Tormentor (2 page)

I laughed, and it felt natural and right, so I did it again.

“I took the web tour,” I said. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

Alan laughed with me.

“This is Skye—we’ve only just come out of the nineteenth around here. And in some places, even that is seen as too modern.”

I patted the barn wall on the way past.

“Just how old is this?” I asked.

“The barn is nineteenth century, the crofter’s cottage about the same. The main house is anybody’s guess—some say the name came from a shipwrecked crew from an armada galleon trying to take the long way home—but there are even older stories about the place if you believe the locals. I’ll let you find that out for yourself—you’ll need something to talk about in the bar.”

The main room of my new home had little sense of the kind of age Alan had just described. The front door opened into a small porch, then straight into a long open area that took up half the house. There were new hardwood floors, exposed beams and rough stonework, but it all looked like it had been put together yesterday, and even the large granite fireplace had been scrubbed clean of any soot that might have built up over the years.

Alan saw me looking.

“Mrs. Menzies was a bit obsessive about dirt,” he said. “I’ve never seen a cleaner house.”

“I’m sure I can do something about that,” I said, and smiled.

The movers had been and gone, and the sum of my belongings—apart from a new bed, a sofa, a cooker and a fridge that had also been delivered that morning—were huddled in a small sad group of boxes and suitcases in the center of the floor.

Alan raised an eyebrow.

“Traveling light?”

“I brought what I thought I’d need,” I said—but in truth, I’d only brought things that wouldn’t remind me too much of Beth.

“Well, so did I,” Alan replied. “I’ll be back.”

He left me alone for several minutes, and I had my first impression of what this place was going to be like for me—even in that short time, I felt the emptiness start to close in, the silence creeping. I was looking forward to it.

Alan returned and handed me a long box containing a bottle of Talisker single malt.

“This is the local firewater,” he said. “Treat it with love and care, and it’ll serve you well in cold nights to come.”

“Will you have one with me—to christen the house?”

A look I didn’t understand crossed his face, quickly wiped away with a smile.

“Just a wee one, then, if you insist. I have to drive back to Portree.”

It took me ten minutes to find the glasses—they were packed away in the same box as Beth’s ashes, and I wasn’t able to prevent Alan from getting a look at the urn. He was too good a man to say anything right then, but I had a feeling the conversation was now inevitable at some point in our future.

The Scotch was stronger than I’d anticipated, and I’m afraid it caused me to splutter on the first sip.

Alan laughed loudly.

“Dinna worry, man. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

He was as good as his word and only had one small glass—a single finger at most, then he was off and away leaving me with an empty house and a load of boxes I had no urge to unpack.

A pair of French doors dominated the west-facing side of the room, and led from the dining room out to a small paved patio. I made myself a coffee and took it—and another small glass of the Scotch, outside. The garden furniture on the patio was cast iron and solid—freezing cold on the buttocks to start with, but surprisingly comfortable once I got settled. I was more than aware of the cold wind off the sea, but it was not too hard to bear, and I sat there for some time, sipping alternately from coffee and whisky, and letting the quiet fill me up.

My stillness served to embolden some of the other inhabitants—a stoat, just losing its ermine, poked its head out from a pile of firewood down by the ruined cottage and just as quickly turned away. A pair of sparrows briefly touched down—in case I had any crumbs to spare—and out in the loch a seal bobbed up to check me out before diving away. There was no traffic noise, no music. There was just the lap of water on rock and the whistle of the wind in my ears.

I felt more alive than at any time since Beth’s passing.

* * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some halfhearted unpacking—essentials like stereo system and laptop first—but after putting Beth’s urn on the huge stone mantel above the fire I lost the heart for it. I’d had enough foresight to bring some basic food supplies and, after taking a good ten minutes to figure out the new cooker, I was able to throw together a basic meal of rice, fish and vegetables that seemed much better than anything I’d ever eaten in the city.

I got the laptop fired up. Internet access was going to be expensive, having to be done through my phone and a dongle, but I wasn’t anticipating much need for it anyway. I found a small folding table in the pantry when I was putting the food away, and sat the laptop on it in front of the sofa. I chose one of the movies I had on the hard drive and lay on the sofa watching the U.S. military fight off an alien invasion. The plot was set on Earth, but may as well have been on another planet entirely—I was a long way away from Hollywood’s idea of civilization.

I was also starting to realize how much I was going to need a work desk and chair for a start, and probably a washing machine, unless I wanted to spend my time bent over the butler’s sink in the kitchen. Then there were the practicalities—meter readings, septic tank emptying—something I promised myself I wouldn’t forget—council tax payments, bank statements and all the other small bureaucratic hoops that needed to be jumped through. I’d already dealt with a lot of the more pressing issues, but the speed with which I made the move would inevitably lead to some loose ends if I didn’t get to it soon.

After the film finished, I started to make a list of things to do the next day—it took longer than I thought, and by the time I was finished I was surprised to look up and see it was almost full dark outside.

I made another coffee, poured another Scotch, and went out to see my new view at night.

* * *

It was immediately obvious I needed to add a flashlight to my list—it was a moonless night, and when I looked up I saw no stars—it had clouded over since earlier. Several lights showed on the far shore of the loch—far apart, solitary dwellings at a guess. Out on the middle of the sound a red light flashed—a marker buoy of some kind—another guess. Water lapped on the old stone in the small harbor down to my left, but I could see nothing but shifting darkness down there. What little light came through from the dining room and out the doors only lit up the immediate area around the iron table and chairs. The ruined crofter’s cottage was merely a darker blob in the shadows, and I couldn’t make out the woodpile at all.

In the same spot where I had felt calm, almost serene that same afternoon, the air now felt heavy and oppressive, the darkness taking on the heft and weight of something alive.

I retreated indoors, got another Scotch and put another film on the laptop, trying not to think of the shadows that even now peered in the French windows. When I got up for another drink, I added curtains to my shopping list.

3

I had a restless night, not yet acclimated to the creaks and groans of a new place, and disconcerted by the play of light and shadow in my bedroom caused by the moon’s reflections off the loch and fast clouds scudding overhead. When I started to imagine figures peering at me from the shadows, I resorted to hiding under the blankets, eyes firmly closed.

First thing in the morning, I amended the last item on my list to “more curtains,” had a quick breakfast of coffee and toast, then headed for Portree to do some shopping. I took my time on the drive—although it was still cloudy, it was dry and with the windows rolled down I smelled the sea—and, yes, manure, at every turn of the road.

It was midmorning before I pulled up in the town square parking area, and past noon before I managed to tick off the items on my list—I’d underestimated the difficulty of getting what I wanted this far away from the larger stores on the mainland. I was going to have to wait for a writing desk and chair, and the washing machine would be a week’s wait for delivery. I did, however, get a powerful flashlight—and curtains.

I stocked up on beer at the off license and by the time I was ready to leave, the trunk of the car was full, my shopping spilling over into the rear seats. I had just organized it all to my liking when I heard Alan Bean speak from behind me.

“So, you needed more than you thought you did then?”

“Just a bit,” I said, laughing.

“It’s my lunch hour,” he said. “Do you have time for a bite?”

I thought he might lead me to a café or restaurant, but instead I followed him for ten yards, straight into the public bar of the George Hotel, where he ordered two beers.

“Just the one,” I said, echoing his words from the day before. “I’m driving. And I’ve got curtains to put up.”

“Living the high life already, I see?” he replied. He handed me a beer that looked far darker than I was used to down south. It tasted stronger too—full of malt and caramel. It went down smoothly enough though.

“Settling in okay?” he asked after we’d ordered some sandwiches and taken a seat in the corner.

“You know what it’s like,” I said. “New house, new place and too much quiet—I didn’t get much sleep.”

“That’s what the Talisker was meant for,” he said, and laughed. “You’ll soon get used to the quiet—and if you want some noise, come down here on a Saturday night—or over to the Dunvegan Arms—your new local—it gets a bit lively in the summer over there.”

I hadn’t paid much attention to what he was saying. An old woman—somewhere in her eighties by the looks of her—hadn’t taken her eyes off me since I sat down. It looked like the man with her—her son probably—was trying to get her to stop staring, but he wasn’t having any luck with that.

Alan saw me looking and turned. That was her cue to start talking, too loud in what had until then been a quiet bar.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Alan Bean—selling that house after what it did to poor Annie Menzies.”

Her son stood and got the woman out of her seat.

“Sorry, Alan,” he said. “You know what she’s like…”

“Ashamed!” she shouted, and by now the whole bar was watching the performance. “It should have been burned down, like in the old times. No good will come of it—we all know that.”

With another “sorry,” the man got her out of the door, but not without a parting shout from her.

“Burn it down. Burn it and pish on the ashes—do it now, before it’s too late.”

The door swung closed behind them, and the rest of the bar went back to their conversations.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Alan didn’t seem perturbed.

“The auld dear has gone a bit off-kilter these past few years—Alzheimer’s or so I’ve heard—she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Just tell me I haven’t bought myself the proverbial local bad place. I’m not going to have kids coming round looking for spooks, am I?”

“Och, no, man,” he replied. “There’s not a house on the island that doesn’t have a story attached—and yours is older than most. Just think of it this way—there’s more happy stories than there are sad over the centuries—a few bad years doesn’t make a bad house.”

The sandwiches arrived and our conversation turned to mundane matters—I found out where to pay my taxes, got a good contact for a contractor to look after the septic tank—and turned down the offer of a second beer.

“Another time,” I said. “When neither of us are driving—we’ll sink a few and bring me up to speed on the stories—all of them—it’ll be nice to know the full history of the place.”

Once again a strange look passed across Alan’s face, but I scarcely noticed, for the smile replaced it as quickly as before.

“We have a date then,” he said.

We shook hands as we parted in the car park. As I turned back to my car, I saw the old lady and her son standing in the far corner—this time both of them were staring at me, but thankfully there was no more shouting.

* * *

The first thing I did on getting back to the cottage was to put up the curtains—I felt faintly ridiculous—preparing myself for a siege against the shadows was how I thought of it, until the thought itself caused me to laugh out loud. I did, however, immediately feel less nervous about the coming night, so I counted it as a good result once the curtains were hanging in place. I made myself a coffee and took it out to the patio—I had a feeling this was going to become a ritual.

I was still slightly on edge—the old lady’s outburst was hard to ignore, despite Alan’s measured denial of anything untoward. I’ve never paid much attention to stories of spooks and haunts—that was one of Beth’s things I didn’t share—but I didn’t really fancy being the incoming tenant that got shunned by the locals purely because of where I lived.

Once again a combination of coffee and the view did its job of calming me down, and I resolved I’d get myself down to Dunvegan soon and begin introducing myself to my neighbors—distant though they may be.