Everything She Forgot by Lisa Ballantyne Read Free Book Online Page B

hadn’t been around a lot of seven-year-old girls, but he had thought she’d be much smaller.
    He took a drag of his cigarette as he contemplated. He had imagined meeting Kathleen again: Kathleen had been willing and the bairn had been tiny, not much taller than his knees, and chubby. In his imagination, both she and the bairn were in thrall to him and he had persuaded them easily to come away with him.
    George sat holding on to the steering wheel with sweaty palms. It was as if Thurso was another world, and here he was, a petty criminal from Glasgow, peering through the gate into paradise. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long drive and he felt sticky and unkempt. He fingered the burn hole in his trousers and cursed again.
    It was dusk and he watched as lights came on inside the large stone house—the hall, an upstairs bedroom. Through the bay window, George could see the chandelier in the livingroom light up and sparkle brighter than the diamond ring in his pocket. After a moment, Kathleen appeared in the window. She reached up and drew the heavy curtains, blocking George’s view.
    He exhaled into his hands. His daughter and Kathleen were alone inside the big house. He wondered if he should get out of the car, right now, walk up the garden path, and ring the bell. He sat still, breathing hard. The hopes he had nurtured about meeting Kathleen again, taking her hand and persuading her that she and Moll wanted a life with him, now seemed nothing more than fantasies. The imaginings danced in his mind, light, scorched, insubstantial, like papers up a chimney.
    He imagined himself standing on the doorstep with the crease in his trousers gone, a burn hole in his suit and a five-o’clock shadow on his chin, then ran a palm over his jaw and felt the stubble already breaking through. He and Kathleen had been children together. They had grown up together. George had thought he knew her better than he knew himself. But now, sitting outside her house, he felt beneath her. He felt out of place.
    Just then, a long Porsche approached the property and pulled into the drive, tucking itself in beside the BMW with intimate expertise.
    A tall, thin man got out of the car: he was suited, sloped shoulders, balding, carrying a briefcase heavy enough to favor his gait to one side. The front door opened, warm light spilled onto the doorstep, and the child came out. She hugged the man and carried his briefcase inside with two hands.
    George swallowed, feeling sick. He had seen what he needed to see. He turned on the ignition and pulled away.
    H e spent the night in his car at a northerly point looking out to sea. Autumn, and the wind was up and the waves were wild. He ate a fish supper and drank Tennent’s lager.
    The money was in a carryall in the boot of the car: nearly one hundred thousand pounds in used notes. He could afford the best hotel Thurso had to offer, but he stuck out like a sore thumb here. Instead, he drank quickly, with the door open and one leg outside, looking out to sea. The dream that had caused him to drive three hundred miles now seemed naïve. He was awash with dejection, his body stiff. He knew he should get out and walk around for a bit—stretch his legs—but he didn’t have the heart for it, so he shook the tin can in his hands, then drank the remainder of the warm lager.
    Now, looking out to sea, he felt stupid, worthless, small. He opened another can, lit another cigarette, and tried to smile at his folly. “Big house in Thurso and a man with a Porsche . . . a perfect family and you think she’s going to run away with you . . . w’you?” he taunted himself. Tears blurred his eyes for a second. He downed the rest of his lager and crushed the can hard, then sat, with his hands between his knees, watching the waves break in the darkness, far out at sea.
    T he next day, he woke early to the keening of gulls. It was