Merry looked around. She was in a combination kitchen and den, with a wood stove in
the center, shelves with pots and pans and dishes at her end, a rocking chair at the
other. The space was lit coolly by the light coming through a single window.
Her mysterious host returned with a metal first-aid box and a wet washcloth. He rolled
the sleeves of his thermal shirt to his elbows. “Turn your head.”
She let him swab her temple, first with water, then with some stinging wipe. “Ow ow
ow.”
“That’s quite a bump you’ve got.” His thumb circled the spot.
“Ow—yes.”
“But you don’t need stitches at least.” He smeared the cut with ointment and smoothed
a broad bandage in place. He sat back on his heels, expression softening by a measure.
“I’ve gotten tape in your hair. Sorry.”
Merry gave the dressing a faint press. “That’s okay. What about my hand?” She held
it out, palm crusted maroon with dried blood.
He took it in his own hand and wiped it clean, revealing only shallow scrapes. She
stared at his mouth as the antiseptic wipe burned across the savaged skin, concentrating
on the tight line of his lips until the sting faded.
“Probably not worth the trouble of wrapping,” he said, letting her hand go.
“No, probably not. Thank you.”
He backed off, resting his forearms on his knees. “What are you doing out here, wandering
around with no supplies?”
“I’ve got a whole pack of stuff, but I had to ditch it when I got dizzy. It’s down
the hill a ways. I, um . . . Where’s your bathroom? I should know, just in case. I’m
pretty nauseous.”
He stood and went to a cupboard, returning with a large metal bowl and setting it
on her lap.
“Or that could work.”
“The bathroom’s not exactly en suite.”
Her bowels had settled, at least. “Thanks.”
“Has the fall made you nauseous?”
“No, I’ve been queasy since last night, and dizzy. I hit my head when I tripped.”
She touched the spot.
“Have you been drinking loch water?”
“Only filtered.”
“Have you been keeping it down?”
Merry shook her head. “Not really. Not since yesterday afternoon.”
“Want to hazard some tea?”
“Sure.” Maybe something hot would trick her body into a sense of calm.
The man went to his stove, lighting a fire in its belly and centering a kettle on
top. He gathered her mug plus another and a jar of loose tea, and tidied the small
kitchen area as he waited for the water to steam, seeming eager to ignore Merry. When
kettle finally whistled, he filled a perforated, hinged spoon with tea and snapped
it closed.
“I haven’t got any milk in,” he said.
“That’s fine. I shouldn’t push it, anyhow.”
“Sugar?”
“Please. Are you
sure
I can’t lie down?”
“I don’t think so. Not if you’re concussed.”
“I think I’m just not supposed to fall asleep.”
“Since neither of us seems to know for sure, let’s err on the side of caution.” His
tone had gone a touch sharp, and he had a different accent than the ones she’d heard
in the last village she’d passed through. Not as brogue-y as folks in Glasgow or further
north, but harder than the gentle, civilized tones of the Edinburgh natives she’d
encountered.
As he stirred, his blue eyes seemed to ask the mug,
Why? Why? Why?
Merry was chatty at the best of times, and out here, having not seen or spoken to
anyone for four or five days, she couldn’t help herself. “This is all very strange.
I feel drunk.”
He nodded, not looking up.
“I hope I haven’t wrecked your vacation.”
“I live here.”
Aha.
“Year-round?”
“Yes.”
Damn. “Just you?”
“Just me.”
“Have you been out here long?”
“About two years.” Still no eye contact.
“Did you grow up nearby?”
“Leeds.”
“Oh, you’re English. I was like, man, what a weird Scottish accent he’s got.”
He raised his eyes to meet hers, and in that split second she imagined she could read
his thoughts:
Bugger me, is she going to chatter like this all bloody day?
She drummed her fingers around the bowl. “Sorry. You know, for intruding this way.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.” Not the warmest reassurance, but fine. “How’s your
stomach?”
“Still queasy. But stabilizing, I think. Or maybe I’m just not so dizzy. So are you
retired, or . . . ?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
From what? And how, so young? And why do you live like a hermit? What’s your deal?
Are you a serial killer?
“Well, you’ve picked a very . . .”
Remote. Lonely. Secluded. Murder-conducive.
“A very majestic place. To retire.”
He nodded. For a long, awkward moment they stared at each other, and Merry wondered
which of them felt more confused by the other.
“My name’s Merry, by the way. Spelled like Merry Christmas.” A jolly name she’d lived
up to, in temperament and, until recently, plumpness. When her host didn’t respond,
the silence made her antsy. “What’s your name?”
“Rob.”
“Nice to meet you, Rob. I mean, this isn’t so nice, how it happened. But you know.”
Rob forced an unpracticed smile that suggested he didn’t find a single thing about
their acquaintance in any way nice.
She plowed on regardless, dreading silence more than she feared annoying him. “I’m
from San Francisco, just backpacking through.”
“On a gap year?”
“A what?”
“A break. From university?”
“Oh no, I’m thirty-one. I’m just on vacation. My mom grew up in Inverness, and I’ve
never been, so . . .” She cut herself off, knowing she’d spew on endlessly if given
half a chance.
I just lost a hundred pounds, you see, and my mom died last year, and I have no fucking
clue what I’m doing with my life or what I want, and I suspect this guy I’ve been
banging ditched me for losing the weight, and I think my best friend is next.
“I don’t really know why I’m walking there, to be honest. I guess I wanted a challenge.”
After a long pause, Rob submitted to the small talk with what looked like a considerable
effort. “How far?”
“Glasgow to Inverness.”
He blinked. “That’s a ways.”
“I was on track to do it in under three weeks, but I hadn’t planned on contracting
whatever this is. I hope it’s just some flu, from all the camping, and being so worn
out. Thank goodness I noticed your cottage yesterday.”
Rob didn’t echo her relief over this point, but instead asked, “How long did you say
you’ve been sick?”
“A day, for the cramps. My headache started last night, and—”
No need for details.
“And some other symptoms. At first I was hoping maybe it’s just that I’ve been eating
nothing but dried fruit, you know?”
“And you’ve been purifying your water?”
“Religiously.”
“Have you been swimming?”
Only in every loch I’ve passed in the last two weeks.
“Yeeeah . . .” She recalled all the playful fountains she’d jetted from her lips
while floating on her back, and the cramps sharpened. “Oh dear.” Before she could
get a fresh apology out, her mom’s voice intervened.
Say thanks, not sorry. Women have been apologizing for too long.
“Thank you. For the tea, and for checking my head and everything.”
He held her gaze, looking grim. “You could have crypto.”
Her stomach knotted more tightly. She’d read about crypto and giardia and all those
other scary water-borne illnesses in her travel guides, hence all the diligent filtering.
“If I did . . . any guess how long it’ll last?”
“A couple of days, maybe. If it’s a virus, it’ll flush itself out. But if your symptoms
get worse, you’ll need to go to hospital. Could be bacteria. Then you’d need antibiotics.”
She winced. “And how far is the nearest hospital?”
“With a vehicle? About an hour.”
“Do you have a vehicle?”
He nodded. “When you feel stable, I could take you. Better safe than sorry. And a
few warm nights in an inn might do more wonders than anything a doctor could prescribe.
You could probably find a bus route bound for Inverness, from wherever you wind up
staying.”
Her heart sank. She’d come so far, all on her own, just her and her two feet and the
muscles she’d earned this past year. As heavenly as a bed sounded, the thought of
climbing into a passenger seat to finish this mission . . . She’d already spent thirty
years too many in the passenger seat.
“I’d hate to quit now. I’m less than a week away. I mean, thank you for offering.
But I’d rather just rest for a day and see how I feel . . .” She waited for Rob to
suggest perhaps she could stay with him for said day, but his face told her nothing.
“I don’t suppose I could rest here?”
His eyebrows rose, expression souring as he stirred sugar into her mug. “What, for
the night?”
“I could get my pack from down the hill—I’ve got a sleeping bag and pad and a tent.
I don’t want to put you out. I’ll sleep outside. Just so in case my symptoms get any
worse, I wouldn’t be totally alone . . . ?”
He’d gone blank, attention nailed to the floorboards between them.
She changed her approach. “I could pay you. I don’t have a ton of cash on me, but—”
His eyes snapped up so fast, that stare so intense she froze.
“You can have the bed. For one night. To see if you feel different come morning.”
She released a breath. “Oh.”
He tapped the spoon on the edge of the mug, then came close to set her tea at her
elbow.
“Thank you. And for the bed. Seriously, though—tell me if I’m putting you out.”
“My entire life puts me out.” His tone gave her no clue whatsoever if this was a joke
or not. True, though—if he didn’t enjoy roughing it, he wouldn’t have moved out here.
“Well,” Merry said, watching as he knocked the spent tea into a plastic bucket and
started a second cup. “That’s very kind of you. Do you get a lot of backpackers bothering
you for stuff?”
He snapped the infuser spoon closed and dropped it in his steaming mug, finally meeting
her eyes.
“I don’t usually open the door.”
Chapter Three
For a long time Rob circled the spoon in his mug, stealing glances at his inexplicable
houseguest. He felt like a dog trying to make sense of physics.
There was a woman in his home.
There was an American woman—bleeding from her head and likely ill with crypto—sitting
in his kitchen. She stared through the far window, face placid but for the line pinched
between her brows that gave away her pain.
This was far more troubling than the middle-aged ramblers and adventurous students
who normally came calling, the ones Rob did well at ignoring or running off with a
few gruff, grunted directions toward the nearest scenic loch or motorway. He always
breathed easier the second their colorful jackets disappeared over the next rise.
But Merry couldn’t very well be shunted down the hill, and knowing he was stuck with
her for a night or more had his heart beating fast with taut, frantic thumps, his
throat tight. He really ought to drive her to hospital and be rid of her, but he didn’t
relish chancing it—his tax disc was expired, his license suspended. They might not
take notice in the village, but the city was another matter. Plus the city made him
anxious. More anxious than Merry’s company did, even.
He forced deep inhalations, though they did little more than leave him light-headed.
That made two of them, he supposed.
He eyed his guest. She looked alien in his minimalist home. Too modern, with her shiny
dark plait falling over the bright magenta of her fitted hiking top, piped in shimmery,
reflective material. Such a vulgar color amid all the drab wood, the muted old curtains,
the cold, earthy palette of the Highlands themselves. He’d be pleased to see the back
of her, same as all those other lost ramblers.
But her departure couldn’t be rushed, not with that bump on her head, its owner still
babbling like a drunk. He selfishly hoped the latter was a symptom of her head injury.
Rob wasn’t much for conversation.
He didn’t know how to talk to women anymore, not aside from a handful of mumbled words
to the clerks when he traveled to the nearest village to stock up on staples.
At some point in his twenties, Rob had known how to talk to women. Enough to get dates,
to pull, to fall in love and get married. Then the darkness had come, and that man
had been lost. Rob had gotten good at shouting, though. Demeaning, hateful words aimed
at his wife in the grips of the inevitable hangover, and who knew what slurred venom
when he was drunk. And he’d been drunk every fucking night, those final three years
of his so-called civilized life.
His hands felt cold, wrapped around a phantom bottle. He hugged the mug in both palms,
inviting it to scald him. Might take his mind off the panic. This entire scene smacked
of retribution, as though Merry had been sent to punish him. Simply standing within
ten paces of her disturbed him. That he could be so close to someone so soft and vulnerable—ill,
even—was all wrong. He yearned to escape. Happily, he had a ready excuse.
“You seem stable,” he told her. “I’ll fetch your pack. Don’t lie down.”
“Thanks. It’s orange. Somewhere between here and the loch.”
He abandoned his tea and headed outside. As the door shut behind him, he focused on
the sky, the air, the horizon . . . though it did little good.
For days at a time, Rob could forget who he was. When the weather stayed fair, he
moved like an animal along known paths, meeting the most basic of physical needs,
his thoughts no more than sensory feedback. Get him near town or trap him indoors
and the words returned, ideas and worries strung paragraphs-long through his brain,
tangling on one another, igniting old cravings.
Here in the hills, he had no mirrors. But in town, every set of eyes offered a reflection,
and the man staring back at him was ugly and mean, unforgivably cruel. It made him
ache for a drink, whereas out here, way past Great Glen, he could forget about the
stuff for days at a time, lost in chores, stalking the odd deer, in hours-long swims
in the deepest, stillest waters he’d ever known. With no other humans about, he was
nothing more than an anonymous mammal—breathing and eating and living. But in the
company of other people, he couldn’t help feeling he was the worst his species had
to offer. Gluttonous, weak, spiteful.
It had taken the wilderness to make a civilized man of him, and he longed for this
place every second he was away from it. Even more than he longed for a drink.
Orange nylon appeared down the hill. Rob eyed the sharp granite fins thrusting here
and there through the scrubby grass and heather, thinking Merry may have gotten off
easy with just a bump and scrape. As he hoisted her big trekking pack, the heft of
it shocked him—three stone or close to it. And she’d been carrying this around for
two weeks? Rob adjusted the straps and hauled it onto his back, amazed she’d gotten
this far up the hill before ditching it. Perhaps he owed his unexpected guest a bit
more credit.
It was just that women made him so very nervous. And Merry’s chirpy demeanor had him
feeling all the more wretched, like a toadstool sat beside some cheerful yellow blossom.
He trudged back up the hill and grabbed the plastic whistle Merry had dropped by the
stoop, fighting to keep his balance under the weight of her pack.
She was where he’d left her, and the smile she offered made his stomach twist. Her
skin was so smooth. So lovely and tan and . . . American. He must look like a transient.
A tangle of overgrown hair, face a week overdue to meet the business end of a razor.
He leaned her pack against the wall and clipped the whistle to one of its thousands
of straps.
So many straps.
He blinked at them until Merry’s voice cut through the haze.
“Thank you so much.”
He swore he could hear his jaw creaking, this smile felt so rusty. He grabbed his
tea from the stove. “No worries. Can you walk? Why don’t you have a seat in the rocker?”
He waved her toward the chair, carrying the emergency bowl and eyeing her unsteady
steps.
When she settled, he set the bowl by her feet and dragged the kitchen chair and table
over. Their mugs sat side by side. Funny. Rob had only bothered bringing two mugs
out here in case one broke. He’d never imagined actually needing a spare for entertaining.
Merry smiled at him expectantly.
This is where you make polite conversation, arsehole.
He sipped his tepid, over-steeped tea and managed, “So. Glasgow to Inverness?”
She nodded and crossed two fingers. “Almost there.”
“You picked a good time of year.”
The weather? Really? You massive pillock.
But what else was there? “Bit cold, but the midges have gone.”
“And most of the other tourists,” Merry said. “Though I wouldn’t have minded running
into a
few
more people. There were a couple times when I panicked, thinking I must have wandered
through some wormhole and hiked myself into another century. Like maybe the next ruin
I’d pass would be an actual castle, bustling with life.”
Rob tried to imagine the scene, such a silly, romantic thought . . . but he was far
too out of practice at such things.
“Then inevitably a jet would pass overhead,” Merry went on. “Do you go for long stretches,
not seeing anybody?”
“In the winter. In the nicer months I’ll hear voices or see people in the distance
a few times a week.” He lived on a sunny, alluring bit of historic hillside, and only
a couple hours’ hike from the central stretch of Loch Ness, albeit on the quieter
side of the glen. He was never short on ramblers in the spring and summer. “Maybe
once a week someone will come knocking, asking after directions. You’re the first
one to turn up since . . . Actually, I’m not sure what the date is. But the first
in two weeks or more.”
She smiled, looking around his little den. “Your home is really cool.”
“Is it?”
“Very peaceful. Very no-nonsense.”
“I’m not a fan of nonsense, so I suppose that suits me.”
“Not a city type?”
He considered it. “Not in recent years. I grew up in the city, and I loved it as a
younger man . . .” Loved it too much, in all the wrong ways. “But people change.”
“You must miss it
sometimes
, though.”
Some days he did. Missed the pub and the off-license, first and foremost, with an
ache like lust. “There’s nothing there that ever did me much good.”
“Nothing?”
“It brings out the worst in people, living like that. In such a hurry, all crushed
up against one another.” He hesitated before adding, “It brought out the worst in
me, anyhow.”
“Can I ask what you did, before you moved up here?”
“I owned a couple businesses around Leeds, with a mate of mine. Nothing too thrilling.”
Not the way he’d imagined it would be, when they’d been fresh out of university. But
how could a blossoming alcoholic not be ecstatic at the prospect of opening his own
bar? That was like a fire-starter taking a job in a match factory. And accordingly,
Rob’s life had gone up in spectacular flames.
“From businessman to hermit,” she mused, smiling. “No offense.”
“The shoe fits.”
“How about ‘survivalist’? That sounds a bit nicer.”
“I’m not bothered what anyone calls me, these days.” He wasn’t bothered about much
of anything, as long as he knew there was food to put in his stomach, wood for the
stove, a bed to kip on. Not caring suited him down to the ground. Just keep his belly
full and his head empty, keep those old, dark hungers from growling.
Merry yawned broadly.
“You must be knackered.”
She nodded. “I slept, but it wasn’t restful. All those trippy, repetitive dreams you
get when you’re nauseous.”
“I’ve got some chores to tend to, but let me show your where the loo is, then feel
free to sleep.”
She set down her mug and made it uneasily to her feet. He nearly offered her a hand,
then chickened out, intimidated by the intimacy. Intimidated by her weakness. Once
she was steady, he led her through the little storage area and out the rear door.
“Watch the step down.”
She followed him across the yard and he pointed out the wooden closet that housed
the most rudimentary of composting toilets. On the way back he filled a big enamel
basin from the pump, carried it inside and set it on the stove.
He fed two logs to the fire. “Water should be warm in an hour or so, if you fancy
a wash.”
“Thank you.” Merry settled again in the rocking chair.
Rob was feeling marginally more at ease, having endured an actual conversation with
his guest. He draped a clean hand towel over the basin’s lip and fetched the wool
throw from his tiny bedroom, passing it to her.
“I’ll try to stay within shouting distance. If you need privacy to change or get cleaned
up, I’ll be outside for at least a couple hours. I doubt you’ll need any more wood
for the stove, but if you do, there’s a stack by the rear door.”
“Thanks.”
He grabbed his jacket from its hook and downed the last of his cold tea. “I haven’t
got much food that’s ready to eat.”
“I have tons in my pack. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
Her smile caught him just before he turned, leaving his middle warm and queasy. He
shut the door quietly at his back.
Rob did the usual weekly rounds, walking the length of the pipe that fed the pump
and making sure it was sound. He kept a supply of cured fish and venison in a sturdy
plastic barrel set into the earth just beyond the yard, and he checked the planks
that covered it and the surrounding ground for signs of scavengers, pleased to not
find any. A quick poke through the garden told him the last of the year’s potatoes
were as ready as they were going to get. He’d tackle those tomorrow.
With a soft jingling, Rob’s only friend appeared, a small gray streak bounding up
the hill from the west.
It was the ugliest dog in creation, some unfavorable terrier mix the color of dust,
with stumpy legs and a head like an anvil. His fur looked perennially greasy, even
when Rob took the time to wash him in the basin. Deaf as a rock to boot. But sweet.
“What’ve you been up to, then?” He crouched to receive the dog’s spirited arrival,
rubbing his floppy ears. The animal routinely disappeared for a day or more at a time,
but he’d been finding his way back for two years now.
“You’ll be excited to hear we’ve got a guest.”
At the moment the animal was more excited about a treat. It trotted to the edge of
the yard and gave one of its wheezy near-barks. Rob got to his feet, following. He
shifted the boards, unlatched the barrel’s lid, and sliced a strip of venison from
the nearest hunk with his pocket knife.
He peeled a long ribbon and tossed it to the dog, chewing on the rest as he secured
the supply. They stood in some facsimile of companionship, working through the tough
fibers.
Useless though it was, he loved the dog.
He
owed
the dog. It had likely saved his life.
Three years ago, after his wife left him and his father passed away, Rob had come
up to the Highlands on a whim, knowing in the back of his head he’d chosen it as the
spot where he’d likely take his alcoholism to its natural conclusion. Drink himself
to death in the only place he’d ever known any real joy. He’d booked a cottage not
unlike the one he owned now, sobered enough to drive, and gone north with a few changes
of clothes and a tinkling bootload of bottles.
Perhaps five miles from his destination, the dog had appeared.
Rob had been lucky to even spot it through the drizzle and the gin haze. It had been
facing the other way, frozen in the road as though waiting for someone. Rob had slowed
his car, gotten out. The dog had felt the slam of his door or his footsteps or caught
his scent, and turned. Its tail had given a single, wimp wag, but the closer he came,
the more it cowered. It was skin and bones, soaked from the rain. A creature as lost
and pathetic as Rob had been, and that was no small feat. He’d lured it close with
half a leftover sausage roll, and it had let him pet it. And being marginally drunk,
Rob had scooped it up and taken it with him to the cottage, rabies be damned.