I make the most of the day, taking in the surroundings and walking the perimeter of the estate. Happily, I also had enough money to buy a snack from the snack van, so the hunger pangs were satisfied. It was a day I never wanted to end but end it did. I made my way back to the croft, carefully timing the trip to coincide with the time the bus would make it there so as not to arouse suspicion.
I felt giddy with excitement. It felt as though I had one up on father. He thought he had completely broken me but here I was having had the most perfect day I could remember. The feeling lasts for the majority of the duration home but as I round the last corner and look upwards towards our croft, I feel an impending sense of doom, every step now torturous. With heavy feet and a heavy heart, I take the final few steps up the path and open the door.
CHAPTER 8
Thomas
T
he past week or so has flown in and I realise that my trip to Skye is only a matter of hours away. All that remains is to pack a bag, get some shut eye, and, first thing in the morning, set off. It hits me with full force the enormity of the decision which I had taken so lightly. Have I made the right choice? There’s still time to change my mind. There are so many questions. I realise I could drive myself crazy as I know they will remain unanswered until I journey up there to see where this is all leading.
In the past few days, thoughts have been returning more and more vividly of the time spent on the croft and my siblings; memories I thought I’d quashed. Realistically, what was I hoping to achieve with all this? Would it be good therapy for me, or would it simply be a case of picking at old wounds? Picking at them and letting myself bleed out? I feel the panic rising as I picture myself being drawn into a downward spiral. I’d spent all these years clawing my way back up and was this about to be torn wide apart in a matter of a few days when I confronted the demons from my past?
I hastily pack a case; my mind not fully focused on the job in hand. I pack with warmth and comfort in mind. This is the tail end of winter after all in Skye and it can be a very unforgiving climate. A couple of work shirts and ties are placed strategically on the top so as not to arouse suspicion should Janey sneak a peek.
With that completed, I make my way downstairs to spend the rest of the evening with my family. Michael is his usual easy going self, the conversation in full flow. We get all the details on the latest love of his life – a girl called Ellie who is apparently ‘very popular’ and ‘do you know she’s been asked out by three of my mates and turned them all down but said yes to me!’ I’m in awe of the confident young man I see before me. He has the world at his feet, and he doesn’t even realise it. Had I had the upbringing he’s had and the confidence he exudes, then I can only imagine about what I might’ve become.
Janey, I note, is not so easy going. She is participating in the conversation, but I can sense she’s somewhat guarded. Michael will be blissfully unaware but as her husband I know her better than anyone and pick up on the slight edge to the tone of her voice and the extra line along her brow giving it a furrowed appearance. She’s worried; she’s concerned about me going to Skye, but she won’t say anything about her concerns in front of Michael. I suspect she might talk to me later …
My suspicions prove correct. Michael leaves the room after an hour or so and I move in closer to her side. She smells amazing and I take a mental picture of her face in the half light and try to capture it all so I can recall this moment if I come upon hard times when I’m away.
“Thomas, are you absolutely sure this is for the best? I am worried about you. I know you’re going there on business but what if you run into anyone from your past?”
“We’ve been through all this, it’s fine, don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen, and I’ll check in regularly with you.”
“Well, if you go and see your mother, tell her I’m asking for her. I know she probably won’t know what you’re talking about but all the same.”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“You’re not going back to the croft, are you? I know you don’t like to talk about your upbringing so I don’t fully appreciate what it was like for you, but I know it wasn’t easy and I would worry about you going there, especially on your own.”
“Janey, honestly, I’m going on business so don’t panic. Yes, I’m hoping I might get some time out and I’ll be able to do some sightseeing, but I have no plans whatsoever to delve into the past.” We leave it at that, neither one of us wanting to push it any further. We were both keen to end our last night together on a happy note.
Janey
Something just doesn’t feel quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it. This was quite unlike Thomas to just up and leave for a couple of weeks on business and at such short notice. And Skye of all places! I don’t like it and I smell a rat.
Why could his company not draft in someone from their Inverness branch, wouldn’t that make much more sense? After all, the successful candidate is to eventually work from the Inverness branch. It didn’t add up. What did Thomas say? Something about all the experience he’s had in the past with recruitment so that’s why they’ve asked him to get involved? Yes, don’t get me wrong, Thomas has climbed the ranks within the firm and done exceptionally well (to have reached Directorship at his age was practically unheard of) but he’s not the longest serving member of staff, not by a long shot.
He’s also been acting pretty strangely these past few days and it’s quite unsettling. We are used to him being a permanent fixture downstairs, but my usually affable husband has become altogether more secretive, spending a lot more time on his own.
There is also the matter of his phone ringing late at night, the bleep of messages going back and forth. He thought I was sleeping but I was only too aware of what was going on. Has he got himself involved in something and he’s going to sort it out or (God forbid) is he having an affair?
This was my Achilles heel. If Thomas was found to be cheating on me, I really do wonder if I could possibly stand by him. I have been sorely tempted to pick up his phone on many occasions, the suspicious wife on the trail. I can’t decide what’s stopping me, whether it’s the fact that I do trust him, and I’m not prepared to go there, or is it that I’m frightened of what I might find?
I also think back to a couple of weeks ago when he’d got up in the middle of the night claiming that he’d thought there was someone at the door. When I had approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder, he’d barely registered this. It took him a long time to gather himself and when he turned around his face was a spectacle, he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He did a good job of trying to gloss over why he was there; that he’d heard a noise but ‘not to worry he was mistaken,’ but there was no mistaking the look of horror I saw in his face.
Perhaps most worrying of all was the postcard. A random postcard depicting famous tourist hotspots on the Isle of Skye; no stamp or postmark, just the words ‘wish you were here.’ He came up with a lame excuse about how it must have been posted through our letterbox by mistake. I wasn’t buying this. As a journalist and now editor of a paper I have a naturally inquisitive nature and a good nose for telling when I’m being spun a story, and this felt very much like I was being lied to. I think he knew I wasn’t taken in with it as he looked rather uncomfortable and flustered when I spoke to him about it and couldn’t get out of the door quick enough!
Yes, there was no denying something was up. A very strange postcard of Skye’s beauty spots is discovered crumpled in my husband’s trouser pocket and the next thing we know he’s off to where – Skye! Pretty coincidental! Also, why did he hold onto the postcard if it was as he said, delivered to us in error?
And today when he was preoccupied, I had a quick look through his case. I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help myself. Everything looked plausible to start off with, there were shirts and ties at the top of the case but on rummaging further through the case I could find no trousers or work shoes. There is no way Thomas would attend wor
k or go to a meeting without his work trousers and shoes on. The whole situation had me baffled.
It would be great to think he was simply going on a business trip, but my mind was beginning to conjure up all sorts of weird and wonderful conclusions. Do I dare confront him though? He has given me no cause to doubt his fidelity all these years. How could I simply accuse him of potentially cheating on me? Or if it wasn’t that then what was he up to and how would I find out? Thomas certainly has skeletons in his closet, that I know for sure. He has only ever given me snippets about his childhood, and it leads me to wonder, was there more to this than meets the eye?
CHAPTER 9
I
set off nice and early – 8 a.m. – having said my farewells to Janey and Michael. It’s a six-hour journey so will take the best part of a day to get there, factoring in a lunch break etc. My nerves are jangling, and I honestly can’t decide whether this is through a nervous excitement, or as a result of a poorly made decision on my part to make this trip in the first place. No going back now though, and I reason with myself that this time on my own as I make the journey will do me good. There’s no one there to disrupt me; just me, the car, and the open road, and I like the sound of that. I set the satellite navigation, select a random playlist of songs, and hit the accelerator pedal.
Not long after setting off, I start imagining what the next couple of weeks are going to have in store. I haven’t let George know that I’m on my way yet or even that I’d made plans to go up north. I figured I’d get there, get settled in, and maybe a bit of sightseeing first before I make that call. With that in mind there’s no way he can have made any prior arrangements for me to go anywhere/meet anyone as he doesn’t even know about my imminent arrival.
I wonder whether I might get reunited with my siblings if any of them are in the area? It would be a relief if they were, not only to catch up but to discuss mother’s welfare and to hear what they have to say about the visit father paid her in the care home. Since I am no longer in contact with them it feels as though I bear the brunt of worry when it comes to her care and I relish the idea of lightening that load somewhat.
Would George be planning on taking me to the croft to see father? I shudder at the thought. I left home at a young age and I have never been back. What would our meeting (if it were to take place) be like? I imagine he still has a fixed image in his mind of what I look like and what my demeanour is like. He will be expecting that same terrified boy to be stood before him. Would he even recognise me? I imagine I’ll still recognise him; his wicked contorted face sometimes still darkens my dreams.
I have come a long way over these years and would like to think I could meet him face to face; man to man and not cower in his presence, but would that be the case? If I were to stand before him now, could I stop myself from falling apart?
I daydream about standing before him; imagining that I stand a foot taller than him; peering down on him as he used to do with me. He is weak now in my dream; leaning for balance on a cane and he is unable to give me eye contact. I don’t speak to him, I simply smack him square in the face with my fist and send him reeling backwards. Without the cane to steady him he falls to the floor and I shake my head at him indicating that no, it is not OK for him to get up off the floor until I grant him permission. He bows his head in a submissive gesture. This feels so good; the roles have reversed, and I have the power over him. I imagine mother isn’t in the care home, she’s there to witness the scene. She’s aware of the shift of power, he’s loosened his grip over us, and I’ve taken charge. She relaxes as she understands he can no longer hurt her whilst I’m there to protect her.
Dare I let my mind drift further into concocting weird and wonderful ways to punish him as he has done to me or do I rein it in, unwilling to let my mind tap into that dark place? There is a sense once you go there it may become a descent. Did I really want to descend to the deep dark places he resided in?
There’s no time to ponder this further as I’m momentarily aware of movement in front of the car; there’s a loud band and the windowpane cracks and splinters; the spiders web of broken glass extending to either end of the window. Instincts kick in and I bring the car to an emergency stop; the back having jutted off to the right with the force of the impact. My mind has yet to catch up and comprehend what has just happened. A searing pain has clawed its way from the base of my skull and rooted itself across the top of my head, sending shockwaves of pain along my nerve endings. My chest feels so tight, and I struggle to catch a breath but realise the cause of this as I glance down – the airbag is pressed firmly against my chest, so the impact must’ve activated it.
I have to breathe; this is the first thing I have to attend to, so I manage to adjust the seat into a reclined position to remove the weight off my chest and I take a huge breath into my lungs and release.
Focus. I hear a remote part of my brain urging for clarity; to shake the fugue and allow me to collect myself. I feel the veil of fog starting to lift and with it the pain sets in. OK, don’t panic, where am I hurt? My head has clearly taken a knock as it is pounding but think positively, I’m still conscious. Is everything else OK? I take a mental scan of my body and locate the source of my pain, my lower back. I take some deep breaths, not wanting to move in any direction quickly and without any due thought. I surmise that at least nothing appears to be broken. My heart is racing as I brace myself for what’s out there. What did I hit? An animal, another vehicle or a person? Oh God, I wince at the last thought. It all happened so quickly I had no time to process the images or form them into any kind of order.
The window is barely open a crack as I muster the courage to wind it down further. Before I do however, a figure is standing at my window. I’m so startled, I hadn’t even thought about there being anyone there but of course, there were a couple of cars behind me. “You alright, mate? You’ve taken a bit of a knock,” he says. “Yes,” I feebly manage to say. Again – focus!
If he’s been behind me, he might’ve seen what happened. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Sure can. Wind your window right down, mate, and take a look.” Oh God, my fingers are operating the lever for the window involuntarily, but my head is screaming ‘don’t look!’ The motion continues until the glass is fully down. I gently twist my head to the right, ignoring the stabbing knives exploding in my brain. There, laid out flat on the road is a stag, a beautiful creature. Was a beautiful creature I should say. His antlers, his crowning glory. I count them and note sadly that he was a Royal Stag. His vacant eyes gaze heavenward and his beautiful coat is no longer gleaming; tarnished a ruddy red colour with the gathering pool of blood he is now lain in.
A strange noise escapes from me and my body visibly sags into the seat. I realise it was a full body exhale; all the tension I had been holding onto releasing in that glorious exhale. I’d hit a deer; a magnificent deer none the less but it was a deer and not a person, for that I will be eternally grateful.
I look up at the stranger. “Would you mind helping me out of the car? I want to see if I’m able to stand up.”
“Is that a good idea? What if you’ve done something to your back, if I move you I could make it worse!”
“It’s fine, let’s try and, if there’s a problem, we can call for help.”
“If you’re sure …” I make some micro adjustments to edge closer to the outside of my seat to assist him in manoeuvring me. I pray he doesn’t see the pain etched on my face which I try to mask as I make these adjustments, I feel sure he’ll refuse to touch me if he does.
He leans in and fixes an arm in front of me, and one secured around my back under both arms. I wrap my arms around his neck best I can. “OK, I’ve got you, let’s go for it.” I try to apply as much pressure as possible into my thighs to aid him and I step one, then both feet out of the car. I’m now almost erect but my full body weight is leaning on him. I apologise and he motions me back towards the side of the car and instructs me to lean against it. I’ve done
it! Hurts like hell but I’m alive and in one piece and I haven’t killed anyone.
I take a few minutes to rest after the exertion of being heaved out of the car then I ask him to aid me in taking a couple of steps towards the backseats (there’s no point in trying to squeeze back behind the front wheel). Tentatively I take my first step and it goes better than I expected. I note that my spine feels compressed and I picture an accordion being squeezed tightly; imagining the folds of the accordion are the vertebra of my spine. It is somewhat forgiving however as it unfurls slightly and allows me to take another couple of steps. We make it to the backseats, and he guides me in, and I am grateful to be sat down again.
My initial thoughts of this situation being better than it potentially could have been started to wane when it crosses my mind that this could be a really bad omen. Hitting and killing a Royal Stag and injuring myself in the process. That’s a big red flag right there saying TURN BACK NOW! Do not go another minute further on this journey! Well, there is some truth in that for sure as this car won’t be going anywhere. I don’t know what the damage is like elsewhere, but the windscreen is shattered.
The stranger’s name I ascertain is Oliver and Oliver kindly gives the car the once-over for me. All the damage is towards the front end of the car. This was a huge beast I killed, and he has certainly left his mark. Both lights are out, the bumper is off, and there’s a huge indentation to the front of the vehicle so we can only imagine the damage under the bonnet. Oliver suspects the stag hit the front of the car then bounced off the window, shattering it in the process.
I guess we should notify the Police to get it off the road safely but then I catch myself. Where am I? Where did I get to? I recall I had been so caught up in the vengeful fantasy about persecuting father that I’d lost all sense of time and place and realise I must’ve been driving on autopilot. With no chance of referring to the sat-nav now for directions, I ask Oliver where we are.
IT’S TIME: COULD YOU RISK YOUR SANITY TO SAVE YOURSELF? Page 7