Sewing the Shadows Together

Alison Baillie

Copyright © 2015 Alison Baillie

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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This book is dedicated to my lovely sons and granddaughter

– Alec, John and Akira

I’m alone in the park. The September moon rises over the Forth and a chill breeze rustles through the branches of the old trees. I pull my cardigan round my shoulders and feel the rough wood of the bench through my thin skirt. In the stillness, the water of the burn gurgles through the bushes. Shona hasn’t come back. I’m late, I’ll be in trouble. I feel a mixture of betrayal and anxiety. My best friend told me to wait and didn’t come back.

Behind me, a crackle of leaves. A movement in the shadows, a long black coat, the blur of a white face shining pale in the moonlight. Logan Baird. I am breathless with panic. I try to run but my legs won’t move.

*

Sarah lay in her bed shaking, her skin clammy. The duvet had slipped off and Rory’s side of the bed lay empty. It was more than thirty years since Logan Baird had murdered Shona, but in that grey void between sleep and consciousness the memories still haunted her.

Tom McIver walked along the empty promenade. Portobello had not changed much in the last thirty-seven years: the same wide sweep of the bay, the faint distant coastline of Fife and the huge pale sky. Although it was nearly ten o’clock at night, the daylight was still dissolving slowly into darkness.

He’d forgotten how long the summer evenings were in Scotland; so different from South Africa, where the evening sun sank quickly, the southern hemisphere darkness dropping like a cloak. He thought briefly of drinking sundowners, watching the sky change colour over Plettenberg Bay, but the image melted and the fishy Scottish air brought him back to the present.

He never thought he’d come back to this place where he’d spent the first sixteen years of his life. But when his mother clutched his hand and begged him to scatter her ashes on Eriskay, the island of her birth, he’d made the promise to come back to Scotland. He’d planned to go straight to the Western Isles, but the nearer the trip came, the more he realised he couldn’t avoid Portobello. He had to come back to confront the memories he’d tried to bury for the whole of his adult life.

The buildings that edged the wide pedestrian walkway were still distinguishable in the grainy evening light: the grim bulk of the Free Presbyterian Church, the red stone of the municipal baths where he’d learnt to swim, the run-down row of cafés and shops. Then he saw the looming shadow of Brunstane High, his old school, the playground walls topped with broken glass shards. He shuddered; he was glad the school reunion he’d impulsively signed up for was not being held in this building.

Sooner than he expected, he found himself at the more residential end of the prom. Abercorn Park stretched back from the shore into the darkness, fringed by a row of large, late Victorian villas. A group of teenagers lounged on the roundabout in the children’s playground. Behind them, the stark silhouette of the slide stretched up in front of a cluster of old trees and in front of him the waters of the burn disappeared into the dark hole of the culvert which ran under the prom. He felt a shudder run through him; it was where Shona’s body had been found.

He forced himself to go further and after only a few yards saw the red-stone tenement where his family had lived. The door at Number 28 was newly-painted, with entry phones replacing the brass bell pulls, but otherwise it seemed almost unchanged.

Looking up to the third floor, he saw the window of his old room and memories of those nightmare days came flooding back: Shona’s empty bedroom, the police questions, the journalists on the doorstep. His chest tightened. He couldn’t stand and look any longer. In the gathering darkness he hurried back to his small room in the Regent Guesthouse and lay down on the floral bedspread. He’d known it would be hard to come back, but it was even worse than he’d imagined.

He reached for the remote control and pinged on the television, not caring what was on, just wanting to blank out his thoughts. It was some kind of chat show, where the guest, an attractive red-head, was wiping tears from her cheeks and smiling bravely for the camera.

The shot cut to the interviewer. The voice attracted Tom’s attention first and when he looked more carefully there was something familiar about him. The well-cut suit and the perfectly-groomed grey hair threw him off track at first, but then he was certain. The smile, the smooth sympathetic tones, the angle of the head as he leant towards his guest took him back to his school days.

The host turned towards the camera and gave an intimate smile. ‘So that’s all for tonight. I’d like to thank my guest, Mara O’Callaghan, for speaking to us so openly, and to you all for watching. It’s good night from me, Rory Dunbar, and keep safe until we meet again next week.’ With a final dazzling smile the interviewer turned towards Mara as the picture faded.

Rory Dunbar! He’d been in his class at school, lived in the next stair and they’d mucked about together. Tom had been glad to be part of Rory’s golden circle, because even back then Rory had been the one all the girls fancied and all the boys wanted to emulate. Tom wasn’t surprised he’d been the one to succeed.

Rory would probably be at the school reunion tomorrow. Tom wondered, not for the first time, if it had really been such a great idea to sign up for it. When he’d looked at the school Facebook page and seen it was on this weekend it had seemed like fate, but now he wasn’t so sure.

*

Sarah clicked off the TV as her husband gave his trademark sign-off and felt the intense quiet in the high-ceilinged Georgian drawing room. She looked at the school photos of the twins on the tall mahogany chest. She’d been so happy when they were growing up; her life was full and she’d almost forgotten what had happened when she was young, but now they’d moved out into their own flats, the house was so empty and there was no escape from her memories.

As she walked into the darkness of her bedroom, she wondered if Rory would be back tonight. No doubt he would have to comfort Mara in her distress.

The phone rang. Sarah wondered whether to answer it. It wouldn’t be Rory, he never phoned but perhaps it was her mother, or one of the twins. After hesitating over the handset, she picked it up and instantly regretted it, hearing the chirpy tones of Patsy Mills.

‘Oh hi, how are you? All ready for tomorrow?’

Her heart sank. The school reunion. She didn’t want to go and, as Patsy kept reminding her, it wasn’t even for her year – just the four classes that had started Brunstane High in 1971. She was only being allowed to attend because she was married to Rory.

‘Oh, Patsy, I’m fine. Just going to bed, actually. How are you?’

‘Is Rory there? I just wanted to check that he’ll be at the Craigie Arms at six for the pre-dinner drinks.’

‘He’s not back yet – but I’m sure we’ll be there on time. I’ll remind him as soon as he gets in. But Patsy I’m going to have to go now because… ’ she hesitated as she searched around for an excuse, ‘I’ve got something on the stove. See you, sleep well.’ She put the phone down, still hearing Patsy squawking until the final click cut her off.