The Thirteen Stones

by Finegan, KT

  3

  I waited for the impact. Instead, I felt a strong safe hand at my arm, lifting me back onto the pavement. The bus trundled past, the driver cursing me. I was standing outside the pub with everyone looking at me, and recognised the friendly brown eyes of Billy, who must have followed me out. The look of horror on his face showed how close I’d been to danger.

  ‘Thanks, Billy. I don’t know what happened there.’

  ‘Jesus, Kirsty! Are you ok? I don’t know what happened either, but I thought you were about to fall under that bus! How did you manage to keep your balance?’

  With those words I realised that he hadn’t touched me; he hadn’t been close enough. It must have been someone else. What other explanation could there be, after all?

  ‘Did you see who helped me, Billy?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone, Kirsty. Look, these things can happen. Come back in and sit for a while. I haven’t opened the lounge back up yet. It’s nice and quiet. Let me get you a brandy to settle yourself. It’s been a hell of a day for you.’

  ‘No thanks, really, you’ve been great today but I’ll head back. It’s been a long day. Thanks again for everything. I just want to get to bed now.’

  I had booked into Rosebank Guest House only a couple of minutes away, in one of the row of sandstone cottages not far from the graveyard and the train station. It was a pretty white house, similarly styled to the rest of the town. Rendered and painted sandstone, with two bay windows on either side of the centred front door and porch, two dormer windows in the low, sloping, red tiled roof, and cheerful yellow paint on the windows and door. I really couldn’t face staying at Granny’s cottage on my own, with the funeral and everything.

  But as I left the light and sound of the pub behind me, I shivered, whether with cold or fright I did not know or care. For the first time ever, I was conscious of the dark and the quiet all around me. The muffled sounds of a train leaving the station came to me across the darkness and I realised that fog had settled silently over the town. It became thicker as I walked, isolating me from landmarks and the usual lights and sounds I’d known all my life. I had never seen such a thick fog and was worried as I walked because I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me.

  One or two cars passed me with their fog lights on, but their orange glow failed to illuminate the darkness. I knew to keep the barbed wire fence of the railway line to my left hand side, but wasn’t sure where to leave it and cross over a small road to reach the entrance to the B&B. My breath quickened, and for the first time ever I was scared about walking around my town. I had walked that road so many times, with friends and on my own, from school, shops, train, bus, the pub. Never once in all that time had I been worried.

  You know that feeling you get when someone is watching you? I had it. The feeling that someone or something was close. That it could see me. That it was coming closer and I couldn’t see it. An invisible predator in the thick fog. I was alone, walking as quickly as I could with pinched toes in high heels. My frozen feet slapped against the pavement and I felt dread in my stomach. My body tight with tension, my hair damp with sweat at the nape of my neck. I sensed rather than heard a strange noise behind me. Like an animal breathing and moving softly, hunting its prey. Me.

  A car slowly passed me in the gloom, and I felt whatever was behind me pull back a little. At the same time I felt my toes kick small stones and gravel and I realised that there was a wooden slat fence on my left hand side. The B&B was close by. I speeded up, determined to get inside, through the gate, and down the gravel path to the porch. I still couldn’t see a thing but I heard heavy breathing like an animal coming from in front of me. It had changed direction. I wasn’t going to reach safety. It was going to catch me and I had nowhere to run.

  4

  The breathing came faster and was upon me before my brain had caught up with the situation. I let out a gasp as a little bundle of white dog jumped at my knee.

  ‘Kirsty… Are you all right, pet? We were getting worried about you so I thought me and Bertie would walk round to find you. We never get fog as bad as this. I thought you’d be frozen so I brought your coat with me. Bertie, get down, down! Sorry, Kirsty, but he looks really pleased to see you.’

  Relieved, I almost leapt into her arms. ‘Mrs Thomson! Thank you so much. I feel really stupid, but I was getting scared and thought I was lost. And I thought something was following me. So stupid really. Thank you. Thank you.’

  Mrs Thomson, the B&B owner, fussed around her little west highland terrier, trying to untangle his lead from around my legs and hers, leaving me time to recover my composure. It must have been the sounds of the dog sniffing around that I had heard through the fog. Whatever else could it have been, after all?

  It was so kind of her to bring my coat, and I snuggled into its quilted down and felt better as we walked for a few minutes to reach the porch, Bertie leading the way. He was such an excitable friendly wee dog, and my favourite breed.

  Mrs Thomson opened the door of the B&B, and as she took Bertie’s lead off he rushed around the hallway rubbing his body across the panelling and seeking out toys. The place smelled of furniture polish and the morning’s toast… and now wet dog. The hall was full of shining furniture, with bright yellow rugs on the dark floorboards. It was quaint and clean, and very homely. Everything felt light and safe after my experience walking back from the pub.

  I headed down the hall to my bright room in the modern extension at the back of the property. It was painted pale lemon, with bright floral curtains at the window, matching bedding, and another yellow rug on top of the blue carpet. Not really my style, but very cheerful. It smelled of lavender air freshener and furniture polish, and reminded me of Gran’s house. As I closed the curtains from the dark foggy night, Bertie ran after me with a squeaking soft toy and I was glad of the distraction.

  Mrs Thomson followed him into the room. ‘He’s always full of fun, so he is. I know you’ve had a hard day, Kirsty. It’s difficult to say goodbye to the ones we love, and you’re so young to have lost so many… Do you want Bertie to stay and play with you for a while? He really is a tonic when I’m feeling down. I’ve been a widow for five years now and I don’t know what I would have done without him. I really feel he got me through it.’

  I immediately agreed. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be great. I’d planned to have a bath and early bed, but… could he stay with me in here?’

  ‘We can try, pet.’ She smiled gently. ‘He might stay, but be warned he’ll want to be in bed beside you. He likes his luxury, does that one I’ve got him spoilt, I know, but he is so loving. Maybe you could let him be with you for a wee while and then send him out when you want to sleep? He’ll find his way back to my rooms when he feels like it.’

  We both laughed as Bertie reappeared with more toys, as if he knew we were going to have a play date. So while I ran a bath in the en-suite, he ran about after toys and we had a quick tug-of-war with an old thick rope. After a few minutes he collapsed with a deep sigh in the corner of the room, as if he was exhausted. The fun had changed my mood and I found myself in a better place than I’d been all day.

  I left Bertie in the bedroom and undressed and stretched out in the hot water, hoping it would warm me up. But as I lay back in the bubbles, breathing in the steam, exhaustion and a deep longing suddenly overwhelmed me. It was a physical pain in my heart and sobs stuck in my chest. I was too tired and emotionally drained for tears. This was so raw, so painful, so much more hurt than I could ever remember.

  Although I suppose I must have been upset when my parents died, I really couldn’t remember much about them, or how difficult it must have been for me or Granny after their deaths. It was such a very long time ago, and I hadn’t thought about them, especially my mum, for years. After she’d gone, Granny and I used to look through photographs, and lots were dotted around the cottage. So maybe, over the years, t
hose images became my memories. I couldn’t remember the person, the voice, or the touch of her, only that of Granny who became my mother and father.

  I couldn’t settle in the bath, and pulled myself out with what felt like the last of my energy. Drying quickly, I wrapped my hair in a towel and fell into bed. I automatically lay on the left side, as I had done every night for three years with Derek. With another deep sigh and some defiance, I fidgeted across and forced myself to lie down in the middle of the bed. Tears of self-pity forced themselves from under my lashes.

  Why was life so hard? What had I done to deserve all this? What do they say: ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? Rubbish!

  I was exhausted, and so very tired of crying. When Derek and I finished, I had thought that was the worst that could happen. My trust, my love, my life had been in the couple that I thought we were. Although I accepted our relationship was over, a little part of me would have given anything to have him with me at that moment. Someone to cuddle into, to hold and be held; that’s what I missed. The last few weeks had been full of tears and pain, and the same thoughts going over and over in my mind. The routine of work was the only thing that had kept me going; everything else was different, destroyed.

  Bertie seemed to sense my need for comfort and I felt him jump onto the bed and snuggle down beside me. As I lay in the darkness, sniffing back more tears, the whole crazy story reran in my head for about the millionth time. Derek’s late nights in the office and his business trips, but even then I hadn’t been suspicious. Then I found a receipt from a jeweller’s in his suit pocket when I took it to the cleaners. Thinking he had finally bought a ring, I had expected a wedding proposal for my birthday. I planned how surprised I’d look when I opened the box, spending sleepless nights wondering about what it would be like to be married to him. Except that when he handed me my present, I opened up a fleece onesie, comfortable and sexless to wear sitting in front of the telly, and a box of Maltesers instead. They’re not even my favourite chocolate.

  I thought I’d made a mistake, maybe he’d propose later. I decided to surprise him at the office one night when he was working late. There they were, him and his secretary. Not working. All such a cliché, and all the more painful for that reason. I was devastated and so humiliated that I didn’t want to tell anyone at first, until I realised that I would need somewhere else to stay. We lived in his flat.

  I remembered what Granny had said when I’d told her I was moving in with him. She had asked if it was wise to give up my own place. She probably knew it wouldn’t last but she didn’t push it or try to get me to change my mind. She wasn’t like that. She was always very intuitive; she just seemed to know things. Lots of people came to her for guidance.

  Thankfully, my best friend Susie had a spare room, and didn’t hesitate to offer it when I said I was leaving Derek. So many times we had discussed someone else’s break-up over tea and home-made scones. We both loved to bake our way through heartbreaks, so there had been a lot of cakes in the years we’d known each other.

  My own words had come back to haunt me: ‘no-one leaves a happy relationship.’ And even though it was painful, in my heart I knew that I hadn’t been happy with Derek for a long time. I’d hoped for happiness, wanting things to change but not knowing what to do.

  By the time he got back that night, I had packed all my clothes and some personal stuff into a couple of large suitcases and left them in the middle of the hall, so that he’d see them as soon as he opened the door. Not very mature, but I suppose I was hoping for a reaction that told me he loved me and we could sort things out. Instead, he told me he was relieved that I knew, and had been planning to finish with me anyway.

  Pure Scottish bravado got me through that. A great show when my heart was breaking, but I held back the tears until I handed back the keys to his flat.

  I hadn’t told Granny. I was too ashamed, and had been working up to breaking the news. How stupid. And now I wouldn’t be able to be comforted by her, because I know that’s what she would have done. Instead, I’d avoided telling her because my stupid pride had got in the way.

  I cried then for the loss, for me and for her. I heard and felt Bertie snuffling around and licking my fingers as if he understood my pain.

  In the strange bed, sleep eventually came but my dreams were full of images of graves, and dead birds, and falling down holes, to deep caverns in the earth. Fighting my way back up again and then falling down again. Feeling that I’d woken up and was safe, and then the image of falling again and knowing I was still in the middle of a nightmare. I could hear someone, maybe a woman, calling my name over and over: ‘Kirsty, help me! Kirsty, help me!’ I woke up a couple of times in the night with a terrible feeling that something awful was going to happen, then I remembered that Granny had died, and the grief of loss would come again.

  I drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes lying awake hearing the church clock chiming, feeling the bed uncomfortable beneath me. Wrinkled sheets and lumps and bumps in the bed pushed against my skin. All my life I’d suffered from disturbed sleep, bad dreams, sleepwalking. I sensed the dog shift, and his breathing brought me comfort. I wasn’t alone.

  Somewhere in the quietest, darkest part of the night, I woke again with a fright and the awful sensation that someone or something else was in the room with me. I lay still, too scared to move, as terrified as I had ever been in my life. Hardly breathing, I lay in the dark, listening, all senses alert with a feeling so intense only the primeval part of my brain could cope. I dared not move.

  I thought I could hear breathing. Deep, heavy breathing, like an animal, a large animal, somewhere in the room. I knew it wasn’t Bertie. I kept my eyes closed, and felt somewhere in my mind that this was like a memory. It had happened before, in another bedroom a long time ago. Or was that a memory of a long forgotten nightmare? But this was real. I was awake. I was terrified.

  Scared to take a breath in case whatever was out there in the darkened bedroom came closer, I felt Bertie tense against me. He started to growl.

  I sent up a silent prayer to God, to Granny, to anyone who loved me to help me. I was scared for me, and for Bertie. Suddenly the words of the Lord’s Prayer came to mind, softly edging their way into my thoughts. ‘Our Father who is in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name…’ The prayer filled my head.

  I felt Bertie relax again, and the next thing I knew I woke up as daylight lit the room, and I let the dog out to join his mistress. I snuggled back under the duvet and dozed off again until the sound of the church bells striking ten woke me.

  5

  Despite the heat from the big bulky radiators in the room, I shuddered at the memory of the previous night. It must have been a nightmare. After all, how could there have been someone or something in the bedroom? I must have been more stressed than I realised, as that’s usually when I’d experienced nightmares in the past. The dog had probably reacted to my tension, nothing else.

  It had been a horrible day and my imagination had been playing tricks on me. I had tripped at the pub, not been pushed. Someone had helped me although I didn’t see them, and there was nothing odd about the fog and no-one there apart from Mrs Thomson and her amazing dog Bertie.

  I got up quickly, showered, and took tea from the tray in the room, as I had missed breakfast and didn’t want to put Mrs Thomson to any bother. I didn’t have any appetite anyway. Misery surrounded me like a thick blanket and my head ached. I dressed and left the B&B.

  Something was calling me back to the graveyard, some feeling that I should go back. I felt I wasn’t at peace with Granny. I should have told her what had been happening. Regret burned in my head.

  The early morning was dull, the sun was missing from the northern winter sky. Although the fog had cleared considerably, there were still wisps of it around and I couldn’t see the mountains any more. I walked back along the narrow pavement, the ancient walls of the two-storey buildings ti
lting towards each other and almost meeting above my head, making the day seem darker.

  Claustrophobia added to my tension and I was relieved to see more of the grey sky on show as I crossed the road and entered the rusting cemetery gates. My feet scrunched on the red-chipped pathway as I walked uphill, past the derelict chapel and the remains of an old crypt. I could see a little white butterfly dip up and down, flying low and serene in this sad place. Then I realised it had to be a moth, after all it was November and Scotland.

  I shuddered as I walked past the decapitated body of what must have been a pigeon, feathers scattered over a grave like a burst pillow.

  Must be lots of happy cats here, I thought. And I stopped. Someone was bending over my grandmother’s grave. A long-haired, slender woman crying; I could hear her sobs. She fixed some flowers then brushed some imagined dust away from the freshly packed soil on top of the grave.

  I stood for a moment, unsure whether to intrude on this private grief. This was someone who cared deeply for Granny. As I looked closer I had to blink my tired eyes as she seemed to shimmer in the light. It was like looking at a hologram hovering in the air; one minute I could see her clearly, the next she had shifted out of focus and looked like coloured dust sitting in the air in the shape of a person.

  The woman, or whatever she was, seemed to sense that she was being watched and turned round towards me. I could feel the blood drain from my head as the face looking back at me was the image of my grandmother, but a younger version. Or an older version of me, was the thought that flashed across my brain.