by Aly Sidgwick
‘Who?’
‘There’s a man, with white hair. I think they killed my mother …’
Rhona sits up straight.
‘Well, that’s even more reason to go to the police!’
Our eyes lock, and for several seconds we just glare at each other. She means well, I know that. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have stuck her neck out like this. But I can’t go to the police. I’m not ready to officially admit murder. Right now, all I want is to go home. My real home. I must be sure what happened to Mum. To visit her grave, if not her deathbed. I owe her that. And Dad. Despite everything, I have to find him too.
I wrap myself further in the tartan blanket, and take a deep breath.
‘Please, let me go.’
‘And what would you do then? Where would you go?’
‘Home,’ I reply, in a small voice.
Rhona whips round and scrutinises my face. Already I see the uncertainty in her. The curiosity. And underneath the rhetoric, the genuine desire to help.
‘Which home?’ she replies slowly.
‘My parents’ home.’
‘Where is that?’
‘I don’t know its name, but I think I know the way.’
Rhona’s eyes dart across my face. Maybe she thinks I’m lying. But I can see she wants to believe me.
‘We drove back from here every summer,’ I say. ‘It’s in England. The east.’
‘Do you think anyone’s still there?’
‘I don’t know. I have to find out.’
‘You said these men killed your mother …’
‘Yes. But my dad might still be there …’
‘Look, I’m sure the police will let you g—’
I glare at Rhona.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Maybe they won’t. But … Oh …’ She hangs her head. Mumbles, ‘I don’t know what to do …’
For a while, the wind blows us around. The blood is drying on Rhona’s forehead, leaving dark-brown trails on the side of her face. I scrunch my toes up under the blanket, and wait.
‘Is that what you want, to find your father?’ asks Rhona, without looking at me.
‘Yes.’
‘Look, I was all for you finding your mother. But your father … He doesn’t sound like a nice man.’
‘He’s still my dad.’
‘You said it yourself. Why didn’t he come to get you? He must have seen you on the news …’
‘That’s what I need to know.’
‘Say you do find him, and he’s alive, and he’s an arsehole … What will you do then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There can’t be anything else, after this, you know. We can’t do a … Bonnie and Clyde for the rest of our lives.’
I smile.
‘Dundee is the end of the line. There’s no escaping that.’
‘I know.’
Rhona falls silent. This time for longer. She hugs her knees against the wind. This is it now. I’ve played my last card.
Finally, Rhona turns to study my face. That old fire is back in her eyes. The one I thought had gone for good. ‘I must be mad,’ she murmurs. Then, with that smile that’s not really a smile, she bows her head and says, ‘All right.’
34
For the first hour, Rhona drives like a maniac. Joyce’s car’s a classic Mini, not even a Mini Cooper, and is really not built to travel at these speeds. When the needle creeps over seventy, the car screeches and a smell like burning dust comes through the air vents. I wrinkle my nose up and clutch my seat belt.
‘We’ll be on the bigger road soon,’ says Rhona, squinting into the rear-view mirror. ‘You should lie down in the back seat.’
I nod. That would certainly make more sense.
‘Motorbike coming up behind,’ says Rhona. Obediently, I get down in the footwell. Rhona slows the car for a short period and the screeching sound slackens off. Then she puts her foot back down and I know it’s safe to sit up.
‘This is madness,’ she says, for the tenth time. But her tone is not accusatory. I undo my seat belt and climb into the back seat.
‘Put the blanket over you,’ Rhona says over her shoulder.
‘We’re not on the big road yet.’
‘I know, but you need to keep warm. I’ve got my eye on you. One funny turn and it’s straight to the hospital.’
‘Aren’t you cold too?’ I ask, but Rhona makes a dismissive noise with her mouth. ‘Was Joyce mad, when you stranded her?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
I giggle. Rhona does not join in, so I stop.
‘I told her I had to puke,’ says Rhona. ‘I really did have to puke. And she got out to comfort me. I hadn’t planned it. I just … It just happened. I knew what you were likely to do, and Joyce had refused to turn back. The car was still revving … I pushed her in the ditch …’
‘You pushed Joyce in a ditch?!’
I sit up straight on the back seat, overcome with laughter. This time Rhona joins in. Then she says, ‘Car!’ and I must lie back down.
‘You’re a bad influence,’ says Rhona. I hear the smile in her voice. ‘You’ve brought out the rebel in me.’
‘Do you think anyone’s picked her up by now?’ I ask, and then we both stop laughing. Another car swooshes past us. Rhona makes a nervous sound under her breath. Then her foot goes down on the accelerator and the burning smell comes back.
#
After Inverness we join the big road south. Rhona stops talking to me now, and I know from the sounds she makes that she’s nervous. We haven’t spoken of what will happen when we reach my town. I don’t think either of us knows that. But it’s what we’ll do afterwards that worries me. Will Rhona just turn me in? I mustn’t let my guard down.
‘Is it Newcastle?’ asks Rhona suddenly. ‘That’s a big city in the north-east. Does that ring any bells?’
I frown. The name is familiar, but it doesn’t sound quite right. It’s the closest guess yet though. So far we’ve ruled out Berwick, Leeds, Middlesbrough and Hull.
‘I know that name,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s close to there.’
‘Look, I’m trying to make decisions here! This isn’t a day trip to the zoo! I need more than maybes if we’re ever going to …’
A car flashes past us. Rhona falls silent. Then clears her throat and says, ‘Sorry. But I do need to—’
‘Head for Newcastle,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think it’s near there.’
‘You’re sure?’
My mind races in the silence that follows.
‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ I say. ‘I’ll know the road.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll need to sit up.’
Rhona sighs. ‘Okay. When we get closer, we’ll figure something out.’
A long-distance bus overtakes us, filled with passengers. I jump and hide my face.
‘God, I wish the radio worked,’ says Rhona, as if reading my mind.
‘Do you think I’m on the news?’
‘We’ll both be on the news after Joyce gets to a phone.’
‘Maybe they’ll just put it in the Western Courier,’ I say. ‘Then the people down here won’t hear about it.’
Rhona’s silence does not fill me with confidence.
‘Don’t you think?’ I ask.
Rhona exhales heavily. For a second, she remains quiet. Then she mutters, ‘Hon, you’re more of a celebrity than you know.’
#
We stop at a service station to use the toilet. Until now, Rhona had just snapped ‘No!’ when I asked, but now she needs to go too, so we pull in at South Queensferry services and park on the far edge of the car park. Only when we get out do we remember neither of us have shoes.
‘Damn,’ says Rhona, and stares at her feet. I look at our reflection in the car window and see what she means. We’re going to draw attention.
‘What if I go in alone,’ says Rhona, ‘and bring you back a cup to go in? Or you could go right here
, behind the car. I’ll stand watch.’
‘Are you joking?’ I splutter. But already the presence of strangers is making me nervous. I can’t remember the last time I saw so many cars in one place, and each one belongs to a person I do not know. Though we’re on the edge of the car park, the main entrance is in sight and I can see ten, maybe fifteen people from here. Behind us, the Forth bridges rise up like the gateposts to hell. Their monstrous size makes me nervous and I’m anxious to leave them behind.
‘I’ll go behind the car,’ I say, and run round the other side.
Afterwards, I feel much better. Rhona locks me in the back seat and tells me not to open the door for anyone. From the window, I watch her running to the main building. Then, for ten awful minutes, I wait. Twice, people walk past and I have to hide.
Rhona finally emerges, with her face turned down. She wears sunglasses and a pair of pink flip-flops, and in one hand she grips a white plastic carrier bag. I am overwhelmed with relief that she’s come back in one piece.
‘Put these on,’ she says as she chucks the bag into my lap. Immediately she puts the car in reverse, and as she turns to look through the back window I notice how white her face is.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
But she just says, ‘Put those on and get down.’
In the bag I find sunglasses, pink flip-flops, a scarf and a baseball cap with a picture of a cow on it.
‘Make sure you’re well covered,’ says Rhona as we roar back onto the Al. For the next hour we travel in silence. The movements of the car remain constant now, lulling me into a light sleep, and when Rhona’s voice speaks again it comes as a surprise.
‘Kathy? You awake?’
‘Muh …’
I uncurl. My neck aching from being crushed into the corner. Outside, sky rushes past.
‘I need to tell you something,’ says Rhona. ‘A secret.’
‘What?’
‘There was a phone call. You know, back then.’
I pull the blanket down from my face and stare at the back of Rhona’s head.
‘He called a few hours after the first news bulletin. You were still in Invercraig then, at the doctor’s. When I took on your case, they played me the tape …’
Rhona turns slightly and grimaces in the rear-view mirror. Then her eyes go back to the road.
‘The first thing he said was that he—’
‘Rhona. I know.’
‘What?’
‘Dr Harrison told me. That’s the warning I was talking about.’
Rhona turns round again.
‘Oh!’ she says. Then, after a moment, ‘So that was him? The dangerous man?’
‘I think so.’
‘Everyone thought it was Magnus back then. Even I did. Then I thought it was Hans. But I think you and me have dispelled that myth.’
I shiver. Rhona eases off the accelerator.
‘Do you understand the message, then? After the I’ll be waiting part?’
‘I don’t know what the last bit was. Dr Harrison just told me about it.’
‘So you haven’t heard the message?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to?’
I stare at Rhona, terrified. I hadn’t expected this. I know I should just let her tell me. That I should be in full possession of the facts. But …
In my mind I picture Stian howling on the porch steps. Kolbeinn with the tyre iron in his hand. The Duck, the heavyset, silent man, and all the unknown spies.
‘I memorised it,’ says Rhona. ‘Shall I tell you?’
I close my eyes. I breathe slowly in. Then out.
‘Tell me.’
‘Right. Please bear with my pronunciation. It’s quite short, but I’m not good with languages. He said: Tell her, Ayoo kaykapp oongh.’
I sit up straight. Rhona’s face appears in the rear-view mirror.
‘What does it mean? Do you know?’ she asks.
‘That’s not Norwegian.’
‘Well, why would—’
‘Say it again!’
Rhona’s eyes flick between me and the road. Then she clears her throat and says, ‘Ayookay kap pungh.’
A smile creeps across my face.
‘You said you heard the tape?’ I say. ‘What accent did the guy have?’
‘Hard to say. It sounded weird. Mixed up. Like he was—’
‘Putting it on.’
‘Yeah. I mean, his English was perfect. In some sections he sounded sort of southern. You know. Etonian. Like a public schoolboy.’
The truth is undeniable now. Infectious. Flopping back onto the back seat, I start to laugh. The car swerves as Rhona sits up. She takes one hand off the steering wheel and pushes her sunglasses onto her forehead.
‘What?!’
‘Oh my God …’
Darling Tim. All this time, he’s been waiting for me.
‘You know what it is, don’t you?’
Rhona strains high enough in her seat to meet my eyes. Grinning like an idiot, I nod. Her eyes go wide in the rear-view mirror.
‘Tell me!’
‘Okay, cap’n! That’s the message. It’s English.’
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘It’s a private joke. It means he won’t tread on my toes. He wants to, but he won’t. Not till I give him the go-ahead.’
‘You mean … It’s not from the bad men?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘Tim! He’s my best … He’s …’
Rhona makes a strangled noise.
‘Wait … Not the Tim you told Susan about? The Tim who lives above the shop?’
My heart jolts again. The record shop …
Vinyl Vultures … That keyring … Oh my God! It was Tim who came over the fence! He has been trying to get to me …
For a moment I’m so happy that I forget to hide from passing cars. Overjoyed, I stick my legs in the air.
‘Hoy,’ says Rhona. ‘Get those down! We’ll be pulled over!’
‘Sorry.’
After frowning in the mirror for a bit, Rhona shakes her head. She puts her sunglasses back down and turns her attention back to the road. The sunlight is dim against her face now, but I still see her eyes glint behind her glasses. When cars overtake us, her eyes follow them and her behaviour becomes less settled.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. I look at her mouth in the rear-view mirror. Pressed tightly closed.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘In case you didn’t know, Katherine, we’re fugitives from justice. I’m a bit tense.’
‘Did something happen?’
Rhona sighs. ‘Sorry. Look … I didn’t want to worry you before, but … I think someone recognised me.’
‘What? When?’
‘A little girl. In the service station.’
I fall silent.
‘A TV was on in the café,’ says Rhona. ‘We’re all over the news. Car registration. Mugshots. Everything.’
Suddenly I feel faint. I wilt into the back seat.
‘What did it say?’
‘They’re saying you’ve kidnapped me. Ridiculous, I know, but—’
‘What?! But … why would they think …’
‘I think Joyce is at the bottom of that wee gem. But that’s not important. Right now we need to find this town of yours.’
We continue in silence. Rhona’s left hand starts jiggling on the steering wheel.
Tappatappatappatappatappatappatappa …
‘Get up in the front, she says finally.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It’s getting dark out.’
I gather myself together and climb carefully over into the passenger seat.
‘Right,’ declares Rhona. ‘Start recognising!’
‘Are we close to Newcastle?’
‘Soon.’
As I look out of the window, a tiny cry escapes me. Until now I’d somehow convinced myself we were alone on this road. Bu
t that could not be further from the truth. Around us there are more cars than I can count, and everything is moving very, very fast. My eyes grow moist behind my glasses, and I realise with shame that I am shaking. My God, what’s wrong with me? Maybe I am as sick as they say …
A road sign flashes past, declaring Newcastle to be fifteen miles away. I look from left to right, and a sense of déjà vu creeps over me. That curve in the road. That bridge. That bank with the six thin trees on top. Rhona remains silent as I touch a hand to my mouth.
‘Not much further. It’s before Newcastle,’ I tell her in a tiny voice.
Rhona indicates she understands. Another sign flashes past, with a diagram of a junction on it. On we go, into the darkening horizon. Then, just as the sun is slipping away, we reach a very familiar stretch of road. I sit up straight.
‘Here,’ I say.
‘What?’ bursts Rhona, looking sideways through the gloom. She’s taken her sunglasses off, but I still have mine on.
‘This turn-off. Go left here.’
‘Thank God,’ says Rhona, and turns on the indicators. The slip road is mercifully empty as we rattle to a more Mini-friendly speed. At the junction with the new road, we stop, and though there’s no traffic to give way to, Rhona takes a moment before continuing.
I look in the wing mirror, just in time to see the sun sink over the horizon. Stillness descends.
We drive more slowly now, along quieter roads, around tree-filled roundabouts. For some stretches there are street-lights, and for others there are not. In places the embankments lining the road sink lower, revealing a flat, rural landscape beyond. The glow on the horizon suggests nearby industry. Sporadically I provide directions, and Rhona obeys. On we go, past public parks, discount car dealerships and dormant leisure centres. Working men’s clubs, council estates and high-rises. Chip shops on street corners, flanked by gangs of kids up to no good. All of these scenes should frighten me witless, but as we draw closer to our destination a strange calm descends on me. I look through the window, and remember, and know this is my home. Silently, we progress through town. Then, in the middle of a long, straight road, I touch Rhona’s arm.
‘Stop here,’ I say.
The car creeps to a halt, and with a deep breath, I remove my sunglasses. We sit in the dark, indicators clacking.
Rhona turns to me, the rustle of her jacket amplified by the sudden silence.
