Willow Walk
Page 5
You loved it, once. You loved me.
With all my love, always.
Graeme xxx
Marie lays the letter down on the table. She rubs at her eyes as if trying to erase what she’d just seen. How can this be happening? He’s not allowed to contact her. How did he get her address? Even with the wrong flat number, it still got to her.
Graeme would always be able to get to her.
Why was he talking about the toys? The . . . oh God. She remembers what happened in the pub earlier – how she’d thought it was nothing, dismissed it. Someone had been in the pub and left before she’d seen him. She’d felt his presence. He’d left an imprint. He’d left something else, too.
A piece of Lego.
That was the thing of Graeme’s that she’d loved playing with so much. She remembered the castle. Remembered adding the final touch – two little blue plastic flags. She’d stood back and admired it. Was about to run downstairs and tell her mum to come and have a look. But then the door had burst open, and Graeme had come in.
‘Ooh, nice work,’ he’d said, smirking. Marie turned and smiled, but felt her smile drop when she saw what he was carrying.
‘What have you done?’
Graeme offered his hands to her. Prom Queen Sindy’s dress had been ripped up the middle. Her hair was hacked off. One of her arms had been pulled from its socket.
Marie felt her lip start to quiver. ‘Why? You didn’t have to play with them if you didn’t want to . . . you could’ve come in here. We could’ve built the castle together.’
‘You’re the queen of the castle, Marie. I’m the dirty wee rascal.’
He’d walked further into the room, and Marie felt herself backing away. She’d never seen him like this before. Sometimes he had rages. Sometimes he smashed stuff up in the garden, and their dad always pretended he hadn’t seen. But she’d never been scared of him before. His eyes seemed to have turned a different shade of blue, so dark that she could barely see if he was still inside.
He lurched forward at her, laughing, and she stumbled back. She hit the edge of the table and couldn’t stop herself. Her arms windmilled uselessly as she fell back, knocking the castle off the table and hearing it split into pieces as she landed on top of it with a painful thud – bits of plastic dug into her back and her bare arms, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying.
Graeme stared at her for a moment. Then he blinked. Smiled. As if he’d been somewhere else. In a trance and just snapped out of it.
‘Oh Marie,’ he said, heading towards her. ‘Oh Marie, are you OK? Look what you’ve done to that lovely castle . . . Here.’ He leant down and offered her an outstretched hand. ‘Let me help you build it back up again, all right? I love you, Marie.’
In shock, she took his hand and let him pull her up. Her pain was forgotten when he hugged her tight, stroked her hair.
‘I love you, too, Graeme,’ she’d said.
Marie blinks back tears and tries to shake the memory out of her head. She folds the letter up and puts it back in the envelope. This isn’t the first one. It can’t be. She pours the remains of her tea down the sink and reaches up to the top cupboard. A half bottle of dark rum. Two bottles of wine. Some dodgy-looking blue cocktail mix that someone gave her for Christmas.
She takes down the bottle of rum, picks up a small tumbler from the draining board. Walks through to her bedroom, knowing that this is the only way to keep the nightmares at bay.
8
Inside the small purple tent the heat and the cloying incense-heavy air is suffocating. The effect is meant to remove her from reality. The red-haired woman peers down at Laura’s palms, resting on a velvet cushion. She shuffles the cards. Laura hadn’t expected her to do tarot.
‘I’m not sure I want the cards,’ she says, quietly. She turns her palms face down and the velvet feels slightly rough and worn under her fingers.
‘Don’t worry, dear. I like to do a combination of things here. I have to do what feels strongest for the person who comes in here, and with you – I knew I had to read your cards. I’ll do your palms, too . . . but glancing at them there, I think you need to know more. Only the cards can tell us more . . .’
Laura feels stupid, but it comes out before she can stop herself. ‘But . . . what if I get death? Doesn’t that mean I’m going to die? I’d really rather not know about that, actually.’ She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a small whimper. The woman lays the cards down, turns Laura’s palms over again. Presses down on them to show that she wants Laura to keep them there.
‘OK, in crude terms, dear. Don’t worry about the death card. For one, it doesn’t actually mean death at all. It usually signifies a big change – and the meaning of that change is all down to the other cards that are paired with it.’ She strokes Laura’s palms with soft fingers. ‘Besides, I can see the basics from your hands, my love. You’re not going anywhere unworldly any time soon.’
Laura looks into her eyes. The woman’s eyes shine bright in the muted light of the tent. What is it lit with anyway? Oil lamps? Laura has a sudden fear that the place is going to burn down. The woman goes back to the cards, shuffling them once more.
‘I need you to think of a question while I cut the cards. Anything you like. Don’t be scared. It can be something big, something small. But make it something that you really want to know the answer to. Just nod when you’re done.’
Laura takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She thinks of a question – the first one that pops into her mind. She opens her eyes. Nods. ‘I’m ready.’
‘This is the Celtic cross. It’s the one that gives you the most information,’ the woman says. She places the first card face down, then another on top, making a small cross. Then she lays the other cards out in the correct order, until all ten are on the table. Laura feels her heart start to beat faster. The woman is humming a tune, softly, under her breath. The smell of incense seems to grow stronger, catching in her throat. The sounds from outside the tent have all but disappeared. Laura feels herself drift, like she is half-asleep, half-dreaming . . . on the verge of waking up. Panic slides up her throat.
‘I can sense that you’re scared, dear. Tell me – what are you so scared of?’
Laura tries to calm her breathing. ‘Could I have a glass of water? Sorry, I think it’s the air.’
The woman bends down beneath the small table. She reappears holding a bottle of water. ‘Sorry, I don’t think it’ll be cold.’
Laura snaps back to reality. She lifts the plastic bottle to her lips and smells the faint hint of burgers. The bottle has come from one of the food vans. The woman in front of her is just a normal woman, who eats and drinks like everyone else. She lives in a caravan and probably has to put up with the leering gropiness of boys like Gaz. All the time. Suddenly she feels sorry for her, for her situation – and realises the ridiculousness of her own.
What on earth is she so scared of?
She has a sexy new boyfriend, still has two weeks before she has to go back for her final year of school – and then after that she’ll be off to university, away from this place. Away to new things and a new life. She gulps down half the water, then places the bottle on the table. She smiles. ‘I’m fine now. Sorry.’
The woman smiles back. ‘OK, let’s get started.’ She turns the first two cards. ‘Firstly, we have the Papess, crossed with the Queen of Swords. What this means is that you’re at a stable point in your learned or professional life. For you, I think this means at school, and possibly your plans for the future. You’re happy with what you’re doing, and you’re achieving good grades. Does that sound right?’
Laura nods, smiling now. Her psychology head is kicking in. The woman has looked at her – at the way she’s dressed, how she’s conducted herself, picked up on her nerves – she’s concluded that Laura has her head screwed on. She isn’t a fuck-up. Nicely done, Red, Laura thinks, warming to it now, excited by what she’s going to say next. This is excellent research.
Laura nods. Thinks, Davie.
The woman carries on. She turns the final pair of cards. The Tower and the Moon. She pauses, sucking in a small breath. She keeps her eyes on the cards, doesn’t look up. Laura feels a small flicker of fear. ‘What is it? What do you see?’ She’s been drawn into this mysterious woman’s world of the cards. Her rational brain is refusing to kick in.
There’s something bad here, she can sense it.
‘These are your hopes and fears and the outcome of your question. There’s someone else involved . . . someone you don’t know.’ She leans across and picks up the bottle of water. ‘Do you mind?’ Laura shakes her head and watches as the woman drains the rest of the water. ‘I might’ve got it wrong. I think I dealt them slightly wrong.’ She’s stammering, falling over her words. She frowns, staring at the cards. Places a hand over them, as if she’s planning to rub them all together, removing the pattern and the story that they’ve told.
‘What is it?’ Laura says. Her voice shakes. ‘Just tell me.’
The woman looks into her eyes. ‘Someone is going to cause you all great pain, my dear. I’m so sorry. This kind of vision doesn’t come very often. In fact, I think I’m going to have to take a break. Please . . .’ She stands and gestures towards the door of the tent. ‘I have a migraine coming on. I need to get out of here, and go and lie down. No charge, dear . . . and please – just be careful.’
Laura stands, feels her legs wobble. She backs away towards the door, a natural reflex. ‘Please, can’t you tell me what it is? What do you mean “you all”? Who? Who else?’
The woman shakes her head, a genuine expression of sadness across it. ‘I always find, in these situations, that it really is better not to know.’
Laura stumbles outside. Feels like she’s about to faint.
‘Hey you, you’ve been in there for ages – I was starting to wonder if you’d gone home and left me here.’
‘I—’
Mark senses her distress. He steps forwards and grabs her just as her legs buckle beneath her. He scoops her up, carries her across to a small area where people are sitting on benches eating their food. They look at her, briefly, before going back to their burgers. He sits her down. ‘Wait here,’ he says.
Laura lifts her head, sucks in deep breaths. Watches him retreating away from her as the crowd swallows him up once more. Notices he has a plastic bag stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans, and wonders, vaguely, what’s in it.
15th July 2015
Dear Marie,
I’m not even sure where to start. Hello, maybe? Happy birthday? I’m trying to imagine you reading this, and I realise: I don’t even know what you look like. What colour is your hair? Is it still so long that you can sit on it? You used to tuck it into the back of your trousers and put your sweatshirt over the top and pretend you’d cut it off. You used to tie it up in a twist and stick a chopstick through it to keep it in place. You used to let me brush it for hours and hours, with that little red brush with the pink pony on the side. God, I loved brushing your hair. I loved the smell of it, like apples and peaches, strawberries and cream. Rapunzel, you used to say. You wanted to lock yourself in your bedroom and only throw your hair out of the window when a handsome prince came along. Was I not handsome enough for you? Did you really think someone else was going to come along? Someone who could love you more than I did? Than I do?
I’m sorry. That’s not what I set out to write here. Not at all.
I just wanted to write . . . to tell you that it’s OK. You should never feel bad about what happened. I’ve learned to live with it, over the years. I still miss you, of course. I think about you every day.
Do you think about me?
I hope you read this, Marie. My sweet Marie.
I hope you haven’t cut your hair.
All my love,
Graeme
9
Marie wakes up and tries to remember the last time she called in sick. It’s not something she does. She’s the type of person who would rather hobble in to work on crutches and be sent home than call in to say she’d broken her leg. It’s the way she’s always been. Trying hard not to draw attention to herself, not wanting to elicit sympathy . . . and there’s plenty for people to be sympathetic about, although her mind always tries to tell her that there is no such thing as sympathy – only nosiness and smugness and one-upmanship.
She knows she is damaged.
She remembers arriving in Banktoun all those years ago. Her wrist still stinging from the small tattoo she’d got in that place in Gorgie. She remembers sitting there, her and two others. One of them a biker, with arms the size of her legs and whole sleeves filled with nude women and Celtic symbols. The other a neat-looking businessman who, when he removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a series of cartoon characters across his bony chest. He’d smiled at Marie, displaying two rows of yellow teeth, and she’d looked away. Disgusted. You never knew what people had hidden beneath the surface.
She knew what tattoo she wanted. She explained it as the tattooist rubbed a small alcohol-soaked pad across her wrist.
‘How old are you?’ he said, not looking her in the eye.
‘Old enough.’
‘You know, I don’t normally do these on the wrist. Not unless you’ve had a bit of ink before. Are you sure you don’t want it somewhere you can hide it more easily?’
‘I don’t want to hide it. I want people to know.’
He laid down the tattoo gun and looked up. ‘Know what?’
She looked at him, and she knew that underneath his craggy face and tattooed forehead he was a kind man. Marie had an instinct for people now. She’d learned the hard way.
‘I need them to know that I’ve escaped.’
The man looked at her pityingly and switched on the gun. The noise reminded her of a shaver. She blinked away a memory. Took a deep breath. He’d already outlined the design on her wrist. It was small, but it was clear. A tiny outline of a swallow. Freedom. She’d done her time.
‘This will feel like a small scratch. Tell me if you need me to stop.’
‘Don’t stop,’ Marie whispered. She closed her eyes and felt herself go numb.
That pain was nothing.
Marie rolls over in bed, rubs at her wrist. The bird is more green than black now, fading away like everything it was put there to signify. But today it seems to hurt, a phantom itch.
She feels sick. Picks up the phone and texts her boss: ‘I can’t come in this morning. Got a migraine. Sorry.’
She scrolls through her other messages. Knows that she needs to contact Davie or he’s going to start wondering what the hell is going on – asking too many questions. She can’t deal with questions, not yet. Not until she knows what’s going on.
She sends a text to Davie: ‘Having a quiet day. Call you later.’ Then she gets out of bed and realises that she’s about to be sick.
After some time spent hugging the porcelain toilet bowl, she splashes her face with cold water. Drinks a pint of orange squash. Tries to stop shaking.
Graeme’s letter is on the kitchen table. It emanates some sort of aura, and she knows she can’t read it again. She picks it up and stuffs it into the kitchen cupboard, where she has
a tray of junk mail and other things that she hasn’t got round to sorting out yet. On the floor, a small trail of round biscuits tells her that Cadbury has managed to find her own breakfast again. She scoops them up and throws them in the bin, remembering the hairball from yesterday – thinking it was odd, as the cat was generally quite well trained and tended not to spit stuff out like that in the hallway. She wonders if maybe the cat had eaten something bad, berries or something it had found out in the garden. She knows that checking the small lump she’d picked up in the tissue would definitely make her sick again, so she closes the door of the cupboard that houses the bin and decides to deal with it later.
This is becoming a pattern. Why can’t she face up to things head on?
She picks up her swimming costume and towel that are hanging on the radiator from the day before. There’s a chance that someone might see her at the pool, but as no one really knows which shifts she does every week, it’s hardly an issue. Besides, Bill isn’t going to sack her for taking one morning off.
Making sure the kitchen window is open just enough so the cat can get back inside, she picks up her swimming bag and leaves the flat.
In the hallway, she pauses by the mailboxes again. Opens her own. Nothing. She sticks her hand into Number 9 but can’t tell if anything new has been put in there or not.
Forget it, Marie.
As she walks out of the main entrance, she senses a movement to the right of the building, at the part where the alley disappears around the back to the small piece of garden that is shared between her and the other ground-floor flats. There’s a gate there, but it’s never locked. Her skin prickles.
‘Cadbury? Is that you?’ She doesn’t expect the cat to answer, but if it has been lurking around in the alley, there’s always the small chance it might appear at the sound of her voice. She hasn’t seen her much in the last couple of days and she’s probably sulking. There’s a faint rustling, but it might just be the leaves on the trees that are overhanging from the house next door. She’s about to walk round and have a look, but something stops her. She shakes her head and walks down the path towards the street. Stupid.