In The Garden Of Stones (7 page)

The
parents must have been wealthy to afford such an idyllic resting
place for those poor lost children, although all the money in the
world would have made no difference. Where Death is concerned, the
privileged truly are on par with the deprived. The Grim Reaper
shows no discrimination, he is the ultimate equal opportunities
advocate.

Her ears
pick up a rustle in the long grass nearby. A curious rabbit maybe?
She might risk one eye to peep at it, so as not to frighten it
away.

Darkness
falls on her, a shadow.

“
Who are ye? How did ye get in here?”

Her eyes
snap open. Dark - everything is spinning and she feels dizzy and
sick.

She
gives herself a moment to get her breath back and re-orientate
herself. No garden, no cemetery, just her room, her bed.

A dream,
nothing more.

She
slides out from under the duvet and wobbles to the bathroom on
elastic legs, draws herself a glass of water and watches the
ghastly image in the mirror as it does what she does.

The
pupils in the eyes staring back at her are huge, sockets plunged
into deep shadow in a face washed of colour, rendered pale to the
point of translucence by the overhead fluorescent light. The halo
of pillow hair, awry and tinged with blue, gives the look of
someone who has just had a mighty scare.

The
vision was so real. The solidity of the stone, the smell of the
flowers, the warmth of the sun, the insects and birds … all blown
away with such suddenness that she couldn’t keep up with it as it
sent her into a vertiginous tailspin. She feels nausea rise again
and takes another sip of water.

And that
voice.

Who the hell was that?

She
takes a deep drink of the water, rinses out the glass and staggers
back to bed. Like she used to do when she was a little girl, to
scare away the monsters, she’s left the bathroom light
on.

Grace
lies there, staring at the ceiling.

A dream,
that’s all it was. She’d fallen asleep with Mal’s idea swimming
about inside her head, fuelled by chips, booze and marijuana, and
she’d had a dream.

Intense,
vivid, but a dream nonetheless – the garden, the graveyard, the
headstones – obviously all dragged up from something already buried
deep inside, long forgotten memories of childhood
perhaps.

She’d
probably seen stones like those on a school trip. Perhaps she’d
even made one of those rubbings with a sheet of paper and a stubby
Crayola. Yes. That was it. She could almost smell the wax. There
are no monsters, only memories.

But
where had the voice come from? The dream had been quite pleasant
until that raucous interruption spoiled it. Not a monster’s roar. A
man’s voice.

She
checks the clock – 03:17 a.m. Still time to get back to sleep. She
turns over, plumps the pillow, and she’s almost made it back into
the Land of Nod when she is jerked wide awake again.

“
Who are ye? How did ye get in here?”

She
flips herself onto her back. “Breathe, Grace. Go to sleep. Relax.
Count back. One hundred … ninety nine...”

“
Who are ye?”

04:10
a.m, and she gets up to stagger back to the bathroom, grumbling all
the way. The water and beer have worked their way through her and
she needs to pee.

Once
again she falls back onto the bed, batters the pillow some more,
and bangs her head into the pounded hollow.

“
Got. To. Sleep.”

There’s
that smell again – lavender and rosemary, and heat grows on her
face.

“
How did ye get in here?”

“
Go away!” she cries, startling herself with the volume of
her own voice, and opens her eyes to a shaft of sunlight forcing
itself through a gap in the curtains and touching her
cheek.

A tap on
her bedroom door. “You okay, chick?”

Alec
must have heard her yelling out.

“
Absolutely fine,” she says with forced cheeriness,
following it up with a jaw cracking yawn.

“
You want a cuppa?”

She runs
her tongue over the roof of her mouth. Dry and claggy.
“Please.”

“
Kettle’s on.”

“
I’ll be out in a minute.”

What
time is it now? 07:12. She crawls from the bed, wraps herself in
her dressing gown and slops barefooted into the kitchen, clambering
onto the stool beside Denny at the breakfast bar, leaning over and
planting a kiss on his cheek as she steals a piece of his
toast.

“
Morning babe.”

“
Hey!” A kiss in return. “Good morning to you too, my
lovely.”

Alec
puts a mug of fresh tea in front of her. “Lovely? You must be
joking. Good God, woman, you’ve got a set of bags there that Louis
Vuitton would be proud of. Right colour too. Purple and black. Bad
night?”

She sips
from the mug and nods.

“
Wasn’t us, was it?” asks Denny. “I know we can get a bit
carried away –”

“
Not this time,” she says. “I had a … strange
dream.”

“
Strange how?”

“
I don’t know. Intense. Disturbing.”

“
Well whatever it was, try not to have it again. You look
like death on a cracker.”

“
Thanks very much.”

“
Want to tell me about it?” asks Denny.

Grace
yawns and rolls her neck. “Nah. It’s gone now. I’m sure it won’t
come back.”

“
Does it have something to do with your –” He mouths
'therapy', as if it’s a secret not to be overheard.

“
Maybe,” she says. “And you can say it out
loud, Den. The-ra-pee. It’s not a dirty word and it’s nothing to be
ashamed of.”
Harsh.
She pats his knee. “Sorry babe.”

Chapter 6

Alone in
the flat in the quiet of the afternoon, an exhausted Grace drops
onto the sofa.

“
Just a little nap. Forty winks and I’ll feel much
better.”

No
sooner has she closed her eyes than she is back in the same garden,
walking the same path, coming to the same stone slab in the
sunlight. Déjà vu all over again, except this time if the voice
comes, she’ll be ready for it.

Warm
sunshine, the gentle twitter of birds and the scent of honeysuckle
heavy in the air all have a soporific effect, lulling her to more
than half way asleep.

“
I asked ye who ye are and how ye got in here. Speak will
ye?”

The
strong Scots voice jolts her wide awake again and she squeals.
“Wha’?”

A dark
man-shaped shadow is standing menacingly over her, blocking out the
sun’s light and heat.

“
Well?”

The line
of questioning is unbroken, as if she’s never been away. “I’m
Grace, and I came in through the gate in the wall,” she
says.

“
Did ye now? And who gave ye permission ta do
so?”

“
I don’t need anybody’s permission.”

“
Is that so? This is private property and wi’oot permission,
ye’re trespassing. Ye have ta leave, so away wi ye.”

She’s puzzled. How can
she
be trespassing? This is
her
place. She made it. It’s all in
her
head. She owns it
and she can’t trespass on her own property can she?

“
I’m not going anywhere and you’re blocking my sun. Please
move.”

“
Did ye no' hear me? I said –”

“
I heard you fine, and I’m staying put until
I’m
good and ready to
leave.”

A scowl
hoods his eyes. “I think no'. Ye canna be here.”

“
I beg to differ
. I
can be wherever
I
like!”

And
before she can ask herself why on Earth she is arguing with someone
who isn’t really there at all, he has taken her by the elbow, his
fingertips digging into her flesh, trying to force her from her
seat.

“
No, ye can’t!” he barks. “Allow me ta escort ye back ta the
gate and ye can be oan yer way.”

“
Hey! That hurts!” She prises his fingers from her. “There’s
no need to get physical.” Once they are separated, she rises of her
own accord. “If anyone’s entitled to be here, it’s me,” she says,
cupping her painful elbow. “And while we are on the subject of who
belongs where, who, pray tell, might you be, mister?”

“
None of yer business.”

He takes
a step back, widening the gap between them, and she can see him
better now without the sun in her eyes – tall and lean, with a
strong lined face, tanned from outdoor work, a pale scar running
from his chin and down his neck, under the kerchief he has tied
there. A mop of curly brown hair pokes out from under his cap, its
peak shading large deep set eyes the colour of dark oak. Quick eyes
that won’t meet hers.

“
It is very much my business if I decide to report you for
grabbing hold of me and manhandling me like I was a sack of
tatties,” she says.

Report to whom, you silly cow. He’s not real!

“
I’m sorry, but ye have ta leave. I need ta be alone here,”
he says, his voice turned quiet, pleading almost.

The
sudden change in him only piques her curiosity. “Why is it so
important I leave? I’m not doing any harm.”

He looks
down to the table-like slab. “I canna tell ye. Ye have ta
go.”

Why won’t he look at me? Is he embarrassed for grabbing me?
No, it’s more than that. I’ve seen that look before. He’s scared of
something. Not me though. Surely not.

“
Alright I’ll go, for now,” she says. “But I’d like to come
back and have a proper look around. Some of these stones look very
old and I’m interested in history. Maybe I can come when you’re not
here so I won’t bother you?”

“
I’m al’ays here.”

“
Is there someone else I can ask for permission
then?”

“
No.”

“
Are you saying
you
own this place?”

Because you’re a liar if you do.

“
No. I …” He puckers his mouth and frowns. “Ye have ta go
now. Please.”

At last, eye contact. It lasts for no more than a
heartbeat, but in it she sees how ill at ease he is with her
presence
.

“
Then you may escort me to the gate,” she says.

They
walk in silence through the hedge arches and along the gravel path,
until they reach the boundary wall.

As she
trails behind him she notices the way he employs a peculiar rolling
gait which involves the throwing of the knees and the slightest
limp, all indicators of the fact that walking is difficult for him
and is giving him some pain.

He holds
open the gate for her and when she is through, closes it firmly,
separating them with the ironwork.

“
I’m sorry,” he says through it. “It’s nothing personal, but
it’s for the best.”

He has
already started to leave when she calls to him. “Wait a
minute!”

The
slightest hesitation, a stiffening of his shoulders, and he turns
back. “Yes, Miss?”

“
You didn’t tell me your name.”

The
scared look is back in his eyes. “Nae reason why I
should.”

“
I’d like to know.”

“
Colin,” he murmurs, as if he’s ashamed of it. “Colin
McLeod.”

“
I’m Grace, but I already told you that. My full name’s
Grace Dove.”

“
Grace Dove? That’s nice. Very… peaceful,” he says, with the
faintest twitch of a smile.

Before
she can stop herself Grace stretches her hand through the bars,
inviting him to share a gesture of introduction and goodwill. “It’s
very nice to meet you Colin.”

It’ll be okay, you’re just being polite. He’s not real. You
won’t feel anything.

He wipes
his dirt smeared hand down the front of his trousers, takes hers,
and the touch is very real.

Warm
soft skin, not the leathery coarseness she would expect of an
outdoor worker. A firm yet brief grip with, disturbingly, the trace
of a tremor.

“
Thank you, Miss,” he says, taking back his hand and
thrusting it behind his back.

She can
see in the brief eye contact he allows that he’s as surprised as
she is at the substance of the contact, as if he too was not
expecting it.

“
I’ve .. .um … got ta …”

He
touches the peak of his cap and bobs his head in a tiny respectful
bow, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his
mouth again.

“
Goodbye, Miss.”

He turns
and trudges his way back to wherever it is he needs to be, and she
watches him on his way until he vanishes out of sight through the
arch in the hedge.