Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘I’m impressed!’ said Jerry. ‘I’ll be happy if I am half as fit as you when I’m eighty.’

‘What were you looking at?’ the old man said, nodding to the binoculars.

‘Woodpecker. Great spotted, I think.’

‘I didn’t hear him.’

‘Didn’t you?’ said Jerry, realizing he had made a minor mistake. But it didn’t really matter what he said to the old man, because this time he would make quite sure that the old man would never get the chance to repeat it.

The slope below was perfect. One push and the old man would tumble ten to fifteen feet down the path, banging his head on several likely rocks on the way. This time Jerry would follow him down to make sure he was dead, and not just unconscious.

And then he would raise the alarm, probably by running up to Culzie. A thorough forensic analysis was highly unlikely — who wouldn’t believe that the old man had slipped and fallen on such difficult terrain? — but there were bound to be traces of Jerry’s presence, a presence that could best be explained by him discovering the body.

The trouble was that the old man had moved a couple of feet away from the path and was resting against a tree trunk. From that position, Jerry could probably lift him bodily and fling him down the slope. But the old man might cling to his sleeve, or start yelling, or create some signs of a struggle. A clean push would be much better. Which meant the old man would have to be persuaded to budge a foot or two.

Jerry whipped his binoculars up to his eyes and pointed them at a tree lower down. ‘Yes! Look! Down there!’

‘What is it?’ The old man was still panting, reluctant to move.

Jerry almost said ‘woodpecker’, but something more was needed. ‘A golden eagle. Man, is he beautiful! Here. Take a look.’

He held the binoculars out for the old man to come and get.

Just then he heard a car heading up the track above the pathway towards Culzie.

The old man took the glasses. Jerry took a step back.

The car stopped. The engine cut out. Jerry heard a car door slam.

Now! If he pushed now, the old man would hurtle down the slope. He might cry out, which would alert whoever was on the track above. That would be OK — the sound of someone slipping and falling. But Jerry wouldn’t get the chance to finish off the old man if he had to.

Better wait for whoever it was to walk off, wherever he was planning to go.

The old man was scanning the trees. ‘I don’t see anything.’

Above them, Jerry could clearly hear the sound of someone descending the path. In a few moments Terry MacInnes appeared.

‘Ah, it’s you two!’ he said. ‘I didn’t know who it was in the woods.’

‘Hey there, Terry!’ said Jerry, hiding a flash of frustration. Come on — did the guy really think they were poachers?

‘Jerry.’ The stalker nodded at him and then approached the old man, who put down his binoculars. ‘Dr Cunningham. It’s good to see you up and about.’

The old man smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have no memory of who you are. But my guess is you are Sheila’s husband, the stalker?’

‘Aye, that’s me. Sheila told me all about your amnesia.’

The moment was lost. Jerry was furious; it was all he could do to restrain himself from tossing them both down the path. He bade them goodbye and set off down through the trees towards the loch. He hurried back to the car and his own cottage as soon as he could.

He went straight to the gun cupboard and unlocked it. He took down the rifle and the box of ammunition.

No more pissing about. He needed to be certain and he needed to be fast.

‘Hello!’

Clémence put the photograph album down beside the sofa. ‘Hi!’

‘It’s crowded out there,’ the old man called from the hallway. ‘I saw Jerry, and then Terry MacInnes, Sheila’s husband. Nice chap, really, but a bit taciturn—’

He came into the sitting room and saw their guest. He smiled.

‘Madeleine! How good it is to see you! Thank you for coming all this way.’

Madeleine hesitated and then kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Hello, Alastair,’ she said. ‘I am glad to see you looking so well.’

Madeleine’s accent when speaking English — heavy French with American vowels — took Clémence by surprise. Suddenly she seemed like a foreigner, whereas while they had both been speaking French they had seemed very much of the same family.

‘And thank you for persuading Clémence to look after me,’ said the old man. ‘She has been fantastic.’

He stood there, his grey hair dishevelled by the wind, his craggy cheeks ruddy from the cold, smiling at both of them. Clémence couldn’t help thinking he looked adorable.

‘She is fantastic,’ said Madeleine smiling at Clémence. ‘I have heard you are making good progress. Do you recognize me?’

‘No. But we have been reading Death At Wyvis; I’m sure you have read it. But it means that I feel I know you. I’ve heard all about you, and I can remember you as a young woman. So you are almost a familiar face. And you have no idea how nice that is.’

Madeleine smiled, but without her habitual warmth. ‘Yes, I have read that book.’

‘I’m sure there is a lot you can tell me about the mystery that is my life,’ said the old man. ‘But perhaps we ought to finish the book first. Would you like to join us?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Madeleine. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the old man. ‘Of course not. You have travelled thousands of miles to get here. We can read it later. Tonight perhaps, or tomorrow?’ He glanced at Clémence.

Or never, perhaps, thought Clémence. She was scared of what was in there.

Madeleine looked at the old man and the young woman. And she sighed.

‘No. I think you are right. We cannot have a proper conversation until you both know what is in that book. I suggest Clémence reads it now. And I will stay and listen.’

Clémence and the old man exchanged glances. Like her, he seemed to know that whatever was in that book was bad. And, like her, he couldn’t hide from it.

‘All right,’ said Clémence, picking up the novel and taking her place in the armchair.

She opened the book, and began to read.

CHAPTER IX

Wyvis

Knaresborough, West Riding of Yorkshire, June 1959

IT WAS ONLY a brisk ten-minute walk from the surgery on the high street to my little house overlooking the river and underlooking the railway viaduct. I liked to nip back home for lunch, believing the break from the surgery did me good. I felt a glow of satisfaction from my last patient of the morning, a four-year-old boy who had made a complete recovery from meningitis. When I had been called out to the boy’s home two weeks before, I had been sure I was going to lose him.

There were two envelopes on the mat, a missive from the RAC and a letter from New York. Nathan and I had kept up a steady correspondence for many years now, writing back and forth every couple of months. They were long letters, which mixed anecdote and gossip with more profound thoughts on the direction our lives were taking, and the choices we were making. We had taken to discussing our work: I described interesting patients or awkward problems with my partners at the practice, and Nathan wrestled with the opportunities and risks of the swiftly growing oil business. I derived a deep pleasure from the correspondence, and I knew that Nathan did too.

I made myself a ham-and-cheese sandwich with Mrs Clapham’s home-made piccalilli and opened the letter. It was uncharacteristically short.

Dear Angus,

I am visiting Scotland in August on business and thought I would bring Madeleine with me. We will go on to visit her family in France afterward. I don’t know if you have heard, but Stephen and Sophie are returning to England next month — frankly I think his career in Hollywood is finished. Did you see Partners in Grime ? It was dire. Anyway, we have been discussing some kind of vacation for all of us, plus Tony if he will come. Apparently, Stephen’s father has inherited an estate in the Highlands, and Stephen suggested we could all stay there. It’s a place called Wyvis, and it’s not far from Inverness. The dates would be August 18–24.