Coffin Road
Page 8
Reconnecting with who I am seems just a touch away. I pull the laptop towards me and load up my browser to type BT phone book into Google. A link takes me to the home page of British Telecom’s phone directory. I type in my surname and the address on the back of the extract of birth, then hit return. Up comes my full name, with phone number and address, including post code. I am very nearly afraid to breathe, in case it all vanishes like smoke in the wind. But as I sit staring at the screen it remains there, burning itself on to my retinas.
I know now exactly who I am and where I live.
*
I have found an empty overnight bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, and it sits on the bed beside the clothes I am laying out for my trip. Underwear, socks, a spare pair of jeans, a couple of shirts. I have no idea how much to pack, or how long I will be away. For this is a journey into the unknown, with no predetermined destination and no return ticket. At least, not yet.
I hear the door open into the kitchen and freeze, listening intently. But I can barely hear anything above the pulsing of blood in my head. Bran, who has spread himself on the bed, unsettled and depressed at my packing, lifts his head for a moment, then drops it again to sink back into his huff. But I am not taking any chances. I reach below the pillow to feel for the hunting knife left by my attacker last night and move carefully into the hall.
‘Neal?’ Sally’s voice is shrill and carries more than a hint of alarm in it.
I step into the sitting room and see her framed in the archway to the kitchen. She looks pale, shocked, and her eyes drop to the knife I hold in my hand.
‘For God’s sake, Neal, what’s going on?’
The relief that courses through me is almost disabling. I lay the knife on the table beside the lamp and take three quick steps towards her, to pull her into my arms and hold her. I feel her surprise and initial resistance, before her hands slip around me to spread themselves on my shoulders. Her head tips back to look at me. I see confusion and fear in her eyes.
‘What on earth’s happened?’
I kiss her softly and close my own eyes to rest my forehead on hers. ‘I missed you today,’ I say. ‘I really missed you.’
‘I had to go up to Stornoway with Jon.’ She kisses me. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she steps back, holding both my hands, and stares at me earnestly. ‘Who did all this?’ And a flick of her head indicates the mess that surrounds us.
‘I did.’
Her astonishment is patent. ‘Why?’
‘I was looking for me.’
Confusion clouds her eyes before they flicker towards the table. ‘And the knife?’
I lead her to one of the settees, replacing the cushions, and sit us both down. We are turned, half-facing each other, still holding hands, and I tell her everything. About my attacker the night before, and the intervention of a third party that almost certainly saved my life. I see her eyes widen in horror and disbelief.
I tell her about my fruitless trip out to Eilean Mòr, but omit the discovery of the body in the chapel. I am afraid to even put that into words. Then my frantic search of the house to find something, anything, that would provide a clue to the real me.
I stand up and lead her through to the kitchen and open up the briefcase to reveal the bundles of cash. Her eyes are like saucers. She lifts one, as if only by touching it will she believe it really exists. ‘Neal, this is scary.’
I nod. ‘And it’s not all.’ I show her the cuttings and the birth certificate, and the confirmation of my address in the BT phone book. Neal David Maclean, from Hainburn Park, Edinburgh. ‘I’m going there tomorrow.’
Her eyes crinkle with concern. ‘Is that a good idea? You might find you have a wife and family.’
‘I’ve got to know, Sally.’
She seems resigned to it. ‘Will you fly?’
‘I have no credit card or photo ID. But I checked the internet. I can pay cash for a ferry crossing from Tarbert to Skye tomorrow and drive down.’
‘Without a licence or logbook?’
‘The chances of me being stopped are negligible, Sally, unless I’m in an accident.’
She slips her arms around me, and I hear her voice, very small, as she presses her head against my chest. ‘I’m scared I’m going to lose you.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, but there is little conviction in my words.
She looks at me. ‘Whoever you are – whoever you really are – you might not want to be with me once you know. Once you remember.’
‘Of course I will.’
But she just smiles, a sad, wistful little smile. ‘You should go to the police, Neal.’
I step back, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because someone tried to kill you, that’s why. And, because they didn’t succeed, there’s a good chance they’ll try again.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d have to tell them that I’ve lost my memory. That I’ve been lying about why I’m here. That I’ve got twelve grand in cash stashed in a briefcase in the attic and I don’t know where it came from. There’s so much more I still need to know, Sally. I can’t go to the police.’ I hesitate, and realise that there is something else I need to confront. But, still, I can only address it obliquely. ‘Besides, chances are they’re going to come looking for me soon enough.’
She is startled, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because, when I was out at the lighthouse today, I found a man’s body in the old ruined chapel. Someone killed him, Sally. Smashed his head in.’ I swallow, my throat dry and swollen. ‘And I think it might have been me.’
CHAPTER NINE
Karen lay on the bed with her earbuds in and the volume up high on her iPhone. Still, somehow, she could hear them. Or perhaps feel, rather than hear them. Modern houses with stud walls and composite wooden flooring left little to the imagination. And she had known plenty of them, moving as they had from house to house when she was young, always in the wake of her father’s career. London, Leicester, Edinburgh. So many houses in such a short life.
She closed her eyes and tried to quell the sick feeling that had lain like a stone in her belly ever since her mother had broken the news.
Karen had changed in the two years since her father’s death. From a hormonal, but almost painfully conventional teenager to a hormonal, rebellious little bitch. A change of which she had been the conscious architect. Short hair, shaved at the sides and dyed green in a lick across the top, but still black at the back. The nose and eyebrow studs, the rings in her lip that they made her take out for school. The pictures of One Direction on the wall had been torn down to be replaced by Marilyn Manson posters she had found in the goth shop.
The first tattoo had caused a monumental row with aftershocks that went on for days. But there was nothing her mother could do about it. Fait accompli. Tattoos were for life, and this one had been such a small thing. A delicate little butterfly just above her left ankle. The others that followed had reduced it to insignificance. A winged skull on her chest, just below the neck. An elaborate and colourful snake that coiled its way around her left arm, from shoulder to wrist. An eagle with wings spread across her back and shoulders. And a couple she hadn’t even told her mother about.
Dressed discreetly, it was possible for all of them to be hidden. But pointing that out had done nothing to allay her mother’s fury with each addition. And after every grounding she had simply gone out and got another. They couldn’t lock her up in her room for ever.
Her mother had demanded to know where she had got the money. But Karen only ever shrugged, infuriating her further. How could she tell her that the tattoo artist was a friend returning favours? An older friend, with a penchant for teenage girls.
She had gone from being Daddy’s little girl to Mother’s nightmare in twenty-four short months. A deliberate decision. To leave behind the fragile, broken child, so filled with regret, and become . . . she didn’t know what. Anyone but who she really was.
It was less than five minutes before her mother stormed into the room, pulling a black silk dressing gown around her to cover her nakedness. She was flushed from more than anger, pupils dilated, her blond-streaked hair a tangled mess. ‘Will you turn that bloody noise down!’
Karen stood her ground defiantly. ‘Funny. I was just going to ask you to do the same thing.’
Her mother frowned and shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’ And she stalked across the room to the computer and grabbed the mouse to click pause. The sudden silence seemed even louder than the music.
‘You and baldy boy, fucking on the other side of my bedroom wall. You think I want to listen to that all night?’
‘Don’t you use that kind of language with me!’
‘Oh. Oh. So you’re not fucking then? You’re making love, is that it? Well, it doesn’t sound much like love to me. More like war. All that banging and screaming.’ She drew a deep breath, sucking up all her anger from deep inside. ‘I don’t need that shit all night, every night.’
Perhaps it was guilt that stopped her mother from coming straight back at her. But it was the ruthless streak Karen had been cultivating that led her to press home her advantage.
‘Cos that’s what it’s going to be, isn’t it? Now that he’s moving in. Sleeping in my dad’s bed, sitting in his chair, screwing his wife. Telling me what to do.’ Her mouth curled in anger as she almost spat the accusation at her mother. ‘You didn’t wait very long, did you?’
‘Christ, Karen, it’s been two bloody years! What did you think I was going to do? Spend the rest of my life in mourning? Dress in black and live like a nun? I’m not even forty, for God’s sake.’
‘And what about me?
‘What about you?’ The words exploded from her mother’s lips in anger. ‘You’re only seventeen! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and all you want to do is romanticise some imaginary past that never even existed. You did nothing but fight with your father.’
‘I loved my dad!’ The words, shouted in defiance, were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she was immediately embarrassed.
But her mother just shook her head. ‘Well, you’d a funny way of showing it. He’s dead, Karen. Gone. Get over it!’
She slammed the door shut behind her, and Karen heard her angry footsteps all the way along the hall. Then the low murmur of voices next door. But there was no resumption of hostilities.
*
Her desk was at the window side, about halfway up the row, and she looked out on trees, and pale grey buildings and acres of glass. Suburban hell. The greens and bunkers of the golf course simmered silently beyond a high hedge. She could hear Mrs Forrest speaking, but she wasn’t listening. Everything that made Karen different was hidden from view. Except for her hair and a few face studs. White blouse, school blazer and tie reduced her to conformity. Almost. The green lick always singled her out for attention.
It was the third or fourth time of her name being called that finally drew her eyes towards the front of the class.
Mrs Forrest was a formidable woman. She taught English and maths and was very much of the old school. She belonged to a generation whose own teachers would have wielded the tawse. And Karen had no doubt that, were it acceptable today, Mrs Forrest would have taken pleasure in dishing out its singular punishment herself.
‘Are you listening, Karen?’
‘Yes, Mrs Forrest.’
‘Then what did I say?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘So you weren’t listening.’
‘I was. You just weren’t being interesting enough to register in my consciousness.’ Karen’s IQ was probably twenty points or more higher than most of her teachers’. It never endeared her to them and almost invariably created a sense of their inferiority, which made them dangerous.
The teacher sighed. ‘You do realise that you are the only girl in the class who has failed to hand in her assignment.’
Karen was aware of classmates turning heads in her direction. None of them would dare to cross Mrs Forrest, with or without the tawse. She was a big personality. ‘What assignment would that be?’
Mrs Forrest’s silence would have intimidated nearly any other girl in the room, but Karen was past caring. She didn’t even know why she had bothered coming back for a sixth year. Except that she had no idea what else to do. She could have applied for university at the end of the last school year, and would have been accepted by any one of them that she had cared to ask. But another three or four years in education was an unappetising prospect. With depression leading to apathy, leading to more depression, her downward spiral into lassitude had led her more recently to speculate upon whether suicide was genetically heritable. ‘The assignment that every other girl in this class has completed. Apparently they had no problem in understanding what was being asked of them.’
‘You must have spelt it out in words of one syllable, then.’
Mrs Forrest pursed thin lips. ‘I think, young lady, it’s time we made an appointment for you to speak to the school counsellor. You can stay behind after school this afternoon and we’ll arrange a session.’
‘I’m busy after school.’
‘Oh, are you? Doing what, exactly?’
‘Frankly, Mrs Forrest, it’s none of your fucking business.’
There was a collective intake of breath, and Mrs Forrest paled visibly. ‘Get out of my class,’ was all she said.
Karen scooped up her books and jotter and slid them into her satchel. ‘My pleasure.’ And she stood up and walked out in silence, letting the door bang behind her.
*
Gilly found her sitting smoking behind the gym after class. She was the only girl that Karen had ever met in all her years at school with whom she felt she could talk as an equal. But their relationship was fractious and competitive, and for all their closeness there was always a certain distrust between them. Gilly was a plain girl, with straight, mousy-brown hair and over-large hips that Karen would say, when she was being mean, made her perfectly suited for childbearing. Karen swore she would never have children. What a waste of intelligence, she would say, to spend your life raising children for some shit of a husband who regarded you as little better than a glorified nursemaid and housekeeper.
Gilly sat down beside her and lit a cigarette of her own. It was her sole concession to rebellion. She had not gone down Karen’s road of facial piercings and tattoos. She was certain to go to university, where she would probably get a master’s degree or a doctorate, then spend the rest of her life raising children. She said, ‘You’re in deep shit, girl.’
‘Yeah? Whose?’
‘Mrs Forrest’s, for a start.’
‘Aye, well, she’s pretty full of it.’
‘She went straight to the headmaster’s office after you’d gone. Left us a good fifteen minutes on our own.’ She grinned. ‘The place was in uproar. If you stood in the election for student rep you’d be a shoo-in.’
‘That might be a little difficult after they’ve expelled me.’
‘They won’t expel you!’
Karen shrugged. ‘That’s a pity. Guess I’ll have to quit, then.’
Gilly gave her a sceptical look. ‘And do what?’
Karen inclined her head very slightly but said nothing.
‘What’s got into y
ou, anyway? You’re being a right pain today.’
Karen took a pull on her cigarette and stared at the ground. It was a long time before she said, ‘That bald-headed bam’s moving in with my mum.’
‘What, that guy she’s been going out with?’
‘Yeah, her boss at work.’
Gilly shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So he thinks he’s just going to walk in and take over where my dad left off. Well, he’s got another think coming.’
‘Could be worse, she might have married him.’
‘She can’t. It’ll be another five years before she can apply for a legal declaration of presumed death. As if it’s not pretty fucking conclusive as it is. An empty boat and a suicide note. At least it means she’ll not be changing her name and trying to change mine, too.’ She flicked her cigarette away across the tarmac and watched the sparks kick up from it as it hit the ground. ‘Think it’s probably time I moved out.’
Gilly was taken aback. ‘Moved out? Where would you go? How would you live?’
‘I’ll figure something out. But I’m not staying there to let him boss me around, and spy on me in the shower.’
‘Is that what he does?’
‘Not that I know of. Not yet, anyway. But he probably will.’ She grinned and stood up. ‘I’m out of here.’
*
She took a bus into town, then rode out to the airport and back again on the tram. The airport was somehow symbolic of escape. But it was only ever a dream. An impractical fantasy.
The tram was fun, and she was still newfangled with it. The outward and return journeys took her through western suburbs she didn’t know, and then slap bang through the city centre. Priority for the tram, and unrivalled views of the gardens and the castle through panoramic windows. And no matter how busy it was, no one would speak to you. People travelled in their own little bubbles, listening to music or reading books, or simply staring into space, like Karen.