‘It looks good. Suits you.’
‘Yeah?’
I smile again. Am rewarded with a flash of teeth and dimples.
‘So,’ he says. ‘What’s next? Will you be going back to America?’
I look away from him and out at the grey rainy day, the slick cobbles, gothic spires, and sandstone tenements. ‘I don’t know yet.’
Logan stares hard at a point between my neck and shoulder. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but Anna saves us both with a loud tut as she starts thumping the drinks onto a tray.
‘There,’ she says, pushing it towards Logan. ‘Now maybe you can take them over there.’
In the end, the five of us stay until it gets dark, until the pub starts filling up, getting noisy. Rafiq and Logan leave first. Rafiq holds out her hand, squeezes mine hard and quick.
‘Take care of yourself, Cat.’
‘I will. Thank you. For everything you did.’
She gives me one last long look. And then she nods, starts moving towards the door. ‘Logan, I’ll wait in the car. Don’t take half an hour.’
He grins at me. ‘I’ve had better wingmen.’
Someone jostles us closer, and I reach my arms up around his neck to hug him. ‘Goodbye, Logan.’
He squeezes me, presses his face briefly against my neck. ‘Craig.’
‘I kind of prefer Logan,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a bit of a thing for superheroes.’
He draws back, gives a solemn nod. ‘I get that a lot.’
‘Thank you for every—’
‘You don’t have to say that. To either of us. We were just doing our job.’
I smile, kiss him on the cheek. ‘I want to say thank you anyway.’
He holds my gaze just long enough that I wish I’d said something more. ‘You’ve got my number, Cat. You know where I am.’
And then he, too, is gone, leaving me feeling less bereft than wistful. I do, after all, know where he is. Where he will be.
In some ways, saying my goodbyes to Anna and Vik is easier. Anna gives me a quick hard hug, a kiss on each cheek, and a ‘Look after yourself’ that has the tone of an order.
I look at Vik, his smile sad though it still crinkles the skin around his eyes. ‘I’m sorry for—’
‘It doesn’t matter any more.’ And I hug him, squeeze his hand.
‘I loved her so much,’ he says.
‘I know. She knew too, Vik.’
He blinks, looks away. I think not seeing me will be good for him; I know it’s never me he sees.
When I leave the pub, I’m alone. But I’m not afraid when someone steps out of the shadows, blocking my way. Maybe because there’s so little left to be afraid of now. Or because I’ve already guessed who it will be.
‘Hello, Marie.’
An oncoming car flashes gold against her skin, her eyes. ‘How are you, Catriona?’
‘You could have come to the pub, you know.’
‘I didn’t know if I would be welcome.’ Her smile is flat. Fleeting.
She wouldn’t have been, but what’s the point in saying so now? ‘El would have wanted you to be there.’
Her gloved fingers twine together, restless. ‘I didn’t help her, but I helped you, didn’t I?’ She squints against the glare of another car. ‘I saved you. Didn’t I?’
I look at her beautiful scarf, her leather gloves, immaculate make-up. All those terrible scars she thinks are hidden. I move forwards, take both of her hands in mine, and nod. Because in a strange way, she did. She woke me up. She made me remember what it was to be afraid. To be terrorised.
Her smile is brilliant. Her fingers strong as they grip mine back. ‘Be happy, chérie. Vis ta vie. For her.’
She spins on her heels and I smell Chanel. And then she is gone.
I go back to the house alone. I don’t really want to leave El in my crappy bedsit, but she deserves a return to this house even less.
The flat lawns of 36 Westeryk Road are littered with fag butts, empty juice bottles, and Greggs bags. I climb the stone steps up to the big red front door. The house has been locked up for months. When the solicitor first handed over the huge bunch of keys, I sat with them heavy in my lap for a long time, just looking at them, remembering Run!, the darkness and the thunder, my fingers pulling on the night latch again and again. Now I select the deadlock key with steady fingers, listen to its heavy clunk as it turns, the sun warm against the back of my neck. I push open the door, step up into the entrance hall. The smell – old wood and old age – is tempered now with an air of abandonment, neglect, and the relief I feel belies my steadiness. There’s an envelope addressed to me from National Records of Scotland lying on the mat. I pick it up, put it into my pocket.
Arcs of green and gold light crisscross the parquet, the bannister, the grandfather clock. But I don’t look up at the stained-glass window. I don’t go upstairs. The solicitor suggested taking an inventory, but I care about none of it. I’ve instructed him to sell the house and everything in it as soon as he can. I’m pretty sure that Ross will agree. What is the point, after all, in a prison without prisoners?
I’m here for me. For whatever it is I left behind. Because I still can’t move on. I still don’t deserve what El did, what Mum did; I still can’t find a way to live with myself. I know that I need to shake it: this martyred despondency, this fucking ingratitude. I know the longer I don’t, the more I’m letting El down. But it still doesn’t feel right – it feels horribly, horribly wrong – and I don’t know why.
I walk through the staircase’s shadow, pull open the heavy black curtain. Dust makes me sneeze, allows me to reach the other end of the pantry without having to look or linger. I step up into the cupboard, slide back the bolts, turn on my torch, and step down into Mirrorland for the last time.
The sun breaks white through the cracks in the roof. I smell the damp wood and musty air, feel the hairs rise up from my skin and scalp, hear the echoes of our whispers, giggles, screams. At the bottom, I turn left without looking right, keep going until I’m in the washhouse. Someone has cleaned up Ross’s blood; the Satisfaction no longer has a gun deck or rum store. I walk to the main deck and sit, cross my legs, look up at the green ocean and white frills of waves, at the blue sky and white puffs of clouds. The Jolly Roger with its painted skull and crossbones. The hulking spectre of Blackbeard’s ship beyond the empty lantern hook.
I don’t know how long I stay there. Long enough for those cracks of white to dim, leaving me in darkness except for the fading day through the washhouse’s window. I don’t know who or what I think of, but by the time I come back, I’m stiff, sore, lighter.
I get up, massage the feeling back into my legs and arms. Take down the Jolly Roger and fold it into a square. Run my fingers over the chalk and stone of the washhouse walls as I leave. At the bottom of the staircase, I look once more around Mirrorland: its countries and its borders, its bricks and its wood, its cobwebs and its shadows. And then I climb the stairs.
Close the door to Mirrorland. And bolt it shut.
I start a coal fire in Mum’s Kitchener, and when the flames are hot and high, I hold my hands over them until the heat spreads through me. I open the NRS envelope, pull out Mum’s birth certificate, and the four others I requested all those months ago: Jennifer, Mary, two Margarets. Under Father’s name for Mary Finlay, it says Robert John Finlay; Occupation, Fisherman. And under Date of Birth: Third of March, 1962, at 14:32. I look at Mum’s certificate. Nancy Finlay was born on the Third of March, 1962, at 14:54.
I sit down at the kitchen table. Twins. Mum and the Witch had been twins. Not Mirror Twins like El and me. Not even identical twins. Because Mum was as light as the Witch was dark; as small as the Witch was tall. But still twins nonetheless. I think of the hate in the Witch’s eyes – the hate for her own sister – and another wave of shame threatens to dissolve the small amount of peace that saying goodbye to Mirrorland has given me.