I was feeling slightly encouraged by Garth’s plan and, as ever, grateful for his calm competence, when I remembered something. ‘No, that won’t work. She’s got a little portable radio in her room. It’s part of that old cassette player she has.’
‘With an aerial?’
‘Yes.’
‘Snap it off when she’s out. Say the cleaner left a note to say she knocked it over an’ the aerial snapped right off.’
‘Two non-functioning radios? I think Marianne would smell a rat. And I’d feel awful maligning Mrs MacGillivray. She’s always very careful and has never broken anything. Supposing Marianne mentioned it to her?’
‘Then we’ve got to come clean. We can’t risk Marianne findin’ out by chance. The press are bound to make a meal of it.’
We looked at each other for a long moment, then I said, ‘All right, I’ll tell her. But when?’
‘You could leave it till the BBC breaks the news. I think we can take whatever they say as gospel. An’ for all Marianne knows, that’s the first we ’eard of it.’
‘So we’ve probably got a day’s grace?’
‘Maybe,‘ he said, looking at the screen again. ‘Uh-oh, what’s this just dropped into your inbox? Don’t tell me… Too late. The Beeb is quotin’ Reuters now, namin’ Keir as “one of three men kidnapped by the somethin’-unpronounceable environmental group of Kazakhstan”.’
‘Does it say where they’re being held?’
He scrolled down. ‘At sea. On a boat on the Caspian Sea. Oh, shit…’
‘What? Is it bad?’ I peered at the PC, fumbling with the reading glasses on a chain round my neck.
‘They say, if any attempt is made to rescue the men or scupper the boat, they’ll kill one of the hostages.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘They’re bluffin’, take no notice. It’s just big talk. They say they’ll release two men when the oil companies agree to meet with representatives of their organisation an’ they’ll release the last man when they’re ’appy with what’s been agreed.’
‘But that could take weeks!’
‘Well, let’s ’ope Keir is one of the first two to be released. That bit could be over pretty quick.’
‘So now we really do have to tell her.’
‘Yeah, reckon so. But at least we’ve got the facts now.’
‘But we can’t tell her about the death threat.’
‘Nah, better leave that bit out.’
‘And after we’ve told her? Then what?’
‘Then we wait… An’ ’ope that Keir’s good at talkin’ ’is way out of trouble. D’you think ’e speaks any Kazakh? Or Russian maybe?’
‘He makes audio-recordings of the Northern Lights and shows stars to blind people. Nothing would surprise me about that man.’
* * * * *
Marianne
I suppose I hadn’t known until then quite how much I felt for Keir. I took the news calmly – more calmly, at any rate, than Louisa delivered it – then I went to my room and lay down on the bed, listening to the traffic.
It all came back to me… The waiting. The praying. The weighing up of risk and probability. The calculations you made with regard to your husband’s returning home a) alive and b) whole. As I lay there a helicopter passed overhead. Not a Sikorsky – I’d know that sound anywhere, even after all these years – but just the thought was enough to trigger panic and despair.
I placed my hands on my swelling abdomen and prayed to a God I hadn’t believed in since 1988, that I would lose this baby but that I wouldn’t – dear God in Heaven, please, if you do exist – that I wouldn’t lose Keir.
At least, not to death.
The days dragged by and life became surreal. I continued to walk in the Botanics and attend antenatal appointments. The latest ordeal was amniocentesis, which I fully expected to give me grounds for termination. I listened to news bulletins on Radio Scotland who predictably ran the story in more detail than Radio 4. We contacted Keir’s employers who were cagey and referred us to his family without giving any contact details. Louisa suggested we should try to contact Keir’s sister in Edinburgh, in case he’d been able to phone her, but I pointed out that we had neither her name nor her address. In any case, desperate as we were for information, I wasn’t prepared to explain my connection with Keir, particularly in view of my now obvious condition. (Although, as Louisa cheerfully pointed out, given my age, people would assume I was overweight, not pregnant.)
But I thought the poor woman would have enough to cope with, worrying about her brother and her own pregnancy, so I decided to spare her an enquiry from an ex-lover. For all I knew, she might already be dealing with a few of those. I wasn’t prepared to get in line.
Louisa bore up well to begin with and Garth was a tower of strength, a rock, all those clichés for which there really is no substitute. He managed to maintain a sense of proportion and a sense of humour, amid mounting female hysteria. His behaviour was blessedly normal, yet he managed to keep us quietly informed of any developments, putting tea, coffee or gin in front of us.
As the days wore on, the gins got stronger.
* * * * *
Marianne is on her way to the kitchen when she thinks she hears the sound of Louisa crying in her bedroom. She pauses in the hall, listens at the door, then knocks tentatively. ‘Lou? What’s the matter? Can I come in?’
There is a muffled reply followed by a loud sniff. As Marianne opens the door her nostrils are assailed by clouds of Opium, her sister’s perfume with which she’s inclined to be lavish. Louisa calls out, ‘I’m on the bed, darling. Don’t worry – there’s no news. No bad news, anyway.’
Marianne makes her way towards the bed and sits. ‘So why are you crying?’
‘Oh, God, I don’t know! The strain, I suppose. Worrying about you and the baby… Worrying about Keir… These wretched negotiations are dragging on.’
‘It’s only a week. Garth says it’s early days yet. We have to be patient. But is something else bothering you? You said there was no bad news. Do you have some good news?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’
‘No, I know. The trouble is, I think it’s precipitated a bit of a mid-life crisis. I’m having to face up to things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘My career. My future. Old age… All the big stuff.’
‘Goodness, what’s brought this on? Garth hasn’t dumped you, has he?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think he’s about to?’
‘No, he seems happy enough. Well, thrilled, actually. In his quiet way.’
‘Thrilled? What about?’
Louisa sits up, reaches for a tissue and wipes her eyes. ‘Darling, it’s all so trivial compared with what you’re going through. That’s why I haven’t talked about it.’ She sighs, leans back on a mountain of lace-trimmed pillows and says wearily, ‘They want to make a film of my books. Two films, actually. Possibly three. It all depends how the first one fares at the box office, but they’re already planning a sequel to the first. Anyway, they’ve optioned half my books and the first film is going into production now.’
‘Lou, how wonderful! You can go to a film première! You’ve always wanted to do that. Is this your agent’s doing?’
‘No, that’s the funny part. It’s all thanks to Garth. His brother Rhodri is a film cameraman and they were talking about my books, apparently. Garth has a much higher opinion of them than you do, I’m happy to say. He was telling Rhodri what an ideal subject they’d be for a film – sort of Buffy for the big screen, set in Victorian Edinburgh. Anyway, Rhodri happened to be making a film with Johnny Depp and told him about my books. Johnny Depp apparently took a look at one of them and mentioned it to his agent and one thing led to another. One of the Hollywood studios picked it up and now the first film is in production.’
‘With Johnny Depp as one of your vampires?’
‘That’s unconfirm
ed. They’re undecided just how Scottish to make it. The money’s American, you see. Apparently every Scots actor would kill to be in it, but the studio naturally wants a Hollywood star in the lead. They might compromise on Ewan McGregor, but Garth thinks it unlikely he’ll commit to another series after Star Wars. They’re considering David Tennant – who’d be totally wrong in my opinion, far too boy-next-door – and another Scot, Gerard Butler. He played the Phantom of the Opera. I think he’d be rather good, but of course nobody cares what I think, I’m only the author. Anyway, whoever they cast,’ she finishes gloomily, ‘it’s going to make me pots and pots of money.’
‘So why are you crying, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Because,’ Louisa wails, ‘I’ve got nobody to spend it on! What use is half a million dollars to me? You can only drink so much gin! I wanted to give some to Garth, but he won’t take it. I offered to buy him a car. He said, thanks, but he wasn’t interested because parking in Edinburgh’s such a nightmare. He says if I insist, I can take him away for a dirty weekend at Gleneagles and teach him to play golf. He’s always wanted to learn, he says. Oh, and he wouldn’t mind having another new suit. I thought he meant Saville Row but he said, no, from Next. Honestly, as a gigolo he’s just hopeless.’
Marianne is thoughtful and sits for a moment, her hands folded in her lap, her arms encircling her growing bump. ‘You know, you could use the money to buy yourself some time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stop writing the vampire books. Get off the commercial treadmill and think about what you really want to write. You’re a historian at heart, Lou, not a fiction writer. You’ve always said biography and social history were your first loves. Why don’t you change direction? You’ve been writing about Edinburgh and vampires for nearly twenty years now. Do you actually have anything left to say?’
‘No, of course not! It’s just variations on a theme now. And keeping my publishers happy. I know the books are tosh, but I do love the actual writing. And what on earth would I do with myself if I didn’t write?’
‘So why don’t you write something else? Write the book of your heart. Is there one?’
‘Well, yes, actually, now you come to mention it, there is. I’ve always wanted to write a biography of Isobel Gowdie.’
‘The witch?’
‘Well, she was said to be a witch.’
‘Seventeenth century, I seem to remember?’
‘Yes. Not really my period, but an interesting one. Isobel was unhappily married and turned to witchcraft for consolation. They put her on trial and got these amazing poetic confessions out of her – apparently without recourse to torture – all about being transformed into various animals and having sex with the devil. Riveting stuff. And really quite disturbing. She was probably psychotic, of course. I thought about turning it into a historical novel years ago, but my publishers just wanted the next vampire book. But I’ve always kept my notes about Isobel. Just in case.’
‘Why don’t you kill off your main character? Bring the series to a triumphant and bloody end.’
‘You can’t do that with vampires, darling, they’re immortal. Or rather, they’re already dead, so you can’t kill them off. I’d already thought of that.’
‘So take a sabbatical. Tell your editor you’re taking a year off to do some research. You don’t have to tell them what you’re researching.’
‘No, I suppose not. But they’ll give me a hard time if I don’t come up with another vampire book.’
‘How many have you done for them?’
‘Fifteen. Well, sixteen if you count the one due out next year.’
‘Lou, I think you’ve paid your dues. Anyway, they’ll be happily reprinting the old books with film tie-in covers. For that matter, they could re-issue the early books with new titles. I’m sure no one would notice.’
‘My fans would! They’d be down on me like a ton of bricks.’
‘Just say no, Lou. You’re a grown woman. Act your age, not your shoe size, as Garth would say. What does Garth have to say about all this?’
‘Much the same as you. That I should try something new. He says the film deal is a golden opportunity for me to spread my wings.’
‘You should make that man your manager. I don’t think the world really needs another PhD on the history of witchcraft in Scotland, but you could certainly do with a manager, especially now Hollywood’s come calling. You’ll have to upgrade your website too. Think of all the traffic you’re going to get.’
‘I know. I thought I’d increase Garth’s salary and let him take over all that side of things. It’s quite beyond my capabilities. But I do worry…’
‘What about?’
‘Well, that when we split up – which, of course, we inevitably will, when he comes to his senses and finds someone his own age – well, it could all be rather messy. I could be left dangling, professionally. I wonder if it would be better to keep business and pleasure separate?’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
Louisa’s lip quivers and she reaches for the box of tissues. ‘Oh, it’s all such a muddle! And what with poor Keir and the baby, I just feel overwhelmed. I’m sorry, Marianne, I’m being utterly pathetic, I know. It’s all so much worse for you. I didn’t mean to burden you with my problems.’
‘Not at all. I’m glad of the distraction. It makes a change from dwelling on heartburn and varicose veins, not to mention birth defects. And thinking about any of those is preferable to thinking about what Keir might be going through.’
Louisa leans forward and puts an arm round her sister. ‘You know, he struck me as very tough. Resourceful. He’d cope well in a tight spot, I’m sure. And the kidnappers are conservationists. They love nature. And their country. If they’ve managed to communicate with Keir at all, they’ll have discovered he’s just like them. I expect by now they’ve all bonded and are getting on like a house on fire, discussing the flora and fauna of Kazakhstan. And football! I bet they’ve heard of the Tartan Army, even in Kazakhstan.’
‘I suppose you might be right. Let’s hope so.’ Marianne stands and rubs her aching back. ‘Is it too early for a gin, do you think?’
‘Darling, it’s never too early for a gin,’ Louisa says, scrambling off the bed. ‘Go and put your feet up and I’ll bring you one.’
* * * * *
Marianne
It’s always a mistake to assume things can’t get any worse. They did, in a thorough-going sort of way. Two of the men were released – the ones with wives and children – and I started to bleed.
Louisa called the doctor and insisted I retire to bed, even though I pointed out it had always been my intention to let nature take its course. But she was so upset about Keir remaining in captivity that I took to my bed to spare her and perhaps to spare myself. I felt pretty ill and if I was going to miscarry, this seemed like a really bad time to do it.
The bleeding stopped within twenty-four hours. I got up again and resumed my normal activities. After the first two men were released, a meeting was scheduled for the tenth of June, to take place on a yacht owned by a Kazakh government minister, since the green campaigners refused to come ashore. The oil company demanded that Keir be produced as a gesture of good faith, so he too was to be transported to the yacht in the dilapidated cruiser that had housed the men during their captivity.
This much we learned afterwards. After the explosion.
Reports said that as soon as the cruiser’s engine started up, there was an explosion and the craft burst into flames. Burning debris and fuel were scattered over a wide area. An eyewitness said, ‘It looked like the sea was on fire.’ Two of the kidnappers survived, although one wasn’t expected to live. One of them died and his body was recovered. Keir’s body wasn’t.
As we listened to the news, Louisa and Garth had the sense not to say anything, not to touch me. She started to cry quietly and I got to my feet, unsteady, dry-eyed, and switched off the radio. I left the sitting room and, closing the door b
ehind me, went to my room. I kicked off my slippers and climbed into bed, fully clothed.
I lay quite still for some time, listening to the hum of evening traffic, the swish of tyres on wet tarmac, then I reached out towards my bedside table. My unerring fingers found the CD buttons and I pressed ‘Play’. A solo flute meandered, sounding like a bird, then a real bird began to sing, a bird I would never hear in Edinburgh, perhaps never in Scotland. This was a bird – followed by another, then another – from the Arctic marshes of Finland, birds whose stark, cold song formed a bleak requiem for a man I had loved but never known and now would never know. I’d always meant to ask Keir the names of these birds. I’d known that he would know, that he would have made it his business to know, that he would rejoice in their names, their song, their habitat.
So much life…
There were so many things I’d wanted to ask Keir, but there hadn’t been time. Now I couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to know about him, apart from everything. But I remembered one question and I remembered his answer. He’d sat on the edge of the bed and I’d laid my hand on his broad, naked back, felt the vibration of his ribcage as he’d told me of his vision…
‘I never knew what it meant, just that it was bad. Very bad. By the time I was in my teens, I sensed it was something that would happen, but I didn’t know what, or where, or when.’
And I had asked, ‘What did you see?’
He said, ‘I saw the sea… and it was on fire.’
There was fire now behind my eyes as tears refused to come; ice in my heart as the blood seemed to slow to a standstill in my veins. Then, with ludicrously inappropriate timing, Keir’s baby kicked, then for good measure, kicked again.
And – as it always does – life went on.
Summer 2007
Chapter Nineteen
Louisa
Marianne’s anger was terrible to behold. She seemed to solidify, to become a pillar of fury. I’d never seen anything like it, not even in the aftermath of Harvey’s death. It was like having an unexploded bomb in the house. As she moved quietly around the flat, you could almost hear her ticking. I dreaded Garth or I would say something to set her off, but at the same time I knew this was what needed to happen. The poor girl was clearly in a bad way, in a state of suspended grief: cold, calm, at times almost inanimate, except that one sensed a raging torrent of emotion, arrested temporarily, like a frozen waterfall.
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