Chapter 10
10
ONE DAY AFTER I LEFT HER
I glance to the sky. The place is about an hour and a half’s walk away and the delay has put me behind time. I need to get moving if I’m going to get there before it goes dark. And believe me, you don’t know dark unless you’ve seen it here. It’s properly different to dark back home. In the Highlands, it feels like light has never existed at all.
I cross the small road. Follow the dirt track that leads further away from the small village. The incline is as steep as hell.
An hour later and I turn on my head torch. My fingers are fumbling inside my gloves as I shake out the map again. I hold it tight, propping it against the disused hut beside me. It’s broken and consists of corrugated steel with sharp edges. A discarded bike is just visible inside. Christ. Is that sleet or ice being shot into my eyeballs? I wipe my eyes, trying to clear the view. I look back at the map and to the pathway, which appears to split into two here. One heads higher up the edge of the hill, the other leading down towards a forest. My fingers twitch, wanting to swipe across Google Maps. I don’t have my phone. I doubt there would be any signal anyway .
Liv would be lost. She has – by her own confession – absolutely no sense of direction. I once had to find her in a maze designed for kids. She’d been sitting there next to a little girl with tears in her eyes, an anxious mum arriving at the same time as me. ‘See?’ Liv had looked up at me. ‘I told you there would be a hero to rescue us and look, we’ve got two!’
I check my position again. There is a crag to my left, splitting the vast wilderness apart. The sky is darkening, spreading. Like a bruise.
I fold the map away. Two more miles and I should see it. I push on, head down, taking the path leading me further into the hills, boots rhythmic, the sound only punctuated by my breath.
The terrain becomes less craggy. I stop for a moment, drinking from my water bottle as the farmhouse comes into view. Thank fuck for that. It’s downhill from where I’m standing. There is a smaller building higher up, set back behind it.
The first time I had seen it, I had thought that from this far away the farm had looked like toys that had been carefully placed by a child: the fences, and the sheep, and the tractor – hell, even the shed looked purposefully placed. The house, though, looked as though it had fallen from the child’s pocket and landed further away. The whole building was crooked. Like it had been trodden on. My new home for the time being. Crooked. I let out a sound, one note through my nose, and shake my head, twisting the top back on the bottle.
The sleet has turned into snow and the glow from the farmhouse windows is a welcome sight. I imagine a sheepdog lying beside the fireplace. A pot of stew bubbling away on the Aga. My stomach tightens at the thought. The last thing I ate was something that claimed to be an egg mayonnaise sandwich but that was God knows how many hours ago.
I push on through the final stages of the hike until I reach the small rusting gate, the wind smashing against my body. I close it behind me. Follow the path to the door. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, and rap firmly on the blue wood. The door is pulled roughly open. A monstrously large brown wolfhound barks at me, practically foaming at the mouth. A well-seasoned man with holes in his jumper, thick grey hair splintered with black, squints at me.
‘Aye?’ he asks, looking me up and down. His voice is barely a voice at all. More of a wheeze and a growl mixed up in one. ‘Lost are you?’
I take in this man. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Recognition, perhaps?
‘No,’ I say, clearing my throat, pushing back the emotion hot on the heels of exhaustion. ‘Not lost.’ My own voice is scratchy and I realise that I’ve not spoken to anyone since I left. ‘I’m renting Black Water Cottage?’
‘Oh.’ He pauses looking me up and down. ‘Och, you’ll be wanting the key then I expect. Down, Caesar, you bloody great arsehole.’ The dog is pulled to attention and released, almost knocking me over with its giant brown tail. The man starts to shuffle backwards. ‘Well? You coming in or you want to stand out in the cold?’
I shuffle through the door, closing it behind. Around me are things. Lots and lots of things: boots, bottles, rugs, apothecary bottles, jars, dried flowers, mounted stags, stuffed owls, stuffed hawks, shells, candles, bookcases, tables, chairs, lamps, all thrown together in a strange yet oddly comforting way. There seems to be no reason to the way things are displayed. There is a toilet brush next to the stone fireplace. A cushion on the floor next to me beside the welcome mat.
No photos I notice.
‘Cheers. It’s brisk out there. ’
He practically scoffs at that. I guess this is one of the milder evenings by his standards. ‘A writer, are you?’ he asks, the dog circling my legs, his weight almost knocking me off my feet.
‘A writer?’ I ask. Confused.
‘That’s why you’ll be wanting the cottage?’ he prompts, like I’m hard of hearing. He has no idea who I am.
Good.
That suits me just fine.
‘Oh.’ I consider this. It’s as good an alibi as any. ‘Yes. How did you guess?’
‘Most who come and stay think they’ll be inspired by the great outdoors. Especially after that Outlander series. Time-travelling Scots? What a load of…’ He hesitates. ‘You’re not writing about time travel and all that malarkey are you?’
It takes me a moment to interpret his accent.
‘No. No. Horror.’ He raises his bushy eyebrows at me. ‘Zombies,’ I add for good measure.
‘Aye, well, you’ll have plenty of quiet round here for your zombies. The southern softies don’t use it till the summer, an’ even then they do nothing but complain. Where you from?’ He narrows his eyes. I take off my hat. The heat hitting my skin fiercely after the cold outside.
I don’t want to give him any sign of the truth. There is a half-eaten Yorkie bar on the sofa.
‘York,’ I lie. The man’s eyes follow my line of sight. If he guesses my ruse he disregards it.
‘Right then, York,’ he says, a slight tilt to his voice as his says it – almost is if there is a subtitle running beneath the words: I know you aren’t telling the truth but your business is your own. ‘I’m Mac.’
I know.
‘This here is Caesar.’
He passes me a large key, like something more suited to locking dungeons. ‘There’s more wood in the back. But you’ve got some in there ready for tonight. Best get the fire going as soon as you get in. It might be spring where you come from but it isnae spring here yet.’
I hesitate at the door, words forming and fading. He looks at me, waiting for me to move.
‘Thanks.’ He nods, and I walk through the door.
‘York, you say?’ he asks.
‘Funny accent to have coming from York,’ he fires through narrowed yet amused eyes. I’m about to say I’ve only just moved there but the door had already closed behind me, the orange glow and warmth swallowed back inside. I exit the path, slamming the gate. The hills are barely visible now, dark purple shadows looking on while the wind surges. The cottage looks to be about another five minutes up another steep incline.
I approach, taking in my new home. The black slate roof is dipping in the middle. There is one chimney, and a gate, and two small windows upstairs. One downstairs.
I can barely feel my fingers as I slip the key in and turn. Nothing happens at first and it takes some force. I put my weight behind it until it budges. Resentfully, it lets me in.
I flick the switch beside the door and the light above flickers on, with it, a hum. The room I’m standing in is small. The wind blowing out the navy curtains. There is an open fireplace at one end, a bookshelf on the opposite wall and a sofa – the colour of which is… undecided. Grey? Purple possibly? The floor is carpeted, but as I walk through the room, I can feel the uneven slabs that lie beneath.
I shove open the door. It drags along the carpet to the kitchen. My first thought is Liv would love this. And she would. Right now I’d do anything to be back with her. Her body leaning back against mine, just doing something normal like watching the news, or ordering in.
The light in here is also flickering, and for a moment I worry that for all of my efforts, I’m going to end up dying here. Alone. Cause of death? Dodgy-as-fuck electrics.
The ceiling is low, the cupboards are plain, but there is a decent sized table and chairs at one end, facing a stable door. I’d bet it’s quite a view from there in the daylight. There is an Aga like Granny Palmer used to have. She was blind in one eye and used to wear a patch. We would often pretend she was a pirate. ‘Hand me your gold, you blaggard!’ I’d say to my brother. The thought of him sobers me and a shiver brings my thoughts back to the task at hand. I have a vague memory of helping her light it, but I’d better google that one before I make an attempt.
Christ, it’s freezing in here.
I head back into the lounge. Get on my knees and twist some of the newspaper beside the fire into branch-like shapes. I add a few sticks of kindling from the basket on the hearth. My fingers are shaking as I try to light the fire. It takes me more than ten minutes until the blue flame begins to flicker. I wait for it to take hold then add a few lumps of coal.
I walk back through the kitchen, opening the door on the same wall as the Aga, and climb the stairs. Every step creaks with my weight, but despite the groans and complaints, the staircase feels sturdy beneath my boots. There are two rooms at the top of the stairs. To my left a small bedroom, consisting of a wardrobe, a bed, and a chest of drawers. To the right, a bathroom with an avocado green bath, toilet and sink. Liv would not be a fan of the bathroom. For a second it feels like she is here, that she is about to lean her head on my shoulder: Well it’s not the claw-footed bath of my dreams but I do like avocado. Her imaginary voice makes me feel light for a second but then the heaviness of my actions replaces that feeling. I pull myself together, turn off the lights and return to the lounge.
The fire has taken hold now, so I add more coal and a log. Opening my backpack, I take out two tins of Big Soup. Why don’t they just call it stew? Liv would say. I drain the last of my water, so cold it puts my teeth on edge.
I dig out the second-hand iPad I picked up on the way here, and turn it on, hoping there is some kind of Wi-Fi here.
The wheel of connectivity spins, and spins, and spins. My eyes are already heavy. After five tries, I give up. I have plenty of coal and logs. I’ll sleep in here tonight; then tomorrow, I’ll get supplies.