Fiona fell silent; but as they approached Kirkshiel she said: “That tune. It’s getting louder in my head.”
At this time of year in the northern isles and on the northern mainland there were little more than a couple of hours of near-darkness. But although the sun was still coating the treetops with a burnished glow, the sky ahead was sullen and threatening thunder. The wind had dropped, leaving a muggy stillness. Robert drove round a sharp bend, and the road began dipping towards a small settlement with a few lights in windows here and there.
The inn was called The Crofter’s Rest. One of its windows was brighter than any of its neighbours.
Robert left the women in the Volvo and went into the bar. It was a long, low room with four stools, a high-backed trestle against the window, and two tables at the far end. A fruit machine blinked with a migraine-inducing dazzle in an alcove near the door to the toilets.
The landlord, in shirtsleeves, was resting his bony elbows on the bar, his rheumy eyes sizing up the newcomer without bothering to offer any greeting. His forearms were mottled with purple blotches, and his greying hair looked dusty rather than potentially silver.
“You could manage accommodation for three of us?” asked Robert. “Just for one night?”
“Three of you?”
“My wife and myself, and a room for my daughter.”
“Aye.” The landlord seemed neither welcoming nor reluctant. “And you’d be wanting to eat?”
“If you can rustle something up, that would be great.”
“We’re well stocked. Ready for tomorrow evening.”
“You’ve got a function on? A party?”
“An annual event, aye.”
When Robert went out to tell the women that they could come indoors, the landlord followed, not offering help with the two cases but peering with shameless curiosity at the instruments in the back of the estate wagon.
“Ye’d be musicians, then?”
“Just been to the St Magnus Festival in Orkney. Oddly enough,” said Robert as he heaved one of the cases out, “we recently played some variations on a tune by one of your local characters – Calum of the Clachan.”
“Just the right folk for tomorrow evening, then.”
“Sorry?”
“Calum’s Night, we call it. Once a year. Just the once. And there’s need of music. The right kind o’ music.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be here tomorrow evening.”
“Now, that would be a pity. A great pity, since you’ve been sent here.”
“Hardly. We just happened to notice the name on the map, and—”
“Well, let’s say you were drawn here, then.”
They were shown up a narrow flight of stairs to a cramped landing with two bedrooms and a bathroom opening off it. The ceilings were low, and the rooms were dark, each with only one small dormer window, but they were spotlessly clean, and there was a fresh smell from the bed linen.
As they unpacked, Deirdre said abruptly: “I think perhaps we ought to have driven on.”
“Whatever for? This looks comfortable enough. Nice and quiet.”
“There’s something . . . waiting.”
Robert put his arm round her. “Come on, now. Don’t go all fey on us.”
She turned away and began hanging two dresses in the narrow wardrobe.
When they went down, the landlord this time came along the bar to greet them. “Ready for a drink, now, sir?” He sounded almost pleased that they were here. “I’m Hamish. Hamish McReay.”
“Drysdale. My wife Deirdre, our daughter Fiona.”
Hamish nodded as if to grant this his approval, and when he had poured a pint of rather gassy beer and two orange-and-lemonades for them, he said: “Would trout or steak be what you’d be wanting for your meal?”
“Trout,” said Deirdre and Fiona almost in chorus.
“Steak,” said Robert.
They perched on the bar stools while Hamish went through a door with their order. When he came back, he seemed to have mellowed a fraction further and was ready to play the talkative host.
“Tomorrow evening, now. We’ve been let down by one of our locals. He’s been training up for it since last year. But he . . . och, he wasnae up to it. Ran off at the last minute.”
“Stage fright?”
“Been put off by silly tales. And some of those so-called professionals have been no better. There was one of those pop groups came here, talking big. Called themselves The Sons of the Gael, or some such thing. Pop music and what they said was traditional folk music. Or folk rock, or whatever name they chose to put on it. Some o’ the younger folk liked them. They played what they called a gig on Calum’s Night. The fiddler took some holding back that night, I’ll grant ye. Said he’d be back the next year, but he never came. Quite a few like that. Say they’ll come back, but they don’t. And then we hear, every now and then, of some of them dying.”
“These folk-pop groups,” Robert sympathized. “All the same. Get high on the music and on drugs at the same time, and kill themselves with it.”
“Aye,” said Hamish without seeming quite to accept this. “It could be that, maybe.”
“But this annual do – what’s it all about?”
“Calum’s Night, as I told ye. Every year there’s a celebration. Some music, some dancing.”
“What a coincidence, us being here so close to it.”
“Och, no. That’ll no’ be a coincidence. It was meant. You being here, that is.”
“But I’ve told you, we’ve got to be on our way tomorrow. We can’t help out.”
Hamish smiled with the infuriating smugness of someone who thought he knew better, and went to serve two young men who had just come in and propped themselves against the far end of the bar. Dark and almost gypsyish, they muttered between themselves, grinned, and stared at the strangers. Particularly at Fiona, with her red hair, redder than her mother’s, in a tight casque over her head, with a little stub at the back like a seaman’s tobacco quid.
Looking away, Fiona reached for a leaflet from a plastic container propped against an upright beam. Robert leaned over her shoulder as she opened the creased, faded pages. As a tourist pamphlet it was far from inspiring, listing a few fishing rights, a two-mile walk, and remains of a prehistoric stone circle.
“And no mention of their prodigal son?”
“Not a word.”
Hamish lifted a flap to allow an elderly woman through, carrying two large plates which she put down on one of the tables. As they settled themselves around the table, she was on her way back to fetch a tray bearing another plate and a bowl of vegetables.
Fiona slid the leaflet back onto the bar.
“You’d have expected at least some mention of Calum of the Clachan. At least a couple of lines. I wonder if there’s a plaque or a sign somewhere in the village?”
“Those who know,” said the woman at her left shoulder, leaning over to put servers in the vegetable bowl, “hae no need of it.”
“And those who don’t know?” laughed Fiona.
“Are gey better without it.”
Hamish cleared his throat with a warning growl, and the woman scuttled away. The young men finished their drinks and left, with a last glance at Fiona. Hamish sauntered along to lean on the counter above the Drysdales.
“Quiet tonight,” said Deirdre politely, between mouthfuls.
“Saving themselves for tomorrow,” said Hamish, “as ye’ll see.”
Robert clattered his knife down on the plate. “Mr McReay, I’ve already told you, we’ll be off in the morning. We definitely won’t be here tomorrow evening.”
“It’d be a great shame for you to miss it. Wouldnae be right at all.”
Robert spent a restless night. He felt that he had still not got his land legs back. The bed was swaying as if he were still aboard the ferry. Beside him, Deirdre was quite still and said nothing; but he knew that she was awake most of the night.
In the morning they were offered a large
breakfast.
“Should see us most of the way,” said Fiona.
The old woman said not a word, but made an odd little chuckling sound with her tongue against her teeth.
When Robert went to pay the bill, Hamish McReay hummed and hawed, and regretted that he had no way of coping with a credit card. When Robert took out his chequebook, Hamish agreed that yes, that would be all right.
“But why not wait till tomorrow morning? I’m thinking that then we might offer ye the two nights free of charge.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“We’d be greatly beholden to ye.”
“I’m afraid we have to be on our way. Right now.”
Hamish took the cheque but pushed it away from him along the bar as if not taking it seriously. He made no effort to help Robert and Fiona as they took their two cases out to the car, but stood in the doorway of the inn watching them sceptically.
They settled themselves into their usual positions in the car, and Robert put the key into the ignition automatically, as he had done a thousand times before.
There was no response. Not a whisper from the engine.
The car refused to start.
Robert swore, and tried again. At last he got out and lifted the bonnet. Oil, water, points, fuses: everything seemed normal. After twenty frustrating minutes, he dug his mobile phone out and brought up the breakdown service number.
There was no response from the phone, either. They must be in a dead spot.
Resentfully Robert strode back to the inn, where Hamish was still standing in the doorway.
“May I use your phone?”
Hamish stood aside and waved his hand towards a shelf within a cramped alcove.
A cheerful voice took Robert’s policy number and said, even more cheerfully, that there might be a slight delay because of his distance from one of their contract garages, but somebody would be on his way as soon as possible.
Robert stormed back to the car. He was damned if they would go back and wait in the inn, with Hamish McReay smirking at their discomfiture. Rather than that, they could fill in time by going to see where Calum lay. A hundred yards down the hill Robert could see the little church, and it would obviously be possible from there to see when the breakdown man arrived at the inn.
“Since we’ve got to fill in the time,” he snapped, “let’s go and visit the bloody man who brought us here.”
They walked down to the squat little building, with its one tiny bell in its small cage on the roof. It might have been a scaled-down replica of one of Telford’s austere “Parliamentary” churches. There was a scattering of graves in the churchyard, with a few little pots of fresh flowers in front of the headstones, and grass which had been neatly trimmed. Robert checked that they could indeed see the Volvo from here, and then tried the church door. It squeaked open, and they went in.
The interior was cold in spite of the warmth of the morning outside. The walls were a plain, chill white, the backs of the pews stiffly upright. A board displayed lopsided numbers of last week’s hymns. Against the north wall was what looked like a small stone coffin, with a child’s name and date of death on it. Facing it from the south wall was a larger tomb, but this one was incongruously in heavy wood, pock-marked with knots.
The three of them stared down at the faded paint that formed a succession of red and green stripes across the lid, like a crude representation of straps holding a cabin trunk together.
Behind them a peevish, reedy voice said: “I suppose you’ve come for a cheap thrill?”
The minister was a short man with narrow shoulders and a narrow face. His pursed lips were tightening as if to deliver a bitter sermon right here and now.
“Our car has broken down,” said Robert, “and we’re stuck here until someone comes to fix it. We’re simply filling in time.”
“Hm. You know this accursed man’s reputation?”
“We know his music. Actually, we’ve played some of it. Variations on one of his fiddle themes.”
“May God forgive you.” The minister’s sallow cheeks were puckered with loathing as he stared at the strange wooden sarcophagus. “The creature should never have been laid to rest here. If he does rest.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Like his devilish master, he should have been forbidden the solace of a consecrated place.”
“His master?” whispered Fiona, puzzled.
“The devil Paganini. A wanderer himself – a poisonous visitor to Scotland in the 1830s, making hideous discord in his music across the land and in the minds of his listeners.”
“Paganini did develop some rather startling harmonics in his playing,” Robert agreed, “but nowadays we take them for granted, and—”
“We take too many evils for granted. And allow too many disciples of the Devil to indulge in their wicked orgies.”
“Even Paganini was forgiven in the end, and duly reburied in—”
“Forgiven by his acolytes, themselves the servants of evil. But Calum of the Clachan was never known even to seek forgiveness. He lived only for his music. Or one might say he lived on it. Wandering from shameless town to innocent village, indulging in his wild flights, urging people on to dance themselves into perdition. They speak of at least three women who danced themselves to death – and he fed on them. His music fed on them, and kept him alive.”
“I take it,” said Robert sardonically, “that you won’t be having any performances in the church here, in connection with Calum’s Night?”
“I’ll have no such blasphemy in this place.” The minister glanced apprehensively at the wooden tomb. “I would never risk letting them get so . . . so close. You ought not to be so close if you’ve come to take part in their obscenities.”
“We came only out of curiosity, and to find a bed for the night.” It must, thought Robert, be awkward for the minister of a parish as small and inbred as this to be at odds with the locals. “Look,” he ventured, “if you disapprove so strongly of their little annual festivity, aren’t you in a position to condemn it from your pulpit?”
“I have learned to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to what goes on just this one night of the year.” The reediness of the priest’s voice became a shrill lament. “All the rest of the year, they come to church meekly enough. Just that there’s the one night a year, one night in honour of . . .” He stopped, his breathing shaking his body . . . “Nay, in dishonour . . .” He held out shaking hands towards the woodwork, but did not touch it. “Something evil has for too long infested that box. Gone on living when it ought to have died long ago.”
“You don’t really believe in—”
“I pray to believe only in what is right.” The minister was visibly trying to control himself. “You say you are musicians. And you will be playing for him tonight?”
“Certainly not. We’ve got bogged down for an hour or two, but—”
“You have let yourself be trapped.” Walking away, the priest turned at the doorway. “I shall pray for you.” He did not sound optimistic.
They walked back up the slope and reluctantly went back into the inn, where the old woman served them coffee and biscuits while Hamish McReay polished the bar counter and checked his pumps at a self-satisfied, leisurely pace.
“This isn’t good enough. What do we pay these breakdown people for?” Robert drained his coffee and went to the phone again.
This time the response was less cheerful. There had been an unusual number of accidents that morning, and the garage nearest to Kirkshiel had had trouble with their breakdown vehicle. “And” – the voice grew wary and uncomfortable – “one of the men there says something about not fancying anything in Kirkshiel today. Tomorrow should be all right, but today . . . well, there’s something about it that people round there don’t fancy.”
“This is ridiculous. The weather’s perfectly reasonable. No problems. Can’t you call somebody else in?”
“I’ve done my best. But there’s just something odd about that place. I do assure you t
hat we’ll have organized something by tomorrow.”
Fiona and Deirdre looked up at Robert as he came back. Even without uttering a single question their faces were as unoptimistic as the minister’s had been.
“Tomorrow!” Robert raged. “Everthing can be fixed tomorrow, but for some bloody stupid reason not today.”
“Your car will start in the morning.” Hamish was beginning to polish an array of glasses. “Have nae fear. And now” – he puffed breath onto a glass and rubbed away – “ye’ll have to stay another night. Now ye’ll be playing for Calum’s Night. Which is as it should be.”
“I’ve a damn good mind to start walking. It can’t be that many miles to—”
“Daddy,” said Fiona very quietly, “I don’t think they’d let us.”
“What d’you mean? Who’s to stop us?”
“In any case,” said Deirdre, “we’re not going to walk away and leave our instruments. Not even just to go for a stroll.”
“Your car will start in the morning,” said Hamish again.
There was nothing for it. With a bad grace Robert accepted that they would have to eat lunch here, and somehow pass away the hours of the afternoon. And then?
It was an excellent lunch, but he had difficulty in forcing down each mouthful. His wife and daughter ate slowly, but seemed to appreciate the food. As they were finishing, Deirdre said:
“We can’t just sit here and sulk. And somehow I don’t fancy an afternoon nap.”
“I wouldn’t sleep a wink,” Robert agreed ruefully.
“So why don’t we bring the instruments in, and rehearse? We’re not going to have as much time as we’d like when we do reach Hexham, so why not practise now?”
In such surroundings, and in such a situation, Robert felt in no mood to tackle the music he loved. But Deirdre was right. Practising would soon draw them in, and would do them good.
They brought the violin, the clarsach and the flute in. Still wearing that infuriatingly complacent grin, Hamish McReay was holding open a door which led to the back of the inn. Here they found a room more spacious than the general layout of the inn would have led one to guess at. At one end was a small, shallow platform with three chairs already in place.
The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books) Page 49