by Anni Taylor
What was he doing there? Spying on me? Trying to see if I slept naked? I checked the time. Half past one in the morning. Why was he even outside at this time of night?
He wouldn’t know that I’d seen him. I hadn’t turned to face the window.
I stayed awake for the next hour, in an alert mood, until fatigue pulled me into sleep again.
In the morning, I roused with a shiver. Fog completely obscured the view outside the window.
An image of Alban’s reflection in the mirror jumped into my head.
I wanted to march right up to the house and ask him what he was doing there. I knew that if I did that, this job would be over. It would be too awkward to continue. I’d faced creepy behaviour before in a job and put up with it. I’d been a lot younger then—seventeen.
I sat on the side of the bed, deliberating. I was twenty-six years old. Not seventeen. As soon as I came across Alban alone, I’d ask him straight out. I guessed I’d be on a plane soon afterwards.
Right now, I’d carry on as if nothing had happened.
I decided to head out and grab some shots—Braithnoch would look gorgeous through a veil of fog. I prepared my equipment, choosing just one lens and fitted it to the camera. I didn’t want to go changing lenses out in misty weather and risk getting moisture inside the camera.
After dressing in warm clothing, I headed to the kitchen to make myself a quick breakfast of porridge. Then stepped out into a world of swirling white.
I allowed myself to feel a small hum of excitement. Heading into the Scottish fog felt like an adventure. This was what I’d travelled all this way for. To extend my range of photography and extend myself. Maybe the adventure would all be over once I’d confronted Alban, but for now, I was going to enjoy this.
The fog seemed theatrical, sets of heavy white curtains showing me exactly what it wanted me to see and no more. The bare larch trees were hauntingly beautiful—tall and thin, with fragile branches that spanned to give each tree the shape of a feather.
What are you showing me, Braithnoch? What do you want me to know?
I braved the thick fog, wandering along the path that led to the hills. I hoped that going higher would get me out of the thickest area of fog. But the mist stayed unrelenting, shielding almost everything from me. The distant mountains were just shadows that floated in the sky.
It was a hopeless mission. I stumbled about, losing and finding my way again. With my luck, I’d end up blundering into the peat bogs that Alban and Greer had warned me about.
A warm cup of tea and a book in front of the heater was about as brave as I was going to get until the fog thinned.
Retracing my steps, I returned to the cottage. I switched on the heater, watching the fake, flickering flames. It was soothing. The cottage quickly warmed.
The thought came to me that I could get used to this kind of life, once I got used to the slow, subtle rhythm. Braithnoch revealed what it wanted at its own pace.
My phone’s ringtone shook me from my thoughts. It was Mum, again asking if I was okay and if I liked the people I was staying with. I wasn’t sure how to answer her second question. Alban was proving to be strange in a number of ways. As a couple, Alban and Jessica had deep problems. I felt tension buzzing underneath everything they said to each other and about each other.
I just told Mum I was doing great and that the McGregors were very hospitable. As an afterthought, I added that they dressed like celebrities—the classier ones. She was fond of details about what people were wearing.
“I’m glad the people are nice,” she said, “What about your meds? How are you going with them? You’ve been remembering to take them? You haven’t been out nightclubbing or anything, have you?”
“Of course. I mean, of course I’ve been remembering to take them. No, I haven’t been nightclubbing. I’m out here in the sticks, not in the city. So, stop worrying.” I said the last bit with a smile in my voice to reassure her.
As I replaced the phone in my pocket, I realised I’d told her an unwitting fib. I’d run out of the cottage this morning without a thought to my medications. I couldn’t remember if I’d taken them last night either—the wine at dinner had fuzzed my mind.
The best thing to do was just to take my morning dose as usual. Then settle in and read until the fog lifted.
After selecting a book from the shelves, I stepped across to the tiny kitchen bench where I’d left my seizure medicines.
They weren’t there.
My handbag was lying open and my passport was on the bench. I hadn’t gotten my passport out, had I? Had someone been in here, looking through my stuff? I checked for my wallet. It was there, with the money still inside.
Perhaps, in my exhausted haze last night, I’d been looking for something. Forgetting about the bag and the passport, I kept looking for my medication. In a flurry, I checked my suitcase, and the bathroom and bedroom drawers in the cottage. I even checked cupboards I was sure I hadn’t opened yet.
My medications were missing, and I couldn’t think where they’d be. Unless, instead of putting them on the bench, I’d put them in my bag and they’d somehow dropped out on the hills. I couldn’t think why I would have taken the whole lot with me, but I’d been a little shaken after seeing Alban at my window last night. I might have done it without thinking.
I’d have to retrace my steps and try to find them. Pulling my boots on again and a knitted cap, I headed out. As a last thought, I threw the camera bag over my shoulder before I shut the door. It was a habit for me to take my camera everywhere.
The mist was eroding.
A thwack thwack sound came from just over the rise, between the cottage and the road.
Curious, I turned and went in the direction of the noise.
I didn’t recognise Alban at first. Through the mist, I could just make out the back of a man in a loose, chequered shirt and faded jeans. He lifted the axe high and brought it down hard on the wedge, sending wood chips splintering. There were defined angles in the strikes he took at the wood, precise and clean.
It was a perfect rustic scene. Putting everything else but my job out of my mind for a moment, I took my camera from my bag, I carefully framed up the picture and then snapped a couple of images. Stepping closer, I took a couple more.
I must have been too noisy, because his back twisted, and he pivoted, pushing up his safety goggles. “Did you just photograph me?”
“Yes, I did. Hope you don’t mind.”
He stood observing me for a moment, his brow crinkling.
“I just thought it could be good to put those kinds of shots into the mix,” I said, defending myself against his silence. “Y’know, down-to-earth photos, that kind of thing.”
He shrugged in an easy, good-natured way. “Show the man behind the public image, eh?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m here to do.”
“Go ahead. But it’s all fake. Those pictures you see of people living their lives. All they show is a heavily edited version of their real lives.”
“Greer told me you weren’t exactly impressed by the idea of doing the shoot for the magazine.”
“Well, you’ve got that right. Everyone but me knows what’s good for my career, apparently.” He paused. “If you don’t mind, I have a mountain of blasted wood to chop.”
“If you prefer I didn’t take photos of you unawares, then I won’t.” I drew in a quick breath of damp, misty air. “And I’d prefer that you didn’t look in on me through my window at night.”
He stared at me for a moment with a surprised expression, then exhaled noisily. “I’m sorry, Isla. I go for a walk every night. It’s a habit of mine. I don’t sleep well, so I go out and do a round of the grounds, checking on everything. Then, if I’m lucky, I can go to sleep.”
“So, I’m now included on the list of things that you check on each night?”
“No. I wasn’t checking on you, I was checking that all was all right. Ever since the events that happened with my daughter, I can�
�t rest. I don’t trust that someone isn’t out there, you know? But I won’t check the cottage again. I’m dead sorry that I startled you. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
I felt the stiffness in my back and shoulders relax. It was an explanation I hadn’t thought of. I hoped he was genuine. “That sounds awful. I mean, never to be able to rest at night.”
“Sometimes I feel like a ghost knocking about Braithnoch. There was my life before and my life now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Eh, you don’t need to be sorry. It’s my lot.” He shrugged and brushed back his hair with the palm of one hand. “I’d better get back to this.”
Turning, he struck the log with his axe.
As I strode away, I could hear the blunt blows of the axe echoing through the forest.
I could either accept his explanation or reject it. I decided to accept it. The exchange with Alban had been awkward but I was glad I hadn’t held back.
I retraced my earlier steps along the path towards the hills as far as I could. Until I was certain I’d ventured further than I had the first time. I could see the ground now. No plastic package of medicines turned up anywhere.
I couldn’t go without the pills. It was a bother, but I’d have to go see a doctor in town. I wasn’t about to ask Alban or Jessica for a ride, so the only option was to call a taxi or go for a bicycle ride. I didn’t even know if they had taxis in Greenmire. Everything seemed so remote here.
I opted for a bicycle. I just hoped they were road worthy.
Heading into the tiny shed that Greer had said the bikes were kept, I selected the women’s bicycle. I guessed it was Jessica’s. I hoped she wouldn’t mind. Donning the helmet, I wheeled down the driveway and then headed out. The bike was a little rusty but not too terrible.
The hilly road dipped down into a section where the fog was still like pea-soup. The first time a small truck passed me, I nearly jumped off my seat. It seemed to come out of nowhere. I regretted not calling a taxi—a misty day was not the kind of weather in which to go out cycling down a country road. I’d get toppled like a bowling pin if a vehicle just happened to swerve in my direction.
Both relief and dread came at the start of the incline of a hill. The fog was thinner at the crest of a hill, but the inclines were more extreme than I realised. When Greer had driven me into town, I’d been too focused on the scenery and Greer’s gossip about the neighbours to notice.
Puffing hard, I finally made it into Greenmire. The trip had taken a good hour.
The streets of the town were busier than I expected—where did all these people come from? I chained the bike on a street pole.
I located a medical surgery and asked if I could be seen by a doctor. At first, the pointy-nosed receptionist said the books were full, but when I explained my situation, she’d said she could give me a five-minute slot with a Dr. Fiona McKendrick—but only if I was prepared to wait a couple of hours. She made it sound as if there were an alternative clinic I could attend if I wanted an earlier appointment, but it ended up being that this was the only clinic in town.
I told her I’d wait.
The clinic was filled with retirees and mothers with small children. Lots of coughing and sneezing. I wondered if the pointy-nosed receptionist caught one bug after the other working here. I took a seat as close to the door as possible, braving the chill for a chance that the greater air flow here would help thin out the bugs in the air.
The two hour-wait turned into almost three before my name was called. I hadn’t had lunch and my stomach was protesting.
I stood, gathering up my coat and handbag, feeling awkward as all eyes tracked my movements. I knew exactly why everyone was doing that—the boredom of waiting got to you and you started wondering what the other people had wrong with them. Plus, I was a stranger in their town.
“I’m grateful you could squeeze me in,” I told the doctor as I sat myself down inside her room.
She was thin and red-haired, with serious pale eyes. “That’s fine. I couldn’t see you go without your medication. So, are you from New Zealand? Australia?”
“Australia. Sydney.”
“Ah. I wasn’t quite certain of the accent. Here for a holiday?”
“No, unfortunately. I’m working. I arrived two days ago.”
She smiled. “Oh, well, hopefully you can take a break now and again and go sightseeing. Now, did you bring any scripts with you?”
“Yes, I have them here.” I produced the scripts from my handbag.
“Okay, these medications shouldn’t be a problem. Might be a day or so ordering one of them in.”
“That’s okay.”
“How did you manage to lose what you had?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ve dropped them somewhere. Careless, I guess.”
“Well, as long as you’re here, I might as well check on your health. Have you been feeling well?”
“Just a bit of jet lag.”
“Any seizures lately?”
“I’ve been pretty good. I had one seizure though a fortnight before I came here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Okay, that’s very recent. Were you doing anything out of routine prior to that instance?”
“I’d just been pushing myself too hard at work. Putting too much stress on myself.”
“Yes. That’ll do it. Stress is a big no-no. What kind of work are you doing here in Scotland?”
“Just my usual. I’m a professional photographer.”
“Oh, nice. I love photography. With me it’s just a hobby though, of course.” She bent her head as she wrote out a script. “Do make sure you don’t go pushing yourself to extremes again. Do you have a full work schedule at the moment?”
“Nothing too busy. I have a whole month to put a portfolio together, and most of the photography will be happening right where I’m staying. It’s at a place called Braithnoch, just down the road.”
Her eyes flicked up to me in surprise, pen pausing mid-air.
“Braithnoch?”
“Yes. My client is Alban McGregor. He’s an architect—”
“Oh, I know who Alban is.” Her voice was almost harsh as she spoke his name.
“Of course,” I replied. “I should have realised you’d know the McGregors, this being a small town.”
She returned to writing out the script. “What’s he like to work for?” Her tone seemed casual now, but I immediately understood that it wasn’t casual at all. It was the same tone I’d heard people use when they had a keen interest in procuring some information, but they didn’t want you to know that.
“He’s, uh, very professional,” I answered. “A little aloof. He’s not going to be an easy subject when it comes to the portraiture. I’m leaving that to last. But to be fair, I’ve only just met him. I had dinner with him and his wife, Jessica, last night.”
“Jessica—oh, she’s lovely. I’ve known her since she was a teenager.” After a moment, she added, “I’ve known Alban that long, too,” but without any kind of recommendation.
“I’m sorry, I might have this wrong, but you don’t sound fond of Alban?”
She straightened, smoothing strands of hair back from around her face. “I’m sorry I gave you that impression.” After a moment, she took out a small card from a drawer behind her desk and handed it to me. “Do call me if you need anything or if you have any concerns.”
Thanking her, I stood and tucked the card into my jacket pocket.
I decided to stay in town and browse the shops, stopping for a tea, pie and a doughnut. Before leaving, I grabbed a loaf of freshly baked bread from the bakery and some light foods to snack on. It was just after 2pm by the time I began cycling back to Braithnoch.
My thoughts jumped back to the business card in my pocket. Did doctors here normally hand you their cards and tell you that you could call them anytime? In Sydney, you’d have fat chance of that. If you had even a small concern, you’d have to make an appointment through one of their front desk re
ceptionists. And then pay for the visit. But this was a small country town and maybe things were different here.
Still, did Dr McKendrick give me the card because she was worried about something? Her tone seemed to change as soon as I’d mentioned Alban. Her view of Alban and Jessica seemed almost opposite to Greer’s. Greer, from what I could tell, thought a lot of Alban but was frustrated with Jessica. I guessed I’d be making up my own mind about the pair of them soon enough.
11
ISLA
The calves of my legs were tight and burning by the time I made it back from the town. The mist was still clinging to Braithnoch in the outer reaches of its forest, bleaching it to a pale palette of greys and whites.
Exhausted, I wheeled the bike into the shed.
I was startled to see Jessica standing at the entrance when I turned to leave.
She looked extremely pretty, with straightened hair and perfect makeup. Except for her vaguely tense expression, she could be a magazine model. She wore the same pastel hues I’d seen her in on the previous days, her fingers laced together over her abdomen. Her pose reminded me of a client I had in the early days—a Sydney socialite who’d just recovered from uterine cancer, her hands always protecting her stomach.
She eyed me from head to foot. I was keenly aware that my hair, already damp from the mist, had become hopelessly sweaty underneath the bike helmet, and my face was heated from the exercise.
“Alban and I will be away for the weekend,” she told me. “Rhiannon is turning two in a few days, and we’ll be seeing some of my family in Edinburgh for an early birthday thing. Hopefully Greer will be around to have dinner with you. I’ve made sure we’ve lots of fresh food in the fridge and pantry.” A nervous tone ran through her voice.
“Happy birthday to Rhiannon,” I replied. “I’ll be fine. I probably have enough right here in the cottage. Besides what I bought in town just now.” I held up my bags. “I’ve actually just been to the bakery.”