so angry with him, and why had the recollection of it popped into his head at that moment?
If Danny was out in the garden, though, he’d be able to see into the pool area. Ranald walked down and round the pool to the window. He looked out into the garden and saw a vast lawn so neat it might have been cut with nail scissors. Around the lawn were large trees and bushes. Borders full of all colours of flowers. And there, in the far corner, a summerhouse.
There was no sign of Danny, or Mrs Hackett for that matter, so he decided he could risk his naked swim. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, he turned back to the pool, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his clothes and jumped into the pool before anyone could see him.
He counted out twenty laps, enjoying the ache in his arms and the kiss of the water on his skin. He hadn’t done this for a while. He used to get a mile in on a regular basis, but was long out of the habit. He did a quick calculation. In this pool a mile would be about eighty lengths. Was he up to that?
Maybe not today, but he’d give it a try in the morning.
He swam a length on his back, then swam to the far side of the pool and leaned on the edge, arms on the tiles, the water supporting his legs as he lazily splashed them.
This was the life. Like the library, the pool felt like a place separate from the rest of the house, which gave Ranald an inexplicably uncomfortable feeling. Here he felt he wasn’t being judged. Watched. Felt like a more relaxed version of himself.
Then a low note of loneliness. Wouldn’t it be nicer to share it with someone?
He looked out into the garden and read its invitation. It must be early evening by now, but the sun would still have some heat in it. He should be out there getting some more fresh air. He climbed out of the pool and, wrapping one of the white cotton towels round his waist, he opened the middle glass door.
A couple of sun loungers sat on the patio, in the shade. He pulled one out into the early-evening sunlight, lay down and closed his eyes.
Wow, what a day. Summoned to a lawyer, given a new house, met a woman, go for a swim – no wonder he was knackered.
Breathe, he told himself.
But he knew this was easier said than done. He decided to try a relaxation exercise one of his counsellors had taught him: going through each muscle in his body, tightening then relaxing it. Gradually his breathing slowed. He could feel the heat of the day receding. And with it the sound of birdsong. His head felt heavy and he was aware of how slow his breathing had become.
Sleep claimed him…
… and he was at the door of the lift. The memory of the icy touch sparked in his fingertips. He reached out and gripped the metal handle. It was cool this time. He pulled. It opened.
A wooden-framed mirror was on the floor, leaning against the wall. He sat before it and crossed his legs. But the face he saw was not his. It was that of a much older man, with a full head of white hair and a wealth of worry worn into his expression.
Then, like a lover’s exhalation, he felt a murmur of heat on the back of his neck, before something silken was pressed there. Lips. He groaned, feeling his desire build and receiving the kiss like a benediction.
‘Hello, my love.’ It was a woman’s voice he heard. It sounded as if it floated from a shell plucked from a deserted beach. ‘Welcome.’
The glimpsing kiss on his skin was both tease and torment, bringing with it the ache for more. He never wanted it to end. He stretched his head to the side to allow easier contact. A hand stroked his chest. He looked into the mirror, expecting to see himself and a woman beside him. But he saw nothing, and strangely, thought it didn’t much matter. Drunk in the moment, he closed his eyes and savoured the touch.
His thighs weakened, his breath quickened. He was becoming aroused. He arched his back and heard himself beg: ‘Please.’
Moist breath filled the curve of his ear. The words ‘Not yet,’ sang like a lament.
Then…
‘Ranald? Is that you, Ran?’
Someone shook him.
He recognised the voice. He opened his eyes and he was back on his sun lounger in the garden, immediately awake and conscious of his lingering arousal.
‘Martie?’
7
‘What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t make it until tomorrow.’ Ranald struggled to escape the clutches of his dream. And the desire it had inspired. With a deal of self-consciousness, he sat forward protectively on the lounger.
Martie looked around as if to direct her gaze anywhere but towards him. ‘Is this for real?’
Ranald smiled. ‘Yup.’
‘I knocked on the door for ages. Got no answer.’ She crossed her arms and turned to the side, clearly embarrassed that she’d caught him like this. ‘So I walked round the side, thinking I must be in the wrong place. I expected someone to shout “Stop, police!” any second.’
‘Surreal, isn’t it?’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Martie. She took a step back and looked up at the length of the building. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked back at him, arms out. ‘You off your meds? To get yourself like…’
‘Just forgot to take them this morning.’ Ranald read the accusation in her question and resisted the impulse to bicker.
‘They take weeks to get out of your system,’ Martie began. Then stopped herself from going any further, too. ‘Why don’t you go and put some clothes on and tell me what the hell is going on.’
Ten minutes later they were in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in front of each of them.
‘I thought you couldn’t get away from work,’ Ranald said.
‘I texted you back about an hour after you replied to me to say everything had been sorted and I’d be over later.’
Ranald pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Nothing.’
‘Hmm, you might need to change your mobile supplier if you’re getting shit reception here.’
Ranald made a motion to suggest he’d get round to it. ‘Fancy a tour?’
Martie was on her feet instantly. ‘Lead on, Jeeves.’
He showed her the library, the ballroom and the main hall, receiving a series of gasps and wows.
‘I haven’t fully investigated the upstairs yet,’ said Ranald, neglecting to mention his earlier visit there with Liz. ‘Fancy a wee look?’
‘Aye,’ was the tentative answer. Then, ‘Don’t be trying anything on, though.’
Ranald gave her a half-smile and began climbing the stairs. As he went he noted the depth of the carpet’s pile, the shallowness of the treads and that the staircase was wide enough for half a dozen broad-shouldered men to make their way up, side by side.
At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the first door. ‘The master bedroom.’
‘With a giant four-poster bed,’ said Martie, ‘…which looks like it recently saw some action…’ Her eyebrows were raised.
‘Ah,’ Ranald said and felt his face heat. He sped over to hurriedly fix the sheets. ‘Isn’t it great?’ he said when he was done.
When he’d come in here earlier with Liz he had been too distracted to take in the space; now he looked at it as if for the first time. The massive bed was made of dark oak, but was still dwarfed by the room. White linen drapes hung at each of its posts. The large windows were dressed with similarly luxuriant curtains and placed with care between them was a large oak bookcase filled with what looked like memoirs and biographies. His great-uncle must have enjoyed reading about the rich, the famous and those with celebrated minds before he went off to sleep. Ranald looked at the low three-seater sofa at the foot of the bed. Beside it was a small table and lamp. It seemed like Uncle Alex had established good reading positions all over this house.
‘What do you think’s through those?’ asked Martie, pointing.
He turned to see that the far wal
l had two sets of white double doors. ‘I haven’t had a chance to fully investigate,’ he scratched at his head. ‘I’m guessing one of them leads to the en suite. No idea what the other one is.’
Martie pulled open one set of doors. ‘You’ve got an actual dressing room.’ She walked inside and ran her fingertips over shirts, trousers and suits hung in neat rows. Then she pointed at the shelves of t-shirts and jumpers. ‘Wonder if any of these will fit you,’ she said and looked at the clothes he was wearing. ‘Those are about ready for the bin.’
Ranald studied the clothes on the shelves. ‘These all look pretty new.’
Martie was examining the label on a brown cashmere jumper. ‘This is a medium – your size. And it looks like it’s barely out of the packet.’ She paused, and grew sombre. ‘What the hell’s going on here, Ranald?’
He shrugged. ‘Mrs Hackett – the housekeeper – said that my great-uncle had been preparing for my arrival for years. Maybe this…’ he indicated the clothes ‘…was part of all that.’
‘Try something on,’ Martie urged, seeming to drop whatever thought was bothering her. ‘One of the suits. Go on.’
She looked along a row of suits in grey, navy blue and black. Chose a grey one and handed it to him. ‘I’ll turn my back while you get dressed.’ She gave him a tired smile.
Ranald felt a slight twinge of sadness, then shucked himself out of his clothes. He pulled on the trousers first, then took a white shirt off a hanger, put that on and finished off by shrugging on the jacket.
Martie turned back to face him and smiled her approval. ‘It’s like it was made for you.’ She walked over to him and stroked the lapel of the jacket. ‘Beautiful material.’
Ranald walked over and stood, feet wide, in front of the mirror on the back of the door. ‘Aye, no bad,’ he said, seeing himself smile.
‘Lovely,’ said Martie, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Shoes?’
Ranald chose a pair of black ones from the row under the shirts, slipped them on and moving back to the mirror preened a little. ‘Don’t I look like the swell?’
Martie said nothing. She walked past him over to the windows and looked out onto the garden. Ranald joined her. She had crossed her arms as if warding off a sudden chill.
He nudged her with a shoulder. ‘Sorry you dumped me now?’
‘Shut up,’ she gave a small smile that betrayed her growing unease. ‘Doesn’t this worry you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It all feels just too good to be true.’
‘Jesus, you’re like the taxi driver that brought me here. Can’t you just be happy for me?’
‘Course I can, Ran.’ She turned to face him. ‘I am. Happy for you.’ But her eyes were full of concern.
At this, his stomach gave a little twist. She still cared.
‘Just don’t get carried away, eh?’ she said. ‘Enjoy it now, but get back into your routine. Keep the work going. Stay on the meds.’
‘I am on my meds.’
‘Really? Then what was that when I first saw you in the garden?’
Ran snorted. The way she said it sounded almost jeering, which was rich, considering one of her complaints when the doctors put him on the pills, was the libido-suppressing side-effects.
Ranald took a step back, feeling his expression sour. He fought down his irritation. ‘I haven’t stopped taking the pills. I’m not going to do anything stupid, Martie. And you’re not my fucking mother.’
‘That’s not fair, Ran. Just because I’m not married to you anymore doesn’t mean that I stopped caring…’ She shook her head, as if trying to rid her mind of old offences.
Ranald turned away and faced the window. Here we go again, he thought.
‘I’m sorry, Ran,’ Martie said. ‘It’s just…’
‘Just what, Martie?’
‘Lots of people are bipolar, Ran. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but you need to keep on the meds, keep on the regimen that the doctors gave you.’ She moved closer to him, prompting him to face her. When he did she placed a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. ‘I’m worried that all of this…’ she drew a big arch in the air ‘…will throw you off from your…’ She shook her head and crossed her arms. ‘Sorry. I’m overstepping.’
Ranald stuffed his hands in his pockets, his mouth shut tight in case he said something he might regret.
‘You witnessed a terrible thing, Ran. Your mum and dad…’
Ranald’s eyes drifted to the bed. And for a moment it wasn’t the huge four-poster he saw. It was his parents’ ordinary double at home, the day he’d found them…
He shook his head. ‘I thought you were going to leave it, Martie?’
‘You never talked about their suicide properly, did you…?’ she said and faced up to him, her eyes bright seemingly desperate to help. ‘To anyone, really.’
‘SHUT UP.’ His hands were down by his sides, and he was gripping his trouser legs as if that might stop him from forming fists. No, he’d never spoken to a doctor, or his therapist about it, no matter how hard they’d tried. No matter how many hours of talking about anything and everything else; no matter the number of tricks and leading questions they’d used, the space and time they’d given him. He’d never really even talked to Martie about it, apart from telling her about the initial discovery. And that’s the way it would stay. That subject was permanently closed.
‘If you don’t stop talking now…’
‘Sorry,’ Martie said and took a step back. ‘Sorry. I … again. Overstepping.’ She crossed her arms and held one hand under her throat, her eyes soft with apology.
Ranald heard the creak of a door in the back of his mind. What lurked behind there was dark and dangerous and had to remain out of sight and hearing. He imagined the door slamming shut, and saw a large key being turned.
‘Anyway…’ He fought to loosen the tension in his shoulders and arms. ‘Bygones, eh?’ He forced a smile.
‘C’mon downstairs,’ said Martie forcing a light tone into her words. She looked at him, checking that he was back in a calm place. He nodded to signal that he was. ‘You need to show me the rest of the house, and I want to have a look at the books in that amazing library.’
‘I should get out of this suit first,’ he answered, still feeling a tremble from the force of his emotion.
‘Why?’ asked Martie. ‘There’s loads if you get this one dirty. And besides,’ she smiled, ‘you look good in it.’
Sometime later, having looked at the other three bedrooms in the same wing as the master, as well as the TV room, and the big reception room with its massive, ornate, white marble fireplace, low, red damask sofas and its assortment of oil portraits of what looked like members of the Fitzpatrick family, they found themselves in another wing of the house, one that stretched beyond the kitchen.
It was Martie who spotted the small passageway that ran along the side of the lift and followed it along to a narrow set of stairs. ‘I wonder where these go?’ she said.
The dark, cramped space felt unpleasant to Ranald, but she was already up the first flight, and he had no choice but to follow.
The first-floor passageway in this wing was even dimmer than the rest of the house. Despite several large windows, there seemed to be less light, and the walls were painted in a darker colour, the curtains of a heavier material, and there were a lot more wooden fixtures and fittings.
The effect was of a grand hotel whose time had come and gone. It all needed a lick of paint, the windows opening, new curtains. Something. The space looked unaltered since Victorian times.
‘These must be my grandmother’s rooms,’ he said. ‘The housekeeper told me they were up here. My grandmother took them over after her mother died.’
He imagined his great-grandmother pacing along these halls, a queen in her domain, primped and primed servants trailing behind her, anxious to do her bidding. His grandmother, just a little girl, watching and learning. Perhaps her mother left such an impression on her that she
couldn’t bring herself to make any changes to this wing when she inherited it?
Martie crossed her arms and shivered. ‘It’s colder up here, somehow.’
As they continued along the corridor Ranald could almost smell the memories in the air, carried there with a trace of lavender and camphor.
That was strange. Camphor? He remembered his mother was a fan. She’d used it as a disinfectant. Applied it when he had an ear infection and again to a cold sore. He’d never forgotten the smell, but until now he’d forgotten about her using it on him.
‘You smell that?’ he asked Martie. ‘Camphor?’
Why would Mrs Hackett use camphor in this part of the house and nowhere else? Tradition? Perhaps that was what his grandmother insisted on while she was alive, to protect her thick skirts and coats from moths. And, judging by the look of this wing, tradition was important to her.
Martie was looking around, mouth slack with something approaching awe. ‘This is amazing.’ She paused and looked at him. ‘What was that you were saying about camphor?’ She breathed in deeply through her nose. ‘I can’t smell much to be honest, which is surprising in such an old house. Your cleaning woman must do an amazing job.’
There were four doors off the main corridor. He opened the first. Large windows, framed in dark, heavy curtains, faced him. In front of them sat a chaise longue. Cream material framed in dark wood. Against the main wall was a massive, ornate bed. A wooden headboard reached halfway up the wall and two posts stretched beyond that, supporting a canopy. A bed fit for a queen.
A dead queen, a voice sounded in his head.
He dug his hands in his pockets. This part of the building was off. He tried to work out what was giving him that impression.
‘I don’t like it up here,’ he said to Martie. ‘Being empty of people for so long must have weighed down the air or something.’
House of Spines Page 5
