Choosing another notebook, he opened it near the back and read a few lines that weren’t attributed to anyone. They read like scraps of poems. Was his great-uncle a writer like he was? This set off a surge of excitement. How sweet would that be if they had that in common?
He read on. The words seemed pressed onto the page with no discernible pattern – random thoughts that had blown through his great-uncle’s mind. Nothing linking them other than the fact they’d come from him.
‘…the day the sky fell in … her smile has a shadow … like a wordless tongue … her name was Jennie … Jennie full of grace … regret is a weight, a sodden cloak.’
Were these memories or random impressions?
Then on another page, Ranald read a short poem:
I should learn to listen.
Allow the words to settle
in that padded room between denial and acceptance.
But it would be easier to place one foot
on the low wall of a high bridge,
spread my arms crucifix-wide, lean forward
and will flight into the span of my arms.
What was that about? Something in it spoke to him. The words carried a sense of needing … and foreboding? Who should Fitz have listened to? What had he denied?
Closing the notebook he was studying, Ranald pushed his chair back from the desk, his fingers clasped as if in prayer, pressing on the underside of his nose. From what he had read he was sure he would have liked Fitz. But did he and Great-Uncle Alexander have more in common than blood?
A phrase echoed in his brain and found a point of resonance. He winced at the recognition.
‘…in that padded room between denial and acceptance…’
9
The next day Ranald woke early, and the wrong way round. That was, his feet were at the head of the bed and his head at the foot. How had he got like this? He didn’t remember any nightmares or thrashing about in his sleep. In fact, feeling more alert than he had in a long time, he realised he had just enjoyed the best night’s sleep he’d had in ages. Might it have been the return of his sex drive?
And wasn’t that a miracle of sorts? That he could actually do it.
He recalled what Liz had said about sex with a stranger. He hadn’t confessed that his only similar experience was a solitary and disastrous one-night stand before he met Martie. Married life with her, and his session with Liz yesterday, were the sum total of his sexual adventures.
He thought about Liz’s dream – or vision; whatever it had been, it had terrified her. Had it really been an act – a way of getting out of the house? If it was the case, she was a brilliant actress.
Had he had any dreams the previous night? Could that explain the way he’d woken up? He scanned his memory as he stood at the sink and washed his hands, but failed to remember anything.
It was Sunday, he thought. What would today bring?
A swim? It was best to keep that good habit going. Then breakfast and another root through Fitz’s notebooks. Also, there was more of the house to see. He should go exploring, and with that thought, a question: why hadn’t he explored the entire house already? Was he somehow afraid of what he might find? He frowned. What was making him think like that?
What he should really do was get across to his flat in Shawlands and pick up a few things. Speak to his landlord and hand in his notice. Most of his stuff could go to one of the charity shops on the street down the road from the flat. Surely they’d be able to make good use of his things.
With a sense of purpose, Ranald made his way, naked, down to the pool. Why bother putting clothes on? He was going to take them off shortly anyway, and there was nobody to see him. And he was beginning to like this naturist thing. It felt liberating. He’d been Mr Serious most of his life. He saw his father’s angry face and mentally gave it the finger.
Time to let go of the mental shackles, Ran.
After his swim, as he dressed and dried himself, Ranald wondered at his sense of unease. In his previous home Ranald had a routine, a pattern that informed his day, but here he felt rudderless and uncertain. He heard Martie’s voice in his head; her warning that if he didn’t follow his therapist’s regimen he might end up back in hospital. But he dismissed it.
After all these years he knew what he was doing.
People. He needed to be near people. He recognised that was why he’d gone to the café on the first day. Although he was on his own it gave him the illusion that he was in company.
However necessary he knew it was though, being around other people could be exhausting; having to pretend that you were fine, having to make sure your mask was in place for every moment of every conversation. Being terrified that if it slipped, even for a second, people would get a glimpse into the sham of a human being he really was.
Shawlands. He had decided that he should go to his flat. Get his stuff sorted. That would help him feel more grounded.
He dressed in his old jeans and a clean t-shirt. Found a dark-brown, linen jacket hanging in among the suits. Checked himself in the mirror, and preened a little. Much better than his usual scruffy self. That would give his old neighbours something to talk about.
He returned to the library to use the house phone where he called for a cab.
Stepping inside his flat it felt like he’d been away for two years, not two days.
Was this really how he used to live? This lack of space; the untidy, barely clean, sorry mess of it?
In the bedroom, he pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, then began going through his wardrobe. The clothes he wanted to bin, he threw on the floor. The others went in the suitcase.
When he’d finished, he realised choosing a suitcase had been a mistake. Two pairs of jeans, a couple of t-shirts and a pair of running shoes hardly made an impression on the space. So he shoved them in the hold-all he used for the gym instead. He spotted his phone charger on his bedside cabinet and threw that in as well.
There was nothing he wanted in the kitchen. The bathroom told a similar story. Shaving gear, deodorant and bottle of aftershave – Hugo Boss – that Martie had given him for his twenty-first birthday. He loved the smell of it, just kept forgetting to put it on.
There, beside the aftershave, was a blister pack of anti-depressants; and the other drugs too. He could never remember their names. He reached for them. Paused. Did he need them? He’d never felt better. Besides, they were already leaving his system, as was evidenced by the return of his libido. It was kind of nice having that back. Reassuring almost: be a human being, have a sex drive.
Also, if he started up again, would it be back to the side-effects he’d experienced when he’d first taken them: staring into space all day, trying to locate a spare thought? He wasn’t going back there.
In the living room, other than his books, DVDs and laptop, there was nothing he wanted. He looked at the TV. It was a thirty-two-inch flat screen. The height of his ambition only a year ago.
Back at Newton Hall there was a whole TV room. And for a moment it felt as if a cold hand clutched his belly.
He shook off the negative thought. His wireless connector thing. That would have to come too. He prayed that would work there. Living without a mobile was acceptable; existing without a broadband connection was not.
Once he was finished, all he had to show for his time at this flat was a small holdall of clothes and a box of books and DVDs.
Pathetic.
As he was about to dial for his taxi, there was a knock at the door. He opened it to be greeted by the neighbour across the landing, Donna Morris.
‘Everything, okay, honey?’ she asked as she breezed inside. ‘Where you been?’ She stepped into his hallway, turned and faced him. She smiled broadly. ‘You no ring. You no call?’
As usual, Donna had her long, grey, shoulder-length hair loose and was wearing neck-to-toe cheesecloth and sandals. She was as lean as a walking cane. Her face was unlined, but her eyelids had a slight droop. Ranald guessed she was in her late sixties
, but she always fended off his questions about age with a wave of her hand and a comment along the lines of it being a construct of commercialism and her having no truck with any of that.
He recalled that one night, after a walk around Chinatown and sharing a bottle of wine with him over a Chinese meal, she had described herself as an ‘egalitarian, socialist, Bolshevik, humanist, feminist who hates labels. An anti-labellist, if you want…’ Then she had added, in a dramatic tone, ‘…with a touch of the psychic about her.’
‘Really?’ Ran had asked. ‘That bit’s much more interesting than the multiple, political personality thing you’ve got going on.’
Donna had changed the subject, but Ran had pressed her. ‘Do you see dead people and shit?’
‘That’s not how it works, honey,’ she replied. ‘Wasn’t Jack Nicholson amazing in that film?’
‘It was Bruce Willis.’
‘I’m talking about The Shining.’
Then Ranald had dared to ask, ‘Could you speak to my mum and dad?’ He would never have asked the question if he hadn’t been half-pissed. And instantly, judging from her expression, Donna realised she’d made a mistake telling him about her abilities.
‘Listen, Ranald,’ she said, ‘we don’t go messing with that stuff. Besides, the information comes in at random.’
‘But…’ He’d had an urgent need to know more.
‘But nothing, son,’ Donna had said. ‘We’ve both had too much wine.’
‘But…’
‘Tell you what – my … whatchamacallit … my gift, is a bit random. But if I get anything, I promise I’ll tell you. Okay?’
Ranald had realised that was the best he was going to get and he’d allowed Donna to change the subject back to the movie.
Now, as he wondered what had prompted that memory, Donna stepped forwards, pulled him against her chest and pecked his check.
‘You’ve lost weight. Have you not been eating?’ Pause. ‘Nice jacket.’ She ran her hands down the sleeves. ‘Nice material. You look so handsome. Where did you get it?’
It was part of their shtick that she was the mother he’d never really had, so if ever they didn’t see each other for a few days, she’d ham it up for him. Underneath the fun and bluster, though, was the kindest person he’d ever met.
‘Is that the kettle I heard going on?’ she asked. ‘Hang on. If you’re going to offer me a coffee, do you need me to fetch some milk from mine?’
‘You’re a nutter,’ Ranald said. ‘Let me put the kettle on and while I’m in the kitchen I’ll check the fridge.’ He hugged her again, surprised by how much he’d missed her.
‘What’s this all about?’ she asked, hugging him back. ‘You miss your Auntie Donna, our Ranald?’
Ranald could hear the pleasure in her voice.
‘Go on into the living room and I’ll sort the drinks. I’ve got…’ Before he could finish what he was about to say, she had left his side and stepped into the living room, saying something as she went. But she halted abruptly. As he walked into the kitchen she was behind him.
‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘That bag and that box on the living-room floor? You coming or going?’
‘I was just about to tell you…’
She stepped closer. ‘What is it?’
‘Something … well I guess you’d call it something amazing … has happened.’
‘Aye?’ Donna moved closer.
‘Okay – the highlights: I’ve got a new house worth a fortune, a family I never knew I had, and I got my leg over on the first night.’ Ranald tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice, at the same time acknowledging to himself that it was an effort.
‘Son, I’m fair chuffed for you. Who was she?’
Ranald smiled. Donna cared little for material things, but she was a sucker for romance.
‘The woman was lovely. She made me laugh, but it’s not going to go anywhere. Are you not curious about the house?’
‘Go on then, if you must,’ she said, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, faking a lack of interest.
As he talked, however, her eyes grew larger and larger. Her mouth opened. And then her eyes began to moisten.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely nothing, Ranald. That’s just bloody amazing.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the pad of her right thumb. ‘It’s about time something good happened to you, son. You really deserve it.’
Ranald picked up the mugs of coffee. ‘C’mon through to the sofa and I’ll tell you the rest.’
In the living room, Ranald told her all about the house – the library, the pool, the ballroom … studiously avoiding any mention of the quiver of anxiety he had in most parts of the building.
‘You had no inkling about any of this?’ Donna interrupted.
‘None. My parents never talked about things.’ Any things, Ranald realised. Perhaps that’s why he was so poor at communication. ‘At family events, it was only ever people from my dad’s side. My mum always claimed she was an only child and her family were all dead.’
‘All because your dad was working class,’ said Donna. ‘Fucking industrialists.’
Donna rarely swore, but when she did, it was usually to do with the sins of capitalism. She looked away from him, out of the window at the roofs across the street.
‘Aww, son’ – she turned back – ‘you’ve been the best wee neighbour I’ve ever had here. I’m really going to miss you.’ She dabbed at her eyes again.
‘We’ll keep in touch,’ Ranald said. ‘You can invite me over for movie nights. And you can come over to mine to use the fitness suite.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ Donna managed a smile. ‘Besides. These big posh houses in Bearsden and such are not for the likes of me.’
‘What?’ demanded Ranald. ‘What happened to Bolshevik Donna who goes wherever the fuck she pleases?’
‘She got old and disaffected.’
‘You have to come and visit me, Donna,’ Ranald insisted. ‘You’ll love the library. You can read as much as you like. The books can’t leave the house, so that means you’ll have to come regularly.’
‘Aww, Ran,’ she reached over and patted his hand. ‘We both know you don’t mean that.’
He did, but didn’t want to show any disappointment that this was her impression of the situation.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘you need to get yourself some pals. Mates. Hang out with some blokes and watch footie, drink beer, or whatever it is you men do when you get together.’
This was an often-discussed topic when Donna came to visit. After she’d queried the state of his love life, or lack thereof, she’d lecture him on the benefits of same-sex company.
‘A young man shouldn’t be on his own as much as you are.’
It was Ranald’s turn to roll his eyes.
‘Have you invited any of your buddies over for a read-around?’ she smiled to let him know that she was only half joking.
‘You know I don’t have any buddies,’ he replied. ‘And that’s one sure way to kill off any burgeoning friendship.’
Ranald gave a mental shrug. Most of the people he knew were female. That was just the way it had turned out. He had one male friend through primary and secondary school: Patrick Connolly. They’d shared an obsession for Marvel comics and Nintendo Gameboy. Neither of them was into football, meaning, at best, that the other boys treated them as if they weren’t there; at worst, they bullied the pair remorselessly.
Ranald went on to university to study English, met Martie on the first day and she became his constant companion. And in that heightened bubble of discovering love together for the first time, he saw no need for anyone else in his life.
The conversation with Donna ran its course as the coffee dried up in their mugs.
‘Right,’ she stood up. ‘This has been lovely. But my carrot and coriander soup isn’t going to stir itself.’
Ranald followed as she walked out of the room, into the hall and pulled open the door. Before she stepped outside
onto the landing, she offered another look of support.
‘I’m so happy for you, Ran. Now keep in touch, eh? Make sure you feed yourself properly? You’ve got my number on your phone if you need to get in touch? And yeah, we have to do that movie night soon.’
She gave him a hug that had a note of finality about it, as if she didn’t believe the movie night would ever happen. ‘When did we Scots become such a hugging nation?’ She shook her head. ‘My parents will be girning in their graves.’
Her eyes then grew distant. She shivered, refocused and looked up at his face as if debating whether or not to say something.
‘The dark-haired woman? Keep away from her. She means you harm.’
10
A dark-blue Land Rover was in the drive at Newton Hall when Ranald’s taxi pulled in. There were two or three people inside but Ranald was unable to see exactly who they were.
‘Got you back just in time,’ said the taxi driver.
Ranald fished out his wallet and paid the fare. Then he picked up his bag and the box, climbed out of the car and went to greet his visitors.
A man got out of the driver’s seat. It was Quinn, the lawyer. He smiled broadly when his eyes lighted upon Ranald – but his expression lacked any warmth. Then he walked forwards, arm outstretched, inviting Ranald to shake his hand. Ranald shifted the box in his arms and with an awkward movement, took the lawyer’s hand. It was too warm and way too moist. Ranald made a mental note to wash his hand as soon as he could.
‘Mr McGhie, how are you? We just thought we’d pop in to see how you’re settling in.’
We, wondered Ranald.
‘So lawyers now do Sunday house calls do they, Mr Quinn?’ said Ran, turning to appraise the man who’d climbed out of the passenger seat.
‘You’re part of the family now, Ranald.’ Quinn sounded Ran’s first name as if he was trying it out for the first time. ‘So we thought it was time you met your cousins, Marcus and Rebecca Fitzpatrick.’ He put out his arm as the other man strode towards them. ‘Marcus, this is Ranald.’
House of Spines Page 7
