2007 - The Dead Pool

by Sue Walker; Prefers to remain anonymous

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Sutherland? Eh? Eh?’ Glen’s tone was belligerent, needling, spoiling for a fight.

  She stepped forward, wiping the tears from her eyes, hands outstretched in appeal. ‘It’s okay now, Glen. He was leaving. Let him go. I’ll tell you about it all in a minute. Just…just get him out of here.’

  It was as if he hadn’t heard, or was ignoring her. He pushed a struggling Alistair Sutherland back against the wall. ‘I said, what the fuck are you doing here? Eh?’

  But this time his opponent had found his breath again. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you, Glen. Let go of me! I’m warning you.’

  Ally Sutherland lashed out with a kick and headed for the stairs. Glen made to follow, but Kirstin grabbed his arm.

  ‘Leave him. Leave him! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

  Again he ignored her, and raced out towards the landing.

  ‘No, Glen! No!’ She swung out of the room and on to the top landing just in time to see the push and Ally Sutherland crashing down the stairs, flailing arms unable to break his fall. For a few chilling seconds, he lay inert on the first landing. Had Glen killed him? Broken his neck?

  She could feel the hysteria rising in her. ‘Stop it, Glen! Stop! Just stop!’

  By now Ally was on his second wind, and though bleeding heavily from his mouth and forehead, he made one final effort and staggered to his feet. The single, powerful punch connected with Glen’s jaw and felled him. In one clumsy movement, Ally stumbled towards the front door and threw a poisonous glare at Glen, the sound of his running feet fading away as he fled down Morag’s drive.

  Kirstin turned for the umpteenth time in the uncomfortable bed. Two hours ago she’d managed to setde Glen, face bruised and battered, in one of Morag’s other spare rooms. The memory of the fight had left her feeling…what? Shaken, obviously. But worse than diat…uneasy. Uneasy about Glen. She loathed violence. He might have killed Ally Sutherland. And the deliberate push down the stairs was simply appalling. What the hell had possessed him?

  Of course, she was thankful that Glen had been concerned about her, that he’d turned up on the off chance of seeing her. He had saved her from God knows what. But it had come at a price. There had been something…excessive, gratuitous, about his violent response. After all, Ally seemed more…more unbalanced than dangerous. He was, quite simply, at the end of his tether. No, Glen had been excessive. She could never in a million years imagine Ross, for example, wading in like that. He’d never have displayed the sheer raw ferocity she’d witnessed from Glen. She had to admit it, Glen’s behaviour had made her think differently about him. Yes, he’d been kind, considerate, sensitive to her this past week. Seductively so. But this violent reaction had compromised her feelings.

  She turned to look at the luminous display glowing out from the bedside clock. Ten past five. There was going to be no sleep tonight. She kicked off the duvet and fumbled about for her jeans and T·shirt. Two minutes later, she was padding down to the next landing. His door was open and she could hear the steady breathing. Lucky sod. She wasn’t going to be that fortunate. The last couple of hours had been spent tossing and turning, reliving the fight, worrying about Morag and, most persistendy, pushing away the image of Bonnie Campbell.

  As she backed out of his room and shut the door quietly behind her, she glanced at the room opposite; Morag’s study. Once she’d packed Glen off to bed, she’d entered Morag’s study and helped herself to the computer to see what, if any, news there was of Bonnie’s death, but nothing was available. She should try again. Settling herself down, Kirstin started her search. Details were still sketchy, but there was enough to confirm Ally Sutherland’s story.

  breakingnews⁄latest⁄Edinburgh⁄05:00hrs⁄update⁄

  EDINBURGH WOMAN DIES IN COTTAGE BLAZE

  A 34-year-old woman died last night in a blaze at her home. The woman, who has yet to be named, lived in a cottage by the Water of Leith to the west of Edinburgh. Fire services were alerted to the blaze last night after a neighbour became concerned. The neighbour noticed flames and smoke and went to investigate, thinking that a barbecue or garden fire was out of control. But on arrival, it was clear that the interior of the cottage was engulfed by the blaze. Early reports suggest that the source of the fire appeared to be the unusually large number of candles that the victim had lit.

  breakingnews⁄end⁄next update 06:00hrs⁄

  Horrific. A dreadful way to die. And what would this do to Morag? Kirstin wished now that Dr Lockhart had insisted on Morag spending the next fortnight in the halfway house attached to the clinic. Maybe there she could have been kept away from upsetting news. In any event, the clinic would have to be informed. She’d have to call Dr Lockhart’s colleague and talk it through. More worry, more responsibility. She glanced over her shoulder, imagining that she could hear Glen making his way down the stairs. But that was all it was; her imagination. With a heavy sigh, she crossed the room to the small but inviting settee, and leant back, eyes closed, realizing that she was beginning to regret returning to Edinburgh. So far, all it had achieved was to bring her into contact with death, despair and danger. For the first time since involving herself in this misery, she realized that the emotions, the vibrations surrounding these people, these events, were more than unsettling. They were frightening.

  Twenty-Six

  Kirstin tried to ignore the morning sunlight seeping through a chink in the curtains, but failed. She kicked off the light cotton throw and sat up on the settee, remembering where she was. Morag’s study. And then she saw the piece of notepaper float down from the settee to the carpet.

  Hi,

  Didn’t want to wake you. I’ve got an early meeting. Hope you’re okay and didn’t get too much of a scare last night. Either from that sod Sunderland or me. I know I went at it a bit gung-ho! Sorry. But I though he looked dangerous. Considered calling the police, but haven’t. Can we talk about it all? Tonight? I’d like to take you out?

  Hope today’s better than yesterday!

  G x

  PS: found where he broke in—utility room—have screwed lock back on—botched job but will hold for now. x

  The flippant tone should have annoyed her. Yet, with the light of day and a few hours’ sleep under her belt, she could now manage a wry smile. At least Glen recognized that he’d gone way over the top. She felt achy and under the weather as she wandered through to Morag’s kitchen. Surprisingly, it was filled with morning sunshine. Glen must have pulled up the blinds. She unlocked the door leading to the patio. The sky was a perfect, cloudless mid-blue. In the distance, she recognized the ribbon of river and cast her eye over the entire landscape, enjoying its morning freshness. And then she remembered. Somewhere, out there, hidden by trees, was the burnt-out shell of Bonnie Campbell’s home. And somewhere, in a mortuary, lay her charred remains. She reached for a chair and sat down, feeling nauseous. Youmust eatsomething soon. Look after yourself.

  An hour later, the shower and stale toast had dulled the nausea but not her exhaustion. As she parked near the hospital entrance, Kirstin felt the anxiety start up again. She’d been unable to make direct contact with Dr Lockhart’s colleague. All that could be done was leave a couple of voicemail messages and try to convey to an infuriatingly unflappable assistant that the matter was extremely urgent.

  She grabbed the holdall containing Morag’s things and headed for the lifts. As she pressed the button, a fresh worry presented itself. Would she be allowed to visit? She hadn’t even rung in, like Dr Lockhart had suggested. Too bad, she’d just have to wing it. She stepped out into the familiar stifling heat that seemed to pervade all hospitals, her anxiety levels rising by the second.

  Morag was barely recognizable. She seemed to have become paler and more frail during the past twelve hours. Her fan of dark hair, spreading across the brilliant white pillows, created a tableau reminiscent of some Pre-Raphaelite portrait. Kirstin nodded her thanks to the nurse and took the plastic chair that was offered.r />
  The nurse was hovering. ‘Just talk to her. She’s in and out of sleep. But on the mend. Physically, that is. She’ll need a lot of rest. Dr Mackeson has been to see her and is due again sometime today. Anyway, if you need anything just make yourself known to the nurses’ station over there, okay?

  Now, I’ll draw the curtain across and let you have some privacy.’

  ‘Morag?’ Kirstin caught the flickering of an eyelid. ‘Morag? It’s Kirstin. Hello? You’re all right now.’

  The blinking was rapid and then, abruptly, it stopped. A moment later, Morag offered the quiver of a smile. ‘H…hi there. God, I’ve been dreaming. So much. You were in one. Down at the Cauldron. Saving me from Ally. And the flooding waters at the weir.’

  Kirstin leant forward and laid her fingers on Morag’s slim, surprisingly cold hand. It was a bad start. If she wasn’t even getting some respite in sleep, what refuge could she find? But Morag gripped her hand back and struggled to sit up.

  ‘It’s okay, Kirstin. It had a happy ending. You saved me.’ She blinked again, casting her eye around the surroundings as if still trying to work out where she was. ‘How long have I been here? And…and, oh, Jesus.’ She tightened her grip on Kirstin’s hand, the fingernails unintentionally digging too deep. ‘Look, Kirstin, I’m sorry, so sorry. About…all this. And…the letter. I didn’t…want to make you feel responsible.’

  Carefully, Kirstin removed Morag’s hand and began rearranging the sheets round her, anxious to ensure she was as calm and relaxed as possible.

  ‘Morag, you didn’t make me feel responsible. Just very, desperately, worried about you. I’m not going to ask you why. That’s a stupid question. I just want to know, how do you feel now? Please, be honest with me.’

  Morag was struggling to sit up straighter, reaching for the beaker of water and holding up a hand in protest at Kirstin’s efforts to retrieve it for her. ‘No, I can manage, thanks.’ The clipped delivery and sharp manner were back. She took a long suck on the straw. And then another. Finally, she seemed ready.

  ‘The honest answer is that I’m not sure how I feel, what I feel. I’m numb, my head’s like cotton wool, thick, dense. I feel nothing. At the moment. Dr Lockhart’s colleague was here this morning in time to see me wake up. She’s pleasant. Obviously knows her stuff. She’s still trying to get me to stay at the clinic’s residential unit. Dr Lockhart was trying that last night. I don’t want to, Kirstin. You must understand that. I don’t want to!’

  The last few words were a near shout. She was obviously becoming distressed. Kirstin half expected a nurse to come bustling in asking what was going on. She shuffled her chair closer to the bed, her own voice a whisper.

  ‘Ssh, Morag, okay. No one’s going to make you. Dr Lockhart assured me of that. It’s just that those who are caring for you must think it’s a good thing for you right now.’

  But Morag was shaking her head, and squirming in the bed, almost kicking the sheets off. ‘I don’t want to be incarcerated anywhere ever again. I couldn’t stand it. Can you imagine what it’s like? No freedom, your every move watched, controlled. I want to go home. While I’ve still got one, that is. Iwon’t be locked up!’

  Kirstin offered her the water again, hoping that any displacement activity would be a welcome distraction. It was. With relief she watched as, biddably, Morag took the plastic beaker from her and drank greedily, suddenly calm again.

  She smiled. ‘You know, Kirstin, it was you…you and Bonnie who saved my life, one way or another. It’s funny. Last night wasn’t like when I was in prison. I planned that one down to the last. Checked out the sink and the plumbing, assured myself that the strips of clothing would be strong enough to strangle me. But…but yesterday, it was like I was some sort of automaton, sleepwalking through it all. Detached and, again, strangely numb, unfeeling. Certainly, I knew what I was doing. I didn’t take the pills you gave me. After you and Bonnie had gone I unearthed my secret stash. I even found time to write to you, believing that this was the end. But I didn’t take enough. And…and Dr Lockhart left me with this thought last night, and I think she’s right. Some part of me must have wanted to live. Otherwise, why didn’t I take the whole lot?’

  She stopped, breaking her gaze from Kirstin and looking into the middle distance. The vulnerability was back. ‘The fact that I want to go home, be in my garden, see the trees, even the river again. That must be a good sign. A sign that I prefer life, any sort of life, over oblivion.’ Kirstin offered her a sympathetic half smile before Morag continued. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for helping me. And I’ll never, ever be able to thank Jamie, except through you. I hope we can become friends, you and I. Somehow I think Jamie would approve, don’t you?’

  Kirstin smiled her agreement, feeling the tears welling up. ‘Of course I do. And…maybe we need to start thinking about your new beginning, eh? Time I made a few phone calls, checked out the possibilities.’

  That brought a matching smile from Morag. ‘Definitely. You know, I’ve always loved the sea.’

  Kirstin felt the lurch in her stomach. Now was the time. There could be no escaping the moment. She leant forward, offering another reassuring squeeze to Morag’s hand.

  ‘Morag? I need to tell y—’

  Suddenly, the curtain was drawn back and the friendly nurse from earlier popped her head round.

  ‘Ms Rutherford, can I have a word?

  Kirstin moved into the middle of the ward as the nurse pulled the curtain across.

  ‘Morag’s therapist is here. Dr Mackeson. She wants to see you.’

  A surprisingly young woman, dressed in jeans and casual shirt, stepped forward. She was slightly out of breath and unsmiling, her face grave as she offered her hand. ‘I’m Liz Mackeson. I got your message and have literally run round from visiting another patient. Tell me. About Bonnie Campbell. Have you told Morag?’

  Kirstin shook her head. ‘No. But it’ll have to be done.’

  Dr Mackeson laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, leave this to me. Are you going to be okay? I’ll call you later, if I may?’

  With that, she stepped away and made for Morag’s bed. Kirstin stood, marooned in the middle of the busy ward, and then turned on her heel. It was as she shouldered her way through the swing doors that she heard it.

  Morag’s agonized animal wail.

  Twenty-Seven

  Kirstin reached across Jamie’s desk to switch on the lamp and paused, taking a final look through the bay windows down to the river. The rest of the day had left her tired and downcast. Dr Mackeson had rung. Morag had been persuaded to enter the clinic’s residential unit, just for a day or two. There they could help her deal with Bonnie’s death. As for Bonnie, the local news had eventually turned its attention to the fire. The reports had been scanty: a tragic accident probably caused by candles. They told of an incident the previous year, when the fire service had been called to Bonnie’s address to deal with curtains that had caught alight, again from candle flames. So that was that, then. A life snuffed out through carelessness.

  After Dr Mackeson’s call, Kirstin had spent much of the afternoon in the garden, desperate for some space. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to feel. She just wanted to relax. But she’d ended up falling asleep, dozing fitfully and unsatisfyingly. The study was nearly in darkness now. She remembered popping her head into this room countless times throughout her marriage to Ross. Cosy in winter, with a glowing hearth to sit by, watching the flames. Or, like now, enjoying a warm summer evening, the windows thrown open, sipping wine, listening to the sounds of nocturnal creatures emerging to face the night.

  She clicked on the desk lamp, immediately extinguishing her view of the river, and looked around the familiar room. It was conventionally furnished for a man of Jamie’s age and background: all leather and wood panelling but with lighter, personal touches. Photos of Ross from boy to man, images of Jean throughout the years, and more recent additions of Jamie as a river volunteer and guide. She wo
ndered who had taken those. Glen?

  As she bent to start sorting the papers piled on the desk, the sound of a car horn from the front of the house made her jump. Ross was expected, but not yet. She trotted down the hallway and opened the front door. She recognized Glen’s Land Rover, its full-beam headlights momentarily dazzling her, and walked over to meet him as he cut the engine.

  He gave a jaunty wave through the driver’s open window. ‘Thought you might like some company. I was passing and wondered if you fancied a bite out? I’ve been trying to call you all day. Your phone down?’

  She stood at the driver’s door, looking up at him. Finding a smile of any sort was hard. ‘I’ve had it switched off. I’m very tired. Look, I’ve got a lot to do tonight. I need to settle myself in here. Start on Jamie’s papers. Ross reckons the whole clear-out should take me a few days. Oh, and by the way, I imagine there’ll be river association material that you want to have back.’

  He’d leant out of the window to smile down at her. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her face.

  ‘Eh…anything that you think relates to the association, just leave to one side. I can pick it up whenever. But, are you sure you’re up to the job? I mean, it might be a bit difficult. Upsetting. Ross should have asked me to go through it. I can come over again tonight, no matter how late…’

  He leant further down to her, his hand dangling. Should she take it?

  ‘And I’d like to apologize. Properly. I shocked myself by lashing out at Sutherland. I’ve been thinking about little else since it happened. I used to be a bit of a hard nut, a real scrapper in my youth. But violence is so far from my life now. I guess I have a lot of underlying resentment and frustration towards him. The whole lot of them, in fact. One way or another they’d made my life, and Jamie’s, hell. Anyway, if you want me tonight, I’m here.’