by Grace Monroe
As soon as I let myself think about it, I knew I couldn’t do it.
There were steps too far even for me.
And this was one of them.
How could I throw a coffin lid onto the ground? How could I look at a skeleton covered in a tiny white gown and a pink teddy eaten by God knows what? I knew too much from old newspaper reports–that baby was still real to me.
I heard something move, I thought I heard something from the direction of the stone angel above me. My mind was racing–everything seemed alive in this place of death.
I thought I heard the angel scream.
I thought I heard my mother cry.
That baby.
That baby.
That baby.
That was what she had called it.
That baby.
Not ‘my’ baby.
Not ‘my’ child.
She was cold, but was she that cold?
The silence I needed to keep didn’t matter. The noises I thought I could hear seemed less threatening.
‘Joe! Joe!’ I shouted as I ran towards the gates and the wall.
I was running as fast as I could. Trying to get away from what I carried, the knowledge that I was bearing, rather than what I had left behind. Joe was clambering over the top just as I reached the entrance to the cemetery. I reached my arms up to his and, vaulting the wall, barely noticed the drop. Jack drove off whilst the passenger door was still open.
My mother’s cries rang in my ears–and I was sure I heard the fractured weep of a newborn soul.
They drove me on.
The end was coming.
FORTY-SIX
Soft goose feathers encased in linen cradled my head, the pillow was worth every penny I had spent on it, for it lulled me into a sleep that, at many points, had seemed as if it would never come.
The alarm must have gone off but didn’t wake me. The desire to sleep late was too strong even for the threat of imminent death to break.
‘Get up you lazy toe-rag–your breakfast’s out and the Prof’s on his way.’ With one tug Joe had pulled the covers from my bed. Curling more tightly into the foetal position I tried to ignore him, until his words permeated my coma-like slumber.
Jumping up and down on one foot I pulled my socks on. My balance had improved by the time I was forcing my second leg into my jeans. The t-shirt from last night lay rumpled on my chair, lazily; I was about to put it on, then I recalled where I had worn it last, and what exactly I had considered doing.
I went the extra step and pulled a fresh one from the drawer. My hair could wait; getting rid of that t-shirt could not. Holding it at arm’s length I walked into the kitchen, not stopping until I reached the bin. I threw it in.
Joe had a blue striped butcher apron on, he was frying sausages. Jack and Fishy were already seated round the table looking as if they had been up all night. Starving, I grabbed a piece of hot buttered toast from the pile. Joe slapped my hand.
‘Wait till it’s ready–have you washed your face this morning?’
Holding on to half a slice of toast, I stared in the large mirror on the wall behind the kitchen table. Mud smeared my face, from temple to chin. Grave mud. Slowly, I looked at my hands fearing confirmation of my thoughts. True enough my fingernails were still black from the baby’s burial place.
Standing at the table I threw the toast, aiming for the bin. I missed.
‘Clean yourself up–I’ll get this,’ Joe shouted. I was already on my way to the shower.
Through the streams of cold water running down my head I heard the muffled sound of the doorbell. My fingertips had been scrubbed so hard they bled, and it was difficult for me to dress quickly for my legs were still wet; the jeans got stuck halfway up my thighs.
In the hallway I could hear Patch’s voice. Pulling my zip up, I ran out to greet him. They were all sitting round the table. Glasgow Joe was turning into Delia Smith before my eyes and Patch gratefully received a steaming mug of coffee, and a bacon sandwich. They were all waiting for me–even Jack and Joe didn’t know everything as I had been so overwhelmed on the way back from the cemetery that I hadn’t told them all of my thoughts. Frankly, I had been borderline hysterical and I needed to be a sight more together before they would take me seriously.
‘I don’t believe that Kailash is the mother of the baby found in the sea,’ I began.
‘Well, what does that matter anyway?’ asked Patch. ‘We don’t need to know how many pregnancies she had, and God knows how many abortions,’ I raised my eyes at his religious morality and presumptions, ‘but we do need to find out how to keep you safe.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ I sighed, resting my head on my forearm on the table. ‘Kailash was pregnant. Lord Arbuthnot was the father–he’d been raping her for years. But Kailash could never have thrown a living child of her bones into the sea; she could never have murdered her own.’
‘With all due respect, my dear,’ interrupted Patch, ‘she seems pretty adept at killing to me.’
‘But not her own child, Patch,’ I countered. ‘Rape victims don’t always have terminations. Some want to get good out of evil; to prove that they are different to the bastards who attack them.’
‘And that’s Kailash?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘She is repeatedly sexually abused but believes that her baby will be a sign of a happy new life? I think not.’
‘Kailash Coutts is a whore, Brodie,’ interjected Fishy. ‘She only cares about herself. She’s ruined enough lives over the years–another one wouldn’t make much difference to her tally.’
A heavy weight fell upon my chest and it felt hard to breathe. My chest lifted painfully in short little bursts.
Joe stroked my head as I lay it down further.
‘What makes you so sure, darlin’?’ he asked.
I felt stupid even as I prepared to say it.
‘She kept saying “that baby,” never “my baby,” never “my” anything. It was as if she was trying to distance herself. And as if she couldn’t get too attached to what she was saying. I’d bet my life on it–she isn’t the mother of that child.’ I shuddered as I said it.
I didn’t want to bet my life on anything, but this time I was sure Kailash wasn’t playing me. This time I felt I had seen behind the mask. Why wouldn’t they believe me?
I looked around at the table of men–I had my answer really. I wasn’t a mother, but I knew where the gap lay–they couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t contemplate something so primal as the need to protect your own.
‘I saw the mark, Joe!’ I shouted, clutching at anything. ‘The brand links Kailash, Lord Arbuthnot, and Laura Liddell.’ I was biting back the tears. I hadn’t cried since my mother died and I didn’t want to break that record here in front of a room of men.
‘I need to see Kailash. I’m going up to Cornton Vale to tell her–I don’t have time to wait until court.’
I flew out of the flat before Joe or Jack could stop me; I had already driven hundreds of miles because of Kailash; normally it was a joy, but today the heavens opened and the rain flooded the motorway to Stirling. Driving was treacherous and the wheels were aquaplaning as they crossed the puddles; more than once I feared that I had lost control.
Soaked to the skin, and in no mood to joke, I entered Cornton Vale prison.
‘Have you nothing better to do than come here two days running–or are you looking for a bed here?’
I growled at the attempts at familiarity from the probationary officer. In silence she showed me to the consulting rooms. We went through the same dreary process of getting Kailash from her cell.
Standing with my back to the door, I heard her come in.
‘That baby’s not yours, is it?’
‘What?’ she asked, unused to being thrown straight into a conversation she had not controlled.
‘I don’t know who that baby did belong to–but I know it’s not yours, maybe not even Lord Arbuthnot’s for all I know.’
I wasn’t pre
pared for the sight of Kailash’s tears or for her whimpering.
‘He told me…he told me that was my baby.’
‘Who told you?’ I asked
‘Lord MacGregor.’ She could see the confusion in my eyes.
‘His father? Alistair’s father?’
She kept shaking her head in disbelief.
‘He saved me–he broke into the house after I’d given birth, he took me to Newcastle and got me medical attention.’
‘How noble of him–with you out of the way there was no evidence of rape or attempted murder against his son,’ I sneered.
‘Ah, Brodie–we’re not so different, are we? Exactly what I thought. I may only have been thirteen, but I knew men’s lies, men’s ways. How could I trust the man who had fathered…that? He got me away so far, but it was me who saved myself. I broke out of the safe house, I didn’t really believe such a thing existed. I…liberated some of the old man’s cash before I left and got a friendly lorry driver to smuggle me on to a ferry to Amsterdam. So kind of him–who could blame him for not bothering to ask why a thirteen-year-old child with blood caked all over her was running away? Who could blame him for ignoring her tears and pain when he got his payment for his altruism? Who could blame yet another man taking what he thought was rightfully his?
‘Lord MacGregor had promised me he’d search for my baby–some months later he sent me the newspaper cutting. I never knew how he found out where I was–but I was grateful that he hadn’t arrived in person. By that time, I had learned a few things. Not enough–but it got me by. I got Malcolm to send one of those cuttings to you so you’d understand.’
‘Malcolm? Well, Malcolm didn’t put his name on it so I assumed it came from the killer.’
‘Yes–well–that’s Malcolm; sometimes he’s a bit too much cloak and dagger for his own good.
‘So you’ve no idea who the baby in the grave belongs to?’ she asked.
‘No–but I’ve a good idea who does,’ I answered her. ‘Lord MacGregor.’
‘Brodie, he can confirm all of this. I’m not lying to you. He found me close to death in his son’s house in Heriot Row. The midwife who tended me? She might still be alive–she knows I’d just given birth.’
‘That’s always supposing that Lord MacGregor will speak, Kailash. Blood is thicker than water.’
‘Brodie–this falls to you. You have to make him tell the truth. Some poor mother doesn’t know where her long-dead baby rests.’
Kailash’s last phrase rang in my ears as I drove back to Edinburgh. It seemed out of character for her to be so concerned about anyone, much less someone who was anonymous, but I was discovering that Kailash Coutts wasn’t quite the closed book I hade initially imagined her to be.
I had no idea where Lord MacGregor was even residing, but I knew a man who would.
FORTY-SEVEN
Jack insisted on driving, and Joe insisted on tagging along. I pointed out it was impossible to park in Ramsay Gardens. Naturally, it was one of the most exclusive addresses in Edinburgh, situated right next to Edinburgh Castle. It was designed in 1892 as a reaction to the New Town of Edinburgh. In stark contrast to the regimented lines and geometrical symmetry of the new area, the old was a whimsical–but often murderous–concoction of closes and ramshackle buildings. The turrets and fairytale gables of Ramsay Gardens mimic the architecture of the Old Town, originally designed as a group of tall apartments for intellectuals. I loved it.
Tourists were still swarming around Castle Hill. I refused to drive in circles to see if we could get one of the elusive parking spaces.
‘Drop me here, Joe–come and get me when you’ve parked.’
I jumped out of the car in Ramsay Lane, a steep hill next to the Assembly Hall; it overlooks Princes Street, and on a clear day you can see right across to Fife. The flowers were out in full bloom in the courtyard; it was impossible not to be impressed. I wondered where the old man parked his Morgan roadster.
I ran up the steps, not bothering to hold onto the black iron hand rail. The faster I moved the easier it would be. I was torn between praying he would be in, and hoping he wasn’t. A shiny ebony black door greeted me. The thud of the heavy and recently polished brass knocker reverberated round the hall. My heart which had jumped six inches, was hammering in my throat; wiping my clammy hands on my jeans I readied myself.
Slowly the door swung open as if it was a great weight. A nose peered round its edge, I knew that it did not belong to Lord MacGregor–it was too white and unwrinkled. One eye stared at me unblinking, black painted nails dug into the door.
Moses Tierney had moved up in the world.
Pushing my foot against the door I forced it open, although in truth, Moses was not excluding me. In fact they had been waiting on my arrival.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked grumpily.
‘Come in–come in–don’t stand at the door.’ Lord MacGregor was moving down the hall towards me. ‘Moses phoned me from the police station–they were happy to release him into my custody.’
‘I am very, very pissed off with you,’ Moses hissed into my ear.
‘That makes two of us,’ I said. Poking him in the chest to move him out of the way, I felt his bones beneath my finger. Flashes of other bones came into my mind and I pushed them away. Moses was behind me as I followed Lord MacGregor into the drawing room; on edge, I sensed every move he made.
‘It’s magnificent,’ I said, looking at the scene from his window, a living million-pound postcard. To the left stood the castle, sweeping down to the old Nor’ Loch which had been drained to form Princes Street gardens.
Lord MacGregor stood in front of the window, blocking my view down to Princes Street and the Forth. I could hear the sound of the fire crackling in the grate. I presumed his age meant he suffered from the cold, for the room was stiflingly hot.
Lord MacGregor stood staring at me, drinking in every detail as if he had never seen me before. Walking towards me he reached out and touched my hair, gently, enjoying the springiness of my curls.
I stepped back out of his reach. ‘What the…?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, tears filled his rheumy old eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Brodie. So sorry for so many things, but where do I begin?’ It was towards Moses he looked.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, tell her the truth. Ever thought of that? There are too many lies in your bloody family.’ Moses spat the words out.
Lord MacGregor slumped down in a chair.
‘But where do I begin?’ he asked the boy again.
Moses fumbled about in a drinks cabinet; the Edinburgh Crystal glasses sparkled like diamonds as he poured a twenty-five-year old Laphroaig into a glass, and handed it to Lord MacGregor.
‘Get me one of those,’ I nodded at the glass in Lord MacGregor’s trembling hand. Wordlessly, Moses did as I had asked.
I walked up and down, pacing. The heels of my bike boots clattered. I winced in case I was marking the ancient dark oak flooring, but Lord MacGregor seemed blasé, he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.
Moses handed him a locked walnut marquetry box. Lord MacGregor pulled out the gold chain he wore beneath his shirt. It lay accusingly on his chest, weighed down by a key.
‘I suppose you’ve come about my son?’ His voice cracked with unshed tears.
‘I’m surprised you’re still willing to acknowledge ownership of that bastard after hearing what he’s been getting away with for years,’ I answered.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he continued, as if my words hadn’t even registered.
‘Have you now? Well, I’m sick as fuck of everyone expecting me to find out things–why the hell didn’t you all just tell me all you knew in the first place?’
‘Don’t swear here–he doesn’t like it.’ Moses nodded in Lord MacGregor’s direction, leaving me to wonder just how close their relationship was given that the boy seemed to know every nuance of the old man’s personality.
‘To answer your question–my dear, wh
en you’ve covered up the truth for years…it can be, shall we say, difficult to bring it out into the cold light of day.’
‘Cover up the truth? Lie. You mean lie–when you’ve lied for years,’ I said.
‘I suppose I mean both,’ he said, as his arthritic fingers fumbled with the key in the lock. Exasperated, he threw the chain, and key down; humbly Moses kneeled at his feet, and picked it up. With the skill of the artful dodger, Moses opened the box in a trice. Contemplatively his fingers were stroking his upper lip, as he stared into the box, which my prying eyes could see was filled with old papers.
‘It’s not going to get any easier–and she’s not going away in a hurry,’ Moses said as he squeezed Lord MacGregor’s bony old knee encouragingly.
‘He’s right–I’m here for answers,’ I said as he spurred into action, rifling through the documents. His tongue poked through his thin lips as he concentrated. I didn’t want to say a word in case I put him off. This was what I had come for, this is what I hoped for: Kailash’s travel documents or a doctor’s report on her condition. He must have had something on his son in that box, something I could use to free Kailash and prove her story.
‘Brodie, my dear, you need to be sitting down,’ he said, pausing with two documents in his hand.
‘I’ll stand, thanks, and Moses…’ I said, brandishing my empty glass at him, ‘I’ll take another one of these if you’re offering.’
‘I’m not. You’ll need a clear head for this,’ he replied.
The old man handed me two old affidavits. I decided to read them at random. And I decided to sit down after all.
At Edinburgh on 30 November 1976
My full name is Jane Montgomery McIntyre
and I reside at 23 Bellevue Road Edinburgh.
I hereby confirm that on 29 September 1976
