Voices travel down the corridor, moths moving through the still night air. I stop, somehow aware that this isn’t for my ears.
A world of secrets and deception shouldn’t be one in which a child grows up, but Lennox and I had no choice so we learned to listen and decide who were the liars and who were the thieves. We learned to keep that knowledge to ourselves, to be used like a joker when it suited us most.
It’s Ben’s voice I recognise first, but I can’t comprehend his words. His tone is serious, low, his words are coming fast.
And then I hear Isaac, his soft English accent that reminds me of the south coast and cream teas, legends of Arthur and Guinevere. Cornish. He isn’t hiding it now.
Silence. No footsteps. The air around us thickens, its density oppressive. I itch to look round the corner and see them, to glean more information from how their bodies are talking and learn why they’re now silent but I daren’t. Or do I?
I carry on walking, turning the corner. Isaac and Ben are at the end of the corridor, Isaac’s back is against the wall, Ben’s arm boxing him in.
I’m still. My feet won’t work. They’re still talking but I can’t hear them and they have no idea I’m here, a voyeur.
Isaac’s head turns, as if he’s felt the molecules in the air shift. He says my name.
Ben stands up, puts his hands by his sides.
I don’t move.
I’ve interrupted a private moment. Not one for my ears or my eyes. Like the castle, this building is a museum of secrets.
They watch me slip into my room, the divide between us made up of their knowledge and my ignorance.
An hour later, Ben slips between my sheets, under them, ‘til his head is between my legs and he tongue fucks me to an apology of an orgasm. I look at the door as I come and wonder if Isaac is awake and whether he’s listening as I shout Ben’s name.
Chapter Thirteen
My words are rehearsed and memorized, my accent careful, just Scottish enough to keep the independents happy, but understandable enough for the reunification votes to smile. There shouldn’t be politics at events like this. This isn’t about who should lead and how, or who has the most supporters, this is about the increased ability to care for dementia patients at a hospital in Edinburgh and it isn’t a publicity call.
I unveil the plaque and applaud, stepping back into the line that I share with two doctors and a psychiatrist whose brain child this new unit is.
“Thank you.” Craig Stern is the psychiatrist, a man I could see Elise fawn over, given his Clark Kent looks and build. “We appreciate how you’ve done this.”
Because we’ve done it discreetly. The guests are the relatives of some of the patients who’ll be treated here and there’s just one camera, organized by the hospital’s media team.
“You’re welcome. I don’t think it makes any difference who pulls the material off the plaque though. The point is, you’re officially open.”
He nods. “Finally.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Hard work, but you’re there. Hopefully more donations will come through when this is rolled out tonight on television.”
“Hopefully. Do you want a coffee?”
I do, but I can’t. My schedule is packed for the next two days with a benefactors’ dinner at one of Edinburgh’s old and stately hotels and two visits tomorrow. Also, it isn’t on my itinerary, which has recently become a lot tighter. Security has been amplified, a few threatening letters sent have driven Ben into a quiet, military-style planning mode where I’m forever supervised if I’m out of the castle.
“Thank you, but I’m on a tight timetable.” Six months ago I’d have tried to change that timetable, as the doctor is someone I’d have been keen to know better, but things are different.
“Too tight to grab lunch? I’ve cleared it with your team.”
I swing round at the sound of Isaac’s voice and see him standing there in beige chinos and a short-sleeved white linen shirt. His dark hair looks curlier than it did a week ago at Chequers and he’s even more tanned.
“I’ll let you go.” The doctor smiles and I don’t know if I feel regret or relief, or a mixture of the two.
“Thank you. I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”
He grins, nods at Isaac, and leaves, white coat twisting as he turns, someone already calling his name. It’s a normality I’ve never known. Instead I have yet another dinner, another function, another place to look pretty.
Isaac’s eyes are dark. He’s mustard today, his yellowy gold tempered with something darker and he sets me on edge. “Franklyn created a forty-five-minute slot so you had time to grab some lunch before your next shindig.”
