Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
STRUAN
The Ferryman’s Rest is doing decent Tuesday night business—not rammed, but busy enough that nobody notices one bloke nursing a pint alone.
The low rumble of conversation mixes with the clink of cutlery and occasional burst of laughter from the group of lads by the fruit machine.
Pre-match rugby commentary drones from the TV above the bar, though nobody’s properly watching yet.
I check my phone again. Douglas should be here any minute. Dinner and the Scotland match—just two guys escaping reality for a few hours.
My mind drifts to earlier, to Ainsley, to the moment she caught me working shirtless out back. The wee noise she made, and then the look on her face, like . . . well, like she wanted to lick the sweat off my chest or something.
She clamped down on it instantly, all icy composure again. She’d deny it—no question—but she liked what she saw. I know she did.
Ha. She’s too cute.
Still, I shouldn’t be this pleased about it. And maybe I should keep my clothes on in future, even when I’m roasting and think I’m alone.
I rub a hand over my face. Christ, I need to think about something else.
I lift my phone. A good dose of my wee girl is exactly the distraction I need. I video-call Isla, and she answers after a few rings.
“Hey, princess.”
Her face appears pixelated for a second before the connection steadies. “Daddy!” She’s still in her school uniform, navy cardigan slightly askew. “Guess what happened at school today?”
“What?”
“Mrs Henderson told me I’m going to join primary four for reading time! Just reading, not maths or anything else. But still!”
Pride swells in my chest. “That’s brilliant, Isla! Primary four already? You’re getting too clever for your old da.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s beaming. “I’m not that clever. But I did learn something really cool today about octopuses. Did you know they have three hearts?”
“Three hearts? That’s mental.”
“I know! And if they lose an arm, it grows back. Like magic but real.”
Sophie’s voice drifts from somewhere off-screen: “Isla, Mei is looking for her sous chef!”
“Oh!” Isla perks up. “Mei and I are making homemade pizzas tonight. She lets me choose all my own toppings, even pineapple, and Mummy doesn’t even complain.”
Sophie appears behind Isla, her dark-blonde hair tucked behind one ear and a quick, tired smile on her face. “Oh, hi, Struan. Did Isla tell you about the reading group?”
“Aye, just now. That’s amazing.”
“I know, we’re really proud. Sorry, but we’re about to have dinner. Would it be okay if Isla calls you back after?”
“But we’re playing rummy after dinner!” Isla says.
“True, but you can still give your da a quick call.”
I smile. “It’s fine. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay? Enjoy your pizzas.”
“Will do.” Isla grins. “Byeee!”
The screen goes black before I can get another word in.
I set my phone down, reach for my pint, and take a long sip. Rummy, eh? That used to be our game. Started teaching Isla when she was five, using Maltesers as stakes. She’d concentrate so hard, wee brow furrowed, determined to beat her dad.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head at myself.
Christ, Walker. You’re a grown man. You’re way too old to get jealous over a game. Sort yourself out.
Still, things have been different since Mei came onto the scene.
It used to be that I’d drive to Bannock every Wednesday for dinner—me, Sophie, and Isla.
We always said it was important for Isla to see her parents getting along—which we do.
But now those nights are once a month, if that. And, aye, Mei’s usually there.
Which is fine. Of course it’s fine. It’s just . . . different, that’s all.
My phone pings, saving me from the world’s saddest pity party. For about three seconds.
Douglas
Mate, disaster. Rosie’s just projectile vomited all over the living room. My folks were meant to be watching the twins tonight but I can’t risk them getting whatever this is. Sorry. Rain check?
A flicker of disappointment hits—daft, considering it’s only a pint—but I brush it off and shoot him a message back.
Struan
No worries. Hope she feels better soon and you and Logan avoid it
Douglas
Cheers. Though Logan’s already complaining that his tummy hurts so not looking likely . . .
Poor bastard. Douglas’s situation is almost the complete opposite of mine.
While Sophie and I have found a decent rhythm, Douglas is basically raising the twins solo.
Their mum, Leah, pops back every few months, plays happy families for a week or two, then buggers off again.
No warning, no explanation. Just gone. The twins are too young to understand why she comes and goes, and Douglas is left picking up the pieces every time.
The man’s knackered, but at least he gets those wee moments every day—bedtime hugs, morning chaos, all that stuff.
Not that I’m complaining. Nah, my setup’s grand.
Mostly.
Christ, if anyone could hear the monologue in my head tonight, they’d be laughing their arses off. I’m meant to be Mr Laid-Back, not . . . whatever this is.
I glance around the pub. The table nearest the window has a family of five, the youngest maybe Lily’s age.
She’s carefully colouring on the paper place mat while her siblings squabble about something.
At another table a grandfather is helping a wee boy cut up his fish while the grandmother wipes ketchup off a girl’s chin.
Christ, this place is crawling with kids tonight. Not exactly the vibe I’m after.
I drain my pint and eye the specials board. Slow-cooked lamb shank. Pan-seared sea bass. Venison burger. All sound good, but the thought of sitting here by myself, surrounded by families while I eat dinner alone . . .
No. Not tonight.
Through the window, I see the sky is still bright enough—September evenings holding onto their light. The waves are decent. Not huge, but enough to get the blood pumping. And the wind’s dropped since this afternoon.
Only one thing for it, then.
I stand and head for the door. A ten-minute drive, and then I can be out on the water.
“Heading off already, Struan?” Alan calls from behind the bar.
“Aye,” I say with a grin. “Waves are calling. Be rude not to.”
“At this time? You’re mental.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that.”
I push through the door and into the evening air.
Sometimes the only way to clear your head is to throw yourself at something that demands every bit of your attention. And the Atlantic? That definitely qualifies.
The sun’s sliding towards the horizon by the time I reach the cove, painting the sea bronze and copper. I love this quiet sandy stretch. Here it’s just me and the Atlantic having it out.
The first duck dive shocks the air from my lungs, September water cold enough to make my teeth ache. Salt stings my eyes, my hands numb for a moment before the burn kicks in. But that’s what I need, something sharp enough to cut through all the noise in my head.
I reach the break, and by the third wave, my body remembers what to do. Paddle, pop up, ride. The surfboard hums beneath my feet; spray hits my shins. My shoulders burn, forearms screaming, but it’s the good kind of pain. The kind that reminds you you’re alive.
Out here, there’s no room for thinking about daft shite, like Isla playing cards with Sophie and Mei, or me nursing a pint by myself, or women with perfect fringes who make tiny gasping sounds when they see you shirtless.
There’s just the next wave, the balance, the break. And for now, that’s enough.
The lights of Corraig flicker to life across the water as the sky deepens. I catch one last wave, a beauty that carries me almost to shore, then paddle in with my arms feeling like wet noodles and my head finally, blissfully quiet.
I drop onto the towel I threw over the driver’s seat earlier, wetsuit dripping everywhere despite my best efforts, and crank up the heating.
I love getting out on the water, but man, this is the bit I don’t like: when the fun’s over and I’m just cold.
I swear my balls have retreated so far north they’re practically saying hello to my liver.
And my cock? It’s gone into full hibernation mode.
September surfing in Scotland—not exactly a Baywatch moment.
I shift in the seat, trying to coax some warmth back into places that have fully given up on life. “Sorry, lads,” I mutter. “I promise we’ll have a hot shower as soon as we’re home.”
I start the engine and set off. The radio plays something folksy I don’t recognise, but I hum along anyway as I navigate back towards Ardmara.
The sky’s doing that September thing where it can’t decide if it’s pink or purple or gold, colours bleeding out over the water. It’s stupid how beautiful it is. Makes the drive home feel quieter somehow.
As Ardmara’s lights come into view—scattered along the seafront like someone shook a box of fairy lights—my mind, of course, drifts back to Ainsley.
Seems that even cold-water shrinkage can’t keep me from thinking of her.
When am I going to get the message? She’s complicated.
Guarded. And I’m working for her. I should really keep my distance—at least until the salon refurb is over.
After that, it’d no longer be unprofessional, so . . . different story.
The van protests as I turn up Ardview Road, engine whining about the incline.
House windows glow warm against the darkening sky.
The McNairs haven’t drawn their curtains yet, and I can see them on their sofa watching the rugby match I’m missing.
Their living room flickers green from the massive telly Andy bought last year, despite Kim insisting it was too big.
My own house sits dark and still at the top of the hill. God, the place looks dead. Maybe I need to get a dog or something. It’d be nice to have someone to greet me when I get home.
I pull into my drive, kill the engine, grab my board, and head round the back of the house.
“Are you Batman?”
Jesus Christ. I nearly jump out of my skin.
A small figure stands by the fence between my back garden and Ainsley’s, peering through a gap in it. Lily, wearing a nightie covered in tiny stars. She’s studying my wetsuit with curiosity.
“What do you think?” I ask, playing along.
She tilts her head, considering. “You’re Stwuan. Unless . . .” Her eyes narrow. “Unless Stwuan is Batman. But where’s your mask? And your cape?”
“Well”—I lean in conspiratorially—“I really am Batman but it’s a secret. Can’t go wearing the cape all the time or everyone would know. What are you doing out here so late?”
“Spying,” she says solemnly. “And looking for fairies. They like gardens.”
She reaches her wee hand through the fence and picks up a stone, peering underneath it with obvious hope. Her wee face falls when she finds nothing but dirt.
“Lily?” Ainsley’s voice drifts from inside their house. “Where have you got to?”
“Wait there,” I tell Lily. I duck into my shed, stash my board, and rummage until I find what I’m looking for—a short length of bamboo. “Here,” I say, handing it through the fence. “It’s a fairy-spotting telescope. Works best in daylight, but only if you hum to it first.”
Her eyes go wide as saucers. She snatches the bamboo and bolts for her back door without another word. “Mummy! Mummy! Look what Batman gave me!”
“Batman? Lily, what are you—”
“He said it’s for spotting fairies but I have to hum first!”
Chuckling, I head inside.
Honestly? That wee kid’s got better chat than some adults I know.