At last, she got to her feet, and brushed the wet sand from her jeans. How must she look?
But glancing around she noticed she was on her own, apart from one person over to her far left, their jacket a red smudge against the sand. She read the man’s height and his gait. Hope surged in her gut. Thomas? She quashed the thought. Where would Thomas get a dog, she questioned when she noted a large yellow Labrador at the man’s side, its tail a wagging blur of content.
Content.
That was a long time gone.
Would it ever return?
She kicked into the sand. Jesus, she needed to get out of her own head. That was where Joe was usually a good choice of companion. A careful mix of empathy and laughs. At the thought of him she felt another prod of conscience. She shouldn’t have talked to him in that way. He didn’t deserve any of that.
She turned and faced the tearoom just as a car drew up in the car park. A taxi? A man left the café and walked towards it. Before he got in he turned, his face scanning seawards. Even from this distance Paula could see the apology in Joe’s body language before he ducked into the car.
Another mark in the out-of-character column for Joe Gadd today, she thought. There was no way that he’d leave her here on her own in normal circumstances.
Then she tapped her forehead with the fingertips of her right hand. Joe was grieving as well. The usual behaviours get pushed aside. She should cut him some slack. Let him go away.
Leaving her on her own. Adrift. She thought of what she’d said to Joe earlier. That Thomas had worried she didn’t have enough friends. She’d poo-pooed him at the time. And look at her now, the only friend she had in the world was a priest.
Her phone buzzed from her pocket.
She plucked it out and read a message from him:
Thanks for bringing me along. It meant a lot. Need to be on my own for now. Getting next ferry home. Talk soon please?
She thumbed out a reply: Sure. Hug. X
She thought some more. Typed out something else: Sorry for acting the bitch. Peace and out.
A moment.
Then his reply: Peace and love, ya gallus besum.
She laughed with relief. She still had Joe on her side. And that was an expression Thomas used from time to time when talking about her. Some used it as a put-down but he used it with a wink and a grin, telling her that gallus meant bold. He enjoyed it when she was strong.
That was the line of women she came from, she told him. Bold and brazen. No men were going to silence them. That was as true then as it was now.
Phone back in her pocket she turned to the sea. Oh, Thomas, what should I do? Tell me what to do?
She began to walk along the water’s edge, further away from the car park and the tearoom. Best to give Joe his space. If she went back to the car now, chances were they’d end up on the same ferry going back to Wemyss Bay.
She felt the breeze against her forehead as she walked, chill and probing, and imagined it pushing the worries from her mind, leaving only a solid resolution. There was something going on here. Her husband was not the man she thought he was and it might have killed him. It might have been what killed their son.
Sometime later, head down, she could see – and hear from the sound of her tread – that she was reaching the end of the beach. The sand making way for stones, pebbles and grit, some of it coated in brown seaweed and egg wrack. Watching her footing, she turned slightly and made her way to grass and soil, then with a gasp realised where she had been heading all along.
Looking up and to her right, just within a small copse of trees she could see the dark bulk of the cottage she and Thomas had dreamed of renovating all those years ago.
She increased her pace, stepped beyond the trees and with a brief flare of happiness saw that the cottage no longer resembled the partly roofed, broken-windowed wreck she remembered.
Some lucky person had shared their ambition … and beat them to it.
See, Thomas, I told you, she thought. There was a home to be had here.
Moving closer she studied the small house. The thick walls were painted white. The door, made from good solid oak, was stained a similar colour to the one back at her home in Glasgow. The guttering and roof had been replaced, the windows double-glazed.
She clapped her hands. How wonderful. This was great. Something nice on this day of all days.
Then she had a thought that someone might be inside, looking out at this strange woman staring in, and was about to phone the police. She craned her head to the side, looking towards the far side of the house to see if there was any car parked.
The parking bay was empty.
Could the house also be empty? Could she risk an investigation? Wouldn’t it be great to see what someone had made of ‘her’ wee house? She stepped onto the gravel path and took the six steps to the door. Read the ‘Welcome’ on the doormat and moved to the side to peer in the window, all the while expecting someone to tap her on the shoulder and ask her what the hell she was doing.
Forehead pressed against the glass she looked into a cosy living room – low ceilinged, with a door on the far wall, possibly into a kitchen. On the wall to the right a small log-burner set into a large fireplace, with a mirror over the mantelpiece. One cream leather armchair to the side, with a matching two-seater sofa. With a pleased sigh, she realised it looked just like something she might have put together.
Something on the inside of the windowsill caught her eye. A gold-coloured photo frame containing the image of a family. The thought of witnessing a happy moment that belonged in someone else’s life almost stopped her, but something perverse in her made her look. She saw a handsome, healthy man, woman and child. All tan and teeth and windblown hair, with the sands of Ettrick Bay behind them. She took a closer look and her heart all but stopped.
The woman was her. The man, Thomas, and between them, with a gap-toothed smile, Christopher.
She knew that photo. Could remember it being taken out here on this beach.
What the hell?
Hand to her mouth she stepped back.
And while her mind spun, attempting to make sense of what she’d just seen, her body was acting on remote. Her hand was in her pocket and her fingers were locating one of the keys she’d picked up from the locksmith.
She stepped across to the door, the pop of gravel echoing, and placed the key in the lock.
She turned it. The door opened and she stepped inside.
15
Feeling that someone had temporarily taken control of her body, Paula closed the door behind her and stood in the hush of that small space, as if in a cathedral. So accustomed had she become to the breeze and occasional cry of a gull that silence rang in her ear like a sullen bell.
Stunned, she stood there and scanned the room. Stifled a sob.
Thomas.
What were you thinking?
Hope surged, stealing breath. Could he still be alive? After all, she was too drugged to face going to view the body so Joe went in her stead. Could he have been convinced by the wrong dead man?
A number of scenarios coursed through her mind. In all of them, rather than having a heart attack in a restaurant, Thomas avoided death in some accident, put his wallet in the pocket of a faceless man beside him in a car … then walked off into the distance.
She told herself to get a grip, then looked around.
The living room spread out to her right and there were two doors, both painted a crisp white. The white-stippled ceiling was only about a foot above her head; Thomas would have to walk about in here with slight stoop, she thought.
Trembling, she fumbled her way into the room, edged past the sofa and took a seat in the armchair. Eyes smarting with tears she breathed out low and hard. Breathed in. She had to pull herself together. There was a reasonable explanation here.
Could he be alive?
Could he?
She became aware of herself – her hands were pressed together as if in prayer. She stuffed them into
the pockets of her jacket. Looking down at the black, cast-iron wood-burning stove and the dried flower arrangement off to the side, she noted that was just what she would have picked.
You knew me, Thomas. You knew me.
She bit her lip. Heard a sob escape into the room. Felt a tear slide down her cheek. Shook her head. He’s dead, Paula. Dead. Don’t you go there.
She stood and walked over to what she guessed would be the door to the kitchen and pushed it open. White walls and ceiling, a blue marbled work surface, pale cupboard doors with a blue wash on her left, split by a chrome oven – facing her a half-glass back door, to the right of that a large picture window over a Belfast sink. To her right a small pine table with three chairs and a large aluminium fridge-freezer.
She walked over to the cupboards and opened them, looking for clues, but there was nothing but the usual cups, plates, cooking utensils and cutlery. Everything had the shine of the new and unused.
Stepping across the room to the fridge she noticed with a smile that it displayed one magnet, with a picture of Rothesay Castle. Christopher had loved their sole visit there. He had been particularly taken with the thought that a Viking King, Haakon Something, had taken the castle in the thirteenth century. Vikings were cool, he’d announced. And he shyly asked for a toy axe.
Hand on the cool chrome handle of the fridge, she pulled it open. It was empty apart from a carton of milk. She plucked it out of the shelf, held it to her nose and sniffed. It was fresh. Hope surged again.
No, she was being ridiculous.
She replaced the milk and closed the door. Then she turned and walked over to the sink and, with a start, noticed that there was a single mug in there, stained with two rings of dried coffee.
Paula picked the mug up and held it to her lips, imagining Thomas’s had been pressed there just moments earlier.
She let the mug drop into the sink and heard the clatter of china breaking.
Ignoring her impulse to clean up the breakage, she looked out of the window. Despite the theories that were colliding in her mind, she couldn’t help but appreciate the view. It was like someone had stood in this spot and shouted to someone outside to clear just enough shrub, branch and tree to frame the perfect scene.
Had Thomas been here to oversee the work, just before he died, or was this after his supposed death and funeral? She imagined him standing at this window, scanning the beach for her, waving as she approached from the sea.
She slapped her palm down hard on the sink. Enough. More clues; she needed more clues. What was real was the cottage. The photo on the windowsill. The key. Thomas had died and she had the death certificate to prove it.
This was surely her gift from him. His way to bring them both back together. And it would have worked.
It would have worked, you lovely, stupid man.
Paula left the kitchen and walked across to the other door. Turned the handle and pushed it open. This room was about the same size as the living room; it had one door off it – a bathroom? – and was crowded with a king-sized pine sleigh bed, the exact same as the one at home, with matching bedside cabinets, and against the far wall a wardrobe. Even the wallpaper, bedding and curtains were the same as her bedroom at home. But everything felt crowded and too busy in this much smaller space.
She quashed the urge to have any note of complaint spoil the moment. That Thomas had gone to this much time and trouble was adorable and deserved more from her.
She walked over to the other door, noting the plush feel underfoot and resisting the urge to climb onto the bed and smell the pillows, and pushed it open. The bathroom. A pedestal bath. She’d always wanted one of those. In the far corner a shower unit. The expected toilet and sink and, above the sink, a mirrored cabinet. She opened it, and inside saw a pair of bottles of scent. His and hers, as if on display. Oval bottles filled with an amber liquid. Obsession, by Calvin Klein. She imagined Thomas placing them there with a small smile of pleasure at his own wit and cleverness.
Yeah, you were that clever you got a heart attack, or got yourself killed.
She took a step back out of the bathroom, closed the door and walked over to the wardrobe. Pulled it open. There was a suit inside. Hanging there, dead centre. The exact match of the one from which she’d pulled the locksmith’s receipt.
‘Thomas, what are you playing at?’ She said the question out loud and realised that she was feeling his presence around her. Everything within these four walls had been chosen by Thomas, with her in mind. The daft big soft lump. She hugged herself, imagining that it was his strong arms around her.
‘I never did it when you were alive, buddy. Why do you suddenly think I’m going to go around checking your pockets again?’
Yet, she instantly did, trying the waistcoat pockets first. Nothing. Then the outside pockets of the jacket. Empty. Next, she pushed her hand into the inside pocket of the jacket. Nothing. Once she’d tried all of the pockets, she started at the beginning and tried them all again.
Last, she tried the trouser pockets and found a solitary toffee still in its clear wrapper, and a folded over leaflet for a will-writing service. Why would he be looking for one of them? Their wills had been updated about a year after Christopher died. What had happened in the meantime to make him think about changing it?
The front of the leaflet showed an imposing sandstone building, with a large wooden front door and gilt lettering on the arched downstairs window. She turned it over and saw the address. It was in Dumfries. A lawyer’s office in Dumfries? What would Thomas be doing down there? That made no sense at all.
She stepped back and frustrated, ran a hand through her hair. She was missing something, she was sure of it. To the side, tucked in between the wall and the wardrobe she spotted a wicker laundry basket, stained the same colour as the furniture. She lifted the lid and peered inside. Sports clothes lined the bottom. A light-blue t-shirt and what she judged to be a pair of shorts. She lifted them out. Underneath was a pair of white socks and white underpants. As she lifted the pants something fell from inside them.
A small black rectangular shape.
A moleskin notebook.
She bent forwards, stretching to the bottom of the basket to pull it out. It had to be meant for her to find. Who else but a wife would go near a man’s dirty underwear?
‘Right, Thomas, what have you got for me here?’
Moving back to sit on the edge of the bed she opened the notebook, hoped for a message, something – a sign that all of this was him. She was sure the signals couldn’t be interpreted in any other way, but she needed a solid note, a hello – something to help ground her in this increasingly surreal moment.
The first page was blank. The second held a series of numbers and letters. With a quiver she recognised Thomas’s careful script.
But then nothing. The rest of the notebook was empty.
With a sigh she turned back and studied the numbers for some sort of meaning. She could come up with nothing.
She closed the book and moved through to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. She had another look, and noted that there were ten rows, each beginning with the number eight. Then she discerned a pattern for the first set of numbers on each row. They were clustered in sixes. The next cluster on each row held eight numbers, all of them starting with a double zero. Next came a seemingly random collection of numbers, symbols and letters. It occurred to her that each of those felt like passwords. She paused. Took a breath. Passwords. Each row ended the same, with the number one and a letter, a capital M:
1M
In her mind that signalled a total of ten million.
Money?
Was this cash?
No.
Ten million pounds? She pursed her lips and blew out a sharp breath. Utter nonsense. That’s what that thought was.
In her peripheral vision she saw movement. Someone going past the window. Her heart thumped. Calm down, she told herself. It was just a walker, heading for the beach. Though why were they m
oving in that direction?
She jumped.
A knock at the door. Solid. Expectant.
She stood, thrust the notebook into the pocket of her jeans and moved back towards the bedroom door, out of the sightline of anyone who might look in the window.
But then whoever it was could look in the bedroom window and see her. She darted out of view, moved along the wall and into the kitchen. But she had the thought that the visitor could walk round the back of the house and look in the kitchen window. Her heart was thumping fast now.
It wasn’t anything to worry about, she told herself. Not here. But her trembling hands told her different. She was in the middle of nowhere. Completely alone. And no one knew where she was in this house. There was another knock at the door. More insistent now.
She stuffed the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth to stifle the squeal that wanted to escape.
She heard the letterbox squeak open.
A voice sounded into the room. Deep and bassy.
‘Mrs Gadd. Paula? There’s no need for you worry. I’m friend of Tommy’s. Can you let me in? I explain everything?’
The voice held a cajoling note. But it offered friendship too. And it was accented, she realised. Eastern European?
There was an explanation? Without another thought she marched to the door, twisted the lock and opened it.
There stood a large man in a red jacket. By his leg a copper-eyed, pink-tongued, yellow Lab. It was the guy she’d seen across the beach.
He pulled the hat off his head.
She recognised him instantly. It was the ginger-haired man from the ferry.
16
Paula slammed the door shut in his face, but not before the dog, wagging his tail had darted inside, walked past her and made for the kitchen.
What?
Oh my God.
That man. He was on the ferry. And the way he stared at her.
She leaned against the door, heart thumping. Drew her phone out of her pocket and held it up to see if she could get a signal. One bar. Then nothing. Shit, it could cut out while she was phoning the police.
After He Died Page 11
