Chapter 13
13
TWO DAYS AFTER I LEFT HER
I wake. Disorientated. Cold.
It takes me a moment to reconfigure my thoughts.
It takes me a moment to realise that Liv isn’t beside me, wrapped around my back, comma-like. To realise that my life, and everything that I had almost taken for granted, no longer exists. Or rather… I no longer exist in it.
It takes me a moment.
It’s dark. Stray branches are dragging their gnarled fingers against the window pane. There is a strange tapping sound that I can’t quite identify because my body is shivering so much.
I look around for my jacket. It’s on the floor; I must have kicked it off last night. It’s cold. Cold in a solid way, with no give or flexibility, just hard, stone-like. I pull on my jacket even though right now it’s like wrapping myself in frozen bubble wrap. I crouch at the corpse of the fire I’d built last night. Grey ash, grey light, grey mood.
My fingers are shaking too hard to be able to manipulate the matches. I give up and head towards the kitchen. The place is ridiculously quiet. My footsteps the only sound penetrating the silence. My steps sound awkward. Like an overeager laugh from an outsider trying to join in with the popular crowd on the playground. The kitchen light flickers into action. The stovetop kettle is staring at me, challenging. Come on then, new kid, let’s see what you’ve got.
I blow into my hands, my own breath echoing the grey light. OK, you win. I have no idea how to light the Aga but… I flick on the plug behind the microwave, a reassuring beep and red numbers displaying 00.00. I might not be Aga ready, but I can heat up water in a microwave, thank you very much.
I cup the coffee in my hands and return to the lounge. My fingers are halfway between ice cold and stinging heat as they begin to thaw.
I try not to think about what she’s doing right now. Try to block it out. But Liv’s face, angry at my betrayal, twists into my chest. We rarely argue, not really. I mean, sure, we bicker – who doesn’t? But it’s very rare that we argue in the doors-slamming, all picture and no sound type of argument. Liv looks beautiful when she’s angry. You know how some people kind of wither when they lose their temper? How they seem to narrow and fold, pinched and tight-faced? Liv is the opposite. She unfolds. Blooms even. It’s the freedom of it, I think, the freedom of giving herself wholly to the emotion she is experiencing in that moment. Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, and her lips seem to sink into a deeper shade. The same way as when she’s turned on. She has every right to be angry. I hope she hates my guts right now. I hate my guts right now.
An hour later, with the fire coaxed back to life, the room is warm enough for me to feel my fingers. I turn to the other reason I am here.
Connor McDonald. Mac .
I have the right place. Now I need to earn his trust if I’m ever going to find out the truth.
I get up from the sofa and walk to the window, watching the dawn approach over the hills.
A squirrel is sprinting along the edge of the silver birch that had been clawing at the window last night. It pauses on its back feet. Small hands perched in front of grey fur as though already clasping an acorn before scaling a tree in front. It hops from branch to branch, disappearing from view.
I go back to the sofa, and try to log onto the Wi-Fi again. I just want to see if she’s OK.
There’s a knock on the door.
My gut flips. They can’t have found me. Not yet. I’ve left no trace, given no hint of where I was going. Even so, I only pull the curtain back a crack. My whole body tenses. It’s Mac.
I pull back the chain, unlocking it. ‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Aye. It is,’ Mac replies. He thrusts a plate covered in foil forwards. The unmistakable smell of a fry-up.
‘That’s… Thank you.’ I take the plate, surprised by this generosity. From what I’ve heard, Connor McDonald is a nasty piece of work. Not the type of man to rock up with a cooked breakfast in his hands.
Mac looks away from me, focusing over my shoulder. ‘Figured you’d not been able to light the stove yet?’
‘No.’ I clear my throat, taking a moment to recentre. ‘Not yet.’
‘Aye, well, it can be a bit temperamental. Best I show you.’
‘That would be great,’ I reply, pushing the door further open so he can step into the room.
‘Been scribin’ already?’ He nods to where my closed notebook is sitting on the sofa, a list of everything I know about this man hidden inside. I hold the plate close to my chest while closing the door behind us, drawing the bolt across and turning the key .
His eyebrows draw in.
‘There might be bears,’ I say in explanation.
Bears ? For fuck’s sake.
‘Bears?’ His mouth beneath his beard must be twitching, as the grey whiskers move upwards. ‘Well, I didn’t see any on my way up, but you never know with bears. There might be one hiding behind that tree, wearing a brown mac and staking out the place through his binoculars. Bears.’ He shakes his head, a small chuckle erupting from beneath the coils of beard.
I try not to react to his sarcasm and my own absurdity while clutching the plate against my ribcage. The whiskers twitch again before he turns his back. I follow him into the kitchen, still clenching the plate as I observe this man in front of me. He seems to sense my eyes on him and he turns, nodding towards the plate.
‘You gonna eat that or dance with it all morn?’
I land the plate on the table and sit down, peeling off the tin foil. In front of me is an eat-all-you-can-buffet of an English (Scottish?) breakfast. Mac opens a drawer, passing me a knife and fork. I take them and begin slicing into a sausage, clear juices running freely. It’s spicy, succulent. All that is missing is brown sauce. I have a flash of Liv, her whacking the bottom of a bottle. She always maintained that it didn’t taste the same unless it was out of a glass bottle rather than a squeezy plastic one.
‘You need to turn the tank on first, let the oil in,’ Mac says, bringing me back. He’s crouching down and turning a switch on a grey box to the side of the Aga that I hadn’t even noticed.
‘Right,’ I reply through a mouthful of mushroom as I watch the man I’ve been warned about. He continues his instructions. I watch him. This man. The man who took a wrecking ball to my life.
‘Has this’ – I slice into a piece of black pudding – ‘always been home?’ I ask, hesitantly .
‘Aye,’ he responds, standing back up and wiping his hands on a cloth hanging from his pocket.
Liar.
‘Now that’ll keep you warm. Any problems, give me a knock.’
‘Thank you, I—’ I’m about to reply but he’s already striding across the room. The cottage shudders with the slam of the door.