The trap pulled up out front and the driver clambered down, his hand raised with an offer of perfunctory help.
The door to the house was plain oak, almost square in proportion, set into a flat wall. Many square windows studded the building’s side. Green moss and yellow lichen spotted the massive stone blocks used in its construction as if someone had been careless with paint. There were empty stone flower urns on either side of the door, a stone trough filled with water pushed tight against the wall. A black iron wall light hung above the door and from its twisted angle and rusted appearance looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. The yard was equally bare, laid with gravel, the same pebbles as that on the beach. The yard ended in scrubland, which extended all the way across the valley to the forest beyond. The thing she noticed more than anything was the quiet. Other than the wind causing the faraway trees to hiss like the faint sound of escaping steam there were no other noises of note. Like a blanket had been pulled over the earth.
The door opened and a woman came out.
‘Mr and Mrs Carmichael!’ she chimed, coming towards them.
She was in her late-fifties, Susan surmised. Average build, no makeup, her hair – once dark but suffused with many threads of grey – had been scraped tightly back and tied into a bun. Her brown dress was equally formless and functional; long, coarse material that came down well below her knees. She wore a pair of outdoor trainers, the type beloved by hikers. When she reached out and shook Susan’s hand the skin of her fingers felt faintly pitted and rough.
‘Mrs Blake?’ said Susan.
‘Call me Helen, please!’ she said brightly. She shook Paul’s hand. ‘What a handsome man!’ she said. He glanced at Susan uneasily. ‘Alex, bring their bags,’ she ordered, and he did as he was bid. ‘Can I call you Susan and Paul? We don’t use surnames here. That would be too formal and it’s not what we’re about.’
‘Of course,’ said Paul.
‘Rain,’ she said, looking beyond them at the sky. ‘There are two things you need to get used to out here; the wind and the rain. Individually they can be quite troublesome, but combined… It’s like having unruly twins crashing about the place. Please, let’s not stand on ceremony; step inside, out of the cold.’
The entrance hall was small, the wallpaper oppressively dark and peeling in places. A crude wooden coat and umbrella stand stood by the door, filled with coats and various kinds of muddied boots. A flat, square board had been fixed to the wall, a variety of keys, each with a cardboard luggage label attached, hung on ranks of metal hooks. The floor was covered by a threadbare rug and red earthenware tiles in need of a clean. A faded print of a heather-strewn landscape was the only nod to decoration. Beside the print were two Victorian wall sconces, a half-used candle in each. Susan smiled to herself; it was just the sort of setting they had pictured in magazines like Country Living, fashionably shabby chic.
‘I’ll make you a drink of tea,’ said Alex, dumping the cases in the hall by the coat stand.
‘You’re an angel,’ said Helen Blake. ‘We’ll be in the parlour.’
She took her visitors’ coats and hung them up, led them down the hall to a squat, roughly-painted door that opened onto a small but comfortable room in which a fire blazed in a stone fireplace. There was a painted portrait of a man over it, and on one side of the picture hung two shotguns, a small pair of stag’s antlers at the other. Beside the fireplace stood the man in the portrait, his hands behind his back. Silas Blake smiled warmly on seeing Susan.
Helen followed Susan’s gaze. ‘My husband Silas,’ she explained quickly.
Silas nodded. ‘Good afternoon. I’m glad you could come. I shall speak with you later.’
And with that curiously fleeting greeting he strode by them and left the room without another word. Susan noticed Helen didn’t look at him, but Silas Blake grinned at Susan and threw her a discreet wink as he ambled away.
‘Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,’ Helen insisted, and they settled into an eclectic selection of padded chairs by the fire.
The room was cosy, thought Susan. Homely. Its fixtures and fittings resonant of a simpler, bygone age. A cheap oak sideboard from the 1930s, brass fire irons, wooden coal scuttle, chipped deco flower vases, a pottery ornament of an indeterminate breed of dog, wooden dining table with a green cloth draped over it, at its centre a fruit bowl with two rather crinkly apples in it. Beyond the small-paned window she could make out the forest of firs in the distance. A cobweb in one corner of the window trembled in a draught. It vaguely reminded her of her grandmother’s house, before they sold it and she moved into a nursing home. It made her feel completely at ease, untroubled, warm.
‘No doubt you’ll be tired and hungry and wanting to settle in,’ said Helen. ‘But before we show you to your cottage I’d like to explain a few things. Practical things first. I’m afraid we’re going to have to search your luggage and ask you to empty your pockets.’
Paul laughed. ‘Do we have to pass through customs here, too? No one told me otherwise I’d have brought along my passport.’
Helen Blake smiled. ‘I know it sounds rather drastic, but we have to abide by the rules. We have to assure ourselves that you didn’t bring any form of communication device with you. Electronic tablets, phones, you know…’
‘Yes, I think it is a bit drastic,’ said Paul shortly. He took a glance from his wife. ‘But we complied, as you asked.’
‘Go ahead, look through our things,’ said Susan. ‘We were warned, and it’s part of the experience.’
‘That’s great to hear,’ said Helen. ‘And you mention the word experience. That’s rather apt, because what we hope you will take away from this is an experience; a life changing experience, for the time you are here this island should be regarded as being in another world, separate from that you left behind. Only then can you truly get the full benefit from your stay with us. And that means you cannot bring anything into it that will transport you back, in your minds, to your ordinary lives. We reduce life to its most simplistic. Take you back, as far as we can, to a primitive state we have long lost as a civilisation; a state where you are more at ease with your surroundings, with nature, able to harness its forces, its power.’ She held up her hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sounding like one of those New Age fanatics and I can assure you I most certainly am not one of those.’
‘Happy to hear it,’ said Paul.
She regarded him. ‘For you, Paul, all this is difficult, I can understand that. I can also sense that your mind is greatly troubled, and you wear it like a shirt for all to see.’ He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘But that is why we give you plenty of time to adjust to your surroundings, let your mind become accustomed to new ways of thinking, to accept what we offer; to accept Connalough Point.’
‘How long has this been in existence?’ asked Susan. ‘The project, as you call it.’
‘I prefer charity to project,’ she returned. ‘Project makes us sound so Roswell!’ she laughed. ‘The charity is only four years old, but my husband and I first visited Connalough Point on a sort of holiday in the early 1980s, after the death of our son…’ Her face clouded briefly. ‘The island had a few people living on it then, a small number of families trying to eke out a living as crofters. But eventually cold economics forced them out and onto the mainland. The island used to have a strong, thriving community at one time, but the defeat of the Jacobites in 1746 at Culloden was the catalyst for the Highland clearances, and people were gradually evicted from their homes and replaced with sheep. By the mid-1800s Scotland – and these islands – had been cleansed of most people and with them a way of life stretching back hundreds of years. All that’s left here on Connalough Point are the stone remains of its ancient settlements and a few crofters’ cottages, a number of which we renovated to use for our work.
‘The island is a special place, you will discover this over time. Just as people have built baths and spas over sources of naturally restorative spring water, we
founded our little charity here because of the island’s unique properties. Of course, this is too early to go into such things, but all will be revealed over time. You will not be alone on the island; there is one other couple – Mr and Mrs Donovan. They are here for similar reasons. You will meet them tonight when we eat. A nice couple.’
Just then Alex MacLeod came into the room bearing a tray. He set it down on a table, the cups and saucers – bearing an assortment of patterns from different sets and different eras – rattled in his clumsy hands. ‘Don’t blame me if it’s too strong or too weak,’ he said. ‘I never drink the vile stuff.’
‘Forgive Alex,’ said Helen, ‘he’s like an old dog that has a toothless bark.’ She smiled at him and he curled his nose at her. ‘And I’ve only ever seen him drink whiskey,’ she added. ‘I’ll bet his liver’s as pickled as a herring.’
‘I’ve work to do,’ he said gruffly.
‘He’s also never still,’ she explained. ‘Hates being cooped up, even for a little while. Prefers the freedom of the hills, don’t you, Alex?’
‘We’re nearly out of sugar,’ he said, pointing to the sugar bowl.
‘Ah,’ said Helen. She turned to the couple. ‘We bring provisions over from the mainland once a month, and only then if the weather permits. We are due to stock up before winter sets in, and some things are running low. You should have gotten your brother Douglas to bring some along with him when he went over to North Uist to collect Susan and Paul here,’ she said to Alex.
‘You never mentioned it. Can’t do it if you don’t mention it,’ he said, leaving the room.
‘On the subject of food,’ she continued, ‘we take communal meals here in the main house. Breakfast at 8am, lunch around midday, and the evening meal at 7pm or thereabouts. The fare is simple, but ample and nutritious. A restaurant it is not; we expect everyone to help with the washing up of pots.’ She poured tea. ‘God, that looks awful,’ she said as the liquid dribbled into the cups. ‘All this time and he still can’t manage to make a decent cup of tea.’
As Susan accepted the cup and saucer from Helen she looked at the painting of Silas Blake over the fireplace. She couldn’t be certain, but did his eyes display some kind of foreboding in them? She wanted to mention him, but was aware of Silas’ strict instructions not to talk of him, or to let her know in the slightest that he’d met her previously.
She happened to glance out of the window. Alex Macleod was swinging a hefty axe and splitting wood for the fire. The thud of the axe against the wooden block disturbed her, and she didn’t know why.
* * * *
9
The Soul Fixer
When they’d finished their tea, Helen Blake asked if they wouldn’t mind opening their suitcases and emptying their pockets. Satisfied that everything met her demands, she apologised again for this intrusion into their private things and asked Alex Macleod to leave off chopping wood and take the couple to their cottage.
He laid the axe against the chopping block with some reluctance, picked up the suitcases and asked them to follow him.
‘Perhaps you need more help,’ said Susan by means of conversation. ‘Helen told us you had to do most of the work on the island. That must be quite some task.’
‘I’m the only one here, that’s true,’ he said as they trudged away from the house and along the path. They headed out into open country, the first fine spots of rain starting to fall.
‘You have your brother, too. And nephew.’
‘They have work of their own to do,’ he said.
They passed a long stone wall that had collapsed, and in the fields more piles of rocks were visible amid the waving grasses.
‘Are those the remains of the old crofters’ cottages Helen spoke about?’ asked Paul.
‘That they are,’ said Alex.
Susan took her husband’s hand. It was cold and wet from the rain. ‘That’s so sad,’ she said.
‘What, a pile of old rocks?’
‘A life that used to be and now it isn’t. It’s all gone.’
‘Nothing lasts,’ he said flatly.
She squeezed his fingers tighter. ‘Some things do,’ she said. ‘Love lasts.’
‘That’s a load of romantic bollocks,’ he replied.
‘Can’t you feel it?’ she said.
‘Feel what?’
‘That there’s something there, among the rocks? An indefinable timeless something.’
He gave a laugh that came out as a snort. ‘It didn’t take you long to become assimilated.’ He looked over to where the dark mounds of rocks broke the surface of rippling grass stems. They had the appearance of graves, he thought. ‘They’re rocks, that’s all. Nothing more.’
The cottage was smaller than they’d imagined. It had a low, grey slate roof that sagged in the middle like the back of an overworked donkey, one tiny window beside a rickety-looking wooden door made of weathered planks. Alex pushed the door open and dumped the cases inside. Susan and Paul followed. They noticed that the whitewashed walls were nearly three-feet-thick in parts. A small fireplace burned logs, the warmth hitting them straight away by comparison with the chill outside. In one corner was an ancient-looking kitchen sink, in another a pine table with three chairs under it. The stone floor was bare save for a square rug in its centre. Oil lamps stood on a set of drawers and a rusted paraffin heater sat despondent against a wall.
‘The bedroom’s through there,’ said Alex, pointing to another wooden door. ‘Spartan but comfortable. You’ll be surprised how these old places keep the cold winds out, but you’ll probably need to light that heater if it gets any colder. The toilet’s out back. There’s a guzzunda over there.’
‘What’s a guzzunda?’ asked Paul.
‘Potty – you know, in case you get caught during the night and you don’t want to go outside. A guzzunda – it guzzunda the bed,’ he explained, smiling.
‘Great,’ said Paul. ‘Every luxury. Home from home.’
‘It’s sweet,’ said Susan, touching the plant pot on the windowsill, the sick-looking plant inside it in need of a little tender care.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Alex. ‘Dinner is at 7pm.’
Paul sat on one of the chairs by the table. Its loose joints squeaked in alarm. ‘I’ll wear a tie,’ he said as Alex closed the door behind him.
‘Don’t be so miserable,’ said Susan, opening the bedroom door and scanning the cramped space. A brass double bed took up most of the room, but the walls were wallpapered in a bright blue colour, and the window threw in a splash of evening light. A couple of paintings of birds adorned one wall. A pine wardrobe against another. ‘I like it here.’
‘We’ll take it!’ he said. ‘Just the place, honey! No utilities, no amenities, no roads, no people, no nothing. It’s got everything going for it.’
‘I know this is difficult for you, Paul…’
‘Difficult? Trying to contact our dead daughter? Nah, piece of piss, darling.’ His face fell serious. He closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, forgive me. I said I’d do this for you. But it isn’t easy for me.’
She went over to him. Touched his hair. ‘I know.’ He pulled his head away. ‘Is something else bothering you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not just this, is it? I feel there’s something more you’re not telling me.’
He smiled, but it was a forced affair and both of them knew it. ‘Nothing is bothering me. The sooner we get this thing done with the better,’ he said, rising from the seat.
‘Maybe you’ll find peace, too,’ she said. ‘I know how Becky’s death affected you.’
‘Do you?’ he said, turning round to face her, his face swathed in anger for a second. ‘Do you really? You’ll never know how it affected me.’ Then the anger subsided. ‘You’re right; I need to lighten up. Let’s treat this as a break, huh? No matter what happens here, this place is a real hideaway. Beautiful countryside, miles from anywhere. Let’s just enjoy it.’
‘I agree,�
�� she said. She opened cupboards under the sink. ‘Won’t be using any of this stuff in a hurry,’ she said turning her nose up at the rusted pans. ‘Thankfully, all meals are included.’
‘Yeah. All inclusive,’ he said quietly. ‘Where’s the catch?’
‘Like Sylvester Copeland said, there isn’t one.’
‘There’s always a catch,’ he said, ‘and his real name probably wasn’t Sylvester Copeland, remember?’
‘Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the flow.’
‘What if the flow takes you over the edge of a waterfall?’
She laughed. ‘That’s why I fell in love with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you worried about everything, and I figured you’d worry about me and worry about us and the worry would make you take care of me, forever and ever, amen.’
‘You really are weird,’ he said. ‘That’s why I fell in love with you. You weren’t built like other women. You were something special.’
‘Were?’
The rain dashed itself against the window. ‘Here it comes,’ said Paul, ignoring her comment. ‘We’re going to get soaked going over to the house for dinner tonight.’
‘We packed umbrellas.’
‘The Hippy Police might have confiscated them,’ he said. ‘They might be considered weapons of mass destruction, or something.’
‘Don’t bait them…’ she said.
‘What?’
THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller) Page 7