In The Garden Of Stones (11 page)

Sitting
and dining share the main living room: sofa, armchair, a glass
topped dining table with four chairs. A small but well equipped
kitchen is in a separate area, the change from carpet to slate
tiles the line of demarcation. The only bedroom has space enough
for a double bed, a dressing table and a chest of
drawers.

The
bathroom is basic to say the least: loo, bath with a shower over,
small washbasin with a mirrored cabinet, and a heated towel rail.
The common perception would be that there is hardly room to swing
the proverbial cat, but for Grace, it’s enough.

As she
unpacks it becomes clear that there is no way the built-in closet
will hold all the clothes and shoes and bags she has accumulated
during her spells of retail therapy. A severe pruning is called
for.

She
invokes the 80:20 rule ruthlessly, and before the end of the day
the local charity shop has benefited from a generous donation of
her superfluous designer goods, some still with their original
price tags attached.

Looking
around the flat, clean, tidy, devoid of all the extraneous
fripperies that served no purpose other than to gather dust, Grace
has an epiphany. Most of her stuff is gone, and she doesn’t miss
it.

She’d
spent too much money on things she didn’t need, didn’t even want,
bought simply for show, for the fleeting ephemeral glow of
satisfaction at owning something exclusive and expensive, and now
she is rid of it she feels physically and spiritually lighter. She
is going to start this new simpler phase of her life with a clean
slate, kettle and coffee, somewhere warm to sleep, hot water on
tap, a flushing toilet and a wine shop around the corner. All the
fundamentals of civilisation without the frills. What else does she
need?

Mr
Pickles, her fat and lazy grey tom cat gives his own seal of
approval, stalking around the flat with his tail in the air as if
he owns the place, taking up a vantage point on the back of the
sofa to watch Grace work, to groom himself while he waits for
dinner time to come around.

A scene
of cosy domestic bliss.

She
could have afforded a bigger place in a more affluent area, because
lucky Grace sold her business as a going concern, her flat for more
than the market value, and has lived frugally at Alec’s for the
last ten months or so, and her bank balance is fat and
healthy.

In fact,
she could have had the pick of any of the properties on the
agency’s books and might well have if it hadn’t been for an
unremarkable pair of French windows set into the rear wall of this
flat, or more specifically, what lay beyond them.

The
moment she laid eyes on them she knew that Fate had gifted her this
place, and there was no way she could turn it down.

Why so
special?

The
windows open onto a tiny balcony overlooking a communal garden – a
postage stamp area of grass, a barbecue and a whirly, nothing
remarkable there, but over the fence, beyond the houses in the next
street, almost out of sight except to eyes drawn to it, she can see
a high stone wall surrounding what looks like a long neglected
overgrown garden, and the instant Grace sees it, her only thought
is for Colin McLeod, hard at work tending to his beautiful roses,
and the peaceful solitude of the garden of stones.

She
signs the lease without hesitation, goes home to Alec’s place and
packs her stuff.

An
intense late summer shower tumbles big fat rain drops from purple
green clouds to batter the rooftops, overflow gutters, put a shine
on the dull grey slates and fill the potholes with greasy
puddles.

Then, as
if a tap has been turned off, the downpour stops and the sun comes
out, painting a rainbow against the gunmetal grey, a glorious arc
of colour pointing the way to that elusive crock of gold. Every
blade and leaf of foliage in the surrounding gardens is
rejuvenated, glowing in contrast against the bruised
sky.

Grace is
too busy charting on a street map how she will reach the abandoned
walled garden behind her flat to pay the weather too much
attention. Cloudbursts are common enough at this time of year,
particularly if the day has been warm and humid.

She
traces a route with her finger.

“
There doesn’t seem to be any direct access through the
garden, nor any connecting back streets or alleyways,” she says to
her disinterested cat. “I will have to stick to the main road and
the side streets and go the long way round, a walk of about a mile
and a half in total. Not far, and provided I don’t get lost, it
should take me about half an hour.”

Clad in
her bright pink Wellington boots and waterproof coat, and carrying
both map and an umbrella, Grace lets herself out of the front door
of the building in which her flat is but one of eight, turns right,
and sets off along the patchily drying pavement.

She
follows the map, sticking to the faint pencil line drawn on it, and
there it is.

Taller
than she is by at least five feet, a rough hewn granite block wall
topped with a short spiked railing. No chance of climbing over
that, especially not in wellies and carrying a brolly.

“
Find the gate. Big walls always have a gate.”

A
corner, a turn, and more of the same; blank grey stone stubbornly
unbroken by any means of access.

Running
close to the wall is a flattened strip of earth and stones, scuffed
bare over the years by the feet of thousands of children as they
take a shortcut from the housing estate to the local school,
discarding Coke bottles, fizzy drink cans, empty crisp packets and
other sundry detritus along the way. The modern day equivalent of a
Hansel and Gretel trail of breadcrumbs.

The face
of the wall is spray painted with garish graffiti tags, misspelled
swear words and the occasional stylised willy. All very artistic,
but there is still no gate to be seen.

Onward
to the next corner which takes Grace into a short street with a
rough unmade up road and a row of neat cottages, each with its own
small front garden. A woman with shopping bags at her feet is
letting herself into her bright red front door. Maybe she knows if
there is a gate. Grace trots across the road, hailing the
woman.

“
Excuse me!”

The
woman turns to see who is calling.

“
Sorry to bother you,” Grace says. “But I was wondering …
this place …” She indicates the high stone wall across the way. “Do
you know anything about it?”

The woman looks at her, head cocked slightly to one side.
“It’s The Larches,” she says, as if
everyone
already knew.

“
Does anyone live there?”

“
No. It’s been empty for…” She puffs out her cheeks. “...
going on fifty years now. Last folks moved out when I was a girl
and the place was all locked up, although that didn’t stop us
climbing over and playing in there. We used to call it the haunted
house, so it was a bit of a dare for us kids to sneak up to it and
see if we could see the ghost. It’s fallen into wrack and ruin
since, too dangerous even for the druggies and winos. Council
finally came and declared it unsafe a couple of years ago, chained
and locked it. Nobody’s been near it since. Shame
really.”

“
So there is a way in? A gate?”

“
Round the front, off the Dalmedie Road, but like I said,
it’s all chained and locked. You can’t get in. Do you mind if I ask
why you want to know?”

“
I can see it from my flat, and I absolutely love old
places,” says Grace. “Would you happen to know if there is a
private graveyard in there?”

The
woman nods. “Actually … yes, there is. It was probably quite pretty
in its day. Neglected now of course. We used to call
it–”

“
The Garden of Stones?”

“
How did you know that?”

“
I just knew it would be.” Grace beams at the woman. “Thank
you so very much. You have been brilliant.”

“
Pleasure, I’m sure.”

A little
more walking, another turn, and Grace is at the main entrance to
the long abandoned Larches, standing before the chained together
gates with their ornate wrought iron birds and butterflies and ears
of wheat.

Chapter 12

An
electronic chirping and beeping has Grace scrabbling for her
handbag. Instead of rooting about in its depths, she tips the
contents onto the sofa and picks up her viciously vibrating mobile
phone.

Unknown
number. Should she risk answering it? If it’s a cold caller trying
to tell her she can claim for a mis-sold PPI, she might just tear
him off a strip, she’s in that sort of mood.

“
Hello?”

“
Grace? It’s Malcolm Pettit. You missed your appointment.
Are you okay?”

How did
he get her number? She didn’t give it to him. Alec of course.
Trying to be helpful as usual.

“
Grace, are you there?”

Sigh.
“Yes, I’m here.”

“
Where were you? I was worried. Is everything
alright?”

“
I’m fine.”

“
You sure?”

“
Yes.”

“
So why did you not come? The coffee went cold and I had to
eat all the biscuits myself.”

“
I’ve been busy,” she says. “I forgot.”

Liar.

“
I understand you’ve moved.”

“
Yes.”

“
Nice place? Settling in?”

“
Yes, to both.”

“
Good. It’s a positive step, moving forward.”
A long
pause.
“Shall we make another appointment?”
he says.
“I’m free tomorrow afternoon,
if you’re not too busy.”

Subtle.
Give her next to no notice, no time to make excuses.

“
You still want to see me?”

“
Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You are my number one
client.”

“
I thought … after what I said last time … about the bruises
on my arm …” Pause. “I got the idea you didn’t believe me and
thought I was making it up for attention, to get more
time.”

“
Don’t be ridiculous.”
She hears him sniff.
“I will admit, I was a bit taken
aback by your explanation–”

He is
diplomatic if nothing else. He missed out the words 'frankly
preposterous'.

“–
and, I will admit, I didn’t know how to respond for the
best at the time. It was very unprofessional of me. I’m sorry if
you got the wrong impression.”
Pause.
“Come and see me tomorrow afternoon,
Grace. We can talk about it.”

Silence.

“
Grace?”

She
catches her top lip against her bottom teeth and bites into it,
closing her eyes. “Okay,” she says.

“
Smashing. How does three o’clock suit?”

“
I have to suss out the bus timetable, but I’ll try my best
to be on time.”

“
I can wait for you. I have nothing else on. See you then,
then. Take care. Cheerio.”

The call
ends, yet she holds onto the mobile phone, sighs and drops the
device back into her bag. She had planned to go back to the Larches
tomorrow, to have a look around and then go to the garden and tell
Colin all about it.

It will
have to wait now.

Mal
picks up the cafetiere and fills his cup. “Tell me how you’ve been
getting on. Are you finding the meditation any easier?”

“
Yes,” says Grace. “Much.”

“
And have you been anywhere interesting?”

“
The same place as before.”

“
The garden? Was your imaginary friend there,
too?”

“
Yes. And this time he didn’t just try and throw me out … he
tried to kill me instead.”

Mal’s
hand jerks, sloshing coffee over the side of her cup and into the
saucer. “Excuse me?”

“
He tried to slice me open with a scythe. Now you tell me,
doctor, what better symbol of death is there than that?”

Mal dabs
at the spilled coffee with his handkerchief. “What
happened?”

“
I’d just put the dinner on and had time for a glass of wine
before Alec and Den got home, so I settled down for a little quiet
contemplation. I got to the garden and there he was, Colin, running
something over the blade of this great big scythe. I say hello and
he swings round, scythe in hand, and slices my top open. For a
second I thought he’d split me in two. I didn’t dare move in case
both halves slid apart.”

“
Obviously he hadn’t.”

“
No, but it scared the living crap out of me.”

“
He couldn’t really have killed you, you know?”

She
leans forward in her chair. “I was going to ask you about that.
What it means. Some people say that if you die in your dream, you
die in real life.”

“
Not true,” Mal says. “Dying in your dream doesn’t mean
physical death. It usually means the end of something before a new
beginning.”