Losing My Identity Read online

  How was yours celebrated then? Five or six days of feasting, and everyone in fancy dress?

  She freed herself from his arm and headed for the exit.

  Over these weeks, she got to know his personal foibles and quirks; that he had a phobia about using public toilets; that he liked to reach the end of the pool slightly ahead of her in their thrice-weekly trips to Arlington baths; that he adored fruit, but avoided oranges since they gave him indigestion; that he hated Italian food, because he ‘couldn’t see the point of pasta’; that he suffered back pain and stiffness in his shoulders after a long day at work, and became disconsolate at the thought that these heralded the rapid onset of old age; that when a new cadaver appeared on his cutting table, he had to square the circles of perceiving it as a person, a human like himself, and also as an object from which he had a duty to extract the last, tiniest fragment of evidence, and to remain objective as he prised out its secrets, its clues.

  And he got to know hers — though he had stopped nagging her about listening to her radio at night. In any case, she was sleeping longer than she ever had; some nights, she didn’t need the radio at all.

  By their age, most couples were so used to each other they’d worn grooves, like the one on Leila’s kitchen floor where the door stuck slightly (because she’d never got round to taking it down and planing it; nor did Greer; nor did Grannie). But she felt they were still comparative strangers, each finding out about the other’s peccadilloes. It was enervating. There were things she didn’t want to have to share with a stranger. Hair where she didn’t want hair to be. That incipient varicose vein in her left thigh (his exploring fingers had found it anyway; he nagged her to get it dealt with).

  They had automatically granted each other space, in the evenings, to get on with solitary pursuits like reading. By late July – a month during which they’d spent a week in a hotel on Skye which specialised in vegetarian cuisine – the feeling of having to entertain each other all the time had passed.

  Hari had rooted through her CD collection and discovered that he liked Snow Patrol and REM as much as she did.

  They had compared notes on the middle-age crises each had suffered in the mid-’90s. She had been on the point of taking a job in Australia, he in New Zealand. Both had got over it. Leila opined that possibly she was the product of Greer’s middle-age crisis, since her mother had waited until she was forty to marry, and forty-one to produce her only child. Hari suggested they drink a toast to middle-age crises.

  They mooted whether or not Hari should take up the cello again, and Leila brush up her piano-playing skills, but decided against it.

  They watched very little television. As well as being the most sensual man Leila had ever met, Hari was probably also the most prudish. He was turned off by anything remotely crude or vulgar; that ruled out a lot of films and TV dramas.

  They downloaded professional versions of the pieces on the Kelvin Chorale’s winter programme, and practised their parts together, although they hadn’t reached a decision on whether they’d go back.

  They settled into a pattern where Saturday night was sex night (though there would occasionally be nights of passion on other days too). And although Leila fully appreciated how lucky she was to be able to say that rather than, ‘Occasionally, when the moon is blue’, the timing was far from ideal. Three times in the short period they’d been together, Hari’s phone had rung to summon him out (twice before, once just after; never yet during, thank God). Bad planning, on their part. They’d be better to allocate something like Tuesdays or Thursdays, thought Leila. The aftermath of the weekend had usually been cleared up, and there were fewer murders and violent deaths in a city like Glasgow on a Tuesday or a Thursday night. Not on the streets anyway. Leila half-resolved to raise this with him. Tactfully, without implying that at his age even once a week is pretty good going…

  When he came home from these nocturnal call-outs, silent and taciturn, he’d slide quietly into bed beside her, trying not to wake her (though he knew she wasn’t asleep), and she’d hug him, feeling the tension drain out of him. He’d fall asleep again quite quickly, while she lay awake wondering if she wanted him to talk to her about his work.

  They had established ground rules, after all. She could talk to him about her work, but he never talked about his. Not because of confidentiality issues.

  ‘I leave it at the door when I leave the building,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way I can continue to function and stay sane. In the early days, I had to make a conscious effort to do that. Now I don’t. No purpose would be served by dwelling on the things I see and do.’

  ‘You write up your reports at home, don’t you?’

  Maybe he was writing a crime novel in secret? Or one of those “Confessions of…” books that were becoming ever more popular in Waterstones?

  ‘I do, but all I’m doing is typing up details.’

  ‘Isn’t there a secretary to do that?’

  ‘Of course. For the routine stuff, that’s how it works. I dictate as I go along, and a secretary transcribes it all. When I work on things at home, it’s because I know I’ll possibly have to give evidence in court.’

  That was something else Leila had learned to handle, in double-quick time. She knew when he’d had to go to court, and she recognised the signs of a thorough mauling at the hands of barristers; Hari would be quieter than usual, and on a short fuse.

  She usually learned what he’d been working on from the TV news, and newspapers.

  ‘No wonder you want to retire,’ she’d observed one evening, after watching the news report of a particularly harrowing murder case.

  He pulled her round to face him. ‘I don’t mind working another few years if there’s some purpose to it. Some goal. And if I have you to come home to.’

  ‘You said you’ve spent the last two years trying to get out.’

  ‘There didn’t seem any point to keeping on, before. I’ve been thinking – if you were willing to sell your flat, I’d sell this and we could get a bigger place together. Somewhere that mixes the best points of both. Bigger and better. Someplace with a proper dining room, and a study for each of us, because we’re both quite territorial about our work. And at least two bathrooms, because I know you need your own space. And a snug. A snug to snuggle in and watch TV. I shouldn’t spring this on you,’ he added when she didn’t reply. ‘I’ve had it on my mind for a week or so. I know your own flat means a lot to you. This place doesn’t have much emotional significance for me. I guess it’s been a good investment.’

  ‘I’ll need to think about it. Aren’t we OK as we are?’ Eva’s voice in her head. Aren’t we fine as we are, pet? ‘We might get terribly bored with each other.’

  His head snapped up. ‘Really? You’d get bored with me?’

  ‘You might get bored with me.’

  ‘Never. You surprise me endlessly. And you give me space. You don’t make a fuss if I have to go out in the middle of the night, and you don’t pester me to tell you about what I’ve been working on. OK – I admit, our personalities might converge a little, over time. But bored? No way.’ His tone became more sober. ‘If there’s one thing my work has taught me, it’s that death can come very suddenly. I don’t want to waste a minute of the time I can spend with you.’

  ‘Don’t be morbid. What would we need a dining room for anyway? You realise that even if I move in with you, I’m not suddenly going to become sociable and have dinner parties? Anyway – I like to have my own kitchen, so I can cook for you.’ It preserved an element of mystery. Mystery was important. ‘And I like you having your own place to cook for me.’

  ‘All right. We need a very large kitchen, but not a separate dining room. We can combine the glass collections. It’s so inefficient and costly, keeping two houses. Three, in fact. I’d like you to keep the cottage, whatever we decide to do about a town house. And you must let me pay my share towards the cost of keeping it up. I love being able to go there whenever we want.’

  ‘
But where had you thought of moving to? I don’t see myself in the suburbs. Too green and leafy for their own good, and all those two-car families.’

  ‘We’re a two-car family.’

  ‘You know what I mean. The kind who’d prefer to be thrown under a bus than have to ride in one.’

  ‘I have absolutely no wish to live in the suburbs.’

  ‘Hari, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere near where you had your other house.’

  ‘Neither would I.’

  ‘I’m a townie at heart. I couldn’t live in anyplace smaller than Glasgow. Had to, for a good few years when I worked in veterinary practices. I hate the small-town vibe. Either the centre of a city, or the middle of nowhere. It’s the in-betweens I can’t stand. I’ve always felt safer in a city than the suburbs, with all those deserted streets and tree-shaded gardens. I find the suburbs sinister.’ I’m like Mrs Dalloway. I wonder if Hari’s read any Virginia Woolf yet? Why would he have – he didn’t inherit Greer’s bookshelves. ‘A place like Lenzie or Bearsden is anathema to me. The worst of all worlds.’

  He jumped visibly. ‘I assure you, I have absolutely no wish to live in either of those. I thought we could look around here, or not too far afield in the West End. We know there are shops and restaurants we like in this area, and the park, and the Botanics. There’s everything we need, within easy reach.’

  ‘Ashton Lane?’ she asked, giggling.

  ‘Ashton Lane,’ he agreed. The first few times they’d hit the trendy bars and restaurants there, always awash with students, Leila had wondered if it didn’t make him feel old (as it did her). Apparently not. ‘The opposite,’ he said.

  ‘Park Circus?’ Leila suggested, laughing, but he took it seriously. He’d have his beloved Kelvingrove Park right on his doorstep. He genuinely didn’t notice the used syringes in the bushes, and the parade of cruising gay men… ‘Can you see us living there, amidst all the lawyers and bankers?’ she added, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Possibly not. Unless there’s another town you’d like to try? I daresay I could commute from Edinburgh. Or I’d always get work in London.’

  ‘Not on your life! We’d end up living in a shoebox, the way prices are there. Glasgow’s fine. I have no wish to leave it.’

  He grinned at her. ‘And yet you have every book Iain Sinclair’s ever written. And they’re all about London.’

  ‘Reading’s one thing.’

  ‘Have a think about it anyway. We can keep an eye on what’s coming onto the market.’

  She knew from his tone that he’d already been on Zoopla more than once. ‘Maybe.’

  Living together meant commitment. She knew she wasn’t heavily into commitment. Like mother, like daughter… Like father like daughter.

  She ruminated about very how different he was from Sam in some ways, and how like him in others. At some stage, Hari had decided to work with dead, inanimate bodies in preference to live ones. Machines that had broken down or been smashed. Why? Couldn’t he bear to take on the pain of dealing with lives he might have been able to save? He hadn’t wanted to be involved, any more than she had. He liked to be in control, and you can’t control disease, no matter how clever you are as a medic. A cold person, possibly. That gave her pause.

  Thirteen

  Hari’s phone pinged as they ate breakfast.

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘What’s up? Work?’

  ‘It’s a delivery I was expecting. It’s coming today. Look – if you were meaning to work on admin today, could you possibly do it here and wait in?’

  ‘I suppose. What is it?’

  ‘A surprise. Best keep the bunnies corralled, because it’s one of those helpful “sometime between eight a.m. and six p.m.” time-frames.’

  As she sat at Hari’s desk, typing, Leila was overcome with an irresistible urge to spy. She knew he wouldn’t be home at lunchtime, so there was no risk of being disturbed.

  She felt like a thief as she prowled round his study. Not a single photograph anywhere on view. Hating herself, she opened one desk drawer after another. None of them was locked. He was clearly an organised man. It didn’t take her long to find a slim album of photos. Feeling despicable, but unable to help herself, she opened it. Those were obviously his parents. He got his height from his father.

  Just one photo that could be her. It must be her. Anita. Not at all as Leila had envisaged her. She and Hari (Hari with hair) and the little boy were sitting on a chequered blanket on a lawn, smiling into the sun. Smiling at whoever was behind the camera. Far from being blonde and buxom, Anita was clearly Indian. Not that she was wearing a sari – her dress was entirely Western. But her features were very distinctive, as was the way she wore her hair in a long plait thrown over her right shoulder (she must have been able to sit on her hair it was so long). Although all three of them were sitting down, Leila could see that Anita was tiny, elfin, with an exquisitely pretty, calm, perfect oval of a face. No, not pretty. Beautiful. Compared to her, I’m not a gazelle, I’m an elephant. They must have married young. While Hari had years of training still to do.

  Leila replaced the photograph in the folder as if it were red hot. There were several blank pages in the album, but she could see that there had been photographs there in the past. Anita again, no doubt. Wedding photos?

  Somewhere among the neatly-stacked cardboard files at her own flat were a couple of photos of her and Sam, in the good old days. But there were no pictures of their wedding, of that she was sure. Never had been, because it was long before the days when everyone had a camera on their phone, and no one had thought to take any more formal apparatus to the event…

  Feeling sick with jealousy and shame and insecurity, she dug deeper in the drawer A file of Herald cuttings from 2011.

  March 10th

  Concern grows for missing Lenzie woman.

  A grainy picture of Anita; a little older now, but still slender and beautiful. Her hair was cut in a chin-length bob.

  Leila could hear Hari’s voice in her head, ‘I like that you’ve kept your hair long. So many women feel they have to cut it when they hit forty…’

  Lenzie! No wonder he’d started up like a scared cat when Leila said she didn’t fancy living there!

  Police say they have growing concern for the safety of Mrs Ankita Gill (59), known to her friends as Anita, missing from her Lenzie home since 3rd March. They have appealed to anyone in the area who has seen her since that date to come forward.

  ‘Friends tell us that Mrs Gill suffered from bouts of depression,’ said Inspector Lesley Baird. ‘We are anxious to find her as soon as possible. We have no idea whether she may have taken public transport to leave the area.’

  March 14th

  Police draw a blank in hunt for missing woman

  March 22nd

  Police say that the body found by a dog-walker in woods close to Milngavie on Tuesday has been identified as that of Mrs Ankita Gill, missing from her Lenzie home since 3rd March.

  Emergency services were called to the area at around 8 00 am yesterday, following reports that human remains had been found.

  Police say there are no suspicious circumstances, and they are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death. A report has been passed to the Procurator Fiscal.

  Mrs Gill’s family has requested privacy at this time.

  Leila leant back heavily in the desk chair. Hari’s words when he told her what he’d found out about Beatrice came back to her, and the steel-cold tone of his voice. ‘It’s the ultimate selfish act.’

  There would presumably have been a post mortem. Surely he didn’t have to…? No, even in Scotland, that would never happen. They’d have got someone else to do it.

  Poor Hari. Poor whatever the son was called – it struck Leila for the first time that she didn’t even know his name. Poor Anita.

  She wasn’t sure she could stay with Hari any more. She knew she’d never get that picture out of her mind. Anita so young and trusting. And happy. Hari young an
d confident, smiling into the lens… On impulse, Leila turned back to the album page and snapped a picture of it on her phone, then put everything back in the drawer exactly as she’d found it. She fetched a duster from the kitchen and wiped every surface she’d touched. ‘Watch and learn’ she muttered to herself. ‘I should have worn gloves too.’

  She didn’t want this. She had never wanted this, to give another man the power to make her feel that way.

  A knock at the door almost made her jump out of her skin.

  ‘Piece of furniture for Gill?’ snarled the delivery man.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Wanted to check you were in before we tried to get it up this bloody stair.’

  The air was blue for the next ten minutes. Leila was praying that the crashing and banging and swearing didn’t mean that they were damaging the wall-tiles in the close. She peeped over the bannisters; three men were struggling with the most enormous, long object, covered in cardboard and bubble-wrap. They were having to lift it high above the handrail finials at each turn in the stair, to get it round. Well, fuck you, Hari. You might have warned me! No wonder you wanted me to have to deal with this. When they reached the landing, they were all streaming with sweat.

  ‘Where do you want this?’

  ‘I’m not sure where Dr Gill wants it. What is it?’

  ‘Sofa.’

  Leila wasn’t at all sure they’d even get it round the turn from the hall to the sitting room. They did, just and no more.

  They dropped it onto the floor more viciously than necessary, and ripped off the packaging.

  It was the largest sofa she’d ever seen. Longer than normal, and ridiculously wide. Tall as she was, she’d never be able to sit on it with her spine against the back and her feet on the floor. Nice material, all the same; a heathery mix of tweed. It went well with the dark blue armchairs.