While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  ‘Well, then it seems pretty obvious to me. It was someone with a key. Or someone who knows how to pick a lock, or remove one. Some kind of handyman, maybe? Someone who seems to think it’s all a big fucking joke?’

  Mick followed her furious gaze to the door. ‘No. No, you’re wrong. I know Dougie. He wouldn’t do anything like this.’

  ‘He keeps turning up here uninvited,’ she said, lowering her voice to a hiss. ‘This is the second time, and then I saw him driving back from here last night. Always this excuse about the car – I wish I’d never rented it.’

  ‘That’s just how folks are round here, Zoe.’ He dropped to a whisper too, mollifying. ‘We keep an eye on each other. He’s trying to help, in his clumsy way. Make sure you’re OK.’

  ‘It’s intrusive. I’m on my own out here, I don’t want some creepy guy I don’t even know showing up all the time. I didn’t ask anyone to keep an eye on me.’ She considered telling Mick of her conviction that someone was watching her, that the crude drawing in her sketchbook bore that out, but suspected he would find that too easy to blame on her paranoia and hysteria.

  ‘I know Dougie can be a bit …’ he searched for the right word ‘… crass. But he’s harmless.’

  That was not Edward’s view, she recalled – nor Kaye’s, according to him. She wondered if Mick was blinded by a long unquestioning loyalty.

  ‘Look – I don’t want to offend anyone, but you need to tell him. He can’t keep coming here.’ She glared at Mick until he gave a defeated nod. ‘Are you going to report this break-in to the police, then?’ She gestured to the fridge. After the initial shock, the discovery of the gull had lent her a brief sense of triumph; Mick was more deferential now that he could no longer accuse her of imagining it all, and she felt herself on surer ground.

  He pushed his hands through his hair and sighed. ‘They’d have to come across from the mainland. It’s an awful bother to call them out for this, when there’s no real harm done. I mean, you’ve no had any of your things taken, right?’

  She thought of her laptop left open on the table, untouched, and reluctantly shook her head. ‘Wait – there’s no police at all on the island?’ She stared at him, hearing the note of fear in her voice.

  ‘Well, there’s Bill. He’s a Special Constable. But he’s getting on for sixty now.’ He caught her look and held out his hands as if in apology. ‘We’ve only got a hundred and thirty residents. And everyone knows everyone. That’s why looking out for each other has always worked – the crime rate’s almost zero.’

  ‘Except that someone broke in here and put a dead bird’s head in my fucking fridge,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Or does that not count as a crime? Is that considered a fun prank around here?’

  ‘What you have to understand,’ Mick said wearily, ‘is that it’s not directed at you. Maybe that’s no much comfort, but there’s nobody here would actually hurt you, I guarantee it. This is about some folk punishing me for going against their wishes.’

  ‘But I’m the one who’s going to get terrorised until I give in and leave, so they can score their point against you.’

  ‘Terrorised is a bit strong,’ he began, but she cut across him.

  ‘How would you feel if someone had put that thing in your kids’ bedroom? Well, then.’

  ‘OK.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘You’re right. I’ll see about getting that alarm fixed up. I’m going to take a look at that padlock on the coal hatch too, maybe you could do with a stronger one. And I’ll have a word with Dougie.’

  ‘Oh, aye, will you now?’ Dougie breezed into the kitchen and rinsed his hands in the sink. ‘Am I going to have to make this coffee myself while you two sit there gossiping like old wives?’ In answer to his own question, he picked up the kettle and poured water into the cafetière, then sat himself down next to Zoe. ‘That starter motor’s running fine now, hen. Just treat her gently.’ He turned to Mick and grinned. ‘This is like old times, eh, pal – the two of us out here? Though we’re no used to having such a good-looking lassie for company.’

  Zoe caught the look that passed between them; she recognised Mick’s evident unease – she might even have said fear – and the cockiness on Dougie’s face, and though she didn’t understand the coded reference, she read the balance of power between the two men. Dougie had some kind of hold over Mick, and she guessed it had been that way since their youth. The thought caused a cold knot to tighten in her gut; if Dougie was the one creeping around trying to scare her, as she suspected, Mick was less likely to confront him. He was right to think she had not been persuaded by his reassurances that no one would actually harm her. She saw all too clearly the lascivious glint in Dougie’s eye, the greedy way he allowed his gaze to rove over her body; she was certain that he was also aware of the house’s reputation for heightened sexual atmosphere, and that he would be entirely capable of exploiting it.

  ‘Course, I fear we’re a wee bit mature to interest Mrs Adams,’ Dougie continued, slurping at his coffee. ‘Her tastes run to the younger gentleman, I hear.’

  ‘Right, come on then.’ Mick ignored him and stood, his drink barely touched. ‘We should be getting back. I’m sure Zoe would be glad of some peace.’

  ‘Peace. Aye, I’m sure she would.’ Dougie knocked back the last of his coffee and fixed her with a pointed smile. ‘I hope you don’t get any more nasty surprises.’

  Mick’s eyes flicked to Zoe, his face tight with anxiety. ‘I’ll let you know about the alarm. And I’ll sort out the other business too,’ he added, giving her a meaningful nod behind Dougie’s back as he ushered his friend out. She heard the front door slam and from outside the sound of raised voices carried, though she could not make out the words. After a few minutes the engines growled into life, followed by the skidding of tyres on gravel.

  After they had left, the house felt oddly blank and empty. She let herself out of the kitchen door on to the veranda to escape the smell and pulled off her boots to walk barefoot down the sand to the water’s edge. The tide was out and the beach strewn with driftwood and ribbons of seaweed where the wind and wild water of the night before had cast them up. She picked up a pleasingly smooth, twisting piece of wood about eighteen inches long and ran her fingers over the grain, enjoying its heft and texture. It was a while since she had submitted to the discipline of a still life; she decided to take it back to the house to sketch. Wet sand squeezed between her toes, shockingly cold; she stepped deliberately into the lacy edges of the waves and reminded herself that she was connected to the earth, the sea, the elements, all tangible and real and present. She allowed herself to breathe out and push the thoughts of her unquiet night to the corners of her mind. Above her, from a ledge on the cliff, a gull let out a cry so bleak and human, so like a woman in pain, that it set her heart racing again; she turned, suddenly afraid, her gaze skittering from one side of the cove to the other, unable to shake that sensation of being watched. She looked back at the house and thought she caught a shifting of the shadows by the veranda, a flicker of movement, there and gone; she remembered that she had not locked the kitchen door behind her. If someone had been hidden there, watching her, they might have let themselves in while her back was turned; even now, they might be inside the house, waiting for her.

  She ran back up the sand, clutching her piece of driftwood like a cosh, her pulse pounding. There was no sign of anyone where she had imagined she saw movement. Slowing her pace, she lowered the wood and crept around the north side of the house, where Mick had shown her the outside hatch for the cellar. The sand was soft and dry here, amid the tufts of grass, and constantly shifting; she thought she saw the blurred outline of footprints, but there was no way of knowing if they were recent. As she proceeded, her bare foot struck something cold half-buried in the sand. She knelt to examine it, and brought out a steel padlock, its surface patched with rust. The shackle had been neatly snapped in two, evidently with a pair of bolt-cutters.

  Zoe raised her head, alert for a tell-tale sign of anyon
e’s presence, but only the wind and the seabirds offered any sound. She stood, brushing the sand from her jeans, and stamped up the slight incline to the cellar hatch. The wooden doors remained closed, firmly fastened by their gleaming silver padlock. She looked down at the one in her hand as understanding slowly registered. Someone must have cut the original lock and replaced it with one of their own – to which, presumably, they had the key, giving them access to the cellar, and through it, the house, at any time they chose. And Mick had realised this yesterday, she thought, as cold anger displaced her fear. He had known when they checked that the lock on the hatch was not the original; he had guessed at what had happened, which must be why he had offered to fit a new one, though he had not acknowledged it to her. It was not hard to imagine who might have a set of bolt-cutters among his tools, and who Mick might be protecting. She shuddered, her thoughts racing through all the possible implications. She had no doubt now that it was Dougie who had left the dead gull and drawn the picture. A wave of nausea gripped her at the idea of him looking through her sketchbook, reading her tumbled, breathless account of her erotic dreams. Another thought occurred: had he hidden himself inside the house while she was there? The unexplained noises, the lights going. That fleeting impression she had had of a figure by the bed, watching her while she slept – could that have been real? Was he trying to fuck with her and frighten her away, or might he be more dangerous than that? She had seen the look in his eyes when he told her he hoped there were no more nasty surprises.

  She had to confront Mick with it. Dougie ought to be arrested, though she did not suppose Mick would take it that far. She closed her fist over the broken padlock, wishing she had had the sense to wrap it in a cloth before picking it up; she had seen enough cop shows to know that, if there was evidence that Dougie had cut it, her own fingerprints would be all over it by now, perhaps obscuring his. Even so, she would insist that Mick call the police this time and show them, whatever his protestations.

  15

  An hour later, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, she drove back across the moorland to the village with the padlock wrapped in a handkerchief in her pocket. The darkening sky threatened rain by the time she reached the main street. She had intended to drive straight back to the pub and present Mick with her evidence, but as she passed the bookshop, the sight of the shuttered windows sparked a flare of anxiety in her chest. It seemed unlike Charles to take a day off, and it troubled her that his absence coincided with his possession of Ailsa’s journal. Instead of continuing to the Stag, she pulled in alongside the green, feeling that she ought at least to check if he was all right. First, she walked up to the bakery and bought two chocolate croissants; that way, she would not look too foolish if he was fine, and she could pretend she had simply come to hear his verdict on Ailsa’s account.

  The path through the churchyard offered a shortcut from the green to the lane leading up to the old manse. Zoe pushed open the rusted gate and stepped through on to an uneven path cobbled with clumps of moss. There were few trees here, only two boxy yews flanking the gate and a line of four tall pines at the periphery. A cold wind sliced unchecked across the rows of crumbling headstones and leaning Celtic crosses. The boundary wall was veiled in tangled ivy, obscuring plaques whose inscriptions had long been smudged by age and weather. The kirk itself, an unprepossessing building of dark stone with a steep gabled roof, huddled in a far corner with the hills at its back. All was green and grey: hills, grass, graves, trees, sky. She struck out towards the far wall, pleased at her own boldness – no one seeing her crossing a graveyard so purposefully could suppose her a woman afraid of ghosts – when a flash of red caught her eye and she turned. A figure sat cross-legged on one of the stone tombs in the lee of the wall, hunched over a phone, the hood of his red sweat-top drawn down around his face. Zoe quickened her pace, but the boy looked up and their eyes met; she saw that it was young Robbie Logan. Without quite knowing why, she left the path and picked her way through the wiry grass between the graves towards him. She saw him glance to left and right, assessing his chances of escape. As she approached, he flinched into himself, pulling his hood closer, and she saw that he had a welt on his cheek where the skin had split over a fresh bruise.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, stopping a few feet away.

  ‘A’right.’ He would not raise his face to look at her.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ As she said it, she glanced down and saw the inscription on the headstone next to the tomb he was sitting on. It read ‘Brigid Logan, Much Loved Wife and Mother’; the date of death was three years earlier. An empty jam jar had been placed at an angle on the grave, containing a few inches of scummy water and a straggling bunch of wild flowers. ‘Sorry, dumb question. Is that your mom?’

  The boy nodded, shrouded inside his hood. His breath made small puffs in the damp air.

  ‘Jeez, she was young. Only thirty-six. Was she sick?’

  ‘Cancer. She didnae go to the doctor in time.’ His voice was flat.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Do you come out here to talk to her?’

  Robbie glanced up at her from the tail of his eye, visibly surprised. ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  He looked down. ‘Ma sister says it’s mental.’

  ‘Talking to someone you love and miss? I’d say that’s the most normal thing in the world. It’d be mental if you didn’t.’

  He bit his lip, considering this. ‘Do you think they can hear us? The dead?’

  Zoe allowed her gaze to sweep quickly over the rows of graves. She couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was goading her, or making some dig about the house, or if the question was genuine. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, opening her hands in apology. ‘What happened to your cheek?’

  He reached up and touched the bruise gingerly with a fingertip, but his face closed up. ‘Banged maself on the climbing frame.’

  ‘You should get some ice on that, it looks painful.’

  He shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal. It was the shifting of his body language, the way he avoided her eye, that told her he was lying. She realised, with a sudden cold plummet, that he must have been hit, and had learned not to speak of it. She wondered if Edward knew; surely he would have some responsibility for the boy’s safety. Robbie may be an unappealing child, but he was only eleven, and it sounded as if life had dealt roughly with him so far. She held out the paper bag from the bakery.

  ‘Want one of these?’

  He eyed the offering with suspicion, until desire overcame his wariness and he reached in for a pastry.

  ‘You were going to ask me a question the other day, before we were interrupted,’ Zoe said, perching beside him on the edge of the tomb and taking out the other croissant. ‘About the house.’

  Robbie’s gaze dropped to his lap, instantly guilty. ‘Only if you’d heard anything weird out there.’

  ‘What, like ghosts? It’s famous for them, right?’ She laughed, but he didn’t join in, only shrugged. She glanced around again. The kirkyard was empty. A lone raven watched them from the wall. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ she stated, picking off a chunk of pastry.

  ‘You just said it’s normal to talk to the dead,’ he shot back, as if he’d caught her out in a lie. ‘So you must believe they’re still around us. What’s that if it’s no a ghost?’

  Zoe looked at him. She did not want to rip away the meagre comfort of confiding in his dead mother. ‘I don’t know. I guess I meant we try to keep people’s memory alive by talking to them.’ She paused; he went on glaring at her accusingly. ‘I didn’t think I believed in ghosts before I came here. But it seems like everyone’s determined to convince me I should be scared of the McBride house.’

  ‘It’s a bad place,’ he said, spraying croissant crumbs, his small eyes suddenly fierce. ‘It’s cursed. You shouldnae have come.’

  ‘Are you saying that because of your friend?’

  He shunted himself down from the tomb, wiped his mouth
on the back of his hand and brushed the flakes of pastry from his top. ‘I haftae go.’

  ‘Wait – Robbie.’ She grabbed at his sleeve; caught off balance, he swung around to face her, alarm in his eyes. ‘If you know about the house, don’t you think you should tell me? I mean, it sounds like you know more than Mick does, right?’

  A spasm of fear flashed across his face before he yanked his arm away. ‘I told you. Bad things happen there. You should go home while you still can.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? What bad things? Am I in danger?’

  He had already begun to walk away. She hurried after him, catching him easily with her long stride, and blocked the path so he was forced to face her.

  ‘What happened to Iain? Was it something he saw? I know you know.’ She heard the aggression in her voice, saw his lip tremble.

  ‘Let me go. I haftae get home.’

  Zoe stepped back. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school right now, anyway?’

  It was the wrong thing to say; his face curled into a scowl.

  ‘What are you gonnae do – tell your boyfriend?’ He ducked past her, eyes lit up with the knowledge that he had scored a direct hit. ‘He won’t do shite – he’s scared of ma dad.’

  ‘You mean – Mr Sinclair isn’t – he’s not my boyfriend.’ She faltered, caught out, wondering at the same time if it was the dad who had taken a swing at Robbie’s face.

  ‘That’s no what everyone’s saying. Ma sister said he stays out at yours.’

  ‘That isn’t true.’ She pressed a hand to her cheek, powerless to stop the colour rising to her face.

  ‘She says you don’t waste any time. You’ve no even been here a week. You must be a desperate old slag, she said.’

  In his gleeful contempt, his features had grown uncannily reminiscent of Annag’s. Zoe retreated another pace, shocked to hear such malice from a child.