The Visitors (6 page)

‘Och, it’s nothing. No matter.’

I looked at her, but she wouldn’t be drawn. We reached the brow of the hill, where Tanno Academy sat like a long-wrecked hulk. Made of prefab concrete slabs, the school looked more like a prison. The building was mostly three storeys tall, and built on two sides around a central yard. Brightly painted play things sprouted from the middle of the playground. Low football goals, a basketball hoop and swings for children. The school offices sat to one side of the building.

‘Here it is. The bunker.’

‘Well, cheers,’ she said.

Around us, younger kids were running and yelling, playing all the usual games. Fourth- and fifth-year girls stood in gaggles of knee socks, gossiping about boys. Each year they pushed the hems of their skirts and the rules of school uniform as far as they could go. The boys were playing killer basketball, queuing below the playground hoop, taking turns to outdo each other and yell. I recognised other sixth years sloping about in casual clothes, enjoying the step out of uniform and up in status. Teachers crossed the yard in ones or twos.

‘That’s the office over there,’ I said, pointing at the squat extension. ‘If Bev needs you to get a bus pass or anything. The bus driver. Did you get your timetable?’

‘No,’ she said, biting her lower lip. ‘Not yet.’

‘You’ll get that in the office. And anything else you need.’

‘Thanks again.’

I checked my phone. It was approaching nine o’clock.

‘Look. I’ve got to go now. I have History.’

‘And I’d better check in with the office, I suppose, let them know I’m here.’

‘See you round, I guess.’

‘OK. Maybe on the ferry home.’

She tried a smile, and started turning away.

‘Sorry for not coming over earlier,’ I rushed. ‘To say hello. On the bus or something.’

‘Aye, me too. Bit daft, really.’

‘I was in a world of my own.’

‘Me too,’ said Ailsa, nodding. ‘Sometimes, that’s the best place to be.’

Like sun from clouds, she flashed a brilliant smile and just as quick, it melted away. She turned. I watched her cross to the office. The glass door closed behind her, and my strange new neighbour was gone.

I walked across the schoolyard. With Richard and his friends moving away, there was no one left who really knew me. I’d never mixed with my own classmates. There was distance between me and the Tanno kids. I was from a different place. A different species, starting my last year as a stranger. Even the other Bancree kids were removed, separate, years younger than me. In a corner near the bins, a flock of sparrows pecked at crumbs. I felt like a cuckoo.

Standing to one side of the playground, leaning against the railings, I could see other sixth years milling around the yard. I knew the students in my year well enough to talk to, but at the same time, I didn’t know them at all. Like me, they were dressed in their own clothes. Jeans and T-shirts, skirts and sweaters. It felt weird after spending five years dressed the same as everyone else. Any moment, I expected Mr Baillie to rampage from the staffroom, handing out detentions and yelling about school regulations.

Last year, when I hung out with Richard and his pals, they’d been the ones wearing shorts and hats and trainers. They’d teased me about being the only one in uniform. I’d fumed about it, and willed on the start of sixth year. Now I was wearing my own clothes, just the way I’d wanted, but they were gone and I was still trapped a year behind.

Flotsam.

A year. I could wait that long. A year was nothing. A year, and then my life could begin.

Something banged into my back. Off balance, I stumbled against the railings. Four girls stood in a group behind me. They were all from the fifth year. The shortest of the group stood in the middle. My heart sank. It was Tina Robson.

‘All right, Flo?’ she sneered. ‘Had a pleasant summer?’

‘Everything was fine till now,’ I said.

At sixteen years old, Tina was an ego in a C-cup. She was queen bee at Tanno Academy. I wanted nothing to do with her, and normally we’d never cross paths. But she hated me for hanging out with older students, and one student in particular: Richard. He and I had come to school a ready-made couple. Tina was used to having any boy she wanted, but she couldn’t have Richard, and that meant she wanted him. She was a dog in a manger. She loathed me, but she’d always been on good behaviour while Richard was around. And now he was gone.

Her girls fanned out, hemming me against the railings.

‘Things are going to be different for you this year,’ she said, ‘without your pals to protect you.’

‘Will you listen to yourself? Protect me from what? You sound like a gangster.’

‘Maybe I am.’

‘What’s your problem, Tina? What have I done to you?’

‘The attitude,’ she said. ‘The airs and graces. That won’t wash any more. You’re back down here with the rest of us, and I’m going to make sure you know all about it.’

‘Awesome. That sounds peachy. I’ll look forward to that, Big Brother.’

‘Flat-chested fucking gypsy hipster.’

‘Tramp.’

‘Better than a prude,’ she said, her smile widening into
a leer. ‘At least I know what boys like. Shame your Richard’s not here any more. I’d show him what it’s like with a real girl, rather than a stick insect.’

‘Well, never mind. You’ll have to keep practising with the rest of the rugby team.’

She hissed and lunged at me, and I couldn’t help but flinch. She backed off and laughed, her gaggle of pals joining in. They seemed to crowd a little closer. The railings were rigid at my back. I didn’t feel scared at that moment, so much as horribly alone.

‘Ah, Flora,’ said a voice. ‘Back with us for another year, I see.’

Tina spun round to see who’d spoken. Her face fell, and relief washed through me.

‘Yes, Miss Carlyle,’ I said.

The school History teacher shouldered her way into the circle of girls. She was carrying a stack of plastic-jacketed library books in both hands, the volumes piled from waist to her chin. She eyed Tina closely.

‘Everything all right here, Tina?’

‘Aye, of course, Miss Carlyle,’ she sulked.

‘Good, good,’ replied the teacher. ‘Because I’d hate for you and me to start this year in the same fashion we finished the last. Would you like that?’

Tina’s eyes shone venom, but she choked out a smile.

‘No, Miss. I wouldn’t like that at all.’

‘Well, that’s two of us. Wonderful.’

‘Would you like a hand with those books, Miss?’ I asked.

She beamed at me. ‘That would be delightful, Flo,’ she said, leaning towards me. I took the top half of the stack from her, and followed her towards the main block. As I walked away, Tina hissed something vicious, but I didn’t catch the words.

Richard had always been my friend, but I’d never seen
him as protection. Spending all our time together had felt natural because we lived together, travelled together, schooled together. Richard’s friends had become my friends just like Richard had become my boyfriend. Thinking about it now, my life appeared to be a long, bad habit of taking easy options.

With Tina on my case, the year felt a little lonelier and an awful lot longer.

I increased my pace to catch up with the teacher. Still fettered by the books, Miss Carlyle was clawing at the door with her elbow. Weighed down by my own stack, I stuck my foot around the edge, hooking it open.

‘Thank you for this, dear,’ she said, heading for the stairs inside the door. I followed behind her.

‘No bother, Miss. I should be thanking you.’

‘Indeed, teacher to the rescue. Was that anything I need to worry about?’

‘It was nothing. Did you have a good holiday?’

‘That I did, dear. I was on a dig in Turkey.’

‘What a completely normal way to spend your holiday, Miss.’

‘Enough lip from you, Flora,’ she said, smiling. ‘And you? What did you get up to?’

I hesitated. We were heading for the top floor.

‘It was OK, Miss. You know Richard’s gone to Bristol?’

‘Ah, yes. Young Mr Macintyre. Your partner in crime, off to university.’

‘Aye, well. He’s gone.’

She peered at me above her glasses. ‘And how does that sit with you?’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, not wanting to make too big a deal of it, ‘I’ll get by.’

She paused outside her classroom door. ‘I’m sure you will, young lady. There are plenty more fish in the sea.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Or so they tell me, anyway.’

She sighed. I looked at her. She looked at me. I wondered how old she was. ‘Another year,’ she said. ‘Very well. Let battle commence.’

Leaning on the handle, she pushed the door open with her shoulder and went inside. I followed, and placed my stack of books beside hers on the desk at the front.

There were only eight of us studying sixth-year History. As they entered the room, the other students muttered with each other. No one sat beside me.

‘Right,’ said Miss Carlyle, and the noise fizzled out. ‘Let’s get started. I’m going to assume you all had a wonderful summer and have arrived back at school feeling refreshed, recharged and full of vigour for the year ahead?’

There was an embarrassed silence.

‘No,’ she said, pulling up a chair, ‘me neither. Well, never mind. You’ll be doing more self-guided research this year. We’ll start nice and easy, and look at some fairy tales.’

Someone sniggered.

‘Yes, Alan. Fairy tales.’

‘That’s soft, Miss.’

‘Soft? Four hundred years ago, if your baby was born deformed, you knew pixies had swapped your infant with a changeling, which made it all the easier to leave it on the hillside. Is that soft?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘And if a traveller drowned in the river, and their white, bloated corpse was recovered from the shore, covered with toothmarks, you knew a kelpie had been at work. How about that?’

Alan swallowed and shook his head.

‘People needed these creatures to explain the events in
their lives they couldn’t control. I want you to pick a Scottish myth, research its origins, and write a report on how it’s evolved over the years. Does everyone understand?’

A mumble of yeses and ayes crept around the desks.

‘Good. I’ve put the full assignment on the board. Now, I suggest you use today’s session to research your options and decide upon a topic. You need to manage your own time. By your next lesson, I want a plan of action from each of you, listing potential sources of information. Check those top two shelves for some of my history books, or go and use the computers in the library. Ask me questions, but otherwise,’ she beamed, ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday.’

As one, the other sixth years disembarked for the library, grinning from ear to ear at the newfound liberty. I stayed in class and made some notes on the project. I couldn’t work out what to write about. Ghosts, maybe? Or kelpies? I browsed the bookshelves, pulling out occasional titles and flicking through for ideas. Giants? Banshees?

I was no closer to a decision by the end of the lesson. After double History came double Spanish. Unfortunately, the class was combined with the fifth years. I spent two hours in paired conversations, trying to order a three-course meal while Martin MacMillan stared at my chest.

I drifted out of Spanish, still thinking of ideas for my History project, and followed my feet along the corridors. I walked towards the canteen on autopilot, but then came the realisation that I didn’t actually have any other lessons that day. Another bonus of sixth year – part-time timetables and a host of study periods. I considered going to the library and doing some work, but the novelty was too much for me. It was a real pleasure to leave school and go home early. One more step to freedom.

Surrounded by her cronies, Tina Robson stood by a near
corner of the yard as I walked out through the main gate. She pointed at her own eyes, then at me, just to let me know she’d be watching. I gave her a beaming smile and an upturned middle finger, then passed round the corner out of sight.

Down the hill and back to the postcard harbourfront. The
Island Queen
wouldn’t leave for another hour, so I had a quick rummage in the town’s two charity shops. I found a bright-blue Sesame Street T-shirt in the first, and a Led Zep CD hiding between boy-band albums in the second. Two good finds. I had a toastie and a cup of tea in Dora’s Diner, then decided to pop in and see Mum in the Co-op. As I wandered along the harbourfront, I noticed the parish hall was hosting a jumble sale. With time to kill, I went to have a look.

The hall smelled of badminton and old ladies. Half a dozen biddies guarded half a dozen wallpaper tables, loaded down with books, cakes and battered plastic toys. There was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle annual from before I was born, a shoebox of Nintendo games and a set of lawn bowls. Coffee mugs and walking sticks, ornamental spaniels. Junk, all junk. I did a quick round and was on the way out when something caught my eye. I returned to the stall with the books. One corner of a slim hardback peeked from a box crammed with
Beanos
and
National Geographics
. I teased it free.

It was called
The Truth About the Legend of the Scottish Selkie
. It was written and illustrated by someone called M.I. Mutch. The cover was a grotesque ink drawing of a fat sleek seal, though there was also something queer about its shape, something at odds with its anatomy. I peered closer. Halfway
down its body, emerging at an ungainly, impossible angle, a hand crept out of the skin. The selkie looked so sad, with this obscene hand sprouting from inside it. The hand was beckoning. It gave me the shivers. I flicked through a few pages.

It was most peculiar. Flicking through at random, it seemed Mutch had described the selkies as genuine creatures, rather than fairy tales. They were discussed as though they were native animals, like red deer or rabbits, and the book was a work of zoology, or maybe anthropology, brought to life with lurid illustrations of personal encounters. I flicked to the front of the book, looking for the author’s note. There was nothing. It had been published in 1992 by a company called Broch Books. This appeared to be the first edition.