Lochmaddy Rest on the Hebridean island of North Uist was a bleak-looking, white-painted building that overlooked a small shingle beach on which the cold, grey waters of Lochmaddy Bay lapped gently. The bay was calm, reflecting the dull sky and the rolling clouds heavy with rain. In the distance purple hills rose like the undulating back of a gargantuan, sleeping prehistoric creature. Gulls screamed over the water and fought each other for titbits. A tiny fishing boat bobbed on the restless water, tethered some way out in the bay.
Susan Carmichael stood on the harbour wall and surveyed the tranquil scene before her. The air was infused with the smell of the sea, a sharp chill whipping off the cold waters and snapping at her exposed cheeks. Was it her imagination or could she sense a storm in the air? Was it possible for a city woman to have such innate senses? She was undecided whether this place was beautiful or depressing, or whether these vying emotions were a product of her own troubled mind.
She had spent a restless night in the hotel. Hardly slept at all. Perhaps she was nervous, excited, she couldn’t make out which. But one thing was certain; her dream of Becky came to her stronger than ever. The dream disturbed her so much she had to get up early, leaving Paul asleep and going downstairs. The kitchen staff were preparing meals, the faraway clatter of crockery and voices adding a bright gloss of cheeriness to the hotel, which had seemed pretty sombre when they’d arrived tired and hungry the evening before.
There was hardly a soul around and no one saw her as she went outside. The Sun was up, but struggling to hoist itself over the hills of North Uist that surrounded Lochmaddy Rest. She wandered down to the beach, stood by a scarred rowing boat and wondered, not for the first time, whether she was doing the right thing or not. Paul was a reluctant companion on his wife’s very personal journey but she appreciated how he was putting himself out to satisfy her wishes. He’d even been cheerful on the journey here. Maybe it was feigned, but it made her feel better about things. As she clamped her coat collar tight the dream from the night before gnawed at her mind. The sad image of her daughter’s face against that eternal blackness. And her strange words.
‘You’re in danger,’ she said.
Her dream-self replied, ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘You’re in danger,’ she repeated.
‘Becky, I’m going to help you…’
‘He’s coming for you…’
‘Who, Becky? Tell me who is coming?’
Then she felt a freezing wash of fear engulf her, her daughter’s fear, and she woke up trembling.
This is madness, she thought as she flicked the bedcovers back and felt the cold breath of her first Hebridean morning. The same cold that rushed at her from the sea now. As if the wintry embrace of her dream haunted her still.
The homely smell of frying bacon reminded her how hungry she was. Food, once a pleasure, had now become a perfunctory means of staying alive, almost as if her taste buds had withered and died. But Paul’s appetite was strong, something she remarked upon at breakfast.
‘Maybe it’s the sea air,’ he said, tucking into a hefty meal of bacon, eggs, mushrooms – the works.
She nibbled a few scraps of meat, took the edge off a slice of bread and declared herself full. He watched sadly as she excused herself and went to their room. He ate alone, noticing there were only two other couples joining him in the dining room. The sky beyond the old windows grew darker, matching his mood. He speared a sausage on his fork as if it had annoyed him. This had to be done, he thought. Turning back would be pointless. He had to see it through if they were ever going to be happy together.
They skirted questions about whether they were on holiday, where they were going, where they’d come from with polite but bland replies and prepared to be met at the harbour by the boat from Connalough Point. They stood in mutually acceptable silence on the harbour wall by a seemingly tangled mess of orange and blue nets, lobster pots and floats, their suitcases by their sides, each lost to their own thoughts. They both saw the small blue and white boat round the headland, its prow throwing up pallid sprays of foam as it plied the rougher seas beyond the relative calm of the bay. They heard its chugging, like that of an asthmatic old man, and saw the black plumes of diesel fumes lick the air as it drew closer.
‘It’s not very big,’ Paul observed worriedly, making out the boat’s name, the Maid of the Storm. ‘And it’s old.’
‘Old is good,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Old means it’s lasted a long time so it can’t be that unsafe.’
The boat grunted its leisurely way to the harbour and a slender young man leapt out onto the harbour steps to secure it. He was possibly aged about eighteen, thought Susan, but he had the kind of ageless features that always seem to place their lucky owners as being far younger, which no doubt he would find both a bane and a boon. He glanced up at them, gave a fleeting smile and went about his business. They heard something passing between the young man and another dark form that remained hidden in the cabin. Eventually, the young man skipped up the steps towards them.
He wore a ragged jersey, jeans, a pair of Wellington boots. The jersey was too small in the arms for him, Susan noticed, and his thick, black, windblown hair was in need of a trim. But he had a handsome face in the making.
‘Mr and Mrs Carmichael?’ he asked timidly, his local accent thick and warming.
‘That’s right,’ Susan confirmed. ‘You’re from Connalough Point?’
He didn’t reply. ‘Shall I take those?’ he said, nodding at the cases and avoiding too much direct eye contact. He darted forward, grabbed the handles of the cases and went down the steps to the boat. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
He stowed away the cases at the rear and reached out to help them both down into the boat. A man came out of the cabin, wiping his hands on a rag. He wore a battered old leather cap, his red, weathered face as rugged as the shingle beach below Lochmaddy Rest. His jersey was equally ragged, more so than the young man’s, and stained from top to bottom with oil and other noxious-looking patches. It was difficult to make out how old he was, thought Susan. He could have been fifty, but his face looked ten years older. He made no attempt to greet them or shake their hands, apart from a curt nod. He told them to make themselves comfortable on uncomfortable-looking wooden seats, his voice deep, like great waves hitting the base of distant cliffs. He barked out something to the young man and went back into the cabin.
‘That’s my father Douglas Macleod,’ he explained quietly. He jumped onto the stone harbour steps and untied the rope, the boat rocking alarmingly as he crashed back on board. Paul grabbed the rail to steady himself.
‘And you are?’ he asked of the man.
‘Hector,’ he replied, handing them a lifejacket each.
‘Are we going to need these?’
Hector smiled briefly, meaning he wasn’t to argue. ‘Hector MacLeod,’ he said.’
The engine growled and blue smoke puffed out of the small chimney. The boat turned around and headed for the bay.
Paul asked, ‘How long will this take?’
‘Best part of two hours, depending. Maybe less.’ He saw how nervous the woman’s husband was, looking with uncertainty at the choppy waters lapping uncomfortably close to him. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.’ He watched them fastening the lifejackets, reached out and helped Susan with hers.
‘Is there a storm coming?’ she asked, glancing behind his hair flapping in the wind; a band of almost black cloud gathered in the far distance.
‘We’ll be at Connalough Point before it hits,’ he said. ‘It’s the time of year for storms. Something you get used to.’ Satisfied his passengers were safe and secure he went to the cabin and stood beside his father.
The sea grew rough as soon as they hit the open water beyond the sheltering embrace of the bay. The boat lurched up on rolling swells then nosed into troughs, the waves pounding against the bow, showering Susan and Paul with fine mist. Pretty soon their faces and hair were wet. Susan began to smile at the
sensations, whilst Paul remained grim, his hands clutching the rail for dear life. She remembered how he even hated going out on a canoe on the local lake. He panicked, said they might capsize and she had to reassure him that the water was only about three foot deep at the most. That didn’t help. And canoes were a no-no from then on. So many things had become a no-no, she thought.
Gulls followed in their white, scar-like wake, swooping gracefully over the green-grey water, but in time they deserted them and left them alone. Tiny, insignificant. The mighty, churning sea below them, the massive, rolling sky above. Trapped somewhere in between the raw, elemental forces of nature. Like a bug between palm and fingers, so easily crushed out of existence. Susan felt exhilaration course through her.
North Uist was left far behind, a thin scrape on the horizon, its hills and mountains hidden by the twin mists of sea and distance. Soon she couldn’t see it at all so she turned to look forward, in the direction they were headed.
‘Look!’ she called, pointing suddenly. ‘People in the water!’
The young man turned round at her call. He looked out to sea. ‘Seals,’ he explained.
The animals’ heads bobbed in the water. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘How stupid of me.’ She watched them intently. ‘I’ve never seen a seal in the wild before.’
‘Sailors used to sometimes mistake seals for people, too,’ said Paul. ‘That’s how legends of mermaids sprang up. They’d see them sunning on rocks and think they were people with tails.’ He wiped his hand across spray-smeared eyes. ‘Load of nonsense, of course,’ he said.
Hector MacLeod stood at the cabin door, his arms folded, following Susan’s rapturous gaze. ‘We have the legend of the selkie in these parts,’ he said. ‘She’s a mermaid. I’ve seen a selkie.’
Paul snorted. ‘Yeah, sure. Save it for the tourists.’
Hector frowned at the man’s abruptness but said nothing. His father turned around. ‘Hector,’ he barked, and the young man went back to his side.
‘Don’t be so sharp,’ Susan hissed at Paul.
‘Well, come on, a mermaid?’ he grunted his disdain.
‘When in Rome…’ she said.
‘I’ve been to Rome and they don’t see mermaids in Rome.’
‘Go with the flow,’ she said calmly, trying to spot the seals again but they had vanished from view.
Presently they saw a high rock sticking out of the water; it appeared to be covered in snow. As they approached they saw it was swarming with birds. The sound of their raucous calls floated out to them on the wind.
‘That’s called Gannets’ Plunge,’ explained Hector as he went to the boat’s stern. ‘That’s the nickname, anyhow.’ He said it quietly, like he was afraid his father might overhear and disapprove.
On one side, the rock had a sheer cliff, as if a giant’s knife had sliced it away; it rose perhaps two-hundred feet or more, peppered at its highest levels with gannets. The sea below the cliffs boiled as tremendous waves crashed against them, and the white forms of gannets wheeling high and then plummeting like myriad white arrows into the sea for fish took Susan’s breath away. The small boat gave the rock a wide berth, but not wide enough for Paul, who scrutinised the jagged protrusion with escalating alarm, the sight of the swift rolling waves giving the illusion they were being drawn towards it.
Paul looked at his watch. Had to wipe the Perspex face of globules of moisture. ‘Are we close to getting there yet?’ he said. ‘I feel a little green around the gills.’
Hector MacLeod raised his arm and pointed. Emerging through a dense mist they saw a range of high mountains, dark and featureless. They appeared to bob and sway on the sea with the boat’s movements.
‘Is that it?’ said Susan. ‘Is that Connalough Point?’ She looked to the young man, but his face was grave. He was studying his father’s rigid back as he stood in the cabin, fighting with the wheel to maintain course in the rough seas. ‘Is it?’ she urged.
‘That’s Connalough Point,’ he said quickly. He avoided her eyes as he passed by them and went back to the cabin.
The strip of land before them grew larger, appeared to float out towards them rather than the other way round. The peaks of the mountains were swathed in scarves of mist. Rather than details of the land becoming clearer with nearness they seemed to grow darker, more indistinct. How curious, Susan thought. The worsening weather creating the effect, obviously, she told herself.
‘It looks like we’ll land before the storm comes, just like you said,’ she called to Hector.
His head turned to the sound of her voice, but his father snapped out an order. ‘Hector, keep your mind on what’s ahead,’ he said. Douglas Macleod addressed his passengers: ‘Water’s a little choppy ahead, so hold on tight.’ He rolled his tongue around his mouth, his eyes narrowing. ‘You don’t look well,’ he said to Paul.
‘No kidding…’ He was holding his stomach. ‘Just get us to the island, will you?’ he said impatiently.
The man fingered his cap in feigned deference. He smiled for the first time. A knowing smile that almost appeared to mock. Douglas MacLeod began to hum a song to himself and went back to staring out of his cabin window.
* * * *
8
The Thud of the Axe
The Maid of the Storm rocked as gusts of wind hit it side-on. But it lurched stoically towards the wooden jetty and came to an uneasy rest beside the towering wooden piles which were dressed in wet fronds of bright-green seaweed and encrusted with limpets and barnacles. Hector MacLeod jumped onto the wooden ladder, scaled it with ease and tied up the boat. He came back down to the boat, reaching out his hand for Susan to take. She grasped it uncertainly.
‘Just hold on tight and don’t look down,’ he said. ‘I’m right behind you.’
She clambered off the boat, the wooden rungs cold beneath her clawed hands. She looked pleased with herself as she beckoned her husband follow her up.
‘I can manage,’ he said brusquely to the young man as he attempted to give him a helping hand to the ladder.
Once Paul was on the jetty, Hector handed the cases up to him.
‘They should be here to collect them soon,’ said his father from the cabin. ‘I’ll wait for you here. Don’t be long. Storm’s going to hit soon. If they don’t arrive within ten minutes just leave them to it and get your arse down here.’
Charming, thought Susan as Paul picked up her suitcase for her.
They’d moored in a small, horseshoe-shaped cove, a gently shelving shingle beach stretching out on each side of the jetty, the water crystal clear and revealing a lunar landscape of rocks and beds of waving seaweed. The wind was cooler, the waves angrier than they had been on North Uist.
‘This way,’ said Hector, and they followed him away from the coast.
Before them, some distance away but appearing far closer than they were, was a range of huge, jagged mountains. Rolling, grass-covered hills stood in front of them. Birds wheeled high above, black against the sky. The clouds raced across the heavens as if in a hurry to escape something.
They stood on a thin scar of a path, the grass stunted and wind-ruffled. The gusts were getting stronger, thought Susan. And colder, more uncomfortable. Thankfully they’d heeded the advice to bring warm clothing and she was wondering whether it was going to be warm enough when they heard the soft pounding of a horse’s hooves on the hard ground.
‘There are no cars here, of course,’ explained Hector. ‘There aren’t really any roads to speak of. There are only tracks, some of them thousands of years old.’
A horse and trap hove into view and hurried down the track towards them. Paul and Susan watched warily as the large horse thundered closer, came to a halt beside them. The driver hauled on the reins and growled out a command. Susan was struck by the driver’s similarity to the captain of the Maid of the Storm.
‘Afternoon, Hector,’ said the driver.
‘Uncle Alex,’ he replied.
The driver wore a long, dirty, waxed coat in
brown, the colour of dead bracken, the collar turned up. A black woollen hat was pulled down to his eyebrows, which emphasised his scowl. ‘Better hop on board,’ he said, and at last his face broke out in a smile that altered his features markedly, ‘unless you want to get caught out in the rain. You only just got them here in time, I reckon,’ he said to Hector.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ the young man said.
‘Bye, Hector,’ said Susan.
He hesitated, glanced up at his uncle.
‘Hurry on now, Hector,’ he said. ‘Your father will be waiting.’ The youth almost ran back down to the jetty. ‘Well now,’ said the driver, ‘will you need a hand with those suitcases or can you manage to stow them up here by yourself?’ he asked Paul.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, demonstrating so by lifting each in turn.
The driver reached down and held out his hand for Susan to take. He helped her up the step and onto the seat. The trap rocked on its springs and the horse had to be steadied again with a sharp word. Paul climbed aboard.
‘Susan and Paul Carmichael,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. The horse set off with a sharp lurch. ‘I’m Alexander MacLeod,’ he said presently. ‘You can call me Alex.’
Susan was surprised at how flat a lot of the countryside was. The track cut across large expanses of grassland and heather-strewn moor, the wind causing the illusion of silvery-topped waves rolling across the land. Hills rose all around them, and the ever-present mountains loomed large in oppressive grandeur. The sweet perfume of heather and grass, of wet earth and soaked bracken rose in an invisible, intoxicating cloud. Combined with the fresh wind buffeting her, Susan felt she was being bathed in a luxuriously scented natural tub and on the way to becoming washed clean of the city.
‘This is so beautiful,’ she said, looking about her.
Paul remained silent. He hadn’t recovered from the boat trip, and the crashing of the trap’s wheels against rocks and into ruts wasn’t helping his feelings of nausea any. Their driver didn’t respond either. Presently the track snaked into a flat valley, on the one side bare, craggy hills, on the other the slopes cloaked in a thick forest of firs. Sitting incongruously on the banks of a stream that ran its rocky, sinuous way through the valley was a considerable, fine-looking farmhouse built of the local grey stone, so dark in places it looked almost black. Or at least it appeared to be a farmhouse, but Susan noticed there were no outbuildings, no farmyard, nor any of the attendant paraphernalia she’d associate with a farm.
THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller) Page 6