Chapter 4
FOUR
brODY
I’m in so much pain I can barely breathe.
It gets like this sometimes, especially when I’ve been sitting for extended periods.
Walking I can do, lying flat is fine, but anything in between?
That can be torture. This whole journey has been a battle of wills between me and my nerve endings, and all I want to do is get horizontal.
Or possibly drunk. That helps, as it does with most things – that or a massage from my PT, but that ain’t gonna happen here.
The damn cab ride seems to take forever, and I can tell the woman I’ve picked up is as tense as I am.
Her long dark hair is wild from the rain, a stray strand striping her cheek in a way that drives me mad.
I want to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, but she looks so highly strung she might scream.
I can’t say that I blame her. I just kidnapped her, even if it was with the best of intentions.
I know I was rude to her on the train. I know I could have made more effort to be civilised.
But it’s hard to be civilised when you’re in constant pain.
In my own way, I was trying to make up for it by giving her a ride – but I know how I can come across.
How years as a cop left me with this bullish attitude, the misguided belief that people should always do what I say.
I don’t have the badge or the gun now, but it seems I still think I’m in charge.
How would Shannon have reacted, if some strange guy threw her luggage in the trunk without her permission?
Shannon would have kicked him in the balls – but this woman?
This woman is struggling to hold herself together.
I can see the stress in her clenched fists, her delicate pale skin, hazel eyes that are beautiful but currently gazing nervously around her.
Her lips are trembling, and her foot is tapping incessantly on the floor of the car.
Maybe she’s had a bad day. Maybe she’s had a bad life.
Maybe she’s fresh out of an institution.
Any one of these could be true, and now I’ve somehow gone and made her my problem. Shit.
I ignore her, and look out the window. It’s a good distraction, one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen.
The road is rolling and tumbling through the countryside, through dense woods of pine trees, velvet-green hillsides, fields filled with sturdy-looking sheep.
Every now and then we plummet towards the coastline, sometimes so close it feels like we’re heading straight into the sea.
The sunshine is back, the sky clear blue and traced with soaring gulls.
I concentrate on the birds, on the way they float on the wind currents.
So free and graceful and at one with their world.
I kinda wish I was a gull right now, not a guy with a back injury wondering if he should give in, and take a goddamn pill.
Shannon says I should, that they’re there to be used, but for some messed-up macho bullshit reason I see it as a weakness. I try to relax my taut muscles.
The car winds through the scenery, the driver yapping on.
I grunt in response when I need to, half tempted to open the door and do a duck and roll out onto the hillside.
What the hell am I doing here? I should be back in Chicago, cracking open a beer and settling down into my BarcaLounger in front of the big screen.
My phone beeps, and a message lands from Shannon.
How goes the great adventure? Looks like you’re nearly there. I’m so proud of you Dad – have a great time!
Huh, I think, I’ve really got to get that tracking app disabled.
At least at my end. If I do give up and fly straight home, I don’t want her to know.
I don’t want to disappoint her. I’ve got to remember I’m not just doing this for myself, I’m doing it for her – and I would do anything for her.
I’d tear down the whole world just to see her smile.
She’s proud of me, and that makes it all worthwhile.
The woman I’m with hasn’t looked at her phone once, I realise.
No messages to or from anybody else, which in this day and age is unusual.
Maybe she doesn’t want to be tracked either.
Maybe I can add ‘on the run from Interpol’ to my list of guesses about her.
She glances across at me, as though she senses my scrutiny, and bites her lip so hard a bubble of blood oozes out.
She has terrific lips, I can’t help noticing.
Sweet and plump, the kind most men dream of kissing.
Not me, though. No sirree, not me – those days are gone.
She looks away, and I wonder what I can do to make her less nervous. Maybe talk, like an actual person.
‘So,’ I try out, my voice croaky from the extended silence. ‘You come here often?’
It’s lame, an attempt at a joke that nobody in their right mind would find funny. She immediately lets out a laugh, then holds her hands over her mouth, as though she’s embarrassed at her own reaction.
‘No!’ she replies after a few moments. ‘I’ve never even been to Scotland before. It’s amazing, isn’t it?’
Her eyes are on the landscape, but weirdly, mine are still on her.
That stray lock of hair really is driving me insane.
I force my gaze away, and follow hers to the view.
The sea is spreading out around us, and cliffs covered in bright yellow flowers soar up into that pastel-shaded sky.
I suck in a breath. She’s right, it is amazing.
It’s the kind of place a better man than me would be able to wax lyrical about, maybe even write a poem.
It stirs something inside me, tugs at me in a way I never expected.
I’ve seen some spectacular places in my life, but this…
this feels different. Special. Like I’ve fallen into a magical kingdom in a far-off realm.
‘Yeah, I guess it’s okay,’ is all I say. There’s no way I can put what I’m feeling into words.
She looks a little deflated, like she expected more from me.
I shrug, a spasm of pain roaring up my sciatic nerve just to remind me it’s still there.
‘It’s really nice,’ I add, feeling helpless.
I’ve never been good with words. I’m better at doing than saying.
Sandy always joked that I showed my love by fixing her car and building her the summer house she dreamed of, rather than using fancy words and romantic gestures. I wish I’d done both now.
I tap out a reply to Shannon. I can’t change the mistakes I made in the past, but I can at least try not to repeat them. Thanks sweetheart, I write. I love you.
She sends a string of heart emojis back, and I can’t help but grin. Clever enough to study at Oxford, but still addicted to little cartoon pictures to express her feelings.
The cab drives onwards, taking the bends at breath-stealing speed, and eventually we start to see signs of habitation.
A gas station with two pumps and a side hustle in spare tractor parts, a fancy-looking seafood joint, a couple of small stores.
After a few minutes and some pretty full-on descents, we enter what I presume to be the village.
I’m a little disappointed there isn’t some kind of sign.
You know, giving the population and maybe a civic motto?
Something like ‘Bonnie Bay – where anything is possible!’, or ‘Bonnie Bay – the place you lose your life savings in a fake bookstore!’
Instead, we just drive along a central road, the high street I guess.
I gaze out of the window as we pass a small stone harbour, complete with an ancient-looking jetty.
The brightly painted boats are a mix of small pleasure craft and bigger fishing vessels, and they clank up against each other in their moorings.
I wonder if there’s a way to hire one. It could be a good way to get up close and personal with those puffins of mine.
The harbour gives way to a beach, rich yellow sand and big rocks thrown over the place at random, like they’ve been left there for giants to sit on.
The image strikes me as much more vivid and fanciful than I’m used to.
Seems like this place is changing my mindset a little already.
Maybe I’ll be cranking out sonnets by the morning – assuming I survive until the morning.
I’m still half convinced this is going to end with a knife fight and me running for my life, chased by locals wearing goat heads and furs.
We cruise along a cobbled street, past various cafés and stores.
There’s a fine-looking pub called the Kestrel, which I like immediately – named after a bird, and probably home to pints of Guinness, my new favourite drink.
After the pub, there’s a long string of buildings, some tall and skinny, others filling in the gaps between them.
They’re all painted in white and pastel colours.
They kinda look like cotton candy, and I can’t help smiling at them.
I glance across at the woman, and see a similar look of wonder on her face.
She catches me, and says: ‘It’s like bunting, isn’t it?
You know, the little flags on strings you get at street parties? ’
I nod. She’s right. Cotton candy bunting, but made out of bricks and mortar. ‘Yeah. It’s real pretty.’
It’s not much, but my response earns me the first proper smile I’ve seen from her. It changes everything about her face, chases away the sadness in her eyes, and lights up the whole damn world. Jesus. That smile should come with a health warning.
My heart’s still beating a little faster as the cab driver pulls up to a stop. ‘Here we are, folks,’ he announces, his accent so thick I can barely understand him. ‘Bonnie Bay!’