by C D Major
She was almost sixteen weeks pregnant now, the slight curve of her stomach hidden under a loose cotton shirt. She drove on, the silver ribbon of the River Clyde behind her, almost missing the faded sign on the road that pointed visitors to Overtoun Estate.
She had persuaded Garry that the piece was relevant, an interesting segment they could put at the end of the programme on a quiet day. She knew she was lucky to have been there long enough to be allowed to cover the things that interested her. This was the first slow news day in a couple of weeks and Garry had been true to his word.
Turning off the road, she climbed up the hill past rundown terraced cottages and abandoned houses, leaving civilisation behind her. The driveway was long and pockmarked with holes, the uneven ground making the car rattle. To her right, an imposing line of crags loomed suddenly, an impenetrable wall of greys and greens. Gus raised his head and whimpered as the car slipped into shadows.
‘It’s more than a hundred acres,’ she told him, wanting to talk, to make noise. ‘Well, that’s what the Internet said.’
Gus was alert, sniffing the air. As the driveway curved to the left, she strained to see the building, making out flashes of grey, the house obscured by a row of enormous dark pine trees. She parked, the only car in a small empty square made for the purpose, and switched off the engine, staring at her hands on the wheel. ‘Hey . . .’ She opened the passenger door and beckoned Gus out, suddenly glad he was there, not wanting to be alone. Glancing over her shoulder, she felt as if the crags had somehow moved closer, hemming her in.
He hopped out, so trusting, and she attached his lead with fumbling hands. ‘Come on, Gus!’ she called. For a second, he paused and sniffed the air, but he soon allowed himself to be pulled along. She moved towards the house, feeling something crackle in the air. The Internet articles were doing this, she thought; she found her feet taking on a life of their own while her body wanted to turn back.
Gus strained on the lead, nose to the ground as he explored the new surroundings. There was a slight breeze, clouds scudding across the sky, patterns rippling over the stretches of green all around her. Rounding the corner, she couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath, her jaw dropping open as she craned her neck back. The house was immense, rising up in front of her like a terrible surprise, the grey facade streaked with dark patches, hooded windows and intricate stonework. The towers and fish-scaled slate turrets seemed straight out of a Grimms’ fairy tale. As she moved nearer, she could make out more detail: faces carved into the stone; inscriptions displayed at intervals; the archway of a grand entrance up ahead.
A sudden gust of cold wind that seemed to almost emanate from the house itself made her wrap her arms more tightly around herself and she wished she had brought a cardigan. The windows ahead seemed to wink in recognition as she passed beneath them. A chill entered her blood despite the July sunshine. Looking up, she noticed one of the inscriptions etched into the stone: Ye that love the Lord hate evil. She pulled Gus closer.
He had stopped, the lead taut as he crouched low, eyes fixated on something in the distance.
‘Come on, Gus,’ she said, her voice encouraging, with a lightness she didn’t feel.
Gus didn’t budge. His body was stiff as he stared ahead, a low growl building in his throat.
In that moment fear coursed through her and she turned, determined to leave. There was something alive in this place, something she needed to escape.
But as she turned, another car bumped its way up the drive. She walked quickly towards it, retracing her steps. Garry’s dark blue car spat stones as it turned in to the car park. There were two figures inside. She waved a hand.
‘Hey, Ava!’ Garry got out of the car. ‘I thought I’d come along too.’ His blonde hair gleamed as he stretched. His thin, bottle-green jumper lifted a fraction to show a flat stomach.
‘Hey!’ Ava said, her voice too loud, the relief at seeing a friend palpable.
‘All OK?’
Was he asking because she looked different? She tugged on her shirt. ‘Fine.’
Neil had stepped out of the passenger seat, his long hair frizzy, looking at her as he banged the equipment on the roof of the car.
‘Watch it!’ Garry called, giving Ava the smallest roll of his eyes as Neil stuttered out a hello.
‘He didn’t talk all the way here,’ Garry murmured in an undertone. ‘Just ate three sausage rolls.’
She suppressed a smile as Neil walked towards them, carrying the equipment. In his mid-forties, he looked like an ageing rocker in his ripped and stained T-shirt that strained over a small paunch.
‘Well, this is cool!’ Garry said. He looked round, hands on his hips. ‘I had no idea it was here. I drive past on the way up to Loch Lomond. I love getting up there.’
‘Me too.’ Ava smiled, wishing for a moment that they were all on the shores of Loch Lomond, looking out over the still, velvety water. Garry grinned back before Neil managed to interrupt the moment with a phlegm-filled cough.
‘You alright, Neil?’ she asked.
‘Asthma,’ Garry told her.
Neil pulled out an inhaler and pastry flakes fluttered to the ground.
Garry looked around. ‘So where’s the bridge?’
‘The other side of the house,’ Ava said. She hadn’t made it that far and the thought of moving past the house again sent a shiver through her.
They planned the shots as they walked around the corner. Ava avoided looking at the house but felt safer flanked by her colleagues. Gus seemed more relaxed, too, as they moved past the big projecting stone porch with its arched door flanked by sleeping stone lions. A couple of cars lined a field that climbed up and out of sight – a good place for a dog walk, Ava thought idly. Were the owners aware of the supposed danger that lurked nearby?
She stopped. There it was, straight ahead: the bridge that she had read about online. The photos had failed to do justice to the impressive Victorian structure. Thick stone walls lined a short walkway. There were semi-circular refuges on one side with raised stone steps acting as viewing platforms out over the estate. Ava could make out the sound of the water moving below it as they approached and the air above the bridge seemed to quiver with the noise. Gus had slowed and Ava wasn’t about to risk taking him off his lead. Her skin prickled at the thought. Bringing him felt suddenly reckless.
As they neared the entrance to it, all of them fell silent. Ava peeked at the two men, wondering if they were affected too. Gus seemed reticent to cross, attempting to pull her in the opposite direction. Garry seemed oblivious as he marched into the centre, turning back to face them all. ‘Let’s set up here for the introduction.’ He took a notepad from his rucksack.
Neil was peering over the edge of the thick stone wall into the gorge below, then started fiddling with the camera.
‘Is the water going to be a problem?’ Garry asked him, his voice loud over the noise of the burn below.
Neil shook his head. ‘No.’
Ava gripped Gus’s lead tightly as she watched the two men moving on the bridge. It was as if there was a veil, a barrier between them and Gus and her. It was the strangest sensation; she just knew, somewhere deep inside, that she didn’t want to step forward and join them.
‘Ava, you ready?’
Gus still tugged in the other direction and Garry glanced down at him. ‘We should get that on camera, Neil,’ he said, pointing at Gus. Garry stepped forward just as the sun emerged from behind a cloud and Ava was momentarily blinded by the sudden shift in light. For a mad second it seemed that Garry wasn’t Garry at all, but an indistinct figure made of whites and greys moving towards her.
Ava took a step back. ‘I’m . . . I’m not sure we should . . .’
Neil was ready to go, headphones around his neck, camera at his side. Garry was in front of her, his features familiar, the light returned to normal. Ava could feel her heart racing, her skin dampening as she looked at his bemused expression. ‘Not sure we should what?’ Garry said.
‘Alright,’ Garry said slowly, his eyes watchful.
As she stepped onto the bridge, she felt a swooping sensation as if she suddenly had no centre of gravity. She blinked and put a protective hand on her stomach. Gus edged closer as she felt the ground, solid – not shifting, as she’d imagined – under her feet. A breeze lifted her hair from her shirt collar as she focused on the things she needed to say.
Her words, when they came, were stiff and formal. ‘Built in 1895, this bridge has gained a fearsome reputation. With sweeping views out to the River Clyde and plenty of paths to explore nearby, it has attracted visitors from all around the world. But it is here, amid this stunning scenery, that tragedy has unfolded.’ Ava paused, staring into the lens, trying to imagine, as she always did, that she was telling a story to the viewer at home. ‘From these crenelated parapets’ – Ava moved towards the nearest one as Gus tried to tug her back and Neil captured it all – ‘it has been said that hundreds of dogs have leaped over the side of the bridge to their deaths.’
She shivered as she finished, a glance over the granite wall to the sharp rocks and rushing water. She stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. Bending down, she drew Gus to her. ‘Good dog, good boy.’ She patted and stroked him, feeling the normally laid-back dog quivering. What did cause the dogs to leap to their deaths? What lured them onto the rocks below? Did the others feel the strangeness of this place?
Garry had moved away, talking to Neil about the next set-up. For a moment, Ava stood on her own and stared out at the greyish blue of the river in the distance, sensing that something was moving in the corner of her eye. She knew she’d been avoiding looking at it but she found she couldn’t help herself, her head twisting once more to the house. Her eyes roved hungrily over its features, strangely familiar to her already: the glass of the different-sized windows reflecting sunlight; the shadows of the trees as if the windows were alive and drinking it all in. She found herself drawn to a latticed window on the ground floor in the shade of the house, part-hidden by thick tendrils of ivy, the glass black as if the room behind had sucked any light away. She felt nausea roll within her and swallowed, a sudden stench, like curdled milk, forcing a hand to her mouth.
‘Let’s film from beneath the bridge,’ Garry said. ‘Ava . . . are you coming?’
‘I am,’ she muttered, taking a last look back. Gus growled, unbiddable as she tugged on his lead. Normally placid, he seemed alert to every sound and sight, staying close to her, almost tripping her. ‘Good boy,’ she said again, the lead still tight in her fist, hating the feeling of turning her back to the house as she followed the two men off the pebbled deck.
Garry had discovered a path that fell away steeply and then twisted back on itself, disappearing underneath one of the enormous arches of the Victorian structure. Neil followed him and their shoes made muddy prints in the path as they dropped beneath the level of the road and into the cool shade of the trees.
Ava followed, the sun lost behind a canopy of larch, beech and pine, all blocking her view. Beneath the bridge, the atmosphere seemed desolate. Moss clung to the stone walls and the smell of damp filled her nostrils. Unease nudged at Ava as she stared at the burn moving past. How many bones had shattered on the jutting rocks? Why had she ever wanted to come here and film? This place felt devoid of hope.
Gus was barking now, staring at the space beneath the archway where Garry was standing. Garry gave Ava a perplexed look. Ava bent to comfort Gus, a hand on his springy fur. Could he sense the menace too?
Neil appeared suddenly at her side, making her jump. ‘I just need to fix your mic,’ he said.
‘Sorry.’ She laughed, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It’s all this weird history. It’s making me edgy.’
Neil reached for her collar, his ears pink as he spoke. ‘I read that this is one of the thin places,’ he said, as he fiddled with the small microphone. He was so close Ava could see a spot of blood on his chin from where he’d cut himself shaving. For a moment her head seemed filled with the sickly scent of it, as if the river running past them was flowing with it.
‘What’s that?’ She tried to disguise the tremble in her voice. Gus shuffled near her feet.
‘It’s a Celtic term. About places where the gap between heaven and earth is closer.’ His dark brown eyes seemed intense as he stared up at the bridge, the three arches, the blackened stone.
Normally, Ava might have laughed at this explanation but instead she just swallowed.
‘Right, come on.’ Garry made them both jump. Even he looked put out.
Ava rolled her shoulders and cleared her throat. She needed this to be over, despite it being her idea in the first place. ‘It is reported’ – Ava swept an arm across the setting – ‘that dogs first started to jump from this bridge during the 1950s, with some stating that as many as five hundred dogs have followed since. One report claims that some dogs survive the fall only to get back to the top of the bridge and leap again. So, what has caused these dogs to lose their minds in this way and jump, apparently without fear, into the gorge that runs beneath?’ Ava felt dwarfed by the vast bridge and she had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of the water, an endless accompaniment as it flowed past.
Relieved when Garry told her they’d ‘got it’, Ava followed eagerly as they all retraced their steps back up the path. Scooping up Gus, she plunged her face into his body, taking comfort from his warmth, the tickle of his fur, his familiar smell.
‘Actually, let’s do a last segment on the theories before we leave,’ Garry said. Ava’s mood plummeted. Neil eyed the bridge warily, his gaze resting on the sign reminding walkers to keep dogs on a lead. ‘Neil, get a shot of that!’ Garry called from over his shoulder. ‘Right, Ava . . . how about you stand up here?’ He indicated the raised stone step of the parapet and Ava looked nervously back at him, still cuddling Gus in her arms. ‘Trust me, we can get a shot with the tower of the house behind you from there. Look . . . I’ll take the dog.’ He held out his hand for the lead. He seemed tetchy today, or was the atmosphere of this bridge getting to him too? Ava handed the lead to him, a prickly sensation building at the back of her neck again.
Standing on the step Garry had indicated, she took a breath, ready to finish the piece. Neil angled the camera towards her.
It happened so quickly that afterwards none of them were sure how.
Gus raised his head, ears pricked, and streaked towards the furthest parapet, his lead trailing behind him. Garry swore, Neil shouted and somehow Ava managed to jump down and pin the leather strip with her foot just as Gus sprang up onto the next parapet. Practically garrotting him, Ava tugged him backwards. He scrabbled at the stone wall as if possessed with a fierce energy and it took all her strength to hold him back. Reining him in at last, she bundled his trembling, tense body to her. He was panting excitedly, still focused on something beyond the wall. As she held him she could feel his heart hammering beneath the thick fur.
‘What the—’
‘Ava, I . . .’ Garry began a stream of apologies. ‘I thought I had hold of him – I’m so sorry – he just lunged and . . .’
Neil watched them both and Ava felt his eyes on her.
‘Are you alright, Ava?’ Garry’s face was filled with concern.
She nodded, still not sure how she had gone from one moment to the next. She realised she was crouching on the slimy stonework of the bridge. ‘I just. This house . . . this bridge . . .’ She clutched Gus to her again and squeezed her eyes closed. Neil’s words about the bridge replayed in her mind.
One of the thin places.
Chapter 11
MARION
Where to begin? I have barely had time to fill these pages and things have moved at such a terrific pace.
It was a short engagement: Hamish was keen to ‘ha
ve me installed’ in the house as soon as possible. He arranged everything, and Mother and Father were swept along in it all too. It was reassuring to have him decide things for me. He is so worldly, whilst I felt totally at sea. I was terribly frightened too that he might change his mind, discover my lack of education and accomplishments and cast me back to a lifetime of suburbia in Barnes, where I would surely have died an old maid. I was so grateful when the day arrived, my mother’s lace dress, yellowed from the attic, adjusted to fit me.
We were married in Chelsea, with just my parents and Susan and a few chaps on Hamish’s side. I don’t remember the service – only Hamish’s low voice as he spoke the vows and that the smell of the roses I was holding made me want to sneeze. We kissed on the steps outside and a photograph was taken, which I shall cherish.
Then, with barely a pause to celebrate, we were walking down the steps to a waiting car. Mother clung to me and I froze solid; she is always so stiff-upper-lip but, beside the grey face of Father, I could tell that she will miss having someone else in the house. Father shook my hand and wished me well, and when he nodded, the coin-shaped bald patch on the top of his head made me want to weep for him. The Great War has a lot to answer for, I say. I had a sudden vision of a much younger man with a confident gait and a straight back sitting in our small square of garden, amusement etching his features as he filled in the crossword, throwing some remark to me with a smile. But, that day, he hunched in a too-small suit that smelled of mothballs. He cut such a tragic figure that I found myself, rather shamefully, wiggling away from him into the car where my husband was already waiting.
My husband. I really can’t believe it even though I write the word. Hamish West. My husband. Oh, it is so thrilling! I have spent countless hours practising my new signature, a looping, rather theatrical flourish on the ‘W’ to befit someone of my social standing. Susan thinks it rather silly, but then she doesn’t seem much to like any of the new developments in my life.