by Abigail Mann
‘You still there?’ I ask. I hear the clunk of a door.
‘Yeah. I’m in the plant room. Brings back nice memories. Ones involving Saskia, actually. Do you remember her, she had massive—’
‘Max! Please.’
‘Yep, sorry. I just wondered if I could read you back one of your diary entries?’
I close my eyes and rub my brow. ‘I know what it says, I wrote it. Look, it’s not my best, but I had to send something whilst—’
Max ignores me and launches into a breezy reading voice. ‘“The Hilltop Sasquatch of Kilroch greets me with a glowering eye and thick hands, all the better to push birch saplings out of the way”,’ he says, over-enunciating in a slow and painful rendition of words that I don’t recognise. ‘And this bit. “Between a constant series of favours and a collective IQ that would puzzle evolutionary historians, it’s a wonder the village functions at all. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that the ale is cheap because they put the decimal in the wrong place.’
‘Hang on, Max. Wait. I didn’t write that.’
‘You did, according to the byline.’
‘Duncan said my first few diaries were too dry. I changed them a bit, to be funny, but I definitely didn’t go that far. I know people up here. I wouldn’t write that, it’s fucking rude.’
‘What about Jenny the Wink?’ interjects Max. ‘Does she really wink every three seconds?’
‘No! Well, yes. But that’s not why I included her. It was meant to be observational. She’s got a twitch,’ I gabble. I fumble in my tote bag and plug some earphones in, allowing me to jab my web browser open. I click through to my diary series on Snooper, but I only manage to skim-read the first entry before my signal drops and the web page times out. The mocking, mean-spirited passages that have been published under my name aren’t anything like the work I sent in.
‘Fucking hell. Someone’s edited them,’ I say, my voice small.
‘Y’think? It’s not a light touch. Pummelled to shit like an overworked bread dough is how I’d put it. I knew it couldn’t have been you, unless you’ve had a personality transplant since I last saw you.’
A cold, slick feeling of guilt spreads in my chest and pools in my stomach like crushed ice.
‘Do you know who did it?’
‘Yeah, therein lies the rub. It was Duncan.’
‘What?!’
‘The Big D. Dunc-zilla.’
‘Yes, I know who you’re referring to. You don’t need to say his name 500 different ways for me to understand how fucking disastrous this is,’ I say, slowly thumping my head with my fist.
‘Is it terrible if I say congratulations?’ asks Max. ‘Your diaries are the most read section on the website.’
‘Yes – it absolutely fucking would be.’
Hearing Max’s voice amidst the background titter of office gossip and snatched laughter throws my situation into stark contrast. What am I doing? I didn’t think to read back my diaries after they were published. Other things took precedence, like helping Kian out with the farm, the grant application, and Moira. My sister. As soon as I found her, I knew I couldn’t chuck her in as ‘content’ without telling her why I was here, but I never found the right time and now the window of opportunity is so small, I’d have to get on my hands and knees with a magnifying glass to find it. Thinking back to my first entry, I cringe at how supercilious I sound, let alone after Duncan mashed them up with his ham fists.
John the mechanic-cum-taxi-driver-cum-train-guard pulls round the corner in his pick-up, a wing mirror narrowly skimming the Jeep as he passes. Although he looks older, he’s about Max’s age, with a little boy strapped into a booster seat behind him. He beeps in acknowledgment and I nod back, blinking angry tears away.
‘This is awful. What am I going to do?’ I say, my voice wobbling.
‘Maybe look on the bright side? Duncan isn’t giving anyone else this level of attention, so it could be a good sign for you, career-wise. I’ll be honest – if I were your sister, I wouldn’t be buzzing about my internet debut – how did you introduce her? “Riding a pig like she was on a bucking bronco?” What’s her name again?’
‘Moira,’ I say, quietly.
‘You could have given her a pseudonym …’
‘Please don’t tell Duncan that I haven’t told Moira who I am.’
‘I won’t, but look – if it were me – I’d keep my head down, film a fake reunion, and get the fuck out. This could be great for your career. We had a tabloid call up yesterday asking if they could buy your content for an op-ed feature. We said no, obviously.’
‘Thanks?’
‘Hey, no problem. Your reunion video is due this weekend, right? Do the sister reveal then. Rip the plaster off, and all that.’
‘No way. I know that’s what Duncan asked for, but I emailed him back and told him I couldn’t rush this.’
‘Well, I know what I’d do.’
‘That’s because you have no conscience.’
‘It’s useful at times. Hey, I’ve got to go. Keep in touch, yeah?’
‘Wait! Can you talk to Duncan? Get him to take the diaries down?’
‘Sorry, that’s a no-can-do. I’ve moved to a different department. I cover sports, technically speaking. I’ve got no sway. Talk to Duncan when you’re back. I know I can’t force you to do anything, but you know it’ll make the narrative stronger if you’re able to get Moira’s side of the story.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s going to be a lot harder now that I’ve apparently authored an entire series depicting her hometown as a backwards dump, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not a problem I’m envious of, mate. Right, Olz is back. I’ve got a date with a cup of fermented green tea that’s supposed to purify my bowel or some other bollocks. Look after yourself, all right?’
Chapter 28
I wake up to the sound of someone trying to be very quiet, which I gather from the clattering sound of a spoon hitting tiles and the swift ‘Fuck!’ that accompanies it. I pick up my phone, which I keep switched on, even though its use has diminished to that of a clock. Six-forty-five. Practically a lie-in.
I yank the curtains back and sit up to lean against the window sill as the radiator clunks into life, a dull warmth against my side.
The sleep I had last night was riddled with dreams so weird it’s like I’d chowed down on half a block of cheese before I went to bed. In one, I’d gone to find Ross, except he looked incredibly like Jesus and couldn’t stop to talk because of how busy he was herding sheep out of the church. Every time it looked empty, more popped up, multiplying like amoebas, until I could barely breathe from how closely their woollen faces pressed up against me, their eyes glassy and wet.
I know dream interpretation is inherently bollocks, but this has to have something to do with how rattled I’ve been since Max’s phone call. My cautious plan to find a good moment for The Big Chat with Moira has morphed into a monkey on my back that I can’t shake off. Whilst there are secrets between us, my mind hums with anxious thoughts that bounce around my skull like ping-pong balls, keeping me awake at night. I’ve replaced herbal sleeping tablets with a few pages of the Kilroch village newsletter, but even that isn’t enough to hush my brain before bed.
I shed the duvet and pull on my indoor fleece, followed by my outdoor fleece (my new normal), and head downstairs. A chair scrapes in the kitchen. I swear Kian has the same sleep pattern as world leaders who claim they only need four hours of sleep a night and then wonder why they look haggard by forty. As I walk in, he’s stuffing papers into the front pocket of a laptop case, a scattering of plastic sleeves on the table. I refill the kettle, still warm to the touch, and place it back on the stove.
‘You’re in a suit!’ I say as he straightens up.
‘What? Yeah. Sorry, morning,’ he says, his brow an angry furrow. He scratches his neck and shifts papers on the table, glancing behind me to look at the clock.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘No. Yes. I can’t
find something. I wrote stuff on an envelope. Sums. I need to type them up for the bank before I go.’
I turn away to hide my face and take a mug down from the shelf. I can’t trust my track record for maintaining lies, because I can say with ninety-eight per cent accuracy that I chucked it in the recycling bin when I first started out on Mission Mega File.
‘Do you need it today?’ I ask in my best attempt at a neutral voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Definitely, definitely?’
‘Pretty much, yeah. My meeting is in Inverness and I was planning on finishing up an Excel on the train. That envelope had the profit and loss margins from the last quarter, so … I’d say it’s crucial, yeah.’ Oh dear. He looks very stressed, like he’s either going to cry or punch something, possibly at the same time. ‘I’m going to miss the train now, so as well as looking incompetent, I’m also going come across like I don’t give a shit about the farm getting repossessed.’
We both have lessons to learn here. I shouldn’t throw things away without saying something first, and Kian should learn that envelopes and cereal boxes are inappropriate items on which to record your business finances.
‘Let me drive you.’ Kian takes a ragged breath, closes his eyes, and paces the length of the hallway. ‘Hey, try and relax,’ I say, although I’m hardly one to be making such unreasonable demands. ‘You can’t be stressed before 7 a.m. It’s a universal rule. Let me take you down to the station. That way you’ll look forgivably incompetent, but sharp, like this is one of many meetings you have planned so they better listen up because you and that suit have got places to be.’
I follow Kian as he dips and darts around the room, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.
‘So … shall I get the keys? Or I can piss off if you’d rather be alone? I won’t take offence,’ I say.
‘Yeah, sorry. A lift would be great.’
‘Right, just let me put some proper trousers on and we’ll be out the door.’
I take the stairs two at a time, and shove jeans on over the top of my fleecy pyjama bottoms that have grown a little baggy. Who’d have thought black pudding sandwiches were synonymous with weight loss? Just before I head back down, I grab my laptop and shove it into my rucksack, tugging at the zips. After ignoring my calls last night, I need to increase my firepower against Duncan without annoying him so much that he fires me. With Kian in Inverness and Moira at college, I can spend an uninterrupted morning hitting redial. I don’t want to reach my last resort: holding out until I’m back in London to fix things from there.
Kian grabs the keys from the nail in the porch and opens the door to an unusually still day. I dart past him, he locks up and chucks the keys at me (amazingly, I catch them), and I get in, swinging my rucksack behind the front seat. I try my best to avoid the potholes at speed, which results in Kian nearly clashing his teeth on my forehead as the Jeep bounces down the lane. The car radio comes in and out of tune with club songs that it’s far too early for. I switch it off, but if anything the silence is worse.
We drive alongside the harbour, the colour of the sea merging with the sky through layers of fog. I snatch glances at Kian. He wipes condensation off the window with two fingers and looks out across the firth, his hands balled in his lap, shoulders round. He looks younger, like a teenager on the way to parents’ evening who knows his reports are going to be poor at best, damning at worst.
‘Hey, you should tell the bank about the grant application. It’s got to earn you some brownie points, right?’
‘I doubt it. I may as well tell them I’m expecting to win the lottery.’
Ah, I see. We’re rolling in pessimism this morning.
‘Shall I buy a lottery ticket on the way back? Just to cover our bases.’
Kian catches my eye but doesn’t laugh. Shit. Things must be pretty serious.
I swallow, clacking my nails on the steering wheel. ‘I saw a sign for a dolphin reserve just back there. What’s all that about then?’ My heart races. It’s a blessing I never went into criminal journalism. I can’t even ask about the animals that eight-year-old girls have as bedroom posters without feeling light-headed.
Kian breathes in with barely suppressed impatience.
‘That’s a divisive one,’ he says, scratching the razor burn on his neck. ‘Kilroch has a bunch of tourists now who bloody love the dolphins, but they’re the reason a bunch of mad bints went bananas in the Nineties over the oil rigs. Granddad used to go on about it all the time. The rigs got decommissioned and my dad lost his income. He wasn’t so quick to blame the booze, which was arguably worse.’
I nod, the news clipping of Mum flashing across my mind. I can see why she might have achieved a poor reputation and that’s without including the illegitimate baby issue.
We finish the journey in silence, the engine clunking like there’s something loose inside it.
‘I’ll see you later then,’ says Kian, opening the door before I’ve slowed the car down properly. I pull the handbrake. We jolt to a stop. He squats, popping his head back inside as an afterthought. ‘Whatever happens, thanks for all your help.’
‘No worries. Hey, is everything OK?’
‘I’ll talk to you about it later,’ he says, the line in his brow set deeper still. He slams the door. I flex my fingers around the steering wheel, gripping it until my knuckles turn white. Something has rattled him. Has he seen through my increasingly flimsy persona? Does he notice how Moira and I both laugh with a woodpecker lilt? How we tuck our chins in when we’re worried?
Back in the village, I trundle up the high street between the faint glow of amber light leaking through curtains, and pull up beside a retired fishing boat, its hull brimming with coarse, salt-burned heather. I need to fish for wi-fi. Let’s hope The Wailing Banshee is within range … I wriggle my laptop free and scan for a signal. Result! I clunk the engine off. It’s excruciatingly quiet, aside from the odd seagull screeching overhead.
Forty-seven emails ping through alongside three calendar invites. Going by the incremental use of capital letters and exclamation marks in the messages from Duncan, I see that his tone is increasingly irate. I open his most recent email alongside some older missives, reading them with newfound insight now that I can map Duncan’s thoughts over time.
Friday 18th October
Hi Ava,
Thanks for your last submission. Just a few minor tweaks here and there, but I didn’t think it was worth sending back for you to check.
Liking the tone, but still no sign of the Mysterious Moira. Any reason why? That line – ‘No one seems to live here and the ones that do are weird’ – Love it!
Look, I’m happy, we’re happy, the readers are happy, but we need a sense that you’re moving forward, OK?
Thanks, D.
Sunday 27th October
Ava,
No idea if these are reaching you. We need an update on the sister search and you’re not replying to my messages. I thought you were exaggerating about being in the arse end of nowhere, but evidently, I stand corrected. Seeing as you’re there on behalf of the website, I feel somewhat responsible for your welfare. FYI: no reunion video by Sunday = train back to London on Monday.
Let us know that you’re OK and haven’t been strung up by the locals.
Thanks, D
Wednesday 30th October
Ava – got your last diary entry but I’ve known episodes of Midsomer Murders to move with more pace than this. Reunion video. Sunday. Send me confirmation you’re prepped for it, all right?
Thanks, D
Thursday 31st October
RIGHT. SEEING AS I’VE NEVER KNOWN YOU TO MISS A DEADLINE, YOU’VE EITHER SLIPPED THROUGH A STONE CIRCLE AND RUN OFF WITH A HULKING HIGHLANDER OR YOU’RE ACTUALLY, LITERALLY DECEASED. PLEASE – FOR THE SAKE OF A POTENTIALLY RUINOUS LITIGATION CLAIM AGAINST THE WEBSITE YOU STILL TECHNICALLY WORK FOR – LET US KNOW THAT YOU’RE STILL BREATHING (and send us your big reunion video – due on Sunday, as discussed).
> Thanks, D
I dash off a reply that once again outlines how furious I am about his ‘light touch’ edits and follow it up with a statement about ethical editorial practices. I read it back and sigh. I’m still one step above a nobody back in the office. If Duncan’s my boss, who’s he accountable to? Coming from the man who once commissioned a piece called ‘The Homeless Doppelgangers of Hollywood Stars’, I’m not holding out much hope for a comeuppance through conventional means.
The last email is far less concerned with my mortality. Disturbingly, it’s come from Ginger’s address: [email protected]. Jesus.
Tuesday 29th October
Ava!
I snipped the top of my finger off trimming back the buddleia so Ginger is typing this for me. Nothing to worry about. They stuck it back on at the surgery, but it does sting, especially when I zested a lemon for some Ottolenghi pancakes that weren’t worth the effort.
Is there something wrong with your phone??? I sent you a picture of Sue’s new puppy on Saturday but it kept bouncing back. Do you need a new SIM card because you’re in a different country? If you roam there are charges, but I didn’t think you were leaving Edinburgh?
Pickles’s diet is going badly. I thought he was looking a little saggy, so I gave him ham for dinner and the vet got very angry. Something to do with the salt. Anyway, he’s now doubly overweight AND dehydrated, like a chubby raisin, so I’ve had to freeze chicken livers in an ice cube tray as a way to force hydration.
Love, Mum
—Hello, sweets! This is Ginger! I wanted to tell you I have a niece in Edinburgh – Lauren – who works in beauty. If you want your eyebrows microbladed, she can get you fifty per cent off. (Your mum has made it explicit that she does NOT want you to do this under any circumstance, but the offer is there!).
Ginger
XOXO
It’s times like this that I’m really glad Mum is incompetent with quite literally any form of technology. She thought I was copywriting for the surveillance industry when I first told her I was working at a website called Snooper, which stuck for a whole year because it took that long for her to ask me what I did at work each day. As such, the likelihood that she’ll find out I’m rubbing shoulders with the family she scorned whilst freedom fighting is slim.
