Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
‘Sorrel. Hey.’ Heather approached her cautiously, like you’d approach a wild horse. ‘I was taking measurements for the decorations in the great hall. For the wedding.’ She studied Sorrel’s face. ‘What’s wrong? You seem upset.’
‘Simon. He just dropped me off,’ Sorrel said, distraught. ‘He was… being pretty awful. He tried to kiss me. He wants us to stay together… I told him I didn’t.’
‘Simon?’ Heather did a double take. ‘Your partner?’
‘Yeah.’ Sorrel stared into the car park, wishing Tam would come back, but there was no sign of him. ‘Did you… I just saw Tam…’ she trailed off, taking a deep breath.
‘Sorrel. What’s wrong?’ Heather took her sister by both arms and looked at her carefully. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
They sat on the large stone step at the base of the grand entrance to the castle, the heavy wooden doors, studded with iron bolts, behind them.
Sorrel told Heather everything that had just happened: the day before with Tam and staying at the B&B, Simon arriving without warning that morning, and then, finally, Tam seeing them together.
‘I told him it was over. I don’t know why he’s so desperate to keep it going between us.’ Sorrel shook her head. ‘And then… I think Tam saw us in the car. I ran after him, but he’s gone. I don’t know what he must think.’
‘Oh, no.’ Heather looked concerned.
‘Oh, god.’ Sorrel put her head between her knees.
‘I wanted to explain, but he’s just blanking me.
I think he thinks I’m back with Simon, but I’m not.
I’m done with him.’ Sorrel let out a long breath and sat up again.
‘I just really don’t need all this, you know?
I’ve got enough on my mind. I haven’t even told you that I found out about my biological father. ’
‘Your real dad?’ Heather opened her eyes wide in shock. ‘Your biological father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is he? I didn’t know you knew who it was.’
‘I didn’t. I don’t. But Aunt Joan told me some guy waylaid Aunt Chrissie at the café and asked about me. And it sounds like… you know when we were there the other day? And you said some guy was staring at me?’
‘The bad aura. Right. Oh. You think it’s the same person?’ Heather shivered. ‘That’s sent a chill right through me.’
‘It must be. Why else would some random guy ask Chrissie about me? And he remembers her and Mum from way back.’ Sorrel chewed her lip, thinking.
‘That night. When I walked in to Mum and Dad talking about it, Mum was worried because my real dad had come back to Skye. She didn’t say much about it then, but she said he wanted to see me. Then I left, obviously.’
‘Well, it’s reasonable that he would want to see you,’ Heather said, gently. ‘Would that be so bad? You don’t have to build a relationship with him if you don’t want to, but maybe we should go and see him? Do you know where he is?’
‘You’d come with me?’ Sorrel looked at her sister, askance.
‘Yeah. Why not? I’m here. I might as well.’ Heather shrugged. ‘Shall we go?’
‘What, now?’
Sorrel looked at her phone. She needed to reply to Catriona’s message, urging them to talk. Can we talk, please? Everything feels uncomfortable and sad, she’d written, and Sorrel didn’t know how to respond, apart from to say, I know that it does. I’m sad too.
‘No time like the present. We can borrow Uncle James’s car. He won’t mind. I’ll just go and get the key.’
‘Does he let you borrow it often?’ Sorrel asked, but Heather was already running back into the castle. ‘And… she’s gone, and I’m talking to the air,’ she added, to herself.
Heather returned a few moments later waving a set of car keys triumphantly. ‘I guess so,’ she added, under her breath.
They got into a battered green Land Rover, which was parked in the private area at the back of the castle, and Heather started the engine.
‘Where to?’ she asked, a glint in her eye.
‘That little road that heads out of Portree, past the Lamb Inn,’ Sorrel said.
She knew where the archery centre was. She’d passed it when she’d driven back onto the island.
That was another reason she didn’t want to respond to her mother’s text right now: Catriona wouldn’t be pleased about Sorrel seeking out her biological father.
But, she felt compelled to do it. Sorrel didn’t want to hurt her mother. But she needed to do this.
‘Right you are.’ They rolled out of the car park, though Sorrel found the ride pretty juddery.
‘So, how come you want to take me to find my biological father, if you got such bad vibes from him?’ Sorrel asked as they drove along a country lane overhung with thick oak trees. ‘I’d expect you to tell me to stay away.’
‘Well, this information throws new light on things. Maybe the feeling I got from him wasn’t evil. Maybe it was like, confusion. Heavy energy, like unfinished business.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And I know that Uncle James keeps a shotgun on the back seat,’ Heather said, calmly, in her soft voice.
‘Jesus, Heather.’ Sorrel took a look at her sister’s serious, thoughtful face and started to laugh. ‘I forgot you could be a badass sometimes.’
A gentle smile played around the corners of Heather’s lips.
‘I just take self-defence very seriously,’ she replied, primly.
‘You can’t just shoot someone. It’s not the Wild West.’
‘No, but I’m a pretty good shot. I do clay pigeon shooting with James and Evelinda sometimes, and I’m licensed to shoot a rifle,’ Heather said, smoothly, as they drove along. ‘I know what I’m doing with it. It would be enough to make someone think twice.’
‘Where are these guns?’ Sorrel started to imagine Heather in an underground bunker.
‘At the castle, silly. I got interested a few years back, that’s all.’ Heather shrugged as she drove along.
‘Right.’ Sorrel chuckled. ‘I guess I really did miss a lot when I was away.’
Heather drove on further, into Portree and out the other side. They found the archery and outdoor adventure centre that Sorrel remembered driving past: Ace’s Archery.
‘This it?’ Heather pulled into the gravel car park in front of it.
Sorrel’s tummy began churning and her hands broke out in a sweat.
‘I don’t know if this was such a good idea.’ Sorrel peered out of the windscreen at the building. ‘Maybe we should go home.’
‘We’re here now. I’ll come in with you if you want, or I can just stay in the car.’ Heather looked around. ‘There aren’t many cars here, so it won’t be busy inside. If he’s there, he should have time to talk to you. If you don’t like him or you feel worried, just leave. I’ll be here.’
‘With the shotgun,’ Sorrel added. ‘Okay. I guess I’ll always wonder about him if I don’t go in,’ she said.
‘Attagirl. Want me to come?’
‘No. Just stay here, if that’s okay.’ Sorrel took in a last deep lungful of air and got out of the car.
‘Will do.’
All of the time she’d been home, Sorrel had been trying to find herself again. She’d been trying to sort through the different elements of her identity, after the person she’d thought she was had been taken away from her.
She wasn’t Angus Balhennie’s natural daughter, but she was still a Balhennie. She loved her sisters. She loved Skye: the land, the air, the loch. These things were all pages in the book of who she was.
If this man was part of her story, part of her identity, then she was brave enough to open that book, too.
‘Hi. I’m looking for a man who works here.’ Sorrel approached the reception desk as she came in. A middle-aged woman in jeans and a black fleece branded with Ace’s Archery looked up with an open smile.
‘Oh. Which one, lassie?’ she asked. ‘Iain, Malcolm and Mike are here today.’
‘Err… He’s tall, sandy hair, tattoos. Looks like a workman.
’ Sorrel remembered what Aunt Joan had said.
She had her arms crossed over her chest, and her arms wrapped around herself in a protective gesture.
She was aware that she was digging her fingernails into the soft flesh of her arm, and she made herself let go.
‘Well, none of them look like stockbrokers, my pet.’ The woman laughed.
‘But it sounds like you mean Malcolm. He’s over there.
’ She pointed to a tall, strong-looking man, also wearing a black fleece with the Ace’s Archery logo, and a pair of worn cargo trousers.
He was sorting arrows into pots on the ground along four archery stations.
‘Malcolm! Young lady to see you,’ the woman called out, before Sorrel could stop her.
The man turned around, straightened, and stared at Sorrel for a long moment. She didn’t know what to do: waving felt wrong. She wasn’t even sure whether to smile or not. So, she stood there as he approached her, an arrow still in hand.
‘You’re Sorrel Balhennie,’ he said, without any preamble.
‘Yes.’ She looked up into his eyes, which were just like hers. It was the man she’d seen in the café. The one who had stared at her.
He nodded. ‘Then you know who I am.’
‘No, actually. Your colleague just gave me your first name, but I didn’t know it before then. And I don’t know your last name.’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re right. We should be properly introduced.’ He stuck the arrow into the ground at his feet and held out his hand. It was callused and strong. ‘Malcolm Sinclair. I’m your dad.’