Red Skye at Night (28 page)

“You have to. It’s the only sensible solution. We can have Daisy out in a few minutes, and be on our way. If you try to get down there, it could end badly. Really badly. Please, Sir, think about what’s best.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know. But I’m right. Please, let’s do this my way.”

He contemplates me for several seconds then seems to come to a conclusion. “Right, let’s do this.” The right conclusion, thank God. He holds out the loop of rope. “Slip this around you, under your arms. I’ll secure the other end around my waist so if you fall I’ll have you. Best not to fall, though…” He glares at me under lowered eyebrows.

“No, Sir. I’ll try not.”

“See you do. You pick up Daisy and hand her up to me if you can reach. If you can’t, just hold her in your arms and I’ll haul the pair of you up. Got that?”

“Yes, Sir.” I’m already sidling toward the narrow fissure. I can’t say I relish the prospect of what I have to do, but it won’t become any more palatable for waiting. I just want to get it over with. I sit on the edge, my legs dangling into the hole. Harry comes up behind me.

“Right, take my phone. You might need a torch. Just ease yourself in when you’re ready. I’ll hold onto your hands to lower you down.”

I nod and push myself off the edge, rolling onto my tummy. My elbows are on the heather. I look up at Harry crouching in front of me. “Here goes…”

He smiles and takes hold of both my wrists, his grip firm and sure. I close my eyes and push myself backwards into the dark.

It’s only seconds later that I feel the solid rock of the ledge beneath my toes. I’m stretching, but can just make out the reassuring hardness. Daisy is brushing against my calves, delirious with excitement.

“Are you there yet?” Harry’s voice echoes from above me.

I tip my chin up toward the shaft of daylight above me to see him silhouetted there, his arms outstretched as he still grasps my wrists in his vice-like grip.

“Yes. I can feel the ledge. Let go of me.”

“You sure, baby?”

“Positive. The ledge is just below me.”

“Okay.” He releases me, and I’m able to stand properly on the ledge beside Daisy. She is more than a little pleased to have company, even if it is only me. Her little body is quivering with excitement, her tail and entire back end wagging furiously. I reach for Harry’s phone from my pocket and flick on the torch as I crouch down to grab her. All we need now is for her to leap off into whatever is down the deepest part of this bloody hole.

“Okay, girl. Stop wriggling. We’re getting out of here.”

I decide not to mess about passing her up to Harry. I might drop her if she won’t keep still, and I see little prospect of that. Instead I gather the little dog in my arms and shout up to Harry.

“I have her. Pull us out.”

The rope tightens around my chest, and I’m lifted bodily off the ledge, swinging gently.

“Hold on, honey. You’ll be out in a moment.” The rope jerks, and I shoot up another couple of feet. I can see the surface just a few inches from my face, Harry’s boots planted in the bracken, his heels digging in to give him the purchase he needs. Another sharp tug, and both Daisy and I are back in the daylight. Harry wraps his arm around my waist, Daisy crushed between us as he lifts me the rest of the way out.

The three of us tumble to the ground, rolling away from the hole in a happy tangle. Harry and I are both laughing and whooping, Daisy barking at us from within the prison of my arms. I let her go, but she seems unwilling to leave the huddle. Harry pats her, tugs her ears, then leans over to plant a huge kiss on my mouth.

“You were fantastic, Hope. Fucking brilliant.”

Embarrassed, I try to play it down. After all, she’s my dog too. What else was I going to do? “It was nothing. I had the rope and I knew you’d be able to pull us back up.”

“It wasn’t nothing. Not many women I know would let themselves be lowered into a pothole to save a dog.”

“Our dog. We couldn’t just leave her.”

He leans up on his elbows, studying me intently as I lie under him. “No. We couldn’t, could we? We don’t do leaving.”

Chapter Sixteen

It’s dusk as we drive over the road bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh, the link connecting the Isle of Skye to the Scottish mainland. I’m at the wheel again. We pass through the town of Broadford and continue along the main—no, only—road on the island, heading toward Portree. If the rest of the Highlands seemed remote, if Orkney appeared cut off, Skye is even more so. Apart from the occasional hamlet, dimly silhouetted in the gathering darkness, the place seems deserted. Where is everyone?

“This is weird. It’s so quiet.”

“It’s just because it’s dark. It won’t seem so odd tomorrow, in daylight. We’re booked in at the main hotel in Portree, a ground floor room with a terrace where they’ll allow a dog. It overlooks the harbor, apparently. We should be there in about forty minutes, perhaps less.”

“Good. I’m exhausted.”

Harry chuckles. “Nice try, honey, but I insist on fucking you at least a couple more times today, by way of thanking you for earlier.”

“I already told you, it was nothing. But when I said I was exhausted, I just meant I’m sick of traveling. Not…”

“Not that you were too tired to strip and kneel on command. Good thing too. I would hate to have to remind you of your responsibilities. That wouldn’t be pleasant. Well, not for you.”

My pussy tingles and clenches anyway. I’m looking forward to reaching Portree.

* * * *

The hotel is small, the room compact to say the least. Harry seems happy with it, though, and Daisy just curls up on her blanket under the window and goes to sleep.

“It’s only for one night. We can drive on up to the north part of the island tomorrow, find my granddad’s old home, or whatever’s left of it, take a few pictures to send him, and ask around a bit to see if we can find where the old folks were buried.”

We’re both lounging on the bed wrapped in towels after showering to wash off the grime of the day’s traveling and the dust of that pothole. We’ve used the room facilities to rustle up two cups of coffee and some custard creams, and the plan is to wander out into Portree later for something more substantial to eat.

“Do you know exactly where it was then?” I sip my coffee as Harry leans into the dressing table mirror to run a comb through his wet hair. His reflection smiles at me.

“Pretty much. The place is called Kilmuir. Ritchie emailed me a map and directions. He suggested asking at the post office in Uig—that’s the nearest village, I gather—or maybe at the local pub. Assuming those places haven’t been closed down. Someone might remember the McLeods. He says there was an old chapel about two miles away from the croft. If it’s still there, it’s likely they were buried in the graveyard, even though he can’t recall his parents ever being especially given to God-botherin’, as he calls it.”

“I wonder how they died. Old age, perhaps?” I put my coffee cup on the bedside table and turn to plump up the pillows behind me. It feels good to be clean, and to be able to stretch out properly. Harry comes to stretch out beside me.

“Not sure. They passed away within five years or so of Ritchie leaving, so they couldn’t have been that old. I seem to remember when I was little growing up in his home that my granddad had a lot of tales of when he was a boy and his life on the croft. His parents married young, at the start of the Second World War. They were only about eighteen, I think. Angus was called up almost immediately and went to fight in France. He ended up a POW and didn’t return until it was all over. My granddad was about four when Angus finally showed up, a stranger who called himself his father. I suspect they never managed to get over that loss of early bonding. From everything my granddad ever said I got the impression he was close to his mother but never his father.”

I’m trying to work out the sums in my head. “So, say Angus and Ann-Marie were around twenty when your granddad was born, and Ritchie left when he was about the same age, is that right?”

Harry nods. “As far as I know, yes.”

“So given that the War ended in 1945 that would have been around the 1960s?”

“Guess so.”

“And both Angus and Ann-Marie died within the next decade sometime, say by 1970?”

“Yeah, nearly fifty years ago. I know, it’s a long shot hoping to find someone who remembers them. But there might be someone still living there who was a child back then. I know Ritchie really wants to know what happened, especially as they were still fairly young. He doesn’t say it, but I know he regrets never making it up with them. This might give him some sort of closure.”

I loop my arms round his neck and nuzzle his ear. “If there is anyone who can help, we’ll track them down. These are small communities, tight-knit. And this…this all happened within living memory.”

He shifts fast, and moments later I’m flat on my back, my hands pinned above my head. “Are you trying to distract me?” Harry’s eyes have darkened, his tone has taken on that distinctive Dom cadence. I should know by now not to provoke him

“Maybe. Is it working, Sir?”
Will I never learn?

“You need to be reminded of your place, subbie.”

“You already punished me once today, Sir. My bum’s still sore.”

“In that case, I think a little orgasm denial might be in order.”

“No! Oh no, please, Harry. Sir. I… Please don’t.” Harry has made me wait often enough, but never denied me entirely. I hate the thought of this as a form of punishment and don’t mind letting him see my distress.

“You slut. You’re probably right, though. It’s just too much fun watching you unravel.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Chapter Seventeen

We avail ourselves of a huge Scottish breakfast at the hotel before checking out and heading for the north of the island. We pass through the village called Uig, which is apparently the closest thing to civilization around here, and carry on up the narrow track. We pass a converted croft, which is now the home of the Skye Cottage Museum, and it strikes me that it could well be the place to start our inquiries. The first order of business, though, is to locate Kilmuir.

“Ritchie said there was a cart track leading to it, a left turn off the main road. The croft itself overlooked the bay…” Harry is driving, cruising along slowly, scanning the side of the road for any sign of a track leading off to the left. “It must be here somewhere. We’re almost at the most northerly point.”

“We may need to turn and come back, have another look. Or even do it on foot.”

“Yes, maybe… No! There. Is that it?” He stops and points to a narrow entrance between two slabs of stone that might once have passed for gateposts, flanking a gap in the wall.

I follow the line of his arm and shrug. “Don’t know. Could be. Shall we go look?”

It never occurs to either of us that we might be tramping across private property. Perhaps it should have, but we are on a quest. Daisy too. She hops out of the car and trots after us as we make our way between the solid lumps of stone and up the edge of a field, skirted by a low stone wall. If this is a track, it’s not been used in a while.

We crest the brow of the hill and look down. The bay is below us, the dark gray and green of the North Sea glistening in the summer sunshine. And there it is, just visible in a dip, the low roof line of a crofter’s cottage.

“Could that be the place?” I point to it.

“Might be. Let’s get closer and take a picture. I’ll text it back to Granddad for him to confirm if we’re in the right place.” He takes my hand to tug me forward.

“Do you suppose anyone lives here now?”

“We’ll soon see.”

As we get closer, it becomes obvious that no one does. The front door—the only door as far as I can tell—is overgrown. The outbuildings are empty, deserted, although they still contain much of the old paraphernalia of yesteryear’s agricultural heritage when all the labor was hard and manual—a plow, a stone water trough, various hand tools. We wander inside what seems to be a cross between an old byre and a 1950s garage, looking around at the remnants of a life now gone, of people who were here, who worked and scratched their living from these hills, but do so no more.

I test the weight of a heavy sledgehammer leaning against the door frame. “Your granddad must have been tough to be able to use this.”

Harry glances at it. “I guess they all were. It was a hard life.”

“They started to modernize, though. Look at this.” An ancient motorcycle is propped against a wall, covered in a tarpaulin. “Was this your granddad’s?”

“He never mentioned a motorbike. I’ll ask him.” Harry turns to me, his expression determined. “I’m going to see if we can get in the house.”

“Do you think we should? I mean, it’s trespassing, isn’t it? Or breaking and entering?”

“Not sure. As far as I know, and always assuming we’ve found the right place, this is still my family’s property. I think.”

He turns and strides back out into the sunshine and around the long, low building to reach the front door again. He tries it, as he did when we first arrived. Still just as securely locked. He rattles the door in its frame.

“I wonder if I could force this. There must be something we could use in that outhouse. You wait here.” He strides off again, purposeful, to return moments later with a hammer, a sturdy-looking shovel and a pick. He drops his housebreaking equipment in front of the door and turns to study it.

Meanwhile I decide to find out what I can from the outside, by peering in all the windows. The cottage is still furnished, though it all looks very old-fashioned to me. Oddly, though, I had expected total dereliction, and this is not like that. If the place is empty now, it hasn’t been this way for too long. Certainly not since 1970. Something doesn’t add up. We must be in the wrong place.

I hear the splintering of wood and rush back round to the front door. I’m sure now that we’ve made a mistake, and are in the process of smashing our way into someone’s home. I arrive in time to see Harry dropping the shovel back onto his pile of tools. The door is swinging open. He leans on the frame to peer inside.