Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  Imogen got up then and wandered to the window, resting both palms flat on the sill. Jean followed and slipped an arm about her shoulders. ‘You’re really missing a few brain cells today, aren’t you.’

  Imogen leaned against her. She wanted to tell her about the dream, about her brother, about the way she had telegraphed his death to herself. Her aunt had had the gift of second sight, but it had not happened to Imogen before that day in Idaho, and never again since. She had looked it up because she had heard people talking about her aunt in almost witch-like terms after she died. She found a book on Celtic mythology and discovered the dubious gift of second sight. A vision of somebody up to their neck in water meant they were going to drown. They weren’t dead when you saw it, but they would be soon afterwards. She remembered sitting in the library in Edinburgh with a shiver running up and down her spine like a startled spider. It had depressed her for weeks, the strange knowledge that when she had seen her vision in the forest on the edge of the Sawtooth, her brother was still alive. She wrapped her arms round Jean’s waist then and held onto her. She desperately wanted to talk to her mother, but her mother wouldn’t understand, or if she did, she wouldn’t allow herself to share again the moment of tragedy with her daughter.

  Connla woke with a thick head from drinking too much whisky. Normally he drank very little, so when situations like last night arose he didn’t handle them well the following morning. A pulse thudded at his temple. He felt sick and had to roll over and lie on his back. The blankets seemed to press him deeper into the bed, adding to the swimming sensation in his skull, and he kicked them off and lay there, naked, looking up at the ceiling. Imogen’s face filled his mind, that look of old in her eyes, as if she could see right inside someone.

  He sat up and his head reeled, but he forced himself to the bathroom and doused his face in cold water. He gravitated to the shower, where he stood, limbs loose and weighted head to his chest, while the water drummed the ache from his brain. Dressed, and with a cup of coffee inside him, he felt much better, but every sensation, every thought was directed towards Imogen. Yesterday’s storm had gone, and he stepped outside to a warm breeze coming in from Lochalsh. He wandered aimlessly towards the castle, pausing to watch the sunlight reflecting off the water. Skye looked inviting today and very green. He sat on the rocks and watched the boats trawl up and down to the salmon hatchery.

  Jean had gone and Imogen had got herself together. She needed to muck out her horse, so she pulled on an old pair of dungarees and a T-shirt and got the Land-Rover started. She drove round Loch Gael with her head clearing, pulled out onto the main road and crossed the bridge towards the village. The traffic was quite busy and she had to slow right down before turning off to climb the Keppoch hill. She saw the American sitting on the beach with his back to her, looking out to sea. He wore a short field jacket and the wind caught his hair, blowing it about his shoulders. Imogen pulled off the main road and stopped, engine idling. She sat there for a moment just watching him. Somebody hooted a horn loudly at her and she started. MacGregor came trundling down the hill in his Discovery. When Imogen looked back at the beach, the American was watching her.

  She sat there, hand on the gear stick, foot depressing the clutch. He climbed over the rocks and stood on the far side of the main road, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Then he crossed purposefully towards her. She was going to wave and just drive up the hill, but she didn’t, she sat there, aware of a weakness in her stomach. She could sense him, feel the probe of his eyes through space and glass and metal. He came alongside and she leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it. After yesterday.’

  ‘Yes.’ A short pause; awkward little silence. He smiled at her, she back at him, eyes on each other for a second, then on anywhere but each other.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, looking across the bonnet. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You, too.’

  He stuck out his hand. She looked at it, did not respond, then her tongue snaked over her lips and she stared at the castle through the windscreen. ‘I’m going up to sort out my horse. If you’re not doing anything …’

  ‘No.’ He said it hurriedly; too hurriedly, but he didn’t care. ‘I’m doing nothing at all.’

  ‘Jump in then.’ She scraped Coke cans, papers and empty cigarette packets onto the floor from the passenger seat. ‘It’s a bit messy, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hey, no problem.’ He slammed the door, and rested against the vinyl seat. She gunned the motor and they drove up the hill to the field. On the way, they passed a green Volvo estate car and Connla recognized the shaggy-haired man from yesterday. Imogen saw Patterson, their eyes met and she smiled at him and waved. Patterson looked suddenly startled.

  At the field, Connla walked beside her up the soft muddied path to the stable. The horse was at the top of the field, chasing sheep. Imogen nickered to her and she looked round, then trotted down to greet them.

  ‘She’s a Highland,’ Imogen said, noting his silent interest. ‘Bred for the mountains and as sure-footed as any goat you could mention.’

  ‘She’s pretty. What’s her name?’

  ‘Keira. It’s Gaelic. It means “dark-haired one”.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful name.’

  They stood looking at one another for a moment, neither of them moving, then Keira pushed between them and nuzzled against her mistress. Imogen rubbed her neck, tracing stiff fingers through her mane and whispering softly to her. Connla moved along her flanks, stroking her with a flat palm. Imogen watched him and smiled.

  ‘Have you spent much time around horses?’

  ‘Some. I guess I can ride a bit.’ He looked up at her once more. ‘How far do you ride?’

  ‘Oh, as far as I can. The longest I’ve been in the hills is a week. I don’t know why really, it’s just worked out that way.’

  Connla stroked the horse’s mane. She was sniffing at Imogen’s pockets.

  ‘Carrots,’ Imogen explained. ‘I didn’t have my head on right this morning. Normally I bring some for her; it’s the only reason she’s pleased to see me.’

  Connla helped her shovel the muck out of the stable, then he took the wheelbarrow round the field, which was very steep in places, almost a climb, and scraped the rest of it up from the grass. He dumped it all in the pile beside the horsebox at the gate. Imogen watched him working, suddenly delighting in the company. When he was done he wiped his hands on the wet grass. ‘All set?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Job done for the day.’

  ‘What’re you going to do now?’

  ‘Well, I was going to go home and paint.’

  ‘D’you paint every day?’

  ‘I try to. But I’m not working to anyone’s timetable.’

  ‘You just do it for yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think that’s the only way.’

  For a few moments they stood in silence, then Connla smiled. ‘Can I get a ride back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She dropped him outside the hotel. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was nice.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sat there, with him half in half out of the truck. She could smell him: his hair, the sweat on his skin from the exertion. She flared her nostrils slightly.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘OK.’

  Suddenly he smiled. ‘Would you have dinner with me tonight?’

  Imogen looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’

  His face lit up. ‘What time shall I come for you?’

  ‘It seems a long way to come out given that we’ll only be coming back again.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said slowly. ‘But, you know, I’d like to come and get you.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, that’ll be fine then. Make it seven thirty.’

  He closed the door and waved as she drove away, then he walked back into the hotel.

 
Upstairs, in his room, he sat for a long moment, looking at the waters of Lochalsh through the window. Again his lies haunted him and he wondered what he was doing. She stirred something in him, and while he had clogged it up with a lie, he didn’t really know what it was. Angry with himself, he got up, took another shower, then paced the room with a towel wrapped round him. She had no idea who he was and all the time that was the case he was playing with her emotions. She felt something; he could sense that much. He felt something. When she was a kid she had had a crush on him, and perhaps he, too, in his own way, had had one on her. But that was years ago and things changed radically when Ewan was killed. To come here now, like this, and tell her lies about himself was unfair and told neither of them anything. So why was he doing it? Fear? Cowardice, perhaps? Wanting to face the truth at last and not being quite up to it.

  He sat on the bed with a sigh and switched on the lunchtime news. He saw a bloodied sheep lying at a farmer’s feet. He turned the volume up loud and listened to the man being interviewed. ‘Aye, I saw it. This time I did. No question. There’s bloody great beasts out there and it’s time someone did something about it.’

  Connla spotted the blue SSPCA vans, and then the camera panned to the uniformed inspector checking over the carcass. He felt his pulse begin to race.

  Downstairs he phoned Harry Cullen, who seemed to be expecting him in his own particularly superior way. ‘You saw the TV then?’

  ‘Yes. Just now. Where was that?’

  ‘Corgarff. Not far from the castle. I’m on my way up there now, see if I can pick up any tracks. The kill’s awful fresh, so my lad might get a sniff.’

  Connla thought about Imogen. ‘I’m in the Kyle of Lochalsh,’ he said.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I’ve got to stay here tonight.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  The innuendo irritated Connla. ‘Look, the earliest I can get over there is tomorrow.’

  ‘No bother. It’s your party, Mr McAdam. But if we find something, I assume it’ll be the same terms as before?’

  Connla let go an inaudible breath and considered his ailing bank balance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Excellent. See you tomorrow then.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Connla stopped him. ‘Where are we gonna meet up?’

  ‘Best place would be the hotel in Tomintoul. We’ll probably need to spend a couple of nights there anyway.’

  More money, Connla thought. Thank God Holly had got him those semesters.

  Imogen painted, but her thoughts were elsewhere—something else that never happened to her. She stuck at it for an hour or two, then she wandered down to the loch and sat on a blanket, soaking up the sunshine, and realized that she was whiling away the hours until it was time to get ready to go out. She had phoned Jean and told her about the date. No, she didn’t know where they were going, but she imagined it would be somewhere local. In fact, she wanted it to be somewhere local.

  ‘We talked it up,’ Jean told her.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘All that guff about James Lawton, the make-believe doctor from Edinburgh. We talked it up and then in walks Mr good-looking America.’

  ‘I don’t know that he’s that good-looking.’

  ‘Well there must be something about him. And by the way, now you’ve told me, don’t be surprised if I pop out for a drink tonight.’

  ‘Jean!’

  ‘No, no. All’s fair in love and war. It wouldn’t be right if he left without me ever having clapped eyes on him. Besides, evidently like you, I want to see the local reaction. This is an event that could be talked about for decades.’

  Imogen didn’t mind. She didn’t mind at all. Jean had been a good friend. Then she wondered if she was doing this just to spite the locals. She didn’t think so, but it was possible. Everything had been so muddled today that it was very hard to tell. She was looking forward to him coming, though, and the fact that he was driving the seven or so miles just to pick her up delighted her. That hadn’t happened in years.

  Eighteen

  CONNLA DROVE OUT FIFTEEN minutes before eight, dressed pretty much as he always was, although he had put on a fresh shirt and brushed the dirt from his boots. He was showered, shampooed and had that knot of butterflies in his gut that he last remembered experiencing in high school.

  Imogen was ready at seven fifteen, smoking a cigarette nervously in her kitchen, wearing a simple cotton dress with only knickers underneath. She wore shoes with a slight heel, accentuating the shape of her calves, and her hair was brushed and tied over one shoulder. She waited, had a cup of coffee, stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. Then she heard the rumble of diesel and the clank of wheels on the second bridge and imagined him picking his way through the loose sheep and cattle. The sun was fading in the west, but the evening was still bright and warm. She didn’t wait for him to get out of the truck, but slipped a bag over her shoulder and stepped into the yard.

  Connla watched her through the windscreen, the dress hugging her breasts and falling just above the knee. She wore black leather shoes and her hair was tied in a single Native American-style plait. He switched the engine off and jumped down, meeting her as she walked across the yard. They were two feet from one another—no touch, just a smile and a look, and he opened the door for her and watched the way she brushed her skirt under her thighs as she sat down. The material rode higher now and Connla was aware of a little tightness at the back of his throat. Climbing behind the wheel again, he turned the truck round and headed back to the main road.

  ‘Where would you like to eat?’ he said. ‘It’s gotta be your call, I’m afraid. I’m pretty new round here.’

  ‘Do you know what,’ she said. ‘I’d be quite happy eating in the hotel.’

  ‘Fine with me. Bar or dining room?’

  ‘The bar will be just fine. The dining room’s too stuffy.’

  ‘Whatever you say. You’re the lady.’

  Nobody was in the bar yet, which displeased Imogen. Don’t say this would be the one night when no-one would show up. It was early still, mind, and all she needed was one local, man or woman, and the word would spread like a forest fire. They sat at one of the window tables and Connla got her a drink. Imogen waited, watching him at the bar, one eye on the door. Jean would definitely be in. She was honest enough not to deny her nosy-parker tendencies.

  He sat down opposite and she noticed the copper band on his right wrist. ‘Do you always wear that?’

  Connla squinted at it. ‘I guess. Don’t need to, but I’m out in all weather and I probably worry about the rain getting into my bones. Call me superstitious, I don’t know.’

  She smiled, sipped gin and felt in her purse for a cigarette. ‘I don’t normally smoke like this,’ she apologized. ‘But today …’

  Connla took a pack of Marlboro from his shirt pocket. ‘Today, I guess you’re nervous, just like me.’ He lit her cigarette for her and sat back. ‘How long have you lived up here?’

  ‘Oh, about seven years, I suppose.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘I’ve only ever been as far as the city limits,’ he said. ‘Driving up the other day.’

  ‘It’s lovely. You should visit before you go back to the States.’ She paused then. ‘When are you going back, by the way?’

  Connla grimaced. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘But soon?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later, I guess. Come September there’s two semesters of teaching heading my way, but I’ve got no inclination to acknowledge them.’

  ‘You sound like me.’ She traced a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I live for the summer holidays.’

  Connla leaned his elbows on the table. ‘You, your horse and your paint tin, huh?’

  She smiled. ‘Something like that.’ And then the memory of this morning’s dream was there again, like a raw nerve at the back of her mind. She bunched her eyes.

  He noticed
. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just had a bad dream last night. It keeps coming back to me, that’s all. They do that sometimes, don’t they.’

  Connla nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they do.’

  Imogen finished her drink and Connla got up to fetch another round. When he sat down again she told him she used to live in the United States.

  He sat back, thinking about how much of a coward he was for carrying on this pretence. Bad dreams, old wounds reopened. He had lingered too long at her window sill. He should tell her; he needed to tell her. He should do it now, but his own wounds had been scratched and he knew, for the moment at least, that he had no choice but to carry on with the lie. He eased his tongue over suddenly dry lips.

  ‘Whereabouts did you live in the States?’ he asked her.

  ‘Jackson City, Wyoming.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Do you?’ Her eyes widened and he saw himself reflected in them for moment, as if he were inside her looking out.

  ‘Of it anyway. It’s the northern side of the state, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Across the line from Idaho.’ She looked at the tabletop then, remembering. He could see it in her eyes. She was picturing the little town, junior high, her old house on River Street, a block down from his. ‘We moved there when I was one.’

  ‘How come?’ He hated himself for asking.

  ‘My dad was a contractor on the dam they built.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘His firm was working on the construction. Anyway, we lived there for seven years and then the contract ended and we had to come back to Scotland.’

  ‘So you were still pretty young when you left,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. America was my home. I knew nothing about Scotland, and when I got here I had an accent worse than yours.’

  He laughed out loud then. ‘You got it. I know just how those Wyoming hicks talk.’

  The food came and then Jean walked into the bar and, right behind her, McKewan. Imogen felt a little thrill in her breast. She was going to enjoy this. She introduced Jean to John Brady, and she sat for a moment with them before going back to the bar and her drink. Connla spotted his erstwhile bar-room buddy and nodded to him. McKewan responded with barely an incline of his head. Imogen thought this was wonderful. All she needed now was Patterson to come in. But he didn’t, and neither did MacGregor, and she forgot about them. Jean only stayed for the one drink and then left. McKewan and his cronies propped up the bar for a while before moving on to McLaran’s.