The Missing Years Read online

  As we stare at each other, I have the impression of shocked gleaming eyes, and then I drop the toilet roll and reach out a hand, with astonishing certainty given my earlier ignorance, to find the light switch at the top of the stairs. He blinks and hunches away instinctively from the sudden flood of yellow light. I’m cataloging him for a police report: younger than I, late twenties perhaps, dark haired, dark eyed, clean-shaven with a completely nonplussed expression. He doesn’t look like a burglar, and there’s no crazed drug-addict look about him, either. He’s not even dressed for a bit of light breaking and entering: his pale gray wool jacket is far too visible to be a sensible choice, and the jeans he’s wearing look designer. But there’s no question he’s much bigger than I am—probably much faster, too—and he’s horribly close to the room where Carrie is sleeping, peacefully oblivious. Carrie. Please don’t wake up, Carrie. Stay safe.

  “You’re trespassing.” I mean to say it mildly, as I don’t want to antagonize him until I know what I’m dealing with, but my heart is thumping in my ears and I misjudge the tone; my words are sharply accusatory.

  “Um. Christ. Yeah.” He clears his throat and straightens up, running a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not a burglar or anything . . . Shit, this is awkward.”

  “I’ll say.” I register his accent: Scottish, from these parts I would guess. “What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”

  “Your house?” He blinks again.

  “Yes, my house. You are in my house.” Is he deranged? Does he not know where he is?

  “As in . . . You’re Martin Calder’s daughter?”

  “The very same.”

  “Christ.” He looks stunned. Then he pulls himself together. “Jamie McCue.” He takes a step toward me and sticks his hand out as if at a cocktail party. I’m not quite sure what’s going on here, but I’m fairly certain burglars don’t normally introduce themselves . . . unless of course that’s what he wants me to think . . . “Ah,” he says after a moment, dropping his hand. “Well. Aye, fair enough.”

  “Downstairs, please.” I adopt the tone I reserve for errant interns in the newsroom. “Into the kitchen, where you can explain to me why I shouldn’t call the police this very moment.”

  He nods resignedly, and I move away from the stairs, keeping my distance from him and keeping him in sight at all times. Once he’s on the stairs, I dash into my bedroom and ditch the glass in favor of my phone, keying in 999 in readiness—though I don’t press dial just yet—and then I follow him down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, I grab an umbrella, keeping it half hidden against my side. Every step away from Carrie’s bedroom makes me lighter, more able to think clearly. I don’t think he has any idea there’s another person in the house.

  He switches on the light as he enters the kitchen, and instantly the silver-gray oasis I enjoyed only minutes earlier is replaced by the relentless cheer of daffodil walls and bright red checked plastic table cover.

  “Sit down.” I don’t say it as an invitation, but a command. I want him boxed in by the table, at a disadvantage if it comes to moving quickly. He pulls out a chair then sits, looking up at me searchingly as I remain standing near the door, the width of the table between us. He has a strong face, long and lean. The skin is taut over his cheekbones. His dark hair flops carelessly onto his forehead; he pushes it back and starts to say something, but I talk over him. “You’ve been here before.” Unlike myself, he knew exactly where the kitchen light switch was.

  He sighs. “Aye.” He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table, focusing on me. This is his pitch moment—his chance to win me over, to stop me calling the police—and he knows it. “Look, I cannae apologize enough. I had no idea anybody was here—”

  “That’s hardly an excuse. It’s still breaking and entering.”

  “Well, the back door was unlocked”—he catches sight of my expression and hurries on—“but that’s hardly the point. You’re right, there’s no excuse. There is an explanation, though, if you’re willing to hear it?” He looks up at me beseechingly. “Or would you rather beat me senseless with that umbrella you’re hiding? I have to admit, it’s way more threatening than the toilet roll you were carrying before . . .” He quirks his eyebrows upward, inviting me to join him in his humor. He’s a charming man, this non-burglar before me. On another day, in another place, I might briefly enjoy allowing myself to be beguiled, but this is not that day or place. My face remains stony. “Look,” he tries again, dropping back to earnest mode. “The thing is . . . we just live across the field there”—he gestures vaguely—“and I was looking for my sister. Fi. Fi McCue. You havenae seen her? She’s about your height, brown hair, two years older than me.”

  It’s my turn to be nonplussed. “Why on earth would your sister be here?”

  “Because sometimes she comes here. Obviously not when anyone’s renting it, you ken. She’s . . . Look, ask anyone, she’s completely harmless, she’s a sweetheart, but she’s . . .” He spreads his hands. “She’s a wee bit . . . different. Not a tinnie short of a six-pack exactly but . . . a wee bit away wi’ the fairies. I couldnae find her, and I thought she might be here. I didnae realize the house was occupied.”

  “She comes here?” I feel queasy at the very thought. What kind of person goes wandering through empty houses? And why?

  “She has a thing about this place.” He looks around the kitchen and then back at me. “The Manse. Always has. Sometimes I find her here. Usually in the big bedroom upstairs.” I don’t know what expression crosses my face, but he starts shaking his head. “No, Christ, no, nothing like that; I think she just likes the view. Look, everyone round here will tell you, she really is harmless. Ask anybody. Everyone knows her and everyone looks out for her; you’ll nae hear a bad word about her. Really.”

  “How does she get in?”

  “The back door doesn’t lock properly.” His expression turns earnest. “You know, you should get that fixed.”

  “You think?” I say dryly. I’m still revolted by the idea of someone wandering through the house; I have an image of a demented young girl leaping through the rooms à la Kate Bush in the “Wuthering Heights” video. But right now, what to do with Mr. Jamie McCue? Of course I have ample grounds to call the police, but it does seem somewhat unnecessary. On the other hand, what if this is part of something more sinister? I would need evidence to go to the police with. I look him over again, as if I can read a solution on his skin. He’s self-possessed, I’ll give him that: my scrutiny isn’t fazing him. In fact, he’s doing a fair bit of scrutinizing himself; his dark eyes are busily taking in every detail of me. I can’t help wishing I was wearing something other than a drab toweling dressing gown, however securely I may have tied the belt. In jeans, a sweater and Converse trainers I might have felt less vulnerable to the inspection.

  A loud beep makes me jump.

  “Mine,” he says, patting a pocket on his jacket and then pulling out a mobile. He frowns and scrolls down on it quickly, then his expression clears. “It’s okay, we’ve found her. She’s back at home now,” he says, looking up at me with evident relief. He starts to push his chair back. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

  “Not so fast.”

  He pauses halfway to upright, his face wary. “You’re not really going to call the police, are you?”

  “No.” He relaxes and stands upright. “But before you go, I want a confession.”

  “Come again?”

  “A confession. Here, I’ve got a Dictaphone app on this.” I raise my phone. “Just state your name and admit you were in the Manse without permission on the”—I glance down at my phone to check the date—“the twenty-second of April, and you acknowledge you were in the wrong and will never again return uninvited.”

  There’s amusement in his eyes as he shrugs. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  I hit the record button and hold out the
phone in his general direction. “Go ahead.”

  He begins in a mockingly grandiose baritone. “I, Jamie McCue, being of sound body and mind, do hereby declare that on the twenty-second day of the month of April in the year 2010, I entered the property known as the Manse without permission, whilst looking for my sister, under the impression that it was unoccupied. I offer most humble apologies for the unintended intrusion and promise never to do it again. I also promise to try harder to leave the toilet seat down, to attempt to keep my feet off the train seats and to try to curb my rants about the incompetent eejit who runs First ScotRail. Oh, and to floss more.” I hit stop on the Dictaphone app, uncomfortably aware that my cheeks have flushed defensively. “Happy?” he asks, his dark eyes dancing.

  “You want to be a little more respectful,” I say severely, but in truth I know I’ve lost the upper hand now. “I could still call the police, you know.”

  “Well, that would be a real shame,” he says, moving round the table. “We’re neighbors. We ought to be getting to know each other.” He looks back over his shoulder at me as he heads toward the front door. “Especially since our parents were pals, you ken.”

  I want to bite, really I do, but I’m determined not to give him the satisfaction. “Is that so? Well, good-bye then. I would say let’s do this again, but really, let’s not.”

  He glances at me as if he wants to say something further, but instead he turns back to the front door and opens it, peering into the blackness beyond. The frost-tinged April air has been waiting for its chance to enter; it wastes no time in enveloping me in its cold embrace. “You dinnae have a torch or something I could borrow? It looks like the clouds have come in now.”

  “Nope,” I say cheerfully, starting to close the door on him so that he has to step out into the darkness. “Off you go. Night.” I see the amusement gleaming in those dark eyes as I close the front door firmly on him. After a moment, I swing the door open again. “Oh, Jamie,” I call. He turns questioningly. He’s far enough away that I have to raise my voice. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to make sure your sister knows the house is occupied.”

  I have the sense that he grimaces, but really it’s too dark to tell. Still, his voice finds its way to me through the blackness. “Aye, for sure. Bye then.”

  There’s a dead bolt on the front door that neither Carrie nor I had thought to use before we went up to bed. Now I shoot it firmly home. Then I check all the windows on the ground floor. Finally I confront the back door. Contrary to my night visitor’s statement, it’s not immediately obvious that there’s anything wrong with the mechanism. At a loss for what to do, I shoot the dead bolt, then look around for something to jam the door for good measure, but nothing springs to mind. Reluctantly I admit defeat and head on up the stairs, though I imagine I’ll be far too keyed up to sleep. I stand in the yellow light of the second-floor hallway, listening once again to Carrie’s rhythmic breathing, and marveling that she has slept through this entire episode. I wonder what she will say when I tell her about it, and even as the thought passes through my mind, I realize I won’t tell her. She would expect me to have woken her, and how could I explain why I didn’t even think of it?

  Carrie’s steady breathing continues. I turn off the hall light then go directly to climb straight into my new bed in my new bedroom. If the Manse has anything more to say to me, it can wait for the morning.

  * * *

  • • •

  I awake with the awareness that sleep has been a threadbare blanket, unable to block out reality: I’ve had an uneasy sense of exactly where I am all night. I’m rubbing my scratchy eyes and nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen table when Carrie wanders in wearing a fleecy dressing gown tied loosely over flannel pajama trousers and a thin-strapped camisole. Is this what she sleeps in, or is this simply what she pulls on in the morning? Yet another thing I suppose I will learn. How many pieces of the puzzle are required before the full picture emerges?

  She runs a critical eye over me whilst yawning herself. “You don’t look like you slept very well.”

  “You say the nicest things,” I say wryly. “The kettle has just boiled. How did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead.” The phrase makes me flinch, but Carrie is busying herself with a mug and instant coffee, and doesn’t notice. “It’s so quiet here. Anyway, sleeping is never a problem; it’s the waking up. Coffee is the only answer.” She takes her mug and sits opposite me, pushing her fringe out of her eyes. There are remnants of yesterday’s smudged eyeliner around her eyes, and her features are still blurred with the traces of sleep. It’s like seeing her through a Vaseline-coated lens.

  “You have a rehearsal today, right?”

  “Yep. What time is it?”

  I glance at my watch. “Just gone eight.” Two in the morning in Louisiana. I check my phone again: Jonathan hasn’t texted me back, or called. There’s still nothing to be read into that.

  She grimaces. “I’m cutting it fine.” She takes a sip of her coffee and momentarily closes her eyes, savoring the taste. There’s no apparent sign of the time pressure forcing her into action. The aroma of her coffee wafts across to me, but something else has become tangled in there, something stale lurking beneath the warm scent of the roasted grounds—

  “Do you smoke?” I blurt out in surprise.

  “Mmm? Oh no, I could never stomach the smell.” Sleep lies like a fog around her; it takes a moment for her brain to process my confused expression. “Oh, the ashtray. Not mine.” She points to the kettle, and her words finally make sense to me: there is a small brown earthenware ashtray on the counter beside the kettle. I stand up to inspect its contents; it’s filled to the brim with cigarette butts. Carrie is still speaking behind me. “I guess it was left over by whoever rented this place last. I found it on the windowsill in my bedroom, but on the outside.”

  Left over by whoever rented the Manse last. Perfectly plausible, but my mind has skittered back to my would-be-charming night visitor: She has a thing about this place. Sometimes I find her here. Usually in the big bedroom upstairs. I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline: before I even have time to process the intention, I’ve grabbed the ashtray and dropped it in the bin. I sit back down opposite Carrie, my heart still thumping.

  “Well, I guess you really don’t like smokers.” She has pulled the sleeves of her dressing gown over her hands, and she covers her mouth with both hands as she yawns. It looks like she’s stifling a scream. “Is it still called a windowsill if it’s on the outside?” she muses.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “Never mind. Just my brain waking up.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. Carrie is savoring her coffee, and I am trying not to see a wild-eyed young girl sitting cross-legged on Carrie’s bed, smoke curling up from a lit cigarette. Though perhaps Carrie was right: perhaps it really was left over by the previous renters. But who smokes leaning out of an upstairs window? A rebellious teen perhaps? Though not the teenager that I was—like Carrie, I could never stomach the smell, so my rebellions came in other forms—but surely a teen would be camped in one of the smaller bedrooms? Then perhaps a parent of a young child, who is trying to quit. My own mother smoked, though not with Carrie; she quit when she was pregnant with her. She knew more about the ill effects then, I suppose. Or she cared more. I look across at Carrie again with so little of our mother in her features, and suddenly I’m wondering how much common ground we really share: three quarters of our DNA is different, and all of our upbringing. Surely we are far more different than alike—can we really find a way to connect after all these years? I cast around for something to say, something to distract me from the unease that has anchored itself around my breastbone, and catch sight of the kitchen clock: quarter past eight. If Carrie was cutting it fine before, she must surely be late now. “I can drive you to the station if you like.”

  “Oh, would you?” She brightens. “That would be
great. I should get in the shower.” She pushes back her chair, taking the coffee mug with her, then stops in the doorway, frowning. “Your meeting with the lawyer isn’t until this afternoon, right? What are you going to do with your morning?”

  What I want to do is get some good quality sleep, but I don’t say that. “It’s not till quarter past three. I thought I might go up to the hotel this morning. Take a look at the health club the estate agent told us about.” She doesn’t need to know that priority number one is actually to call a locksmith. Preferably one that can do the job this very day.

  “If they have spinning classes, maybe I’ll join too.”

  I am momentarily thrown. “You like spinning?” I would have picked her for a yoga enthusiast: all contorted positions and inner peace.

  “Nope, not really. But yoga always seems like a cop-out, and I hate running with a passion, so . . .”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll check.” My eyes follow her as she leaves the kitchen, the dressing gown flapping around her. There must be any number of times that I have watched her leave a room, probably thousands in the seven years our lives crossed over, but none of those half-remembered occasions have any relevance now. It’s like studying for an exam and then finding that the curriculum has entirely changed. I’m starting from scratch.

  My father is living under an assumed name in Europe. He wears flash suits that jar with the years on his face and dyes his gray hair with Just For Men. He travels in and out of European cities with an extraordinary quantity of gemstones hidden about his person, doesn’t file taxes and always has hard cash on hand. He drinks too much on his own in bars when he’s away from home. He drinks too much on his own when he’s at home, too, in his poky rental flat with barely any furniture and a gun in his sock drawer. It doesn’t matter anyway. It won’t be cirrhosis of the liver that kills him.