Chapter 18 #2
I locked up the shop, leaving Quilliam to research more, and crossed the street to The Tipsy Thistle.
The lunch crowd was starting to trickle in, locals grabbing sandwiches and soup before heading back to work.
I spotted Ramsay at the end of the bar, nursing a coffee and pretending to read a newspaper. His eyes tracked me as I entered.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Just checking in. Where’s Graham?”
“Kitchen. Dealing with some supplier issue.”
I found Graham in the back, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing in frustration at a clipboard full of invoices.
“No, I ordered twelve cases of the IPA, not six. I’m looking at the order form right now. It clearly says”—he broke off, listening, his jaw tightening—“fine. Tomorrow. But if it happens again, I’m finding a new supplier.”
He hung up and tossed the phone onto the counter with a clatter.
“Problems?” I asked.
“Just the usual incompetence.” He turned and his expression softened when he saw me. “Hey. What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”
“I had a feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“The bad kind.”
Graham’s smile faded. He crossed the kitchen and took my hands in his, his thumbs rubbing circles on my palms.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve been in the pub all morning. Haven’t gone anywhere near anything wetter than a beer tap. Ramsay’s here and already annoyed with the amount of people who have tried to have a conversation with him.”
“I know. I just needed to see for myself.”
“And now that you’ve seen?”
I sucked in a breath and let it out in one long whoosh. “Now I feel slightly less like I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“Only slightly?”
“Baby steps.”
He laughed and pulled me into a hug. I pressed my face against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and tried to convince myself that everything was okay and the curse wasn’t coiling somewhere in the shadows, waiting for its moment to strike.
A knock at the back door made us both jump.
“Delivery!” a voice called from outside. “Got your kegs!”
Graham pulled back with a rueful smile. “That’s my kegs in, lass. Give me five minutes to help unload and I’m all yours.”
“Okay, I’ll just be at the bar.”
I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, the foreboding feeling coiling tighter in my gut. But he was right. It was just kegs. The delivery driver was there. It would take two minutes.
I walked back out to the bar.
Ramsay was still perched on his stool, newspaper open, coffee cold beside him. He looked up when I appeared.
“Everything all right?”
“Fine. Graham’s just unloading a delivery.”
“Want me to go help?”
“He said two minutes.” I slid onto the stool beside him. “How’s the crossword?”
“Brutal. Seven across is supposedly a Scottish river, eight letters, and I swear they’ve made it up.” He tapped his pen against the paper. “You’re not looking so great, Agnes.”
“I’m fine.” I sighed. That seemed to be a common refrain of late.
“Are you?” Ramsay, a man of few words, asked.
I opened my mouth to respond, but something stopped me.
Silence.
The pub was quiet, just the low murmur of a few lunch customers, the clink of glasses, the distant hum of traffic from the street. All of which was normal.
But from the back, where Graham was supposed to be unloading kegs, there was nothing. There was no clanging of kegs being unloaded. No clatter of the hand trolley. No voices calling instructions to the driver.
Nothing.
“Bloody hell.” I jumped up. “Why is it dead quiet back there if he’s unloading kegs?”
Ramsay’s face changed. He was off his stool before I’d finished, both of us moving toward the back of the pub at the same time.
The kitchen was empty. The back door stood open, letting in a rectangle of grey afternoon light.
“Graham?” I called.
There was no answer.
Icy dread filled my stomach.
We ran.
The back drive was empty. The delivery truck was gone and a line of kegs were in a neat row at the back door.
And beyond the yard, down the slope toward Loch Mirren—
“There!” Ramsay shouted.
Graham was in the water.
Not just at the edge, either. He was ten meters out, up to his chest, and still walking deeper. I panicked. White-hot fear flashed inside me, and I pumped my legs harder.
Hitting the water at a dead run, the shock of cold lasered my focus as Graham’s head disappeared beneath the surface.
“Graham! No!”
I dove after him.
The water was dark, far darker than it should have been, an inky blackness surrounding us. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything except the iciness pressing in from all sides and the desperate knowledge that Graham was somewhere below me, drowning.
Kicking downward toward where I’d last seen him, I reached out, blindly, desperate to find something to grab.
My hand found fabric.
I almost cried out in relief and then remembered I needed to hold my breath.
Grabbing the fabric, I pulled.
And, bloody hell, something pulled back.
Adrenaline surged through me. The water gripped Graham, wrapped around him, dragged him deeper even as I fought to bring him up. My lungs burned. My vision blurred at the edges. I was being pulled down with him, the curse not caring whether it took one life or two.
You can’t have him! I screamed inside my own head. He’s mine. He’s done nothing to you. It’s me you want. My ancestors are the problem. Not his. He’s not yours to take.
The resistance faltered. Just for a second.
But it was enough.
I kicked toward the surface, hauling Graham with me, my muscles screaming in protest.
We broke through together, but I wasn’t strong enough, and we went under again.
My eyes burned with tears as panic gripped me.
I couldn’t keep Graham above the water. It was too much.
And then Ramsay was there, grabbing Graham’s arms, wrapping both of us in his massive arms and dragging us toward shore.
Once there, I stumbled to my knees, as Ramsay laid Graham gently out. I reached for him and choked out a sob.
He wasn’t breathing.
Graham wasn’t breathing.
“No,” I heard myself say. “No, no, no—”
“I’m going for help,” Ramsay shouted and disappeared up the shoreline, screaming.
I didn’t know if we had the time to get help.
All we have is me.
Graham’s face was cold and expressionless and the scariest sight I’d ever seen.
I fumbled, my hands slipping, and then forced myself to think. I’d taken CPR training before. I could do this. Tilting his head back, I pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth. Once. Twice. And then I pressed on his chest and began to count.
Everything blurred. All I could do was keep pumping his chest, and breathing into his mouth, as tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Come on, Graham. Come on. Breathe. Please breathe. Please—”
He coughed.