by Cavendish
Hannah tried again. “My name’s Hannah. What’s yours?”
The little girl opened her mouth. “Isobel,” she said in a tiny voice even smaller than she was.
“Hello, Isobel. Please, would you help me? This rope is very uncomfortable.”
Still the child hesitated. What was the matter with her?
Hannah wriggled some more. If she could get off the makeshift bed she sat on.… If she could get a little closer to the child, maybe she could make better contact. Maybe the child wouldn’t be so scared and actually do something, instead of standing there staring at her.
Isobel lowered her doll and took another step forward. Now Hannah could make out her features. She would be a pretty child if she wasn’t so grubby. Her white dress was spotted and stained and her blonde hair hadn’t been washed in days if not weeks.
“Isobel, please help me. If you could just loosen the knots on my wrists I could do the rest.”
A sudden noise behind the girl. She put her finger to her lips, turned her head.
And vanished.
Hannah stared at the space that until a second ago had been occupied by a child of around six or seven.
Heavy footsteps drew closer, then stopped. She saw a young man’s face in the glow of the lamp he carried – his boots clattered on the stone floor.
“Ye’re awake then.”
“Yes. Who are you and why am I tied up down here?”
“Ye don’t belong here. None of you. This is my place. Your place is in the kirkyard under six feet of earth with all the other bitches.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?”
The man set his lamp on the floor and stood within a couple of feet of her. “Donald Bain and ye would do well ta mind it.”
“And why would I need to mind…remember…you.”
He threw back his head and laughed and the sound wheezed with the croak of a hundred old men. For a horrifying instant faceless shadows writhed behind him – gone as soon as his laughter died.
Bain’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. “Go back to your friends. Tell them Donald Bain is waiting for them.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?” She indicated her bound hands.
He lifted up his lamp. Hannah recoiled from the twisted, contorted features that writhed in the glow. At first human, then reptilian, its red eyes burned with unnatural fire, boring into her soul. She cried out as daggers of pain stabbed her temples. Excruciating, with the power of a dozen migraines. She wanted to cradle her head. Wanted to smash it into the wall. Anything to make the pain stop. The ropes cut deeper. A wave of nausea rushed up from her stomach and she heaved. Sour-tasting bile poured in a stream from her mouth, soiling the already filthy floor. The pain redoubled. The creature became the young man again and laughed. Loud, long, raucous.
And was gone.
In the same moment, the pain vanished, leaving only the acrid taste to remind her how sick she had just been.
The pressure on her ankles and wrists eased as Hannah’s bonds loosened. The pain of her brutally bloodied skin left her. When she lifted her hands, she found no trace of the rope that had tied them so tightly. No marks that she could see. She swung her freed legs onto the floor and stood. Grabbing the candle, she half staggered, half ran out of the doorway. Ahead of her, she saw the emergency lights of Henderson Close. No wonder she had recognized the room – it was the one she entered to tell the tale of Eliza McTavish. But a few moments ago, it had been foul, almost as it might have been in Eliza’s day.
“What the hell happened to you, Hannah?” George steadied her as a sudden wave of light-headedness made her dizzy. “One minute you were there and the next, you’d gone.”
Her experience was already fading into some half-remembered nightmare. “I don’t know, George. I found myself trussed up like a turkey, in Eliza’s room. A little girl came to see me. She told me her name was Isobel.”
“Isobel? Really?”
“Does that mean something to you?”
“Yes. Until a couple of months before you started, we used to take the visitors to a tiny room where legend had it that a little girl was walled up alive during the plague of 1645. As they were sealing her in, she kept crying for her doll. As an act of…well, their version of charity I suppose, someone chucked in an old rag doll to keep her company. She was supposed to haunt the area right by her room.”
“Why don’t we go there now?”
“Structural problems. Part of the ceiling caved in and it hasn’t been excavated since. That’s the part that was going to be repaired at the same time as opening up Farquhars Close.”
“But surely we could still tell the tale.”
“Now you’ve seen her, we definitely should.”
“There was someone else. The one who I think dragged me down there and tied me up. He said his name was Donald Bain.”
“Donald Bain. That name’s familiar.”
“He said he would be waiting for us all. Who is he?”
“Was, rather than is. I can’t remember. Something to do with Miss Carmichael, I think.”
“Isobel seemed afraid of him.”
“I need to check the files. I’m getting an impression of a nasty piece of work, but I can’t remember in what context.”
Hannah shuddered. “It must have been a trick of the light from his lamp but there were times he seemed to…change. I got a sense of pure evil from him. He said I belong in the kirkyard. ‘With all the other bitches,’ he said. This is his territory and he clearly hates women.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Over a double Scotch in the pub, George tapped his forehead. “Donald Bain. I’m sure his name cropped up when they convicted Miss Carmichael’s murderers. I think he was suspected of being the one that got away. The ringleader.”
“That would explain the aura of evil.”
“And presumably why he continues to haunt Henderson Close.”
“Can you remember what happened to him?”
“Nothing. As far as I can recall. He was certainly never tried for her murder. I should imagine he melted into the criminal underworld at the time and carried on his sordid line of business, robbing, threatening. Killing perhaps.”
“Now Mairead’s disappeared again, I can’t help wondering if he’s got her for some reason. Considering she’s the spitting image of Miss Carmichael, could he have become confused? Maybe he thinks she’s still alive. Oh God, George, what if he intends to kill her all over again? Supposing he already has?”
“Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That’s one hell of a lot of ‘supposing’. Mairead could be back tomorrow.”
“Do you honestly believe that?”
“I will if you will.”
Chapter Fifteen
Old newspapers fluttered across the floor as a sharp breeze blew through a broken window.
Mairead opened one eye, then both, and leaped to her feet. Now what? She picked her way carefully over ruined chairs and torn carpet, stained with mildew. She recognized these things. A porcelain doll, fashioned as a Japanese girl, in a scarlet kimono, holding a parasol. Her mother’s pride and joy. But the parasol was broken and the girl’s pert nose chipped off.
What’s happened here?
Her mind clouded over and she struggled to recall the events of the past evening. George and Hannah had brought her home. Mum was still up even though it was past nine.
Mum?
That couldn’t be right.
Mairead staggered a little as she made her way to the door. It creaked open on rusty hinges. The hall was a mess of peeling paint and the front door looked as if someone had taken some well-aimed kicks at it from the inside. Mairead went through into the living room. An old smashed television lay on the floor and her mother’s favorite chair – latterl
y the only one she felt comfortable in – lay crookedly against the wall.
The mirror lay in splinters. Someone had scrawled ‘Fuck you, witch’ across the wall in red paint – at least she hoped it was only paint. A weak sunlight tried to force its way through the window which had been haphazardly boarded up.
Panic set in. She had to get out of there. She ran to the front door, tripping more than once on the ruined debris of her earlier life. She tried the handle but it had seized up and refused to turn.
She raced to the back door. Same story. But in the kitchen, a window had somehow been forgotten. The leg of a broken chair would do it. She grabbed it and smashed the glass above the draining board, praying the ear-splitting crash didn’t bring the neighbors running.
She crawled up onto the drainer and carefully stepped out onto the narrow ledge. Her ankle-length skirt hindered her every move and she was tempted to take it off, but she could hardly run through the streets in her panties. It was bad enough to be dressed as an eighteenth-century maid without any more indignity. A filthy tea towel wrapped around her hands provided a barrier against the jagged edges of the window frame and the skirt snagged and tore. She dropped onto the path below and looked around her at the overgrown remains of the small garden. Whatever was she doing there? Why had Hannah and George left her there like this? They had come in with her. Seen Mum.…
The impossibility of it all hit her like a bulldozer. With one last glance at the derelict house, Mairead ran.
People stared. Some pointed. Others laughed. She had no money, nowhere to go and, just like 1881, only the clothes she stood up in. She belonged in Edinburgh – but where? Her memories were fast retreating. This had happened before.…
Thunder rumbled overhead as the sky darkened. A flash of lightning forked across the horizon. Rain pattered, then pelted down, blinding her. Her skirt flapped against her legs, heavy with rain, nearly tripping her. The wind whipped her cap off and sent it sailing into the trees. Her hair, released from its loose bun, slapped against her face. She pushed it back out of her eyes only for another gust of wind to whip her breath away.
Mairead turned into a small side street. Mercifully, an underground parking lot stood open. She raced down the entrance. The dimly lit interior would at least provide shelter until she had a chance to decide what to do and the rain had stopped.
She panted. The effort of running against the storm had left her drained of all energy. Thankfully, the small car park was almost empty. No prying eyes to stare at her or question her presence there, especially looking as she did.
Only half a dozen quite fancy cars occupied its spaces. Behind her, she heard a clanging noise as the iron grill closing off the entrance rattled downward. It clumped to a halt and silence descended. She moved into the shadows and saw a welcome sign pointing her to the ladies’ toilets. The light came on as she entered, illuminating a face she barely recognized in the mirror. Her hair was a mess but, fortunately, the elastic band she had tied it up in still clung onto the small bunch of hair that remained caught up in it. She released the band, tossed her head forward and tried to dry her hair as best she could with the hand-dryer. Then she scooped it into a tight, thick ponytail, secured firmly once more.
She used the toilet, washed her face and hands and leaned against the sink, exhausted. Outside she heard a noise. Footsteps. Coming closer. A woman’s high heels clipping across the concrete. Any second now she would no longer be alone. What would the stranger make of the bedraggled, confused young woman?
The footsteps sounded louder, louder. And then kept on walking, straight past. Shortly afterward, a car engine started and moved off. The entrance grill clattered and clanged. Up, and then a minute later, down.
Mairead waited a few moments more and then opened the door. Peering out, she again found she was alone. She made her way as swiftly as she could to the pedestrian entrance, still battling the long, wet skirt. She got there only to find she would need to swipe a card to open the door.
Unless she could find another exit, she would have to wait until another driver arrived before she could leave. The rain seemed to have stopped but once again the darkness was descending and with it, the chill of early evening air. How would she survive a night here? Better than outside obviously but.…
CCTV cameras perched high on the walls. Was someone watching her at this very moment? If they were and she stayed out in the open any longer, whoever was on security would realize she wasn’t a customer, if they hadn’t done so already. Maybe they had already seen her unsuccessfully trying to get out of the door. She would be arrested for trespassing or vagrancy. How crazy when she had a perfectly good home of her own? If only she could remember.…
She could stay the night in the ladies’ toilet. It was clean and she could sit down, maybe even doze off a little. She certainly felt tired enough. A gnawing pain in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten for a long time. She couldn’t even remember when. Nothing to be done about that now. Maybe drinking plenty of water would stave off the pangs a little.
She returned to the ladies’ washroom and into a cubicle, which she locked behind her. At least she’d be safe here. She hugged herself tightly as she sat, huddled, on the toilet seat.
Gradually she drifted off to some kind of sleep only to be woken by someone entering. The sound of a bucket. A voice and rapping on the cubicle door.
A female voice of east European origin. “Hello in there?”
Mairead struggled up, stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. She unlocked the door and opened it.
A short, plump woman of around sixty looked her up and down. “This is not sleeping place. This car park. You have car here?”
Mairead didn’t bother to answer. The woman had already shaken her head.
“You go now, please. I have card. I let you out. You don’t come back.”
Mairead nodded and followed the woman. No more words were exchanged between them. Quite where she would go was another matter. Something stirred in her head.
Henderson Close. She had no idea what the time was but it had to be early morning. The venue would open in a few hours at worst. Why hadn’t she thought of that yesterday? Why hadn’t she gone there?
Because yesterday she couldn’t remember where it was or that it even existed. Now she could have kissed the ground.
* * *
Hannah stopped in the action of opening the door of the shop. “Mairead, for God’s sake. What happened to you? Why are you still dressed like that? My God, your clothes are soaking wet. Don’t tell me you were out in the storm last night.”
The cold night in the washroom had done little to dry Mairead’s skirt and even her blouse remained damp.
Hannah wrapped her arms around her and Mairead wept on her shoulder.
“Why did you leave me there?”
“Where?”
“In that house.”
“We’ll talk later. Let’s get you inside and out of those clothes. You’ll end up with pneumonia.” She ushered Mairead into the staff room. “No one will be here for ages yet. I’m always the first in.”
While Mairead changed into fresh working clothes, Hannah put the kettle on and measured out instant coffee into two mugs. “Tell me what happened. How you got into that state,” she said. “George and I took you home, met your mum and then we went home. Did you go out again?”
“But it couldn’t have happened like that. You didn’t.” How could they have got it so wrong?
“Sorry? How do you mean we didn’t?”
“You couldn’t have left me at home. With Mum.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because she died two years ago.”
The spoon clattered into the sink. Hannah wheeled around.
Mairead continued. “I woke up there yesterday afternoon. The place was all boarded up – from the outside. I had to break out. It took
me ages and then I ran, but I couldn’t remember where I needed to go.”
Hannah sat down. “I don’t understand. Ailsa said that Bishop Crescent was the address she had for you and when she turned up there, the place was derelict and a neighbor said you had moved out after your mother died. But when we took you home, your mother was living there and it was clear you were too. It was dark but the house certainly wasn’t derelict. It was warm and comfortable. Your mum welcomed us.”
Mairead shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I only know what I’ve told you. There are so many gaps in my memory now. So much I can’t explain.”
“Like where you really do live now?”
Mairead nodded.
Hannah took a deep sip of her coffee. “It’s all linked up. It has to be. What happened to me. What happened to you, and George too. I need to tell you about Donald Bain.”
When she had done so, Mairead exhaled. “All this craziness seems to have started when they opened up Farquhars Close. Surely that means the legends were true. They must be. Something was walled up there and now it’s loose.”
“OK, I’m going to suggest something really crazy,” Hannah said. “Suppose Donald Bain and the Auld De’il are one and the same. Suppose it was Donald Bain who was walled up.”
“And now he’s free.”
“Yes, God help us.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hannah shut her apartment door behind her. Peace, quiet and normality at last. She put her bag on the hall table and slipped her coat off. In the living room, she made straight for a bottle of Burgundy, uncorked it and poured herself a large glass. She kicked off her shoes, sank into the comfort of her sofa, leaned back and closed her eyes, enjoying the smooth, rich wine and a chance to rest her aching feet.
Half a glass later, she stirred herself. Time to get a relaxing bath, change into a comfy caftan and fix herself a sandwich. She couldn’t face a cooked meal tonight.
It felt good to slip into the warmth of the fragrant suds. Her fears and confusion seemed to melt into insignificance as she inhaled the soothing aroma. She leaned against the edge as the water gently lapped her body. From behind closed eyes, she sensed the room growing darker. That shouldn’t be.
