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Again, I try to stop Florence from continuing, but she ignores me. ‘Are you funding illegal patrols in the North Sea that are deliberately sinking refugee boats?’
‘That’s enough, Florence,’ I say. ‘We have no proof.’
‘No. I want to hear this,’ says Buchan. ‘What makes you think I had anything to do with that tragedy?’
Florence finally keeps quiet.
‘Did my brother send you here?’ asks Buchan. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re sorry for the intrusion.’
Lord Buchan only has eyes for Florence. ‘I am not a monster, Miss Gatsi, but I will fight to protect my reputation. If you defame or slander me, I will seek recompense, and you will pay.’
‘Just like your other victims.’
22
Evie
The housekeeper hurries me up the curving stone steps, through the double doors into an entrance hall with a checkerboard pattern on the floor. I gawp at the tapestries on the walls and the polished wooden staircase that rises, back and forth, to the upper levels. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling on a long chain, plunging between the floors like a huge static pendulum.
‘The bathroom is along the corridor, third door on the right,’ she says. ‘Don’t dilly-dally.’ She’s carrying a package wrapped in butcher’s paper. ‘I have to get this to the kitchen. Show yourself out.’
I follow the corridor and find the Ladies, which is surprisingly small and poky for such a grand-looking house. I wee and wash my hands and smell the nice soaps and handwash, before using a small white towel to dry myself. I wonder if I should hang it up or throw it in the wicker basket.
Leaving the bathroom, I walk back towards the entrance. I glance up at the chandelier and feel a sudden rush of memory that feels like vertigo. The sensation is so powerful that I stumble, bumping a table and knocking over a vase, which I catch before it falls. Heart thumping, I set the vase back on its lace doily and sneak a look up the stairs and then out of the front door. I want to get Cyrus, but they won’t let him in here. I make a decision and begin climbing, trying to step lightly on the marble, as though expecting it to creak like the stairs at home.
On the first floor there are twin corridors that run in opposite directions. I can see a cleaning trolley to my right and choose the other direction. Most of the doors are closed, but one is open. A bedroom. I see a suitcase on a luggage rack. Polished shoes. A double bed. Clothes hanging in a wardrobe.
Why do I remember this place? Have I been here?
Cyrus once told me that children find it difficult to recall memories chronologically because they don’t have enough experience to link events to a particular moment in their life. They lack a mental calendar they can reference. That’s why most people can’t recall things that happen before they’re six or seven years old. I was nine on the voyage. I should remember what happened afterwards. How did I get off the boat? Who looked after me? Where did I stay?
There is another bathroom at the end of the corridor next to a small lounge with oil paintings on the walls – mostly of dogs and birds and fish and people with guns or standing thigh deep in water, wearing waders that make them look like Oompa Loompas.
I come to a smaller staircase that goes up and down. I climb higher, reaching the next floor, where the furnishings are more basic, as though the owner ran out of money when they reached this level. There are fewer rooms and a narrower corridor, and the windows are smaller and seem to be painted shut. The ceiling slopes, matching the roofline, creating a church-like peak where the chain from the chandelier is attached to a thick metal pulley and tied to the far wall. Why would they need to lift it up and down? To change the bulbs or to clean the brass arms.
I don’t know what I’m looking for or where I’m going, but one foot follows the other. Passing the larger staircase and the skylight, I enter the corridor on the far side. I stop outside a door. When I touch the handle, I jerk my hand away as though it’s electrified. In that instant, I picture a younger version of myself, lying in a small attic room, gazing up at a window that offers a narrow glimpse of sky. A woman is standing in the doorway. She has a tangle of grey hair and pale green eyes that look at me as though I am trespassing. Everything about her is faded – her hair, her clothes, her skin. She is carrying a tray of food. I try to speak but it hurts, and the only sound I make is a kitten-like squeak. She presses a finger over her lips and makes a shushing sound.
‘The doctor said yer vocal cords are damaged. Ye’re nae supposed to talk.’
‘Mama,’ I croaked.
‘Are you deaf? Ah said nae talking. Eat yer soup.’
I am still holding the door handle. It turns in my hand and reveals a small room, which is exactly as I remember, with a single bed and a table and a high window and a chest of drawers. Even without looking, I know the top drawer is lined with a square of wallpaper cut to fit inside and the bottom one is stiff and has a broken handle. There is also a worn semicircle in the rug where the door opens and a water stain on the ceiling above the bricked-up fireplace and one of the floorboards has a knothole that is big enough to drop a marble into.
Voices break the spell. Men laughing and talking loudly downstairs in the dining room. Drinks are being poured and food is being served.
Quickly retracing my route, I’m almost at the foyer when I miss a step and grab hold of the banister to stop myself from falling. Another flashback. A room full of books. A fireplace. A painting on the wall of an old man in hunting breeches with tartan wrapped around his chest and draped over his shoulder. He is leaning against a plinth, while two golden retrievers lie at his feet, one of them asleep.
‘What are you doing?’ barks a voice, breaking the spell. The housekeeper is carrying a tray of food to the dining room. Her features rush to the centre of her face. ‘Have you stolen something? Empty your pockets.’
‘I’m not a thief,’ I say.
The tray she’s carrying is heavy, making her arms wobble.
‘I was looking for a room with books,’ I say.
