‘Mr Wright?’ Jake ventured, moving into the room, his eyes fixed on the back of Mr Wright’s head. ‘I’m Mr Campbell-Ross. Mr Jake Campbell-Ross; we spoke yesterday on the phone.’
The last word had barely passed his lips when the old man leapt from his chair and whirled towards Jake at such a velocity that for a minute Jake thought he was hallucinating. Jake took a step back in surprise as the old man approached; he could feel his back up against the door.
‘Good heavens, did I give you a fright?’
Something in his tone made Jake wary, as if giving him a fright was exactly the man’s intention. Nevertheless, Jake took a step forward and, feeling just a little foolish at being afraid of an old man, extended his hand. ‘Are you Mr Wright?’
‘None other – call me Arnold.’ Mr Wright looked down at Jake’s bandaged hand. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
Jake stared at Mr Wright, wondering whether he saw theirony in that observation. For someone nearing the end of his life – which Jake presumed was the case, if he lived in a hospice – he looked quite the picture of health; a rotund little man whose bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously under a full head of wiry white hair. He sported a ruddy, red face, as though he’d just feasted on a hearty meal and had been relaxing in his chair with an after-dinner brandy. Jake eyed him, and suddenly realised he’d jumped to conclusions. If he was living here with his wife in this apartment, that didn’t mean he was ill too. He clearly wasn’t.
‘Do you want a fresh dressing? I could call a nurse.’ Mr Wright pointed at the door.
‘No,’ Jake said quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t want to hang around this place any longer than he had to.
Mr Wright looked as pleased as punch to see him. The feeling wasn’t mutual. Jake wished he hadn’t agreed to travel to Scotland to see him, and Martha. At first he’d been curious, after Arnold had mentioned she knew William. Now he wished that his curiosity hadn’t got the better of him.
They stood in awkward silence; Mr Wright positively beaming, Jake offering an uncomfortable smile. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday; my plane was delayed on arrival.’ Jake brushed aside the mental image of Marcus being escorted across the tarmac to a waiting police van.
Mr Wright waved it away. ‘Arnold – please,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, I’m not going anywhere,’ he said brightly.
Arnold returned to the window but did not resume his seat in the high-backed chair; instead, he motioned to the chair next to his.
Jake walked over, intending to sit in the other chair. He froze. Jake looked across at Arnold in surprise.
‘Before we talk about Martha’s letters,’ he said in a whisper, ‘I’d like you to meet her.’
Jake looked down at Martha. She was asleep, her head tilted on one side, resting on the wing of the chair. Her features were barely discernible through a fountain of long blonde hair that cascaded over her face in a silky, pale flow.
‘A hairdresser comes once a week. They even colour it, you know,’ said Arnold. ‘It’s the first thing people notice about her. She was very proud of her locks; said they were her best feature.’ Arnold turned away from her to look out of the window.
Jake continued to stare at the woman with the beautiful hair. Jake thought that she looked so still, she could almost have died.
‘She has.’
Jake shot Arnold a look. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I guessed what you were thinking,’ said Arnold. ‘That she looks as though she could have passed.’
Jake was surprised that Arnold had guessed his thoughts.
‘She has, in a way,’ he said softly, turning from the window to look at Jake. ‘You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Jake?’
Jake stared at him long and hard. Shaking his head, he said, ‘No, I do not.’
Arnold sighed heavily. Then he crossed the room to take a seat beside the bed.
Jake left the sleeping woman and followed Arnold. There were two low sofas positioned opposite each other in front of a fireplace. They both sat opposite one another.
‘Alzheimer’s.’ Arnold shifted his gaze to Jake. ‘It’s not that uncommon, apparently, for someone in their sixties. People just assume it only afflicts those of advancing years. But it doesn’t,’ he said sadly.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ he paused. ‘I don’t want her to suffer. And this is suffering, being locked inside like that, knowing things, wanting things, but just not being able to … to …’
‘At least she has you,’ Jake offered.
An uncomfortable silence followed in which Jake sensed he had said something wrong. Jake stared at the man, who looked a picture of health, and suddenly had a thought. ‘You’re not a resident here, are you?’
