Dead Secret (20 page)

“One sister.”

The word feels strange now. It doesn’t fit right any more.
Music
pumps out of a jukebox by the bar, a distant rhythm in my head, like a vibration from another room. Strange bar, strange town, strange guy. What am I doing here?

As if echoing the thought, Carruthers says, “What made you come here so soon after your dad died?”

I don’t know how to answer. The more I tell people, the less sure I become.

“I…” I stop, unable to say anything. The thump of the music is a step out of time with the thump in my head, one a discordant
echo of the other.
Thump,
thump…
Thump
, thump… It is too hard to put the words together. Carruthers is staring at me. “I…”

He lays his hand on my arm for a moment, an instinctive
gesture
. He seems embarrassed then, lifts it back awkwardly.

“Were you close to your dad?”

“I loved him,” I say simply. What else is there to say? “And then I came here and found out… found out… she was murdered.”

His face freezes.

“Shit,” he says. “You didn’t know before you came up here? That’s not why you came? You didn’t know your mother was murdered?”

I shake my head. We sit together then for a while, silently. I watch the light fading outside, darkening swiftly now, an orange moon rising.

“I didn’t want to meet you tonight,” he says suddenly. “I just didn’t want to get involved. And now I wish I hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I
feel
involved. But there’s nothing I can do. I’d like to help you and I can’t. Nobody can. You need to go home,
Rebecca
. There’s nothing anyone can do here. I’m sorry.”

“You feel sorry for me?”

“Yes,” he says softly, kindly even. “I do.”

“Save it.” I drain my glass. The room spins slowly. “I don’t want your pity.”

I have offended him. He sits back from the table in a rush, his arms thrown back against the seat. Half irritated, half hurt.

“One last thing.” I have to go now. I need to get out of the smoke and the heat and the noise, out into the evening where I can hide in the darkness. “Would James Cory ever have left his wife for my mother?”

It’s hard to think straight now. Hard to select precisely the right word.

Somewhere in the alcohol-induced confusion inside my head, I think this question will prove everything. If he would really have left his wife, he wouldn’t have killed my mother. If he would have left his wife, he must have loved my mother. And if he really loved her, why would he kill her?

“I… I don’t think so. Not from what I heard,” Carruthers sounds hesitant.

“Why not?”

“From what I heard…” He stalls by taking another drink from his glass. “I think your mother… I don’t think James felt… she wasn’t….”

“You mean she was the kind of woman you took to bed but didn’t marry?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No.”

He thought it, though. I always know when men think that stuff.

He frowns. “James’s wife, Anna… she came from a wealthy family. In the early days of Cory Construction, it was basically her father who was financing it. There was no way he was going to leave Anna. And he was right. Look at it now.”

Money had to come into it somewhere, I suppose. Money
always
comes into it somewhere.

“I don’t have a bloody clue why I am telling you all this.” He looks at the table and shakes his head, then glances up at me slyly. “Because you’ve got nice eyes, probably.”

Flirt. What’s he thinking? Like mother, like daughter? I can play it though. I can play that game.

“And you,” I say, stabbing my finger into his shoulder, “have a nice… leather jacket.”

He laughs into his glass.

“Is that the best you can do?”

I hold his eyes for a moment. “No.”

He’s really quite attractive, David Carruthers, I think. Really quite attractive.

I stand up. Too sudden. I grab the table and he catches my arm.

“I’ll walk you back. It’s by the river isn’t it?”

“It’s okay,” I say, shaking off his arm gently. “I can manage.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

I shrug, a ‘please yourself’ shrug. It is too complicated to
argue
. Too complicated for words.

Outside, there are groups of youths hanging about at the chip shop on the corner. Shouts, squeals of female laughter, some kind of carry-on. I need to concentrate on walking.

“
Watch
it, Gary,” shouts a girl, and Gary grabs her round the waist and propels her, screaming, across the pavement. It is me who stumbles into her path rather than the other way round. Carruthers catches me.

“It’s okay,” I mutter. My mouth feels dry, dehydrated. “I’m not drunk.”

“I think you’re more emotional than drunk,” he says. “When you’re feeling that way a couple of drinks is enough.”

“Yeah, well, I had a couple before we met.”

“Figures,” he says.

He puts his arm lightly round my shoulder, guiding me across the road. We walk silently for a while, up to the traffic lights at the bridge before turning down by the river. The lights from the
street lamps shine in the water, the reflections quivering in the blackness.

Above, the moon riding high now in a pink streaked, velvet sky. A couple walks towards us, the girl with her arm through her partner’s for support, teetering on stilettos that ring sharp and steely on the pavement. It is only five minutes to the B & B, which sits back in the road, facing the river. We stand on the pavement opposite, next to the water. The downstairs light is off but the exterior porch light has been left on. ‘No vacancies’ says the sign beneath.

Now I am here, I don’t want to go into the dead of the
darkness
, feel the door close behind me. My eyes are smarting. I feel dishevelled.

“Thanks for walking me.”

“Will you be okay?”

I nod.

“You don’t look it.”

I am inches from him. I can smell him, the smell of heat and aftershave, sweet and musky and comforting. The smell I
associate
with being wanted. I should go now, walk across the road and up the path. I don’t move.

“I hope your mother… you know…” What’s the word I’m looking for?

He nods. And then he gives me one of those looks that changes things. That look where suddenly you stop looking at a stranger and start to see something else.

Possibilities, maybe.

“I don’t like to think of you on your own.”

“I don’t like to think of me on my own either.”

He reaches out, tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ears.
“You don’t need to stay here tonight,” he says softly. “Not if you don’t want. If you want company.”

In the stillness that follows, I look out at the water, flowing, flowing, steadily down to the bridge. Rippled, mirrored with light, its pace all its own. Unalterable. I think about it, his offer. Think of drifting with the flow, letting it sweep me down where it will. I am tempted. No chance to think, to talk to the dead in the coffin of my room. Just the touch of the living, the heat of the moment, the comfort of no tomorrow. There are people who belong to right now and Carruthers is one. And until now, he is everything that I have ever needed, sweet and impermanent, the smell of him gone by daybreak, leaving only the promise of a blank new day.

But maybe it’s time now. Time to stop drifting with the tide. Make the river flow the way I want it, instead of casting myself like flotsam on the top. I shake my head. “I need to go,” I say softly.

We stand close still, and I put out my hand.

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

We shake hands and when our arms drop, I hesitate. He leans forward then, gives a brief, awkward hug. I wrap my arms round the soft leather jacket. For a few seconds, I feel the comfort of being touched and almost change my mind.

“Take care, Rebecca,” he says. “And please, do yourself a
favour
. Go home. Don’t try to open this all up.”

I don’t look back until I reach the porch. I turn then, see him standing with his back to me. He is leaning, with his forearms on the railings and his hands clasped, lost in thought, looking out across the dappled water that dances silver with reflected light.

Spirit Daddy. Where. Are. You? Why can’t I find you? Why don’t you answer? Tonight I am not going to get angry. I am going to drink another glass of wine and chat. Because you have to answer sometime, don’t you, Da? You have to answer sometime.

So much to talk about today. So many people. They remain in my head in little tableaux. Terry Simons looking out of his
window
. Kirstin sitting in one of her lace-trimmed armchairs. David Carruthers, leaning against the railings down by the river. David Carruthers. Shame about David Carruthers. And then they begin to move, the characters, like little clips from a film. Scenes from someone else’s life.

The one who is always there is Cory, a silent presence who squats like a massive Buddha in every scene. I haven’t heard him speak yet. Not yet. It’s gone, the adrenaline, the pumping, thumping,
craziness
that seeing him for the first time provoked. I’m swinging from one extreme to another now. Up one minute, down the next. Maybe I’m crazy. Do you think I could be crazy? Of course, you won’t say either way, will you? You won’t say anything at all.

I’ve had a little wine tonight, Da. A lot of wine. Help me sleep. But I’m wide awake with a furred tongue and a furred mind. I saw Kirstin today. Of course, I told you that already. You know that. Maybe you knew it before I told you. You know everything now, Mr Spirit Daddy. Do you know it even before it happens now you
are dead? Or do you have to wait until it unfolds, like the rest of us?

I hurt for you when I heard Kirstin doubted you. And then I felt ashamed because I’ve been doubting you too. Now I’m a bit angry. With Kirstin. With Mother. Even with you for going. And for not talking back to me. I always get angry with everyone else when it’s myself I’m really angry at. That’s why Sarah cops it so much.

I cannot imagine what it took for you to love Sarah. Were you aware, always aware in everything we did together, that she was another man’s child? Did you see the shadow of her father in her eyes; did you feel him in the weight of her when you picked her up? She was already a few months old when Mother died. I guess at the start you learned to love her because it was the only way you could stay with Mother. But when Mother died, what then? What links to Sarah were you left with? I guess you started off loving her for Mother’s sake and ended up loving her for her own. She is worthy of love, I know that.

You shed your old life like a snakeskin for me and for Sarah. You simply left the detritus behind and grew a new skin, scale by scale. You know, I think I understand about the accountancy and the bus driving now. You wanted to leave everything that was past, in the past: the house by the loch and the yellow and white
crockery
and the furniture and the job and the people. You didn’t even want the money for the house. You took what was worth taking, and that was Sarah and me.

I remember you talking about Grandpa leaving Donegal once and you said he never completely moved on, that he left a bit of himself there on that rocky old hill. You must have done the same in the Highlands. I am curious about how much of you was
missing
in the Da that we knew. Which bits of you got left behind in
that bay at Lochglas, stranded like the little boats on the sand when the tide goes out?

I am surprised to hear myself say it, but I think I understand why you didn’t want us to know about Mother. I’m not sure you were right, but I do understand. I have the same dilemma myself now, with Sarah. It is not so easy. I see what happens. You make a decision in a crisis and there is no going back. No changing minds.

Two years after your decision, you couldn’t suddenly decide you’d tell us about Mother after all. Or five years later, or ten. You had to go on going on. You wanted us to believe in the new life. You wanted us to believe in you. Never have that belief tarnished by the kind of lingering doubt that eats up your soul. Peggy was right after all. She did destroy you, didn’t she?

Listen to the wine, the comforting glug, glug, glug of it as it pours into the glass. Cheers, Da. Here’s to old friends. Have you met Mother again wherever you are? They say when you die that you go down a long tunnel of light. That there’s always someone familiar there to meet you. Who met you? Was it Mother? Did you see her? Did you love her still? Maybe Mother can love you in death more completely than she loved you in life. Maybe that would even be worth dying for.

Am I making sense? It’s cheap, this wine. We liked a good red, you and I, but you wouldn’t think much of this. It’s thin and bitter. And you know what I keep thinking? I keep thinking I am drinking blood. Too much talk of murder. Too much Catholicism. Blood of Christ. Bathe me in your wounds. You know, I expect Father Riley would say the wine in heaven is so much richer, so much more mellow, than here on earth. I should bloody hope so. I wish we could swap glasses.

What can I tell you now? No response, eh? Did I tell you
Shameena
will sing for us at the funeral? Sing for you. Dear Shameena. Remember when she sang after Tariq died? Answer me Da, for God’s sake. Do you remember?

Oh all right, don’t answer. I’ll just keep talking anyway. If you want to join in at any time, please do. Walk around in my mind, why don’t you? Oh. My phone is buzzing. Ha! Is it you? Clever old you! What’s the O
₂
reception like in heaven? Well, well. Another text. ‘Go home.’ Not very friendly round here, are they, Da? Not like Glasgow.

So, what were we talking about? Yes, the night Shameena sang. The night of the benefit concert for the Heart Foundation. It was her idea, of course, to raise funds for the charity, for Tariq. But I think maybe she also thought this would be Tariq’s way of helping her get into opera. If Khadim and Nazima could just hear her sing publicly…

What you won’t remember is that Tariq visited that night. You won’t remember because I never told you. That’s right. Dead Tariq visited. This is not the wine talking, Da. Well maybe it is, partly. Loosens my tongue. We all have little secrets, don’t we? I just didn’t realise until the last few days how many. I find myself talking to you in my head and saying, “You never knew because…” or, “I never told you because…”

Shameena had worked so hard to put that concert on. She wrote to the council herself to ask for permission to use the local school hall. Her own music teacher, Miss Macintosh, agreed to
accompany
her but Shameena practised and practised on her own for weeks before. Sometimes, I would go round and listen to her rehearse, just to encourage her. She sang for Tariq. She sang for love. I’m sorry. Was that sentimental? I always get maudlin with alcohol. Excuse me while I pour another.

Do you remember I left you in the audience and went backstage to see her and wish her luck that night? That’s when it happened. The chairs were laid out in the hall, the legs scraping along the wooden floor, the hum of chatter growing gradually louder. I just meant to pop my head around the door but Shameena was sitting in an easy chair with tears streaming down her face.

“Shameena?”

She didn’t answer.

“Shameena,” I repeated, coming in and closing the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Becca, he’s been here. He’s
been
here.”

“Who’s been here?” I knelt down beside her chair.

“Tariq.”

I didn’t want to hear. I was frightened by what she was saying, by the way she looked. And because I was frightened, I was sharp. You know how sharp I can be, Da.

“Shameena, what are you talking about?”

She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“I was warming up.” She stood up and walked to the table. “I was standing here with my music. And I felt someone enter the room.”

“You
felt
them?”

“Yes, but when I turned around” – she swirled around to show me – “there was no one there.” She looked at me expectantly.

“Shameena, it’s natural you’re thinking about Tariq. Tonight is all about him, about his memory. It’s not surprising that you feel… maybe feel close to him… and…”

She shook her head.

“It was him.”

“Tariq’s dead, Shameena.”

“I don’t care what you say. I know what happened. I know Tariq was here. The room suddenly went so cold. I could feel a tingle on my skin. I knew it was Tariq. I just knew it was. And then I felt him pass through me.” She began to cry. “He passed right through me. I could feel the pressure of him. He wanted to wish me luck. It was his way of holding me.”

“Don’t be frightened,” I said, though it was me who was
frightened
.

“Frightened?” she said, as if she didn’t understand. “I’m not frightened! It’s just so… so emotional, so good, having him back. Even for a little while…” She looked at me. “You think I’m mad but I don’t care. It happened. There is nothing you can ever tell me, Becca, that will convince me Tariq wasn’t here. I know what I felt. I know it was him. He was real.”

She slipped off the heavy gold bracelet she wore round her right wrist, and held it up to me. It had been her grandmother’s. I knew it was her favourite piece of jewellery.

“Real as that. You might as well tell me this bracelet doesn’t
exist
.” She was beginning to get agitated.

“Okay, okay,” I said.

I remember the look Shameena gave me then, like she could see right inside me. It made me uneasy.

“You loved him, Rebecca, didn’t you?”

I stared at her, unable to say a word.

“I think he loved you too.”

“Did he say?” I asked instantly.

She hesitated and I knew he hadn’t.

“He didn’t have to say. I knew.”

And this is the bit, Da, where it gets really odd. I felt something then at my back, and I turned around and Shameena whispered
delightedly, “He’s back. He’s back, isn’t he, Becca? You can feel him.” And suddenly the room temperature plummeted. I felt a weight, the pressure of a weight forcing its way through my body. I looked at Shameena. There were tears streaming down her face and I could feel tears streaming down mine, and then within seconds the feeling had gone and Shameena and I clung together in the centre of the room. But it was so quick, Da, all so quick that even though I was there, even though I felt it, I wasn’t sure later what had happened. It happened to me and I’m still not sure I believe it happened. Maybe it was the power of her suggestion. Nothing like that has ever happened to me again.

Do you know how that makes me feel, Da? When I think of Shameena and how certain she was, I think of you, and I wonder why you won’t talk to me. Why you won’t come. If you are really out there, give me a sign. Other people get signs. Is it that I didn’t love you enough? That you didn’t love me enough? Am I not worth it? Did Tariq love Shameena more than you love me? Or is it that there really is nothing of you out there? You’re gone. Spent.
Finished
.

I’m not going to séances to find you, Da. Glasses and Ouija boards and darkened rooms and fraud.
Is there anybody there?
I’d never be sure that way, would I? I’d never be sure it was really you. I don’t want to involve anyone else in this. If you want to give me a message, you don’t need anyone else as medium. If you want to, you’ll find a way. How do spirits communicate? I don’t know. I’m hoping I’m going to find out. But no one else needs to be involved. This is between me and you, Da. Me and you alone.

The night Tariq visited, Shameena sang for her audience like it was her last ever song, like it was her death song. I always
hated
that opera stuff you played on Saturday mornings when you
weren’t working, Da. Bizet and Verdi and God knows what. All that screeching coming from your old tinny stereo.

Shameena’s voice wasn’t fully trained yet, of course. But there was a beauty about the freshness of it, the possibility of it. She sang arias from
Madame Butterfly
and
Carmen
as well as the Puccini. But it was the unknown song at the finale that left me in bits. Do you remember it, Da? It was an old Pakistani song that she said the Melody Queen used to sing. It was about a girl whose brother went riding off to war on a black steed and never returned. The Goddess of War said her brother would be returned to her if she sang a song so beautiful that it silenced the nightingale. The girl ran to the forest and she sang and she sang, but always the trill of the nightingale accompanied her. Until she realised she must sing with her heart
instead
of her voice, and at her first notes the nightingale stopped. But it was too late. A second past midnight. Her brother never returned.

Shameena would have silenced the nightingale that night. She sang with her heart. For the first time, I listened with mine. In the dark, next to you, Da. The rustling stopped in the audience.
Maybe
it had such an effect because nearly everyone who was there knew about Tariq, but there was a stillness that bound all of us. There was a great lump in my throat, the size of a cricket ball, and I couldn’t swallow.

There was silence when she finished, for at least four seconds. Four seconds is a long time after someone has sung. One. Two. Three. Four. Then the clapping started, and the cheering. It was just a dusty old school hall with no atmosphere, but people got to their feet and whistled and Shameena smiled. She looked different. Like she was really alive. Like every hair on her head and every nail on her finger and every muscle and every cell of her was living and breathing and pulsating.

Someone told me once that taking LSD was like that. You could see the life force in everything, every tiny little thing. In an orange skin or a flower petal or even on a pen on the desk. Everything in the world was alive and everything was good and everything was connected. I was envious of Shameena right then but glad for her too. She didn’t need LSD. She had her singing.