Troubled Waters
Authors: Gillian Galbraith
T
ROUBLED
W
ATERS
Other books by Gillian Galbraith:
Blood in the Water
Where the Shadow Falls
Dying of the Light
No Sorrow to Die
The Road to Hell
The Good Priest
First published in 2014 by Polygon,
an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
Copyright © Gillian Galbraith 2014
ISBN 978 1 84697 293 5
eBook ISBN 978 0 85790 818 6
The moral right of Gillian Galbraith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
The publishers acknowledge investment from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.
Most of the places mentioned in this story are real, but all persons described are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance between characters in the story and any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
Set in Italian Garamond BT at Birlinn Ltd
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Glenys Andrews
Colin Browning
Martyn Clark
Douglas Edington
Lesmoir Edington
Robert Galbraith
Daisy Galbraith
Diana Griffiths
Tom Johnstone
Mr E. Macdonnell
Roger Orr
Aidan O’Neill
Dr David Sadler
David Watt
D
EDICATION
To Robert and Daisy
one each now –
with all my love
Contents
1
An accident, that’s what it had been, just a horrible accident. No more than an accident. His mind was chaotic, thoughts barging in, swirling, colliding, chasing each other, disappearing, and all without his volition. In the maelstrom, all he felt was panic, a tide of fear rising, threatening to engulf him. He could not breathe.
Trying to calm himself, he slackened his grip on the steering wheel and looked into the rear view mirror. Behind him, the girl was busy picking at the dry flakes of skin on her upper lip, as she tended to do when anxious. He watched her for a few more seconds before, unable to bear it any longer, he exclaimed, ‘Stop it, please. Just stop it, will you?’
It came out more sharply than he had intended. Like a startled deer, she glanced up, meeting his eyes before lowering her gaze to her lap, chastened, her right hand now wringing her left as if in mute appeal.
Looking ahead again, he followed the narrow road round into Kirk Street, braking hard as he noticed a one-way sign coming up and just managing to take the sharp right into the lane leading back to Leith Walk. As he turned the steering wheel, he felt his car slewing sideways on the snow-covered road, and heard a dull thud as something hit the inside of the boot, followed by a slight intake of breath from behind him. Glancing at her reflection again he sighed; she was at it once more, only now
with renewed vigour. At one side of her Cupid’s bow lips, the carmine merged into an inflamed, angry pink at the side of her mouth, a testament to her obsessive picking and a visible reminder of his impotence. There was even a bead of fresh blood. By now, she ought to know that it was forbidden. By now, a dumb beast would know that.
‘Stop it!’ he shouted, and this time felt a surge of shameful pleasure in seeing her petrified expression as she jumped, dropping her hand as if it had touched an electric current. Frightened, she blinked repeatedly before closing her eyes, shutting out the world and everything in it.
In repose, he thought, stealing a few additional glances at her as the engine idled at the traffic lights leading into Great Junction Street, she would pass as normal. Her condition manifested itself, not in her features, which were regular and well-proportioned but in her incessant, maddening tics. No wonder she was so thin, with one or more of her muscles always busy, propelling this limb hither or thither, working a tendon or bending a joint, and all to no useful purpose. Sometimes it was as if the Almighty was some sort of puppeteer, pulling her strings simply to test that they were still attached. Yet, when relaxed or asleep, at rest, she would pass for a beauty.
A red light on his dashboard began to flash, attracting his eye, warning him that they were all but out of fuel. By good fortune, no, likely by Divine Providence, a garage was within sight, on the other side of the bridge. Turning in, he began to apply the brake gently, over-sensitive now to the risk of skidding on the icy tarmac. All the pumps were busy, and as he waited he drummed his fingers manically on the steering wheel. Three minutes later, he drew up opposite the last pump in the row.
Turning round to face her, and fixing her in the eye as if she were a dog, he commanded, ‘Stay!’
Satisfied by her meek, nodded response, he managed to still his trembling fingers, undid his seatbelt, and clambered out of his Mazda 6 into the cold air. For a second he stood gazing up at the sky, transfixed by the innumerable flakes of snow as they poured down, every one revolving in its fall, every one illuminated by the forecourt lights. Digging his hands deep into his pockets, he fingered the two crisp twenty-pound notes. They would get him fuel enough. As he yanked the nozzle from its holster, he noticed the man in front of him doing the same thing and automatically speeded up, determined to reach the cashier first and settle his business. His need was greater.
Once he was in the shop, the girl took her chance. Opening the door as quietly as she was able, she crept out, marvelling as snowflakes landed on her face and melted there. Instinctively she extended her tongue, allowing them to land on it, before, lizard-like, withdrawing it at speed.
Excited by her freedom, by the unfamiliarity of the place, by the spiralling snow and the bright lights of the cars, she began to walk along the very edge of the pavement, arms out for balance like a tightrope walker. Teetering to one side, she caught sight of a narrow lane, signposted Prince Regent Street, ahead of her, righted herself and headed for it, dragging her feet through the fallen snow for a while simply to experience the sensation. It was like walking on solid clouds.
Lights were on in many of the windows she passed and, unselfconsciously, she pressed her face against a few
of them. In one house, a man was watching a television, its unnatural glow reflected off the bridge of his nose and his sharp cheekbones as he sat open-mouthed before it. Next door, a couple of small children appeared to be dancing, each of them holding something in their right hands. They, too, were facing the screen and seemed entranced by it. As she rose onto her tiptoes to get a better view of what they were looking at, she felt something snuffling around her skirt, poking her knee. A bony dog, apparently ownerless, had its cold, wet nose against her flesh, exploring it insistently as if she was as inanimate as a side of beef.
With stiff, frightened fingers, she pushed it away but it resisted, its head returning to snuffle her thigh again. Hysterical, unnerved by its boldness, she ran away, abandoning the dancing children and looking back at the stray, fearful that it might follow her. In her absence, its attention had turned seamlessly to a piece of grease-stained newspaper, flapping and pinned by the wind to the front of a nearby wheelie bin.
Shaking her head at the sight, she blundered on, blinking as snowflakes hit her eyes. The wind had risen, changed direction, and a horizontal stream of thick snow blew directly into her face. A young couple passed, their arms linked, talking and laughing together as if they were alone in the world. Glancing back down the street and seeing the dog staring at her, she became fearful that it would follow her after all and started to jog again, legs and arms flying in all directions. It would bite her this time. She had seen its teeth. That was what dogs did.