Bridge of Hope (4 page)

After the utter bitch my ex-wife had become, Mairi was the light in the darkness. She was the one person to make me hope again. To love again. I doubted whether I would ever love as strongly again, but… as my tattoo reminded me:
Love conquers all
.

As I stared at my sore and bloody reflection, my lip began to tremble and my eyes stung with tears. Barbed wire was a fitting symbol of the agony I had gone through in the last four and a half months. Barbed wire that sliced into my heart and tore at my insides as I grieved without really knowing the truth and without being able to say goodbye.

I re-covered the newly inked wounds, taking care not to catch the raised lines where it was sorest to the touch. A sob ripped from my chest and I hung my head as I let my grief pour out once again.
How could this have happened? Mairi was an experienced climber. I just don’t fucking get it
. I clenched my fist and slammed it onto the tiled surface surrounding the sink. The pain of the impact was a distraction from the aching in my chest, but it was only fleeting. A growl erupted from deep within my body and I smashed both fists down this time as I let a guttural, incoherent roar free from my throat. The noise sounded completely alien to me, and shivers vibrated down my spine.

Why? Why did this happen to Mairi? Where’s the fucking justice? She was so young, so beautiful, and so special. And she’s fucking gone! Ripped from me far too young and I can’t handle it.

I just can’t bear it.

I dropped to my knees on the cold, tiled floor and held my head in my hands. My stomach knotted; and as I clenched my eyes closed, the dreaded images from my nightmares came back to haunt me yet again, assaulting my frontal lobe with such vividness. The fear in her eyes was more than I could take. Her outstretched hands reached for me as she fell. Is this how it actually happened? Her falling, terrified, to her death? Oh
God
, I hoped not. Why did my psyche insist on torturing me in this way?

I tried to breathe deeply, and after eventually gathering myself, I staggered downstairs to grab the half-empty bottle of single malt from the kitchen countertop. I didn’t bother with a glass this time. I flicked on the CD player and turned up “From Where You Are”
by Lifehouse as loud as it would go. I needed to get out of ma head. I dropped onto the couch as the lyrics seeped into my mind and took hold of my heart, making my chest ache. The harsh sting of the tattoo was nothing compared to the nagging throb of emptiness inside of me. I needed to numb the pain, and whiskey was the only way I knew how.

Chapter Five

February 2011

The nightmares continued and I found that whiskey helped but it didn’t block out the terrors completely. January ran into February and my routine continued. Work, get drunk, sleep, have nightmares, wake, and the whole cycle would start over.

One such morning after, I was woken by an ear-piercing, high-pitched ringing. At first I presumed it was just my dehydrated brain rattling around in my head on account of the whiskey consumption of the night before; but… as it continued, it registered in my foggy consciousness as the telephone.

Oh, fuck. Who the fuck is bothering me at this fucking time? It’s the middle of the fucking night. No one ever fucking rings me unless I’m feeling like shit! What the fuck?

I dragged my arse off the sofa where I’d crashed out and rummaged around with my eyes half closed until my hand located the cold plastic casing of the landline phone.

“What?” I barked down the line.

“Gregory? Are you okay?” a worried voice asked.

Shit.

“Oh… erm… hi, Stella. Yeah, yeah I’m okay. Sorry for snapping. What’s up?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s gone twelve and you’re supposed to be at the pub for your shift, hon.”

“What? It’s gone twelve? Midnight?” Why would she want me in when the pub was
closed
?

“No, hon. Mid
day
. You were supposed to start at half eleven today to stock the bar up.”

Shit. I’d overslept… no… no, hang on… I’d
actually
slept.

No nightmares.

“Oh, fuck. Shit, sorry for swearing, Stella.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard much worse from your mouth, Gregory. So, are you coming down?”

“Erm… yeah, sure. I’ll have to shower and… I probably shouldn’t drive, so I’ll walk down. Give me an hour or so and I’ll be there. Sorry. I had a really shitty night.”

“So I gather. Don’t worry. I was just worried you’d disappeared into your own head again like you did at Christmas.”

“Na’… nothing like that.” My stomach rolled and bile rose in my throat as my mind flicked back to why I had drunk so much the night before. “Just… thinking too much, that’s all.”

“I see. That’s what I was worried about. You’re not helping yourself, Gregory. You’re spending too much time on your own. It’s not healthy to do that when you’re grieving.”

Grieving. That fucking word.
“I’m fine, honestly. I used to spend time alone before… before she—”

“Look, love, I don’t mean to interfere, but I really think you need to stay busy and… and be with
people
. I can give you some extra shifts at the pub or… or you could come and play at the pub on an evening like I suggested to you. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Stella. I just don’t know if I’m cut out to be a performer, you know?”

“I’m not asking for you to be Freddie Mercury, love. Just sing and play like you did that time I was listening. It was lovely. You’re a natural.”

“I’m still thinking on it. I’ll let you know, okay? Look, I’d better go get ready before the lunchtime rush, eh?”

“Alright, hon. See you in a wee while.”

After I hung up, I rubbed my hands over my face and made my way up the stairs to the bathroom. I downed a couple of painkillers then turned on the shower and waited a few minutes for the water to run hot. After stripping out of my jeans and boxers, I flung them into the laundry basket and climbed under the cascading water. Drained of energy and emotion, I easily could’ve fallen back to sleep on my feet. My muscles ached like I’d been fighting, and my head throbbed like bloody Riverdance was going on up there.

~~~

About an hour and a half later I arrived at the pub. I glanced over at the bridge, where a young couple was standing looking out at the view, arms around each other. For a split second I was filled with envy at how happy they seemed to be. Laughing and pointing out into the distance.

For a split second I
hated
them.

I pushed through the door and made my way through the crowd of tourists to take my place behind the bar. A blonde woman sitting on her own was eyeing me up as I began to take drink orders from the busload of tourists that had descended upon the place. I’d noticed the coach parked over by the little shack across from the pub, and I hoped I’d arrived in time before Stella got pissed off with me for abandoning her on such a busy day. But I mean, come on, who goes on a bloody coach tour in the Highlands in
February
? Apparently Londoners who like to ski do.

The blonde woman was wearing a low-cut sweater despite the winter chill and was eye-fucking me from the far end of the bar. I glanced over to make eye contact. She gave a sultry come-get-me smile and licked her full lips as she held her empty glass aloft. W
hat the fuuu…?
I finished serving the tourists and made my way over to her.

“What can I get you?” I asked in my usual surly manner.

She leaned forward, giving me a full view of her cleavage.

“What do you recommend?” Her accent wasn’t Scottish but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Well, that depends on what your tastes are like,” I said, propping myself up on the bar before her.

“Oh, I have very… how should I put it? Hmmm…
varied
tastes.” Her eyebrows rose infinitesimally. The innuendo was not lost on me.

I swallowed hard. She was an attractive woman, but she was no Mairi. Blonde hair in a flicky kind of style just above her shoulders. Nice figure, if a little too thin for my taste. But as I watched her, I wondered if maybe what I needed was uncomplicated, no-strings sex. Would that help? Probably not in the long run, but it was clearly being offered on a plate—and I am a hot-blooded male after all.

“I can recommend the Oban single malt. It’s very smooth going down.” What the fuck was I saying?

She bit her lip. “I like things that are smooth… going down.” I poured her two fingers of the amber liquid and handed her the glass. She pouted. “And one for yourself. I don’t like drinking alone.”

I poured myself the same and took a mouthful, hissing as the warmth coated my throat. “So, what brings you to Clachan Seil?”

“I’m here with those guys.” She gestured with a nod of her head. Her expression told me she was none too pleased about the fact. “I live in London. I was supposed to be here with my boyfriend, but he broke up with me two days before the trip so I figured fuck it, I’ll go anyway. I thought perhaps I might meet someone to help me take my mind off things.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and looked at me from under her long eyelashes.

I dragged my cloth across the bar in front of her. “You’re not a Londoner though, eh? What’s that accent?”

“I’m from Adelaide originally. I came to the UK with my family when I was around sixteen. I stayed. Never lost the accent though.” She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

“What do you do for a living, then? I’m guessing you’re a model.”
Oh fucking hell, seriously? Now you’re trying too hard, pal.

She laughed. “Very observant of you. I
am
actually a model.”

I felt my eyes widen. “Fuck, really? And here was I thinking it was a shitty pickup line.”

She tilted her head. “And is that what you’re aiming for here? To pick me up?”

I stopped wiping the bar in front of her and considered her question.
Was
I trying to pick her up? I’d thought it was the other way around.

Stella came through from the back and made her way over to me. “Greg, I need you to change the Gairloch grinder. It’s empty.” She scowled at me as if she’d caught me doing something wrong.

I frowned. “Aye, okay. Be right there,” I told her before turning back to the blonde woman whose name I didn’t even know.

She raised her eyebrows at me. “Someone’s a little pissed off that you’re chatting to me.”

I cringed. “Aye, well, she is ma boss so I’d better go and do ma job, eh?”

“Okay,
Greg
.” She said my name as if the feel of it on her lips turned her on. I nodded, at a bit of a loss for words. I was filled with a sense of relief that the conversation had been cut short. To be honest, I had no clue what I’d have done if I’d taken her home. No doubt I would’ve chickened out at the last minute and made a complete tit of myself.

As I walked through to the back to make my way to the cellar, Stella grabbed my arm.

“Look, Gregory, I know I wasn’t meant to interfere, but…” She sighed as if unsure whether to carry on. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you and that blonde girl, but be careful, okay? Tell me to mind my own business, and obviously you do what you want to do. But you’re grieving, and I know from personal experience that silly mistakes can be made when you’re in the wrong frame of mind.”

I nodded and she released my arm and patted it.

As I changed the beer barrel down in the dimly lit cellar, I thought about what she’d said. She was right. I was a one woman kind of guy. Sleeping with someone for the gratification of it just wasn’t me. I think maybe I needed to keep that in mind when I went back up to the bar.

The barrel was a tricky fucker, and I was down in the dingy cellar longer than anticipated. When I arrived back up at the bar, I spotted the blonde sitting on the lap of one of the other London tourists. Her tongue was stuck down his throat. I shook my head and got back to work. Good to know I was so desirable, eh? Well, at least the experience taught me something. I’m not a one-night stand type of guy. Never would be.

Lesson learned. Thanks, blondie.

Chapter Six

March 2011

February turned into March, and I was astounded at how life was going on as normal despite my grief. Stella gave me a weekend off, second weekend in March, and I decided to get out of the village. I packed up my Landy with my sleeping bag and a thick fleece blanket, a little stove, and some tins of crap I wouldn’t normally be caught eating. Angus and I got in the car and headed over to Etive Mor. We’d set off when it was still light, but it would be over a two-hour drive.

As the Buckle—otherwise known by its proper name, the Buachaille—came into view, my heart leapt at the stunning sight of the snowcapped mountain rising out of the bracken. I turned off down a little side road that I was very familiar with and pulled into my usual lay-by off to the left. Pulling my sleeping bag and other stuff from the car, I made my way down to the water and under the little bridge. Angus followed close behind. He knew the routine. I placed my sleeping bag and my stove on the ledge there and trudged back up to the road again. After gathering a few twigs and branches, Angus and I played for a while. He loved to fetch sticks, but he never brought back the one I’d thrown. Instead he always managed to find one that was far too big for his mouth and weighed far too much, almost toppling him over as he ran back to me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy canine.