#
We stop at a service station to use the toilet. Until now, Rhona had just snapped ‘No!’ when I asked, but now she needs to go too, so we pull in at South Queensferry services and park on the far edge of the car park. Only when we get out do we remember neither of us have shoes.
‘Damn,’ says Rhona, and stares at her feet. I look at our reflection in the car window and see what she means. We’re going to draw attention.
‘What if I go in alone,’ says Rhona, ‘and bring you back a cup to go in? Or you could go right here, behind the car. I’ll stand watch.’
‘Are you
joking
?’ I splutter. But already the presence of strangers is making me nervous. I can’t remember the last time I saw so many cars in one place, and each one belongs to a person I do not know. Though we’re on the edge of the car park, the main entrance is in sight and I can see ten, maybe fifteen people from here. Behind us, the Forth bridges rise up like the gateposts to hell. Their monstrous size makes me nervous and I’m anxious to leave them behind.
‘I’ll go behind the car,’ I say, and run round the other side.
Afterwards, I feel much better. Rhona locks me in the back seat and tells me not to open the door for anyone. From the window, I watch her running to the main building. Then, for ten awful minutes, I wait. Twice, people walk past and I have to hide.
Rhona finally emerges, with her face turned down. She wears sunglasses and a pair of pink flip-flops, and in one hand she grips a white plastic carrier bag. I am overwhelmed with relief that she’s come back in one piece.
‘Put these on,’ she says as she chucks the bag into my lap. Immediately she puts the car in reverse, and as she turns to look through the back window I notice how white her face is.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
But she just says, ‘Put those on and get down.’
In the bag I find sunglasses, pink flip-flops, a scarf and a baseball cap with a picture of a cow on it.
‘Make sure you’re well covered,’ says Rhona as we roar back onto the Al. For the next hour we travel in silence. The movements of the car remain constant now, lulling me into a light sleep, and when Rhona’s voice speaks again it comes as a surprise.
‘Kathy? You awake?’
‘Muh …’
I uncurl. My neck aching from being crushed into the corner. Outside, sky rushes past.
‘I need to tell you something,’ says Rhona. ‘A secret.’
‘What?’
‘There was a phone call. You know, back then.’
I pull the blanket down from my face and stare at the back of Rhona’s head.
‘He called a few hours after the first news bulletin. You were still in Invercraig then, at the doctor’s. When I took on your case, they played me the tape …’
Rhona turns slightly and grimaces in the rear-view mirror. Then her eyes go back to the road.
‘The first thing he said was that he—’
‘Rhona. I know.’
‘What?’
‘Dr Harrison told me. That’s the warning I was talking about.’
Rhona turns round again.
‘Oh!’ she says. Then, after a moment, ‘So that was
him
? The dangerous man?’
‘I think so.’
‘Everyone thought it was Magnus back then. Even I did. Then I thought it was Hans. But I think you and me have dispelled that myth.’
I shiver. Rhona eases off the accelerator.
‘Do you understand the message, then? After the
I’ll be waiting
part?’
‘I don’t know what the last bit was. Dr Harrison just told me about it.’
‘So you haven’t heard the message?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to?’
I stare at Rhona, terrified. I hadn’t expected this. I know I should just let her tell me. That I should be in full possession of the facts. But …
In my mind I picture Stian howling on the porch steps. Kolbeinn with the tyre iron in his hand. The Duck, the heavyset, silent man, and all the unknown spies.
‘I memorised it,’ says Rhona. ‘Shall I tell you?’
I close my eyes. I breathe slowly in. Then out.
‘Tell me.’
‘Right. Please bear with my pronunciation. It’s quite short, but I’m not good with languages. He said: Tell her,
Ayoo kaykapp oongh
.’
I sit up straight. Rhona’s face appears in the rear-view mirror.
‘What does it mean? Do you know?’ she asks.
‘That’s not Norwegian.’
‘Well, why would—’
‘Say it again!’
Rhona’s eyes flick between me and the road. Then she clears her throat and says, ‘
Ayookay kap pungh
.’
A smile creeps across my face.
‘You said you heard the tape?’ I say. ‘What accent did the guy have?’
‘Hard to say. It sounded weird. Mixed up. Like he was—’
‘Putting it on.’
‘
Yeah
. I mean, his English was perfect. In some sections he sounded sort of southern. You know. Etonian. Like a public schoolboy.’
The truth is undeniable now. Infectious. Flopping back onto the back seat, I start to laugh. The car swerves as Rhona sits up. She takes one hand off the steering wheel and pushes her sunglasses onto her forehead.
‘What?!’
‘Oh my God …’
Darling Tim. All this time, he’s been waiting for me.
‘You know what it is, don’t you?’
Rhona strains high enough in her seat to meet my eyes. Grinning like an idiot, I nod. Her eyes go wide in the rear-view mirror.
‘
Tell
me!’
‘
Okay, cap’n!
That’s the message. It’s English.’
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘It’s a private joke. It means he won’t tread on my toes. He wants to, but he won’t. Not till I give him the go-ahead.’
‘You mean … It’s not from the bad men?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘Tim! He’s my best … He’s …’
Rhona makes a strangled noise.
‘Wait … Not the Tim you told Susan about? The Tim who lives above the shop?’
My heart jolts again. The record shop …
Vinyl Vultures … That keyring … Oh my God! It was
Tim
who came over the fence! He
has
been trying to get to me …
For a moment I’m so happy that I forget to hide from passing cars. Overjoyed, I stick my legs in the air.
‘Hoy,’ says Rhona. ‘Get those down! We’ll be pulled over!’
‘Sorry.’
After frowning in the mirror for a bit, Rhona shakes her head. She puts her sunglasses back down and turns her attention back to the road. The sunlight is dim against her face now, but I still see her eyes glint behind her glasses. When cars overtake us, her eyes follow them and her behaviour becomes less settled.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. I look at her mouth in the rear-view mirror. Pressed tightly closed.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘In case you didn’t know, Katherine, we’re fugitives from justice. I’m a bit tense.’
‘Did something happen?’
Rhona sighs. ‘Sorry. Look … I didn’t want to worry you before, but … I think someone recognised me.’
‘What? When?’
‘A little girl. In the service station.’
I fall silent.
‘A TV was on in the café,’ says Rhona. ‘We’re all over the news. Car registration. Mugshots. Everything.’
Suddenly I feel faint. I wilt into the back seat.
‘What did it say?’
‘They’re saying you’ve kidnapped me. Ridiculous, I know, but—’
‘What?! But … why would they think …’
‘I think Joyce is at the bottom of that wee gem. But that’s not important. Right now we need to find this town of yours.’
We continue in silence. Rhona’s left hand starts jiggling on the steering wheel.
Tappatappatappatappatappatappatappa …
‘Get up in the front, she says finally.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It’s getting dark out.’
I gather myself together and climb carefully over into the passenger seat.
‘Right,’ declares Rhona. ‘Start recognising!’
‘Are we close to Newcastle?’
‘Soon.’
As I look out of the window, a tiny cry escapes me. Until now I’d somehow convinced myself we were alone on this road. But that could not be further from the truth. Around us there are more cars than I can count, and everything is moving very, very fast. My eyes grow moist behind my glasses, and I realise with shame that I am shaking. My God, what’s wrong with me? Maybe I
am
as sick as they say …
A road sign flashes past, declaring Newcastle to be fifteen miles away. I look from left to right, and a sense of déjà vu creeps over me. That curve in the road. That bridge. That bank with the six thin trees on top. Rhona remains silent as I touch a hand to my mouth.
‘Not much further. It’s before Newcastle,’ I tell her in a tiny voice.
Rhona indicates she understands. Another sign flashes past, with a diagram of a junction on it. On we go, into the darkening horizon. Then, just as the sun is slipping away, we reach a very familiar stretch of road. I sit up straight.
‘Here,’ I say.
‘What?’ bursts Rhona, looking sideways through the gloom. She’s taken her sunglasses off, but I still have mine on.
‘This turn-off. Go left here.’
‘Thank
God
,’ says Rhona, and turns on the indicators. The slip road is mercifully empty as we rattle to a more Mini-friendly speed. At the junction with the new road, we stop, and though there’s no traffic to give way to, Rhona takes a moment before continuing.
I look in the wing mirror, just in time to see the sun sink over the horizon. Stillness descends.
We drive more slowly now, along quieter roads, around tree-filled roundabouts. For some stretches there are street-lights, and for others there are not. In places the embankments lining the road sink lower, revealing a flat, rural landscape beyond. The glow on the horizon suggests nearby industry. Sporadically I provide directions, and Rhona obeys. On we go, past public parks, discount car dealerships and dormant leisure centres. Working men’s clubs, council estates and high-rises. Chip shops on street corners, flanked by gangs of kids up to no good. All of these scenes should frighten me witless, but as we draw closer to our destination a strange calm descends on me. I look through the window, and remember, and know this is my home. Silently, we progress through town. Then, in the middle of a long, straight road, I touch Rhona’s arm.
‘Stop here,’ I say.
The car creeps to a halt, and with a deep breath, I remove my sunglasses. We sit in the dark, indicators clacking.
Rhona turns to me, the rustle of her jacket amplified by the sudden silence.
‘Shall I turn off the engine?’ she asks.
I squeeze my hands tight around my sunglasses.
‘Go right at the next corner.’
‘Stainton Street?’ She points to the junction several feet before us.
I nod.
Rhona starts the car and we creep forwards. As we turn into the street where I grew up, I struggle to withhold a whimper. An image flashes through my mind, of the day I left this street for good. Dad shouting at me to get a real job. Mum crying. I swore never to come back. And until now, I’m pretty sure I kept my word.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Mm hmm.’
‘Tell me where to stop.’
‘Not yet.’
Slowly, we climb a shallow slope. Sometimes we creep so gently that the car almost rolls back. But Rhona never loses her patience with me. When we reach number eleven, I whisper, ‘Stop.’
#
For some time, we sit in the car. My parents’ house looks much smaller than I remembered. All of the lights are off, and this detail raises questions I am wholly unprepared to face. There is no car in the driveway.
‘Looks like no one’s home,’ whispers Rhona.
‘Give me a minute. I’ll go look in a minute.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’m not scared … I just …’
My voice trails off. Rhona keeps schtum for a second. Then she says, decisively, ‘I’m coming with you.’
We look at the house.
‘Seems a nice neighbourhood,’ offers Rhona. I don’t know if this is meant to be sarcastic or not. Without a word, I click my door open and set a foot on the kerb. The breeze is colder than I’d expected. Behind me, I hear Rhona following.
‘You’d better lock it,’ I tell her. ‘The kids round here are little shits.’
We cross the scrubby front garden. Flip-flopped feet schlopping in unison.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, just before we reach the door. She looks at her wrist. Makes a face.
‘I don’t know. My watch stopped working.’
I stare at the door knocker, which is fancier than the one I remember. More curly. Tarnished in a deliberate, shabby-chic way. That must have been my mother’s doing. Dad has no taste when it comes to such things.
‘It must be nine-ish,’ adds Rhona, over my shoulder. ‘Do you think he’s in bed?’
‘No … He stays up late …’
My stomach twinges. It’s not like I’d expected everything to be the same, here. I’d already known my mother wouldn’t answer the door. That
something
has happened to my Dad. But now that I’m faced with it, it’s a shock. As I stand looking up at the house, I realise how naïve I was to imagine my childhood home would remain the same forever. A hollow feeling burrows into my chest as I realise my father might not even be here. That he might not be alive.
‘I feel sick,’ I whisper as I raise a hand to knock. The brand-new door knocker is too big a step for me right now. I can’t bring myself to even touch it.
Holding our breath, we wait.
Nothing.
Across the road, no one is in sight. I stand back from the house and scan the first-floor windows. No sign of life.
‘Hmm,’ I say, and go round the house, to the driveway. In the shadows at the end I see the gate that leads into the back yard, and almost automatically, I try the handle. It opens.
‘What are you doing?’ hisses Rhona. Then we step through, and I close the gate behind us.
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper.
Back here, like the front of the house, the drawn curtains are dark. I tiptoe to the back of the yard and lift up the last, cracked paving stone. There! The back-door key. Some things
don’t
change after all.