Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

Leaving her bag on the table, she ran towards him as he slipped away round the tree. Behind her she heard someone shouting her name, but she didn’t stop, she kept going under the huge shadowed canopy, jumping over the slippery black roots in the grass, running to the path beyond –

Which way?

There were two elderly ladies on the path in one direction, a family with a buggy in the other –

No Ryan Johnson.

‘Flora!’ Caroline came skidding up. ‘What are you doing ?’

‘It was Ryan Johnson.’

Caroline was holding her by both arms. ‘Flora –’

‘He was pretending he had a gun, pretending to shoot me… But I was too slow, and I – and now he’s gone and –’

‘And what do you reckon you’re going to accomplish by chasing after him?’

She felt all the energy, the adrenaline, draining out of her.

‘Let’s go back and get those coffees down us, yeah?’

‘He must have been following me. They must be watching the house.’

‘Okay, so maybe Neil can fix up a camera pointing at the street. And Flora, instead of running after him, maybe you should have got out your phone and filmed him?’

Flora stared at her. ‘What would happen to Beckie if we died? If Neil and I died…’

‘God, Flora! That’s not going to happen!’

‘The Johnsons would get her back, wouldn’t they?’

Caroline shook her head, taking Flora’s arm like she was ninety years old and guiding her back to the tables. ‘Of course not. The courts would hardly hand Beckie back to the family responsible for the murder of her adoptive parents.’

Flora stopped walking. ‘But what if they made it look like an accident or… or suicide…?’

‘Even then…’ But was there a hint of uncertainty in her frown?

‘Beckie was taken from them in a miscarriage of justice. While we’re still alive, yes, the courts aren’t going to disrupt Beckie’s life by giving her back to them, but if we were dead and there was no one else to take her…’

‘Someone in your family would take her. Look, if it would set your mind at rest, why don’t you appoint a guardian to look after Beckie if anything happens to you?’

Flora looked up into the canopy of the tree. Two birds were squabbling, flying at each other, beaks stabbing.

‘Our only close living relative is Pippa, Neil’s sister. She’s not exactly…’ She grimaced. ‘She’s into having adventures, backpacking, rock climbing…’

‘But she would put all that on hold for Beckie. I bet she’d do anything for Beckie.’

‘Pippa’s hardly had anything to do with her. A few flying visits, the odd five minutes on Skype…’

‘But blood’s thicker than…’ She stopped. ‘Sorry. I mean, she’s family, isn’t she? She’d step up?’

‘Here it’s, Maw,’ goes Connor, and chucks an envelope at my chebs. I’m lying back in my chair with a family-size Galaxy waiting for Bargain Hunt to come on.

‘’Bout fucking time,’ I goes, and I rip it open.

It’s the copy of the death certificate we ordered from the National Records of Scotland for Flora’s maw: Elizabeth Innes, died in St Andrews in 1989. I unfold it and me and Connor eyeball it.

Seems like Elizabeth Susan Innes died aged fifty-three, cause of death ‘Motor vehicle accident’. But the interesting bit’s no her death – it’s her maiden name. Hertz. That’s barry because it’s no exactly common, eh?

‘Right son. Get online at Scotland’s People and see what marriages you can find for some bastard Innes and Elizabeth Susan Hertz.’

‘If they really were Australian, I’ll have to get on the Australian site.’

‘Aye, get on that an’ all.’ I turn up the telly and sit back with my Galaxy. Fuck the fucking diet.

All through Bargain Hunt and the news, Connor’s tapping away on his laptop. News is all shite about Brexit, just a ten-second update on Mair on Reporting Scotland , saying the police enquiry is continuing and a neighbour has been taken in for questioning. Stupid fuckers havenae a fucking clue.

Literally.

That’s worth sharing so it is. ‘Havenae a fucking clue, eh son?’ I goes.

Connor rolls his eyes.

Neighbours starts and I’m onto the ginger and then Connor’s bringing me the laptop with a wee smile that’s no fooling no one, and I’m all ‘Cracked it son?’ and he’s trying to play it cool but he cannae, he goes, ‘God aye!’ and he dumps the laptop on me and goes, ‘Here’s a Scotland’s People entry for Elizabeth Susan Hertz, right, getting married to Alan Clark, in Peebles in 1968. Must be her, aye? That’s the only marriage listed. Doesnae give the details online, you have to send off for the certificate if you’re wanting it. Then there’s another record for Rachel Elizabeth Clark, born 1969 in Peebles. That fits with Flora’s age, eh? And an Alan Clark died in Peebles in 1975.’

‘Get us copies of they certificates, Connor. Elizabeth marry again to some fucker Innes?’

‘Naw.’ Connor’s grinning all over his spotty wee face. ‘I’m thinking Rachel and her maw must’ve changed their names, right, because when I Googled Rachel Clark… Check it!’

He brings up another screen. A Daily Record article.

‘There’s loads a’ hits!’ He’s peeing his pants. ‘Hundreds. But this’s it in a nutshell.’

I’m looking, and my gob is hanging open. ‘Christ on a cheesy biscuit.’

‘Aye. And that fucking bitch has Bekki.’

‘No for much longer, son. No for much longer.’ I’m reading down the article and God, I’m raging. Those fuckers gave Bekki to this bitch? I’m wanting to get out my chair and get round there and snatch our wean, but I cannae. This changes everything, aye, and it changes nothing.

‘Looks like we’re having us another wee road trip the morn, son.’

‘To Peebles?’

‘Naw, to the fucking moon.’

Flora knew they were talking about her. As Beckie gobbled her lunch and Flora sat at the table pretending to listen as she outlined her latest plan to get Edith to like her, she could see Neil and Caroline standing in the garden – ostensibly looking to see where the Johnson thug had got over the wall in case he had left any evidence – but she knew they were talking about her: poor pathetic Flora falling apart.

Neil was grimacing, and Caroline was touching his arm.

‘Isn’t it?’ Beckie said.

‘What, darling?’

‘Mum! You haven’t been listening!’

‘Sorry, I’m just tired, Beckie.’

Beckie’s little face was suddenly heartbreakingly serious. ‘I know. I’m sorry. You don’t want to be bothered by all this, like, stupid kids’ stuff. I don’t want a party anyway.’

‘Of course you do! I’m fine really, and it’ll be good for me to have something nice to concentrate on.’

‘Let’s just cancel. No one’s going to come anyway. It’s going to be shit.’

‘Beckie, don’t be ridiculous! And please don’t use that language.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Of course people will come. You’ve got lots and lots of friends.’

‘But they’re not allowed,’ said Beckie slowly, looking down at her bowl and scraping at the last of the soup.

‘Not allowed to come to the party? Why not?’

‘Thomas says his mum has been spreading these… rumours…’

Flora sighed. ‘What rumours ?’

‘About Dad being violent to a pregnant woman and you having… mental health issues and hitting me. And… that you and Dad are psycho and… stuff like that…’

‘Oh, Beckie!’

Beckie looked up at her with a tight smile. ‘It’s okay, Mum, anyone with half a brain knows it’s not true. Thomas says he’s been telling everyone that his mum is just a stirrer and that you and Dad are like really nice and fun. And that everything that’s happened is just because of the Johnsons twisting everything round on you when it’s them who’re the psychos and –’