A Rip in the Veil (2 page)

“Gone? She isn’t gone,” John bristled.

“Of course she is! As gone as that accursed mother of hers.
Ay Dios mío
!” He moaned and hunched together, hands pressed to the sides of his head.

“Mercedes? You know Mercedes?”

“No, I never had the pleasure. She sort of disappeared before I had the opportunity of meeting her. Oh, Jesus, will you look at that?” Sanderson pointed at the dark, roiling skies. John looked from the clouds back to Sanderson.

“Scared of thunder?” John couldn’t help it; he jeered.

“Yes, yes! It scares the shit out of me. Now can we please, please leave?”

John frowned down at where Sanderson was standing. Something was happening to the road, it undulated round Sanderson’s feet. He blinked a couple of times.

“I have to find her,” he said, relieved to see the road looked normal again. The first clap of thunder rolled across the valley and Sanderson jumped.

“We can come back later, but now let’s please go, okay?” There was a frantic edge to his voice, and John took pity on him.

He only got halfway down the hill before the storm broke. No rain, just thunder and lightning that stood a stark white against the backdrop of clouds. Sanderson swore, kicked at something John couldn’t see. With a tearing sound the road cracked open, bright light streaming upwards. Sanderson screamed when he was yanked into the chasm. He clung to the edge, hollering for help. John ran as fast as he could, but before he could reach him, Sanderson was sucked down, still screaming. With a clap the hole snapped shut, the reverberations throwing John off his feet.

For the coming minutes he hung on, incapable of moving when the ground pitched, stones and boulders rolling and bouncing around him. Once the rain began to fall, the air quieted and John sat up. His car stood where he’d left it, the BMW was still halfway up the hill, and the crossroads was just as it had always been, the asphalt dark with rain. The hillside stood pungent and peaceful around him, but of Alex, and of Sanderson, there was no trace. No trace at all.

Chapter 2

Matthew Graham stumbled to his feet. Sweetest Lord! The repeated thunderclaps had thrown him to the ground, near on knocked him senseless. Still; everything seemed to be in working order, even though he tasted blood in his mouth.

He turned his face up to the rain, relieved that the uncommon heat of the last few days had broken. The air still smelled of dust and too much sun, but now there was the fresh scent of water as well, of damp earth and wet bracken. He rubbed at his wrists, running fingers over the visible scars that ringed both of them. Home, he was home, and weeks of looking over his shoulder as he made his way north, were over. Here he was safe, able to melt into the moors and fells of Scotland so as to make him difficult to catch. It almost made him smile. Almost.

He looked about for his few belongings, settled his roll on his shoulder and stood for a while, taking his bearings. Further up the hillside he made out a darker splotch against the drenched slopes. A cave, no doubt small and damp, but far better than spending a night on the drenched ground.

He came to a stop at the sound of birds. Large and black, they flapped and cawed, bickering over something that was lying further down the slope. A dead sheep? One bird landed on the ground, there was a piercing shriek – most definitely human – and Matthew lengthened his stride, yelling at the corbies to be gone.

A woman; on her front, with one arm trapped below her, the other extended by her side. He crouched, not quite sure what to do. She was in a bad way, one foot scorched around the ankle and down to her toes, and on her forehead there was an ugly contusion, blood trickling sluggishly from it.

From the way her breath hitched, each inhalation interrupted by a protesting whimper, he suspected she must have landed on her ribs. He looked down at the road, measured the distance with his eyes. Had she been thrown this far by the thunderstorm? He couldn’t think of any other reason for a lass to be lying here in the heather, all alone.

The thought brought him up short, and he spent a couple of tense moments inspecting what he could see of the hillside for her possible companions. Nothing. He chewed his lip. A woman travelling on her own was most unusual, and here, on the empty moor with miles and miles to the closest farm, it was not only unusual, it was puzzling – as was her whole appearance. His eyes flew up and down her legs; what was she wearing? The woman uttered a low, guttural sound. Her head rose a half-inch or so from the ground, the eyes opened. Bright blue eyes attempted to focus before closing again.

“Can you stand, then?” He shook her shoulder. Her eyes snapped open, a wrinkle appearing between her brows. The woman lifted her head and stared at him, a sob escaping her when she drew in a deep breath.

“Oh, shit!” she said.

Matthew retreated, eyes fixed on her.

She blinked. “At least it isn’t orange,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of his shirt.

Orange? He tilted his head.

“You know,” she went on, giving him a faint smile. “Like those Hare Krishna people.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but nodded all the same. Her eyes lingered on his breeches, his bare shins and feet, they stuck on his belongings, returned to his breeches and flew up his shirt.

“Who are you?”

He had no intention of telling her that, at least not yet, so instead he mumbled something unintelligible. Despite an odd accent, the woman spoke good enough English, not Scots, but what did she mean with her comment regarding his shirt? And why was she gaping at him as if she’d never seen a normally dressed man before? To be fair, he did look somewhat worse for wear. The shirt was old, and the breeches were the ones he’d stolen from the drover a few weeks back, but at least both garments were whole and reasonably clean. The woman sat up too fast, groaned and clutched at her ribs. She vomited, standing on all fours.

“Jesus,” she said, making him frown at her careless use of our Lord’s name. “What’s happened to me?”

“It looks as if you were struck by lightning.”

She stared down at the burnt foot, turned her head to the side and retched.

“My shoes,” she said, “where are my shoes?”

“Not here.”

She struggled to sit up. “I think I remember, so much noise, so much light, and then I was flat on my face.”

He nodded and helped her to stand, one arm round her waist to keep her upright. She leaned against him and was sick all over their feet.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered afterwards. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Not to worry, but we have to get out of this rain. You’re cold, and need to lie down. Up there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the cave.

“Maybe we should call for help.” She slid her hand into a slit in her strange breeches.

“Here?” He almost laughed. Who would hear them? And besides, he had no intention of doing anything to attract attention. He studied the bright red object she’d pulled out.

“It’s brand new,” she said, catching his look.

“Ah,” he nodded, eyes stuck on the shiny metal casing. A wee enamelled box, but what might be the purpose of it? She glanced down at the object and made a face.

“Stuff never works when you really need it, does it?” She shoved it back out of sight.

With his help, she limped her way up the hillside, and by the time they’d reached the cave she was trembling with effort. He lowered her to sit, and she mumbled her thanks.

“Were you on the road as well?”

“Aye.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. No shift, no covering skirts, only those strange elongated breeches, hugging tight around well-shaped thighs and a round, strong arse. Christ in His glory! He hadn’t been this close to a woman in several years, and his blood raced through him, making him ill at ease and elated at the same time. Where was she from, to dress in such an immodest fashion? He’d belt any woman of his before allowing her to so expose herself.

“What?” she demanded. “Do I look strange? Am I green all over?”

He muffled a laugh. “You look very strange, but nay, you’re not green”

“Well, thank heavens for that, I would have hated being turned into a frog or something.”

“A frog?” He shook his head. “You don’t look like any frog I’ve seen.”

A smile flickered over her face, held for a heartbeat or two before becoming a grimace. She raised a hand to her forehead.

“My head; it’s killing me.” She closed her eyes.

*

Alex rested back against the cave wall and concentrated on breathing without hurting herself. She studied him from under her lashes, irritated to find he’d gone back to gawking at her. What was the matter with him? Had he never seen a woman in jeans before? She looked closely at him. Tall, broad in shoulders and chest, but thin and with an underlying pallor to his skin – as if he’d been ill, just recently allowed out of bed. His hair was cut unbecomingly short except at the back where some longer strands still hung on, his cheeks were covered by a dark, unkempt bristle, like the one Magnus, her father, would sport at the end of his summer holidays – so far nothing alarming. His shirt though…worn linen that laced up the front, mended cuffs – all of it hand stitched.

Maybe his girlfriend had made it for him, or maybe New Age people believed in doing everything from scratch, in which case they needed a serious fashion update. She moved, scraped her foot against the rocky ground, and winced.

“Is it alright if I touch you?” he said. “It might ease somewhat if I wash the blood off.”

“Sure, go ahead, touch all you want.” Well, within limits of course.

He looked at her with a hesitant expression. “All I want?”

She made a huge effort to look him straight in the eyes, despite the fact that she could see two – no, three – of him.

“Help me, I’m not feeling too good.” She turned her head to the side and retched, but this time it was just slimy yellow bile that burnt her throat as she heaved. “Damn,” she said afterwards, keeping her eyes closed to stop the whole world from spinning. “I must have hit my head really hard.”

He spent quite some time on her forehead, close enough that she could smell him, drawing in the scent of sweat and unwashed male. She wrinkled her nose. Phew! How about some soap?

“What?” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine.” She wasn’t; her brain was banging against her skull, the broken skin on her forehead itched, her ribs were using her lungs as a pincushion and her foot…no, best not think about her foot, because it looked absolutely awful, blisters like a fetter round her ankle and all the way down to her toes. She flexed them experimentally. It hurt like hell.

He poured some more water onto the rag he was using and wiped her face. She liked that, opening her eyes to smile her thanks at him. He smiled back, teeth flashing a surprising white in the darkness of his beard. He sat back on his haunches, a worried expression on his face.

“What?” Did she need stitches? Because she really, really hated needles.

“Your ribs, I have to do something about them.”

“Like what?”

“Bandage them, so that you don’t shift them too much.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“It happens, aye.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor?”

“A doctor?” He laughed. “Nay, lass, I am no doctor. But setting ribs is no great matter, is it?”

“It is when they’re mine.” She shifted on her bottom. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

“No, but I will have to…err…well, I must…the shirt, aye?”

“The shirt?”

“Well, you have to take it off.”

“Oh.” Where did this man come from? “That’s alright; you won’t be the first to see me in the flesh.” He looked so shocked she laughed, but the pain that flew up her side made her gasp instead.

He pulled his bundle close and rummaged in it, muttering something about having to find something to bandage her ribs with. Finally he extracted what looked like a rag and proceeded to tear it into strips.

He was very careful as he helped her out of her jacket and her shirt, and at the sight of her bra his eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. She sat up so that he could wrap the torn lengths of cloth around her. His exhalations tickled her skin, and she took short breaths, staring straight ahead as his big, capable hands worked their way around her torso, a gentle touch that sent surprising and quite unwelcome tingles of warmth through her body.

She was aware of his eyes on her skin, on her neck, but mostly on her breasts, quick glances that returned time and time again to the lacy red bra edged with cream that cupped her breasts and lifted them high. She sat up straighter, shoulders pulled back. She peeked at him, met his eyes and looked away.

“What’s this?” He put a finger on the satin strap. Impossible; men that hadn’t seen a bra didn’t exist – not where she came from.

“It’s a bra.”

“A bra,” he echoed, tracing it round her middle. She jerked back, making both of them gasp.

“My apologies.” He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I shouldn’t… But there, now it’s done.” He gave her the shirt and averted his eyes as she struggled to put it back on.

Alex closed her eyes, trying to come up with a label to pin on this strange man. Isolated goat farmer? Recluse? Maybe he was an old-fashioned – extremely old-fashioned – Quaker, or maybe the Amish had set up a little colony up here in the Scottish wilderness.

Her thoughts drifted; she wondered where her computer might be, considered crawling out to look for it, but couldn’t find the energy. The meeting! Bloody hell, the meeting! And Isaac, she was due to pick him up before five today. Right, she had to, yes she had to…what? Walk? With a foot that looked like a barbecued piece of pork? She slumped against the wall. No; stay here. Yes, just…rest, sit still. John would sort it all out. John would come and find her – of course he would.

*

It was getting dark. The woman was shivering, and after covering her with one of his threadbare blankets, he disappeared into the night. Everything was wet, and he had to go far afield before he had enough half-dry wood to even attempt a fire. When he ducked back into the cave, she seemed to be sleeping, her head lolling to one side. He fumbled for his flint and kneeled down to start the fire, small sparks flying off the steel with little or no effect. Wisps of faint smoke uncurled and faded but no flames took hold, and Matthew evicted a long, very colourful string of curses under his breath, a worried glance in the direction of the woman. Her eyes were wide open.