Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  Jim turned and left the room.

  He paused outside the door. He could hear Jenny crying.

  *****

  The flight from Palma touched down in Glasgow airport at 6pm. It was bang on time. But Jim wasn’t interested in airline punctuality. His only thought was finding the bar. He had an hour and a half to kill before the Inverness shuttle boarded and he spent it drinking – pints, then shots, then mugs of black coffee at the insistence of the check-in manager.

  By the time Jim reached the Highland Capital, he was verging on sober again. It wasn’t a place he particularly wanted to be, Inverness or sobriety. He phoned the Marine Hotel, Kyle of Lochalsh, and demanded to be put through to George.

  ‘Hi, mate. What’s up?’ A friendly voice at last.

  ‘She’s left me,’ Jim slurred.

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘Aye, Jenny. Who the Hell else could leave me?’

  ‘Steady mate.’ George didn’t like being shouted at.

  ‘How could she do it?’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. A pub in Inverness.’ He swayed on his feet as he looked round the bar room.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. There’s a miserable looking bastard behind the bar who refused to serve me. ‘

  ‘Narrow it down, would you?’

  ‘Tasteless decor.’

  ‘You’re going to have to be more specific.’

  ‘There’s some sort of stuffed otter above the bar. Maybe it’s a beaver.’

  ‘Got you. Stay there. Have a coffee. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  George was as good as his word. Two hours later, he stepped through the door of The Dead Otter. It wasn’t the establishment’s real name of course, just a nickname coined by the regulars on account of the proprietor’s propensity for collecting stuffed water mammals, particularly endangered ones, and mounting them above his bar.

  Jim was swilling the dregs of his fifth coffee. ‘The bastard wouldn’t serve me anything else.’

  ‘I know. I gave him a call. Told him to keep you here and not to give you anything stronger than Nescafe.’

  ‘I hope I can do the same for you one day.’

  ‘You’re sounding better than you did.’

  ‘I don’t feel it.’

  ‘So what happened in Spain?’

  ‘Majorca. ‘

  ‘Okay, Majorca. What happened?’ George asked patiently.

  ‘Jenny told me I had to choose.’

  ‘She found out about Amber?’

  ‘She’s always known about Amber.’

  ‘You’ve been fucking stupid.’ George was nothing if not direct. ‘Really fucking stupid. ‘

  ‘But nothing has happened.’

  ‘That’s not really the point is it? You were caught with your pants down once. Somehow you got a second chance and you let your knob lead you right back into the fire. No wonder Jenny’s pissed.’

  Jim shoved his cup across the table. ‘Can you not get me something stronger?’

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  George slapped a fiver down on the table, helped Jim to his feet and swept him out of The Dead Otter.

  ‘That’s a first,’ Jim mumbled, ‘You standing five rounds in a row.’

  George ignored the comment, opened the door of the Mazda and unceremoniously bundled Jim in.

  ‘Sit down. Shut up. And if you’re sick you can clean it up yourself.’

  *****

  It was just before midnight when the Mazda pulled into the driveway of George’ s cottage. Jim slept through the journey, but the sound of gravel crunching under the wide tyres woke him.

  ‘Where are we?’ he muttered.

  George twisted his head round. ‘Back in the land of the living, by the sound of things.’

  ‘Aye. And I’ve got a fucking headache.’

  ‘I’m hardly surprised.’

  Jim levered himself up. ‘Too much bloody caffeine. I’d have been alright if you’d just let me continue on the whisky.’

  Jim made it unaided into the kitchen. He slumped down at the table.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ George asked.

  The frying pan was already poised on a cooker ring, a pool of solid beige grease melting into readiness like a high mountain loch waking to the first thaw of Spring.

  ‘Where is she just now?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. ‘

  ‘You’re wife has just left you and you’re worried about where Amber is?’

  ‘I don’t need a lecture.’

  ‘No. But you do need to think about where your priorities lie.’

  ‘If I’m going to sort this I need to speak to her.’

  ‘A clean break would be better?’

  ‘Just leave her here and never see her again?’

  ‘Go back to Dundee. Go to Majorca. Go anywhere. Just never see Amber again. She’ll find her own way back home, and very likely never speak to you again.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? It would solve all your problems.’

  Jim rubbed his temples. ‘Have you got any Paracetamol?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Tell me why you can’t.’

  Jim stood up, paced across the room, tried to escape the question.

  ‘Why not?’ George repeated.

  ‘Because... ‘

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Because... because I need to see her!’ Jim shouted.

  *****

  Chapter 19

  Jim sat in his car on the old pier. The ferries were withdrawn when the Skye Bridge opened, but no one had yet got round to removing the concrete slipway. There was a pleasure boat moored against a makeshift pontoon at the bottom, an adjacent sign advertising day cruises to spot seals.

  Dawn was breaking. Jim reached down for the handbrake, wrapped his fingers round the moulded plastic at the top of the shaft. His thumb hovered over the button. He could push it in, lower the lever and the car would gently roll down the slope, gathering momentum as the gradient took hold until the front air dam and bumper hit the water. There would be some resistance, he didn’t doubt that, but in a few seconds the Mazda would start to float out, nose dipping under the weight of the engine. It would be so easy.

  It was 6 am. The hotel would be shut fast for at least another hour. Jim sat back and closed his eyes.

  When he woke it was 8am.

  He stepped out of the car and sprinted up the steps to the Marine Hotel bar door. It was open. The barmaid was busy serving breakfast.

  ‘Is Amber about?’ he asked fretfully.

  ‘Miss Harris?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You’ve just missed her.’

  ‘She’s left?’

  ‘Gone out jogging. She should be back in half an hour. Can I do you some breakfast?’

  Jim ran out to the car without answering, reversed up the pier, spun it round and sped out along the back road to Plockton. He left the houses of Kyle behind, neat rows of white local authority housing fraying into small bungalow B&Bs scattered randomly up to Erbusaig Bay. From there, the single-track road turned inland, up through a narrow gorge until the Plockton road swung left. He carried straight on, still climbing until he saw her up ahead, pounding the beat in her Nikes.

  Jim slowed as he approached. She didn’t look round. He pulled alongside, lowered the window.

  ‘Amber.’

  She jumped. She was wearing a set of headphones and clearly hadn’t heard him over the music. But she smiled broadly.

  ‘Jim! When did you get back?’ She stopped running, leaned into the car.

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You don’t look so good.’

  Was it that obvious? Perhaps he should at the very least have shaved.

  ‘Do you wa
nt to get in?’

  She skirted round the back of the car and plonked herself down in the passenger seat.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  Jim carried on up the road.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said.

  ‘Pull in here,’ she suggested.

  They left the car at the side of the road and walked a few hundred metres up a track to Loch Scalpaidh, a flat calm stretch of water bounded on all sides by open moor.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘How do you know about this place?’

  ‘I found it when I was out running. When you were away in Majorca I came up here, sometimes for hours at a time.’

  She pointed across the loch to a rounded hilltop on the other side. ‘There’s a great view from over there.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jim said. ‘Let’s go there.’

  ‘What did you do here for hours at a time?’

  ‘A bit of thinking.’

  ‘About anything specific.’

  She shook her head. ‘Nah.’

  It didn’t take any more than 15 minutes to reach the summit cairn, a pile of rugged stones mounted on a low altar of flat stone poking up above the heather. Amber sat down, pulled her knees tight up to her chest and gazed out to sea. The view stretched across Kyle Akin to Skye and Raasay, and the wide-open Atlantic Ocean beyond.

  ‘Next stop America,’ Jim suggested.

  ‘I guess so.’ She pointed to a strange flat peak in the distance. It was a hill, but the peaky bit had been lopped off, leaving a perfectly flat top. ‘You know about mountains and stuff. What’s that?’

  ‘Dun Caan. It’s the highest point on Raasay.’

  ‘Looks like a volcano.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not. ‘

  There was a moment’s silence as they viewed the stunted summit.

  ‘You were going to tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘Aye, I was, wasn’t I?’

  ‘So?’ She squinted up at him. ‘You look miserable, Jim.’

  He crouched down next to her. ‘My wife left me.’

  Amber contemplated the statement for a second.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  He heard her inhale deeply. ‘But we’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Think about it. What we did before.’

  ‘But that was a long time ago. One night, for God’s sake.’

  ‘She thinks we’re having a... a relationship.’

  Amber scoffed: ‘A working one, maybe.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Did you tell her that?’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘And she didn’t believe you, right?’

  Jim paused.

  ‘What is it?’ Amber asked.

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Uh hu?’

  ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘Either you want to tell me or you don’t.’

  ‘You’re not making it easy for me.’

  A bit off-hand: ‘Sorry. But it’s not every day you get the blame for breaking up a marriage. ‘

  ‘No one’s blaming you.’

  ‘Jenny is.’

  ‘You must understand why.’

  ‘You blame me too, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well it certainly sounds as if you do. I thought we were friends. Good mates. Mates who work together, have a pint, a laugh, that kind of thing. It doesn’t mean there’s anything else.’

  ‘And there isn’t?’

  ‘No, Why? What did you think?’ Amber paused for a moment. ‘It would never work. You’ve got a wife and kids. Kirsty was one of my best mates.’

  ‘Jim thought about his daughter and his son. And Jenny.

  Amber stood up. ‘You were going to tell me something.’

  Jim paused. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  She dusted specs of lichen and dried moss off her shorts.

  ‘Are you off?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve an appointment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘With the old woman at Kishorn.’

  ‘Right.’ There wasn’t a trace of enthusiasm in Jim’s voice.

  They wandered back down to the car, Jim trailing a few steps behind Amber.

  *****

  ‘This is probably where Billy Reid parked,’ Jim remarked as he brought the Mazda to a halt in front of the cottage.

  ‘He must have noticed the house,’ Amber said.

  ‘It was dark and if the lights were probably off.’

  It was a two-storey cottage, dormer windows projecting from the grey slate roof on the upper floor. The door and window frames, red on their first visit were now painted in a fresh blue.

  Jim rattled the cast-iron horseshoe knocker.

  Half a minute elapsed.

  ‘She should be in. I phoned her, ‘Amber whispered.

  They heard footsteps in the hallway, soft padded beats. The dark shadow of a small figure appeared behind the glass panels. A woman’s voice, slightly croaky: ‘Who is it?’

  Amber responded. ‘My name’s Amber Harris.’

  ‘Have you an identity card?’

  Amber looked at Jim and shook her head.

  ‘Mrs Mackinnon. My name’s Jim Buchan. I’m with Amber.’

  He took out his press car and held it to the frosted glass.

  ‘Put it through the letterbox,’ the old woman demanded.

  Jim bent down and slipped the card through. A hand on the other side grabbed it. A moment passed before the door finally opened.

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ Mrs Mackinnon whispered, eyeing them with suspicion.

  ‘I guess you wouldn’t expect this sort of thing to happen here, in the country,’ Jim agreed.

  ‘I felt safer when we lived in Easterhouse,’ she muttered.

  Mrs Mackinnon ushered them in, directed them into her front room.

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Jim and Amber lowered themselves gently on to an old green settee facing the front window. It squeaked painfully as the old springs sagged under them. The room was small, with a low ceiling that made it rather gloomy. The furniture was old – a wooden dresser against one wall piled up with books and china ornaments, a tiled fireplace on the other, the mantelpiece sagging under a neatly regimented array of knickknacks. In the middle there was a framed photograph, a young man and woman arms linked, standing at a viewpoint with a large waterfall in the background. The grate below was smouldering gently, logs of wood on either side lined up in readiness. There was a little coffee table in the centre of the room, a couple of dog-eared copies of the People’s Friend spread across the top.

  ‘This is cosy,’ Amber remarked.

  Mrs Mackinnon re-appeared with a tray boasting three cups, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes and a mixed assortment of teaspoons. She placed it down on top of the magazines and perched on a high-backed armchair opposite Jim and Amber.

  ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

  ‘Milk, no sugar,’ Amber answered.

  ‘Milk, one sugar, for me,’ Jim added with a smile.

  She decanted a splash of milk into each of the three cups. ‘It’s not often we get visitors here.’

  Mrs Mackinnon was compact, short on height but fairly wide around the waist and hips. Her face was heavily lined, strands of grey hair flopping down over her forehead. She wore a blouse, white knitted cardigan, a long dark skirt and a pair of slippers with a matted pink fluffy lining. She looked like your archetypal granny.

  ‘We popped by the other day, but your son said you were out,’ Amber said.