Mirrorland, page 18
I pick up my phone, press reply. The screen stays blurry no matter how many times I blink.
Answer me. Meet me. Explain. Or leave me the fuck alone.
Ross is standing by the kitchen window, looking out at a back garden distorted by rain. It pounds against the roof and the flue cap, the guttering. He turns around when he hears me. Last night, I insisted that we both sleep alone, and spent the entirety of it longing for his breath on my neck and his arm across my belly and his legs tangled between mine. Today, I can’t even look at him.
‘The tea’s stewed,’ he says, picking up the pot. It shakes in his hands, enough that the lid starts to rattle. ‘I’ll make some more.’
I take it from him. ‘It’s okay.’ I fill a mug and sit down. Take too large a swallow. Don’t slitter, Catriona.
‘Cat.’ Ross sits down next to me. His fingers are warm against mine. I try to tell myself their touch doesn’t help, doesn’t straightaway soothe a hollow place deep inside my chest. ‘Please don’t shut me out.’
I take back my hands, press them between my knees instead. ‘I need to see her.’
Ross almost recoils. ‘What? Why? The DNA—’
‘You’re the one who said she wasn’t suicidal,’ I say. Because just about the only thing still holding me together is that stubborn and enduring I’d know. That I would have felt the moment she died, the moment she drowned, the moment she left. That those hopeless, helpless, horrifying seizures of yesterday were only shock, only shame.
‘Maybe she didn’t mean to do it.’ He takes hold of my hands again, pulls them in hard against his breastbone. I can feel the too-fast thud-thud of his heart. ‘Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she just wanted me to notice she was in pain.’ His eyes are wet with unshed tears. And when I take back my hands again, he stands up, turns away from me.
I look down at the two tiles in front of the Kitchener. That cracked line of grout stained dark. My smile feels tight, like my lips might split and bleed. ‘Years ago, I read about this tribe. It was in one of Grandpa’s encyclopaedias. And it … it was one of those lucky tribes that had managed to avoid the rest of us for centuries. In South America somewhere, I don’t know.’
‘Cat—’
‘If a member of this tribe did something wrong, got caught doing something wrong, or even just thought they’d done something – anything, you know, from telling a lie to committing a murder – this tribe, this entire tribe, would take them into the centre of their village, and they would form this circle around them, so tight they couldn’t escape, couldn’t hide. And then they would tell that person everything that was good about them. Every good thing they’d ever done. Every good thing they’d ever been. Over and over. And they wouldn’t stop. Not until that person heard them. Believed them.’
My voice breaks. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to cry. My hands twitch to hold his. My body aches to lie down. To feel his hard, warm, sure weight against me, inside me. And all of me wants to look in a mirror and see only El. To stand on a freezing cold beach and say this is where I’ll stay. To never allow her to let go of my hand. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how many times she pushes me away.
CHAPTER 20
Marie stands on the doorstep inside a swathe of bright morning light. She’s holding a huge bunch of calla lilies, and tears are running down her cheeks.
‘Je suis désolée. C’est affreux. Je suis tellement désolée.’
I take the flowers – their antiseptic smell waters my eyes and stings my nose. ‘Thank you, Marie.’
She takes out a beautifully embroidered handkerchief and dabs at her skin. ‘I knew … I knew she had to be … mais …’
‘Sorry – I’d invite you in, but I’m just about to go out.’
She blinks at my denim jacket. Today, I can’t even look at the grey cashmere coat hanging on the stand behind me.
‘Is Ross here?’
‘No.’ I’m pretty sure she knows he isn’t here. That she waited until he’d left for Colquhoun’s before deciding to come over.
She leans close to me, her eyes suddenly sharp and dry. ‘Did you ask him? About what he said to me? How he threatened me?’
‘Marie—’
‘You are in danger.’ Her fingers close around my wrist. ‘Tu comprends?’
‘Marie! Stop.’ I snatch my hand back.
She shakes her head, takes a phone out of her pocket, and then thrusts it at me. ‘Regardez. Look what he says to me one week before Ellice disappears. Look!’
Stay away from her. Stay away or you’ll regret it.
It’s Ross’s number. I think. But I shove the phone back towards her, start trying to close the door. ‘I can’t do this now. I have to—’
‘You must! You’re in danger!’ She pushes back. Tries to grip hold of me again. ‘S’il te plaît!’
I’m glad of the fury that burns suddenly through me, laying waste to everything else. I drop the flowers and wrench the door wide, pushing Marie aside as I step out and slam it shut behind me.
‘Catriona—’
I battle to lock the door as her hands continue to touch me, pull at me. I want to scream. I want to run away from all of this, and never look back.
‘Catriona. Listen to me! You—’
‘I’m going to the morgue!’ My shout sounds, even to my own ears, more like a scream. Marie closes her mouth and steps back, drops her hands to her sides.
I can feel other eyes on me as I run down the steps and through the gate, along the road towards the number 49 bus that’s pulling in to the stop. But I don’t slow, don’t turn around. Don’t look back.
*
The City Mortuary is an ugly concrete block sandwiched between beautiful Victorian terraces. Logan is leaning against a set of double doors next to a big metal-shuttered garage. When he sees me, he straightens up, and his smile is solemn, fleeting. I fight the threat of another choking seizure by biting down hard on my bottom lip and pushing my fingernails deep into the fattest part of my palms.
‘Hi, Cat.’
A sign on the wall alongside him says EDINBURGH CITY MORTUARY. It’s a very grand, gold-coloured plaque, polished enough that I can see my face in it. I blink hard, look up at the sky instead. It’s white and heavy with the threat of spring snow.
‘You’re bleeding.’
I feel the heel of Logan’s palm against my cheek, the rough warmth of his thumb against my skin. I turn my head and pull my lip between my teeth.
‘I’m okay.’
He nods. Drops his hands down by his sides. ‘Okay.’
‘Logan.’ Rafiq is standing inside the double doors. Just looking at her sleek ponytail and intense stare transports me back to the house. I’m sorry, Catriona. It’s definitely her. It’s definitely El. ‘You’re needed back at the station.’
He doesn’t argue, but there’s some defiance in the way he steps closer to me, briefly squeezes my hand. ‘Take care, okay? You’ve got my number.’
Rafiq holds the doors open, nods at me as I pass her. The waiting room is a soft magnolia. It’s very warm and very empty.
‘Sit down a minute,’ she says. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?’
I nod. Even though I’m not.
She sighs. ‘Would it help if I showed you the DNA report?’
I don’t know what she means by help. Although I do know that I want to see it enough to nod again.
She takes out her phone and hands it to me.
DNA ISOLATION TEST
Reference Samples:
ID 1551204: Soft-bristle toothbrush belonging to Ellice MacAuley (dob 01/07/86) [Collected 04/04/18]
ID 1551205: Wide-barrel hairbrush belonging to Ellice MacAuley (dob 01/07/86) [Collected 15/04/18]
Kinship Sample:
ID 1551206: Buccal swab from identical twin sibling, Catriona Morgan [HID1551_201] (dob 01/07/86) [Collected 15/04/18]
Jane Doe [HID1551_200] Samples:
Partial facial and upper body saponification; DNA extracted from femoral bone marrow
DNA isolation was carried out separately for all samples. Genetic characteristics were determined by the following PCR single-locus-technology analysis.
Results were confirmed by retesting original samples. All laboratory analyses and interpretations follow the recommendations of the DNA commission of the International Society for Forensic Genetics, ISFG.
Conclusion:
Based upon our analysis and the biostatistical evaluation of its results, it is practically proven that Jane Doe [HID1551_200] is > 99.9999% Ellice MacAuley (dob 01/07/86), of 36 Westeryk Road, Leith.
And that Catriona Morgan [HID1551_201] (dob 01/07/86) is > 99.9999% the living identical sibling of the deceased.
Expert Witness:
Dr Iain Patterson MB ChB, BMSc(Hons), FRCPath, MFFLM
Head Forensic Pathologist
North Lothian CID
I read it twice, three times, until my eyes go blurry. When I give back the phone, my hand is shaking.
‘I want a copy of that,’ I try to say with some authority, but my voice is shaking too. White noise rushes through my ears as if I’m underwater.
‘Of course,’ Rafiq says.
‘I still want to see her.’
‘I really think that would be a bad idea. It won’t help. If anything—’
‘I have to.’ I make myself look at Rafiq. Her brow is wrinkled, her mouth thin, her eyes full of concern. ‘Please.’
She finally nods. ‘But afterwards, I have to ask you some questions, Catriona. Okay? It’s important.’
I barely hear her over the beating of my heart or the roaring in my ears.
*
Rafiq takes me through another door: VISITOR FACILITIES. As if we’re in a stately home. In the corridor beyond, more doors: INTERVIEW ROOMS, COUNSELLING ROOMS. I follow on behind Rafiq. I don’t speak. I don’t think.
We pass a door labelled BIER ROOM, but before I can ask her what a bier is, Rafiq opens the door alongside it. VIEWING ROOM. And my mouth clamps shut.
Everything inside it is soft focus, unobtrusive, warm. Non-institutional. The lights are low, and the acoustics somehow muted. I realise that what I’ve been imagining ever since Logan’s The Greenock Dive and Marine Unit recovered her this morning is one of those sterile white-tiled rooms with metal storage drawers and steel tables with big plugholes, like something out of CSI or Silent Witness.
When Rafiq asks me to sit down, her voice has lost all of its sharp edges too. The armchair is beige and cushioned. There are watercolour landscapes hanging on the walls, reminding me of that hospital waiting room of nearly thirteen years ago, its plastic-framed seascape of rocks and sand and waves. I look everywhere but at the big blue-curtained window on the wall opposite.
The knock makes me jump. The door opens, and I spring up, grateful to stop sitting, to stop trying not to look.
‘Catriona,’ says Rafiq. ‘This is Dr Claire MacDuff.’
Dr Claire MacDuff is about mid-fifties, and five feet if she’s lucky. Her sandy hair is short but thick, her glasses green-rimmed, her smile solicitous. She’s wearing jeans and a jumper, which is the thing I find most disconcerting of all. I’d been expecting scrubs, shower cap, gloves, gumboots, the works.
I accept her offered hand, and halfway through a very vigorous shake, she tells me, ‘Hello. I was the lead doctor on your sister’s post-mortem.’
‘Oh,’ I say, swallowing the ridiculous great that wants to follow it.
She finally lets me go. ‘I understand why you’re here, but I’m afraid that I’ve recommended no relatives view the body in this case. As SIO, DI Rafiq was also in attendance at the PM, and so is aware of the reasons for my objections.’ She holds up a palm before I can speak. ‘However. She has also explained the circumstances, and I’m not unsympathetic. But you’ll hear me out before I agree to anything, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Ordinarily, when we find a body in the Forth, it’s because decomposition gases bring it up to the surface after a few days. But your sister was in the Forth for thirteen days. That means that in addition to normal decomposition, the body has been subjected to many other changes and traumas. It’s important that you know that, and it’s important that you know what before I’m happy for you to see her, okay?’
For the first time since phoning Logan, it occurs to me that what I’m about to see might be just about the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Even though I’ve been shaking since I woke up – since probably before I woke up – I suddenly go still.
‘When a body has been in water for some time, it can undergo a natural preservation process known as saponification. This process forms something called adipocere, which means that much of Ellice’s body tissue has become waxy, brittle, and deformed.’ She looks at me. ‘Think of a well-used candle or soap on a rope.’
‘Aye, okay.’ Rafiq bristles, laying the flat of her hand between my shoulder blades. ‘Is it necessary for you to be quite so—’
‘She needs to know what she’s asking for,’ says Dr MacDuff. She turns her steady gaze back to me. ‘The head, more specifically, the face, is always the most disfigured part of a submerged body. It’s why we almost always rely on DNA for ID. Ellice’s lips, ears, nose, and larynx have been colonised and partially eaten away by comestible marine predators. There has been significant damage.’
I have no clue what comestible marine predators are, though I’m not about to ask. ‘Okay.’
‘Cat,’ Rafiq says, now rubbing slow shallow circles across my back. Her eyes are so black I can’t see their pupils. There are two deep lines between her eyebrows. ‘Are you hearing this? Seeing her isn’t going to help. She’ll not be recognisable as your sister any more. I’d strongly advise – we’d both strongly advise – that you don’t do this.’
I step away from her, and out of reach of her hands, her concerned gaze. I preferred it when she was a cold and efficient robot who called me Catriona; I can’t bear this strange kindness.
‘I want to see her.’
‘Okay,’ Dr MacDuff says. ‘If you wait here, I’ll have the technicians move her from the bier room.’
I wait until she’s gone to take in an unsteady breath.
‘Cat—’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, and wish that my voice wasn’t wavering.
Rafiq squeezes my shoulder, moves towards the curtain. A small green light comes on in a switch panel close to the door.
I’m holding my breath. And even when I realise it, I can’t stop. I can’t let it go and breathe in another. Shivers are trickling down from my scalp, pressing my shoulder blades together, cricking my neck. My bottom lip throbs when I bite down on it again, and I taste old blood, new blood. ‘I’m sure.’
Rafiq’s nod is short. She pulls back the curtain, exposing the well-lit room beyond in slow increments. I close my eyes. Open them.
I need to know. That’s all there is.
And then. There it is.
It has no hair. Its scalp is completely bald. Shiny, creamy, and rippled thick – and the first thing I do think of is a well-used altar candle, its wax melted and remelted into asymmetric waves. Its nose is just a hole, a black maze of sinus passages. It has no eyelids. No eyes. Its teeth are fixed in a lipless grin. Beneath its waxy grey neck and a blue drape, I can just about see the thick black closing stiches of Dr MacDuff’s Y incision at the wide end of each collarbone. I try to imagine the body underneath the drape, so still and flat on top of the metal stretcher. I stop.
When I back away from the window, Rafiq is there to help turn me towards the door, and this time I don’t resent those hands against my back. My legs give way as soon as I reach the corridor, and when she pulls me close, when she comes down to the tiled floor with me, I don’t resent her strange kindness any more either. I reach for it instead, just as hard as I reach for her, and I let all that silvery horror and shame spill out of me in sobs and cries and retches against her neat black suit jacket.
*
‘Here you are.’
I take the mug from Rafiq’s hands. The tea is too hot, too sugary, but I drink it anyway. Her office is cold. I can barely remember the car journey from the mortuary to the police station. I feel sick and my head is pounding. My eyes are so swollen I can hardly see.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to see someone? A doctor, or—’
‘How did she die? I didn’t ask how she died.’
Rafiq looks at me, shows me the flat palms of her hands. ‘We can’t be sure. Not enough to satisfy the procurator fiscal anyway. The most obvious CODs would be drowning or hypothermia. But … there wasn’t enough intact lung or circulatory tissue to confirm either.’
Comestible marine predators, I think, and I see that black maze of sinus passages, those deep eyeless holes.
‘What we do know is that El had very high levels of diazepam, fluoxetine, and oxycodone in her bone marrow.’
I think of those pill bottles behind the bathroom mirror. ‘Enough to kill her?’
‘We can’t be sure of that either. The time that toxins are deposited in bones can’t be accurately calculated, and samples measured in bone marrow are generally found to be higher than those in blood specimens.’ She leans forwards. ‘Oxycodone is an opioid, commonly used for severe pain. Stronger than morphine. Her GP never prescribed them. Do you know if your sister had a history of drug abuse? Recreational drug use?’
‘What? No. Of course not.’ I can no more imagine El taking opioids than Valium. She didn’t even like to drink. Could never risk letting go of control for even a moment. I look down at Rafiq’s desk, at a photo of a grinning man in scrubs. ‘Is that what killed her, then?’
‘It’s probable that they contributed to her death, one way or another.’
I think of standing on cold wet stone. Looking out at the eastern breakwater wall and the volcanic rise of the Binn behind stony studs of houses. At the white-frilled waves of high tide and the distant flat of the North Sea. And thinking that this place – the place we once ran to – was the place El had disappeared from. But she hadn’t. She’d been right there, all that time, under the howling wind and rain and all those grey waves, down in the thick black murk of the deepwater channel.
