Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (29 page)

But of course it couldn’t be, and in fact it wasn’t.

Yet for one moment I nearly fainted away at the sight of the strange woman, and I can only say that it was perhaps because my mind had been wandering to thinking of Connie, or some such reason, because in reality, as I stared hard at her, she looked less like Connie with every passing second.

By the time Max spoke – which must only have been an instant or two after I followed his glance – I was reprimanding myself, for I couldn’t think what it was that made me believe this woman was the image of Connie, nor that there could be a dead woman stood there in the doorway. To hide my startled expression I turned away from her and faced Max.

“Good morning, Helen,” he said. “Breakfast?”

“I’ve already eaten, Mr Stone,” she returned without real emotion. “I’m sorry to disturb you – I wasn’t aware…”

“That’s OK,” he said, rising. “This is Collie – excuse me, Philip Calder. Philip, this is Helen Beauman.”

I rose from my seat, held out my hand to shake hers. She smiled. “Mr Stone has told me all about you,” she said. “I apologise for not meeting you last night but I had work to complete, papers to write up.”

I looked to Max to explain, and he smiled at me, then turned to the woman.

“I’m glad you came when you did, Helen. I was just about to tell Collie about you. You see,” Max said to me, “Helen is Ruby’s nurse.”

*  *  *  *

Today is Sunday.

At least I think it’s a Sunday. I can’t be certain. But according to my cobbled-together calendar today should be a Sunday, so I treat it as such.

So what does that mean exactly? It didn’t mean anything to me before I came to this island, so why do I persist in trying to give it meaning?

Because meaning is everything. Without it there is nothing.

I used to rest on Sunday’s. A day of rest and all that. I’d put my pen down and refuse to write, but that became increasingly intolerable because without writing my day became meaningless. So I wrote in order to establish a meaning for Sundays, but that only made it the same as any other day. So why want to name a day when each day is exactly the same?

I digress. I was thinking that I’m sure it was on a Sunday when I first met the woman called Helen Beauman.

“I don’t understand, Max,” I admitted, “why on earth would Ruby need a nurse?”

His eyes remained fixed on the narrow track ahead, his strong hands working at the steering wheel of the Range Rover, like it was a creature that attempted to slide out of his grasp. We were rolling gently down a sweeping hill. Ahead I made out the sea and the curve of a small bay, which I knew to be the same one viewed from my bedroom window. He braked the car some distance from the shingle beach, our way barred by a wall of rock.

“We’ll have to walk from here,” Max said. “We can reach what I want to show you by following the beach round. See that hill poking above the cliffs? That’s Gowan Torr. That’s where we’re going.”

He clambered out of the car and slammed the door making his way to the rocks without even a backwards glance at me. I followed, resisting the urge to flick down the lock on the passenger door.

The weather was deceptively warm and sunny, but I didn’t have to be a local to know that the clouds that were building up on the horizon beyond the sombre mound of Gowan Torr foretold another lashing storm. It was a place of contrasts, I thought, one thing one moment, quite different the next. I looked at Max’s back and thought the island and its mercurial temperament a fitting sanctuary for him.

“Max, I need to know,” I called. My voice sounded unusually amplified, even above the waves as they threw themselves languidly onto the pebbles. The sea was blue – such a blue I could not begin to describe, and for a moment I was drawn to it and stood still, letting the breeze make streamers out of my hair. He paused by two rowing boats that had been hauled up high onto the beach.

“Do you still fish?” he said.

I shook my head. “In any case, I’m only used to the brick ponds back home, not the Atlantic.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe we could have gone out…”

“Max, about Ruby…”

He turned away, his hand rubbing the wood of the nearest rowing boat, faded red paint peeling off like dead skin. “I brought her to Eilean Mor to recover. The first time I realised anything was wrong was when she broke down in a fit when we were in London. I was book signing…” He turned away and I came closer, as his voice had fallen quiet. “She just started screaming. You’ve never seen such terror in a person’s eyes, Collie. I thought she was going to die, I really did. At any time her heart was going to give way. That was the first time. It’s been regular and getting worse. She’s afraid of people, believes all manner of things are going to happen. Rape, murder…” He glanced at me and I felt he must know something of her visit.

“Why?” I asked.

“Who knows? I wish I knew the answer. When she gets into a state like that the only option is sedation. We’ve tried everything else. So I bring her here, and the isolation seems to help. She relaxes somewhat, but it can flare up at any time. I’m losing her, Collie. She’s not the Ruby we once knew. Her mind…” His eyes looked to have tears in them. “So forgive her if she acts a little strange. I meant to tell you, but how can you tell someone that kind of thing? I had hoped to break it to you gently, but I just couldn’t find the right moment.”

“There’s no cure?”

“I’m told it’s getting worse. Soon she’ll be…” His hand rapped the boat. “Sure you don’t want to fish? One day when the weather picks up for any length of time?”

Again I shook my head, but it was a laborious movement. There was a chill in my stomach and my chest tightened. Poor Ruby, I thought. I cast my mind back to envision her standing there in my room, like a ghostly figure from a gothic novel, and I saw the signs. I saw them clearly. I turned over her voice in my head, and it was there too, thick and inescapable. I was losing Ruby for a second time.

“Come on, Collie,” Max said, coming to me and placing his hand warmly on my shoulder. “It can’t be helped. No one is to blame. It’s just one of those things.”

“Yes, I guess it is,” I murmured.

We walked in silence along the beach, the sound of each footstep like the ripping of cloth, and the beauty I saw all around me minutes earlier had dissolved into desolation, a bleak, harsh landscape that scoured the soul with its dispirited aspect and incessant winds. Then we were climbing up a small thread-like path that wove its way in and around boulders and rocks, leaving the sounds of the sea behind till it registered like a pitiful spirit keening at our backs. As to where he was taking me I had not the slightest idea, and at that moment I couldn’t care less. I followed like some dumb thing, my thoughts providing morbid company.

We had almost broached Gowan Torr before my mind fully registered climbing it at all. My complaining legs, however, were quick to remind me.

“There,” said Max.

He pointed to a square stone building in the distance, incongruous amidst the featureless, heather-furred landscape. I couldn’t see how this had merited such a trek. Furthermore, I couldn’t see why anyone would be willing to build such a strange thing out in the middle of nowhere. From this distance it reminded me of one of those dour square pillboxes they used during the Second World War and which appeared all over the coast like grey indestructible pimples. Who would want to defend this stretch of coastline? I mused on this as I followed Max. Evidently he found it of great interest, because his steps had quickened. I called to him to explain, but he just waved a hand that bade me follow and I did as I was told, dourly and with little relish.

As we approached the building, the size of one of those small barns you sometimes see in the Dales, I realised it was far more ornate than I’d first supposed. The material was of the same grey mottled stone as the boulders and rocks of the island, and the same as that which the house was constructed from. Though it had weathered well it was obvious from the lichen that spotted it like splashes of paint that it had been here some considerable time and had had to endure head on the buffeting winds and sea-soaked air. Max led me around to a door, flanked on either side by blocked-in triangular-headed windows and majestically tapered stone columns topped by bell capitals wrapped with stylised oak leaves. The entire building had a medieval church feel to it. Max stood by the door, a heavy oak thing that reminded me of that which fronted the house. From his pocket he took out a key, long and black, which he inserted in the lock. I watched without saying anything. We were sheltered from the wind by the building and the air around us was calm and warm and strangely silent.

He pushed open the door and the smell of age and damp stone and earth crawled sluggishly to our nostrils. In the centre of the building, lit only by the light from the doorway so that it appeared to stand isolated in a black void, was a huge stone block, and instantly I knew we were in a family mausoleum. Why I hadn’t caught on earlier I can’t imagine. I retreated instinctively, but Max caught my arm and pulled me inside. In spite of the warmth caused by the Sun playing on the building all day, it still felt cold inside.

“Whose is it?” I asked, in an unconsciously reverential low voice.

“It’s mother,” he said. “I brought her here.”

I sucked in a breath. Connie Stone – here?

“Fitting, huh?” he said. “Like a princess in her own island kingdom. She always deserved that. She always deserved far more than she ever got.”

*  *  *  *

I wait and I wait, but there is to be no exercise this week, and I think that perhaps I have my days all wrong. But I am certain I haven’t and I know the time has come. For what, exactly, I can’t be sure. But there is a feel to the air. And Bernard’s head seems to think so, too, because he doesn’t grin any more. I have never seen him so down. I ask him what is wrong, but he ignores me and turns away so that I can’t look into his eyes. Ruby and my uncle have declined to visit me for the last few nights and that is more unnerving than actually having them here, because it is patently obvious they know something is amiss too, like a dog that senses a ghost or something. What is it they sense? My end? At last? Tomorrow, tonight, when? I can’t sleep. “Mr Walton,” I ask, “Do you know what’s going on?” He swings his coconut and shakes his head at me and I can’t make out what on earth it’s supposed to mean. If indeed meaning can be ascribed to it. But there again, meaning can be ascribed to anything, even Sundays…

*  *  *  *

That night was the same as before. I could not sleep and looked out of the window towards the sea. I avoided looking into Ruby’s face during the rest of the day and late into the evening, and tried as best as I could to ensure our conversations were limited, because I did not have the courage or resolve to face up to the fact that this woman before me wasn’t the woman I knew and loved. She’d changed, and I swore I could see that change in her features so sharply that at times when I happened to glance at her I was certain it wasn’t her at all, but another similar woman in her place, a kind of doppelganger.

I was being cruel and unreasonable, I realise that now, and have since reflected on how easily we can become selfish, hardened beasts, even with those we purport to love as no other. I almost hated her that evening. Yes, hated. Unfair, I know. I can only offer in my weak defence that it was the only way I could cope with everything. And what’s more at times I gained a perverted sense of satisfaction in seeing her hurt expression when I avoided her, or treated her like a child with my curt, overly polite replies that spoke more of endurance than understanding and love. I saw the confusion in her liquid-smeared eyes and those same eyes burn with detestation when she looked across at Max.

Later, Helen, Ruby’s nurse, came into the room, the first occasion I had seen her do so when I had been there, and she spoke softly with Max who nodded and looked at Ruby. With her face draining of colour, and with eyes darting about the room like an animal seeking escape, Ruby rose resignedly and meekly when Helen took her gently by the arm and led her away upstairs. I tried not to let it appear as if the whole affair bothered me, but I was forced to look upon Ruby’s back and as I did so she turned and our eyes met briefly. I desperately wanted not to be affected by her in any way, but it proved impossible, and I felt my entire being take a plunge into icy despondency.

“Try not to let it worry you,” Max said. “She is in good and capable hands.”

I smiled. I actually
smiled
. “I guess so…”

“Snooker?”

I looked at the doorway through which Ruby had passed. “I don’t mind,” I said. “Look, Max, it’s been generous of you inviting me over here like this, and I appreciate it; it’s been good seeing you, but it’s Ruby...” I turned away. “I can’t cope with seeing her like this. You do understand? It was bad enough – well, you know – but this is hell, Max. I have to leave.”

“Yeah, I kinda thought you might…” There was sadness thick in his voice. “It’s been good having you here. We’ve always understood each other, eh? It’s been better for having your support, Collie. I appreciate that. I guess that’s the real reason why I invited you along. Kinda selfish, I know.”

“No, really, it’s not selfish at all. I understand.” I reached out and touched him on the arm.

But I still could not sleep that night. And the island couldn’t sleep either. It was tossing in its eternally fitful slumber, rolling and whispering and crying out in anguish at some unknown nightmare. And just the same as the night before Ruby came to my room and caught me in the same position standing by the window.

“What’s wrong, Philip?” she said quietly, only just audible above the sounds of the elements outside, fear evident in her voice.

I didn’t know how to reply. Instead I placed my hands on her shoulders, feeling the bones move like fluid beneath my fingers. “Ruby you should be in bed.” I wondered whether Helen had administered some kind of sleeping drug, and reflected on how useless it obviously was, for Ruby’s face was fully awake, every inch seemingly alive and animated. “You need rest.”

“What has he been telling you?” She shrugged my hands off their perch. “What has he been telling you?” she snapped, louder this time.

I flinched at the noise. “Max will hear you, he’ll wonder…”

“Has he shown you her grave yet?”

“Connie’s?”

“Has he shown you?”

“Yes, today. Why?”

“He’s mad, Collie.”

She was deadly serious. So serious I couldn’t help but give a feeble laugh, and instantly regretted it.