Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (12 page)

Mark smiled politely - while Adam was seriously irritating him, showing outward contempt to the man would both make their lives difficult and encourage him to make more of his jokes.

"It's like you've stolen my laptop," said Mark, heading towards Adam's car.

Mark had been starving when they arrived at their eventual destination. They settled on a lonely pub called the Trawler's Arms, just north of Helmsdale on the A9 where it split between the main road north that hugged the coast, and the road which led inland to Kinbrace and Ruthven.

It was very busy with Friday lunchtime trade - Mark imagined that most were tourists - so they settled for a bench outside. It was the sort that most parks used to have, a table with two benches screwed in on either side, which nobody over the age of fifteen could easily sit on. The afternoon was reasonably calm, only the lightest breeze in the air - the sky had cleared of its few clouds, giving that true rarity of a Scottish summer's day.

"I love it up this way," said Adam, slicing into his large piece of battered haddock, its golden shell covering the mound of chips underneath. "Beautiful scenery."

"It's fine if you get the weather," said Mark, thinking back to an Easter week just north of Inverness with his parents, when he'd been at school, and they'd spent the week inside a cottage playing board games. He cut into his lamb cutlets, not quite as soft or tender as those he'd been served the previous night, but then without the lumps of gristle that he still had stuck in this teeth.

"Even then," said Adam. "We're a hardy folk, us Scots. Just shove a cagoule on and you'll be fine."

"It's the wind that gets you," said Mark.

"The wind's nothing," said Adam. "A fleece will sort you out."

"You need to show me where to get a fleece then," said Mark. "Every one I've ever worn has been rubbish."

"Literally," said Adam.

"Eh?"

"Literally," repeated Adam. "They're made from recycled carrier bags."

Mark pushed his fork down on a boiled potato, crushing it and mashing it on the plate. He set about using it to soak up the lamb fat and excess mint sauce. He took a mouthful and looked out to sea, trying to disengage his mind from having to spend a whole day with this idiot and away from racking up the word count. He'd have to stay for at least another week at the current rate, he figured.

The coast was wild and rugged - tall sea cliffs suddenly descending to a pebble beach. Mark wondered how much the cliffs had eroded since there were resettled crofters here - while the hills inland hadn't changed at all, the cliffs most certainly would have done. The small sections of beach that he could see would have been difficult to access - there was no sign of steps down from the peaks. He suspected an elaborate series of winches would have been employed, with the ex-crofters settling on the beach, staying in makeshift tents that would have struggled in the south of France, let alone the north of Scotland.

He tried to trace the line of the coast around - he was probably looking at the Black Isle, but he couldn't decide whether or not he actually was. And he certainly didn't want to ask Adam.

"Are you going to that ceilidh?" asked Adam.

Mark looked back at Adam, a mouthful of chips and peas visible as he chewed. "I don't know," he said. "I've no idea whether I'll still be here."

"Not even with your fancy woman?" asked Adam. "I've heard she attends every year."

Mark tried to think of something - anything - to deflect Adam's banter, but came up short. "I'll have to play it by ear," he said, trying to change the subject. "I doubt the tickets will sell out." He frowned, suddenly worried about more cost. "Tell me that you'll be gone by then."

"Might stick around," said Adam. "It's Tuesday night, right? It'll be a good opportunity - I can get some local colour for the book, maybe sell some to papers or photo agencies. Good opportunity. I might not even invoice the publishers."

Mark started to feel really homesick - he was feeling lonely, surrounded by so many people.

"Right," said Adam, placing his hand on Mark's shoulder and giving him a firm grip. "Are you fit?"

"Am I what?" asked Mark.

"Are you ready for a walk?" asked Adam. "There's something called 'the Kelp Trail'. There's a poster advertising it around the back of the pub. You'd notice these things if you weren't so engrossed in that laptop or dreaming about your bird. There's a whole world out here."

"You just see it through a camera lens," said Mark, hoping that it didn't sound as angry as he felt.

"I still see it, though," said Adam, grinning. He clapped Mark on the back. "Come on, man, let's get that laptop back in the car and then we can go for a bracing walk. I need to walk that fish supper off."

"Fine," said Mark, reluctantly agreeing. In truth, he'd much rather stay where he was - after the rigmarole of getting into the bench, he'd got used to it and would rather not get out, especially not for one of Adam's whims.
 

Mark closed his laptop, having managed to do some writing - ironically enough taking the gist of Adam's earlier pastiche to kick off a chapter about the kelp industry - while Adam had spent another half hour taking shots from the pub car park, constantly referring to the beauty of the light. Mark struggled out of the bench, almost falling over. Dumping his laptop bag in the boot of Adam's car, they set off down the path.

They walked in silence, heading south along the cliff tops. Mark stood at the edge and peered over - it was at least a hundred metres drop to the beach.

"Doesn't bear thinking about," said Adam. "That is one hell of a drop."

Mark nodded. "No chance you'd survive the fall," he said, hoping that the 'you' didn't sound like a threat.

"Makes you wonder how many of them might have fallen," said Adam.

"They weren't here that long," said Mark. "It only lasted twenty or thirty years as a major industry. Most of the people had migrated south by then anyway."

"Didn't know that," said Adam.

"I don't see anyone drying the stuff now, do you?" asked Mark.

"Good point," said Adam.

Mark suddenly felt enthused by the walk - it was like strolling into history. On the trail of people from the Highlands down to the cities in Scotland - his own ancestors among them - this was one of the first waypoints. "Come on," he said, setting off, "this might knacker me out."

"Not been sleeping?" asked Adam.

"No," said Mark. "The window in my room is rattling with the wind."

"Really?" exclaimed Adam. "Mine was fine last night."

"Last night was fine," said Mark. "The previous two nights were bad, though."

"Fancy going for a few cheeky pints when we get back to the hotel?" asked Adam. "It might liven up on a Friday."

Mark could feel his determination not to drink again waning.

"So, I mean, yeah," said Adam, "the VX10 is the model to get if you can cope with only using old-style Olympus mounts. You can get adapters, of course, but I find that it cuts down on polarity and opacity. Plus it can feel like you've lost an F-stop in certain circumstances."

Mark nodded along, having completely lost interest hours ago in Adam's camera chat. They were sitting at the table nearest to the bar, three pints in already. His eyes kept darting for the door, hoping that the students didn't turn up - he could do without another fight.

When they'd got back to the hotel, Mark had worked for an hour or so, writing up the notes from the day, finding some time to finish the piece on the Kelp industry. He was pretty pleased with how that had turned out.

They'd eaten in the bar - cheese and onion toasties - and got stuck into the beer. The place was busy, as Adam predicted. There were a few faces that Mark didn't recognise, including a couple of Scandinavian girls in their early twenties at the adjacent table.

"But, really," continued Adam, "the biggest thing that you need to have, to be able to do what I do, is the latest generation of SD cards. I mean, these babies are fast - they allow me to take five shots in quick succession. I mean, it's not click click click click click, it's like drrrrrr. Fast. Every shot today, I did that."

Mark took a big drink of the local ale. He had half a mind to leave Adam to his soliloquy and head back upstairs to his room, but in truth the beer was calming his anxiety.

As he'd sat upstairs trying to write, he had been getting close to a full-on panic attack over his lack of progress. The last one he'd had was when his agent stopped taking his calls during the contract negotiation. In the end it was just Mark being paranoid, things involving lawyers tend not to have hourly updates. In the here and now, he was just feeling the acid burn in his gut. He was getting nowhere with the book, a couple of decent chapters aside, and drinking was taking his mind off it.

"So, if you're serious about getting into photography," said Adam, "those are my biggest tips."

Mark didn't recall suggesting he had been interested in getting into photography, more mentioning that he'd taken snaps of Beth on his phone, and Adam picking up the baton from there. Forty minutes of camera wibble.

Mark motioned to the empty glasses on the table. "Another beer?" he asked.

"Sure," said Adam. "This is very generous of you."

In truth, it wasn't generous as he fully intended to get the cash back from Adam by some other means - probably petrol - but the minutes he spent at the bar, not listening to Adam, were bliss. He returned to the table and put the pints down.

Adam held his glass up in cheers. "Did you ever, you know, with that Kay lass?" he asked.

Mark screwed his face up. "She was an employee," he said. "I found her on a notice board at the university. I only met her once."

"Sure?" asked Adam.

"Sure," said Mark.

"Would you, though?" asked Adam.

"I'm a married man," said Mark.

Adam laughed, before taking a big drink of beer. "You tell that to your bird at the castle?" he asked.

"She's not my bird," said Mark. "And besides, she knows that I'm married."

"And it doesn't bother her?" asked Adam, with a theatrical wink.

Mark tried to hold Adam's gaze, but failed badly, his eyes dancing off to the side. Just then, he noticed John arrive, behind a couple of the male students, fortunately not the one Mark had fought. John ordered a whisky at the bar. "Back in a sec," said Mark to Adam, taking his pint with him.

John nodded greeting at Mark. "How goes it, son?" he asked.

"Okay," said Mark. He waved at the barman. "Put that on my tab. And another of these." The barman nodded and put the whisky on the bar in front of John.

"Cheers," said John. "Very good of you, son."

Mark regretted it when he spotted the thirty-year-old Macallan being returned to the shelf behind the bar. "I think I still owed you one from the other night," he said. "Besides, I wouldn't mind catching up with you."

"And avoid talking to your pal there," said John.

Mark turned to see Adam looking like he was getting ready to fire into the Swedes. He hoped that they were interested in the opinions of a Glaswegian camera fetishist. He looked back at John and grinned. "Aye, well, they'll keep him out of mischief, I think."

"Let's get a wee seat then," said John, leading them to the only free table. "Been a busy day, I tell you. A school trip from Inverness today. They were fascinated, son, fascinated."

Mark glanced across and noticed that Adam had fully turned his attentions on the girls.

John grinned at him. "Think he's in luck there," he said. "Where are the lassies from?"

"Sweden," said Mark. "He tried it on with them earlier and they knocked him back, but they've had six Jaegermeisters each now. Maybe they're easier prey now."

"So, what were you wanting to know?" asked John.

"Couple of things," said Mark. "First, what do you know about the Ruthven family during the Clearances?"

John almost shut his eyes as he sat and thought. "Not much, son," he said, "truth be told. Why do you ask?"

Mark shrugged. "Just that she told me they'd lost much of their land," he said. "Does that tally with your understanding?"

"Bit too long ago for me," said John, "I'm not that old, son!" He laughed. "It does seem right, though. Why, do you think there's something fishy about it?"

Mark shrugged. "No, I just wanted it confirmed," he said. "I don't like to take a source at face value - I like everything backed up by as many others as I can."

"Spoken like a true historian," said John. He took a sip of his whisky and grimaced. "That's the ticket." He licked his lips.

"The second thing I wanted to ask," said Mark, finishing his first pint glass, "was that I went to see William Sellar."

John grinned. "My boss," he said.

"Aye, well," said Mark, "he said that there were supernatural acts being performed way back then. Do you know anything about it?"

John frowned. "There is a long history of devil worship in the area," he said. "I'm not sure if that's what he's referring to. What did he tell you?"

"He just sort of mentioned it in passing," said Mark, with a shrug. "
Refused
to elaborate."

"Aye," said John. "It'll be the devil worship. There were a few witches drowned."

Mark racked his brain for any corroboration. Nothing. "You know," he said, "I've never heard anything about that."

"Well, it happened," said John. "That's for certain." He took another sip of the whisky and raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask, anyway? Have you seen anything strange?"

"I told you about the window, right?" asked Mark. "It was rattling the first two nights I stayed here - Tuesday and Wednesday. It stopped last night."

John smiled. "Maybe your room is haunted," he said.

"Don't say that," said Mark. "That's all I need."

"It can get windy here," said John. "The place has its own micro-climate, caused by the hills. The wind can fair rattle down the glen, that's for sure."

"I saw a dog," said Mark. "The one that was with the, you know, students on Tuesday."