Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
Marsaili came back in from the hall, slipping her phone into her bag. “That was the social services,” she said. “Apparently there’s a bed available, at least temporarily, in the Alzheimer’s unit right next door at Dun Eisdean.”
Eleven
Eleven
This is smaller than my room at home. But it looks as if it’s been painted recently. There are no stains on the ceiling. Nice white walls. Double-glazing, too. Can’t hear the wind, or the rain battering against the window. Just watching it running down the glass. Like tears. Tears in rain. Who would know? But if you’re going to cry, do it on your own. It’s embarrassing sitting there with tears on your face and folk watching you.
No tears now, although I do feel sort of sad. I’m not sure why. I wonder when Marsaili will come and take me home. I hope it’ll be the good Mary when we get there. I like the good Mary. She looks at me and touches my face sometimes like she might once have liked me.
The door opens, and a kindly young lady looks in. She makes me think of someone, but I’m not sure who.
“Oh,” she says. “You’ve still got your coat and hat on, Mr. Macdonald.” She pauses. “Can I call you Tormod?”
“No!” I say. And I hear myself bark it, like a dog.
She seems startled. “Oh, now, Mr. Macdonald. We’re all friends here together. Let me get that coat off you and we’ll hang it up in the wardrobe. And we should unpack your bag, put your things in the drawers. You can decide what goes where.”
She comes to the bed where I am sitting and tries to get me to stand. But I resist, shrugging her off. “My holiday’s over,” I say. “Marsaili’s coming to take me home.”
“No, Mr. Macdonald, she’s not. Nobody’s coming. This is your home now.”
I sit there for a long time. What does she mean? What could she have meant?
And I do nothing to stop her now from taking off my cap, or lifting me to my feet to remove my coat. I can’t believe it. This is not my home. Marsaili will be here soon. She’d never leave me here. Would she? Not my own flesh and blood.
I sit down again. The bed feels quite hard. Still no sign of Marsaili. And I feel . . . how do I feel? Betrayed. Tricked. They said I was going on holiday, and they put me in this place. Just like the day they brought me to The Dean. Inmates. That’s what we called ourselves. Just like prisoners.