by Neal Bircher
Gail stared out across the loch, and her eyes glazed over in that way that eyes tend to when staring across water, as her mind drifted. She thought, as she had several times of late, of how her life had brought her to where she was now. Barry’s death was the terrible trigger that had jolted both herself and Nick out of the acceptance of their make-do-with-second-best existences, and into what was for her, and, she hoped, for Nick too, something so much better. Her eyes moistened as she mentally kicked herself once more for not making it happen sooner, without the need for that trigger. But at least it had happened now: She was no longer having to daydream of a life with Nick, and then tear herself apart with frustration that it wasn’t happening … at least, for the time being, she wasn’t. And whatever the future was to hold, nothing could take away the time that she was having with Nick. So at worst her future daydreams would be recollections of something real, rather than painful imaginings of something that was only fantasy. She had other more practical things to think about too, things that had been troubling her: Alan, for example. She had been in the habit of switching on the mobile phone each day, briefly, to at least check for any voicemails from Catherine. To her horror, two days before, there had been a message from Alan. “We know where you are, you dirty slut!” was the extent of the message, spat with drunken venom. How he had got hold of the phone number Gail didn’t know, but she was relieved when the message was followed by another one, from Catherine – upbeat, and clearly unharmed and unaware of Alan’s intrusion.
Nick looked over at Gail. She had several layers on to keep the cold at bay, but she still looked incredibly sexy. He put his arms around her and then kissed her on the top of her head, and she turned and kissed him on the lips. Her lips were cold, and her still-colder nose brushed his cheek. Nick kissed her in return, and then gazed, as he did so many times each day, into those deep dark mysterious eyes. Gail kissed him one more time and then tugged at his arm and gestured in the direction of a footpath that led around the loch.
They embarked upon an extended leisurely walk, and in the event of it only just got back to the Black Horse in time for their evening meal, which was served in a dark wood-panelled dining room adjacent to the bar. The walk had meant that they had both worked up a good appetite, which the Black Horse’s Irish stew did a good job of satisfying.
They accompanied it with a beer (in Nick’s case), and a shared bottle of red wine, and they followed the main course with treacle pudding for Nick, and fruit salad for Gail. Nick rounded off with a large Baileys, and so by the end of dinner they were both getting pleasantly drunk, and inevitably chose to go upstairs and make their bed earn its living.
When they returned to the bar at nine o’clock there were about fifteen customers in there. Nick recognised two couples who had been eating in the dining room earlier; both were sitting at tables and not looking entirely comfortable. The other customers looked to be regulars, sitting or standing around in groups of two or three, all in jocular conversation. Gail and Nick grabbed two of the available four stools at the bar. They had both sobered somewhat since finishing dinner, and Nick was keen in this environment to re-gain momentum. The barman was in his early fifties and he sported a moustache and curly mop of hair in the style of a Harry Enfield scouser. He spoke however with a Northern Irish accent, and was quick and efficient at dispatching the drinks, which Nick charged to their room. First up was a round of double Baileys, followed quite quickly by a couple of lagers. Gail didn’t finish either of those drinks, but Nick was happy to help her out. The bar bill totted up as it so often did. Gail and Nick were still enjoying the lifestyle while they could. They didn’t talk much about money, but the funds were running short, which was a cause of anxiety to both, albeit it would in a way be some kind of triumph if it was lack of money, rather than anything more dramatic, that brought their freedom to an end.
They remained on their bar stools all night, and spent much of the time in conversation with “Billy”, the barman. Billy, it seemed, was the co-owner of the Black Horse, along with his wife, Mary, who it was that had booked them in during the afternoon. Billy had apparently spent much of his working life in London – North London, so not too far from Gail and Nick’s neck of the woods, where he had met Mary. They didn’t have any kids, and they had “retired” to the Black Horse six or seven years before. He didn’t say what his day job had been, but he had apparently been a semi-professional footballer, and had played for quite a few non-league clubs, and often played against, but not for, Norling FC. Much of the conversation was therefore about football, as the evening slipped by and the drinks slipped down. During the course of Gail and Nick’s Scottish adventure Nick’s previous conservatism when it came to the consumption of alcoholic beverages was rapidly being consigned to his past life. Spirits of all kinds were making up an ever increasing part of his liquid diet alongside the previous standards of lager, Guinness, the occasional real ale, and a glass of wine or two. And this night, by the time the two of them retired to bed, leaving just Billy and two of the locals in the bar, they – or certainly Nick – had consumed a quantity and variety of booze to rival any other day on their travels.
Frosty
SUBJECT: Q 15-08-2011 10:34:59
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
You are quiet. Don’t want to speak to me? X
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Re: Q 15-08-2011 10:46:23
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Sorry, been in mtgs. Got another one at 11! X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Meetings 15-08-2011 10:47:59
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Sorry, I’d better leave you alone if you are so busy. X#
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: GA 15-08-2011 14:06:18
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Good afternoon! Long lunch? X
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Lunch 15-08-2011 14:09:22
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
No, quick lunch after long mtgs. Just got back. X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Re: Lunch 15-08-2011 14:10:56
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Anyone nice? X
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Nice 15-08-2011 14:13:26
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Pete and Stuart. X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Re: Nice 15-08-2011 14:32:58
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Shame you are too busy nowadays to take me to lunch anymore. X#
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Q 15-08-2011 15:36:07
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Sorry, hope I haven’t upset you. XXX#
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Back 15-08-2011 16:09:11
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
- again. Got called into an ad-hoc. X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Re: Lunch 15-08-2011 16:24:43
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Well it’ll be home time soon, and I expect you will be busy in the meantime, so will say goodbye for now. X
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Bye
15-08-2011 16:26:00
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
- for now then. Speaktyou tomorrow. X#
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
Water under the Bridge
Nick woke up on his and Gail’s first morning in Brayburn with a hangover as bad as any that he could remember. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine thirty. Gail was in the shower; she was generally much better than him at getting up in time for breakfast. He pulled the covers up over his head, curled up and tried to go back to sleep. But Gail soon dragged him out, and an hour later the two of them had managed to consume a limited quantity of fried breakfast, and had agreed that a bracing walk around the loch including packed lunch would be an appropriate activity for the day. They would need to stock up on some supplies, and given the limitations of the village shop that meant travelling further afield. Mary was consulted and she recommended Dunloch, five miles way, and accessible via a half-hourly bus that stopped outside the pub. As neither felt in a fit state to drive, they did take that bus. Dunloch was also small, but a lot larger than Brayburn, sporting a scattering of shops and even its own railway station. Gail and Nick went together to the supermarket, and then separated for Nick to stock up at the off-license, and Gail at the pharmacist.
By the time they had got back to Brayburn and begun their walk, clockwise around the loch, it was already after one o’clock. Nick had estimated that it would take about three hours to circumnavigate the loch, which would get them back before dark, and in plenty of time to relax in their room and get ready for their evening meal. However, he was wrong, and when the three hour mark came the two of them were in agreement that they appeared to be little more than half-way around the vaguely oval-shaped expanse of water. A narrow fjord-like arm, extending from the far end of the loch had contributed to Nick’s miscalculation, and a footpath of ever deteriorating quality through rocky wooded terrain further slowed their progress. Limbs were aching and blisters were forming, and by the time darkness began to fall they were still some way from Brayburn, and indeed some way from any kind of civilisation at all. Anxiety began to set in, and when Gail stumbled one more time, twisting her ankle in the process, Nick was apparently to blame. Gail reminded him tearfully that it was his “stupid idea” to walk around the lake. Nick overcame his sympathy for the sore ankle to tell Gail that she seemed perfectly happy with the decision at the time, and that she should have been grown up enough to say so if she wasn’t. They stumbled on in silence gathering thorns and bruises in the process, each becoming ever more cold and miserable. There was relief when the lights of Brayburn did eventually loom into view, both of them pleased to get back relatively unharmed, although by their standards Gail and Nick were not the best of friends.
It was almost seven o’clock as the cold, tired, hungry, and relieved pair walked into the inn. They made straight to the dining room for their six-thirty sitting, and took their seats at the same table as the day before. They were served by the same girl who had served them then, and she didn’t make any objection to their late arrival. It had been a while since the two of them had had anything that could reasonably be described as a conversation, and that situation was to continue throughout the meal. “Let’s celebrate our survival,” suggested Nick, and he asked the waitress for a bottle of sparkling wine: Cava, Champagne for those on the run and running out of money. Gail didn’t respond. The food came quickly and was again homemade and delicious. Roast pork followed by apple crumble on a cold December night, in the vicinity of a roaring log fire would have made anybody feel at home, and in time both Nick and Gail did begin to thaw out. Once the Cava was finished they consumed a pint of real ale and (unusually) a glass sparkling water respectively before going back to their room for a quick change of clothes and a shower, and then returning to the bar.
They were surprised to find it heaving with people. Most of the tables were occupied, and any spaces of slate floor were being utilised as mini dance floors by people of all shapes, ages, and sizes, flailing around to music provided by a DJ with a very 1970s haircut who himself danced away in one corner behind his very 1970s record decks. Of the nine stools at the bar, six were already occupied. Gail and Nick grabbed two of the remaining three and ordered their drinks: a small red wine for her, and a beer plus whisky chaser for him. The DJ did some kind of hippy-type dance whilst playing a folk song. It was going down well with the locals, most of whom were dancing too. To Nick it brought to mind the pub scene fromThe Wicker Man. He wondered where all the people had come from. It seemed as if the whole village must be out, and quite a few more besides. Billy was leaning on the bar surveying the scene, and Nick asked him what was the occasion. Billy replied a little curtly that the occasion was Wednesday night.
Nick rather enjoyed theWicker Man analogy, and quickly got into the spirit. He ordered himself a large Baileys, and looked questioningly at Gail. She first nodded, and then changed her mind.
“Make that two, please.” Nick would help Gail polish hers off if she didn’t want it.
“You want to put them to your room too?”
Billy wasn’t sounding very friendly, and was in any case busy keeping up with his serving duties. Nick suggested to Gail that they re-locate to a table. She nodded in agreement without making any comment.
The next couple of hours drifted by still with limited verbal communication between Gail and Nick, and with almost all of what there was coming from Nick. But then Nick made an observation:
“Do you realise that in a few days it’ll be two years since our first shag?”
Gail looked up, interested, but with a questioning frown. “Is it?”
“Yep: Christine Heath’s party – December 4th.”
Gail nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. She also had tears forming in her eyes.
Nick was either too drunk to be able to pick up on the signs, or too drunk to bother. He went on. “Yep, Meadow Park … fucking freezing wasn’t it?” He paused to observe a middle-aged couple pogoing toThe Irish Rover, before going on, unadvisedly, “Two years, eh? Been a lot of water under the bridge since then … if you’ll pardon the expression.” Gail wasn’t looking at him. He went on, “Who’d have thought it, eh – all that we’ve been through since then? Still, it’s all worked out for the best in the end, hasn’t it?”
Gail jumped to her feet, jolting the table, and causing her wine glass to fall over; luckily it was near empty anyway. She turned to go, but Nick grabbed her arm.
“Get off me, Nick; leave me alone! I want to be on my own.” And then she shouted tearfully, “Getoff me!”
Nick let go of Gail’s arm and watched her run off in the direction of the rooms. He looked around sheepishly, but the music was loud and the crowd drunk and boisterous. It seemed as if nobody had noticed anything. He sat back and took a swig of his pint (a local bitter). In two years he’d seen plenty of Gail getting emotional, especially after drink, even if it hadn’t really happened before on the “adventure”, and he knew how best to handle it. Chasing after her wasn’t the thing to do; she was best left on her own for a while, and then reasoned with a little later. He downed the remainder of his pint, and then bought another. He drank that one quickly – in maybe ten minutes – and decided that that was enough. He staggered back to the room, let himself in quietly, and then found his way to the bed in the dark, so as not to disturb Gail. He took off his clothes, climbed into his side of the bed, and turned to put his arm around her. But he found just a cold bed: Gail wasn’t there.
Nick jumped up and switched on his bedside light. The room was spinning, and it wouldn’t take much for him to throw up. He called out weakly, “Gail!” But there was no reply. He went to get out of the bed, but then saw a piece of notepaper on Gail’s side. There were some words scrawled on it in block capitals: “SORRY – IT’S OVER”.
A car was revving up in the car park. Nick stumbled to the window and threw open the curtain, just in
time to see his Celica wheel-spin across the gravel and lurch out onto Brayburn’s only road. He pulled his jeans back on and ran down the stairs and out into the freezing misty Scottish night, but he was way too late. “Bollocks!” He trudged back up the wooden stairs, and then sat on his bed. He considered his options for a few minutes, before correctly concluding that he had only one. He got back into bed, turned off the light, lay on his back, and fought against his imagination that kept throwing up in nightmare images, until in time the combination of tiredness and alcohol overcame the panic to send him to an uneasy sleep.
Alone