She knocked back a mouthful, setting her throat and chest on fire. Hooooing out a breath that tasted of baked apple, cinnamon, and oak. Maybe she should’ve gone for a splash of water in it?
Bit late to worry about that now.
She reached out and grabbed the pack of razor blades from the top of the cistern. Dad never did hold with those ‘new-fangled’ plastic disposable ones; instead each double-edged blade came in its own wax-paper wrapper. She was pulling one free when there was a knock on the door.
‘Lucy?’
It swung open and Charlie wandered into the bathroom, smiling his bland smile, hands in his pockets.
She screwed her face up. ‘Great.’
‘Thought you could use a bit of Jiminy Cricketing. You know, now that He’s gone.’ Charlie pulled the tails of his suit jacket in at his waist and climbed into the other end of the tub, sending a frothy tsunami sloshing out over the edge and onto the tiled floor as he sat. Dark-grey suit turning black as the water soaked into it.
‘Why can’t you both just leave me alone?’ Knocking back another mouthful.
‘Because I’m here to help.’ He scooped up a double handful of soapy water and doused his head with it. ‘What’s killing yourself going to achieve? What if the Dunk doesn’t find out about the chandler’s warehouse, because the Psychology Department hasn’t kept its records properly? Are you really happy about Dr Christianson starving to death, all alone, in the dark?’ Charlie plucked a bottle of Alberto Balsam from the glass shelf, lathering it into his wet hair.
‘He killed six people. Gutted them. Stole their blood and their hearts!’
‘Because he’s ill, Lucy. Because he’s grieving. Because he’s lonely. Not because he’s evil.’ Charlie used the palms of his hands to scoop his hair up into a tiny Mohican. ‘Have to say, this is a bit of an improvement on last time we shared a bath.’
‘What?’
‘We used to share a tub all the time, remember?’
She shrank away from him. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Charlie, silly. Your brother. Who died.’
The deceased’s husband has repeatedly stated that Harriet was still in considerable distress following the death of her son earlier in the year...
‘My brother?’
‘Who died. In a tub, just like this one, back at the house on Blackwall Hill.’ He flattened his mohawk. ‘Have to admit, I’m a bit hurt, Lucy. How could you forget your twin brother?’ Rinsing the soap out of his hair with another double scoop of water. ‘If nothing else, I’m the first person you killed; that should get me some sort of recognition, right? In the bathtub? You knelt on my chest and held me underwater till I drowned? There was me, struggling to get free, and you’re laughing and giggling. But then you’ve always loved a bath, haven’t you?’
‘Oh God...’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!’ Breath coming in sharp ragged gulps. ‘You were right: I’m a monster!’ She chucked back another mouthful of whisky, half choking as it went down the wrong way mid-sob.
‘I was your imaginary friend for ages and ages, until Dr McNaughton convinced you I wasn’t real.’ Charlie’s bottom lip scrunched up in a pout. ‘Not sure what hurt more: being cast aside, forgotten, or drowned. Maybe it’s...’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve worked for, everything I think I am, it’s a lie.’
‘Will you shush for a minute?’ He half raised himself out of the bath — suit, shirt, and tie dripping as he stared at the bathroom door. ‘I think there’s someone in the house.’
She held her breath.
A creak sounded, out in the hallway. As if someone was climbing the stairs.
But she’d locked all the doors and windows.
What if it was Sarah Black and her idiot son — the one with the builder’s van?
Well, who else could it be?
They must have broken in. To her house.
They’d finally worked up the balls to come for her.
And she was stark naked, in the sodding bath.
There was a dressing gown, hanging on the back of the bathroom door — Lucy clambered out of the bath, reaching for it as the handle turned.
The door swung open, and in stepped a large man dressed nearly all in black. Only the neck of his white T-shirt broke up the gloomy ensemble. His shaven head gleamed in the light, topping off a hard face with puffy eyes and a sharp nose. Not a local accent — something a bit more like the posher areas of Edinburgh: ‘She’s in here.’
It wasn’t Daren Black.
Maybe they really had hired a thug to come and kill her.
A second figure appeared behind him — a woman, dressed nearly identically, with her hair trapped under a black knitted cap. ‘Lucy McVeigh?’ The woman stepped forward. ‘I’m Dr Meldrum; this is my associate, Dr Lockerby; we’ve come to take you to Castle Hill Infirmary. You’ve had a serious head injury and it’s gone untreated for nearly forty-eight hours. There’s a very real risk the impact has triggered swelling on your brain. That can cause long-term damage to your memory and make it difficult to think straight. Have you had any symptoms like that?’
Lucy scrambled back into the bath, covering herself with her hands.
‘If the pressure builds too much it can lead to delusions, paranoia, and if we don’t do something about it as quickly as possible, it can be fatal.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Actually, that would make a lot of sense. Especially after Christianson battered you over the head, back at his house. That’s when it all started going wrong, didn’t it? When you started having blackouts...’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The important thing is that you come with us right now, Ms McVeigh. I’m going to grab you some clothes, then we’ll get you to the hospital.’ Dr Meldrum ducked back onto the landing, leaving Lucy alone with Dr Lockerby.
He nodded. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.’ Slipping his right hand into his pocket.
‘Lucy, this is a good thing! They can help you get better: no more seeing dead people.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, there are things I’ve got to do...’
Lockerby took a step closer. ‘It’s all right, Ms McVeigh, there’s no need to get yourself all upset.’ That hand of his — the one in his pocket — he had a knife, didn’t he? Or a gun. Or maybe a syringe of something lethal.
‘Or maybe you’re just being paranoid, Lucy, like Dr Meldrum said?’
She glanced from the pocket to the man’s face and back again. ‘You need to step outside, so I can get dried and dressed.’
‘Sorry, can’t do that.’ His eyes drifted to the bottle of whisky, then the open packet of razor blades. At the lone blade, removed from its wrapper, sitting on the edge of the bath. ‘What if you slipped and fell, or collapsed because of your condition?’
‘Please, I’m naked. I need to get my clothes on.’
‘Just stay in the bath please, Ms McVeigh. My colleague won’t be long.’
What sort of doctor talked like that? Why were they both dressed in black? And why did this feel more like a home invasion than a house call?
‘Where’s your ID?’
‘You look stressed.’ Charlie put a hand on her bubble-covered knee. ‘Hey, come on, it’s going to be fine. I’m sure they aren’t—’
‘I want to see your ID.’ She jerked her chin up. ‘Now.’
Lockerby looked back over his shoulder. Then shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be rude, Ms McVeigh. We’ve all got jobs to do, right?’