Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

She broke out of the woods. Above her skylarks were twittering away, fluttering vertically up into the sky and then diving down again into the snow-patched heather.

The white tops of Ben Wyvis soared high above her. But there was a ridge about halfway up, and she thought she saw some movement on the skyline. She stopped and stared. Yes! A deer, silhouetted against the snowy slopes above. And another, grazing. And then one of them lifted its head and she could see the antlers. They were a long way away, but it was a magnificent sight.

She walked on, fast, relishing the exercise and the fresh air. She rounded the curve of the loch and the white cottage on the spit of land came into view. Once again, smoke rose in a twisted column from the chimney. A new blue Peugeot was parked on a gravel apron by the front door.

As she approached along the track, she thought she heard music: a guitar and some singing. A man in a blue parka was sitting on a stone right on the shore of the loch, holding a guitar and staring out at the rocky wall opposite.

Clémence hesitated and then approached. The man knew what he was doing. The voice had a kind of gravelly clarity. She was only a few feet away from the figure and she stopped. He hadn’t noticed her, but she didn’t want to interrupt him, partly because it was rude, and partly because she wanted to hear the rest of the song, which she didn’t recognize.

But then he stopped mid verse, and stared at his guitar, thoughtfully.

She coughed.

The man whipped round. He was thin, tall with a short neat grey beard, very short grey hair and blue eyes surrounded by crows’ feet.

‘Whoa! You scared me!’ he said. ‘This isn’t the kind of place you expect an audience.’

‘Well you’ve got one,’ said Clémence. ‘So don’t let me stop you. Play something else.’

He shrugged. ‘OK.’ He started playing a few chords that Clémence instantly recognized: ‘My Woman Wept For Me’, a folk song from the seventies by Don Ahern. He played it more slowly than she remembered it.

She perched on the other end of the rock a few feet away from him and listened. The music, and the loch, and the sunshine on her face, and the cool crisp air, made her heart sing. Clémence wasn’t good at being grumpy. This was just what she needed.

‘That was lovely,’ she said, when the man had finished.

‘You recognize it?’ the man said. He had an American accent.

‘My parents played it all the time. It reminds me of growing up.’

The man smiled and nodded to himself, clearly pleased.

An absurd thought hit Clémence. ‘You’re not Don Hellerman?’ From what she could remember of Don Hellerman he was small with long dark curly hair, but maybe she had got that wrong.

‘Don died ten years ago,’ said the man. ‘But I did write this song.’

‘Wow!’ said Clémence. ‘Are you really famous?’

The man chuckled. ‘No, sadly not. Don’s producer heard me play it in 1971 and contacted me a year later, asking me if Don could use it. I guess he did a better job. But I still prefer it my way.’

‘Have you written any other hits?’ Clémence asked.

‘A few near misses, a bunch of advertising jingles, but that’s the only one. So far. That’s why I came here. I live in California, but I needed to get away to try something new. Way way away.’ He leaned over towards her and held out his hand. ‘Jerry. Jerry Ranger.’

‘Clémence Smith,’ said Clémence shaking it.

‘Are you staying up at Culzie?’

‘Yes. I’m looking after Dr Cunningham.’

‘Is he OK? Sheila told me he had taken a tumble.’

‘I think he’s OK. But he’s lost his memory. It’s the weirdest thing, amnesia.’

‘He can’t remember anything?’

‘Absolutely nothing. Or nothing important. He couldn’t remember who he is, they had to tell him. That’s part of what I am doing. Most of it. Trying to jog his memory.’

‘Is it working?’ Jerry asked.

‘I think so. Slowly.’

‘Well, tell him I wish him a quick recovery,’ said Jerry. ‘I’ve been here for three weeks now; we’ve spoken a few times, had a couple of drinks together. Nice guy, once you get to talk to him.’

‘I will tell him, if you like, but I doubt very much if he will remember who you are.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Jerry. He frowned. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Do you want to drop by and help me?’ Clémence asked. ‘He might remember something more easily that’s more recent. And I don’t know very much about his past, which makes it difficult.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Jerry. ‘Although he did talk about Australia some. He used to live in the hills near Perth before he came here. And he did some stuff with eagles there, capturing them and counting them. He got all excited about the pair of golden eagles up the other end of the loch. They nest in the cliffs of Meall Mòr.’ He smiled at Clémence. ‘But sure, I’ll drop by.’

‘Great,’ Clémence said. ‘Play something else. And then I had better get back.’

She had been away nearly two hours by the time she returned to the cottage. The old man was out — he must have gone for his own walk. This troubled Clémence; she wasn’t sure whether he was fit enough to go out on his own. She considered looking for him, but then she decided to take advantage of his absence to make some phone calls first.

She called Callum on his mobile. He sounded as pleased to hear her voice as she was to hear his.

‘Hey, Clemmie, how are you?’

‘I’m OK, I suppose, but the weirdest thing is happening here. Tell me if I sound mental, but I’ve found this book in the old guy’s house. I think he killed my grandmother!’

She explained it all to Callum, who listened carefully. ‘Are you sure you should be there with him alone?’ Callum asked when she had finished.

‘Yeah, it’s OK. He doesn’t seem dangerous, and my aunt wouldn’t let me stay here if it was a problem.’

‘I don’t know, Clemmie,’ said Callum.

That pulled Clémence up a bit. Callum might be a year younger than her, but he was one of the most sensible guys she knew. If he was worried, maybe she should be.

‘I’m sure I’ll be OK,’ she said. Then she had an idea. ‘Do you want to come here and keep me company?’

‘Maybe I should. I am a bit worried about you.’

Clémence’s heart leaped. They hadn’t been going out very long, but Clémence really really liked him, and what was cool was the more she got to know him, the more that liking grew. She had the strong impression he felt the same way about her.

‘It’s beautiful up here. You could bring your bike — there’s a good track beside the loch. Maybe you could take it on the train and ride it up here? Or I could pick you up in Livvie’s car, although I don’t think we could fit the bike in the boot.’

‘Thinking about it, I’d better not,’ said Callum. ‘I’ve only just started at the pub, and I can’t take shifts off right away. Plus I need the money.’

‘I understand,’ said Clémence. She was disappointed, but on the other hand she was pleased with his concern, and she could tell from his voice that he genuinely wanted to come. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Look after yourself, Clemmie.’

‘I will.’

Next was Aunt Madeleine in New York. Her phone was answered on the fourth ring by a woman with a Hispanic accent, a maid presumably. She said that Mrs Giannelli had said that Clémence might call and that Mrs Giannelli expected to be in Scotland the following day. She was flying to Heathrow overnight and then to Edinburgh and taking a train from there to Dingwall. She would get a taxi to Dr Cunningham’s address.

All this was clearly read out from a note left by Aunt Madeleine, and that was all the maid knew.