by Lisa Hobman
Her side was still aching, but it had eased a little, which was a blessing considering that she was just about to embark upon yet another hill. She reached down and flicked the switch for her lights, hoping that she would be able to see better in the failing light, but, more importantly, she would be seen.
There was a loud popping sound and her bike ground to a halt in spite of her hard pedalling.
‘Please, no. Not a puncture. Please, for fuck’s sake, no!’ she yelled at the inanimate object. ‘How the hell do I repair a puncture in this light? Or bloody lack of it. Oh, God, I hate you, Noah!’ If her boss had been there at that precise moment she would have knocked him out. She checked her phone again and, not only was there no signal, but the battery was dying. She had forgotten to plug it into the solar charger as she cycled. ‘Shi-i-i-it!’ she screamed like a banshee into the open space before her.
She glanced round but couldn’t see much at all now the light was pretty much non-existent. What the hell should I do? She couldn’t see any buildings. All there was to her left was a huge expanse of what she hoped was just grass. She wheeled the bike over the bumpy ground and found a spot that was as level as possible. It would have to do. She would have to set up camp for the night and then figure things out in the morning. Good thing there are no bloody trespass laws in Scotland. She was grateful her conversations with friends prior to the trip had dished up that little gem.
As she laid down her bike she felt the first spots of rain. ‘I don’t fucking believe this! Can this day get any worse?’ A bright flash of lightning was followed by a deafening crash of thunder. And a hysterical laugh left Zara’s throat.
‘God, if you’re up there, is this your idea of a bloody joke? Because I don’t reckon much to your sense of humour!’ she yelled at the sky. ‘So please, please, for the love of Mike, just stop it now!’ Her cries were absorbed by the sound of the rain pounding at the ground as she yanked the canvas out of its bag and tried her best to wrestle it in to place. Just then the mocking worm in her ear began to sing ‘It’s Raining Men’ and she really wished for once that it were.
16
Setting her tent up in the pitch black wasn’t exactly Zara’s idea of fun. But having the rain lashing down whilst she did so put the crap icing on the shit cake. Why, oh, why aren’t there more hotels in this godforsaken part of the country? Or bed and breakfasts? Or even a bloody barn to shelter in, for goodness’ sake? This was officially the worst night of her life and she prayed, as she shivered in her soggy clothing, that Noah would somehow miraculously contact her and call the whole thing off early; tell her she’d done her bit for the good of the magazine. Even breaking up with Josh had been less horrendous and that was saying something.
After the hurried, slapdash way she’d erected her tent she wasn’t sure it would even last the night. And in fact she wasn’t sure she would either. She’d tried so hard to catch up on time and had failed miserably and her lack of dry map and daylight meant she had no clue where she was. In the end, the field where she’d set up camp could’ve been filled with rampant bulls for all she knew. But with the way she was feeling she would simply accept her fate if it was. The fact that her waterproof jacket was bright red didn’t exactly help in the bull scenario, but at least it was dark now; so, so dark and silent, apart from the rain lashing at the tent from every angle. She was sure that it was even raining upwards at one point; it wouldn’t have surprised her. Nothing would have at that moment.
Sitting there, shivering and shaking with a combination of cold and fear, she was swamped by an oppressive feeling of loneliness. Her heart ached and, admittedly not for the first time since being an adult, she longed for the warm, familiar embrace of her mum. She closed her eyes and imagined her laugh, loud and cackling, and for a moment she smiled fondly. What would they all be doing now, her family? Watching some typically British comedy, no doubt. Reruns of The Royle Family being their favourite. She wished she were there too; curled up on the squashy old sofa, giggling along next to her dad, with their old Yorkie, Queenie, in her lap. That old dog had been in the family for as long as Zara could remember but she kept on going. She was toothless and smelly but still adorable nonetheless.
Zara became aware that tears were adding to the overall dampness of her cheeks and she swiped them away angrily. What was the point of getting all emotional? The way she saw it, in spite of her recent – albeit short-lived – enjoyment, this trip was something to endure and then she could go home and forget all about this wretched place and the awful experience of the trip.
Sleep must have taken her at some point, as she awoke with a start to find herself in a very uncomfortable position, scrunched in one little corner of her minute, temporary abode. She rubbed her sore eyes and felt at her clothing. Thankfully Josh had been right about something: the clothes did dry quickly.
From the silence of her surroundings she was grateful to note that the torrential downpour of the night before had ceased. Her stomach growled and she fumbled around in her backpack for the piece of flapjack bestowed upon her by the lovely bistro owner at Lochinver. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the day before and would need to find somewhere to eat pretty soon else die of starvation and be eaten by cattle; only to be found months later by some oafish farmer, who’d no doubt comment on her excellent attire, which would still be in perfect condition, of course. Bloody hell, Bailey, you’re such a drama queen sometimes, Marco’s voice crept into her mind, and she smiled in spite of her solemn mood.
She grappled her body out of the sleeping bag and opened the zip on her tent. She stuck out first a leg; if that didn’t get ripped off by a wild animal she would risk the rest of her limbs. When nothing tried to eat her she clambered free of the confines of the small space and stood.
‘Ahem. Good morning.’
Zara almost jumped off the ground and she twisted round to find a man standing there, hair in disarray as if he’d just woken up, arms folded and a scowl of disapproval on his unshaven face.
‘Oh, erm… good morning. Can I help you?’ she asked boldly, standing her ground and hoping to God he wasn’t an axe murderer. There was something eerily familiar about him and she racked her brain, trying to decide if she had seen his photo on Crimestoppers.
‘I think it’s I that should be asking you that question,’ the man replied gruffly. He had a fairly mild Scottish accent, unlike most of the people she had encountered up to now in these parts, and his voice sounded familiar too, which increased the feeling of dread that was building. He wore dark green overalls that would’ve looked more appropriate on some old, fat, ruddy-cheeked man. Instead this man was broad and muscular, dark-haired with dark, brown eyes and was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Quite handsome in an oafish, farm worker/axe murderer type of way. Not that she found him attractive, obviously. She had sworn off even looking at men after what had happened with Josh. She even would have ignored Brad Pitt if he’d stood before her naked at that precise moment; or at least that was what she insisted on telling herself.
After remembering how the Daughters of Anarchy bulled her up, she snorted at his intimation that he could somehow help her. ‘Not likely. Thanks, though.’ She scrunched her nose up at him. What the hell was his problem anyway?
‘Okay, so maybe you wouldn’t mind explaining why you’re wild camping on private property, then?’
Frustration got the better of her and she mirrored his defensive stance. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your damn business, actually. Now sod off and leave me alone. I have a schedule to stick to and standing here arguing with you isn’t helping me get on.’
He stared at her for a moment and then he seemed to smirk before letting the mercurial mask fall into place once again. ‘It’s every bit my business, actually.’
Anger built further and after the night she’d had she wasn’t going to take rubbish from some glorified shit-shoveller.
She snidely tilted her head to one side, stuck out her bottom lip and asked in a mock
ing tone, ‘Going to tell your boss on me, are you?’ She was aware at how patronising and utterly out of character she was behaving but she was past the point of caring. ‘Well, go ahead. Believe me, you can’t make things any worse right now. I’ve had the shittiest night of my damned life, which consisted of a puncture, getting lost, being terrified in case my appendix burst or I was raped, mugged or murdered in the middle of nowhere, getting rained on and soaked to the skin, struggling to put up a tent in the pitch dark and having no food.’ Her voice was getting louder and more high-pitched as she ranted. ‘And to add insult to injury I didn’t even want to make this stupid effing trip in the first place. So you go ahead, report me to the landowner and have him get the police. At least if they arrest me I’ll get to sleep on a half-decent bed and have a hot bloody meal.’
Her heart pounded and her chest heaved as she took out her frustration on this complete stranger. To make matters worse, hot tears were streaming down her face and her nose was uber snotty. She knew for a fact that she already looked a sight with her unwashed, ratty bed hair and lack of make-up but now she was puffy-faced too, no doubt.
The man huffed. ‘I’ll help you pack up your tent, then you can come up to the house with me.’
She yelled, ‘I don’t need your bloody help, thank you very much. I’m a strong, independent woman. And I’ll come with you quietly so there’s no need for you to keep your beady eye on me. There’ll be no need for a pigging citizen’s arrest!’ Her etiquette had completely flown out of the non-existent window now.
He shrugged with nonchalance. ‘I doubt you do anything quietly, but fair enough.’ He folded his arms across his chest and stood there watching, in spite of her demand, as she went about gathering her things and shoving the tent into its minuscule pouch. It was so much easier when the damned things were dry. She had to keep pausing to swipe away the damp trails that insisted on trickling down her flushed cheeks. The tears were now part embarrassment, part anger and part self-pity. And all the while she could feel his eyes on her; mocking her; pitying her maybe too. Poor little southerner trying to be all outdoorsy and failing miserably. Yeah, well, I’d rather be in some swish Caribbean resort, thank you very much. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere right now than this bloody dump.
Sulkily she hauled her backpack on and clipped the chest strap closed before lifting her useless bike from the sodden ground. ‘Right, I’m done. Take me to your leader,’ she sneered.
Without speaking the man turned and headed off up the field to a quad bike and trailer that was parked by a low stone wall that circled a cemetery – good thing she hadn’t noticed that particular feature last night. She followed obediently, silently cursing the man for not offering to carry the bike, whilst simultaneously knowing she would’ve refused help anyway.
When she looked to her left her breath caught. The sun had made a dramatic appearance and what she could see of the landscape now left her lost for words. There was a rugged limestone pavement that led to the water’s edge where there lay a tiny deserted beach with pale golden sand and crystal-clear, azure-blue water that glinted in the early morning light. It was by far the most stunning sight she had ever woken up to and she stopped to take it in for a moment.
‘Come on! Stick the bike in the trailer. You’ll have to hop on the back of me,’ the man called out to her, pulling her from the daydream in which she was toes deep in warm sand, inhaling fresh, salty air.
She chuntered, ‘Keep your bloody hair on,’ under her breath as she stomped over and lifted her lightweight bike onto the small open-topped wooden trailer, and then reluctantly she clambered onto the back of the man’s quad. She sat there awkwardly, unsure as to how she would stay on the damn thing.
‘You’ll need to put your arms round me or you’ll fall off,’ he informed her, a hint of frustration straining his voice.
Of course, I will. Stupid arse. Ugh, why did I not just run away? Because I can hardly bloody leave my wrecked bike here, can I? Let alone run at all, that’s why. Her inner dialogue rampaged around her head and she gripped the man’s waist tightly. It was all a little too intimate for her liking.
After a few uncomfortable, bouncy minutes crossing rough terrain, her captor, as she had now begun to think of him, pulled the noisy beast of a vehicle to a halt in the cobbled courtyard of a farmhouse. Here we go, she thought. Let the bollocking begin. She wondered what the farmer would be like. Would he be the type to have a soft spot for damsels in distress? She hoped so. Maybe if she cried in front of him he would take pity on her and not call the police after all. She could try it, perhaps.
‘Follow me,’ the gruff man instructed, but offered no help to get her down from the quad. Charming. Once she had dismounted and righted herself after almost toppling backwards – stupid effing backpack – she followed him inside and fully expected the farmer to be there, ready to read the Riot Act.
The kitchen was warm and there was a smell of fresh bread that carried through the air and made her stomach growl. There was an open fire and a black and white Border collie curled up on the rug before it. The dog yawned and stretched before making its way towards the man, tail wagging and tongue lolling out.
‘Hiya, Bess,’ the man said affectionately as he bent to scratch the dog behind its ears. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Now be nice to our visitor.’
As if following his instructions obediently, the dog walked over and sniffed at Zara, but she froze. Why had he told the dog to be nice? Was it a vicious monster of a canine that would take her fingers off if she attempted to stroke it? But Bess nudged her hand and gave it a lick.
Zara’s body flooded with relief and she reached out to pet the animal. ‘Hello, Bess, you’re lovely, aren’t you?’ She glanced round the large but cosy room. It was fairly traditionally decorated with wooden units and a free-standing old range cooker. There wasn’t any sign of the farmer and she began to think maybe she’d had a lucky reprieve. Her reluctant companion was certainly making himself at home around the place and that made her wonder if perhaps he was the farmer’s son.
He nodded to the large pine table in the centre of the room. ‘Have a seat, eh?’
She removed her backpack and let it drop to the floor with a thud and did as she was told, closely followed by the beautiful black and white dog. ‘Look, can we just get this over with? I really wasn’t kidding when I said I had a tight schedule.’
He nodded. ‘You’re doing the North Coast 500,’ he said without turning to face her. It was more of a statement than a question.
‘Yes. I got waylaid yesterday thanks to a puncture. I… I don’t suppose you or your boss have a repair kit?’ She cringed, very much aware that he had no obligation to help her.
He placed a mug of steaming coffee before her on the table. ‘I’ll have to ask him. Hang on.’ He shouted towards a closed door. ‘Lachlan! Have you got a bike puncture kit?’ Then with a brief grin at her he shouted again, ‘Aye, but you’ll have to wait as I’m attending to a trespasser!’
17
On realising she had presumed all the wrong things about the man and the farm, Zara covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Oh, God. Of course, it’s your farm.’
He sat opposite her and chuckled. ‘Aye, it is.’
‘I’m sorry. I just presumed… I mean… You’re quite young and I always think of farmers being older.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not that young. I’m thirty-one and it’s not unheard of for people my age to run farms. You’re stereotyping and judgemental.’ He gulped down a mouthful of his coffee.
‘And you’re stroppy and annoying,’ she snapped.
‘That’s not what you said the other day. I actually thought you were quite nice back then.’
She scrunched her face whilst simultaneously scrutinising his. What the hell was he talking about? And where the hell did she know him from? ‘I beg your pardon?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘In the lay-by. You were all concerned about my lack of enthusiasm for the bloody view.
’
She gasped. ‘You! I might have known someone like you would get all uppity about someone being on your bloody land.’ She folded her arms across her chest.
He froze and fixed her with a glare. ‘I might remind you that as you were illegally camping on my land you’re answerable to me, so you might want to hold off with the insults.’
She closed her eyes briefly, summoning up the courage to speak to him rationally. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? This trip hasn’t exactly been something I’ve been looking forward to. In fact, I’m here under utter duress. Last night was really scary and I didn’t realise I was on private property. I don’t even know where I am – all I know is that I was aiming for Kinclochbervie. But I got totally lost and just needed a place to stay, that’s all. And actually I was told there were no trespass laws in Scotland.’
The man, now known to be called Lachlan even though he hadn’t formally introduced himself, heaved a frustrated sigh. ‘Bloody urban myths. Try telling the writers of the Scottish trespass law that it doesn’t exist, see how you get on!’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Except you can’t… because it was written in 1865 so they’re all dead now.’ Zara fought a giggle but he waved his hand in frustration. ‘But that’s beside my point – the fact remains there is a law. You can’t just set up on land wherever you please. You could disrupt livestock, damage property, get yourself injured or goodness knows what else. So next time you decide to embark upon such a mission, make sure you do your homework first, okay?’