Everything She Forgot (35 page)

Angus's lips moved but made no sound as he whispered the words of the Lord:
“As for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.
Revelation, chapter twenty-one, verse eight.”

Angus felt a strange relaxation seep through him.
“. . . and they will be tormented day and night, forever, and ever.”

Molly began to beat the sides of the van, screaming, and Angus had to use all his strength to drag her away. He heard the sirens now, throbbing, pulsating as they came closer and closer.

Just then, over the roar of the fire, Angus heard the sound of the camper van's engine, revving up. Angus held on to Molly's upper arms as she thrashed and pulled against him. He couldn't believe it, but—
on fire—
George was attempting to escape, to drive away. Angus tightened his grip on the child and smiled at George's folly.

The van screeched into reverse and Angus stared, his mouth open as he watched the burning driver. The van paused, back tires on the edge of the field, headlights facing the ocean. It was impossible for him to drive and Angus shook his head at the man's ridiculous attempt to escape justice. Just then the back wheels spun and the smoking, burning van charged forward, right over the edge of the cliff. As it fell, there was a second, larger explosion that blew the van open.

The child screamed and then went limp in Angus's arms as together they watched it take off from the cliff at Land's End and fall, headfirst, into the wild waves below.

They went to the edge and watched as the van bobbed in the water, only its boot and back wheels visible. It had been blown to pieces. A tire floated alongside kitchen items: plastic plates and cups. The police arrived, a male and a female police officer. The female officer took Molly to the police car and called the ambulance and the coastguard, while the man took Angus's statement. Angus peeked over the edge of the cliff, as the van sank from view.

B
ack in Thurso, Angus sat in his study, with his fingers poised over the keys of the typewriter. It was the afternoon and his eyes were hot with tiredness. He had driven up from Penzance the day before, driving overnight and sleeping for a few hours in service station parking lots. He had arrived early this morning, and had bathed but not slept. He had changed all his clothes and asked Hazel to wash those he had been wearing, but he could still smell the smoke from George's burning van. The stink of McLaughlin was still on him.

Angus was annoyed that the article he now had to write was not as revelatory as he had dreamed. He had seen George McLaughlin burn to death for his sins and he had saved young Molly Henderson from a wicked, brutal criminal. Only the Bible had better stories, and Angus had wanted to write it. He knew the truth and he wanted the world to know.

But the police had been last on the scene. Molly had been taken away first by ambulance, then the coastguard had been called to dredge up the van and look for a body. Angus had enjoyed describing George's slow death to the police officers. He told of the flames engulfing his body and the two explosions that had come from inside the van.

By the time the police were ready to take statements, Richard McLaughlin was long gone. Angus emphasized to the police that it had been
Georg
e
McLaughlin
driving the van, but a day later the police had failed to verify it. The owner of the camper van had recognized Molly's squint and contacted them, and then police in Cornwall had had reports of sightings, but George had been merely an unconfirmed suspect. Angus's editor forbade him to print George's name in the article. Molly Henderson cried at the scene but quickly became mute and
would not say a word to either investigators or hospital staff about her kidnapper or anything else.

Chewing his lip over his typewriter as he considered what it was possible for him to write, Angus remembered with some bitterness the jibes that his colleagues had made about his obsession with George McLaughlin.

Angus was familiar with this situation: he knew the truth; he had seen the light, but he was surrounded by heathens who lacked faith.

The van was dredged from the ocean, but the police couldn't find a single usable fingerprint inside. Gas canisters were found, which explained the two explosions. The coastguards had been tasked with finding the body, in the expectation that it would be in pieces. The tide had been going out and the divers were searching a wide area. They found a burned shoe, but no remnants of the body. Back in Glasgow, all George's family and friends said that he was alive but had skipped town to see a girlfriend and would be back soon.

Angus had called Inspector Black as soon as he returned to Thurso, but the inspector had called him “
obsessed
” and hung up before he was finished speaking.

Merely because Angus had been seeking George, his achievement in finding him was not recognized.

“Do you know George McLaughlin?” Inspector Black had asked him.

“I
know
it was George driving that van . . .”

“But do you know him really? No, you don't. How could you tell George McLaughlin from a hundred other tall dark men? You were only in Penzance to find George, and find him you would, come hell or high water.”

H
ell or high water indeed,” muttered Angus.

He placed his palms together as he prepared to write. It was not the story he had intended, but sometimes one had to deal with reality. What Angus believed had happened was not the accepted story and, as a journalist, he had been reminded that he was duty bound to report only accepted facts.

There was a knock on his study door and Angus turned. It was Hazel. She was wearing her coat and hat and looking different from how he remembered her. He narrowed his eyes for signs of makeup, but could not detect any. Still, she seemed smarter, cleaner, and more awake than he had seen her in some time.

“What is it?” he said impatiently, turning back to his work.

“I've washed the clothes you brought back. I've made dinner and Rachael says that she will serve it. I'll be back some time this evening.”

Angus wasn't listening. He turned around to his work before she had finished speaking.

It was only when she had left the room that Hazel's words reached him.

Angus got up and bounded to the top of the stairs. He hung over the banister and called to her. “What do you mean, Rachael will serve dinner? Where are you going?”

“I'm going out, Angus,” said Hazel, with a strange new willfulness in her eyes that reminded him of the Henderson girl.

“But where are you going? You can't . . .”

“I'm going to a women's Bible group in town. Rachael knows what to do. I'm sure you'll be fine.”

She pushed her hands into leather gloves and started down the stairs.

He was still standing there, almost paralyzed by disbelief, when Rachael came out of her room.

“Your mother's
gone out
,” Angus announced to her.

The girl's skin was red from acne, and he noticed that her ears were still reddened and scabbed since his last punishment. Rachael always tied her hair back but he wondered why she did not wear it loose to cover the marks.

“She'll be back later,” said the girl coolly. “I can sort dinner.”

Angus rubbed his nose and then dared, “You should let your hair down. Your ears, they're . . . not pretty to look at.”

Rachel was halfway downstairs, but she turned and looked up at her father. “Were you afraid someone saw?” she whispered to him strangely.

He pressed his lips together. He had been gone for only two days and in that time it seemed as if the spirit of the Henderson girl had taken over his wife and daughter.

Angus turned but then called down after her. “I don't care who sees, but I thought you would. You might have put your hair down just this once.”

“I thought you would disapprove.”

“And why would that be?”

“Women should adorn themselves . . . not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but with good deeds.”

“First book of Timothy, chapter two, verse nine,” said Angus.

“So Mum has gone out to do good work, and I will make your dinner.”

Angus sensed that there was dissension afoot but could not be sure, so he returned to his study.

H
E BEGAN TO
type. It was not a scoop. It would not be syndicated worldwide. It was a dull, factually accurate article about a recent unsolved crime. He knew the truth, but still no one was willing to listen.

It would not make him famous, but it was all he could write at this time.

T
HE
J
OHN
O'G
ROAT
J
OURNAL,
F
RIDAY,
O
CTOBER 11, 1985

HENDERSON CHILD SAVED AS MANHUNT ENDS IN DIVINE PUNISHMENT

by Angus Campbell

            
Molly Henderson, who went missing from Ravenshill Primary on October 2, has been found and reunited with her parents.

               
She was abducted as she walked to school, sparking a nationwide search. Although Molly was found alive, the vehicle her abductor was driving caught fire and plunged over a cliff into the English Channel. Molly was lucky to escape the van before it caught fire and fell into the sea. As it plummeted from the Land's End cliff, there were two explosions inside, killing Molly's kidnapper, who burned to death.

               
Pieces of the van have been recovered, but the abductor's charred remains have not yet been found. Police and coastguards continue the search for the body.

               
The child was at the scene when her abductor died, but has not spoken since and is said to be suffering from extreme shock. Molly has been taken to the Royal Aberdeen Children's Hospital in order to ascertain the extent of her physical and psychological injuries. The identity of the kidnapper is unconfirmed but it is hoped that Molly will bear witness when she recovers.

               
Trained police officers and medical staff experienced in treating children who have suffered sexual abuse and psychological trauma are working with Molly and the Henderson family to try to ensure a speedy recovery.

               
Molly's mother, Kathleen Henderson, gave the following statement: “I'm just so glad to have her back. I thought she was lost but to have her back in one piece is the greatest gift.”

               
Molly's father, John Henderson, thanked the public for its unflinching support.

CHAPTER 34

B
EN AND
M
ARGARET WALKED HAND IN HAND
ALONG THE
corridor in Ward 21.

“He's not pretty to look at.”

“Neither am I,” said Ben, and Margaret nudged him gently. When they arrived at the bedside, the curtain was half drawn and the nurse was taking blood from George's arm. “You think I'm a pincushion,” they heard him tease her.

“Doctor's orders—we need to make sure you're out of the woods.”

“Ah, you're never out of the woods. I learned that a long time ago.”

G
EORGE NOTICED
M
ARGARET
and her husband standing a few feet away. His face stretched into a smile.

When the nurse drew the curtain back, she frowned sympathetically at Margaret and Ben. “Only a few more minutes. His blood pressure's very high.”

Since Margaret had left he had been connected to a heart monitor, which now emitted a low pulsing sound.

“My Moll,” he said, turning up his palm to ask for her hand again. “
My
Moll.”

She slipped her hand into his. His fingers were still cold.

“This is Ben,” said Margaret, stepping out of the way, so that Ben could lean in to shake hands.

George kept hold of Margaret's hand while he offered Ben a free one. There was a needle taped to his arm for administering drugs.

“George McLaughlin,” he said as he took Ben's hand. He said the name carefully, breathing out as he did so, as if with relief.

“Nice to meet you.”

Ben looked weary, overcome.

“You married my little girl.”

“So I understand.”

“You better look after her.”

“It's a harder job than you think,” said Ben, raising both eyebrows at Margaret. “Stubborn and independent.”

“You always were . . . weren't you, button?” said George, turning to her.

Margaret felt her eyes prick with tears, but fought them back. She pulled up chairs for her and Ben and they sat down.

“What happened to you?” she dared to ask.
“I saw you die.”

“A man dies more than once in his life,” said George. Margaret found that when she met his eyes and looked straight into them, the rest of his face reformed, so that she could imagine it as it had been. He was still holding her hand, coursing the back of it with his thumb, and she remembered nights leaning into him as he sang to her. “I suppose I was trying to kill myself, but the old bastard upstairs—if there is one—had other plans
for me. When the van sank, I managed to get out—I've no idea how. There was an explosion and I must have been knocked unconscious for a time—thrown out somehow. The seawater—I think it helped, with the burns . . . I tried to swim for a bit as best I could, not swim as such but tried to stay afloat. I kept passing out and was sure I would drown. I had no idea how badly hurt I was. A woman walking her dog helped me when I was washed ashore. When I woke up in the hospital, they told me I was in Torquay. I had floated so far along the coast. I told them I couldn't remember anything except my name and that I'd been in a boating accident. I told them my name was Maxwell Brown. I said I was born in nineteen fifty-five instead of nineteen fifty-eight. I was in the hospital a long time. I expected the police, or my family, or someone . . . but no one ever came. All those years I hadn't wanted to be a McLaughlin, and then there I was, erased. But . . .”

The pulses of the heart machine quickened. George pressed his lips together again and again.

“Do you need more water?”

He looked away and closed his eyes. She poured some for him anyway, an inch in the plastic beaker beside the bed. He took it into his hand, but then spilled it right away. Ben leaned over and brushed the water off the top sheet.

“He's too tired,” Margaret said. “We should go.”

“We should,” Ben whispered. “And your dad's with the kids.”

George's eyes opened wide. “
I'm
her dad,” he said loudly, although it seemed to cost him all his strength.

Ben nodded.

“They wrote such lies about me,” George said. The word
lies
forced open his lips, revealing his purple gums. “They said I hurt you and I never. I never would . . .”

“I know,” said Margaret, stroking the back of his hand. “Don't let yourself get upset. It's all over now. I'm here.”

“When I got out of the hospital and I got set up, I started taking classes. When I rented that first flat I was able to write Maxwell Brown. I knew how. We . . .”—he broke off to cough again—“
we
are both left-handed.” He held up his left hand and Margaret put her left hand against his.

“We are,” she said.

His eyes were now half closed, and Margaret got to her feet. She was worried that he would not feel it were she to kiss the waxy skin of his forehead, so she leaned forward and kissed the palm of his hand.

“I love you so,” he was still whispering, as if trying to sing again.

Ben rubbed Margaret's shoulders and then they left him. Walking along the corridor, Margaret felt enervated, depleted.

She walked with her fingers loosely laced through Ben's.

W
hen they got home, it was late and the children were in bed, but Margaret was in time to say good night. Her father had done all the dishes by hand and stacked them on the kitchen table. The cutlery was shining: little regiments of teaspoons, knives, and forks.

“We have a dishwasher, Dad.”

“Oh, they're a waste of money. It gave me something to do.” Margaret went to him and kissed his cheekbone. He smiled and dipped his head a little in response. She had called him while Ben was driving back, to say they were on their way.

Her father folded the tea towel he had been using. “I told them to go to bed. I thought it best, when it was nearly ten. They gave me no argument. They're a credit to you.”

Margaret pressed her lips together in a smile. Ben had gone upstairs to kiss the children good night.

“Let's sit down for a moment,” she said, putting a hand on her father's elbow.

She sat down at the table opposite him. She was exhausted, but there was more to say. She remembered the words that she had said to him before she ran out of the house. His face was pale, his eyes saddened. She took a deep breath.

“I need to tell you about what's been going on with me since the car crash.”

The skin on John's high forehead wrinkled.

“I don't want to upset you, I . . .”

His fingers fluttered on the table, as if his feelings were of no consequence. The stacked spoons trembled audibly.

“A few weeks ago, I found the man who had pulled me out of the car on the M11. He had a head injury too, and . . . he was put in a coma, so that when I found him I couldn't thank him, but I kept on visiting.” Margaret wiped a hand across her eyes. She was deeply tired, yet there was a bright, crackling wakefulness in her veins. “I was in shock after the crash and, sitting quietly with him, I guess I did a lot of thinking. That was when all that stuff . . . all that
stuff
. . . started to come back to me . . . or not come back to me exactly, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to know.”

John nodded gravely.

“Mum's things . . . that box of cuttings and photographs, letters . . . it was so hard for me to go through, but I had to do it. And it was harder because she's not here,” her throat clotted with hurt, “and she had collected all of it.”

John licked his lips, as if tasting the grief one more time.

“And tonight, when I ran out, I went to the hospital again to see the man, the man who saved me on the motorway. I didn't know when I left, but he had woken up from his coma and then I started to understand why I'd been so drawn to him.”

She paused and looked across the table at her father. He was frowning, as if anticipating what she was going to say. She swallowed, once again wondering what it had been like for John—searching for her, thinking she was dead. She had been stolen from him—the man who had always loved her, from her earliest memories.

She wasn't sure how he would react if she told him she had been visiting George McLaughlin—a gangster who had been her mother's first love, and had taken her away from home as a seven-year-old child.

He would be angry. He would be angry at the man who he thought had hurt his little girl. If he knew that the person who had taken her was her real father it might devastate him.

He was waiting for her to speak. She reached over and clasped his hand in hers.

She cleared her throat and struggled to reform her thoughts. “I was drawn to him because he saved my life and I realized that I was so glad to be alive.”

Her hands were warm inside her father's. “I'm so sorry . . . about what I said to you at dinner.”

John nodded with his eyes closed.

“I think everything suddenly came into focus. The car crash . . . they said I was in shock, but it seemed like the opposite was going on. Suddenly things became clear to me—where I was from, who I was, what had happened to me and . . . it made me miss Mum.”

A thin tear flashed over John's gray face.

She took a deep breath. “You're my dad and you always will be.”

John cleared his throat. “You were trapped and the car was burning. The fire,” her father wiped his eye with his forefinger, “the fire . . . I know what that must have meant to you.”

Margaret heard Ben's footsteps on the stairs. They got to their feet, expecting the membrane of their conversation to be broken.

“I'm sorry,” her father said, hurriedly.

“Don't be silly. It's me who should apologize for running out like that—causing a scene.”

“No, I mean,
I'm sorry
, back then . . . I could have been better. Your mother and I, we both could have been better.”

“Thanks for coming, Dad,” she said. “That's all that matters.”

He patted her shoulder. “I should turn in now. Early start back.” His hand stayed on her shoulder for a moment, and then he clung to the wool, balling up her cardigan in his fist. He covered both eyes with forefinger and thumb. Margaret put her arms around his waist.

“Uh-oh,” said Ben, “not more tears, just when I'm ready to get the party started.”

“We're fine,” said Margaret.

“An excellent bit of dishwashing, Pater,” said Ben, motioning to the table. “You can come back.”

“I shall look forward to it,” said John, his face puckering into a smile.

B
en and Margaret sat up past midnight, with glasses of wine, talking. The fire was on, but Margaret was shiver
ing, so much that Ben put a blanket around her shoulders. She sat with her feet in his lap as he rubbed them.

“Moll,” he said, and then again, “Moll,” as if trying it out on her.

“Should I start to call you that?”

Margaret laughed. “It was my baby name. Just before I started high school, I decided I wanted to be called my full name. Maybe even my name was a reminder . . .”

It was not until later, when she was in bed lying curled into Ben, that she fully remembered the very first day she met George. She remembered the smell of his aftershave and the clear sparkle in his eyes as he knelt, one knee on the pavement as he unbuttoned his shirt, showing her the name written on his chest.

Margaret blinked in the darkness of their bedroom. She could taste black smoke at the back of her throat. She could hear him screaming but she couldn't get to him.

When they took her to the hospital they had stripped her and inspected her for harm. She had deep, purple bruises on her arms, which the doctors and her parents all decided had been inflicted on her by the tall dark man who had kidnapped her. Margaret had not said a word—she had been unable, but she knew that the journalist who had arrived at the scene and tried to hold her back had made the bruises. She still remembered the pain—wanting to protect her father, sure she could help him but unable to get free. It had been this shame that had so overwhelmed her later: that she had not been able to save him.

She turned again, her mind bright despite her need for rest. Ben was sound asleep, his breaths low and rhythmic. Down
the hall, she could hear the intermittent long inhalation of her father's snores.

She had been drinking, and her mind was scorched with tiredness, but Margaret smelled burning in the bedroom. It wasn't a fire, or a cooking smell, and after a moment, lifting her head off the pillow, she realized that it was a cigarette. She frowned, wondering about Ben, her father or, God forbid—the kids. She turned over and inhaled again. It was unmistakable, at the back of her throat, mixed in with a briny whiff of aftershave. Margaret looked up, and George was standing at the foot of the bed. He was in his dark blue suit, like the day when he had met her after school. He was smiling at her, all clear skin and stubble and bad blue eyes.

“You go to sleep now, angel” was all he said.

Calm flooded her. She lay down and began to drift off to sleep. The telephone rang and Ben was startled, jumping out of bed to answer it, palm pressed against the wall. He tried to turn on the light but knocked it clean off the bedside table. The lamp crashed to the floor as he answered the phone. Margaret lay, eyes wide open, as lights went on down the hall, first Paula's room and then her father's.

Ben hung up and came around to her side of the bed, smoothing her hair and taking her hand.

“Listen . . .” he said, frowning.

“It's all right,” she whispered.

“He's dead.”

“I know.”

She smiled, knowing that she was, for the first time in her life, whole again, present. She was ready to go back to work, ready to look after her family. He was with her, and he always would be.