A Private Haunting Read online

  Tom McCulloch is from the Highlands of Scotland. He currently lives in Oxford with his family. With his first novel, The Stillman, he became an Amazon Rising Star.

  By the same author

  The Stillman

  Published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland.

  www.sandstonepress.com

  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.

  Copyright (c) Tom McCulloch 2016

  The moral right of Tom McCulloch to be recognised as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges support from

  Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBN: 978-1-910985-15-1

  ISBNe: 978-1-910985-16-8

  Cover design by Blacksheep, London

  Ebook Compilation by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

  For my grandfather, Bert, and

  the Good Doctor Graeme Ainslie, my brother.

  You must let fall body and mind.

  Ju-ching

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Epilogue

  One

  His dead aunt was a psychopath. Fletcher didn’t know this back then. She fitted the types he read later in the Hare checklist: grandiose sense of self-worth; cunning; lack of empathy and self-responsibility; short-term marital relationships (four times married). The village was still full of her. He tried to concentrate on the house across the road and the man within but all he could think of was her. A God-awful woman. He almost braced himself for the familiar slap.

  Blasphemer!

  Yet a religious hypocrite too, first in church and first to judge. She could piss right off. And Him too.

  The changes didn’t bother him, Parker’s Ironmonger now the café he was sitting in, Donati’s chip shop a sandwich bar, the play-park with the treacherous Witch’s Hat roundabout in-filled with red-brick flats, so many aspirational conservatories built into back gardens.

  Merry England-dom, his aunt called it. Fletcher could smell it, the pretentious pride of the petty bourgeoisie. He looked round the dreary café, wondering again what he was doing here.

  His aunt wouldn’t like him staring out the window like this. Goggling, she would call it. Not that it stopped her. The image was bold in his memory: his aunt at the bleached nets, peering out. Fletcher would creep up on her but she was never ashamed at being caught, only annoyed he’d interrupted. Get away, she’d say, shoo, a greedy woman who couldn’t share.

  He never complained. To complain was to invite another slap. He’d listen to his aunt’s surveillance report at the dinner table, his uncle barely listening, his little sister bored; Mrs Jones, what’s in all those packages...? Mr Soames was round at that tart Angie again… the Browns were arguing, surprise, surprise... In this way Fletcher found out what he hadn’t been allowed to see, his imagination filling the gaps. Sometimes his whole life felt like that.

  ‘You want a refill?’

  Fletcher looked up. The man was about forty. Behind the sagging face and disappointed eyes were echoes of someone remembered. The question was repeated, the words only now reaching him. Do you want another? He looked down at his long-finished coffee, eyes moving to the little black flecks in the sugar bowl. He wanted to count them again.

  ‘Well?’

  The clock on the wall said ten fifteen. He’d ordered his coffee at eight thirty. One hour forty-five minutes ago.

  ‘Yes,’ he decided. ‘And a teacake.’

  ‘A teacake?’

  ‘No butter. Just plain.’

  ‘Dry?’ The man’s eyes flicked across his face, lingering for a moment on the untidy beard.

  ‘A dry teacake.’

  The man ambled back to the counter. His trousers were black and a bit too short, Fletcher’s shiny grey and too long, as if he had shrunk. They made him angry and he made a priority of getting rid of them as soon as the opportunity arose. He fidgeted with the zipper on his black bomber jacket, buttoned right up to the neck. His head bobbed above and he wondered what it looked like. Maybe a sweaty red apple, on the turn, his cropped hair like grey mould.

  Fletcher had time. The saggy-faced man didn’t know this. If he chose, and Fletcher might, he could sit in this café all day. He’d learned patience in a way the man would never understand. Nor the few customers, none of them, who came and drank and ate and pissed and left. They didn’t try to hide their stares at the bearded man with the bomber jacket and shiny trousers. It didn’t matter to him. They could point and laugh and none of it meant anything.

  The patch he’d cleared on the window was steaming up but the house across the street still vaguely visible. The man was in there, crying maybe, he could be a secret depressive. Or on the toilet, a bad curry the night before. Fletcher hadn’t had a curry in a long time and considered having one later, there was an Indian takeaway up the road that hadn’t been there before. A newsagent’s too, and a scruffy hairdresser’s with a sad-eyed teenager.

  The waiter returned with his coffee. At 11 am he bought another. He would buy twelve more over the next three days, sitting at the same table by the window. The longer he sat there, the more he assimilated the changes. It was all about reconnaissance and interpretation. He had a long-developed ability to easily step into a new scenario. Skilled, he thought.

  By day two he was familiar with the new shops and houses, by day three the café felt reasonably comfortable and by day four he’d established the regulars. The man in the house across the street had also come into a clearer focus. Fletcher had seen him many times now, each sighting another reminder that his role in life was to offer his bollocks for a regular kicking.

  The front garden was an overgrown mess. This didn’t bother Fletcher at all, unlike the living room light. It was always on, a fact that annoyed him almost as much as his shiny trousers.

  There was no need for that light given the dazzling sun of this long, hot summer, the best in fifteen years he heard the saggy-faced waiter say. He wanted to break in and switch the damn thing off. Instead, he wrote LIGHTS in big reverse letters on the steamed-up window. The coffee was good. Fletcher savoured it, counting how long it took the LIGHTS to fade, slightly unsettled that it didn’t completely disappear, a phantom lingering behind the fresh steam.

  Two

  Jonas Mortensen lay under the cold water. Both arms floated free. No bubbles from the mouth.

  Say a stranger, a beautiful woman, a beautiful naked woman, was looking down on him. What a strange introduction. Never mind how this woman came to be in his bathroom, that was irrelevant, just imagine what she’d make
of it. She was probably thinking about cause and effect, the series of unknown choices which could only have led to this moment. She’d study the face, wondering what his final thought might have been, perhaps his mother, his first pet, the love that got away. A one-eyed children’s doll? The possibility was remote.

  Jonas decided to breathe, his corpse-like serenity erupting into splutters and coughs as he rose from the water in a near panic. Two minutes twenty-three. He had no idea why a forty-five-year-old man did this other than he liked the feeling of inordinate happiness that grew alongside the burning urge to breathe. And c’mon, he was a professional. He had a handle on it, control. Like free-divers who knew the optimum depth, Jonas always came up in time.

  He sat breathing heavily, staring at the dripping tap. His head hurt a bit, maybe from these obsessive thoughts about the doll. A scuffed, grubby face, long black eyelashes around the right eye and the left eye missing. A ragged white dress with a lacy design around the collar.

  It had been said, and Jonas wouldn’t disagree, that he was a man of eccentric impulse. It explained the decision to do the loft insulation at the height of summer and, by extension, explained the doll. At least, the appearance of the doll, not the reason, which was very different.

  He’d seen the pile of carpets in the far corner of the attic many times. What he hadn’t done was take any notice of them. But today, to fit the insulation, he did, pulling them aside to find a shoebox. Clarks, said the lid. He hesitated before opening it. It was the setting. A dark loft, skylight sun angling through dust. It might have winked, lying there in its little cardboard coffin.

  Despite the cold bath he was sweating within five minutes. Thirty degrees for over two weeks. High humidity. The whole village seemed edgy, a collective desire for a decent night’s sleep.

  He padded naked into the living room and realised he’d left the lights on again. They frustrated him hugely, these forgettings, his complacent contribution to the dooming of the planet.

  An exhibitionist urging took him to the net-curtained window, just as a group of girls from The Hub passed. None looked in as his gaze moved to the strip of cracked slabs and feral vegetation that was the front garden. He kept it that way deliberately. Told Gladstone in the café he liked to see what the weeds would do next. Gladstone just frowned; the dude lacked wonder.

  ‘How you doing, doll-face?’

  He slumped down on the armchair beside the wood-burning stove. The doll stared back with its one good eye. He’d sat it on a stool, opposite the chair on the other side of the stove.

  ‘I’ve got you pegged as a pessimist but I don’t know why. I apologise if I’m doing you a disservice.’

  Jonas stared for a few more moments then looked away, around the burglary scene that was the living room. Scattered books, wood shavings and bits of twine, dirty mugs and magazines, even a bit of old toast beside the log basket. The mess was so demoralising he fled into the kitchen, the stacks of dirty dishes making him back straight out. He’d have to clean up before he got a cleaner.

  Back in the living room Li Po stared out from the Chinese scroll painting hanging above the mantelpiece. Quietly admonishing, as ever. What did a poor man have to do to please that guy?

  * * *

  The crew picked him up at midday. Eggers was driving the yellow Iveco tipper, Boss Hogg beside him. Davis and Johnson grinned in the rear seats, nudging each other like the school-boys they’d been until a few weeks ago. The day before, he’d caught them doing wanker signs behind his back. Daft lads, that’s all, Jonas’s nature as benign as mulled wine in the snow.

  Eggers wanted to know why he’d taken the morning off, sparking a spirit-leaching conversation about insulation that lasted the length of the journey up to the works site. Eggers had all the answers, naturally. There’s grants available, you Norse plum, and if you’d come to me...

  Potholes.

  Always the potholes. The politician who solved the pothole problem would be more loved than Mandela.

  Today’s fix site touched the sky. Flatlands-style, two hundred metres up! He smiled when people here talked about hills. He knew black tarns and eagle peaks. That spook in an empty valley. The tremors here were different. Limestone plateaus. Big sky and ghost winds.

  And places like this.

  The Rollright Stones. Three bows for karma, do enough terrible jobs and the diamond eventually sparkles. They peered back through hawthorn as Jonas set out traffic cones on the single-track. Two hundred metres away in the opposite direction Eggers did the same. Safe-zone set, Boss Hogg chain-smoked rollies until that mysterious moment of action.

  Jonas waited. He lay in the middle of the circle, splayed like an angel and staring up into depthless blue. He had been to the stones a few times. Every visit made him think of Big Haakon, that childhood fulcrum, Larvik’s pre-eminent drinker in a town with more than its fair share. He pictured him, the maniac who revealed the old ways, six foot five and army surplus combat trousers, whirling a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt as he danced the Neolithic ring in bare feet, round and again, a sudden sense of falling upwards making Jonas close his eyes, the blue becoming ever-shifting kaleid-o-colours abruptly shattered by move your arse, you lazy fucker.

  Boss Hogg put Davis and Johnson on the sweep and shovel, Jonas and Eggers on the stop-go lollipops.

  Top result for the J-Man, too hot to be messing around with tar, so watch the cars and wave to the drivers, who all waved back but one. Souped-up Subaru, young male, braking to a last-second halt. Boy Subaru made the mistake of revving and Jonas looked over his shoulder. Way down by Eggers on the other end of the fix site a cyclist had appeared. So Jonas held the lolly on red, Boy Subaru rev-edging but impotent, stranded until the cyclist passed.

  Somewhere on blue a red kite mewled. As if to remind him not to take the bait, to let go the contempt of Boy Subaru, whose eyes said, forty-five years old and you’re holding a road sign in the middle of nowhere? What happened? Well, young man, nothing had happened. I, Jonas Mortensen, have come to be. I have come to be here. That is enough and that is all. He smiled and closed his eyes. The southerly wind was warm and Boy Subaru’s after-fug was soon evaporating, the engine fading. The world re-asserted. There were elderflowers to be collected. Jonas picked them as the hours passed, twirling the occasional lolly.

  When he got home the one-eyed doll hadn’t moved. Lazy swine, he thought, then realised that the doll could do whatever it damn well wanted. It belonged here, much more than Jonas did.

  Six years he’d lived at End Point. And someone once told him the house had been empty for seven more before that. All of which meant One Eye had been skulking in the loft for at least thirteen years. He should be deferring to the doll, breaking out his best little tea-set and baking some tiny cupcakes. Maybe then she’d let on who hid her away in the old shoebox.

  ‘What do you say to that?’

  The doll said nothing.

  ‘You want some dinner?’

  The doll chose that moment to fall off the stool.

  It made sense.

  Jonas believed that everything, animate or not, was interconnected, a meld rather than separate elements, connected one to the next. The whole, essentially, was more than its sum, a unity in itself. But lower the highbrow and Jonas was a pragmatist. So, instead of a fraught existential struggle breaking out as he pondered the meaning of a one-eyed doll falling off a stool at this particular moment on eternity’s rollercoaster, he started laughing, so loudly that his neighbour missed the dramatic last line on Eastenders. Then he made dinner. For one.

  * * *

  Cleaner wanted. Call Jonas on 07871 399747. Jonas had worked hard to be known only as Jonas but hesitated before he posted the advert through the Post Office door. The assumption. It nagged a bit.

  Lee and Danny nodded hello outside the village hall. Through a set of windowed doors on the inside, another fifteen or so kids milled around. The noise increased exponentially as he opened them, a mix of laughter, shouting and pulsing �
��Grime’ (Danny had explained).

  Mark waved flamboyantly from the kitchen. Long-time organiser of the youth club, The Hub, a man more camp than a field full of wigwams. Beside him were Wendy and Greg, fifty-something divorcees conducting a secret affair that everyone knew about. They had that usual just finished off look. An auburn-haired woman Jonas hadn’t met before was drying cups.

  ‘You still on the plants?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Flora. Think of margarine.’

  ‘I prefer butter.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘The old ones are the best, Jonas, like you.’

  ‘Time to give these damn kids some roots,’ said Jonas and let out a roar of ‘shuuuut UUUUUUP!’

  Five years he’d been volunteering now. The accounts, some admin, and he organised the annual trip to an outdoor activity centre. But the bushcraft was the main event. As Mark once said:

  ‘You can make fire? How cool is that?’

  What was even cooler was that the kids went for it without sarcasm. The present was app-ed up, dreaming in digital. Bow-drills and star navigation should be as appealing as Chlamydia.

  Jonas was thrilled. He was still thrilled, five years on. He taught them and he taught them well, having once upon a distant time been a teacher. And while he’d never be their friend he kind of wanted to be. Better a friend than some cool uncle figure, trying to get down with the kids, although a whiff of either meant the credibility bomb went boom. Disastrous, no way back to the normality that was fifteen teenagers milling around on a Friday night, discussing the often toxic members of the Umbellifer family and their hollow stems.

  ‘Know the plants,’ said Jonas.

  ‘Dig it,’ said Danny, who’d recently blossomed from a fourteen-year-old gangle-kid to a fifteen-year-old Johnny Depp-type with just enough angst to blind him to the female appeals.

  He passed Jonas a CD. DJ Fresh.