The Guest House

by David Mark

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I say, and turn to the children. They are staring, disgusted and transfixed. Poppy’s eyes are wide as saucers, and she reaches out for her brother as if he were a life buoy in rough seas. ‘Go to your rooms, right now – go to your rooms!’

  I look up at Lachlan, who’s staring at the floor, his big face suddenly bloodless and sickly. ‘She needs bandages, not your bloody boots!’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he mutters, ashamed of himself. ‘She wanted to get away from there. She was trying to walk – barefoot on the road. She wouldn’t listen…’

  ‘He’s okay is Lachlan,’ mumbles Theresa, in a voice filled with tears and pain. ‘Let him go. He’s got places to be. Thanks, lad. You needn’t have stopped. Glad you did.’

  He stands there like a naughty schoolboy and I realise he’s waiting for me to dismiss him. I’ve got my hands on my hips, my hair falling in my face, my heart thumping as if it’s going to pop, and suddenly all I want is to lock the back door again and drag the story out of Theresa. Who’s done this to her? Why?

  I answer my own question even as she starts to speak. I know where she was when these things happened.

  ‘The castle,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘I went to talk to them about knocking your wall down…’

  ‘Oh, Theresa,’ I say, and I feel Lachlan move away towards the door – the light shifting as his great big outline becomes smaller. I hear his shoulders rub against the doorframe. Hear the soft “snick” of the door closing behind him.

  I turn Theresa to face me. Hold her gaze. I want her to know she’s safe now. That whatever she has endured, it’s over. And then I think about Mr Roe, and Bishop, and a severed head in a lobster pot, and recognise that any such utterances would be a lie.

  ‘They told me not to tell,’ she whispers, and she looks down at her ruined foot, regarding it as if it were something alien to her. The other foot remains encased in the too-big boot. Slowly, she reaches down and levers it off with her thumb. This time there is no scream. She simply starts to shake as she stares at what has been done to her.

  Each toe is dripping with ink-red blood. The tips are missing their nails, and each is turning a gory blue-black, like over-ripe bananas.

  ‘Theresa,’ I say, and put my hand out to comfort her. She pulls back as if expecting a blow. She shakes her head, violently.

  ‘I didn’t mean to see,’ she whispers. ‘Didn’t mean to make them cross. I shouldn’t have peeked. I know that now. Shouldn’t have peeked…’

  I look up at her, all helpless pity and silent rage.

  ‘What did you see?’ I ask, my words coming out in a rush. ‘Talk to me. Theresa, you’re safe.’

  ‘Men,’ she says, turning terrified eyes upon me. ‘Hooked to machines. Wires coming out of them like they were robots…’ She stops talking as something surfaces in her memory. She shudders, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘And eyes,’ she whispers. ‘Glass urns full of eyeballs, like gobstoppers in a jar…’

  She folds in on herself. Gives in to the misery and lets me pull her toward me. And as she shakes and sobs and the pain in her feet sends knives of agony through her whole body, I find myself looking out through the darkened glass towards Mr Roe’s quarters. And I feel my lip curl so that for just the merest moment, I am glaring out with bared teeth.

  At once, my thoughts become absolutely clear. None of the other questions or concerns are important.

  For this, somebody is going to pay.

  15

  We talk in the kitchen for an hour – Atticus in nominal charge of his two sisters and overseeing a hastily convened movie-and-popcorn evening, which involves the trio huddling around my laptop and arguing over which movie to watch until it’s too late to watch any at all.

  She tells me how the evening started, and how it has ended here, in my kitchen, with me slathering ointment into her blistered feet and trying not to gag as I look at the ruined stumps of her toes.

  ‘You should be in hospital,’ I keep telling her. ‘They’ll get infected. You could lose them, Theresa…’

  She swallows three painkillers with a swig of tea, and gives me a look that could turn sand to glass. She’ll go when she’s good and ready. She needs to talk. Needs to get all the bad stuff out of herself before it festers and turns into something worse.

  I ask questions at first, but soon I accept that I’m just slowing her down. I let her tell it her own way, and resist the urge to butt in until she’s done. Only then do I let the angry tears fall, and bare my teeth in outrage and disgust.

  *

  ‘There were lights on at the castle. And I knew I should keep my nose out – just get myself home and leave things be. There was a north-westerly rolling in; the roads would be hard work. But I liked the idea of playing the hero, didn’t I? Fair imagined myself coming to work tomorrow and telling you I’d got it all sorted. Those bastards in the van had seen the error of their ways and were going to be writing you a nice fat cheque to cover the cost of your wall. And I’ll admit it, I didn’t mind the idea of having a nosey about the place and a decent excuse to knock on the door. Posh private hospital, you said? Might have seen myself a film star, or seen Cher in there having her next facelift. So I did it on a whim.

  ‘I thought I’d got lucky that the big gates were open. Pulled straight in off the road and was out front of the place before I’d even thought about it properly. I figured it would be a proper den of activity, if they’re close to opening, but it’s not much better than it was when I had a peek through the trees back in the summer. Still overgrown, still those nasty single-glazed windows, curtains hanging as if somebody’s been swinging from them. And not a light in the place, saving the one that flicked on when I got out of the car. You know me, I’m not a scared person. I’ve buried three husbands and I’m not sure all of them were dead, and I don’t let life give me the willies, and you can take that any way you want.

  ‘But it was a bit scary, standing there in the dark in front of a big empty castle, and I wouldn’t have knocked on the door if it wasn’t for the fact that a big shiny black car had followed me up the drive. I don’t mean they knew I was there, I mean they’d come in straight afterwards, and suddenly I didn’t really want to be explaining myself to strangers in the dark on my own. So I got back in the car and figured I’d leave it for another day. The car went past the front of the house and went around the back without ever noticing I was there, so I headed back towards the gates.

  ‘Trouble was, the buggers had locked them after themselves hadn’t they? So I was stuck. Padlocked the damn things, so all I could do was drive back up to the house and see if I could find some kindly soul to let me out. And that’s what I did. Drove the way they’d gone, around the side of the house and around to what would have been the domestic quarters back when it was new. Two white vans, a big Porsche Cayenne, and a couple of fancy cars, all parked up in front of this big long building.

  ‘I pulled in and got out and I swear my heart was beating like the clappers, and I had to do that thing where you want people to hear you but you don’t want to startle them, so I was walking like my feet were wearing concrete slippers, and peering in between the curtains trying to spy somebody. Anyway, I tried a couple of doors and windows and even started shouting a few hellos, and finally I saw a light coming from a window right at the very back of the house. I don’t know why but suddenly I was too frightened to make a din, and I just had myself a little look through the window so I knew what it was I was going to be disturbing.

  ‘And I saw them. Two men. They were skinny and dark-skinned. I don’t want to say the wrong word, but they were black without being really black, if you get me. Like, Asian, I suppose, but maybe that’s not right either. But they were both laid there on these hospital beds. Do they call them “gurneys”? I’m not sure. But they were strapped down, and both of them had bandages around their eyes, and they had drips going in and out of them – I swear, it was like they were hooked up to something robotic. And the
looks on their faces, Ronni. They were in such pain, and so scared, and as soon as I saw it I half fell over backwards, and I ran back to the car so fast you’d think there were dogs after me.

  ‘Of course I was in such a state that I pulled out of the parking space like a lunatic and went straight into one of the big posh cars. And then I’m sitting there listening to this alarm going off, and lights are coming on, and the next thing this huge great brute with a face like a headstone is dragging me out of the car like we’re mortal enemies, and he slaps me so hard across the back of the head that I felt my knees go. Next thing I’m hearing an English voice tell a Scotsman that he’s over-reacting, it’s not a problem, that I’ll have friends and family nearby, and then they agree that I need to know how important it is not to tell anybody what I saw. And they did this.

  ‘Told me my own life story, they did. I can barely remember what the nasty bastard looked like but he sat in front of me while I was squirming like a toddler on this rickety metal chair, and he tells me the names of my grandkids and my old mam and says that if I ever want to start causing them trouble, then what I’m about to experience will happen to them. And they won’t be so nice about it. Then I just heard that sound you hear when you pour boiling water on an ant’s nest, and then there’s a thud-thud-thud and somebody I can’t make out is hitting a hammer and a chisel against my toes, and I’m screaming in a way that would have my old dad spinning in his grave.

  ‘And the next thing I’m walking down the middle of the main road, and that big handsome fella was picking me up, and all I wanted was to be here, because if I’m honest, love, this is where I feel most at home, and by Christ I’m going to make sure they get what’s coming to them for this. I can’t tell you what they looked like, but I know the cars and I know the way the big one smelled and the Englishman had a way of talking that sounded like he wasn’t long for this world, and whatever happens next I want you to know that you don’t need to ever blame yourself. You’re a good lass, Ronni, and you might not always like people to know it but you’ve got a heart of gold under there, and I know to my bones you’re hard as nails as well.

  ‘Begging your pardon, but I think I’ll spend the night. Is that okay? Those painkillers are kicking in, and it wouldn’t do me any harm to have a rest. I’m not bleeding, am I? It’s just that, the more I think on it, the more I remember this sizzle, after they were done – and this single red circle, like the lighter from a car. I think they stopped the bleeding. Why do you think they did that, Ronni? Why do you think they did any of it…’

  *

  Only when she’s done, when she dissolves and lays her head down on her arms, do I decide what will happen next. She will stay the night. Tomorrow, we will go to the hospital. Go to the police. But tonight, now, I want to know if there is any part of Nicholas Roe worth saving. He’s in the pub. That’s his routine. His room’s empty. Whatever truths he’s concealing are there for the taking. He knows the men who did this to my friend. He wants me to keep my mouth shut so they can give him another chance at life. He has a picture of a man’s severed head on his mobile phone, and he’s desperate for me not to tell the police the little I know.

  I need answers. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get them.

  16

  When we bought the croft, we decided the barn was just big enough to be converted into three tiny guest houses. We bill them as “bijou”, though I can’t profess to really know what that means. They’re cosy, one-bedroomed affairs: a bed, chair, a couple of sticks of furniture and enough room at the back for a toilet and shower cubicle. We do okay out of what people call the “boutique” market, though I’ve never understood why people are so desperate to leave their four-bedroomed houses to pay extravagant sums for a night dossing down in something not much bigger than a walk-in closet.

  Mr Roe has been staying in Number 3. Beside him is Mr Paretsky and the Truloves are in the slightly larger chalet-style lodge at the far end. I’ve seen little of them since they arrived. I’ve heard from Theresa that they’ve taken to going to the Kilchoan Lodge on an evening and drinking gin and bitter lemon while playing Connect Four. Their breakfast dishes are always placed in the wicker basket as requested, though whether they eat the food or give it to the pine martens is anybody’s guess. I don’t have to guess with Mr Paretsky. He’d eat whatever you left out for him – up to and including deep-fried pine marten.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, knocking at the door just hard enough to wake any spiders that may be nesting in the keyhole. ‘Housekeeping…’

  Behind me, the house is all blackness and right angles; the doors and windows closed, the curtains pulled fast. The rain still comes in from a dozen different directions and I almost lost my fight as I ran across the lawn to the lodges, casting a huge silhouette as the security light flashed on. I’m soaked and shivering, but I’m not turning back. I know I won’t sleep again until I feel as though I’m in control of what is happening to my life and my home.

  ‘Hello,’ I whisper, again, rubbing the soles of my trainers on the coarse welcome mat outside Number 3. ‘Please don’t be in…’

  There’s no answer from inside. I stand on the front step for just long enough to make it seem that I’m waiting for the occupant to make themselves presentable. I don’t know if I’m being watched but I have a feeling I should behave from now on as though I am. And right now, at just gone 9pm on a weekday evening, I’m simply the owner of a guest house, popping in to one of the properties to make sure that the occupant has everything they need. The fact that I know him to be nine miles up the road getting pissed on cognac is neither here nor there.

  Damply, coldly, I fiddle with the keys. The wooden door has swollen since it was first installed and every guest has complained about the difficulties in accessing their room. I fumble about for what seems like an eternity, wincing into the cold and the rain and the dark, before I feel the key turn in the lock and I half stumble into the cool, black room.

  I reach out a hand and turn on the light, which takes a moment to flicker into life.

  Even now I’m proud of what we did with the old barn. All of my guests are impressed when they first switch on the light. It’s warm and snug and has a timelessness that speaks to the particular proclivities of whoever rents it out. To some it’s a perfect spot for romance; to others a secluded get-away-from-it-all sanctuary tailor-made for creativity. To the couple who stayed last Easter, it was the ideal location in which to finally make good on eighteen years of office-based sexual tension – finally consummating their relationship with an abandon that threatened to shake the squirrels from their nests. Callum and I had heard them from indoors, and had taken their pleasure in one another as a reminder about how lucky we were to sleep in one another’s arms most nights.

  By the time they were done, we were just getting started. At the time, I’d felt brazen and lusty: delighting in the ardour my husband and I still felt when we reached out for one another in the dark. I’ve often wondered whether he was already fucking Kimmy at that point – whether he ever entered me still reeking of another woman’s desire.

  I close the door behind me. Lock it. Push my damp hair from my face and try to collect my thoughts. I need to know about this man. I find it impossible to believe that he has been truthful with me. His talk of Bishop – his candour about the nature of the new facility at the castle: none of it fits with what was done to Theresa. I need answers. Everything I’ve learned about Nicholas Roe suggests he’s a chimera; a fantasy. And as for Bishop, I don’t even know his first name. I suddenly realise that I’ve blundered into a situation that could have hellish consequences for those I love, and that it’s already cost Theresa dear. If I go through his things, I know I’m likely to stumble deeper into whatever the hell this is, but some stubborn part of me needs to understand things before I decide how next to act.

  I look around, wondering where to start. He keeps the place neat and tidy – that’s for sure. It looks like it did when we first opened to paying guests:
rough-plastered walls hung with great moody stag prints and maps of the peninsula. The light is set in a halo of pleached antlers and the bed is covered with a purply tartan throw. Mr Roe’s solitary suitcase sits in front of the neat pine wardrobe and on the bedside table is a paperback book, its pages splayed open. There’s a water glass too, and I remember Theresa telling me that she had seen Steradent tablets in the tiny bathroom cabinet, along with whatever else he was taking. I find myself putting the pieces together. He’s getting ready for surgery. He’s keeping himself alive until the operation happens, and in the event that it goes wrong, he’s getting in his pleasures where he can.

  I start with the suitcase. It’s thoroughly nondescript: a grey-black without a lock. Inside, a slapdash collection of T-shirts, underwear and padded shirts, designed to keep out the harshest of Scottish winters. I rummage around in each pocket and find nothing more interesting than a forgotten packet of silica gel and half a ripped beer mat – its torn white edge showing three digits of a longer sequence: 078. What the hell am I meant to do with that? I turn it over and see if it’s got anything more revealing on the rear. All I can make out is a lurid yellow and purple combination, together with a stencilled insignia. It means nothing to me. I take out my phone and snap a picture, just in case, then tuck the scrap of card back where I found it.

  Under his bedclothes I find his pyjamas: a white T-shirt and a pair of black jogging bottoms. It makes me unexpectedly sad when I look at the label and see that they are for somebody aged thirteen.

  The book is called Necropolis, written by one David Philip Lamb. It tells the story of Derrick Ovenden, a Glasgow gangster who ruled like a Sicilian godfather for the best part of forty years. I haven’t read it, but I know the work. Callum devoured it in two sittings when it came out a few years back. Ovenden was definitely the real thing. He had a habit of crucifying his enemies and he ran his empire as if he were a branch of government – putting contracts out to tender and opening sealed bids from different assassins before appointing a particular contractor to take out his problems. I pick up Mr Roe’s copy and leaf through it, holding it up to the light. I let it sit on my palm, letting it drop open on a random page. I read what Mr Roe pored over the last time it was in his hands, and feel sick as I realise what I am seeing.