I turn over the final sheet and stop dead. This is no newspaper article. It is an extract of birth that bears the embossed seal of the General Register Office, Scotland, issued almost exactly two years ago. Neal David Maclean, son of Mary and Leslie, born 1978 at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Not just any birth certificate. My birth certificate. I sit looking at it, held in shaking hands. A strange affirmation, somehow, that I actually exist. And there, written on the other side, in a hand I recognise as mine, is the address of a house in Hainburn Park, Edinburgh.
Reconnecting with who I am seems just a touch away. I pull the laptop towards me and load up my browser to type BT phone book into Google. A link takes me to the home page of British Telecom’s phone directory. I type in my surname and the address on the back of the extract of birth, then hit return. Up comes my full name, with phone number and address, including post code. I am very nearly afraid to breathe, in case it all vanishes like smoke in the wind. But as I sit staring at the screen it remains there, burning itself on to my retinas.
I know now exactly who I am and where I live.
I have found an empty overnight bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, and it sits on the bed beside the clothes I am laying out for my trip. Underwear, socks, a spare pair of jeans, a couple of shirts. I have no idea how much to pack, or how long I will be away. For this is a journey into the unknown, with no predetermined destination and no return ticket. At least, not yet.
I hear the door open into the kitchen and freeze, listening intently. But I can barely hear anything above the pulsing of blood in my head. Bran, who has spread himself on the bed, unsettled and depressed at my packing, lifts his head for a moment, then drops it again to sink back into his huff. But I am not taking any chances. I reach below the pillow to feel for the hunting knife left by my attacker last night and move carefully into the hall.
‘Neal?’ Sally’s voice is shrill and carries more than a hint of alarm in it.
I step into the sitting room and see her framed in the archway to the kitchen. She looks pale, shocked, and her eyes drop to the knife I hold in my hand.
‘For God’s sake, Neal, what’s going on?’
The relief that courses through me is almost disabling. I lay the knife on the table beside the lamp and take three quick steps towards her, to pull her into my arms and hold her. I feel her surprise and initial resistance, before her hands slip around me to spread themselves on my shoulders. Her head tips back to look at me. I see confusion and fear in her eyes.
‘What on earth’s happened?’
I kiss her softly and close my own eyes to rest my forehead on hers. ‘I missed you today,’ I say. ‘I really missed you.’
‘I had to go up to Stornoway with Jon.’ She kisses me. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she steps back, holding both my hands, and stares at me earnestly. ‘Who did all this?’ And a flick of her head indicates the mess that surrounds us.
‘I did.’
Her astonishment is patent. ‘Why?’
‘I was looking for me.’
Confusion clouds her eyes before they flicker towards the table. ‘And the knife?’
I lead her to one of the settees, replacing the cushions, and sit us both down. We are turned, half-facing each other, still holding hands, and I tell her everything. About my attacker the night before, and the intervention of a third party that almost certainly saved my life. I see her eyes widen in horror and disbelief.
I tell her about my fruitless trip out to Eilean Mòr, but omit the discovery of the body in the chapel. I am afraid to even put that into words. Then my frantic search of the house to find something, anything, that would provide a clue to the real me.
I stand up and lead her through to the kitchen and open up the briefcase to reveal the bundles of cash. Her eyes are like saucers. She lifts one, as if only by touching it will she believe it really exists. ‘Neal, this is scary.’
I nod. ‘And it’s not all.’ I show her the cuttings and the birth certificate, and the confirmation of my address in the BT phone book. Neal David Maclean, from Hainburn Park, Edinburgh. ‘I’m going there tomorrow.’
Her eyes crinkle with concern. ‘Is that a good idea? You might find you have a wife and family.’
‘I’ve got to know, Sally.’
She seems resigned to it. ‘Will you fly?’
‘I have no credit card or photo ID. But I checked the internet. I can pay cash for a ferry crossing from Tarbert to Skye tomorrow and drive down.’
‘Without a licence or logbook?’
‘The chances of me being stopped are negligible, Sally, unless I’m in an accident.’
She slips her arms around me, and I hear her voice, very small, as she presses her head against my chest. ‘I’m scared I’m going to lose you.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, but there is little conviction in my words.
She looks at me. ‘Whoever you are — whoever you really are — you might not want to be with me once you know. Once you remember.’
‘Of course I will.’
But she just smiles, a sad, wistful little smile. ‘You should go to the police, Neal.’
I step back, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because someone tried to kill you, that’s why. And, because they didn’t succeed, there’s a good chance they’ll try again.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d have to tell them that I’ve lost my memory. That I’ve been lying about why I’m here. That I’ve got twelve grand in cash stashed in a briefcase in the attic and I don’t know where it came from. There’s so much more I still need to know, Sally. I can’t go to the police.’ I hesitate, and realise that there is something else I need to confront. But, still, I can only address it obliquely. ‘Besides, chances are they’re going to come looking for me soon enough.’
She is startled, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because, when I was out at the lighthouse today, I found a man’s body in the old ruined chapel. Someone killed him, Sally. Smashed his head in.’ I swallow, my throat dry and swollen. ‘And I think it might have been me.’
Chapter nine
Karen lay on the bed with her earbuds in and the volume up high on her iPhone. Still, somehow, she could hear them. Or perhaps feel, rather than hear them. Modern houses with stud walls and composite wooden flooring left little to the imagination. And she had known plenty of them, moving as they had from house to house when she was young, always in the wake of her father’s career. London, Leicester, Edinburgh. So many houses in such a short life.
She closed her eyes and tried to quell the sick feeling that had lain like a stone in her belly ever since her mother had broken the news.
Karen had changed in the two years since her father’s death. From a hormonal, but almost painfully conventional teenager to a hormonal, rebellious little bitch. A change of which she had been the conscious architect. Short hair, shaved at the sides and dyed green in a lick across the top, but still black at the back. The nose and eyebrow studs, the rings in her lip that they made her take out for school. The pictures of One Direction on the wall had been torn down to be replaced by Marilyn Manson posters she had found in the goth shop.
The first tattoo had caused a monumental row with aftershocks that went on for days. But there was nothing her mother could do about it. Fait accompli. Tattoos were for life, and this one had been such a small thing. A delicate little butterfly just above her left ankle. The others that followed had reduced it to insignificance. A winged skull on her chest, just below the neck. An elaborate and colourful snake that coiled its way around her left arm, from shoulder to wrist. An eagle with wings spread across her back and shoulders. And a couple she hadn’t even told her mother about.