Marcus was tall, flat-bellied and broad-shouldered, with a full head of grey hair. Clearly middle-aged, he brimmed with health, looking like he’d just left the changing rooms at the rugby club after a hard session on the practice field. His demeanour oozed privilege; Ranald felt as if he were being weighed up for a shoplifting charge.
Marcus took Ranald’s hand and gave it a vigorous and too-lengthy shake, as if he was trying to demonstrate he was the alpha male. Ranald immediately pictured him at the imagined rugby club, surrounded by ageing ex-public schoolboys, all of them at the height of society and crowing at the fact.
‘Going to invite us in?’ asked Marcus.
‘Ah…’ Quinn looked back at the Land Rover and then at Marcus. ‘Rebecca? Is she not…’
‘Migraine,’ Marcus offered. ‘You know how she is.’
Ranald looked over at the vehicle. In the back seat he could just make out the shape of a woman with dark hair.
‘Please,’ said Ranald turning away and holding his hand out towards the doorway.
Once inside, Ranald led the way to the right and the corridor down to the kitchen. Then he turned; Marcus and Quinn weren’t behind him – they were making their way straight for the big reception room to the left of the main hall. Ranald took a deep breath then dropped his stuff in the hall and tailed after them.
Without waiting for an invitation, Marcus took a seat on one of the room’s vast red sofas and, hitching up his cream-coloured chinos at the right knee, he crossed his legs. He leaned back, his arms stretched out. ‘Perhaps a wee snifter would be in order?’ he said looking pointedly at a low cabinet leaning against the far wall. ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere, surely?’
‘Yes,’ said Quinn looking at his wristwatch. ‘Here, actually.’
Taking the hint, Ranald walked over to the cabinet and opened a couple of doors. Inside he found bottles of brandy and whisky, water, ginger ale and lemonade, as well as crystal glasses.
‘What would you like?’
‘A cheeky wee malt for me,’ replied Marcus. ‘On its own, thanks.’
‘Just a bottle of water for me,’ said Quinn. ‘Wouldn’t do to risk the breathalyser these days.’
Ranald poured a generous measure for Marcus and himself, then he picked out a bottle of water for Quinn and carried the drinks across the room to the seats.
‘How are you settling in, then, Ranald?’ asked Quinn.
Ran nodded, trying to disguise a small choking feeling as the strong drink hit the back of his throat. ‘It’s quite a place. Still trying to get my head round it all, to be honest.’
As he spoke into the hushed gentility of the room, with his forebears looking down on him from their portraits on the walls, Ranald was acutely aware of the difference in their accents. Glasgow had never been allowed into the speech of either of these men, but it was there in his vowels and consonants, like a wee black dog growling from the corner of the room.
‘If I may,’ Marcus took a sip of his drink, ‘I’ll give you the full picture. The man you inherited this house from was my father, William’s, uncle. Alexander died without issue. My father had two children. Myself and my sister, Rebecca.’ He paused. ‘Next time we visit, we’ll try to get her out of the car.’ He guffawed as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard all year. He took another sip. ‘Your mother was my father’s younger sister.’ He looked off into the distance. ‘I have few memories of Aunt Helena. Rebecca reminds me of her. Changeable, like the Scottish weather.’
Ranald considered what Marcus just said and about the timing of events. He judged his cousin to be in his early forties, so he would have only been an infant, if that, when his mother left Newton Hall. She would have miscarried her first pregnancy around the same time as Marcus’s birth. So how would Marcus possibly remember her in any detail?
Marcus read what must have been an expression of puzzlement on Ranald’s face. ‘Ah, yes, the family legend,’ he nodded. ‘Daughter leaves, never to speak to any of us ever again.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘She used to sneak in when Grandmother was out of the country. Borrowed a few bob from my father I believe, over the years.’
‘What?’ asked Ranald, looking from Marcus to Quinn. ‘I thought you said she kept her distance?’
‘So I was led to believe,’ Quinn responded keeping his face rigid.
‘If I remember correctly…’ Marcus scratched at the left side of his face, the kink of a strange light in his eyes. ‘…Aunt Helena and Father had a strange relationship. One minute they’d be squabbling, as only brother and sister can. The next…’ He tailed off as if unsure whether or not to go there.
‘The next, what?’ demanded Ranald, feeling emboldened by the strong liquor.
‘Well…’ Marcus held his arms wide as if to indicate an openness. ‘I was only a teenager the last time I saw her, and, well, you know how clueless teenage boys are.’ He threw his head back and issued one of his hearty laughs. It sounded like a pronouncement of his convivial nature; if Ranald heard it one more time he was going to grind a good centimetre off his back teeth. ‘But there was this one afternoon, I was supposed to be playing rugby, but I got sent home – tummy bug or something. Anyway, when I came in, I heard some noise coming from Father’s study. I walked in and Father and Helena jumped apart as if they had just been scalded.’ He brought his eyebrows together, his forehead deeply furrowed. ‘No idea what they were up to. Nothing dubious I expect.’
As Ranald tried to work through whatever Marcus had just said, his cousin knocked back the remainder of his drink and stood up. ‘Right,’ he said loudly. ‘Best be off. The wife will be carving into the Sunday roast as we speak.’
Ranald stood up with some relief.
‘You must join us one Sunday,’ said Marcus.
That was an invite that was never going to arrive, mused Ranald. But he kept his thoughts to himself. ‘That would be … splendid,’ he answered instead.
‘Excellent,’ said Quinn rubbing his hands briskly together. ‘I’m sure you two will become the firmest of friends.’
Ranald forced a smile and they all shook hands.
Ranald closed the door on them before they’d even reached their car.
Going back into the reception room, he picked up his unfinished whisky and walked over to the window to watch as the car drove off. Neither Quinn nor Marcus gave the house so much as a glance. Probably too busy gossiping about him, thought Ranald. Finding plenty of fault.
At his first meeting with Quinn, the lawyer had stated that the other members of the Fitzpatrick family were adequately compensated in the old man’s will. Ranald wondered if that was how they saw the situation. Had they been aware he existed? Or had they been assessing the size of the old man’s estate in the months before he died? If the latter was the case, his appearance must have come as a massive shock; a challenge to their dreams of further wealth.
And what was all of that about his mother and her brother? What was Marcus trying to suggest? That their affection for each other was something other than the usual family bond? He might have only been in his teens when his mother died but he knew her well enough to question that. Sure, she had her problems, but…?
If Marcus’s memory was to be believed, however, what were she and William up to?
Ranald drained the last of the drink and noted the warmth in his gut as the whisky reached it. This whisky-drinking was going to take some getting used to. What he didn’t think he’d ever get used to, though, was his cousin Marcus. And his other cousin, Rebecca, hadn’t even bothered getting out of the car to say hello. Ranald couldn’t help presuming she was every bit as condescending as her brother. He was willing to bet that the ‘migraine’ was a convenient excuse to postpone meeting him.
Forcing his cousins’ unpleasantness to the back of his mind, he went upstairs and changed into shorts and a t-shirt, then went down to the kitchen and made himself a meal.
While his food was cooking he set his phone to charge. Knowing Martie as he did, she’
d have left him a couple of messages after her visit the other day, worried that her rejection had set off a black mood.
Once he’d eaten, he judged that the phone would have enough charge, so he turned it on and waved it slowly at the window to see if it might pick up a signal. Nothing. Maybe the garden beyond the pool might be a good place. Moments later, he was standing there, in the warm evening sun, holding his phone at various heights and angles. Finally, walking further away from the house he had success. A beep. Then another.
He dialled his messaging service.
The first one was from his agent. That was a surprise – he hadn’t spoken to the guy in months. He said he had a commission to talk over with Ran; could he phone the office first thing on Monday?
The next one was from Liz. An apology that she’d run off the other night. ‘I’d never had such a vivid dream before.’ Then a small laugh. ‘Maybe it was the product of a guilty conscience?’ Cough. ‘Anyways. This is a small town, really, so I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us. Be sure to say hi next time you see me.’ Then a half-whispered, half-sung, ‘B-ye.’
He hadn’t expected that. She’d obviously had a nice time. Might she be up for a repeat performance? But there was just one thing that troubled him: he couldn’t remember giving her his number.
He felt warm. Too warm. On the brink of suffocation. The air was leaden in his lungs and his skin was clammy from head to foot.
He was aware of something – a hand on his chest. Hot breath in his ear. Teeth nibbling on his lobe. Then the mouth was pressed against his neck and kisses trailed to his collarbone.
A groan sounded out in the room; he realised it was coming from him.
‘Please, don’t stop,’ he said.
He felt a hand on his inner thigh. It stroked his stomach and then moved back down to his thigh.
He exhaled. The feeling was exquisite. Nothing else mattered beyond his skin and beating heart.
Then he woke with the suddenness of a gunshot.
Disorientated, his heartbeat heavy against his ribs. His pulse was hard in his throat, and he was lying on something hard. Where the hell was he?
His eyes adjusting to the dim light, he could see that he was in a confined space. Three walls were covered in a red-and-gold patterned wallpaper. The remaining wall held a mesh door and to the side of it a column of buttons with numbers on them – 1, 2, 3 and 4.
He was in the lift. And he was naked. There was a seat in the corner. He drew himself up onto it then immediately thought, why wasn’t he pulling open the door and getting the hell out of there?
And how did he even get in here? This door was locked the other day. How had he managed to get inside? He searched his memory. He’d gone to bed in his room shortly after dinner – still lightheaded from the whisky he’d drunk. He’d read a little, and then…
He heard a cough. As if someone was trying to get his attention.
‘Hello?’ he said, looking up at the small window in the lift door.
Then he heard a peal of laughter. A note of pure pleasure.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked. His system was charged with adrenalin. He was trembling. He needed to get out of here. Now. He crossed his arms as if to hold in his mounting panic. Should he shout for help?
And then he realised the truth of his isolation. He could scream for days without anyone hearing him. Not even the Hacketts.
Another cough.
He looked up, this time at the wall opposite the door. There was a mirror at head height – matching the height of the window in the door. He saw movement. Something passing out of shadow, partly into light.
It was a woman. Long, dark hair hid one side of her face. She wore a robe that was open to the navel, showing a glimpse of her breasts and a lean stomach.
‘Welcome,’ she said.
11
‘Mr McGhie, Mr McGhie.’
Ranald sat up in his bed, his body charged with fright at the loud voice coming from outside his bedroom.
‘Just checking you’re at home, Mr McGhie.’ It was Mrs Hackett.
‘Yes,’ he said, coughing to clear his throat.
‘I’m just about to leave for the day. Thought I’d better make sure you were okay before I left. Sorry to disturb you.’
She was about to leave for the day? Really? It was almost noon? He edged over to the side of the bed, realising as he did so that the quilt was down at his feet. He stood up, feeling dizzy.
In the shower, under the hot stream of water, he gathered his thoughts. There was a vague, unsettling build-up of energy at the back of his mind. He tried to push it away. It had been set off by Marcus’s comments about his mother, and he wasn’t going there. For the good of his health he couldn’t afford to. Besides, the man was full of nonsense.
Splinters of his previous night’s dream then slid into his mind. He’d been in a lift – the lift, surely. There was a woman. A vivid image came to him: her eyes. Knowing. Demanding. Welcoming. Captivating. He could have stared into them for hours.
His heart beat a little faster as he recalled her voice, her touch, the arousal he’d felt. What was happening to him? It was certainly better than the numbness of the last few years. You don’t appreciate what you’ve got till it’s gone … and then you get it back, he thought. He was human, vital, male, after all.
He turned on the cold water, with the thought that if he didn’t he might be in this shower all day. He gasped as the cold water streamed down his back and chest.
Exiting the shower, he dried himself, dressed and went downstairs, meeting Mrs Hackett in the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Mr McGhie.’ She tilted her head to the side as if in judgement. ‘Sleeping till all hours? Up working late last night were we?’ Her tone made it clear that she would be surprised if it had actually been work that kept him up.
Were you so familiar with my great-uncle, Mrs Hackett? was what he wanted to say. Instead he made a non-committal noise.
‘Do me a favour…’ he said in a feeble attempt to show who was really in control. ‘Please call me Ranald. That whole Mr McGhie thing feels weird.’ He shot her a smile and, before she could respond, walked past her and down to the kitchen. Before he got there he turned. ‘One thing? Is there a working broadband connection in the house?’
‘Yes there is, Mr … Ranald,’ she answered, bustling towards him. ‘I’ll find the password. The wifi signal has trouble getting through some of these walls, so Mr Fitzpatrick had boxes put in the kitchen, the library and up in the master bedroom. Oh, and in the TV room.’
‘Right. The TV room. I did some exploring. Mostly in the library to be fair.’ He made an apologetic face. ‘Me and books: I’m obsessed.’ He didn’t want to tell her that the sheer scale of the place was still giving him the creeps.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick would be so happy to know that, dear.’ She gave a little bow, and Ranald thought that he had momentarily been transported onto the set of a period drama.
Having put the coffee pot on, he retrieved the bag he’d left in the hall the previous afternoon and pulled out his laptop. Back at the kitchen table, he plugged it in, powered it up and sorted out the internet connection.
He was in.
Connected. And the world was back on its axis.
He had forty new emails. Most of them he could delete without action; all bar one. It was from his agent, Douglas McIntosh, and had been sent that morning at 9:01 am:
‘You haven’t answered my calls. On the piss, you lucky boy? All that whisky and sheep-shagging, eh?’
Douglas was from London, and, like several southerners Ran knew who’d never been to Scotland, he had a strange view of what life might be like up here.
‘We have an exciting project to talk over with you’, the email went on. ‘Big bucks!! Call me ASAP.’
This time last week Ran would have been on the phone to Douglas as soon as his fingers could flash over the numbers. This week? Life was just too interesting – and not a little dist
urbing – to be bothered with anything as basic as work.
Still, as Quinn pointed out, there was nothing in his inheritance that would keep him fed, so a job was still a necessity.
The coffee pot signalled with some spurting noises that the drink was ready so he poured himself a mug, stuck his laptop under his arm and walked through to the library.
On the way, he paused to have a look through the mesh of the small window on the door of the lift. His head blocked out any light, so he saw nothing. He shrugged. What had he expected to see? It was simply a vivid dream he’d had, that’s all. Already it was fading, leaving him with nothing but a lingering mix of emotions: hopefulness, a suspicion of joy. And there, elbowing its way past the others: a low-level sense of anxiety. Odd, he thought, and walked on. How could he have all that in his mind at the same time?
In the library, he picked up the desk phone and phoned his agent.
‘Ranald. Bloody hell, are you a difficult guy to get a hold of these days.’
‘Sorry, Douglas,’ he answered. ‘Life’s been a bit hectic.’ And very confusing.
‘It’s unlike you, Ran. You had me worried.’ This was a lie. They both knew that Ranald was likely to go AWOL from time to time. But when he did get on it, he was a good worker. Focused, on point and always on time.
Douglas was already talking about the mooted project: ‘…a new imprint … Pearson … they want you … liaise with Scottish Qualification Authority. Edinburgh meeting…’ Then. ‘You getting any of this, Ranald?’
‘Sure. I’m hearing you loud and clear, Douglas.’
It was all very workaday. Boring, and as functional as a Wellington boot. He wanted to soar. Use words that would move people. Tell stories that would shift minds, change worlds. Not this shit, time after time after time.
‘…initial advance … three months’ work … seven grand.’ Pause. ‘Ranald, should I call back when you are less distracted?’ Douglas sounded a little ratty. ‘These guys need an answer yesterday.’
House of Spines Page 8
