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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
When a young man inherits a vast mansion from an estranged great-uncle, his apparent good fortune sours when unsettling things begin to happen … A terrifying psychological thriller cum gothic ghost story from the bestselling author of A Suitable Lie. 'A beautifully written tale, original, engrossing and scary. It's a wonderful mixture, a psychological thriller with a touch of a ghost story (sort of), a dollop of the supernatural (but not really) and murder (perhaps), told through the vision of a druggie poet who hasn't taken his medicine and is therefore an unreliable witness (or is he?) … a dark joy' The Times 'A deeply satisfying read' Sunday Times 'A fine, page-turning thriller' Daily Mail _________________ What you see isn't always real… Ran McGhie's world has been turned upside down. A young, lonely and frustrated writer, and suffering from mental-health problems, he discovers that his long-dead mother was related to one of Glasgow's oldest merchant families. Not only that, Ran has inherited Newton Hall, a vast mansion that belonged to his great-uncle, who had been watching from afar as his estranged great-nephew grew up. Entering his new-found home, it seems Great-uncle Alexander has turned it into a temple to the written word – the perfect place for poet Ran. But everything is not as it seems. As he explores the Hall's endless corridors, Ran's grasp on reality appears to be loosening. And then he comes across an ancient lift; and in that lift a mirror. And in the mirror … the reflection of a woman. A terrifying psychological thriller with more than a hint of the gothic, House of Spines is a love letter to the power of books, and a reminder that lust and betrayal can be deadly… _________________ Praise for Michael J. Malone: 'House of Spines is a gothic ghost story and psychological thriller all rolled into one. Brilliantly creepy, with a dash of Glasgow humour, I couldn't turn the pages fast enough. A spine-tingling treat' Lisa Gray, Daily Record 'From the stunning opening chapter, I was hooked. House of Spines is an intriguing tale with a haunting, gothic quality that compels you to keep reading till the end' Howard Linskey 'At first it seems like a poet's paradise, but something sinister lurks within the corridors … a MUST READ' Daily Express 'The story twists and feints, pulling us along with it at every turn, the edginess of its central character making every development even more unsettling … a chilling read, best savoured late on a dark night' Herald Scotland 'You might not want to be alone when you read this spine-chilling gothic thriller ... As he explores its endless corridors his grip on reality seems to be evaporating in this terrifying exploration of lust and betrayal' Sunday Post 'Prepare to have your marrow well and truly chilled by this deeply creepy Scottish horror … A complex and multi-layered story – perfect for a wintry night' Sunday Mirror 'Beautifully crafted and colourfully descriptive … keeps the reader gripped by an uneasy presence, a chill, literally, down the spine' Undiscovered Scotland 'Malone is a massive talent … get on board now so you can brag you were reading his books long before the rest of the world' Luca Veste 'Vivid, visceral and compulsive' Ian Rankin 'A terrific read … I read it in one sitting' Martina Cole 'A deeply personal thriller that will keep the reader turning those pages, with twists and turns designed to keep the heart pumping' Russel D. McLean
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Seitenzahl: 478
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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PRAISE FOR MICHAEL J. MALONE
‘In a creepy gothic mansion in Glasgow, Malone weaves his magic and creates a chillingly unnerving tale. There is a real sense of foreboding and ghostly goings on, but it’s the books and the sense of a world that exists on the margins of our imaginations that got every hair on the back of my neck standing on end. House of Spines is disturbingly delightful, although you might never look at mirrors, lifts and old houses in the same way again!’ The Book Trail
‘House of Spines is spine-chillingly brilliant, filled with depth and emotion, and certainly kept me guessing’ Off-the-Shelf Books
‘House of Spines is a satisfyingly, chillingly haunting and delightfully disturbing read, don’t miss it!’ Chapterinmylife
‘Strong female characters, honest, pithy dialogue and ever-present empathy for the victims make this a deeply satisfying read’ Sunday Times
‘Michael’s novel is vivid, visceral and compulsive’ Ian Rankin
‘A deeply personal thriller that will keep the reader turning those pages, with twists and turns designed to keep the heart pumping’ Russel D. McLean
‘Bristling with unease, this is domestic noir at its very darkest, twisting the marriage thriller into a new and troubling shape. It’s a winner … no question’ Eva Dolan
‘A moving and compelling account of a form of violence that remains cloaked in shame and ribald imagery in society. Malone perfectly balances storytelling with a brutal commentary on a dysfunctional relationship’ Sarah Ward
‘Malone has the enviable and rare talent of crafting hard-hitting noir that is also emotionally intelligent and engaging. A fabulous read’ Caro Ramsay
‘A dark and unnerving psychological thriller that draws you deep into the lives of the characters and refuses to let go. This is a brilliantly written book; I could not put it down’ Caroline Mitchell
‘A chilling tale of the unexpected that journeys right into the dark heart of domesticity’ Marnie Riches
‘An unsettling and upsetting story that kept me enthralled, horrified and quite often, in tears. Dark, disturbing and peppered with his trademark humour, A Suitable Lie is a fantastic read, and, as a writer, Malone just gets better and better’ S.J.I. Holliday
‘Michael J. Malone is one of my favourite writers and his new novel does not disappoint. While on the surface this is a departure in genre for Malone, his incredible skill with language and prose remains, and his talent for characterisation really comes to the fore, creating a story that will I won’t forget in a hurry. Malone is a massive talent … get on board now so you can brag you were reading his books long before the rest of the world’ Luca Veste
‘A tightly wound page-turner with real emotional punch’ Rod Reynolds
‘A disturbing and realistic portrayal of domestic noir with a twist. The humour and emotion laced within the darkness was just the right mix for a shocking yet compelling read’ Mel Sherratt
‘This searing depiction of an abusive marriage with the conventional roles reversed nonetheless manages to radiate warmth and integrity – and humour – in even the darkest situations. Malone’s effortless writing style confirms him as a sharp new voice in crime fiction’ Anya Lipska
‘Really powerful. Seriously, I loved this book. A terrific read, I read it in one sitting. Disturbing reading at times but compulsive. It made the hairs on my neck stand on end. Loved it!’ Martina Cole
‘The slow-drip undermining of Andy’s authority and sense of self feels very real and the psychological manipulation is painful to read about, so well has the author put the reader inside the mind of his main character. And Malone shows himself to be an expert plotter as well. A straightforward delineation of domestic abuse would have been engaging enough, but Malone throws in some twists and turns. Crucially these feel properly embedded in the story, rather than thrown together to obfuscate or confuse. It’s a tough highwire act, balancing believability with surprise, but the author pulls it off with aplomb. Excellent stuff’ Doug Johnstone, The Big Issue
‘Malone tackles the taboo subject of female violence against men with insight and compassion (for Anna is no one-dimensional witch), while creating all the hallmarks of a fine, page-turning psychological thriller’ Daily Mail
‘Wow! What an emotionally powerful read. It’s by far the best fictional account of domestic abuse I’ve read and because of that, very difficult, even painful, to read at times. I found myself longing for Andy, the main character, to be happy again after the tragic death of his first wife. The way the relationship begins with Anna is so “normal”, so believable, that, even though I knew it wouldn’t end well (the blurb suggests as much – and it IS a psychological thriller after all), I was lulled into a false sense of security. I felt his happiness, and that made it even harder to read when things started going wrong. Dark, disturbing, tragic and frightening, there are nevertheless bright moments, as there would be in real life.’ K.E. Cole
‘A painful depiction of a man in turmoil’ Publishers Weekly
‘Highly recommended: A Suitable Lie is an intense, nerve-wrecking read’ Thomas Enger
‘Hits you like an express train’ Mason Cross
‘A slick thriller with a killer punch’ Douglas Skelton
‘A brilliant and disturbing novel. Be prepared to have your emotions not only stirred, but turned upside down and inside out. This book insidiously curls around you like a boa-constrictor – and it won’t release you until you have read the final page. Thought-provoking, educational and if you don’t feel anything when you lay down this book, then you must have a heart of stone. Malone will become stellar with this’ Crimesquad
‘Unsettling, thought-provoking, and absolutely riveting. Michael J. Malone steps into an uncomfortable and distressing subject and makes it relatable, accessible, real. I felt I could reach out and touch the characters, as though they could be someone I knew, someone I cared about … A Suitable Lie is a challenging and clever read’ Lovereading
‘Malone’s writing is effortless, expressive and taut’ Crime Review
‘Malone handles his topic with sensitivity, coupled to a consummate understanding of narrative pace and atmosphere. An important book’ Shots Mag
‘Layered and intriguing. My attention never once wandered’ Liz Loves Books
‘Malone’s writing style is first rate and his ability to transport the reader into the world he has created is beyond compare. Michael J. Malone is a key contributor to the Scottish crime fiction scene. I am impatient to see what he gives us next!’ Eurocrime
‘Funny and brutal, heartfelt and compelling. Highly recommended’ Craig Robertson
‘Talk about being put through the emotional wringer. Dark, compelling and recommended!’ Mark Edwards
House of Spines
MICHAEL J. MALONE
Prologue
Someone was singing his name.
A pebble skittered off his bedroom window and his name was repeated in a harsh whisper.
Pulled from sleep, he opened his eyes on a thick darkness leavened only by the weak light from his Bart Simpson lamp.
He heard his name being whispered again. It was coming from the back garden, and he recognised the voice.
‘Mummy?’ What was she doing out in the garden in the middle of the night? He jumped out of bed, pushed his feet into his Ninja Turtle slippers and raced over to the window. Pulling open the curtain, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass and searched for her below.
There she was, in the middle of their back lawn, stepping from side to side with a graceful hop, her right arm trailing a sweeping arch to each side, her nightdress a slump of cotton in front of her feet.
Looking up, she spotted him and waved. ‘Come, sweetheart,’ she mouthed. ‘Come and dance with Mummy.’
He waved back, but kept silent. He may only have been six and three quarters but he knew this was one of those occasions he should not wake Daddy. The thought of his father stilled him for a moment. If he did join his mother outside, might Daddy be disappointed in him? If there was one thing he hated most in the world it was the look his father gave him when he did something silly.
But Mummy looked like she was having such amazing fun. So, without further thought, he raced down the stairs, across the kitchen and out the back door.
‘Aha,’ she beamed as he skipped across the cropped grass towards her. ‘The little faerie child is here.’ She held her hands out to grasp at his. ‘Have you travelled far? I hear the moon is a wonderful place at this time of the year.’ With that she looked up towards the hook of moon tucked into a far corner of the glittering night sky.
Then her attention returned to him. ‘You look cold, little faerie boy. We should dance to warm you up. Do you want to dance?’
He nodded. The part of him that desperately wanted to be a grown-up was not so sure, but this was one of those occasions when she was giving him her full attention. And that was something he craved. Often – too often – she was distant and sad, and acted like he wasn’t really there. He’d stand in front of her and say, ‘But Mummy, it’s me’, and she’d look at him, head cocked to the side. ‘I have a son?’ she’d ask, and he would feel tiny and invisible, and all the way back to his room he’d pinch at his arm, intoning, ‘But I’m real, aren’t I?’
So now, when he felt the warmth of her grip on his hands, he revelled in it.
‘We do this…’ She stepped to the side, and he followed. ‘…And then this…’ She held his right hand up in the air and sent him into a spin. Then she showed him a couple of other movements, which he duly copied. As he did so he couldn’t help but giggle; this was silly and fun. He loved it when he met this version of her.
And so, with the pattern of movement established, they danced and whirled across the lawn as light as moonbeams, to the music of a waltz that sounded deep in his mother’s head.
They spun and stepped and danced until his breath grew ragged, until he looked up at his mother, begging her to stop; until his father’s voice boomed out into the night.
Then all heat was taken out of the summer air and he felt a chill breeze stippling the skin across his back into goose bumps.
‘Go to bed, please, son,’ his father said.
‘But, Dad,’ he said trying to read his father’s expression. ‘Please don’t be angry. Mummy only wanted to have fun.’
‘Bed.’
He trudged back to the house. When he reached the door he heard a cry from his mother and turned. She was on the ground, and his father was on his knees behind her, gathering her to him, holding her nightdress against her breasts. Her head was thrown back, long hair trailing in the grass, the pale of her neck exposed to the sky and the beasts that lived there.
The boy’s heart tightened with pain and sorrow. He wanted nothing more than to run to her and bring back her smiles, but his father looked over at him with an expression that stopped him.
‘Bed … please … son,’ his father said.
Even though his father’s eyes were hidden under the shadow of his forehead, the boy could read his look. He’d seen it so many times. His father’s greatest fear was lurking there. Would the boy become as mad as the mother?
Contents
1
Ranald McGhie wanted to slap the lawyer sitting across the table from him. Acutely aware of his threadbare cuffs; he pulled at the sleeves of his charity-shop tweed jacket in a vain attempt to disguise them.
The lawyer, who looked like he’d just stepped out of a shop window – Harrods or some other temple to consumerism – had hardly glanced at Ranald since he’d sat down. In fact, the man’s whole demeanour was of someone keen to scrape a lump of shit from the sole of his shoe and hurry onto his next task.
‘…the library was Mr Fitzpatrick’s chief concern. And given the paucity of his living relatives, he was most anxious that you understand the enormity of the task it represents.’
‘Mr…’ Ranald began, pretending that he’d forgotten the man’s name.
‘Quinn.’
‘Mr Quinn, how about you get to the point and save us both a lot of time?’ Ranald took pleasure in pricking the man’s pomposity. He was probably from Pollock and had managed to get himself a law degree and a cushy number working with the elderly relics at one of Glasgow’s oldest law firms, thinking this meant he was more important than everyone who didn’t work at the Bar.
‘I’m explaining’ – he huffed – ‘Mr Fitzpatrick’s last wishes, Mr McGhie.’
‘Aye. But who exactly is Mr Fitzpatrick and why exactly have you dragged me in here?’
The lawyer sat back in his chair, a note of surprise on his face. ‘Mr Alexander Fitzpatrick of the Fitzpatricks. One of the oldest merchant families in the city. Your mother, Helena McGhie née Fitzpatrick, was his niece.’
‘She was what?’ Ranald sat forwards in his chair. ‘I think someone’s been selling you a load of shite, mate. My mother’s name was Helen.’ Ranald was a young man of considerable education and intellect, but, when faced with snobbery, he always found himself reverting to his working-class, Anglo-Saxon roots, reacting in an in-your-face, take-me-or-leave-me, kind of way.
Quinn opened a file and leafed through some papers until he found what he was looking for. He pushed the file across the desk towards Ranald.
‘She dropped the “a” from her name. She thought “Helen” was better suited to her more…’ he struggled for the right word ‘… prosaic circumstances.’
Ranald resisted the impulse to tell the man to shut up with his ‘prosaic circumstances’; in fact he was more struck by the suggestion that his mother was from money. He opened his mouth, but the lawyer was handing him another document.
‘This is her birth certificate. She was born on the 8th of November 1952. At the age of nineteen she met and fell in love with your father, an unemployed artist, Gordon McGhie. She became pregnant and, against the wishes of her family, went to live with McGhie.’
My dad was an artist? thought Ranald. Where the hell did Quinn get that notion? His father was a bricklayer, displayed no artistic tendencies whatsoever and decried – with a good deal of swearing – the notion Ranald had, as a teen, that he wanted to be a writer. But he and Mum went and died when Ranald was eighteen, so couldn’t exactly stop him.
Ranald took a moment to think through the timeline of events. Mum met Dad when she was nineteen and fell pregnant. But he wasn’t born until 1988. What happened to that first pregnancy? As if Ranald had asked the question out loud, Quinn answered:
‘That first child was stillborn, Mr McGhie. And your mother distanced herself so thoroughly from the family that we have no idea why she waited so long to have you.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick kept a keen eye on you as you grew up. He often talked about you as the one that got away.’ The lawyer grew thoughtful. ‘He envied you your simple life, Mr McGhie.’
‘Got away? My simple life?’ Ranald was roused from his confusion. ‘Living for months at a time with no income? Eating nothing but tins of beans and plain bread because my parents left me with nothing?’ He was angry now: all that time he’d had a relative who was loaded – knew the difficulties he was in and did nothing to help.
‘Still. You were safe. Dry. Not on the street.’ Quinn raised an eyebrow.
‘How the hell do you know that? How do you know any of this?’
‘From time to time, Mr Fitzpatrick would … ah … check in.’
‘Check in? What the hell does that mean?’
‘He was delighted that you resisted the allure of a steady income and instead, followed your compulsion to work in the arts.’
‘I write educational textbooks. That’s hardly the arts.’
‘You write for a living, do you not? And you had that poetry collection published: The Unkindness of Crows. 2012 wasn’t it?’
‘It was a pamphlet. And, again, how do you know all this?’
‘Mr Fitzpatrick would ask us…’
‘…to check on me.’ Ranald ran his right hand through his hair. What the hell? Had he just dropped into the pages of a Dickens novel? Was there a camera crew hidden behind those oak panels? He needed to make some sense of all of this.
‘He was saddened that you went off the rails slightly when your parents died, and he was concerned about your subsequent mental-health issues.’ Quinn paused. It was clear that this wasn’t because he worried he was being indelicate; he was simply checking his memory for the facts. ‘Have you continued with the medication?’
‘None of your business.’ Ranald bristled. ‘You mentioned a library?’
‘Yes.’ Quinn sat back in his chair as if relieved the conversation was back on a track he had rehearsed. ‘He has … sorry, had, an extensive collection of books. One of the finest in the city, and he wanted you to look after it.’ He placed his hands on the oak desk in front of him. ‘It’s a real treasure trove. Worth a fortune, I believe.’
Ranald thought about his one-bedroom flat above a chip shop in Shawlands. The aromas that would soon coat this ‘treasure trove’ of books, reducing their value considerably. As if reading his thoughts, Quinn continued.
‘The library is not to be moved from the house. Mr Fitzpatrick was explicit in his instructions. Therefore, he has also left the house to you. He set up a trust fund to ensure that the utility bills would be paid. And the council tax. And there is an old couple who have been tending to the house and the gardens. Money has been set aside to pay their wages. But I’m afraid there’s no extra for you personally, Mr McGhie. You will have a house, entirely free of cost, but you will have to continue in your endeavours as a writer.’
‘I have a house?’
‘You have a very large house.’
Ranald exhaled, his mind a whirl. He tried to picture his mother. To his shame, all he could see was her long dark hair and the point of her chin. She was from money?
‘I have a house.’
‘The fact may bear repeating, Mr McGhie,’ Quinn said with a half-smile.
By Christ it does, thought Ranald. He could sell it. Buy that gîte he’d always fancied living in, over in Brittany. Write that novel he’d always promised himself he would write and say goodbye to all that educational crap.
‘You won’t be able to sell the house, Mr McGhie,’ Quinn said, interrupting his thoughts – once more appearing to read them. ‘It’s owned by the family trust, of which I am one of the trustees. We’re bound by law to ensure Mr Fitzpatrick’s wishes are carried out to the letter.’
‘But I can live there?’
‘That is one of the conditions of access to the library.’ Quinn’s slow nod added importance to his words. ‘It will be yours until you die, and then Mr Fitzpatrick hoped one of your issue would take over.’
One of my issue, Ranald repeated to himself. At this stage having ‘issue’ was highly unlikely. He’d never managed to keep a woman longer than two years. His ex-wife, Martie, regularly told him he was an easy man to fall in love with but a difficult man to stay with. Apparently he’d always had a remoteness, making him unable to commit fully to a relationship. Women sensed that, Martie would say, and it made them feel insecure.
Yeah, well, he would respond, when your wife has you sectioned, it kinda puts the spokes in the whole trust thing.
To which she would reply: If you’re at the end of your tether and your husband is at the far end of an A-line roof over a twenty-foot drop, you need to do something.
It was an argument they had replayed several times. He’d known he was in the wrong, that he needed help; but still, being sectioned … by his own wife?
And because of this, Ranald was never able to completely trust Martie properly again, despite the fact that he was still in love with her.
His mind placed him back there, in that moment when he was balanced on the roof. He was invincible, he could affect the weather, he could have taken on God. Just a few months of pull-ups and push-ups and he would have had the strength to fly, he was sure of it. Truth be told, he envied that guy, now. Wished he would turn up more often, instead of this whiny, worthless version most people ended up meeting.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick regretted that you never managed to stay married.’ Quinn interrupted his thoughts. ‘But he hoped that the medicine, and maturity might—’
‘What? He even knew about the state of my relationships?’ Andabout the drugs, he added silently.
‘As I said…’
‘He checked in.’
‘Quite.’
Ranald studied Quinn’s expression. This was real. This was all actually real. He had a house. He had a huge library. It must be huge, right? If this old fella was making such a fuss about it.
Quinn opened a drawer on the right side of his desk and pulled out a small brown envelope. He put it on the desk and pushed it across to Ranald.
‘The key,’ Quinn said, quite simply. ‘There is a small piece of card inside with the address of your new home written on it.’
Ranald paused before picking up the envelope. Were the camera crew about to burst in now? The room remained still. The only noises from outside the room were the low hum of conversation and the clicks of a computer keyboard.
He opened the envelope, expecting a fanfare of trumpets. But the key was a small, insignificant thing. Cold to the touch. He read the address: Bearsden. A posh part of town.
‘Everything you could want is in your new home, Mr McGhie. But if you want to move any of your…’ Quinn actually sniffed. ‘… Your belongings from your flat in Shawlands, we can arrange for a removal van for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Quinn,’ Ranald said, emphasising the word ‘kind’ but meaning the opposite.
‘The house is ready for you, Mr McGhie,’ Quinn said with a note of relief. ‘You can move in today. You’ll find the housekeeper and the gardener – Mr and Mrs Hackett – have everything prepared. They’re a pleasant couple. Worked for the family for years.’
Ranald sank into his chair, now weirdly reluctant to move. He even wanted the pompous old fool in front of him to keep on talking.
‘You mentioned a … “paucity” of relatives? I’m it, then?’ he asked.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick kept an eye on all of you. You were deemed to be the most suitable for the task.’
All of you.
‘Will any of the others challenge the will?’ Ranald asked. He had a whole other family he knew nothing about. Should the fact that Fitzpatrick rated him his best option mean he should also discount them?
‘They have been adequately provided for by the trust, Mr McGhie. None of the others actually wanted the house. They are all well taken care of in the housing department. In fact, most of them see Newton Hall as a white elephant.’
Newton Hall. The house had a name?
‘Can I meet them?’ Ranald asked.
A buzzer sounded on Quinn’s desk and a look of relief passed over his face. ‘That’s my next appointment, Mr McGhie. I’m afraid I’m going to have to…’
He stood up, and Ranald, with reluctance, followed suit. Quinn walked to his door and opened it. He held out a hand as Ranald reached him. His grip was tight, his hand cold. His voice low.
‘My advice: Enjoy the house. Forget your new relatives. Mr Fitzpatrick didn’t have a good word to say about any of them.’
2
On autopilot, Ranald found himself standing in front of the shiny aluminium door of the lift. He stared at his blurred reflection and then at the buttons on the panel as if unsure where they might take him.
A tiny, elderly lady – powdered face, hair piled high on her head, large pearl earrings – stretched out her hand and pressed a button.
‘Going down, son?’ she asked, looking up at him with an expression of concern.
‘Aye,’ he answered, most of his attention still in Quinn’s office.
A musical note sounded and the doors opened. Ranald paused to allow the woman to enter before him. He followed. She pressed another button and the lift began its ponderous descent to the lobby.
Bugger me. A house. No, not a house. Newton Hall in Bearsden.
The doors pinged open. Before the old lady walked out, she reached out a hand and gripped Ranald’s forearm. With a mournful expression, she said, ‘Just remember, son, however bad you’re feeling right now, all this will pass.’ She offered him a smile. ‘Look after yourself, eh?’ And with her pronouncement made, she turned and walked smartly to the front door.
Ranald followed her with his eyes.
All this will pass? What the hell was she going on about?
Then he thought about where he had come from. The dazed expression he was undoubtedly wearing. The old dear must have thought he was dealing with some bereavement. The lift doors sounded a warning they were about to close. He jumped out before they did and made his way out of the building and onto the street.
He was greeted by a burst of noise. Buses and taxis motored past. Crowds of people bustling through that present minute of their lives.
The sun was shining. He turned his face up to it and felt the heat; had that mournful, Scottish thought that this moment was the only summer they might enjoy. He shouldered off his tweed jacket. What had he been thinking? That some stuffy lawyer would be impressed by it, rather than by his usual Superdry waterproof?
Ranald looked to his right at Central Station, then turned to his left and faced the shopping mecca that was Buchanan Street. While he had been inside talking with Quinn, finding out that his life was about to change, the rest of the world had been sailing on, taking absolutely no notice.
He palmed his trouser pocket to locate his phone. He pulled it out and pressed a number. It was answered quickly.
‘What’s up, Ran?’ The familiar voice filled his ear.
‘You’re never going to believe this…’ he began and only then noted the sense of excitement he was feeling.
Once he’d arranged a meeting and hung up, the thought occurred to him: the first person he’d decided to call – out of everyone he knew – was Martie.
He turned around and began to walk towards the train station. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Bearsden. How did he even get there?
By now he had come to the junction where Gordon Street met Renfield Street, and there, in front of the green Victorian portico at the station entrance, was a line of taxis. He was going to be saving five hundred a month on rent; surely he could afford to take a taxi on this occasion?
There was a small queue of onward travellers waiting patiently for their rides. He stood behind a family: mum, dad and two-point-four children. The point-four child was an infant in a papoose-type arrangement fastened to its father’s chest; looked like it was only weeks old. Tiny head covered in a dark fluff. Eyes screwed shut. Mouth pursed in a dream-filled pout.
It wasn’t like him to notice such things. His default position was to look at kids and adopt the warding-off stance of a vampire hunter.
He felt his connection to the ground. Noticed his head was higher than normal. So this was what a good mood felt like? He had been in such a rush for his 9:00 am appointment that morning he’d forgotten to take his happy pill. Should he ask the taxi driver to take a detour to his flat in Shawlands so he could collect it?
Nah, one day off the meds shouldn’t cause him any problems, surely?
A memory of the first couple of weeks he’d been on these current pills flashed into his mind. He’d been in a supermarket on day two. Mentally numb. Walking at a shuffle. Wondering how to form a smile of thanks when the cashier offered him his change. His doctor had reassured him that these side-effects would pass. He couldn’t say how long they would take to fade, but surely they were better than the suicidal thoughts Ranald had experienced on the previous drugs?
Now, momentarily, he worried that a day or two off his pills might reintroduce that numb state of mind. Then he dismissed the thought. Things were looking up. His life was changing for the better. A little more cash. A new home.
And Martie had agreed to come over and have a look.
He felt a stir of excitement.
Yes. Things were definitely on the up.
The taxi driver was sharp-eyed and as lean as a marathon runner. Every now and then he’d take his eye off the road and study Ranald in the mirror. Normally, Ranald would resist making conversations with taxi drivers. But today the driver had him at ‘Where to, mate?’ and even before they’d reached St Vincent Street he’d told him everything.
‘Lucky bastard,’ the driver said. ‘It’s like something out of a book.’
‘Aye. Good things happen to other people,’ said Ranald. ‘No me.’
‘Mind you…’ The driver threw him a sad expression via the mirror. ‘Like my old mammy used to say after a sunny day – we’ll pay for it tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ranald, reluctant to have anyone inject a note of negativity.
‘Just sayin’,’ replied the driver, ‘there’s always a price.’
Piss off, thought Ranald, and stared out of the window to indicate that the conversation was over. If he was going to ‘just say’ rubbish like that, he could keep it to himself.
After a few minutes silence the driver piped up again: ‘So this guy was like an old uncle?’
‘My mum was his niece, apparently,’ Ranald answered. He had trouble holding onto his resentment towards the driver, such was the power of his new state of mind. ‘She had the audacity to want to marry a working-class guy, and her family disowned her.’
‘That’s tough, man.’ Pause. ‘Families, eh?’
Ranald nodded his agreement. Rubbed his hands together. They’d be drawing up at the house soon, and his excitement was mounting.
‘Might mean you’ll be able to get yourself a woman then, eh?’ asked the driver. ‘I mean to say … if you were married and inherited this house, your wife would be with you. So I’m guessing you’re single. But women will be flocking round you now. Another bonus.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road, Sherlock,’ answered Ranald. He wasn’t going to let the driver puncture his good mood again. ‘The ex is coming over for a nosey later.’
‘Oh, aye?’ said the driver. ‘Watch out for that, mate. Your marriage ended for a reason. A posh new hoose willnae paper over the cracks.’
‘Fuckssake, mate. You don’t half know how to put a dampener on stuff,’ Ranald replied, knowing, though, that the man was making sense. He shook his head. That was Glasgow for you. Intrusive and interested. At times not a good combination.
‘Here we are, mate,’ said the driver as the car slowed and his brakes whistled their protest. ‘I’ll just go in the drive.’
There was a drive? Ranald sat forwards in his seat and looked out of the window.
The first thing he saw was a low wall bordering the road. Beyond that, mature trees of varying heights, a sweep of lawn and, a curve of pebbled drive.
And there. As large as a monument to a lost love.
The house.
3
The driver gave a low whistle. ‘You lucky, lucky bastard.’
‘You sure this is the right place?’ asked Ranald.
They both craned their necks to look at the expanse of the building. All Ranald could take in were two, no, three rows of large windows; a red sandstone façade topped at one corner by a tower or turret of some sort. And in front of him a giant, dark, wooden door, flanked by two massive carved lions.
Oh, and what would you call that? A porch? It couldn’t be as basic as a porch, he thought. There were four twenty-foot-high pillars holding it up.
‘This is the address on the wee piece of paper you gave me.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Ranald.
‘I just might, if I can move in,’ laughed the driver.
‘I suppose I better go have a look then,’ said Ranald as he sat further back in his seat.
The driver chuckled, stepped out and pulled open the passenger door. ‘At your service, m’lord,’ he beamed.
Ranald climbed out of his seat. Once he was standing – he couldn’t help but note the satisfying crunch of the gravel under his shoes – he pulled out his wallet.
The driver held up a hand. ‘Naw, mate. This one’s on me. It’s fair made my day, so it has. I’ll be telling folk about this ride for years.’
Just then the front door opened and an old couple stepped out. They were about the same height, with matching expanded waistlines. He was wearing a pair of dark-green overalls. She had a white apron over a simple black dress.
‘You’ll be Mr McGhie,’ said the woman as she took a step forwards, holding her hand out. ‘I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Hackett. And this is my husband, the gardener, Danny.’
Thinking it was strange how she had given herself the title of Mrs, and her husband was reduced to the more informal Christian name, Ranald stepped forwards and took her hand.
‘Hello,’ Ranald said.
Her grip was strong, her skin florid – she looked like she’d been living and working on a farm most of her days. But there was a stern cast to her expression as she studied him. Ranald imagined the message she was trying to get across: I have my ways and you better not make my life difficult.
‘Danny,’ the gardener said, as if he’d suddenly remembered his manners. He held a hand out. Ranald took it and nearly had his knuckles ground into a dust. While they shook hands Ranald was aware that the older man was yet to meet his gaze.
‘C’mon inside, Mr McGhie.’ Mrs Hackett straightened her back and clasped her hands over her large belly. ‘Time for you to see what your mother deprived you of all these years…’
Ranald bristled at Mrs Hackett’s words, determined he should defend his mother. But as he opened his mouth to do so, he felt something being slipped into his back pocket. He turned to see the taxi driver walking away.
‘Just my business card, Mr McGhie,’ he shouted over his shoulder, giving Ranald his title with some glee. ‘Give me a call when you need to go back into town, eh?’
‘Sure,’ said Ranald. ‘And thanks. Really appreciate it.’ Then, deciding that this time he would allow Mrs Hackett her jibe, eager to experience his new home, he turned and followed the Hacketts inside.
The hall was the size of a tennis court. And in the middle sat a large, oval, marble-topped table, bearing a vase of white lilies. The walls were timber panelled for three-quarters of their height and the same wood had been used to construct a large, ornate fireplace on the far wall, a pillar at the stairs and the bannister. The huge space seemed oddly dim and gloomy to Ranald, despite the light streaming through the massive windows.
The window opposite the fireplace, halfway up the wide staircase, was like something out of a cathedral: stained glass portrayed a scene straight from the classics – a Rosetti-style maiden, with long amber hair and wearing a white, off-the-shoulder dress, was riding on the back of a swan across a watery landscape.
‘It’s based on the legend of Leda and the Swan. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Hackett with a proprietary tone as she followed his gaze. ‘Mr Fitzpatrick was incredibly proud of that.’
‘Stunning,’ said Ranald, nodding his head in appreciation. He looked around, wondering what he should do next, where he should go. How else he could absorb exactly what was going on.
Perhaps realising what he was thinking, Mrs Hackett laid a hand on his forearm. Then she removed it with a little cough, as if internally reprimanding herself for crossing a boundary. ‘There’s a lot to take in, Mr McGhie. That door…’ she pointed to the right of the stairs ‘…is a reception room. Visitors to the house are taken there, but you can investigate that at your leisure, the main thing is you need to know where to eat, where to sleep and where to relax. Everywhere else, as I said, you can explore in your own time. But first…’ she turned and beckoned him to follow ‘…the kitchen and a cup of tea.’
At the far end of the hall was a door. This led onto a wide corridor. Here, the walls were painted dark green to waist height and white above that, with an ornate dado rail separating the colours. Here and there, white plaster Doric half-columns were set into the walls. Under their feet was a racing-green carpet, its pile so thick their footsteps were soundless.
‘There is the smoking room.’ Mrs Hackett opened one door for Ranald to get a glimpse of a high ceiling and dark wood panelling. The room was dotted with chairs covered in blood-red leather. Either side of a window there were bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, and despite the size of the window there was little light getting into the room. The view from the window was of the front drive and Ranald suffered a stab of anxiety. This was all too much for him. He didn’t deserve any of it. He should phone the taxi driver before he was too far away.
He picked his phone out of his pocket. No signal. And before he could say or do anything else Mrs Hackett had stepped across to the other side of the corridor and opened another door. ‘This is the ballroom.’
He took a step inside and heard the sound of his heel on the parquet floor echo through the large space.
‘The family had many a grand occasion in here,’ said Mrs Hackett with an almost self-congratulatory tone. Three floor-to-ceiling double windows lined the far wall, looking out onto a wide stretch of lawn bordered by oak trees. The other walls contained large mirrors set into ornate plasterwork.
Ranald felt uncomfortable with the grandiosity of the room and he stepped back out into the corridor closing the door behind him, with the thought that this was one space he wouldn’t be re-visiting.
Further down, Mrs Hackett indicated another door. ‘Here is the library.’ She stopped so suddenly that Ranald almost ran into her. ‘But in truth, Mr McGhie, the entire house is a library. The man was a book-obsessive.’ She pursed her lips, allowing a little bit of warmth to leak into her expression: her version of a smile, Ranald guessed. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased Mr Fitzpatrick was when he found out you were a writer.’
Further down, the corridor turned to the right, leading to a large white door. Mrs Hackett pushed it open and entered. ‘And here,’ she said, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘is the kitchen.’
It was large enough to house Ranald’s entire two-bedroom flat. In pride of place was an expansive dark-green Aga with – he counted the doors – four ovens. Who needed four ovens? Again, the room was bright, thanks to light flooding in from the large windows.
‘It’s seen better days,’ said Mrs Hackett, marching to the far side of the room and the kettle. ‘But it has everything you’ll ever need.’ She held the kettle up to judge the amount of water it held, then put it back down and flicked on the switch. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ said Ranald. ‘Please.’ Then he took notice of the question. ‘Coffee.’
She bustled to the fridge and pulled out a plastic bottle. ‘Mr Quinn told us you would probably be coming over today, so I took the liberty of doing a small shop for you: milk, butter, et cetera. Just some essentials.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Ranald, while thinking, Well, that was grudged.
‘It’s on your account,’ she said, her tone suggesting it would be unlikely to happen again. ‘Have a seat,’ she indicated the large pine table, with enough seating for ten adults. ‘Just so you know, after this cuppa you’re on your own. I clean. I don’t cook. Okay?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Danny and I are not your servants, Mr McGhie. It’s important you appreciate that from the off, and then there’ll be no awkwardness, yes?’ She pulled a mug from a cupboard and located the jar of coffee. The kitchen was filled with the sound of the kettle reaching the boil. Then, the chime of teaspoon on china as she stirred.
As Ranald sat down he realised that Danny hadn’t joined them. He looked back at the door as if he expected to see Danny standing there like a sentinel. Mrs Hackett placed a steaming mug on the table and stood behind a neighbouring seat.
‘Questions?’
‘Aye, loads,’ said Ranald, reaching for the mug. The act of bringing it to his mouth, testing it for heat and sipping, was enough to centre him in the room. ‘This has all been a bit of a mind fu—’ He stopped himself from swearing, not sure how Mrs Hackett might take it.
She gave him a small nod, acknowledging his effort at restraint.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick took care of us handsomely,’ she said. ‘At the far side of the grounds is a converted stable. A lovely two-bedroom house where Danny and I live. We were gifted it in his will. We own it now,’ she said with degree of steel.
Message received, thought Ranald. Don’t mess with Mrs Hackett. Still, he could understand her setting out the situation from the start. After so many years working with one person, her and her husband must be concerned that their lives might change.
‘The Fitzpatrick Trust pays our wages. I tend the house, Monday to Friday, nine till noon. Danny looks after the outside: house and grounds. In the summer, he works all hours. In the winter, just as much as the place needs.’
‘Everything is immaculate,’ Ranald said, taking another sip. ‘From what I’ve seen.’
Mrs Hackett gave a small nod. But it seemed she took no pleasure in the compliment – was simply acknowledging it as an obvious truth.
‘What can you tell me about my great-uncle?’ asked Ranald, settling into his seat.
‘He was ninety-nine when he died. Can you believe it? Just a few weeks off the century.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ve been with him for over forty years.’ As if by magic, a hanky appeared in her hand. She dabbed at the corners of her reddening eyes. ‘I miss him every day. Such a gentle man.’
Ranald took this to be her expectation of how he should behave as much as a character description.
She shook herself, pocketed the hanky and stood up. ‘Ready to see more?’
‘Please,’ Ranald said with a quick look at his half-full mug.
‘This way, Mr McGhie.’
‘Please, call me Ranald. I’m not one for formality.’
Mrs Hackett pursed her lips then sounded his name as if it was on trial: ‘Ranald.’ With a tilt of her head she signalled she was satisfied and led the way out of the room.
In the corridor, as Mrs Hackett moved back down to the left, Ranald glanced to the right and saw a bronze door with a small, head-height window. He shivered, as he felt a chill work up the length of his spine.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, taking a step back from the door. At that moment, the light in the corridor seemed to dim. A cloud obscuring the sun, perhaps. Ran’s breathing deepened. Shortened. Sparks of energy fired in his thighs and fingertips. He clenched his fists, and bent his knees, not knowing whether to run or fight. A sane part of his mind questioned, What are you doing, McGhie? This isn’t a time for a panic attack.
Mrs Hackett paused mid-step and looked back. Ranald pulled himself upright.
‘That’s the lift to what were your grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s rooms – and to the tower room,’ she said. ‘It’s broken. And locked. Mr Fitzpatrick never got round to getting it fixed.’
She quickly moved on, but something in her tone had registered with Ranald. A warning?
‘Keep walking down the corridor past it and you’ll come to the fitness room,’ she added, seeming to make her voice intentionally lighter.
‘There’s a fitness room?’ Ranald asked, mentally giving himself a shake to try and rid himself of the feeling of fear he’d just felt. He didn’t want to come across to the help as totally crazy on his first day.
‘Well, more of a suite, actually. Mr Fitzpatrick had a conservatory built about fifteen years ago. Installed a twenty-metre swimming pool and a sauna. There’s also some exercise equipment. He must have had a rush to the head, because he never used it. But he did swim forty lengths every day. Almost right up to the end. Danny’s sure that’s why he lived so long. That and the coffee.’ She smiled and turned to march on, actually saying, ‘Come.’
Feeling like he was already being trained, Ranald followed. They were going back the way they came and about twenty paces on, Mrs Hackett paused at a door and pushed it open. ‘If you’re anything like your uncle this is the room you’ll want to spend most of your time in. The library.’
Ranald stepped inside.
‘Fuck me,’ he said.
4
The room was a feast of browns and reds. Ranald judged that the walls were at least twenty feet high, that each wall was covered with a dark wooden bookcase and that each bookcase was full. There were several wheeled ladders, spaced at regular intervals, to allow the resident bibliophile access to the books on the highest shelves.
This was another floor space that could have doubled as a tennis court, but should anyone have been tempted to use the room for that purpose they’d have to have shifted the pine desk with a surface large enough to land a small helicopter, two red-leather Chesterfield three-seater settees and both leather wing-backed chairs. Then there were the numerous standard lamps dotted round the room, to ensure that wherever a reader might find him or herself, there was soft lighting available.
The only spaces empty of books were the floor-to-ceiling three-panelled window behind the desk and inglenook fireplace opposite it – which also had seating inserted, should a reader need to get closer to the heat on a winter’s afternoon.
Ranald sent Mrs Hackett an expression of apology after his expletive. ‘Wow.’ He moved over to the desk, leaned against it and surveyed the room. ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’ So far, as he walked through the house he felt as if the weight of the place was pressing down on him, as if the centuries of formal human habitation were pushing him into a huge responsibility. But this room had a different feel. This was a room he could live in.
Mrs Hackett all but preened. ‘Mr Fitzpatrick would be utterly delighted to hear you say that.’ She looked around as if Ranald’s presence allowed her to see it all afresh. ‘It is quite something.’ She paused. ‘But just so you know, this is not a museum exhibit. Mr Fitzpatrick would want you to read as many of the books as you could. He never bothered if anyone turned down the corners or bent back the spine,’ she paused and shuddered. ‘But what did drive him crazy was hearing that people took their books into the toilet. The idea of any … matter … finding its way onto the pages…’
Ranald laughed. ‘I’ve read many books that were full of such matter.’
Her answering look was the reprimand of a stern school headmistress. ‘Read as you wish, but don’t take books into the loo and don’t give them out to people. He hated it when people didn’t return his books. He was a real hoarder.’
‘I get that,’ said Ranald.
‘Just one more thing I need to tell you,’ Mrs Hackett said. She looked at her wristwatch. ‘Almost noon,’ she murmured, then looked back at Ranald, her lips twitching in an almost-smile. ‘The master bedroom is the first door on the right as you walk up the main stairs. The bedding is all brand new, as are the pillows and the mattress. Mr Fitzpatrick was bedridden for the last few weeks of his life and he was worried you might not want to sleep in a dead man’s bed, so he left instructions that everything should be replaced.’
‘Really?’
She walked to the doorway and out of the room. Ran followed to hear what she was about to say.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick has been preparing for this day for some time, Mr Mc … Ranald. He respected your mother’s decision to remove herself from the family, so he was sure never to intervene in your life, no matter how much he wanted to. But he felt that anything that happened when he was dead was beyond that … sensitivity.’
Ranald shook his head slowly. ‘I really don’t know what to say, Mrs Hackett.’ He felt a surge of affection for the deceased man. His throat tightened and he felt his eyes smart. ‘I wish I could have met him.’
Mrs Hackett studied him. ‘You two would have got on, I’m sure. He was a lovely man, although he could be an irascible old so-and-so from time to time.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Right, I best be off, I have a husband who’ll be looking for his lunch. As I said earlier, I took the liberty to put some food in the fridge, but if you need to go out to the shops, they’re not that far down the hill.’ She stretched to her full height, as if she was standing on tip-toe, then looked him up and down. ‘You’re a Fitzgerald, Ranald. Don’t ever forget that.’
With that pronouncement, delivered as forcefully as any judge might pass sentence, she turned away and walked away down the corridor. Ran followed her with his eyes. Her large figure seemed to diminish in the poor light at the far end until she all but disappeared into shadow. What was that about? he wondered: Don’t ever forget you’re a Fitzgerald?
Ranald walked back into the room and sat down in the large, and of course, leather desk chair. He felt the give of the suspension and the chair rolling back a little. Then he put both hands on the polished wooden surface and examined the desk.
Apart from a bronze lamp on one corner, an old-fashioned phone with an answerphone on the other and a large leather blotter in the centre, the desk was clear of clutter. He stretched. Picked up the phone and listened. Yes. A dialling tone. A way to reach the world if required.
He took yet another look around the room.
This couldn’t all be his. This was wrong. What had he done to deserve it all? His mind was drawn back to the taxi driver and his mother’s fatalistic attitude: ‘We’ll pay for it tomorrow.’
Fate, destiny, providence – whatever the hell you liked to call it – had provided Ranald with this house. It was too much. Too much for the likes of him. And there was bound to be a cost.
He gave himself a mental shake. Chrissakes, McGhie, he thought. Get a grip. It’s just a house.
Enjoy yourself.
Take a breath.
Savour.
But, before he knew it, he was on his feet, out the door, along the corridor and into the main hall. Then he was pulling open the heavy front door and darting out onto the drive, panting like he’d just run a marathon.
He leaned over, hands on his thighs, took a deep breath and tried to ignore the rapid beat of his heart. It was all just too much.
Fresh air, that’s what he needed, he thought, closing his eyes and then opening them again. It was a lovely sunny day. He should go for a walk. He remembered Mrs Hackett talking about the village shops. That’s where he could go. The shops.
As he walked towards the road, crunching over the gravel, he noticed Danny hacking at a bush of some sort with a large pair of shears.
‘Awright?’ Ranald asked him as he approached. ‘Just need … just need a breather. This…’ He turned back to the house. ‘It’s all a bit much to take in, you know?’
Danny nodded, but said nothing, his sombre eyes set deep in the tan of his face.
Something snagged Ranald’s attention. Movement at a window on the first floor. Or was it? He stared. Nothing.
‘Thought I saw…’
‘A bit of a cloud. A breeze … and you think you’ve seen or heard something. Old houses will do that to you, Mr McGhie.’ Danny nodded as if this would add import to his words. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’
‘The village?’ Ranald asked, taking another step towards the road.
‘It’s a bit of a trek. There’s a bike you could use, in the garage. But if you want to stretch your legs go out the drive and take a left. First right and just walk straight along that road. Half an hour at a good stride and you’ll come to the Cross. There’s a few shops there.’
Ranald’s mobile phone pinged – a text alert. It was from Martie. She couldn’t make it over after all. A crisis at work. Could she come tomorrow? it asked.
Disappointed, Ranald pocketed the phone without sending a reply.
‘Another thing about old houses – at least hereabouts; apparently you get a terrible signal on your mobile,’ said Danny. ‘Or so I’m told.’ His tone suggested he’d rather lose both his thumbs than have one of his own.
Five minutes into the walk and Ranald regretted his impulse to escape. What had Danny said? Half an hour? Already his calves were beginning to feel tight, it was too warm, the road was too narrow and with too many bends, the hedges were too high and he was sure a car was going to rip round the corner and toss him high into the air.
Get a hold of yourself, man, he thought. Remember what your therapist said: ‘Centre yourself in the real world every day, and every day push yourself out of your comfort zone.’
Mindful that a car might be on top of him at any second he stepped off the road, his right leg almost in among the brambles, nettles and wildflowers that flourished in the lee of the hedge, and, as he focused on his breath – slow and through the nose – he turned round to look for his new home.
At first he couldn’t see anything of it. The variety of trees before him was an arborist’s dream, and there, like a giant’s shoulder edging the hill, was a stretch of grazing land; but no house. In only five minutes’ walking it had all but disappeared from view. Driving along this road you might not even know it existed. All of that was concealed by a dip in the land and an assembly of tall vegetation.
