Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

Clémence stood up and peered out of the window. ‘I’m going for a walk before Aunt Madeleine gets here. I need the fresh air. I’ll make us some lunch when I get back.’

The old man considered asking whether he could join her, but he had the feeling that part of what she wanted to do was to escape him. Besides which, he would slow her down. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘See you later.’

Clémence strode down the track through the woods to the loch. There was no sign of the sun that morning, and the waters of the loch were shades of grey — slate under the rock face of Meall Mòr, mercury in the middle, and near black under the trees by the shore. On the far side of the loch, clouds heavy with moisture, or perhaps snow, clustered around the screes on the upper slopes of the hills. A cold, damp breeze bit at her cheeks, but that felt good after the stuffy sitting room in the cottage. She had found the description of Angus seducing her grandmother, a woman she had never known, unsettling. Even more unsettling when she admitted to herself that it was Sophie who had seduced Angus. Or Alastair. And that her grandfather was hardly a paragon of marital fidelity either.

Her earlier enthusiasm for Madeleine’s arrival was tinged with apprehension. Madeleine would no doubt bring explanations, but also more secrets. She hoped Madeleine was strong enough to take care of the old man herself. An awful thought dawned on her: maybe she would have to take care of both of them.

She wanted someone to take care of her! Or at least show some interest in her. She had thought after her years at boarding school she had become independent, self-reliant. But then she had believed she had a home to go back to, parents who loved her. Turned out that was crap. She didn’t. They didn’t. Welcome to adulthood.

The loneliness made her feel sick, unsteady, as if the ground she was standing on was slowly crumbling away and she was about to pitch into an abyss that was so deep she couldn’t see the bottom.

God she missed Callum! She would have another go at persuading him to come; the old man had said he would be happy to have him staying in the cottage. Of course, they would have to finesse the sleeping arrangements.

She wished she didn’t have to hang around waiting for Madeleine; she felt like driving into a village and buying a pint of milk, just for someone to speak to. Or going into a café. The old man must have gone barmy living all alone up here.

As she reached the shore of the loch, Sheila MacInnes’s white Suzuki approached her coming the other way. Sheila slowed and wound down her window. ‘Hi. What’s the crack today?’ Sheila said.

Clémence wasn’t entirely sure what the crack was. ‘Yeah. Er... yeah,’ she said.

‘How’s it going with Alastair?’

‘Good, I think,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ve been reading that book to him. Death At Wyvis .’

‘Is it working?’

‘I think so,’ said Clémence. ‘He’s definitely remembering stuff. But it’s a bit difficult for both of us.’

‘I’m glad I’ve caught you alone,’ said Sheila, conspiratorially. ‘I went to see Pauline Ferguson yesterday afternoon. You mind I tellt you about her — she was the old stalker’s wife? I explained about Dr Cunningham’s head injury and his amnesia, and how the doctor at the hospital said we should try and jog his memory. She said Dr Cunningham had been to see her a few months ago, asking about that murder in that book you’re reading. She had quite a lot to tell him — something about her son getting a job in America — I didn’t understand it. But she said she’d be happy to talk to him if he wants, if you see what I mean.’

‘Perhaps we should go and see her,’ said Clémence. ‘Maybe tomorrow. My Aunt Madeleine is coming this afternoon. I’m sure she will be able to tell us a lot.’

‘All right, then. Pauline is at Ashwood House nursing home. It’s in Dingwall, just on this side of town. Now, I’m just away up to Culzie and tidy up a bit for you.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Clémence. ‘I can do it.’

‘Och, it’s no trouble, pet. Enjoy your walk.’ With that Sheila drove off up the track through the woods to the cottage.

Clémence rounded the curve in the loch and Corravachie came into view. Jerry Ranger’s blue car was parked outside, and there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Jerry himself seemed to be examining the loch with his binoculars — bird watching, presumably, although he seemed to be ignoring the exotically plumaged ducks that were dabbling right in front of him. Clémence considered turning round, but then she thought it would be nice to chat to someone. Americans were usually friendly, and his song-writing intrigued her.

Jerry must have felt the same way, because he spotted her walking along the track and came out to meet her. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? I still have some of my stock of Peet’s left.’

‘Peat?’ Clémence was confused. Was peat coffee some new Scottish delicacy? They said fried Mars bars were a myth, but Clémence believed in them. ‘How do you use peat in coffee?’

‘Not peat, Peet’s,’ said Jerry with a grin. ‘Best coffee in California. At least I think so. There are folks who would argue with me.’ He smiled to himself. ‘There’s always folks who want to argue with me.’

‘OK,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ll try some.’

Jerry’s kitchen was well equipped with food and coffee. He put on the kettle to boil and set about grinding beans. ‘Have you ever had Oreos? I got a stash of those as well. For special occasions.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ve never been to America.’

‘You should go. Go out west. See the national parks. Yosemite. Zion — that’s in Utah. I think that’s my favourite. Too many people just go to the cities in the States: New York or Washington. I wouldn’t live in LA myself unless I had to to get work. I much prefer it out here.’

‘Don’t you get lonely?’ Clémence said. ‘I’ve only been here two days and it’s getting to me already.’

‘Loneliness. Solitude. All depends how you look at it. Alastair knows. He likes it up here.’

‘Does he?’ said Clémence. ‘I suppose he does remember Loch Glass and Wyvis. And he likes to walk around.’

‘You got to admit it’s beautiful.’

‘I admit it.’

‘How’s his memory coming along?’

‘Very well,’ Clémence said. ‘I mean, he still has a long way to go, but it’s coming back fast. We have been reading that book I showed you together, and he’s remembering stuff in that. And just now he remembered visiting us when I was a little girl in Morocco. That came out of the blue.’

‘That’s good,’ said Jerry.

‘My aunt is coming to see us this afternoon. She knew him throughout his life. I expect that will help a lot.’

‘Good. Why don’t you go through to the living room?’ said Jerry. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess in there. I’ll bring the coffee through in a moment. Here, take these.’

He handed Clémence a plate of round dark sandwich biscuits, and a small jug of milk, and she went through to the sitting room.

There was an old sofa, an armchair and all kinds of electronic music-making equipment, including an acoustic guitar and a keyboard. A computer nestling in pages of notes rested on the desk by the window overlooking the loch. A landscape of a Scottish castle hung from one wall, and a bookcase stood against the other. It was sparsely populated: a guide to Scottish birds, a John Grisham thriller, a rhyming dictionary, a French novel by Pascale Roze, and then a very familiar cover. Death At Wyvis . What the hell was that doing there? Maybe it came with the cottage.

But Jerry had acted as if he hadn’t recognized her copy the day before.