Tormentor (3 page)

There was a different feel to the view again—clear skies and not even a flicker of a breeze, the loch sitting flat calm, like a piece of glass topped with the thinnest of thin layers of water. The friendly sparrows came and checked me out—I made a mental note to add some bird feeders to my shopping list—and down by the firewood the stoat showed me its tail as it fled when I spotted it.

I went inside to rustle up some early supper, all thoughts of the old lady’s warnings driven away.

* * *

In the early evening I checked my e-mail. I had three requests from my old job that could safely be ignored and two notes from pals back in the city wondering if I’d gone native yet. There was also a heap of spam—and one very peculiar item that looked like it might have been in English at one time but was now mangled and corrupted. I put it down to a fault at the sender’s end and deleted it.

I spent an hour or so doing more unpacking—I got as far as getting my easel and paints out, which meant I was as close to doing any actual painting as I’d been for several years—but that was as far as it went. I fully intended for the painting to be my main thing—something I’d always aspired to but hadn’t done anything about since playing at it in the Med before meeting Beth. I was hoping the solitude and quiet—not to mention the views—would inspire me into action. But for now, everything was just too new, too exciting. I made another coffee and went outside to watch the sun go down over the far side of the loch. I only went back in as the stars came out and the chill got too much to bear.

4

That first week passed quickly.

I finished unpacking and set about getting the house the way I wanted it. My desk and chair arrived the same morning as the new washing machine, in the same van. The driver was rather taciturn, and when he did speak, his accent was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He refused a tip, and seemed rather too eager to be off and away, to the extent that I was left to plumb in the washing machine myself.

After that first night, the darkness and shifting shadows had ceased to worry me, and I even took to opening my bedroom curtains just so I could watch the interplay on the ceiling while dozing off—like a kid with a night-light. I was sleeping better than I’d ever managed in London; my head felt clear and alert. My coffee vigils on the patio were quickly becoming the highlight of my days—the sparrows encroached ever closer, the stoat had taken to sitting on top of the woodpile and trying to stare me out, and several seals regularly hauled themselves out on the rocks along the shoreline.

I made my first trip as far along as the old crofter’s cottage during an attempt to catch a photograph of the seals. I was far too clumsy and loud to sneak up on the animals, and they made a dive into the water before I got anywhere near close enough for a photo, but by then my whole attention was on the old cottage in any case.

I owned it—that much I knew. Alan had also told me it was abandoned sometime more than fifty years previous, but that was all he’d known. It was smaller than I had imagined—barely twelve feet on a side and little more than a box with a roof with two tiny windows, only a foot square, set on the side facing the sea. A rotting wooden door hung off its hinges, and I wasn’t sure if I was too keen on seeing what lay inside.

But it was my property—it had been for a week now, and I still hadn’t seen it. It would give Alan a laugh at least if he knew I was so recalcitrant about entering. I pushed open the door, not knowing what to expect.

There was nothing to see—just four bare walls, blackened by soot from a long-dead fire. The place had been emptied at some point after its scorching—
scoured
would be a better word, for there was no sign of furniture, fixtures or fittings, just stone walls and dirt floor. The roof—what little was left of it—sagged badly in places and looked like it might not last long in a strong wind. I was about to turn away when a cloud shifted and the sun came out, lighting up, only for a second, the wall that sat deepest in shadow. There was faded writing, in four-inch-high letters, done with the end of a finger in the ash.

It was just two words.

Stay down.

* * *

I decided that Saturday to take Alan’s advice and check out the local hotel. I walked down to Dunvegan—three miles of dirt track along the side of the loch, a most pleasant stroll in the cool evening with the sun starting its descent in the west and a light breeze playing on the water. I didn’t see a single soul until I turned the corner to look over the old castle where a busload of tourists was getting ready to leave.

The bus passed me as I walked down the avenue of chestnuts and sycamores leading from the castle into the village itself, and I arrived at the Dunvegan Arms to find them all ahead of me in the lounge bar. Given the length of the line, I was about to turn around and try another hotel when a small man poked his head round a door.

“In here,” he said. “The grockles don’t know about this one.”

I followed him through into a much smaller, but cozier, bar area—obviously one for the locals judging by the clientele.

“Thanks,” I said to my savior. “Can I get you a beer?”

I quickly found out those are not the best words to say to a Skye local with a thirst. He kept me company for the next hour, and I was three pints poorer when he left. He also knew a damn sight more about me than I would have thought.

“You’re the mannie that bought the Spaniards’ place, aren’t you?” he asked as the first beer went down. He kept up an almost constant flow of chatter, about people I hadn’t met yet, about the problems of local farmers, and about how I was going to love the place. He’d left for home before I realized he had adeptly fielded every single one of my questions that might have led to any discussion about the house itself or its history.

Over the course of the evening in the bar, I started to see a pattern emerging. The locals were unfailingly friendly, open and instantly charming—and none of them would tell me anything at all about the history of the house I’d bought. Every attempt to start that conversation was steered—most politely and often in a roundabout manner—on to a different subject. If the intent was to reassure me in any way, it did exactly the opposite.

Alan had been right about the hotel though—things got decidedly lively as the night wore on, but I took my leave when a country and western trio started up in the main lounge, their volume turned up so high that any further quiet conversation was well-nigh impossible.

The strains of “Stand By Your Man” followed me as I headed up the avenue towards the castle and the shore path beyond.

* * *

The walk back was almost as pleasant as the earlier one had been. The night air felt chilly, but with a hint that summer might eventually be arriving, even here. There was enough light for me to see the track—most of the time—but I resolved to bring the flashlight the next time.

It also took me longer to get back than I anticipated, so I was relieved when I saw the squat shape of the house on the horizon, a darker shadow against the sky. I was less happy to see the light was on in the main room, for I had a distinct memory of switching it off before I left.

There were no cars but mine in the barn or driveway, and no sound from inside. I went in the front door, noisily, to let anyone who might be there know of my presence.

“Hello?” I shouted, then immediately felt self-conscious—and stupid. Beth and I had often jeered at movies when people did exactly the same thing. If there is indeed a prowler present, he’s hardly going to shout back,
“Yes, I’m just lurking in the closet with a big knife.”

Thankfully my stupidity went unnoticed; there was no reply. I did a tour of the house. The French windows were securely locked, there was no sign of anything missing, and I started to think my memory was playing tricks when it came to switching off the lights.

Then I saw my laptop.

The lid was open and the machine switched on, sitting on top of the new desk. By now I was worried more about my sanity than my memory, for I was absolutely certain I’d powered it down before leaving.

I had new e-mail—two items, both scrambled gibberish, but both containing two words that were all too clear.

Stay down.

* * *

A restless night followed—I couldn’t settle, worried by the fact that someone might have been in the house, and almost equally worried it was my own mind playing tricks on me. I chased down the beer I’d had earlier with a few more from the fridge and tried to wash my mind clear with a big dumb action movie on the laptop. It didn’t work. Even epic-sized Hollywood bangs weren’t enough to drive away a growing unease. I thought about following the beer down with some of the Talisker—but that would have felt too much like giving in. Instead I turned to something I hadn’t done since the week after the funeral—I talked to Beth. Or rather, I talked to the urn, for in my heart I knew it was all that was left of her—there was no happier place beyond, no celestial harps. Not for Beth, or for me. If there were anything of her left, she’d have talked to me before now.

“I’m going mad, sweetheart,” I whispered.

I could well imagine her reply—she didn’t have to be here for me to know exactly what it would be.

“What, again?”

But just giving voice to my fears seemed to do the trick—hearing them spoken aloud diminished them; it brought them into focus and made me see them for what they were—new-house nerves and fear of change.

I went to bed feeling less nervous, and fell asleep watching the patterns of light and shadow on the ceiling coming in through the curtains I deliberately left open; my small gesture of defiance, one I needed that night to prove to myself I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

5

By the time June came around I’d settled into a routine. I painted, or at least thought about painting during the day, and watched movies on the laptop at night. I took to having regular coffee breaks out on the patio and spent Saturday evenings in the Dunvegan Arms where I was almost getting treated as a regular, if not yet one of the locals. I still couldn’t get anyone to talk to me about the house’s history though, but that seemed less important now, given there had been no recurrence of the strange e-mails and no sign of any nocturnal intruders.

I was starting to feel like I had found a new home, somewhere I could settle.

On the second of the month, I had to go into Portree to pay my council tax, so I took the opportunity to visit Alan Bean—he was only too happy to be invited to lunch.

“I need a break. I’ve been wrangling with the land register over an old farm property all morning,” he said. “Some of this stuff goes back to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s day, and, around here at least, they bought and sold land like they were lending and borrowing books from a library. It’s a bloody mess.”

He stood from his desk and stretched.

“It might be a long one,” he said to his secretary—a small, timid-looking girl who couldn’t be long out of school—and led me out into the main square. We didn’t head for the George this time, but around past the harbor wall to a more modern restaurant perched on a corner of the Uig road. There was a line of what looked like tourists waiting for a table, but Alan waved at one of the waiters and we were shown to a window seat with a view out over the fishing boats to the hills beyond. It was one of those days where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else—turquoise sky with fluffy white clouds, a slight breeze on the water and gulls doing aerobatics overhead.

Alan saw me looking.

“So you’re not regretting coming then?”

“Not for a second,” I replied.

The waiter interrupted any further conversation by bringing a menu.

“I can recommend the Chicken Jalfrezi. My treat,” Alan said. “I’ll slip it past Dad on expenses. And they’ve got some fine island beers on tap too.”

The curry proved to be very good indeed—fiery yet subtle, and the ale—a local wheat beer, complemented it perfectly. Alan’s conversation danced over the top of both, always lively and humorous, with an underlying sarcasm that suited my temperament. He told me of the goings-on in the island, and I told him what little there was to tell of my first month.

I wasn’t going to mention it, but I did let slip about the writing on the wall in the old cottage, and the two words I’d read both there and in my e-mails.

“Kids, most like,” he said. “They’re always on the lookout for somewhere to have a quiet smoke away from the eyes of their parents.”

I wasn’t convinced—not at all—but Alan was such a convivial companion, and it didn’t feel like an issue worth arguing over, so I let it drop, and conversation quickly turned to the Dunvegan Arms.

“How are they treating you?” Alan asked.

“Very well,” I replied. “They’re a talkative bunch, when it suits them.”

He picked up on my sarcasm.

“Don’t push it, Jim,” he said quietly. “Yes, they like to talk—we all do over here. It’s our favorite pastime—after sex of course, but there’s only so many times you can look at a sheep.