Chapter 4
Edinburgh in January is bleak: sinister skies glower above a grey city, slimy scraps of snow that struggle to amount to anything lie dirty in the gutters.
I bury myself in work. I research obsessively, and write deep into the night.
I lecture by day, meet students, advise the police on another case that brings me into close proximity with Matt the detective.
I never got around to replying to his message on New Year’s Day, but he acts like it isn’t awkward, and we talk about meeting up for that coffee, or perhaps a drink.
For a month I keep myself focused and avoid thinking about Alex’s visit, the emotions he stirred up like silt in a pond.
Gen’s pale limbs drifting in the sea off West Sands, her slick hair twining around my arms as I tried to tow her to shore, the flowers she’d woven in her braid floating like a dismembered wreath to mark her passing …
Becca screaming into her phone for an ambulance, Leo’s strangled sobs. Jameson swimming at my shoulder in grim solidarity, helping me bring her to shore, and putting his arm around me on the beach when it became apparent our efforts had been in vain.
Except, of course, I do think about it. All of it and more. The memories break through my defences, some of them for the first time.
Messages go unanswered – from Dad, and Mitch; invites ignored from sort-of friends – to meet for bubble tea, see a play I’d otherwise love, try that new Muay Thai class at the gym.
Finally, something snaps in me, and I stop engineering excuses to stay home. I go to Muay Thai and love it. I meet Matt for a drink, although I fear I’m more worn down than eager – I need distraction, or I’ll dip into depression.
In my profession, I know that the greatest danger is always one’s own mind.
The night we arrange to meet I leave work early.
It’s wet and the pavement gleams. A vague sort of hope bubbles in my chest. Two hours later the hope has fizzled out and I’m back on the damp street.
Matt proved dull – a weird mix of arrogant and awkward.
After one glass of mediocre wine, I made my excuses.
As I’m hurrying home, taking a shortcut through a cobbled lane I would usually avoid after dark, I hear the scuff off footsteps in the quiet street, sense someone behind me.
I speed up and the footsteps do too. Cursing my stupidity for taking this route, I risk a quick glance behind me and catch sight of a shadowy shape.
I’m no victim. I have no intention of scurrying away like a frightened rabbit. Despite my instincts to the contrary, I stop dead, spin round and face the hooded figure. I square my shoulders, running through kickboxing moves in my head and wondering if my heels are up to the job.
The figure keeps coming and my heart is in my mouth when he finally stops in front of me, sweeping his hood back and flashing a familiar grin.
‘Alex, were you following me?’
‘I did call after you, but you seemed insistent on heading off down dark, dodgy alleys alone. How was your date? He seems quite the catch, your strapping policeman.’
I frown. ‘You were following me.’
Alex only shrugs. ‘Fancy a drink, Eils?’
‘I just want to go home.’ I’m dreaming of pyjamas, hot chocolate, an hour at my laptop before bed.
‘Home it is.’ Alex crooks an elbow as if preparing to lead me onto a dance floor.
I stare at him. ‘Are you planning to come home with me?’ Despite myself, I slide my arm into his.
I remember how nice it was last time, talking to him, reminiscing.
Suddenly I want company – someone who knows me and cares about me, not some egotistical guy with questionable motives (I noticed how frequently Matt’s eyes drifted south of my chin during our painful conversation at the wine bar).
Alex and I exit the alley and head towards my flat. Inside I divest myself of damp layers while Alex opens the fridge and assesses the contents. ‘Sancerre,’ he says, pulling out a bottle with a flourish.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you knew one wine from another,’ I say, and disappear into the bedroom for warm socks, which will have to satisfy my desire for cosy comfort for now – shower and pyjamas must wait. ‘Grain is more your thing than grape, no?’
Alex makes a noncommittal noise and I remember that he didn’t drink anything last time he was here. ‘Wine is wine – whisky on the other hand, aye, I know my stuff – but it seemed like the sort of thing Leo would do: check the label, nod knowledgeably and pronounce the name with a fancy accent.’
‘Leo would give us a ten-minute lecture on the best vintage, memorised from his latest vineyard tour.’
‘True.’ He holds out the bottle. ‘Want some?’
I take the bottle from him and open it. The wine glugs satisfyingly into the two bulbous glasses Alex sets on the counter – red wineglasses, strictly speaking, but I decide not to be pedantic.
We clink. I perch on a stool on one side of the breakfast bar, while Alex leans against the cooker, surveying me thoughtfully. ‘You didn’t call,’ he says.
‘No. If it’s any consolation I haven’t called my dad, my brother, or any of my friends in a while either.’
Friends is a loose description, a little misleading. I let it fly. ‘I’ve mostly been busy with work.’
‘You had time to go on a date,’ Alex observes. I shudder, and he laughs. ‘That bad?’
‘Dismal.’
‘Shame. Well, I’ve got good news to cheer you up. I’ve spoken to Bex and she’s up for it.’
I look at him blankly. It’s like he’s picked up a conversational thread, ready to resume where we left off, but I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. ‘Sorry … up for what?’
His grin broadens. ‘The reunion. All of us, back together … the St Andrews gang. She’s even agreed to hosting at Tarnmore. Her parents are off on a cruise in a few weeks, so it’s perfect.’
I don’t know what to say; this is all moving too fast. We carry our wineglasses into the living room.
I notice that Alex doesn’t take a sip before setting his down on the table.
He stares at it like he’s having some silent argument with the drink.
Weird – just like last time when he poured a dram but didn’t actually drink it.
I don’t have time to ponder further, since he launches into reminiscing again.
This time he gets straight to the point. ‘That night was so messed up, Eils, wasn’t it?’ His attention is on me now, sharp eyes scrutinising me, awaiting my answer like it matters.
‘It was … a lot,’ I say tightly. My throat is dry and a mouthful of the delicious wine does little to lubricate it.
‘Maybe it’s time we talked about it properly, all of it. Together.’ His eyes are dark, his energy frenetic. ‘And where better than Tarnmore? It’ll also be like a kind of … memorial.’
I imagine celebrating her life and all that she meant to us. I could get on board with that.
So why do I have this tight knot of dread in my chest? Making it hard to breathe. Okay, so my memories of the night she died are vague, disordered. Given the shock of what happened, that’s not so strange, is it? I mean, I know it isn’t. In psychology terms it’s downright normal.
‘That might be … nice.’
Alex’s eyes are dark pools. The raw emotion in them is hard to bear. I bite my lip, but I can’t pull my gaze away. He looks like he might be about to cry. I’m not sure what I’ll do if he cries …
‘I think it’s time we faced up to things. Who she was … who we were. We can start with that night, but it goes back further, doesn’t it?’
My pulse seems to flutter all over my body, like a winged insect dancing across my skin, unsettling me. I take a deep breath. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I say.
Alex looks at me, eyes boring into me – no longer liquid but hard and resolute. He wants this. He needs it.
And maybe I do too.
I tell him the truth then – that I have only scraps of memory of the night Gen drowned. Movie trailer flashes that barely fit together, accompanied by a rolling anthem of emotion.
Alex listens gravely, his eyes fixed on mine. Like he’s excavating my soul. ‘All the more reason to come to Tarnmore,’ he says. ‘Maybe seeing everyone, and talking about it, will kickstart your memory.’
‘Maybe,’ I echo.
He says it like it’s unequivocally a good thing.