There were two couples among the café’s patrons. As he watched them, his loneliness built and he felt envy take residence in his gut, curling up there like a malicious black cat.
He brought out his notebook and pen, placed them on the table in front of him and began to write in an effort to shut off his train of thought.
Minutes later he read what he’d written:
He picks his seat with care on a Sunday.
Alone in the café. Square table.
Heavily thumbed novel, coffee and cake.
And space for three more people.
He kisses the rim of the cup. Sips, swallows and licks
at the foam teasing the corner of his mouth.
An intimacy of one.
He watches couples for clues. A smile. A look. The briefest of touches.
Words without sounds. How to effect that comfortable indifference
couples wear while reading weekend print?
He reads his book. Thinking he should drain his coffee
continue his read at home.
But where’s the company in that?
He sighed and read the last line again: ‘But where’s the company in that?’
And there was the rub.
The door opened. He looked up, hoping it might be Liz and that she might be in a better mood. They didn’t need to have sex or anything, just passing the time of day with him would be some sort of result.
But it wasn’t her, it was the War and Peace girl. And she was carrying the book under her arm. She shook the rain from her hair, spotted him, gave him a little wave and walked over.
‘How’s you?’ she asked. ‘Have you been away? You look great.’
Been away? Again he wondered how long it had really been since he was here.
‘Cheers. Just been in the garden. Who needs to travel abroad when we get that kind of weather?’
‘Well, if the sun comes back, get right out there again. It suits you.’
That was all the encouragement he needed. ‘Why don’t you join me? I’ve got all these seats to spare.’ He pointed at the other three chairs at the table.
She looked taken aback at the suggestion.
‘Shit,’ she replied wearing an apologetic expression. ‘I’m just in for a takeaway coffee. Got to get back to the house. But thanks, that was kind of you.’
Ranald fought the heat that was working up his neck. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Why was he blushing? Hadn’t done that since he was in his early twenties.
‘Ach, they’re not very comfy anyway.’
She smiled and walked over to the counter as he chided himself, calling himself a loser.
He watched her at the counter and noted the book. She had just decided to take her book out for a walk, had she? Shit excuse. Then he felt ashamed that if she had come in here for a quiet coffee and a read, he’d scared her off with his awkward invitation. So, before the waitress started working on her drink, he stood up and walked out.
When he got back to the house, he realised he still needed a distraction. Loud noise and lots of movement – the illusion at least of company? So he went up to the TV room, set the volume high and watched mindless shows, his mind barely following what was happening.
Every now and then his thoughts would stray back to War and Peace girl and he still felt the heat of a blush, even thought she had said no so nicely. She could have laughed at him.
Finally he headed for bed. He stripped off and before he climbed under the covers, pulled the bed curtains closed. Tonight, he needed to forget there was all this space around him. He needed his wee den.
But he remained awake for what felt like an age. Although the rain had returned, it was still warm outside. His head was too hot against the pillow, so he turned it over to the other side, hoping it would be cooler against his skin; but soon that heated up, too.
He got out of bed, opened the window and left the curtains open in the hope that a breeze would enter and dispel the oppressive heat. It didn’t work.
This was Scotland, he thought. This country didn’t get weather like this. What was happening? Body hot in the sticky air, he stretched out on the bed. Then changed position, turning from one side to the other. From the bed he could see out of the open window. The oak trees fringing the garden were black against the sky, louring over the house like sentinels.
Eventually, blessedly, his brain shut down and let him sleep.
Sliding into wakefulness, even before he was fully alert, he felt a sense of wrongness.
He opened his eyes to a weak light, enough to see that his breath was misting in the air. It was so cold he was shivering. He pulled himself up into a seated position, bringing his knees to his chest.
Was he dreaming? Last thing he remembered, he was too warm to sleep.
From the weak light coming in from the small window he could see that he was in the lift. He felt a tremor of fear. Trying to damp it down he stood up, located the seat in the corner, sat down with his feet on the chair and with his chest on his thighs. Steeling himself, he looked across at the mirror.
She was there. A back view. A shoulder clothed in a dark fabric. Black hair piled high on her head. The pale of her skin and the line of her neck and cheek shone as if holding some form of internal light. Her eyes were in shadow.
‘My love,’ he heard. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Equal parts fear and relief washed over him. ‘And I you.’ He didn’t speak but the words sounded in the space between them.
‘Close your eyes and let me show you how much.’
Unable to refuse, he closed his eyes. Felt a hand on each knee and warm breath on his inner thigh like the promise of a thousand hours of delight. Then a hand gripped him. Moved slowly.
Disappeared.
All sense of her was gone. Then she returned, fingertips trailing the length of his body, reading his skin like braille, as if she knew the exact route his nerves took and the precise amount of pressure required.
Again, she stopped.
He groaned. ‘No.’
A fist in his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat, and it felt like she might tear a handful of his hair out at the roots.
Her mouth was hot at his ear. ‘Are you mine?’
He nodded, afraid to move too much, aware of the exquisite pain in his scalp. Fear bloomed in his mind, clogged the words in his throat. Fear that she was real. Fear that she might withdraw from him forever.
‘Are you mine?’
‘Yes,’ he said in a croak.
Then a sudden shout: ‘Are you mine?!’
‘Forever,’ he gasped.
15
He woke inside the little space created by the curtains of his four-poster bed. His eyes were burning with fatigue and his forehead was damp. He turned and borrowed deep under the quilt, willing his mind to find sleep again.
The lift.
He sat up with a start. He’d had a dream again, hadn’t he?
There was a sense of it in his mind, but it was as if the detail was hidden behind a screen of smoke. He poked at this with his mind, and reeled back from the sorrowful feeling that was released, and the image that it prompted. Him lying in an open casket.
Jesus.
Enough.
He jumped out of bed. Grabbed a towel from his bathroom, wound it round his waist and made his way downstairs. As he passed the lift, he paused, lingered with his hand flat on the door as if trying to sense what was behind it.
He heard a voice from his right.
‘Ranald, are you okay?’
He turned. It was Mrs Hackett. She was staring at him with a strange look on her face. And she was keeping well away from him. Presumably because he was standing there in nothing but a towel.
‘I was just going for a swim…’
‘The lift won’t take you to the pool, Ranald,’ she said pointedly.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘It’s broken, Ranald. So it doesn’t matter where the key is, does it?’
Something in his gaze must have made her blanch. ‘Mr McGhie, you’re making me feel quite uncomfortable. Please go and have your swim, and then I’ll answer any questions you have about keys and lifts.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
He wasn’t, but he realised that, if he wanted the woman to talk to him about the lift he’d have to cover up. He decided to forego his swim for the moment. This was too important.
‘Wait here, please,’ he said. Then he ran upstairs and threw on his t-shirt and shorts.
When he came back down, Mrs Hackett was looking irritable at being kept waiting. But then she examined his face. ‘Ranald, are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Never better.’ He pointed at the lift. ‘The key?’
‘Why are you suddenly so interested in this?’
‘Why are you not just answering my question?’
‘Well, I never,’ Mrs Hackett held a hand to her heart. ‘Mr Fitzpatrick would never have used that tone to me.’
He took a breath. His anxiety to work this out was making him aggressive; he knew that wasn’t fair.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs H. I just really need to know. Could you please tell me where the key to this door is?’
Somewhat mollified by his placatory tone, Mrs Hackett gave a little huff and shifted her feet, signalling that she would answer his question, but he wasn’t fully forgiven just yet.
‘I never use the lift. It used to give me the creeps, actually.’
Ranald raised his eyebrows, thinking, Just tell me.
‘Yes, yes…’ She picked up on his irritation. ‘Mr Fitzpatrick told me one day that the lift was broken, and he’d locked it in case anyone used it and got stuck. Which was a bit strange, I remember thinking, because there was rarely anyone in the house apart from me and him.’
‘Did Rebecca and Marcus never visit? What about Quinn?’
Mrs Hackett made a dismissive noise. ‘Rebecca and Marcus rarely came. In fact, I’d all but forgotten what they looked like. And Quinn never ventured beyond the front drawing room. Couldn’t see past that drinks cabinet, if you ask me.’
‘And my uncle never tried to get someone in to fix the lift?’
‘He said there was no real point.’
‘And the key?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘Not sure.’ She shrugged. ‘Never using the thing, I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Where might he have kept a key like that?’
‘There’s cupboards and drawers all over this house. It could be anywhere.’
His mind crowded with disappointment and no longer entirely sure why he was so adamant that he should gain access to the lift – outside of his dreams, at least – Ranald slumped against the wall.
‘Sorry, Mrs Hackett, I don’t know what’s got into me this morning.’ He smiled full beam, hoping that would win her favour. ‘A strong coffee will sort me out.’
‘Not too strong, Ranald.’ Now they were back on good terms, it seemed she was happier to call him by his Christian name. ‘You don’t want your sleep affected.’ As she said this she gave him a pointed look.
He let it go. But what the hell did she mean by that? Was he looking that tired?
‘If you have no more questions, Ranald, then…’
‘Thanks, Mrs Hackett. Sorry to be so…’ he tailed off and turned away towards the kitchen.
Once there he set up the coffee machine. Feeling tired once again, and guilty for the way he’d spoken to Mrs Hackett, he sat down and rubbed his eyes. For a moment he even thought about going back to bed.
He’d be fine once the caffeine hit.
Dark-brown, liquid heaven splashed and spluttered into the glass jug. He poured some into a mug and started to drink.
Why would his great-uncle lock the lift? Was it really something as basic as the fact that it was broken? The most obvious answer was usually the right one, his dad used to say. But in this instance, Ranald wasn’t buying that. Why was it a regular feature in his dreams? Something was going on here.
If Alexander did lock the lift, where had he put the key?
As he thought back to Mrs Hackett’s responses, her body language, he was sure she had been skirting the question, hiding something. But what?
If he couldn’t find the key, he had to get a locksmith in. Whatever he needed to do to achieve it, he had to open that door.
After the coffee jug was drained, he moved through to the library and searched every drawer in the desk in case he’d missed it when he’d rifled through previously. Nothing. Next, he tried the reception room, working his way through all of the cupboards and drawers there, under the watchful eyes of his deceased forebears. Still nothing.
Next, he tried his bedroom and the TV room, with similar results.
He tried the other bedrooms in his wing of the house. Both of which had large oak beds and matching giant wardrobes, straight out of an antiques showroom. Dark walls and heavy curtains completed the feel of bedrooms that hadn’t changed in decades. It was as if Alexander had run out of energy while doing the modernisations and thought, why bother, no one goes in here. And while these rooms were bright enough, all having large windows, they had an oppressive feel, lacking the energy that constant inhabitation brings.
They also lacked anything that might constitute a key.
He thought about the little key safe in the garage. When he opened it the other day the only keys he could remember seeing were the ones for the cars. But it was certainly worth another look.
He ran out to check but, once again, found nothing.
Trudging back into the house he sat back down again at the kitchen table. He considered trying the bedrooms on the way up to the tower room, but he discounted that idea. Something told him it would be a waste of time – he wasn’t sure what, but as he rubbed his thoughts against it, like he might rub his thumb against the ridged edge of a coin, he decided his intuition was solid. Mrs Hackett had talked about Alexander’s mother’s rooms. And, after her, his sister’s. Alexander was of a generation most likely forbidden access to family member’s private spaces, and if they were known as their rooms that must have had the whiff of an official dictate for him. He might, perhaps, have entered that space after his sister died, for a wee nosey, but Ran doubted he would have ever felt comfortable lounging there.
Then, without articulating the need to, as if directed by some internal force, he stood up and walked to the kitchen cupboards nearest the door and opened the top drawer. For a second he paused, questioning what he was doing – what was prompting him. Then he ignored the question. Now that he was doing it, it made sense.
In the drawer he found pens, assorted sales leaflets, some packs of AA batteries, a couple of birthday cards still in their cellophane wrapping … and a key.
Instantly he knew it was what he was looking for.
He opened his fingers. Felt the weight of it and regarded it sitting there, in the middle of his palm: a threat wrapped in a promise. It looked like a key that might open a treasure chest, an attic room or a box labelled ‘Pandora’.
At the thought of the Greek legend, he tilted his hand and allowed the key to drop into the drawer. But it rested there for no longer than a second before he picked it up again.
He told himself not to be daft. It was time to go and look. These dreams were haunting his every waking thought. He had to discover the truth of things. It would prove his worries were groundless and he could relax, get some work done and get on with his life.
But what if…
Mouth dry, heart thundering at his ribs, and the thought that he was going crazy rattling in his mind, he walked along the corridor to the lift.
As he thought it would, the key fitted the lock perfectly. He twisted the metal shaft and, with just a little effort, the mechanism moved and the lock clicked open.
Before he could stop himself, he had pulled open th
e outside door.
16
With the main door open he was faced with a metallic mesh concertina gate. He reached for the handle and pushed the gate along its runners until it was fully open.
He didn’t step inside.
Couldn’t step inside.
It’s only a lift, Ran. Get a hold of yourself.
He had an idea. Walking back into the kitchen, he lifted one of the chairs, carried it back to the lift and used it to prop open the outside door. If that closed while he was inside, he didn’t know how he would handle it.
Light flooded in from the corridor.
Then it dimmed.
He looked over his shoulder, down towards the main hall. But there was nothing. Probably the sun ducking behind a cloud.
Ignoring the slight tremble in his right knee, he stepped inside the lift. He looked at the red wallpaper with its gold fleur-de-lys motif. The red carpet. The low-legged, small chair in the corner. It was wooden, the centre of each arm cushioned with the same cloth as the seat cushion and the back insert. It was a parlour chair, he thought. Then he asked himself how that little nugget of information had dropped into his mind.
Wherever it had come from, the chair, the wallpaper, and yes, the mirror, were all familiar. Far too familiar. If he had only been in here in his dreams, why was everything in it instantly recognisable?
There was a draught. A breeze. On it floated a scent he recognised.
The kitchen chair shifted; its weight was insufficient to hold the outside door. With a brushing sound, it closed.
‘No,’ he shouted and reached out, but he wasn’t quick enough.
‘My love,’ he heard. The sound was musical, reassuring. He stepped back further inside the lift, shaking his head, refusing to believe that this was happening.
House of Spines Page 12
