The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1)

THE ELEMENTAL

HEATHER ATKINSON

The village of Blair Dubh (pronounced doo) is a fictional village, however every other place name mentioned is real.

Thanks to my mum and sister for their advice and proofreading skills. As always thanks to my lovely husband for his support and for putting up with me always on my laptop and thanks to my two little girls just for being themselves.

Also a big thank you to my beautiful adopted home of Scotland for being a never-ending source of inspiration.

Heather Atkinson November 2013

CHAPTER 1

Despite the fact it was only mid-afternoon it was already starting to get dark, the sun obscured by thick grey rolling clouds. However Freya was glad of the darkness, she wanted to keep this homecoming private.

It had been fifteen years since she
’d last set foot in Blair Dubh - an isolated village on the west coast of Scotland - after she was dragged from it kicking and screaming at just eleven years old. Life had gone from happy hazy days playing with her mother and friends to unbearable loneliness in an overwhelming city.

Freya attempted to enjoy the stunning surroundings. Blair Dubh was perched on the coast on a thin spit of land projecting out from the mainland, segregated on one side by the Firth of Clyde leading out into the Irish sea and by dense woodland on the other. It was a secluded community at the best of times but in winter when the strong winds kicked up the sea would rise and flood the only road out of the village, cutting it off entirely. Although it was January, at the moment the sea was calm and the air still, watery sunshine filtering through breaks in the cloud - but that would soon change. A storm was on its way, she could feel it building in the air and that was why she
’d chosen to visit at this particular time. She couldn’t run away if there was no way out.

Freya paused by a sturdy oak tree and was amazed to see her fingernail marks still embedded in the bark. She
’d clung onto its trunk when two women from Social Services had come to take her away - one big and fat the other short and thin. The big one had been a nasty piece of work and dragged her roughly from the tree, causing Freya to tear her nails. As the fat one had driven her away from the only home she’d ever known she’d sobbed into the thin one’s scrawny chest. Miss Saunders had been kind and gentle, stroking her hair and telling her everything would be alright. Freya recalled wondering how things could ever be alright again. Her mother was dead.

As she touched the gouges she sensed the little girl inside her start to cry. That girl still existed, wrapped in an almost impervious armour of attitude and independence, but only Freya knew she was there. Everyone else was unable to get past the black clothes and extensive criminal record. At heart she was good, but events had conspired to make Freya bad.

The reason for this homecoming was to try and reconnect with who she used to be and finally put her legion of demons to rest.

Steeling herself, she moved past the tree and approached a row of whitewashed cottages that hadn
’t changed in fifteen years. The gardens were immaculate as always but lacking the colour that bloomed during the summer, everything hibernating until the weather improved. At the end of this row of cottages was her childhood home, obviously belonging to someone else now because it was so well-kept. Her mother hadn’t exactly been green-fingered, a constant source of irritation for the rest of the villagers.

As the childhood memories assailed her she hastily moved on. The gentle roll of the waves lapping at the shore was comforting and it was only now she realised how much she
’d missed it after so many years in Glasgow. The breeze tousled her hair and she closed her eyes, enjoying its cold caress. The last time it had touched her, her hair had been blond, like honey as her mother used to say. Now it was jet black, just like her clothes, make-up and nails. The only flash of colour were her green eyes.

She came across another row of neat cottages, not one alike. All were painted different colours and of varying shapes and sizes, the more adventurous had even added conservatories and all looked out over the churning grey waters, the mountains of Arran visible in the distance, snow dusting the caps. In the few minutes it had taken her to get this far the sky had grown even darker, the tiny chink of light sneaking through smothered by black clouds. Freya could feel the pressure building in the air around her, instinct urging her to seek cover. Since she was a girl she
’d always been able to sense a storm approach and the storms in Blair Dubh were a spectacle to behold.

Unease crept up her spine. Was it wise to force herself to confront memories that had tortured her for so long without giving herself an escape route? Should she turn back now while she still had the chance? The prospect of being trapped here for several days was not a pleasant one. However the thought of going back to the tormenting dreams, the constant battle just to get through each day urged her to stay. Facing the past was the one thing that might help her get better. She had to do this.

Continuing on her way the road started to slope upwards slightly but she couldn’t bring herself to look up there, she wasn’t ready for that yet. She could almost feel that figure clad in black robes standing in the churchyard, spade in hand, glaring down at her.

She shivered and instead concentrated her attention on the buildings clustered at the foot of the hill. There was a small shop, a community hall and beside this was the pub, the beating heart of the village.

Pulling up her hood she kept her head down as she scurried past the pub, traversing the slipway down to the water. Beyond this were another two cottages, the only holiday lets in the village, a display of two rowing boats, buoys and lobster pots so artfully arranged she thought they’d only been put there for the tourists, who at this time of year were unheard of. The letting agent had been delighted when she’d requested the smaller of the two properties for a few days. These cottages marked the end of the village. Beyond them was just a large wooden hut used by the volunteer fire service, which was important to a village that was often cut off from the rest of humanity.

Keeping her eyes down so she wouldn
’t look up the road, she pulled the key from her jacket pocket, opened the dark blue door of the little white cottage and hurried inside before anyone saw her. She stripped off her outdoor clothes in the small porch then walked into a cosy sitting room with a luxurious cream carpet, flowery but comfortable three piece suite, a solid dark wood coffee table and large flat screen TV. A pile of chopped logs were arranged in a neat pile beside the wood boiler stove, very useful in a place where there were frequent power cuts. She hadn’t seen one of those stoves since her childhood and another surge of memories hit. Freya furiously swallowed down her tears. She didn’t cry, not anymore.

Dumping her backpack on the floor she knelt before the stove and stoked it up, the routine quickly coming back to her.

Once she’d got the burner going she went into the small but spotless kitchen, which was all luscious dark wood, complemented by deep red appliances and a pair of tartan curtains. A lot of money had obviously been put into modernising it because these cottages were old.

While she set the kettle to boil she rummaged through the cupboards and fridge. Just as the agent had promised they
’d bought in the shopping list she’d given them, which should be enough to tide her over for the whole of her stay. She’d been sorely tempted to add a bottle of whisky to the list but that wouldn’t be a good idea for a recovering alcoholic. Coffee and hot chocolate were her only vices now.

She wrapped her cold hands around the warm mug and sat at the mahogany table, attempting to get her head around the fact that she was back in Blair Dubh. When she was taken from here all she
’d wanted to do was come back, then the anger had taken hold and she’d sworn never to return. She still wasn’t sure if this was a mistake.

Taking her coffee to the window she saw the craggy outline of Blair Dubh Castle silhouetted against the darkening sky, a magnificent and well-photographed ruin, it
’s crumbling towers black against the twilight sky. Although she couldn’t see it, past that and bearing to the right was the old church beside the graveyard. She could feel its shadow looming over her, its presence suffocating. Freya’s heart pounded in her chest and she yanked the curtains shut. There was the source of all her pain and she couldn’t even bear to think about it. How was she going to manage to actually go up there?

She headed upstairs to take a shower then donned her usual black jeans and jumper. As she sat before the small vanity in the chintzy bedroom clutching her kohl eyeliner she hesitated. Were the good people of Blair Dubh ready for the full Goth look? Her lips set in a determined line. Screw them, this was who she was now. If they didn
’t like it, tough. They had all stood back and done nothing when Social Services came to take her away, she owed them nothing.

After applying her black lipstick and eyeliner she pulled on her black leather jacket, laced up her big black boots and she was ready to go. It would be easy for her to hide away in the cottage, sneaking out when no one was around and just drown in memories but that wouldn
’t be enough to heal her. She had to face them and perhaps by some miracle her life would get better.

When she stepped outside the light had entirely gone and she appreciated the cover. The noise emanating from the pub grew louder as she approached and she stopped in her tracks a few steps from the door, her mouth going dry. Not only was the prospect of facing the entire village at once unnerving, but there were all the delights the pub held too. She
’d been dry for two years but she still had to fight the urge to drink on a daily basis.

Gritting her teeth, Freya pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The bar was an oddly-shaped crooked little place consisting of a narrow entryway with the bar down one side, leading into a larger room with tables and chairs. It was noisy, stuffy and full of men drinking and talking too loudly, all of whom ceased to do both when Freya entered.

Taking a deep breath she walked through them to the bar, their eyes following her, glasses halfway to their mouths. The bottles on the shelves leapt out at her and she was sorely tempted to have a wee nip of whisky just to soothe her nerves. No, she couldn
’t. That one little drink could be lethal. She stared at the selection of golden whiskies gleaming in the light, wrestling with herself and took so long to place her order that the landlord - a portly but powerfully-built man called Gordon - recovered from the shock she’d given him and decided to intervene.

“
What will it be?”

“
Orange juice please,” she eventually replied, voice slightly shaky.

“
Okay,” he said slowly, as though he didn’t fully understand what was going on but was willing to go along with it.

As he poured her drink Freya shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room boring into her back.

“One eighty please,” said Gordon, sliding the drink across the bar top. She handed over the money, which he warily accepted, afraid of her skin coming into contact with his own. Freya was already regretting her decision to wear the full Goth outfit but for years she’d been all about defiance.

Picking up her drink she delved further into the pub, walking down the little corridor linking the bar to the main seating area, her boots making a loud thud on the bare floorboards. There were more people in this part of the pub, mainly women sat in little cliques. Once again they all went quiet when she made her entrance. Coolly she took a spare table in the corner, appearing completely unperturbed while on the inside her heart was hammering, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. She
’d thought the hard outer shell she’d spent years building up would protect her here but it was being stripped away, getting dangerously close to the scared little girl cowering inside her.

“
Freya?” said a voice. “Freya Macalister?”

Sighing inwardly she looked up to see a soft round woman staring down at her, one she recognised immediately as Catriona Wilson. She
’d always been beautiful, quite the belle of the village and in fifteen years she’d hardly changed. She was dressed elegantly in a long silk blouse and tailored cream pants. Her rich chocolate-coloured hair was immaculately curled and her big brown eyes reminded Freya of a startled deer.

“
Yes?” Freya frostily replied.

“
My God, I never thought I’d see you again. It’s good to have you back.”

She held out her arms for a hug but Freya just stared back at her, recalling how she
’d watched from her front door as she’d been physically dragged from her home.

Catriona lowered her arms, looking embarrassed.
“So what brings you back here?”

Hoping this visit will get my life out of the toilet
. “I just wanted to see what had become of the place,” she replied vaguely, mistrust in her voice.

“
Well it’s good to have you back.” She turned to face the rest of the room. “It’s little Freya Macalister come home.”

Everyone who remembered the little blond girl - which was the majority of the room - leapt up and surrounded her table, penning Freya in.

The questions came thick and fast.

“
Are you still Macalister or are you married?”

“
No, I’m single.”

“
Where do you live?”

“
Glasgow.”

“
So close all these years. You should have come home sooner. What do you do for a living?”

“
I’m training at the moment.”

“
In what?”