Chapter 24
Hunter walks Sabrina and I out of the maze and back to the hotel, where Sabrina, who’s been silent the entire way back, her eyes red from crying, mutters a quick thank you before leaving us alone in the lobby.
I turn to Hunter to speak to him, but, before I can even figure out what it is I want to say, Agnes appears, a wide smile on her pretty face.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she says. ‘I’ve just left a tray in your room. The bus for the funfair leaves in an hour, so there’s no formal dinner tonight. I left you some scones, too; I noticed you liked the last lot I brought you.’
I smile gratefully at her.
‘Thanks, Agnes,’ I say. ‘I, er, guess I’ll see you later, then?’ I add, looking up at Hunter, who hesitates, as if he’s about to say something, but just nods silently, before heading off in the direction of his apartment.
I’m disappointed not to have any more time to talk to him, but I’m feeling much better after our encounter in the maze, so I go upstairs to my room, where I find that, as well as leaving me considerably more food than I suspect she was supposed to, Agnes has also run me a bath and turned down the bed, ready for my return.
I shiver slightly at the sight of it. Agnes has carefully laid my pyjamas out on the quilt, and put a foil-wrapped chocolate on the pillow, but the thought of sleeping in here tonight is something that no amount of chocolate is going to make me feel good about.
I’m so nervous, in fact, that I wedge a chair under the door handle, like people do in horror movies, before getting into the bath.
Well, you can’t be too careful, can you?
Despite my fears, though, the hour until the bus leaves passes without incident, and I head back down to the minibus, which I manage to board this time without grabbing anyone’s head.
So far, so good.
The village fair turns out to be not so much a fair as it is a few food trucks and stalls grouped around the same little square the market was held in yesterday, which is now also home to a handful of fairground rides, including a slightly perilous-looking Ferris wheel, and one of those old-fashioned carousels, from which music rises and falls in time with the painted horses.
I jump down from the minibus, and immediately look around for Hunter and Hannah, who’re nowhere to be seen.
Instead, I follow the other influencers across the square, which has been strung with fairy lights.
They twinkle merrily against the dark sky, giving the place a magical feel, even in the face of the increasingly strong wind, which makes the lights and bunting sway to and fro above us.
The scent of cinnamon and toffee fills the air, and over in a corner next to the Waltzer, I spot Ian presiding over the same market stall he was manning yesterday, which now has the words ‘Ian’s Tatties’ painted above it in a very slapdash manner that suggests Ian probably did it himself – possibly while under the influence.
‘Hi, Ian,’ I say, waiting for a gap in customers before I wander over. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.’
‘No choice, Rosie,’ he says sadly, ladling something pale and lumpy into a cardboard container. ‘The farm just isn’t making enough money on its own, so I’m having to moonlight. Izzie’s the same.’
He points across the square to where a little tent has been set up, with a rather terrifying photo of Izzie herself on the front of it.
A sign next to the door advertises tarot readings and fortune telling, and I briefly wonder if I should pop over and ask her if she thinks there’s any possibility of a future for Hunter and me.
Then it occurs to me that Izzie hasn’t exactly been doing a great job of predicting anything else that’s happened this week, and decide to stay put.
‘Now, what can I get you, Rosie?’ asks Ian, bringing me back to reality. ‘We’ve got tattie scones, skirlie tatties, tattie hash, or stovies. Or I could do you a baked tattie, if you’d prefer?’
I’m not remotely hungry after all that food Agnes left me, but I know Ian needs the money even more than I do right now, so I decide to buy something anyway.
‘Um, I’ll take the stovies, thanks,’ I reply, choosing the one thing on the menu that appears not to involve ‘tatties’, only to be handed a dish of the same pale slush I saw Ian ladling out earlier, which turns out to be surprisingly delicious – and very much potato-based.
‘How are you getting on with your letter to the Laird?’ I ask, tucking in to the stovies. ‘Have you made a start on it yet?’
‘Och, we’re leaving that to Callum,’ Ian replies, handing another customer a tattie scone in a paper bag. ‘He’s got a real way with words, that one. Could talk the hind legs off a donkey, so he could.’
‘Right.’ I take another forkful of food to hide my surprise at this. ‘Well, I hope the Laird at least agrees to read it, once it’s done.’
‘That’s if the Laird’s still alive,’ says a gloomy voice from behind me. I turn to see Yasmin, still with her sunglasses perched on top of her head, even though it’s not at all sunny, standing eating a toffee apple. ‘We shouldn’t assume that he is.’
‘Wh—why wouldn’t he be alive?’ I stutter.
‘Well, none of us have actually seen this “Laird”, have we?’ she says, unperturbed. ‘And that handyman guy was being really cagey about him earlier, didn’t you think? It was like he didn’t want us to speak to him. It made me wonder if he’s bumped him off or something?’
She licks delicately at the side of her toffee apple, completely oblivious to the horrified stares Ian and I are exchanging over the tatties.
‘Why would Hunter want to “bump off” the Laird?’ I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one overhears me. ‘That’s ridiculous, Yasmin.’
‘Well, probably so he can get his hands on the fortune, I would imagine,’ she replies, her brow wrinkling as she considers this.
‘I mean, there must be a fortune, right? And why else would he keep refusing to let the village people – or Fleetwood Mac, or whoever they are – see the Laird, if he was alive and well? Don’t you think that was a bit suspicious? ’
I look helplessly at Ian, hoping he’ll step in and answer this for me, but he just shrugs then continues stirring his stovies, not even bothering to address the Fleetwood Mac comment.
I guess it’s up to me to defend Hunter’s honour, then.
‘Look, Yasmin,’ I say, taking her by the elbow and steering her away from the food stalls. ‘You can’t go around accusing people of stuff like that, OK? It’s not fair. Well, actually, it’s worse than not fair; it’s completely unhinged. Hunter’s a good man; he wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
To my horror, Yasmin’s Bambi-sized brown eyes immediately fill with tears.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, pulling her sunglasses over them. ‘I just thought . . . Well, you don’t really know him, do you? None of us do.’
She turns to walk away, and I have to reach out to grab her to stop her walking into a passer-by.
‘Yasmin, take off the glasses,’ I tell her, turning her around to face me. ‘It’s too dark, you’ll end up hurting yourself. Or someone else. What’s wrong with you?’
She pushes the glasses reluctantly back up.
‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just awkward, OK?’ she says, folding her arms defensively. ‘I get nervous around people I don’t know, and I end up saying something stupid. Like when I blurted out that thing about the massacre earlier, in the hot tub.’
‘What’s that? A massacre in a hot tub?’ says a woman who happens to be walking past, clutching her two children protectively to her side. ‘Where?’
‘Nowhere,’ I tell her, smiling reassuringly as I grab Yasmin again and pull her away from the crowd. ‘Everything’s fine! Enjoy the fair!’
I turn and walk quickly away, still holding onto Yasmin, who follows me meekly, until I find us a quiet-ish spot just next to Izzie’s fortune-telling tent.
‘Yasmin,’ I say gently, turning to face her. ‘Are you . . . Do you have anxiety or something? Is that what you’re saying?’
Yasmin’s brow wrinkles again.
‘I don’t think so?’ she says. ‘I think I’m just weird.
That’s what everyone always says, anyway.
I’m really bad with people. I never know what to say.
Then, any time I try to force myself to get involved in a conversation, I end up just blurting out something stupid.
Like that time I started going on about Hansel and Gretel, and the witch trying to cook children into a stew. ’
A young woman who’s just come out of Izzie’s tent with a baby strapped to her chest gives a small gasp, then rushes away.
‘I was just trying to join in,’ Yasmin says. ‘I thought it was interesting. But I always get it wrong. Always.’
Her eyes fill with tears again, and I impulsively reach out and take her hand.
‘It was interesting,’ I tell her firmly. ‘And you’re not weird, Yasmin. Everyone feels a bit shy or awkward sometimes. Everyone says stupid things now and then. I know I do.’
‘You do, don’t you?’ Yasmin says, brightening slightly. ‘I do it all the time, though,’ she goes on, sniffing. ‘It’s as if I can’t help myself.’
She raises the toffee apple and starts licking it mournfully, which is quite an achievement when you really think about it.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘You always seem so confident. Weren’t you supposed to be doing some kind of reality TV show at one point?’
Yasmin shudders theatrically. ‘God, no,’ she says.
‘I turned that down. Can you imagine me on TV? No, I’m going to just stick to social media.
You can hide in front of a camera, you know.
People say they never lie, but that’s not true.
Cameras lie all the time. They let you pretend to be anyone you like.
And, in my case, the camera lets me pretend to be normal.
Well, as long as I don’t try to talk in my videos. ’
She shrugs, as if this is no big deal.
‘That’s why I try not to talk at all, actually,’ she goes on, examining the shiny surface of the apple like the witch in Snow White. ‘It’s just much easier not to, even though it means I have no friends, and everyone thinks I’m stuck-up.’
I stand there watching her. To me, Yasmin is the epitome of sophistication: someone so beautiful and apparently self-possessed that she appears not to even need anyone to be her friend.
And, to be totally honest, I did think she was a bit stuck-up; that her silence and refusal to get involved with anything meant she thought she was too good for the rest of us – even Bex.
And yet, here she is, revealing herself to be totally human after all; and with exactly the same insecurities and anxieties I have myself.
Who would’ve thought it was all just an act?
‘You do have friends,’ I tell her, touching her softly on the arm.
‘You have us. Well, me, anyway. I don’t care if you start talking about .
. . about massacres, or Hansel and Gretel, or whatever.
Seriously. Be as awkward as you like; I can guarantee I’ve done worse myself.
But you can’t go around saying the Laird is dead, though,’ I add gently.
‘And you definitely can’t go around suggesting the handyman killed him. ’
‘What?’
Izzie’s head pops out of the tent door, her eyes ringed with sparkly blue eyeliner, and surrounded by glittery, press-on stars. After a second, Millie’s surprised face appears beside her – also decorated with stars, for some reason.
‘The Laird’s dead?’ Izzie says, in a voice that somehow seems to echo across the little square, cutting through the music and laughter.
‘And Hunter Stuart killed him?’ adds Millie, even louder.
‘No! No, that’s not what I said,’ I begin, but it’s too late: Izzie’s eyes have gone round with horror, and as I watch, she reaches out a bony finger and points it at someone behind me; someone I know without even having to turn around can only be Hunter Stuart himself.