Coffin Road

by Peter May

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear Sally say, the words whipped from her mouth as she speaks them. Below us, completely hidden from view, and as protected from the elements as might ever be possible in this brutal environment, stands a large collection of bee hives. Square, boxlike hives, two and three levels high, some painted orange, others simply weathered, silver wood. They appear to have been positioned arbitrarily, raised off the ground on wooden pallets, roped down and weighted with small boulders on top. I do a quick count. There are eighteen, and I’m not sure that I have ever seen anything quite so unexpectedly incongruous in my life.

  *

  It takes us just a few minutes to scramble down into the hollow, and we wander among the hives like warriors walking among the dead of some battle fought long before our arrival.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Sally says. ‘Who put them here? Was it you?’

  I feel a strange calm descend on me, and I stop by one of the hives. ‘They call this a National,’ I say. ‘Well, a Modified National, because it was modified from the original Langstroth hive, combs set on hanging frames. Pretty much universal in Britain.’ And with an expertise that seems to come from race memory rather than conscious recollection, I lift the stones from its roof and untie the hive, taking away the roof itself to reveal what I know to be called the crown board. But it is no normal crown board. Clear plastic allows us to peer into the hive.

  I am aware of Sally at my side as we look in on a burst-open pack of white sugar sitting on top of the eleven honeycomb frames that hang from rebates along either side. Bees are gathered together here on the right, between two or three of the frames, crawling over each other. Small, brownish, faintly striped. ‘What are they doing?’ she asks.

  ‘Clustering for warmth. Apis mellifera. Honey bees. This is their brood chamber. There will be anything up to sixty thousand bees in here.’ I have no idea where any of this is coming from. ‘To collect honey, you would have another chamber on top, a super, with a queen excluder, to prevent her from laying eggs in it. But it’s the end of the season. The honey will have been harvested.’

  ‘What’s the sugar for?’

  ‘To feed the bees across the winter, since we’ve stolen most of the honey they would normally feed on.’ I replace the roof, carefully tying it down, then adding the weight of the stones. ‘There’s still pollen around in the heather, but they’ll not venture out on a day like this. The only real forage up here is the heather itself. But in the spring the machair will be covered with wild flowers. Not too far for the bees to fly, and a veritable feast of pollen and nectar.’

  I stand back to find her staring at me. Curiosity and confusion, and more than a hint of distrust in her eyes. ‘You remember all this stuff,’ she says. ‘And yet you don’t remember who you are. Or me.’

  I shrug. I can’t explain it.

  ‘These are yours, aren’t they? These hives.’

  ‘I’m guessing they must be.’

  ‘But you never told me about them. In all the time we’ve spent together, all those intimate moments, and you never once thought to say that you kept bees. You didn’t want me to know, did you?’ There is more than a hint of accusation in this.

  I allow my eyes to wander over the hives, and then lift them to the boulders that stand around this tiny clearing, like so many silent witnesses. ‘It seems to me I didn’t want anyone to know. They are completely hidden here. God knows how many walkers trek across the coffin road during the summer months, but not one of them would have had the least idea that there were hives beyond these rocks.’

  ‘But why?’ I see doubt in her eyes. Suspicion. Though there is nothing I can say to allay that.

  I very nearly shout at her, ‘I don’t know!’ And she takes a half-step back. Bran barks, wondering why I have raised my voice.

  *

  The rain has stopped as we walk back down the hill, but the wind has stiffened and blows directly in our faces. I suppose I must have seen it many times, but the view from here is quite magnificent. It feels like we are up among the clouds, looking down on the world. The cloud formations coming in off the Atlantic are torn and shredded by the wind, sunlight breaking through them in beams of pure gold against black, criss-crossing the incoming wash and the silver of the sand like spotlights on a stage. Nature’s own theatrical production, dazzling and majestic.

  Sally and I have not spoken for nearly fifteen minutes. Whatever is going through her mind, she is keeping her own counsel, while I am nursing an unreasonable guilt. In the end I cannot bear it any longer. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, without looking at her.

  ‘What for?’ Her voice is cold.

  ‘Everything. Shouting at you. Not telling you about the bees.’ And my frustration fizzes once more to the surface. ‘Jesus! Why the hell would I be so secretive about keeping bees?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  It is easier going down than it was coming up, but the silence between us is still difficult.

  I glance at her. ‘You said I went out to the Flannan Isles on a regular basis.’

  She flicks me a look. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did someone take me, or do I have a boat?’

  ‘You have a boat.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You berth it in the harbour at Rodel.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  She looks at me again to see if I am serious, then she very nearly laughs. But the laughter dies quickly, and the smile with it. ‘It’s right at the southern tip of Harris. Beyond Leverburgh. It looks out across the Sound to North Uist.’

  ‘Would you take me there?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  It is a long time before she responds. ‘To be honest, Neal, I’m not sure why I should trust you any more. You’ve lied to me, concealed things from me.’

  None of which I can deny. ‘But I must have had my reasons.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  I suck in a deep breath. ‘In all those hours we spent together, you must have got some sense of the man I am. Trusted me, had feelings for me.’

  ‘Yes, I did. And still do.’ She stops, forcing me to stop too, and I turn to face her. ‘But I never really knew you, Neal. Like I told you last night. I just didn’t ask. And you weren’t telling.’

  ‘Then give me the benefit of the doubt, Sally. Please. I’m not sure I can deal with this on my own.’

  She looks at me for a long time, before sighing in deep resignation. ‘Come here.’ And she opens her arms to wrap them around my waist and pull me to her. Holding me tightly, her head turned and pressed into my shoulder. I close my eyes and feel the wind whistling around us, yanking at our clothes and our hair. ‘Of course I’ll take you to Rodel.’

  I’m not sure how long we have been standing like this, just holding each other, when I hear Bran barking somewhere on the track below us. We break apart and I see him a hundred or more yards away, barking at a man leaning against the gate at the foot of the hill. He has binoculars raised to his eyes, watching us. And, when he lowers them, I see, even from this distance, that it is the man who was watching me from the far shore yesterday. Buford, Jon had said his name was. A solitary traveller, with his caravan pegged down on the machair.

  ‘What the hell does he want?’ Sally says. ‘Do you think he was following us?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not up to the hives, anyway. Why don’t we ask him?’

  But even as we look, he pushes his binoculars into the deep pockets of his waterproofs and turns to hurry away towards the road, long ropes of hair blowing out in the wind behind him.

  ‘Come on.’ I take Sally’s hand, and we increase the speed of our descent. But the surface is difficult, slippery with mud and awash with rainwater running off the hills, and by the time we get to the gate, Buford has reached the semicircle of tarmac, where his Land Rover is parked next to Sally’s Volvo. He backs up his vehicle and accelerates away down the track. When finally we get to the car, Buford has turned north
on to the A859, and is picking up speed around the curve of the causeway.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The single-track road from Leverburgh cuts through the hills above the southern coastline, before winding down into the tiny settlement at Rodel, where the sixteenth-century St Clement’s Church stands on a pinnacle above the harbour, facing out across the Sound. The church is clad in scaffolding, platforms erected on different levels to facilitate restoration work. We drive past its high stone wall, and gate, to turn down the narrow loop of road that drops steeply to the harbour below.

  The harbour itself is tiny, built within encircling headlands that almost meet. Through the gap between them, the mountains of North Uist can be seen simmering darkly beyond clearing skies. The wind has dropped a little, and flashes of blue break the monotonous undulations of grey and silver that lie low across the sea.

  There are eight or ten boats berthed here within the protective arms of stone and concrete that mirror the larger, encompassing arms that nature has provided. A couple of fishing boats and half a dozen powerboats of varying sizes. And three small sailing dinghies. At the innermost end, reflecting on still, deep water, stand the huddled grey buildings of the Rodel Hotel. And parked out front, a blue Ford Mondeo.

  ‘That’s your car,’ Sally says. She pulls the Volvo over on to the grass and we walk around to it. The door is unlocked, key in the ignition, two other keys hanging from the fob that I imagine must be my house keys. I reach in to take them, and the small disc of polished wood through which the keyring is looped feels oddly, comfortingly familiar. Otherwise the car is empty, apart from the stale smell of wet dog. I lean over to open the glove compartment, but find only a couple of road maps, one of the Hebrides, another of Scotland. I straighten up and walk around to open the boot. There is a set of oilskins and a pair of mud-caked wellington boots. I slam it shut and gaze out over the boats that bob and shift on the gentle swell.

  ‘Which is mine?’

  Sally follows my eyes. She shrugs, puzzled. ‘It’s not here.’

  And somehow I am not surprised. But still I ask, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I should be. I’ve been out in it with you often enough. You may have hidden your penchant for bees from me, but your passion for boats was no secret.’

  A voice carried on the breeze and calling my name startles us, and we turn to see a man in jeans and wellies and a knitted Eriskay jumper climbing from one of the powerboats up on to the far quay. He pushes his hands into his pockets and walks around to greet us, a wide grin on a weathered face. Hair loss makes him seem older than he is, for as he reaches us I see that he has a young face. He thrusts out a large, calloused hand and we shake. ‘I was getting worried when you never brought Dry White back and your car was still sitting there.’ He glances at Sally and nods acknowledgement. ‘Mrs Harrison.’

  She nods back, and the ‘Coinneach’ she responds with is clearly for my benefit. I recognise it immediately as the Gaelic for Kenneth, but beyond that there is nothing else familiar about him.

  ‘When did I take her out, Coinneach?’ And as soon as I ask I realise what a foolish question it is.

  He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  Sally says quickly, ‘He means what time. We were trying to work out how long it took him to get out to the Flannans.’

  Coinneach sucks in air through thoughtful lips. ‘Couldn’t say exactly. Early afternoon. But it must have taken you a good while to get out there. The weather was already deteriorating. You must have made it before the storm, though.’

  I nod quickly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do, spend the night out there?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I am almost grateful for his prompting my responses.

  ‘So where is she now?’

  I am aware of returning a blank look and feel panic rising.

  ‘Dry White,’ he clarifies for me.

  And Sally steps in again. ‘He took her up to Uig. We’re going to explore some of the caves up along the coastline there if the weather improves. I just brought him down to pick up his car.’

  I glance at her, marvelling at how easily she can lie, while I become tongue-tied and completely unconvincing. Somehow, though, Coinneach seems less impressed, and he gives us an odd look, blue Celtic eyes flickering from one to the other.

  *

  We drive both cars back up to the road and park one behind the other outside the church gate, where a sign reads Fàilte Gu, Tùr Chiliamainn. Welcome to St Clement’s Church. Earlier, as we drove into Rodel, Sally told me we had made love once in the tower, while a party of tourists was being given a lecture on the history of the church in the nave below. ‘It was insane,’ she said, laughing. ‘But the risk of being caught made it . . . I don’t know, exciting.’ And I wonder now if perhaps revisiting the scene of our folly will stir memories.

  Sun reflects on the wet stone path as we follow it up through the graveyard to the door. Inside, it is completely empty, ancient Lewisian gneiss green in places with the damp. Cruciform in design, there are tiny chapels in each of the transepts, and three walled tombs. We climb narrow stone steps leading to the chamber at the top of the tower, which stands at the west end of the nave, and squeeze into a tiny room lit only by a narrow slit from which archers might once have fired arrows to repel attackers.

  I stoop and peer from its leaded window out across the Sound towards the Uists. The wind has dropped almost entirely now, and there seems no dividing line between sea and sky. ‘How could we possibly have made love in here?’ I say. ‘Apart from the lack of space, any noise we made would have echoed through the whole building.’

  She laughs, and as I turn and straighten up, her face is very close to mine and I am aware of the heat of her body. ‘Actually, we were quite noisy. But they were noisier down there.’ I feel her breath on my lips before she kisses me. A soft kiss, full of tenderness. She draws back just a matter of inches, and I can barely keep her in focus. Her voice whispers around this stone chamber. ‘Anything coming back to you?’

  I purse my lips thoughtfully. ‘Not yet. Maybe we should try a little harder.’

  This time the tenderness in the kiss is replaced by something more feral, and I feel my whole body infused with desire. When we break again, her breathing is rapid. ‘This is so weird,’ she whispers. ‘Everything about you is familiar, and yet it’s like being with a stranger.’ She kisses me again, and I feel her hand move down to close around my arousal. I take a half-step back and she pushes me against the wall. The surface is hard and cold and rough. ‘Still nothing?’

  ‘No. Keep going.’

  And we make love for the second time in my recollection. A strange, animal act, somehow beyond our control. Awkward and bruising in this confined space, each of us undressed only enough to make union possible. But extraordinarily intense, leaving us once more breathless and perspiring. I pepper her face and neck with tiny kisses, and she holds on to me as if she might never let go.

  When finally she catches her breath she says, ‘And now?’

  I shake my head again. ‘Nothing. But if at first . . .’

  Her laughter reverberates around this tiny room, and something about the wanton quality of it provokes powerful feelings inside me. Until it dies away and her smile fades, and by the light of the window I see the intensity in her eyes. She runs her hand over my face, tracing all its contours, and I close my eyes. ‘Was I in love with you?’ I ask her.

  When she doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to see her gazing at me, a quizzical look now in hers. ‘That’s a strange, past-tense way of asking me. As if you no longer are.’

  ‘I know how I feel now, Sally. But I’m not the me I was two days ago. I want to know how he felt.’

  There is just the hint of sadness in her smile. ‘He told me he loved me, Neal. But, then, he told me lots of things, it seems, that aren’t true.’

  Guilt washes over me. How could I have lied to her? About writing the book. About the bees, even if only by omission. ‘And what about
you? Did you love me?’

  I see her swallow back her emotion. ‘I did.’

  ‘And now?’

  She smiles. ‘It seems that’s a process of discovery.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  For the third time in two days, something external wakens me. I am disorientated. It is dark, but not late. An old-fashioned clock with luminous hands on the bedside table tells me that it is ten past midnight. Then I remember lying down on the bed after Sally dropped me at the cottage sometime after lunch, and realise I must have slept all afternoon and through the evening.

  We had eaten at The Anchorage restaurant on the pier at Leverburgh. Soup, then quiche and salad and a couple of glasses of white wine. Sally told me we had eaten there often, and we were greeted by hellos and friendly smiles from the staff. But I didn’t remember the place at all.

  Now I am on full alert. Because Bran has jumped down off the bed, a dangerous, low growling in his throat. I am wide awake in seconds and wishing I had left lights on in the house. But it had been daylight when I drifted off to sleep. I reach for the bedside lamp and knock it over, cursing under my breath as I hear the bulb break.

  Bran barks. He is still in the room, but standing in the open doorway now. Not that I can see him. The darkness is so dense it is almost physical. No moon or starlight, no streetlights, or any light from nearby houses seeping in through windows.

  ‘Sally?’ I call out, more in hope than expectation. Bran would not react like this if it were her. I am rewarded by silence, broken only by Bran’s continued growling, and I swing my legs out of the bed to stand and feel my way to the wall. To my dismay we remain in darkness, even after I have flicked the light switch down.

  Now my alarm turns to fear. There is someone in the house that Bran does not recognise, and there is no power. I feel for the door frame and swing myself into the hall. I know that the door to the sitting room is open. I shoosh Bran and stand very still, straining to pick up any sound. But Bran can’t contain himself for long and barks again. I take advantage of the noise to slip into the sitting room. Outside, a break in the cloud lets unexpected moonlight wash silver across the beach, and in the reflected light I see a shadow detach itself suddenly from darkness, filling my vision, a flash momentarily illuminating the length of a blade that signals deadly intent. I instinctively turn side-on to make myself a smaller target, reaching for the knife arm to stop its downward arc, and I put my full weight behind my shoulder as I push it into the chest of my attacker.