While You Sleep: A chilling, unputdownable psychological thriller that will send shivers up your spine!

While You Sleep: A chilling, unputdownable psychological thriller that will send shivers up your spine! Stephanie Merritt A PACY, CHILLING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO STOP READING!‘Intensely atmospheric’ Mail on SundayA house full of secrets…The McBride house lies on a remote Scottish island, isolated and abandoned. A century ago, a young widow and her son died mysteriously there. Last year a local boy, visiting for a dare, disappeared without a trace.A woman alone at night…For Zoe Adams, the house offers an escape from her failing marriage. But when night falls, her peaceful retreat is disrupted—scratches at the door, strange voices—and Zoe is convinced she is being watched.A threat that lurks in the shadows…The locals tell Zoe the incidents are merely echoes of the house’s dark past. Zoe is sure the danger is all too real—but can she uncover the truth before she is silenced? Copyright (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018 Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2018 Excerpt from A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland © Sara Maitland 2008 Reproduced by kind permission of Granta Books Cover design Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photograph © Jan Bickerton / Trevillion Images (http://www.trevillion.com/) Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. 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Source ISBN: 9780008248208 Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008248222 Version: 2018-06-11 Epigraph (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) ‘When those are the very things one is hoping to escape from through silence, it is not at all surprising that one starts to see one’s longings as “works of the devil” and this sense of the demonic is itself intensified by the silence.’ Sara Maitland, A Book of Silence Table of Contents Cover (#ud1ced428-c698-5c1b-b546-c00176994a68) Title Page (#u61090d8e-03d8-5fe1-8e79-bd883c3d0471) Copyright (#u46d10cc2-e3ed-5006-b73a-c2cefd5cde6a) Epigraph (#uaa5a2839-74b6-51a3-9bc0-0f2131b4b5a6) Prologue (#u7a66e72e-417f-5bef-9c05-399dd5291ea0) Chapter 1 (#u32a8b216-5655-51b1-a4ca-f42e2866a303) Chapter 2 (#ub2eaab1f-aee8-5411-ad7b-616262491e5a) Chapter 3 (#ud7258706-dc52-5011-a0a7-cab7778de7e3) Chapter 4 (#u09eccbe9-f1e1-53b4-9f35-de5b3ff1b82f) Chapter 5 (#u106d0f3b-59e0-5c7f-a4f3-6147f7e4fc3e) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Stephanie Merritt (Writing as S. J. Parris) (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) It begins, they say, with a woman screaming. You can’t tell at first if it’s pleasure or pain, or that tricky place where the two meet; you’re almost embarrassed to hear it, but if you listen closer it comes to sound more like anguish, a lament torn from the heart: like an animal cry of loss, or defiance, or fury, carried across the cove from cliff to cliff on the salt wind. If you stand on the beach with your back to the sea, they’ll tell you, looking up at the McBride house, you might catch, behind tall windows on the first floor, the fleetest shift of a shadow. All the rooms dark through glass; not even the flicker of a candle, only the shape that shivers at that same window and vanishes, quick as breath, under the broken reflections of clouds and moon. They’ll say the woman’s keening grows louder as the gale seeks unprotected corners of the house, swirls around the pointed gables, shakes the weathervane on the turret and rattles the attic windows in their frames. But listen again; when the wind drops, there is nothing but the wild sea, and the occasional drawn-out moans of the seals beyond the headland. Only on certain nights, the islanders will tell incomers; when the moon is high and the air whipped up like the white-peaked waves in the bay. Be patient and you might hear her. Plenty will swear to it. The two boys crouch by a ridge of rocks at the foot of the cliff, watching the house. It is still half a ruin; naked beams poke into the moonlit sky like the ribs of some great flayed beast. They hesitate, each waiting for the other to move. They have come this far to test the old stories, they can’t lose face now. The summer night is mild and clear; too balmy for ghosts. They are girding themselves when the screaming starts. They turn to one another in astonishment; fear makes them giggle. ‘Let’s go,’ whispers the nimble, ginger boy. He has his phone in his hand, ready to capture it on film. But his companion has frozen to the spot, stricken, his eyes stretched wide and fixed on the house. ‘Come on, we’ll miss it.’ The heavier boy retreats a few paces, shaking his head. The ginger one hesitates, his lip curling with scorn. ‘Pussy.’ He sets off over the sand and marram grass to the half-open door, his phone held out at arm’s length. Left behind on the beach, his friend watches him disappear into the shadows. The waves break and retreat, over and over, dragging layers of shingle into the restless water. A new scream echoes across the beach, a child’s cry this time. The last traces of light ebb from the sky and behind the windows of the McBride house there is nothing but solid darkness. 1 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) The island appeared first as an inky smudge on the horizon, beaded with pinholes of light against the greying sky. As the ferry ploughed on, carving its path through the waves, the land took form and seemed to rise out of the sea like the hump of a great creature yet to raise its head. Bright points arranged themselves into clusters, huddled into the bay at the foot of the cliff, though the intermittent sweep of the lighthouse remained separate at the furthest reach of the harbour wall. The only passenger on the deck leaned out, gripping the rail tighter with both hands, anchored by the smooth grain of the wood beneath her fingers. Doggedly the ferry rose and fell, hurling up a cascade of spray each time it crested a wave and dropped away. Wind whipped her hair into salt strands that stung her lips; she wore a battered flying jacket and pulled up the collar against the damp as she planted her feet, swaying with the motion of the boat, determined to take it all in from here as they docked and not through the smeared window of the passenger lounge downstairs, with its fug of wet coats and stewed tea. Outside, the wind tasted of petrol and brine. She pushed her fringe out of her face and almost laughed in disbelief when the noise of the engines fell away and the men in orange waterproofs began throwing their coils of rope and shouting orders at one another as the boat nosed a furrow through oily water to bump alongside the pier. Two days of travelling and it was almost over. She tried not to think about the old saying that the journey mattered more than the arrival. She tried not to think about what she had left behind, thousands of miles away. The ferry terminus hardly warranted the name; there was a car park and one low, pebble-dashed building, the word ‘Caf?’ flaking off a sign above the door. She edged down the gangplank, pushing her wheeled art case in front of her and yanking the large suitcase behind like two unwilling toddlers, a travel easel in its holder unwieldy under her arm. Each time it hit the rail as she turned to wrestle with one bag or other, she was grateful that now, in mid-October, the ferry was not crowded, so that at least she did not have to worry about how many of her fellow passengers she had maimed in the process of herding her luggage ashore. At the head of the slipway she saw a man in a leather jacket, its zip straining over a comfortable paunch. He was holding a home-made cardboard sign that read ‘Zoe Adams’; as soon as his eyes locked on to hers and met with recognition, he broke into a broad smile and started waving madly at her, as if he were trying to attract her attention through a crowd, though she was only yards away and the few remaining foot passengers had all dispersed. She smiled back, hesitant. He was around her own age, she thought; early forties, with thinning blond hair and a round, open face, cheeks reddened by island weather or a taste for drink, or perhaps both together. He approached her with an anxious smile. ‘Mrs Adams?’ She hesitated. She could have let it go, but there would only be more questions later on. ‘Uh – actually, it’s Ms.’ ‘Eh?’ Zoe tilted her head in apology. ‘I’m not a Mrs.’ ‘Oh.’ He looked afraid he had offended. ‘My mistake. You’re no married, then?’ She made a non-committal noise and set down one of her cases so that she could stretch out a hand. ‘You must be Mr Drummond?’ ‘Mick, please.’ He beamed again, grasping her fingers and shaking them with a vigour intended to convey the sincerity of his welcome. ‘I’m the one who’s been sending all the emails.’ He released her hand and held up the sign with a self-conscious laugh; the wind almost snatched it from his grip. ‘My wife’s idea. I told her, it’s no as if there’s going to be hundreds of them pouring off the boat, but she said it would spare you feeling lost when you first set foot here.’ Zoe smiled. If only that were all it took. ‘It was very thoughtful of her.’ ‘Aye, she’s like that. Kaye. You’ll meet her. Here, let me take those.’ He tucked the sign under his arm and hefted her cases into each hand, nodding across the car park to an old Land Rover, its flanks crusted with mud. Zoe looked back at the harbour as he loaded her bags into the trunk. Through the lit windows of the ferry she could see the shapes of people cleaning, swinging plastic bags of trash, ready for the return trip, the boat garish in its brightness against the encroaching dark of sea and sky. The gulls shrieked their tireless warnings. Here, the rolling of the waves seemed louder and more insistent, as if the sea wanted to make sure you did not forget its presence. She wondered if she would grow used to that, after a while. A faint wash of reddish light stained the line of the horizon, but it was too overcast for a proper sunset like those in the photographs. Still, there would be time. ‘Hop in, then.’ Mick held the door open for her. For one panicked moment she thought he expected her to drive, before she realised she had made the usual mistake. That perverse habit of driving on the left. Perhaps she would get used to that in time, too. The quick flurry of palpitations subsided. ‘Is it far, to the house?’ ‘Five miles, give or take.’ He glanced over his shoulder, shuffled his feet. ‘Look – it’s been a long journey, I know, and you’ll be tired, but we wondered if you’d like to come by the pub for a wee drink before I take you up to the house?’ Zoe began a polite refusal but he cut across her. ‘Thing is, we’ve music on tonight, local band, it’s a thing we do on Thursdays, so there’ll be a lot of folk out and we thought – well, it was Kaye’s idea – she thought it would be nice for you to say hello while they’re all in one place. Since you’re staying a while, you know. Only a wee glass.’ He twisted his hands together and looked at his boots before raising his eyes briefly to hers, as if he were asking for a date. ‘She’s dying to meet you,’ he added. ‘They all are.’ Zoe sucked in her cheeks. Christ. She was far from dying to meet them, whoever they were; quite the opposite. She felt grimy and dishevelled from the overnight flight, the five-hour train journey and two hours on the ferry; she probably didn’t smell too fresh either, under all her layers. And the point was to be anonymous here, to slip quietly into her coastal house and be left alone. She had not come here to make friends. But it had been na?ve, she now realised, to imagine that a newcomer to a small community, out of season, would not immediately become a subject of gossip and speculation. If she was going to stay here a few weeks, it would be wise not to offend the locals on day one. ‘I’m not really dressed for going out,’ she said, though the protest was half-hearted. ‘You’re grand,’ Mick said, giving her a cursory glance. ‘It’s no as if they’ll all be in dinner suits.’ He clicked his seatbelt. ‘Just the one. And then I’ll run you up to the house, I promise. We can leave all the bags in the car.’ Zoe leaned her forehead against the window, the cold solidity of the glass reflecting her exhaustion back at her. Without make-up, the jet lag and all the sleepless nights of recent months were etched on her face, like a confession. Was that why she was so reluctant to go to the pub, she wondered – plain old vanity? Was it that she didn’t want to be judged by her new neighbours until she could at least brush her hair and paint some colour into her washed-out face? Of course, it could be a scam; she would blithely go in for one drink and when she came out there would be no sign of Mick or the car, or her bags. But if she was going to think like that, the whole thing could be a scam, as Dan had repeatedly pointed out. All she had seen was a website – an amateurish one at that – and a few emails. Maybe the house didn’t even exist. If that were the case, it was too late to worry about it now; she had already transferred the money. ‘Sure,’ she said, forcing enthusiasm. ‘Why not?’ ‘Lovely. I wouldn’t hear the last of it from Kaye if we’d no given you a proper welcome.’ Zoe could hear the relief in his voice as the engine belched into life. ‘You’ll like it – they’re a colourful crowd. I mean – it’s no exactly the nightlife of New York,’ he added, as if fearing he might have created false expectations, ‘but then I suppose you’ve come here to get away from all that.’ ‘I’m not from New York,’ Zoe said, watching the mournful lights of the caf? recede as he pulled away. Then, thinking she ought to offer something else, she added, ‘Connecticut. You’re not far off.’ ‘Oh, aye?’ Mick turned out on to the main road. ‘Never been myself. America. I’d like to, mind. When the kids are older, maybe. Kaye wants to go to Nashville. She’s into all the country music and that, you know? Now me, I’ve a fancy for somewhere more rugged. Hiking, fishing, that sort of thing. I’ve always liked the idea of moving to Canada.’ ‘So does half my country right now,’ she muttered. ‘Aye, the great outdoors,’ Mick continued, missing the point. ‘That’s where I’m at home. Can’t get my girls interested yet, though they’re quite into animals and all that. We get otters up here – you’ll maybe see some around the bay.’ Zoe leaned against the window and let Mick fill the silence with his wilderness dreams. For as long as he was talking about himself or otters, he was not asking her questions. They passed through what she assumed was the main street of the town: a general store; a place that sold hardware, electronics and fishing supplies; a tea room; a bookshop; a few vacant shopfronts, the windows opaque with milky swirls of whitewash as if to veil their emptiness from public view. At the far end, the street broadened out into a triangular green with a war memorial in the centre, a school playground on one side and a small, plain church opposite. Mick swung the Land Rover to the right, past the churchyard, into a narrower lane. The cottages on each side lined up crookedly against one another, like bad teeth, but they looked snug, with lights glowing warmly behind drawn curtains. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she prompted, when he seemed in danger of running out of talk. He slid her a sideways look and she sensed that a certain wariness had descended. ‘Born and bred,’ he said. She was not sure if the note in his voice was pride or resignation. ‘Got away as soon as I could, mind. All the young ones do. But my mother passed away five years back and my da couldn’t manage the pub on his own, he was getting on, you know? So I came home. Brought my wife and daughters with me.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Sometimes a place is in your marrow. It pulls you back. Nothing you can do about it.’ ‘Uh-huh.’ Zoe nodded. ‘My grandmother came from this part of the world, actually.’ ‘Is that right?’ He eyed her with greater approval. ‘So you’ve come in search of your roots?’ ‘Something like that. I guess my Scottish blood’s pretty diluted by now. She married an Englishman. My mother grew up in Kent. I was born there too.’ ‘I’d keep that quiet round here, if I were you.’ He winked. ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Kent.’ ‘We moved to the States when I was a kid. My dad’s from Boston.’ She wrapped her arms around herself; the thought of her father speared her with a sudden pang of longing. No use thinking of that now. She forced a brightness into her voice, changing the subject. ‘So did the house always belong to your family? The one I’m staying in?’ Again, that slight hesitation, the flicker of a glance, as if he suspected her of trying to catch him out. ‘Aye.’ It looked as if this was the extent of his answer, but as they approached a turning with a painted sign at the entrance showing a white stag on the crest of a hill, he cleared his throat. ‘But it didn’t come to me until my father passed on last year.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Zoe said automatically. ‘About your father.’ ‘Aye, well, he was eighty-seven and still working, more or less – that’s no a bad run.’ Mick sniffed. ‘But he’d let the house go over the years. They all had. Took a lot of work to make it fit to live in. Don’t get me wrong’ – he turned to her with that same anxious expression – ‘it’s all good as new – better. I did most of the work myself – that’s what I used to do, down in Glasgow, you know – restore houses. It’s lovely now, though I say so myself. Well, you’ll have seen the photos on the website. They’re no Photoshopped or any of that,’ he insisted, a touch defensive. ‘It looks beautiful. You didn’t want to keep it for your family home?’ He snapped his head round and his eyes narrowed. Then his face relaxed and he laughed, almost with relief. ‘Too far out for us. We stay here, above the pub. That way we’re on hand if there’s any problems. And the girls can walk to school in five minutes. That’s the only reason,’ he added, as if someone had suggested otherwise. ‘No sense in making life more complicated.’ He indicated the building in front of them, a whitewashed inn of three storeys with gabled windows in the roof. The car park outside was busy, and as he switched off the engine, Zoe heard music and laughter drifting through the clear air. ‘But if it’s peace and quiet you’re after, it’ll be perfect for you.’ He was trying too hard, Zoe thought. Perhaps there was something wrong with the house after all. It had looked so idyllic on the website; eccentric, as if the original architect had thrown at it all the excesses of the Victorian Gothic and hoped for the best. From the pictures she had seen, the interior was tastefully restored and minimally furnished, but what had really hooked her was the light. The photographs had been taken in summer, but even in sunshine there was a bleakness to the island’s beauty that had whispered to her, stark bars of cloud lending shadow and depth to the sky. A veranda ran around the west and south sides of the house, overlooking an empty strand of sand and shingle, marked only by coarse clumps of seagrass, tapering down to a small bay that gave on to the vast silvered expanse of the Atlantic. The house was set a little way back from the beach, built into the slope of the cliff at its shallowest point, while a ridge of rock rose up behind, as if to protect it from prying eyes. She had noticed the quality of the light with a painter’s eye, and known with some instinct deeper than thought that she needed to wake under that sky, to the sound of that empty ocean and the seabirds that wheeled and screamed above it, if she was ever going to find her way back. Whether some ancestral tug in the blood had drawn her there, she could not say. She had only felt a certainty, on seeing the house, that had eluded her for months; the knowledge that it was meant for her. ‘Peace and quiet is absolutely what I want,’ she said, but with a smile, so as not to seem antisocial. Mick opened his door, then turned back to her. ‘The thing is, Mrs Adams – Ms – sorry, Zoe …’ He chewed his lip, unsure how to continue. ‘There’s a lot of history to this place. Legends, and so on. And a lot of families have been here for generations. So people have their superstitions, you know? Plenty of folk here have barely been off the island.’ Zoe nodded. ‘I guess that’s part of the charm.’ ‘Aye, but …’ He looked uneasy. ‘It’s only – if you hear people telling tall tales, as they like to do with a drop of whisky inside them, pay them no mind. Fishermen’s yarns, old wives’ gossip – that’s all it is.’ ‘Oh, I love all those folk tales. My grandmother used to tell them when we were kids. Selkies and giants and whatever.’ As soon as she’d said the words, she regretted them, picturing herself trapped in a smoky corner by some ancient mariner. ‘As long as you know that’s all they are. Bit of fun. Tease the incomers.’ Mick smiled back, but he did not look reassured. ‘Come on then, you must be gasping for a drink.’ The warmth of the pub hit her face like a blast from a subway vent, thick and yeasty, homely smelling: woodsmoke and winter food, stews, hot pastry and mulled cider. A wave of sound broke over her at the same time, a fast and furious jig from the band, accompanied by raucous singing, foot-stamping and the banging of beer mugs, so that for an instant Zoe felt overwhelmed by the force of it, the noise and heat and smell of so many people crammed into a lounge bar designed for half their number. She stood very still, one hand to her temple as if her head were fragile as an eggshell, and closed her eyes as the weight of her jet lag settled inside her skull. When she opened them, every head had swivelled to stare at her. She allowed her gaze to travel the room, taking in the questioning faces – no hostility in them, as far as she could see, most had not even missed a breath in their singing – and felt her own expression freeze into a tight little smile, fearful of offending. She cast around for Mick with a flutter of alarm, until she realised he had flipped open the bar and taken up a position of natural authority behind it. He beckoned her over and pushed a heavy crystal tumbler across the polished wood. A generous measure of Scotch glowed honey-gold, with no ice. ‘Get this down you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Put some colour in your cheeks.’ Zoe lifted the glass to her mouth and breathed in peat and smoke, ancient scents, the land itself. The heat slid down her throat and uncurled through her limbs. Behind her eyes the headache intensified briefly, then began to melt away. She set the glass down on the bar and Mick immediately refilled it, with a wink. ‘That’s my Kaye there,’ he said, nodding to the makeshift stage where the band were building to a crescendo. Zoe turned to look. The singer was a buxom woman dressed younger than her age, in drapey black skirts and a black lace top, her long pink hair bright and defiant. She sang with her eyes closed, a fist wrapped around the microphone, one foot in floral Doc Martens pounding the stage to the beats of the bodhran, her voice bluesy and hard-edged, smoke and whisky. Though Zoe could not make out the words, she surmised from the ferocity of the singing that it was some kind of nationalist rebel song, and that the anger soaked through its lyrics was still keenly felt by a good many of the patrons. The rest of the band were men; all – apart from the young fiddle player – well into middle age, with grey hair pulled back into ponytails, and grizzled beards, leather waistcoats and cowboy boots. There was an accordion, a pennywhistle and a guitar as well as the bodhran and the violin; the music sounded vaguely familiar, the kind she had heard on a loop in Irish bars in Boston and New York, but here it did not feel manufactured for tourists. The musicians played with their eyes closed, as if every note mattered. The rebel song ended in a burst of cheering and applause, but the band did not even pause to acknowledge it; instead the woman launched into a wild and wrenching lament, accompanied only by the violin and the heavy heartbeat of the drum. The room stilled to a reverent hush as her voice soared to the blackened rafters, transformed now into a fluting, other-worldly alto, holding tremulous notes that made goosebumps prickle along Zoe’s arms and the back of her neck. Though she did not understand the strange language, she could not miss the heart-cry in the music: a grief that seemed centuries old. Looking around, she saw old men with tears running down their faces, mouthing the words to themselves. The woman’s voice faded out and the young fiddle player stepped forward for a solo, his lips pressed tightly together, slender fingers moving nimbly over the strings, brow furrowed behind the long fringe that fell over his face. Zoe sipped her second whisky and experienced a sudden urge to reach forward and brush it out of his eyes, the way she would with Caleb when he was bent over his iPad, absorbed in whatever animation he was making, oblivious to everything. She became aware that Mick was leaning over the bar behind her, a dishcloth pressed between his clasped hands. ‘She has an incredible voice.’ Zoe realised she was expected to comment. ‘She’s something, isn’t she?’ Mick said, not taking his eyes off his wife. That glimpse of tender pride caused Zoe to flinch briefly. She remembered seeing the same expression on Dan’s face, at the first exhibition she had invited him to when they started dating; admiration of her talent and the thrill of being allowed to claim some share in it. She could not remember when he had last looked at her like that. At the end of the song, the band set down their instruments and announced a break. Around the bar the hum of conversation resumed; glances once more directed openly at her, murmured observations that made no effort to disguise the fact that she was the subject. The woman with the pink hair sprang down and pressed her way across the bar, scattering smiles to left and right. She stopped breathlessly and caught Zoe’s hand between both of hers. ‘Zoe! We’re so glad you’re here. I’m Kaye Drummond. I hope he’s got you a drink? Top her up there, Michael, will you? You’re our guest tonight. Are you hungry?’ Zoe shook her head. If she had been hungry, the whisky had blunted all memory of it. Kaye looked up at her with anxious eyes. Though her figure was voluptuous, her face was delicate, almost elfin, the wide blue eyes rimmed with black kohl, her rosebud mouth painted the same shade of fuchsia as her hair; Zoe guessed her to be in her late thirties. She wore large silver rings on every finger, so that Zoe felt she was being clasped by armoured gauntlets. ‘That was a beautiful song just now,’ she said. ‘Oh, aye, thanks.’ Kaye beamed, her eyes shining. ‘It’s an old one. Everyone round here remembers their granny singing it.’ ‘What does it mean?’ ‘Och, they’re all awful depressing. It’s about a woman who loses her love to the sea and drowns herself of a broken heart. Most of them are, if they’re not about the Clearances. People have long memories up here. Have you come to paint? I said to Mick, we could have a wee show here in the pub if you wanted. Folk might like to see them. They might even buy one, if they weren’t too …’ she made a knowing face and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. ‘Oh – that’s kind, but …’ Zoe felt herself growing flustered. ‘I hadn’t thought of selling. I’m a little out of practice. I’m here to find my way back to it, I suppose.’ ‘Well, you let us know,’ Kaye said, undeterred. ‘It’s no like we’re experts. They could be total shite, we wouldn’t know any different.’ She broke into peals of laughter and flicked Zoe on the arm with the back of her hand. ‘I’m only messing with you. I’m sure they’re no shite. You’d buy one, wouldn’t you, Ed?’ She nudged the young man next to her, the fiddle player, in the ribs. He turned from the bar and gave Zoe a shy smile from under his fringe. He wore large tortoiseshell glasses that reflected the light, making it hard to see his eyes clearly. ‘Buy what?’ ‘One of Zoe’s paintings.’ ‘Oh. Well – ah – what are they of?’ ‘I haven’t done any yet,’ Zoe said, smiling to ease his embarrassment. ‘Well – not here. But I guess I paint landscapes. Or I used to. Kind of impressionistic. Not very original,’ she added, with an awkward laugh. He shrugged. ‘Everyone likes a landscape, don’t they? I mean, at least you know what it is. People don’t stand around in galleries arguing about what a landscape means, right?’ Oh, they do, Zoe almost said, but stopped herself; condescension would not be a good look. The boy took off his glasses and rubbed them on the hem of his shirt; his face appeared soft and exposed without them. A pint of dark beer was slopped down on the bar top in front of him. She glanced up and caught the eye of the barmaid, a thickset girl of about eighteen with heavy make-up, a top that was too tight to flatter and dyed black hair scraped into a messy topknot, pulling her small features taut under ruthlessly plucked brows. She looked at Zoe with evident disdain, even when Zoe ventured a smile. ‘Cheers, Annag.’ The boy, Ed, replaced his glasses, took a sip from the top of his pint and fished in his pocket for coins with the other hand. She noticed he did not look at the girl behind the bar. Instead he cocked his head towards Zoe. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ She glanced down at her glass. While her back had been turned, it had magically acquired another two fingers of Scotch. She would have to take it easy; already a gentle numbness had begun spreading up the side of her face, warm and comforting, as her head was growing lighter. ‘I’m good, thanks.’ She hesitated. The barmaid continued to watch her. ‘I’d take one of those, though.’ She nodded towards the open breast pocket of his shirt, where a pack of Marlboro Lights nosed out. As soon as she’d asked, she wondered why she’d done it. She hadn’t smoked for over a decade, not since before she was pregnant with Caleb. She hadn’t even been aware that she’d missed it. She had a sudden memory of the first day of college, self-consciously lighting a cigarette almost as soon as her parents had driven away, because for the first time there was no one who knew her and she was at liberty to try out a new version of herself, one less timid and constrained by expectations. Perhaps this was the same thing, twenty-five years on. Dan would be appalled. She supposed that was precisely why she had asked. ‘Course.’ The boy picked up his pint and patted the cigarettes in his pocket. ‘We’ll have to go out the back.’ As she turned back for her drink, Zoe saw the look of naked hostility on the barmaid’s flat face and realised, too late, that she might unwittingly have stepped on someone’s toes. ‘I don’t really smoke,’ she said, by way of apology, as the boy held open a door at the side of the bar and led her through to a paved courtyard that opened on to a grassy area with picnic tables overlooking a low wall. Beyond this, some way below them, lay the vast black expanse of the sea. ‘Nor do I.’ He flipped open the pack and offered it to her, glancing around as he did so. ‘At least, not where the children might see me.’ She looked at him, surprised. He could not be past his early twenties. People started younger in the country, she supposed. ‘How many kids do you have?’ ‘Eleven.’ He left a significant pause, grinning at her expression. ‘Youngest four, oldest nearly twelve. I’m the schoolteacher here.’ ‘Oh.’ Zoe laughed, to show that she had fallen for the joke. She regarded him with a new curiosity. ‘Just you?’ ‘Just me. There’s only one class. The older kids take the ferry to the mainland and board during the week.’ ‘Wow. How long have you been here?’ ‘Since Christmas. The previous teacher had to retire on health grounds, they needed someone quickly. I was lucky. It’s my first job out of college.’ He gave a diffident smile and struck a match, cupping his hands around the flame as he brought it to the tip of her cigarette. He leaned in close enough for her to see the fine dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Behind his glasses, his lashes were so long they brushed the lenses, and dark, darker than his hair. He sensed her looking and raised his eyes; a gust of wind snuffed out the flame before it could make contact. ‘What made you choose somewhere so remote?’ she asked quietly, as he threw down the burnt match and struck another. ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said. He laughed as he said it, but she glimpsed a flash of wariness in his eyes. The match guttered out and he dropped it with a soft curse. ‘Running away,’ said a firm voice behind them. Zoe jumped, as if caught in a forbidden act; she whipped around to see a man seated on a bench by the door, against the wall of the pub, almost hidden by shadows. He spoke through a pipe clamped comfortably between his teeth. A black Labrador lay at his feet, half under the bench, so dark its hindquarters seemed to disappear. ‘Everyone who comes here is trying to escape from something,’ he repeated, amusement lighting his eyes. ‘And those who were born here dream of running away.’ He rubbed his neat white beard and smiled, as if they were all included in a private joke. ‘Here, Edward –’ he held out a silver Zippo – ‘you’ll be there all night with this wind.’ The boy stepped forward to take the lighter. ‘What are you running from then, Professor?’ The older man considered. ‘History,’ he said, after a pause. His gaze rested on Zoe. ‘And you must be the artist from America. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’ He did not speak with the local accent, but in the rich, sonorous voice of an English stage actor. A reassuring voice, Zoe thought. She inclined her head. ‘Zoe Adams.’ ‘Charles Joseph.’ He held out a hand, though he didn’t get up, obliging her to cross to him so that he could shake hers with a brisk grip. Even in the half-light she could see that his face was tanned and weathered, his eyes a sharp ice-blue. He could have been anywhere between fifty and eighty. ‘And this is Horace. Named for the poet. He has a decidedly satirical glint.’ The dog raised its eyebrows and thumped its tail once in acknowledgement. ‘Are you a professor of history, then?’ she asked, to turn the conversation away from herself. He laughed. ‘I’m afraid this young man is flattering me. Or mocking me, I’m never sure which. I have been a university teacher in my time, it’s true, though I never held tenure. Never stayed anywhere long enough.’ ‘Everyone calls him the Professor, though,’ Edward said, cracking the Zippo into life. Zoe held her cigarette to the flame, inhaled and coughed violently as her head spun. ‘He’s our local historian. Anything you want to know about the island, he’s your man.’ ‘Well. I can’t promise that, but I can usually find a book to help.’ Charles Joseph puffed on his pipe and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I own the second-hand bookshop on the High Street. Do drop by sometime. I make excellent coffee and it gets quiet out of season. I’m always glad of a visitor.’ Pale creases fanned out from the corners of his eyes, Zoe noticed, as if he smiled so often the sun had not had a chance to reach them. ‘He’s being modest,’ Edward said, breathing out a plume of violet smoke. ‘He’s the one who wrote most of the books. Get him to tell you the island’s stories. He can talk the hind legs off a donkey, mind.’ He grinned at Charles. Zoe sensed an unspoken affinity between these two men, despite their difference in age. Perhaps it was a matter of education; in a community like this, those who read books tended to huddle together against the corrosion of a small-town mindset. That was how it had been where she grew up, anyway. ‘My price is a cinnamon bun from Maggie’s,’ Charles said, lifting the pipe out of his mouth. ‘That’s the bakery three doors down from my shop. Bring me one of those and I’ll tell you all the tales you have time for.’ Zoe thought of Mick’s hesitant warning in the car, about the locals and their legends, embellished to frighten incomers. She took another drag, the second easier than the first, and felt the nicotine buzz through her blood. ‘How do you know so much about the place?’ she asked. ‘I lived here for a while, many years ago.’ Charles paused to relight his pipe. After considerable effort and fierce puffing, he looked up at her through a cloud of smoke. ‘After I retired, I drifted back. I think I always knew I would, deep down.’ He made it sound fatalistic, the way Mick had. ‘You missed it?’ ‘It called me back. Simple as that. I took a look around and it occurred to me that people here could do with a bookshop.’ He drew on his pipe again with a rueful smile. ‘Not many of them agreed, if my accounts are anything to go by.’ ‘Rubbish,’ Edward said. ‘People love the bookshop. Your profit margins would be a lot better if you weren’t always giving books away for nothing.’ ‘Well, that’s the trouble, you see.’ Charles leaned forward, pointing the stem of his pipe at Zoe as if he were imparting a confidence. ‘Whenever someone comes in, I think, a-ha, I know just the thing he or she should read. But people have very fixed ideas about what they think they like – have you noticed? Sometimes I have to fairly insist they take it, and then I can hardly charge them. But I’m almost never wrong – Edward will tell you. Besides,’ he sucked on the pipe and sighed out a fragrant haze, ‘I hate to see books sitting alone and unloved on a shelf. I’d much rather they found a home.’ ‘Not the smartest way to run a business,’ Edward said, with affection. Charles inclined his head. ‘True. But only an idiot would open a second-hand bookshop to get rich.’ ‘Did you live here as a child?’ Zoe asked. Charles looked at her, his white eyebrows gently puckered, as if the question required careful deliberation. ‘There you are!’ The door banged against the wall and Kaye stood on the step, a pint glass of water in one hand, jabbing a finger towards Zoe in mock-admonishment. ‘Thought we’d lost you.’ Zoe saw her take in the cigarette and felt immediately guilty, as if she were still her adolescent self and had exposed herself to the censure of the neighbours. Kaye’s look changed when her gaze fell on Charles, stretched comfortably over his bench, Horace’s chin resting on his boots. ‘Has he been filling your head with nonsense?’ She nodded towards him. She was trying to keep her voice light, but Zoe did not miss the underlying sharpness, the anxiety in Kaye’s eyes. ‘None that wasn’t there before,’ Zoe said with a smile. ‘He’s a great one for the stories, is our Professor,’ Kaye said, fixing him with a stern eye. ‘Keeps us all entertained round the fire when the nights draw in. Ed – Bernie wants to go in five. Give us a drag of that.’ She took Edward’s half-smoked cigarette from his hand without waiting for an invitation, throwing a guilty glance towards the upper windows of the building behind them. ‘If my girls are looking out, I’m in trouble.’ She hauled in another lungful and leaned down to stub out the butt in a pot of sand by the door. Edward dug his hands into his jeans pockets and dipped his head towards Zoe. ‘Nice to meet you. Hopefully we’ll see you up here again, if you’re around for a while.’ The diffident angle of his glance, the not-quite-meeting of her eye, the studied nonchalance of his tone, all caught Zoe off guard; was he flirting with her? ‘Sure,’ she said, aiming to sound neutral. The idea seemed so unlikely that almost as soon as it had occurred she felt embarrassed by it, in case he had guessed at her presumption. He nodded, gave Charles a brief wave and disappeared back inside the pub. Kaye beamed widely and looked at the door, as if she could will her guest back inside with the force of her smile. Zoe was too foggy with tiredness to offer any resistance. She looked at the cigarette burning slowly down between her fingers as if she couldn’t remember how it had come to be there. She ground it out in the sand and turned back at the door to Charles. ‘I’ll look out for your shop, Mr Joseph.’ She did not quite have the nerve to call him ‘Professor’. ‘Please do,’ he said, reaching down to tousle the dog between its ears. ‘Horace and I are there every day, putting the world to rights with whoever drops by. We’d be delighted to see you. I promise I’ll find you an interesting read.’ A brief twitch of alarm passed across Kaye’s face. ‘Mind you behave yourself,’ she said, pointing at him. ‘Mrs Adams is our guest.’ Once more, the jokey tone, with the undercurrent of warning. It was curious, Zoe thought; Kaye obviously liked the Professor, but she seemed keen to keep him away from her, without ever quite making it explicit. Did she fear he might tell her some local legend that would spook her so much she’d run away tomorrow and shout it all over TripAdvisor? She almost laughed, that they could think her so skittish. They had no idea; no story could be worse than the one she carried with her. Besides, she had already paid half the rent up front. ‘I like history,’ she said to Charles. ‘And poetry.’ Her tongue felt thick and woolly in her mouth as she spoke. She looked down at the glass in her hand and realised it was empty; she did not remember drinking it. She felt Kaye’s solid presence at her back, ushering her firmly but gently indoors. After the night air of the courtyard, the heat of the log fire and the press of bodies crowded in on her. The whisky churned in her empty stomach and the nicotine pulsed in her temples, dizzying her and blurring her vision. She leaned against the wall, briefly closing her eyes. Her skull seemed to squeeze tighter and she took a deep breath to quell the nausea. Though she had no interest in making friends here, she did not want to be known forever as the woman who threw up in the bar within an hour of arriving. ‘You all right?’ Kaye laid her metalled fingers lightly on Zoe’s shoulder. Zoe nodded. ‘The bathroom?’ ‘Past the bar, on the right.’ Kaye patted her, as you might a small child. The bathroom was even more stifling, airless with the heat of hand-driers in a confined space. Zoe took off her flying jacket and tucked it between her knees, splashed cold water over her face and dried it with the sleeve of her shirt. She rested her forehead against the cool of the mirror and watched as her breath fogged a circle on the glass. Her reflection stared back at her with frayed outlines. Her skin looked blanched, the shadows beneath her eyes so deep they appeared bruised. She had taken her make-up off before the flight and been too tired to bother applying any more. Straight off the red-eye, Bradley to Dublin, connecting flight to Glasgow and on to a five-hour train journey to the ferry, to bring her here. When she had planned it, back home, it had seemed a good idea: get all the travelling done at once, no layovers, no breaks for sightseeing. She was not here for tourist attractions. All she wanted was to get to the sprawling old house by that deserted shore that had called to her over the Internet, and wrap its solitude around her. She had no sense of time any more; she struggled to remember when she had last eaten, or showered. Rubbing away the condensation of her breath with a sleeve, she met her reflection’s eye with as steady a gaze as she could manage. They both seemed disappointed with each other. Turning forty-three, and looking every last day of it. Did she seriously imagine that earnest, handsome boy would have been flirting with her? But it was more than jet lag, she thought, peering closely at her own face in the mirror; all the turbulence of the past year was written into her skin, a bone-deep exhaustion she could not shake off. Perhaps here she would finally be able to sleep. She fished in her pocket and found a Chanel lipstick, one she had thrown in at the last minute, just in case. In case of what? What occasions to dress up had she imagined would present themselves on a small island off the west coast of Scotland, in winter? She barely wore lipstick even at home. Perhaps it was a defensive measure, a reaction against all the military-coloured hiking gear and shapeless sweaters she had packed. One last vestige of femininity. She opened her lips and slicked it around them, blotting the colour on a sheet of toilet paper. Not too garish; a discreet reddish-brown that she used to think suited her but now seemed to drain all the colour from the rest of her face. She wondered how soon she could reasonably ask to leave. The door opened; Zoe glanced up and saw that another face was staring at her, unsmiling, in the mirror. The young barmaid, Annag, reached up and adjusted the pineapple of hair balanced on her crown, her eyes critically appraising Zoe all the while. ‘You’re the one who’s taken the McBride house.’ The girl’s accent was broad, rough-edged. ‘Brave,’ she added, cocking one thinly pencilled brow with an air of challenge. ‘It’s Mick and Kaye’s house, I thought,’ Zoe said mildly. ‘Aren’t they Drummonds?’ She did not ask why she should be considered brave, precisely because she could see that the girl was dying to tell her. ‘It’ll always be the McBride house round here,’ Annag said, with a meaningful look. She had an oddly flat face, Zoe thought, and wide, with all the features cramped together in the middle, like a puppet of the moon she had once seen in a kids’ show. Too pale for that unnatural shade of black dye, she added, in her head. This girl’s attitude seemed to provoke a mean streak in her, as if they were both in high school. ‘I’m afraid I can’t pronounce its real name,’ she said, forcing a smile. Annag muttered a word deep in her throat that Zoe assumed was Gaelic, but sounded nothing like the way it looked on paper. ‘It means “resting place”,’ she said. ‘Oh. That’s nice.’ ‘You think?’ Zoe looked up and saw that the girl was smirking openly. A strange chill ran through her as she understood. Clearly, the person who named the house had not stopped to consider its double meaning. Or perhaps they had. ‘Give us a lend of your lippy.’ A pudgy hand stretched out towards her, open; bitten fingernails painted flaking green. Zoe hesitated. Was this a normal thing to ask a stranger? She had grown up without sisters, without a close group of girlfriends; as a result she was possessive about her belongings and a little fastidious, bewildered by the kind of women who presumed all feminine items should be held in common. But she couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse without implying that she considered the girl unhygienic. Reluctantly, she passed the lipstick over. Annag stretched her mouth wide, drew on a red circle, smacked her lips together and pouted, apparently pleased with the result. ‘Why am I brave, then?’ Zoe asked, as if this small intimacy might now entitle her to answers. ‘I guess it’s haunted or something, right?’ She tried to make it sound jokey, as if she were happy to play along, but a look of guilt slunk over Annag’s moon face. The girl concentrated on the lipstick, twisting it all the way to the top and down again. ‘I only meant – staying out there on your own. In the middle of nowhere. That’s brave, for a woman.’ She reached inside her top with one hand and twanged a stray bra strap into place. ‘Not that I’m saying— I don’t mean …’ She turned to look at the real Zoe beside her, instead of at her reflection. ‘Whatever folk say about it, you didnae hear it from me, okay? Mick’ll bloody kill me.’ So Mick had warned this girl about telling whatever tales clung to the house. Had everyone else in the town been given a warning too? Charles Joseph apparently had, though he didn’t seem to feel inhibited by it. What could be so terrible that Kaye and Mick genuinely feared it might drive a tenant away? It will be one of those stories like the ones people used to swap at high school slumber parties, Zoe thought: like the one where the girl hears the banging on the car roof and it turns out to be her boyfriend’s head. And that’s what you get for coming to the ass-end of nowhere, she reminded herself: people who take that stuff seriously. But she found that, however dumb the story might be, she didn’t want to hear it on her first night. ‘But I haven’t heard anything,’ she said. ‘Then you’ll sleep soundly in your bed, won’t you?’ Annag flashed her a smile that seemed to contain some element of private triumph, before walking out. As the door banged behind her, Zoe realised Annag still had her lipstick in her hand. She considered going after her, asking for it back, but decided against it. There was no point making an enemy of this girl, who already seemed to resent her presence. But if she was honest, it was because Annag reminded her of the hard-faced girls who had given her hell in high school, and she despised herself for her own cowardice. She made a note to stay out of the barmaid’s way as far as possible. Out of everyone’s way. She caught her reflection’s eye with weary contempt, and slowly wiped away the bright slash of lipstick with a tissue. Even in the dark, the house looked imposing. Mick had installed motion-sensor security lights at the front; a white glare leapt out of the blackness like a prison searchlight as the Land Rover descended the last slope and rounded the curve of the drive, Mick raising a hand to shield his eyes and swearing under his breath. They lit up a rambling house of three storeys, tall Gothic windows along the first floor, diamond-paned glass, pointed eaves over the windows in the attic, several tall chimneys and a hexagonal turret jutting up from the roof. A warm light glowed from one of the windows on the ground floor. As Zoe swung herself down on to the gravel, she could hear the booming of waves in the darkness beyond the house. ‘Kaye’s left you a few bits and bobs – bread and milk and whatnot,’ Mick said, lifting her suitcase down from the trunk. ‘Should see you right for breakfast. She’s done a wee folder too, telling you where to find everything – it’s got our number on and a few others you might need. I was thinking I could come by tomorrow before lunch and show you the other stuff. How the generator works, where we store the logs, all that business. Then, if you like, I’ll bring you into town so you can go to the supermarket.’ Zoe murmured her thanks, only half listening. She craned her neck and stared up at the night sky. A brisk wind chivvied scraps of cloud across the face of the moon; behind them, an extravagant scattering of stars glittered across ink blue wastes. The seabirds sounded subdued here, their cries reproachful. ‘Why do people call it the McBride house?’ Mick froze, for a heartbeat, in the act of setting down her art case. ‘McBride was the fella who built it, back in 1860.’ He sounded unusually stiff. ‘Was he a relative?’ ‘He married my great-great-aunt. It passed to her brother, my great-great-grandfather. Been in my family ever since. But the name stuck. Now,’ he said, forcibly cheery, ‘let’s get this lot inside and you can settle in.’ He carried her cases into the wide entrance hall, set them down at the foot of the stairs and immediately flicked on all the lights he could find. Inside, the house smelled of new paint, furniture polish and the heavy floral scent from an extravagant vase of lilies that stood on a wooden chest opposite the front door. ‘Beautiful flowers,’ Zoe remarked, to fill the silence. ‘Oh, aye. Kaye did those.’ Mick seemed distracted, his eyes flitting around the hallway as if he half expected to see someone appear from one of the doors leading off it. ‘That was such a kind thought – will you thank her?’ It was gone eleven, by the grandfather clock in the hall; Zoe had lost all track of what time her own body thought it was, but the whisky sat heavy in her stomach and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. She wished he would hurry up and leave. ‘I will. Well, then. There are your keys. Those are the front door. The ones for the back are on a hook in the kitchen.’ Mick dropped a weighty keyring into her palm, dug his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, then took them out again as if unsure what to do with them, glancing back at the front door. He seemed reluctant to go, but at a loss as to how to prolong his visit. For one awful moment, Zoe wondered if he was hovering for a tip, but it didn’t seem likely. ‘Shall I take these up for you?’ he asked, his gaze alighting on the cases. ‘Oh, no, I can manage,’ she began, but he was halfway up the stairs, telling her it was no trouble. ‘Well, then,’ he said, when he returned. ‘I suppose I should let you get on. The water from the tap’s fine to drink, by the way. And you remember there’s no broadband? I mentioned that in the email.’ ‘It’s fine. It’ll be good for me to get offline.’ She forced a smile. ‘They haven’t got the cables out to this side of the island,’ Mick explained, keen to make clear it was no failing on his part. ‘In the next year or so, they reckon, not that that’s much help to you. You can come and use ours up at the pub if you want to send emails and whatnot.’ He hesitated once more, running a hand over his thinning hair. ‘Like I said, our number’s there in the folder. Call us if you need anything, anytime. We’re only five miles away, I can be here in a jiffy if there’s a problem.’ ‘I’ll try not to disturb you if I can possibly help it. I’m pretty self-sufficient.’ She was not sure if this was actually true. It was a long time since she had put it to the test, but it was important that Mick should believe it. All she wanted now was to find the bed and fall face down on it. ‘Aye, well, that’s good. But we’re here if you need us. I mean it – anytime at all. Day or night.’ He said it more emphatically this time, and his gaze darted away to the top of the stairs. At the front door he turned back, holding it half open so that moths hurled themselves towards the light, wings whirring. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow at noon. I hope you have a comfortable night.’ ‘I’m sure I will.’ She almost had to push him physically out of the door. She stood on the threshold, a narrow fan of light spilling through on to the step in front of her, determinedly waving him off so she could be sure he was finally gone. He raised his hand as he reversed the Land Rover with a scattering of gravel, but in the white cone of the security light his expression was anxious, just as it had been in the hallway. When the sound of the engine had died away, Zoe leaned her back against the inside of the front door and allowed herself to slump to the floor. He’s a new landlord, she told herself; he’s bound to be nervous the day his first tenant arrives. It was sweet, she supposed, how concerned he and Kaye were about her well-being, their little thoughtful touches. She hoped they would ease up once she’d settled in, though; she was troubled by the way they kept referring to her as their ‘guest’ rather than their tenant. She hoped they wouldn’t feel compelled to take her under their wing while she was here, save her from being lonely. Sometimes it was hard to make people understand how much you desired solitude. Or deserved it. There was a telephone on a console table at the side of the entrance hall. She briefly considered calling home, but decided she was too tired, too fuzzy with whisky to deal with the conversation. She had texted Dan from the airport to say she had landed safely; she would call tomorrow. Instead she pulled herself to her feet, switched off the downstairs lights and climbed the stairs. On the first landing, to the right, she found her cases propping open the door to a lit room; inside, a master bedroom furnished neatly in crisp white, slate grey and duck-egg blue, with a small en suite leading off it. She threw her jacket over a chair, pulled off her biker boots in the bathroom doorway, bent her mouth to the tap and gulped down cold water, then collapsed on to the bed, where she fell asleep, fully clothed. Outside, the security lights snapped off and the McBride house was folded into the darkness once more. 2 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) That night, Zoe dreamed. She was stripped naked and laid across a low couch in the long gallery that ran the length of the house on the west side, facing the sea. Both arms were stretched above her head and pinioned so that she could not move them. Around her the room lay steeped in shadow, save for the pale shaft of moonlight that filtered through the tall windows, silvering the bare boards of the floor. Though she could not see them, she sensed someone else in the room, moving closer. Two hands, reaching out of the darkness, expertly began to trace slow patterns across her skin. Hot breath on her neck, whispering down across her shoulder. Her muscles tensed; her nipples stiffened and her hips rose as she felt herself swell and open. Despite the apparent helplessness of her position, she was not afraid; instead she felt an unfamiliar boldness, a pleasure and pride in her own body that made her want to arch her back, display herself for him. Somehow he knew her, this unknown lover; he understood how she needed to be touched, and she trusted him, the certainty of his hands, his mouth, anticipating her want and need. His breath brushed her cheek and she parted her lips for him but he had moved away without a kiss and she was powerless to pull him back. She could only wait for him to continue moving around her, over her, the ghost of lips on her breasts, the hands now clasped firmly around her waist with a sense of ownership. As his tongue finally made contact with her nipple she tried to cry out, the jolt of it so sweet and sudden, as if she had been wired to an electrode, a shockwave that juddered the length of her body and shot through her groin, but – as always in dreams – she could make no sound. His mouth closed over her breast and his teeth tightened and tugged, gently at first, but sharply enough to remind her that he could, if he chose, bring her pain as well as pleasure. She pushed her hips out towards him and one hand slid down over the curve of her buttock and between her legs as his mouth moved across the softness of her belly. Good, he whispered, inside her mind. Zoe was aware of a level of lucidity within the dream, of existing in some liminal state between sleep and waking. But though she could direct the movements of her own body, as far as the restraints around her wrists allowed, she could not influence the shadowy lover who was deliberately withholding from her what he knew she wanted; slowly, softly, he skirted between her legs with his tongue, drawing out the torment. In one instant she would feel the heat of his breath right where she needed him, at the sharp pinpoint of her pleasure, before he moved away, licking the inside of her thigh or the smooth skin above her pubic bone, gently biting the jut of her pelvis or the soft curve of her waist while she tried pleading with him, begging him, though her words emerged soundless as she strained against the restraints binding her hands. When, finally, his tongue made stealthy contact with her most sensitive point and he slipped two fingers inside her, it felt like a concession, or a reward; her whole body was illuminated, shocked into vivid colour. One hand held her hips steady as the rhythm of his flickering tongue quickened and his fingers drove deep into her; bucking and grinding against him, she heard herself screaming, a wild, animal cry, as she felt the first spasm of muscle and the sudden hurtling, as if over the edge of a waterfall, the exquisite frustration of the desire to pull him into her and her inability to touch him at all. As the ripples of her orgasm rose over and over, she could already feel him slipping away, melting back into the shadows, and she cried out again to make him stay but her voice was stifled, stopped in her throat; her mouth worked noiselessly and she could not move her hands to reach him or claw him back. She woke at her own mewling sounds, feeling disorientated and raw, blinking into the dark to find that she was indeed lying on a couch in the long gallery, her arms stretched above her head and crossed at the wrists. A draught from the curtainless windows stirred goosebumps over her naked skin and it took her a few moments to locate herself, to understand that she was no longer dreaming. How had she ended up here? She lowered her arms gingerly, as if afraid she might meet with some resistance; her shoulders ached and her fingers had grown numb from being held aloft. She had no recollection of leaving her bed, or having undressed herself, but the memory of the dream remained vivid, the imprint of him on her most tender parts. She looked down at herself, bewildered, as if her body was strange to her, no longer recognisable, feeling the heat of her desire sticky on the insides of her thigh. She slid a tentative finger between her legs and flinched at the coldness of her own touch; she was still engorged, still aroused. She pressed her finger harder and began to circle it; within moments she was rising to a crescendo and a ragged, gasping climax that was fierce and necessary but lacked all the wonder, the other-worldly magic of the dream lover’s caress. She stood in the room’s silent shadows, feeling flayed, exposed to the elements. And yet, how stunning! It had been as if something had possessed her, as if her desire were a slumbering beast buried so deep for so long that she had forgotten to notice its absence until it was awakened. He was no one she recognised from her waking life, of that she was certain. A figment of her imagination, then, an ideal lover who had touched and manipulated her with such authority, such intimate knowledge. The moon slipped out from between two banks of cloud, spilling pearly light across the floor. Outside, she could hear the low, insistent roar of the sea. She shivered, and was on the point of turning to leave the room, when a shadow shifted at the edge of her vision: the faintest hint of a movement. She stepped towards the windows, peering out at the black water. Immediately she flinched back. There was someone on the beach, huddled into the overhang of rock at the southerly curve, looking up at the house. Or, at least, she thought she saw a figure; panicked, she stifled a cry and grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch, wrapping it around herself before she dared approach the window again. A cloud moved across the face of the moon and the pale rim of sand was lost in darkness; when it reappeared, there were only the rocks and the steady, breaking waves. Zoe breathed out, feeling her pulse hammering in her throat, and almost laughed with relief. She needed to sleep, she told herself; her brain was wired and exhausted, that was all. She rested the tips of her fingers against the glass and took a last look at the beach, to reassure herself that there was no one there; a seabird, perhaps, or even a seal, or the movement of a cloud casting shadows. The beach remained empty. She sighed, letting her breath mist the pane. Slowly, she became aware of a sound behind her. Barely audible, a faint scratching of nails on wood. Drawn-out, unnerving; her neck prickled and a sick chill flooded through her. Someone was trying to get in. Though the sound had stopped, the stillness that followed was the silence of held breath. She could feel it, unmistakably: a presence on the other side of the door. She did not dare turn around; instead she stood, frozen rigid, her head bowed as if waiting to receive a blow, naked shoulders stippled with cold and fear. The scratching came again, a slow raking against the wood. Zoe heard herself whimper, biting the flesh of her thumb; the sound stopped, abruptly. Whatever was out there knew she was here. Setting her jaw, squeezing her fists so tight she felt her nails cut the skin of her palms, she straightened, crossed to the door, grasped the handle, and in one movement, before the fear could undo her, she wrenched it open— The landing outside was empty. She slumped, pent breath tumbling out in a gulp that was half-sob, half-laughter, relief turning her limbs to water. She would have to tell Mick Drummond in the morning that, for all his painstaking restoration work, he still had mice in his walls. She returned to her room, wrapped in the blanket, and was puzzled to see her clothes neatly folded on the armchair beneath the window. When had she done this? She squinted at the clothes, trying to summon some recollection of folding them, placing them, but a great weight of tiredness had descended on her; she could not, at that moment, bring herself to care. There were pyjamas somewhere in her case, but it was padlocked shut and she could not be bothered to rummage for the key. She slipped under the duvet, still wrapped in the blanket from the couch, drained and exhausted, her body sinking into the sheets. Sleep had almost reclaimed her, when the singing began. It was the song Kaye had sung that evening, the lament that had made the old men cry and stirred such unexpected emotion in her, though she had not understood the words. The song Kaye had told her was a woman grieving for the one she loved, lost to the sea. And now a woman was singing it, somewhere in the house, though with none of the beauty or passion Kaye had brought to the melody. This voice was thin and sickly, scored through with desolation and loss. Zoe’s eyes snapped open; as she lay there listening, it seemed that the singer was in danger of being overwhelmed by the force of her grief; at times the voice would tail off, choked, and Zoe held her breath, waiting, until it resumed, the same refrain, quavering and hoarse. Though she knew it was only the echoes of her memory, another trick of her tired mind brought on by the emotional intensity of her disturbed night, she could not stand to listen to it any longer; she threw off the cover, pulled the blanket tight around her and opened the door to the landing, tensing on the threshold with her head on one side. The song was drifting from the floor above. She groped about on the wall at the foot of the stairs, but could not locate the light switch. The stairs creaked as she ascended, one step at a time, pausing to listen. Again she felt that creeping cold at the back of her neck, a clenching in her bowel. Perhaps she had not been mistaken; perhaps someone had found a way into the house. She had locked the front door behind Mick, but there must be other doors and windows in a place this size; she had not checked them all before she fell asleep. But why would an intruder advertise her presence by singing? Zoe advanced as far as the landing, wishing she had thought to bring some makeshift weapon – a poker, or even an umbrella. If someone had broken in, they could be unhinged, and potentially dangerous. She glanced over the banister into the pool of darkness below, thinking of the telephone on its table in the hall; briefly she considered running back down, calling Mick and Kaye. How long would it take Mick to drive here – fifteen minutes, perhaps, twenty at the most? She stopped, took a breath, registered her own choice of words. If someone was there. She had somehow undressed herself and sleepwalked naked into the gallery; who was to say she was not still half-asleep, imagining the singing, the presence, the scratching? She could not call Mick and Kaye in the middle of the night, on her first night here, because she was hearing things and it turned out she was not as brave or self-reliant as she wanted to believe. Gripping the banister, she walked the length of the second-floor landing with a purposeful stride, her mouth set firm. The singing continued, its volume unvarying, as if the singer was oblivious to Zoe’s footsteps or the creak of the stairs. It seemed to be coming from behind a closed door at the far end. Zoe stood in front of it, hesitated, then tried the brass knob. The door was locked. She turned it in both directions, rattled it hard, but the door refused to give, and the singing continued, unperturbed; if anything, the bleak emotion in the singer’s voice intensified. Zoe found herself arrested by the sheer force of the woman’s grief; it infected the atmosphere of the entire house, soaking through Zoe’s skin until she felt saturated with it, until she feared her heart might crack open with the weight of such fathomless loss. She mastered herself, tried the door once more. When it remained stubbornly locked, she knocked on it, hard, with her knuckles. ‘Who’s there?’ she called, tentatively at first, then bolder. ‘Who are you? Come out.’ No one answered, though she thought the voice seemed to grow a little fainter. She knocked again, shook the doorknob, and the next time she called, the song faded gradually away, like a track on an old record, leaving only an expectant silence. The landing settled into stillness. Zoe pulled the blanket tighter around her and leaned against the door, felled by exhaustion. There was no one here; she felt unaccountably angry with herself for her own weakness. As she turned towards the stairs, she sensed a draught on the back of her neck and, in her ear, a breathy sound that might have been laughter, or a sob. When she woke, it was past eleven and sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains. She was lying in bed, naked, the woollen blanket she had pulled from the couch in the gallery bundled under the cover beside her. So she had not dreamed that part, at least. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, squinting into the light. After the whisky, the jet lag and the disturbed night, she had expected a jagged-edged hangover, but as she uncurled her fingers and stretched her arms out, rolling her shoulders, she could detect no trace of a headache. Instead she felt unusually light and invigorated. She swung her legs over the bed and the sight of them – long, lean, pale – brought back a flash of images from the night before. That dream – she flushed at the memory of it, squeezing her thighs together. She used to have intensely vivid sex dreams when she was younger, but they had retreated into the background somewhere along the way, like the rest of her sex life. Back then, though, the lovers who featured in her dreams were variations on men she knew, often men she had never knowingly entertained any such feelings towards in her waking life. But this dream lover was different; he was unreal, perfect, formed from her own unarticulated longings. If she could, she would have fallen back on to the bed and invited the vision back, but she knew that would never happen. It was fleeting, delicious, gone. And everything that had followed – the fear, the scratching, the singing – seemed easy to explain away now: fevered imaginings of a mind torn abruptly from sleep and confused by dreams. Thank God she had not called Mick and Kaye with her wild night-terrors; how ridiculous she would have looked. She curled with shame at the thought. Zoe unlocked her suitcase, dug out a pair of track pants, a tank and an old cashmere jumper of Dan’s, and padded down to find the kitchen. It was a large, wide room at the back of the house, facing the shore, with a door that led out to the veranda; a proper old farmhouse kitchen, tastefully modernised, with a stone floor and walls painted in a muted slate-blue and cream. She opened and closed a few wooden cupboards. All the appliances and cookware were branded, the kind of names that would meet with the approval of the well-heeled guests they obviously hoped to attract. Zoe filled the kettle, found a cafeti?re and an unopened packet of filter coffee and considered again, while it was brewing, how strange it was that Mick and Kaye should have gone to so much trouble and expense to restore this house so beautifully and leave it to strangers, while they went on living above the pub. A five-mile drive to work would be nothing, for the joy of waking up to this view every morning. Perhaps they were counting on the income as an investment; she supposed the pub trade must suffer out of season. Perhaps – and she pushed this thought to a corner of her mind – they did not want to risk being cut off in winter. The kitchen door was firmly locked and bolted from the inside, the keys hanging on a hook behind it, as Mick had said. All the windows were closed and secured, she noticed, with window locks; there was no chance that anyone could really have entered the house last night. Tired brain, she reproached herself, sliding back the bolts. She poured her coffee into a large pottery mug and stepped outside with it into a warm wash of golden, late-autumn sunshine. The boards of the veranda felt damp under her bare feet and though the air carried the sharp, clean edge of October, the light was gentle, caressing her face. She wrapped her hands around the steaming mug and took in her new home for the first time. The sea had retreated, leaving a corrugated expanse of tawny sand, scattered with pebbles and ribbons of kelp. The wind of the previous night had dropped and in the curve of her little bay the water shone like mercury under the light, calm now and docile, lapping in slow rhythmic waves at the shore. Above it, scalloped rows of white clouds drifted across an expanse of blue, rinsed clean and bright. Seabirds wheeled overhead, banking sharply or floating on invisible streams, complaining to one another. Zoe walked to the end of the veranda, to the corner where it joined the north side of the house, and tilted her face to the sun, breathing in salt, damp earth, fresh coffee as she absorbed the colours of the bay – violet and gold, azure, emerald and indigo – picturing how she would mix those colours in her palette, how thickly they could be layered to recreate the textures of sea, rock, cloud. She sensed the old quickening in her gut at the prospect of creating something from nothing, the days stretching ahead, blank canvases, no demands on her except the paintings themselves, their own forms. Was this freedom, then? Was this it – the freedom she had secretly craved over the past decade: no husband, no child, only herself alone with an empty canvas and a view of the wild sea? She allowed her gaze to sweep around the deserted beach. The answer, of course, was no. This was not true freedom, not the freedom of her youth, because implicit in their absence was her own dereliction – of her responsibilities, of the ties that should have anchored her. There could be no freedom now that was not tainted with guilt. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ The last words Dan had said to her before she left, in a voice tight with anger, making clear that nothing she might gain from this decision would ever outweigh the price she was asking everyone else to pay. Leaning against the wall in the hallway, arms folded across his chest, as the cab driver rang the buzzer. Watching as she tried to wrestle her cases down the stairs, not offering to help, in case she should mistake that for approval or acquiescence; determined to the very end that she should not imagine, even for a second, that she had his blessing. ‘The fuck?’ he had said, the night she had announced her project over dinner. So she had repeated it, clearly, patiently, but he had continued to stare at her, knife and fork poised in mid-air. ‘So you went ahead and planned all this without even asking me?’ he said, when he had eventually processed it. ‘Like you went ahead and decided to quit your job without discussing it,’ she replied, evenly. ‘What – you can’t even compare—’ He put the cutlery down, ran both hands through his hair, clutching at clumps of it. ‘There was nothing to discuss – it was a good offer. Better than I expected. Architects are the first to suffer in a downturn, you know that. The whole construction industry’s feeling it. Guys are being laid off all over. I had to take that deal before I was left with no choice. I did it so I could be around for you more. It was the opposite of fucking running away.’ Zoe said nothing; it was easier to let Dan go on believing himself to be right. How could she explain it to him? The last decade had not diminished him, as it had her. He had not had to give up his place in the world since becoming a parent; he still put on a good suit and set out to work every day, solved problems, engaged his intellect, kept his skills sharp. He spent several evenings a week dining with clients and associates, occasionally taking her along when they could find a sitter, but mostly not; he continued to travel frequently for contracts and conferences, sometimes to Europe, more often across the country to consult on projects with the Seattle office. She had not failed to notice that meetings were often arranged there for Monday mornings, obliging him to stay the weekend; she had noticed too that his first point of contact in Seattle was a colleague called Lauren Carrera, a woman who appeared to have no concept of time zones and would call him on his cell with supposedly urgent queries long past midnight, calls he would retreat downstairs to take in his office, his voice soft and light, full of easy laughter, the way she had not heard it in a long time. Lauren Carrera was in her early thirties and too exhibitionist to set her Facebook photos to private; in all of them she was skiing or surfing or running half-marathons for charity, or raising tequila shots with a vast and diverse group of friends. Zoe had never asked Dan outright if he had slept with Lauren Carrera, because he was no good at lying and she didn’t want to have to watch him try. Dan’s life was compartmentalised, in the way that was permitted to men; home, fatherhood, was only a part of it. It had always been assumed that she would stay home once Caleb was born, and she had felt in no position to argue; it was not as if she earned enough from her paintings to support a family – though one day she might have done, if she had been allowed to try. She would never know now, what her early promise might have flowered into. ‘You can always paint while the baby’s asleep,’ Dan had said cheerfully, knotting his tie in the mirror after five brief days of paternity leave, unwittingly revealing with those few words how he regarded her work. A small chip of ice had embedded itself in the heart of their marriage, though as usual she had said nothing. For the best part of a decade she had been disappearing, her life shrunk to a cycle of bake sales and swim team practice, as the ice spread slowly outwards from the centre. In recent years she had found herself growing panicky, all her thoughts swarming relentlessly back to the same, unanswered question: Is this it? In her darkest moments, she sometimes wondered if she was now being punished for her ingratitude, her inability to be content. ‘How will this help?’ Dan had persisted, the night she had told him about the island. ‘I’ve said over and over we should go back to counselling, but you just want to run away from everything, like some adolescent?’ ‘We tried counselling. It didn’t work.’ ‘It’s not fucking magic.’ He pulled at his hair. ‘You have to stick at it. Jesus, Zo …’ The anger subsided into weary despair: ‘We can’t go on like this. You know that.’ ‘I need some time by myself.’ ‘That’s not how marriage works. You don’t get to take a break for a bit when it gets difficult – you do it together. That’s what I always believed, anyway. What does Dr Schlesinger have to say about your big plan, huh?’ She didn’t tell him that she had stopped seeing Dr Schlesinger weeks ago; the suggestion that she was expected to seek permission for her decisions needled her. ‘It’s only a month,’ she had replied instead, surprised by how calm she sounded. ‘I’ll be back before Thanksgiving.’ It was easier to let him believe that too. He changed tack. ‘How are you paying for this?’ ‘I saved.’ ‘Oh, you saved?’ He cocked an eyebrow. She didn’t respond. All the implications contained in that question that was not a question at all but an accusation. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is yours, is that it? But her income, such as it was – from two days a week teaching art at a Catholic girls’ middle school – was always supposed to be for her alone, that was what they had agreed, for the little luxuries that she would not have dreamed of taking from the household budget. Clothes, perfume, occasional nights out with her girlfriends. But she had had no social life for the best part of a year, much less bought new clothes. Unsurprisingly, Dan had failed to notice that. ‘And what about us?’ he had asked quietly. ‘What about …?’ and pointed up at the ceiling, meaning Caleb’s room, saving the lowest blow for last. At that point she had raised her hand, enough, and stood up from the table, walked out of the house. Now, with this unfamiliar sea stretching before her, she smiled into the sunlight, forcing herself to shake off her guilt. It had been Dan’s choice to take voluntary redundancy, a choice he had not thought to discuss with her before presenting it as a fait accompli, but in it she found an opportunity; she could not have imagined herself leaving otherwise. It would be good for him to spend some time at home, to think of Caleb first for once. They could not have continued as they were; on that, at least, they agreed. Draining the last of her coffee, she set the mug on the veranda and padded down the wooden stairs – eight of them – on to the beach. The chill of the sand between her toes made her gasp; she had to step gingerly over the bands of shingle, until she reached the lacy patterns of foam where the waves petered out and receded. The water touched her feet, cold as a blade. She walked along the shore as far as the outcrop of rocks at the south end of the bay’s crescent and looked back at the house, squinting into the sun, shielding her eyes to take in its silhouette. In the morning light it looked benign, its crooked gables, ecclesiastical windows and roof turret charming and eccentric. Where she was standing now – this was where she had thought she glimpsed a figure on the beach, after she woke from her unexpected dream and her sleepwalking. The sand was smooth and undisturbed in this sheltered corner, where the sea did not reach. Not a trace of a footprint that wasn’t her own, except the pointed tracks of the gulls. Of course there wasn’t. It was only later, when she showered, hot water needling her newly sensitised skin, that she happened to glance down and notice a small reddish-purple bruise on the side of her left breast, by her armpit. Probably where the strap of her bag had rubbed in all the hefting of luggage yesterday, she thought. But when she examined the bruise more closely in the mirror, it looked almost as if it bore the faint impression of teethmarks. 3 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) Zoe had installed herself outside on the veranda, leaning back on the bench with her legs stretched out, bare feet braced against the wooden balustrade and a sketchbook in her lap, when Mick arrived at noon. She heard the growl of the Land Rover and the scattering of gravel in the drive. After a few moments, he made his way around the side of the house, calling brightly so as not to alarm her, and approached the veranda from the beach. His expression was hesitant at first, anxious even, but it softened into relief to see her so apparently at ease. ‘I see you’re straight to work.’ He shielded his eyes to look up at her as he climbed the steps. ‘Couldn’t miss this light.’ She waved her sketchbook and grinned, surprised by her own jauntiness. The sensuality of the previous night’s dream seemed to have left her lit up, more awake, more aware of her own body and her physical presence: the damp wood against the soles of her feet, the play of the wind on her face, the pencil’s precise weight and balance between her fingers. She felt unusually vivid. ‘And you slept all right?’ Mick seemed caught off guard by her good humour, as if it was not what he had expected to find and was not quite convinced by it. ‘Like a log, thanks.’ She felt the colour flare up in her cheeks. He looked at her, pulling on his earlobe as if he was on the point of asking another question, but after a hesitation he smiled and breathed out. ‘Well, that’s great. It’s nice and quiet, at least – apart from the wind.’ ‘And the sea,’ she said, laughing. ‘And the gulls, and the seals.’ She stopped, abruptly. She had almost said, ‘and the singing.’ ‘True. But you’ll get used to those in time, I hope. Can I interrupt you for a quick tour of the boring stuff?’ He showed her how to change the timer for the heating and hot water, the outbuilding at the front of the house where he had stacked chopped wood for the kitchen range, the fuse box under the stairs and the cellar with the generator that would, in theory, run the electricity in the event of a power cut. She wasn’t wholly paying attention to the instructions; the cellar had a dank, forbidding atmosphere and a musty smell that made her want to get out as quickly as possible, and she was alarmed by the thought of being stuck out here with no power. ‘You’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ Mick said, catching her expression as he demonstrated how to light the hurricane lamps. ‘It’s just that it’s all very new out here – there was no mains electricity or running water when we started doing up the house, it all had to be put in from scratch. The pipes make a bit of a racket too, I’m afraid, you probably noticed – banging and what have you. Everything’s settling in and we don’t know how it will fare in the winter storms.’ ‘So I could be stuck here with no lights?’ She heard the catch in her voice as she pictured herself alone in the house with only a candle. A sharp memory of that pale singing jolted through her and she shivered, despite the sun. ‘No, no – that’s why we’ve put in the generator. Don’t fret – you won’t be left sitting out here in the dark.’ He laughed, a touch too loudly. ‘Well, then. If you’re ready, I can drop you into town for the shops and bring you back before I have to get to the pub.’ ‘Oh – what about that door that’s locked upstairs?’ Zoe asked, as they returned to the kitchen. Mick frowned. ‘What door?’ ‘On the top landing. Right at the end.’ ‘The turret room, you mean? Have you no had a look up there? Lovely views all across the headland. On a clear day, you can see right across to—’ ‘But I don’t have the key.’ ‘There is no key.’ The crease in his brow deepened. ‘None of the rooms are locked.’ He looked at her as if trying to work out whether she was having him on. ‘Maybe the handle’s stiff. Shall I take a wee look?’ ‘Don’t worry if it’s—’ she began, but he was already in the hall, bounding towards the stairs, telling her it was no trouble. She followed him up two flights, conscious of a flutter of apprehension in her stomach as they approached the closed door at the end of the second-floor landing. ‘This one here?’ Mick grasped the doorknob; it turned easily and the door swung inwards on smooth hinges, with barely a creak. Behind it was what looked like a large cupboard containing a wooden spiral staircase. He glanced back and beamed at her. ‘I was probably turning it the wrong way,’ Zoe mumbled, feeling the colour rising. ‘Well, you’ll know for next time. Go on up, if you like.’ He held the door open and nodded towards the stairs. The staircase smelled of wood polish and new paint. Light washed down the white walls from above. The air was colder here; as she climbed the short flight, she noticed goosebumps standing up on her arm and realised that she was holding her breath. At the end of the final curve, the stairs opened up into a bright hexagonal room with windows on all sides, wide enough for two people to stand with their arms outstretched. From here, two floors up, you could see across the headland to the north and out over the shining sea to three crooked rock stacks standing sentinel in the water off the coast, lined up like the remaining pillars of a giant ruined pier. On the other side, the view stretched as far as the moorland and the low purple mountains that formed a ridge along the centre of the island. There was no furniture in the room except a high wooden stool and a ledge that ran all the way around under the windows, wide enough to use as a writing desk. It must have been intended as some kind of observatory. No one could approach by water unannounced. ‘It’s quite something, eh? I’d have liked to put a telescope in there.’ Mick’s voice floated up from the foot of the stairs, with that same note of pride and affection that betrayed how much the house had been a labour of love for him. She had heard the pang in his voice as he had shown her around, pointing out examples of local craftsmanship or areas where the restoration had been particularly tricky. He envied her the chance to live in it, that much was plain. Perhaps it had been Kaye’s choice, not to move the children. But what child would not want to live here, with a beach and seals on their doorstep? ‘This view is amazing.’ She glanced around the empty room. The singing had sounded so definite, in the depths of the night, the woman’s pain so stark from behind the door. Strange, she thought, the tricks a fraught mind can play. She looked back out at the sea and, for the space of a heartbeat, she felt someone looking over her shoulder, a cold breath on her neck, so that she snapped around, thinking Mick had come up the stairs silently behind her. The room was empty. Downstairs, Mick gave a little cough, a hint that he wanted to get going. He closed the door to the turret room behind her and immediately reopened it, turning the handle both ways to prove how easily it worked. ‘There. Definitely not locked.’ ‘No. My mistake. Sorry.’ She had the sudden, absurd thought that someone must have been holding the handle from the other side, though she dismissed it straight away. Mick dropped her in the main street of the village by the parade of shops she had seen the night before. ‘Half an hour do you? You’ve the wee supermarket across the way there and a chemist further down, and there’s – well, you’ll see. Have a wander. I’ll meet you back here.’ Zoe thanked him and was about to cross the street when he called her back, leaning out of the driver’s window. ‘Uh – Mrs Adams?’ ‘Zoe,’ she said patiently. ‘I was wondering – had you any thoughts about what you would do for transport?’ He looked embarrassed, as if he should not have to be the one raising this subject. ‘Transport?’ She looked at him, not quite understanding the question. ‘It’s only – you’re a long way from civilisation out there. I mean, I’m happy to give you a lift now and then for the shopping, but there might be other times you run out of stuff or you just, you know, need to get out of there.’ He stopped, his face confused, as if he realised he had slipped up. ‘I mean, you might fancy a trip into town or, I don’t know. And, like I say, Kaye and I will do whatever we can to help, but if we’re not free …’ ‘Oh, God, no – I wasn’t expecting you to drive me around the whole time.’ Zoe heard her voice come out unexpectedly shrill. Now she was embarrassed too; it was true that in her impulsive enthusiasm for the beautiful light over the sea she had not given much thought to the fact that she would need food and basic supplies in her splendid isolation. She supposed there had been a vague notion of cabs in the back of her mind. Now that she was here, she realised how foolish that had been. ‘I was thinking maybe I could rent a bike?’ ‘It’s a thought,’ Mick said carefully, in a voice that implied it was a stupid one. ‘There’s a bike shop right at the end of the High Street, before you get to the school.’ A quicksilver flicker of interest in her belly at the mention of the school. She thought of the young teacher, his fringe falling in his eyes, his shy smile and his Andy Warhol glasses, and with the thought came that prickling awareness of her own body, alive and responsive, the way she had felt after the previous night’s dream. She had to look away from Mick in case he noticed the colour in her face. ‘But, listen – when the weather sets in, you won’t be wanting to cycle on those roads,’ he was saying, oblivious. He cleared his throat. ‘I only mention it because my pal Dougie Reid up at the golf course has a car he could rent you while you’re here. Very reasonable. Nothing fancy, but—’ ‘That’s kind. Maybe …’ Her throat closed around the words. He was right; she had realised during the drive across grandly bleak sweeps of rust-coloured moorland that she would not manage here without her own car. It was six months since she had been behind a wheel. Each time she had tried, the panic rose up through her chest and engulfed her, so that she felt choked by it: the shakes and pounding heart, the numbness in her limbs, the sweat and the fast, shallow breathing. Perhaps here, in a different landscape, she might be able to face that down. There was a different anxiety in Mick’s expression, though, that she could not quite identify, one that had nothing to do with the worry that he would end up ferrying her around. He wants me to be able to escape, she thought, as if by sudden intuition. ‘You might need to get out of there,’ he had said, then tried to correct himself. Did even Mick – stoical, pragmatic Mick Drummond, scoffer at old wives’ tales – fear there was something she might need to flee at the house? ‘Great stuff – let’s find a time to go up there and take a look at it, at least.’ Mick seemed relieved. He glanced at his watch. ‘Half an hour, then. Shouldn’t take you more than that.’ He pulled away with a cheerful toot of his horn and Zoe crossed the street towards the grocery store. The food would be basic here, she suspected, none of the fancy stuff she liked from Whole Foods or the Thai grocer, but that was OK. She had little interest these days in cooking. There had been a time, when she and Dan had first moved in together and the idea of their first home was new and felt like a game, when she had liked to experiment with food. Dan was an enthusiastic cook; they had learned together. But lately, the business of making a family meal had come to feel like a thankless chore, an increasingly hollow pretence at normality, the time and effort expended so disproportionate to the end result, which was only ever bolted down so that everyone could return as quickly as possible to their separate rooms. Here she planned to live simply, to eat only things that required minimal effort. Cold meat, cheese, salad, bread, breakfast cereals. Coffee, maybe even cigarettes. The way she’d lived when she was at art school, and was so driven by her work that it was too important to interrupt for anything as trivial as eating. She wanted to recapture that kind of absorption, see if she was still capable of losing herself like that in the work. That’s why it was good there was no phone signal and no Wi-Fi at the house, she thought. No Twitter, no Facebook, no Instagram. No distractions. Not that she had felt like sharing much in recent months anyway. She couldn’t bear to look at the news, and she only ever looked at her friends’ lives now with a twist of envy below her ribs and a feeling of exclusion, occasionally an unforgivable wish – there and gone in an instant – that some misfortune would slam into their apparently perfect lives. These thoughts quickly warped into self-loathing; she did not wish harm to her friends, how could she? And yet she could not help resenting them either, for their insularity, their self-satisfaction. For some time she had felt it might be easier to disengage entirely. In a flash of what had seemed at the time like boldness, she had deleted her Facebook and Instagram accounts before she left. She wanted to concentrate on being here, not clinging on remotely to the shreds of a life back home or worrying about how to curate her experience for other people’s approval. She was already starting to regret the decision. A warm gust of air caught her as she walked past an open shop door, a scent of bread and vanilla, and she realised with a twinge that she had not eaten breakfast. In the window beside her, rustic loaves fanned out in baskets and pastries glistened wantonly on silver tiered cake-stands. A painted sign swung above the door, proclaiming Maggie’s Granary in curlicued script. A cinnamon bun from Maggie’s, Charles Joseph had said: the price of his stories. She hesitated on the threshold. If anyone in this place was likely to tell her the truth about the house, it would be the Professor. 4 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) The door of C. Joseph, Rare & Second-hand Books produced a sonorous chime as she pushed it open to enter an atmosphere of rarefied, eccentric chaos. The interior was done up like a gentleman’s library from the last century, or the bar at a fancy country club, without trying so hard: all mahogany panelling and scuffed wine-dark leather winged chairs, books stacked floor to ceiling along every wall and piled in precarious towers in corners. It smelled reassuringly of tobacco and old paper. ‘Give me a minute,’ called a voice from somewhere at the back of the shop. Zoe peered around a bookcase to see the old Labrador padding towards her, nose quivering towards the paper bag in her hand. ‘Hey, Horace,’ she said, reaching down to scratch him behind the ears. When she looked up, Charles Joseph was standing in front of her, hands clasped together. ‘She remembered the buns, Horace,’ he remarked to the dog, with solemn pleasure. ‘I told you she would. Your timing is impeccable, Ms Adams – I’ve just put a fresh pot of coffee on. Come through to the back.’ He led her past a wooden desk with a cash register and through an arched doorway into a smaller room. This, too, was lined with bookshelves along the walls, but the central space had been left for a couple of shabby armchairs and a wide desk that looked like an antique. In one corner a jumble of coloured beanbags and cushions sprawled across the floor. ‘I call this the Reading Room,’ he said, with a sweeping gesture. ‘Rather grand, I know. But sometimes people like to have a quiet place to sit down with a book while they’re in town. Some of the youngsters come here to study at the weekends, if they can’t get any peace at home. People drop by in their lunch hour and the children like to stop off on their way home from school. I’m always pleased to have company.’ He waved towards the coloured cushions. ‘You’re better than a public library,’ Zoe said, smiling. The old man’s face grew serious. ‘I’m afraid that’s more or less true. They closed our library down a couple of years ago. Someone on the mainland decided it wasn’t financially viable. I’m all the islanders have now.’ He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘That’s why I give away so many books, though our young friend Edward despairs at my business sense.’ ‘And you don’t …’ she hesitated, searching for the right way to phrase it ‘… worry about the money?’ Charles gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘My dear girl, I worry about it all the time. But I’ve been fortunate. I wrote a number of books when I was younger that enjoyed some success. I invested wisely, and that’s given me an income over the years. And I dabble in rare books – now and then I come across an item of more than average value, and that keeps us afloat, with what I make from the maps and walking guides. So I can more or less afford to allow my charitable instincts to get the better of my commercial ones.’ ‘What kind of books did you write?’ ‘Oh, studies of myths. That was my field. There’s bound to be one around somewhere.’ He poked about on a nearby shelf, running his finger along dusty spines until he pulled out a fat volume in a transparent plastic cover and handed it to Zoe. The Myths That Make Us by Dr Charles M. Joseph. The dust-jacket featured a reproduction of Rubens’ Saturn Devouring His Son. ‘Is it history?’ she asked, turning the book over to look at the back cover. He tilted his head. ‘Partly. History, anthropology, psychology, literature, art, travel – there’s a bit of everything in mythography. This one found its way on to various university syllabuses over the years – that’s why it’s still in print.’ The inside cover showed a black-and-white photograph of the author in a tweed jacket much like the one he was currently wearing, his eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled into the camera. He didn’t look a whole lot younger than he did now, Zoe thought, yet this book was clearly published in the last century. She turned to the inside flyleaf to find that it was dated 1975. Charles caught her looking at him and smiled. ‘I was born middle-aged,’ he said. ‘Now then – take a seat while I find a plate for those buns. Milk and sugar?’ He disappeared into a small kitchen through the back. Zoe could hear the chinking of crockery and the hiss of steam. ‘Neither, thanks.’ She sank back into one of the armchairs, the book in her lap, and flicked through a few pages, her eyes lingering over the lavish illustrated plates – reproductions of paintings, sculptures and maps. ‘Take it home if you like,’ Charles said, setting down a mug of coffee on a table he pulled up between them. She handed him the paper bag and he settled into the other armchair, elbows jutting out and hands folded together, watching her. ‘What did you want to ask me, then?’ ‘Oh.’ She looked up, startled. ‘I was interested in finding out a bit more about the local history. Since I’m going to be living here for a bit.’ He continued to look at her. ‘Naturally. But I think you wanted to ask something in particular?’ ‘What’s the story with the house?’ she blurted. ‘The one Mick and Kaye don’t want me to hear?’ ‘Ah.’ He picked up his bun and took a large bite, leaving the question hanging while he chewed it, nodding several times in appreciation. Zoe wondered if he would make her wait until he had finished the entire thing, but when his mouth was empty he glanced towards the doorway. ‘Mick’s put a great deal of time and money into doing up that old place. Love, too, in a sense. It was important to him to redeem it. The house had been left to ruin when his father died – perhaps when you’re more settled you can get him to show you the photos. What he’s done there is extraordinary.’ ‘Redeem it from what?’ ‘From its history. You’re their first tenant, you know. They’d only had the website live two days when you emailed him, he said, and he was fretting that he might not find anyone at all over the winter. So you were a bit of a godsend – you can understand why they don’t want the locals putting you off the place with lurid tales. Especially a woman on her own.’ Zoe gave him a stern look. ‘I’m interested in the tales. I think I’m old enough to tell fact from fiction.’ He met this with an enigmatic smile. ‘Well. I wonder if any of us can really claim to know that.’ There was an odd pause while Zoe tried to judge whether or not he was serious. ‘So – it’s supposed to be haunted, right?’ She made the question sound deliberately sarcastic, but as she spoke she recalled the chill she had felt on the stairs, the plaintive tone of the woman singing. But that had been the whisky and jet lag. No point in telling him about that. Charles picked up his coffee and leaned forward. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this story? Only, one can’t unknow things, you see, and there’s a world of difference between hearing it here, all cosy over buns, and remembering it later, after dark, alone in that big house.’ ‘You’re doing it too, now. I’m not a child, Dr Joseph.’ ‘I apologise.’ He nodded, smiling, but there was a trace of resignation in his tone, as if what she was demanding were an unpleasant but necessary cure. ‘Well, then.’ He set his cup down and eased back in his chair, steepling his fingers. ‘Tamhas McBride owned this island in the mid nineteenth century, though he never lived here until he married Ailsa Drummond in 1861. She was the eldest child and only daughter of the Reverend Te?rlach Drummond, great-great-great-grandfather to our Mick, who was then minister of the island’s kirk. The reverend was widowed and Ailsa refused to abandon him on the island after her marriage, so her new husband had a grand house built overlooking the bay on the northern coast. To say the McBrides were not liked here would be an understatement. Tamhas’s father had been a Glasgow industrialist who bought the island in the 1830s when the laird went bankrupt – it happened all over this part of Scotland. His first act as landlord was to send sixty of the inhabitants to Nova Scotia.’ ‘Jesus. What, like a punishment?’ ‘He claimed the island was over-populated. “Assisted voluntary emigration”, they called it. Nothing voluntary about it, of course – it was eviction by another name, and the rest were supposed to be grateful they were allowed to stay. Some islands were cleared altogether.’ He paused to shake his head. ‘So the McBrides were not well-loved, as you can imagine, though Tamhas was less interfering as a landlord than his father. He was getting on for fifty by the time he married Ailsa – his first wife had died in childbirth, along with the baby. Ailsa was thirty-four – her family had given up any hope of her marrying, so to find such a prestigious husband was seen as a blessing, despite his name. The islanders must have hoped Ailsa would be their advocate.’ He paused for a longing look at his bun. Zoe grinned and nodded her permission. Now that he had agreed to talk, she was willing to indulge him. ‘Tamhas McBride travelled a lot on business, leaving his wife at home,’ Charles continued with his mouth full, brushing sugar from his beard. ‘But she seemed contented enough out there in her big house, according to the letters she sent her younger brother.’ ‘That would be Mick’s great-great …’ she paused, trying to calculate. ‘Great-great-grandfather, that’s right. William Drummond. He was ten years younger than his sister and studying theology in Edinburgh – he was intended for the kirk, like his father. William and Ailsa corresponded regularly. Everyone assumed there would soon be a McBride heir and that would keep Ailsa occupied. But they had been married less than a year when Tamhas was drowned. He was on board a ship that went down during a storm in the Atlantic, all hands lost. On his way back from America, as it happens.’ He added this with an encouraging nod, as if it would give her some sense of participation in the story. ‘And he haunts the place?’ She tried to sound light, but it came out nervous and over-excited. Charles chuckled, as you might humour a child. ‘I’ve never heard of Tamhas giving anyone any trouble from beyond the grave.’ ‘Then …?’ Zoe found she was gripping her mug tighter. He uncrossed his legs, leaned back in his chair and recrossed them the other way around. ‘Tamhas McBride’s death was only the beginning. After she was widowed, Ailsa became reclusive. She dismissed all the staff except one maid for housework and laundry, and a woman from the village who came in once a day to cook – despite the fact that Tamhas had left her a rich woman.’ ‘She stayed in the house?’ ‘Apparently she would walk every day along the cliffs, or sit on the beach drawing – the same scenes over and over, the sky and the sea.’ Zoe felt an odd chill. ‘How do you know all this?’ ‘Mick Drummond inherited a remarkable trove of letters and photographs when his father died last year,’ Charles said, running a moistened finger around the edge of his plate to mop up any stray crumbs. ‘Passed down through the generations, though his father had kept them hidden away. There was an unspoken agreement in the family to leave the story buried, though God knows I did my best over the years to persuade old Mr Drummond to part with those papers, without success. Mick offered them to me, knowing my interest, on condition I didn’t publish anything without his permission. He said he had no time for poking through the past.’ ‘Does Mick’s family still own the island?’ ‘No – I’m afraid the Drummonds have rather fallen from their former glory. The land has all been sold off piecemeal over the decades – most of the centre is National Trust Scotland now, thank goodness, so it’s protected. But he owns the cove where your house is. The McBride land, as it’s known. He either can’t or won’t get rid of that.’ ‘So did you find anything good in the letters?’ ‘Oh, a great deal. Plenty relating to the McBride case, which has taken on all the colour of a melodrama over the years. I plan to write a book based on the letters one day, but Mick was adamant he didn’t want anything made public yet. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind, of course, but once he’d decided to do up the house, he was afraid any kind of publicity about the case would frighten people away.’ He took a gulp of coffee. ‘Or, worse, attract them. The wrong people. Haunted-house nuts, psychic researchers, amateur detectives – you know the kind.’ ‘So it is haunted?’ She pointed at him, triumphant, as if she had tricked him into admission. Charles merely gave her his quiet smile. ‘I’m coming to that. Most of what I’m telling you I’ve gleaned from William Drummond’s letters.’ ‘Ailsa’s brother.’ ‘Yes. Young William was a prolific correspondent, it seems – first with his father and sister, and later, after the reverend died, with the solicitor who took over the McBride estate. One of the chief subjects of his letters is his sister’s welfare.’ ‘So what happened to Ailsa?’ ‘Well, at first she kept to herself. Stayed away from the village, turned down all social invitations. Of course, she had become an intriguing prospect, as you may imagine – a wealthy widow living alone in a large house, relatively young, certainly young enough to remarry. As soon as a decent interval had passed, the suitors began paying court. She spurned every advance, according to the maid. Burned letters unopened.’ ‘Perhaps she was still grieving her husband,’ Zoe murmured. ‘Perhaps,’ Charles said evenly. ‘She saw her father occasionally, but much less than she used to, and not at all once he became too ill to make the journey out to her. Eight months after Tamhas was drowned, the Reverend Drummond also passed away, from pneumonia. Ailsa McBride finally emerged for his funeral – the first time she’d been seen in the village since they buried her husband – and shocked everyone by turning up in an advanced stage of pregnancy.’ ‘Wow.’ She stared at him, eyes wide, the mug halfway to her lips. ‘Was it her husband’s?’ ‘Naturally, that’s what everyone wanted to know. But no one quite dared to ask her directly and she never offered an explanation. She wrote to her brother of her “poor fatherless child”, but in the same letter she says “his father will always be watching over him”, which sounds like a sentimental reference to her dead husband. But here’s the bombshell.’ He paused for effect, raising an eyebrow over the top of his cup. ‘Ailsa McBride gave birth to a son nearly eleven months after her husband was buried.’ ‘Whoa.’ Zoe sat back. ‘Naughty Ailsa. Unless they miscounted?’ ‘The dates are there in the church records. Ten and a half months after the burial. And Tamhas had been away for the best part of two months before he died. You can imagine, in a village like this, the gift that would have been to the gossip mill. But that was the point at which she truly became an outcast.’ ‘She doesn’t sound like someone who would have cared too much about that,’ Zoe said. ‘Apparently not. She kept to the house after her son was born. Dismissed the maid, saying she intended to care for the child herself, which of course was unheard of for a woman of means at the time. The maid was less than delighted – there was little work available on the island. It’s my view that much of what was passed down had its roots in malicious rumours put about by the maid in anger at losing her position.’ ‘Like what?’ Zoe sat forward, intrigued. ‘Oh, that there was something wrong with the child. Ailsa didn’t send for a midwife – only the maid was present in the house when the child was delivered, and she swore it was stillborn. Ailsa never had the boy baptised either – you can imagine the scandal of that. The cook continued to visit every day but she said she never once heard the child crying, nor ever saw him, though Ailsa was always sewing clothes for him. This went on for a couple of years. This cook said Ailsa McBride was growing stranger and stranger – more remote, as if she was in another world most of the time.’ ‘Losing her mind, you mean?’ ‘That’s what the new reverend implied in his letter to William Drummond. Though you must remember how quick people were to diagnose madness in women in those days. But even that was principally among educated people. Rough-hewn island folk jumped to other conclusions first.’ He raised a finger, as if he were giving a lecture. ‘Consider it. A woman living alone, who shuns church and refuses to answer the door to the minister, with an unbaptised child no one ever sees?’ ‘They said she was a witch, I guess?’ Zoe felt the goosebumps rise on her arms and the back of her neck. ‘Did the rumours never imply who the father was?’ ‘Oh yes.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘They said it was the Devil himself. There was even a rumour that she had murdered the child at birth in some kind of blood sacrifice, which was why no one ever saw him.’ Charles’s face tightened in anger, as if he took such ignorance and prejudice personally. ‘But that is a real mystery – with all the gossip flying, there was never a finger pointed at any of the island men. Not even the disgruntled maid could confect any plausible evidence of male visitors in the year after Ailsa was widowed. Even the minister didn’t cross the threshold.’ ‘Wow. She really knew how to keep a secret.’ Zoe felt a growing admiration for Ailsa McBride and her disregard for convention. ‘So it seems. But after the child was born, Ailsa left the management of her financial affairs to the one solicitor in the village, a Mr Richard Bonar,’ he continued. ‘Bonar would go out to the house once a month to discuss the estate. His letters to William Drummond are fascinating.’ He leaned forward, eyes bright. ‘He says despite the talk, he’s never found Ailsa anything less than entirely lucid. She is always impeccably dressed, the house clean, and she displays a sound understanding of her accounts and investments together with an impressive grasp of arithmetic for a woman.’ ‘Big of him,’ Zoe remarked. Charles laughed. ‘Yes. Though it’s curious – I can’t help but wonder about the effect of those letters. What might have happened if Bonar had been less pragmatic, if he had encouraged William to come back and see his sister. But William was evidently reassured by Bonar’s words. Especially when, a couple of years later, the solicitor said he’d seen the child.’ ‘So the son was alive?’ ‘Most definitely. A frail boy, Bonar says, very pale, but to all appearances well cared-for, though he suspected he might be mute. So William saw no need to get involved. He was engaged to be married by then, to a girl from an Edinburgh clergy family of some standing – he was moving up in the world and had no wish to be burdened with the care of a widowed sister and sickly nephew on a remote island, particularly when that sister had more than enough money to look after herself and there was a rumour of illegitimacy hanging over the boy. He writes encouraging Ailsa to sell the land and move to Edinburgh so they can see more of each other, but he doesn’t make much effort to persuade her.’ He stopped for another gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘Perhaps if he had taken more trouble with her, the story might have had a different ending.’ Zoe watched him with a frisson of excitement, waiting for the reveal. ‘Would you like to see her?’ Before she could answer, he crossed the room to a vast walnut cabinet against the back wall, crouched to unlock the top drawer and drew out a leather folder crammed with documents. After some riffling through papers he held out a yellowed photograph, curling at the edges. She reached out for it, aware of a strange tightness in her throat. ‘I’ll put another pot of coffee on,’ Charles said, setting the folder down on the desk and leaving her with the picture. Zoe looked down. The photo in her hand was a formal portrait, the woman sitting stiff-backed in her black dress with its high lace collar and wide skirts, hair severely parted and pulled back into a bun. The face was stern, not beautiful but strong-featured, with fierce dark eyes that stared into the lens as if issuing a challenge. No wonder the locals left her alone, Zoe thought; the force of that gaze would make anyone step back and apologise. Around her neck, Ailsa wore a silver Celtic cross patterned with ornate tracery. ‘Formidable woman, isn’t she?’ Charles’s voice over her shoulder made her jump. ‘Shall I get you a refill?’ He leaned over for her empty mug. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her, to judge by that expression. You can see why she made the villagers nervous.’ ‘So what did happen to her?’ Zoe called, as he pottered back to the kitchen. ‘I’m about to tell you,’ he said. At the same time, the bell above the shop door chimed. Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel, as Mick appeared in the archway to the main shop. His gaze alighted on Zoe with the photograph in her lap and she watched his face working to suppress a reaction. Again, Zoe felt she had incurred his disapproval; guilty, she glanced at her watch. ‘Thought I might find you here.’ Mick pressed his lips together, but his reproving look was directed at Charles. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Zoe said, half rising. ‘I didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone.’ ‘It’s my fault entirely,’ Charles said, with his charming smile, flipping the cloth over his shoulder. ‘I persuaded her to stay for coffee, I’m afraid.’ ‘And a wee history lesson, I see.’ Mick nodded to the picture in Zoe’s hand. ‘I asked him to tell me,’ she said, looking at Mick. She did not want to be the cause of ill feeling between the two men, but she found Mick’s efforts to hide the stories from her both irritating and a little ridiculous. Perhaps he was ashamed of having a family history that included witchcraft, or madness. That sort of thing still mattered in a place like this. ‘The island is so fascinating. I thought it might be inspiring for my painting.’ Mick’s face clouded further. ‘I don’t think—’ he began, but changed his mind. ‘I need to get back up the pub in a minute. If you do a quick dash round the shop now, I can run you home, but we’ll need to get a shift on.’ Zoe stood. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Couldn’t I get a cab? That way I can take my time and explore a bit more.’ Mick laughed. ‘A cab, she says. Good luck with that.’ He folded his arms and appeared to relent. ‘Nae bother. You’ve my mobile number – if you can’t get a lift, I’ll be free again after about four, you can try me then.’ His eyes darted back to the photograph. ‘And don’t believe anything he tells you.’ He turned and stalked briskly out of the shop, leaving the bell jangling as the door banged behind him. Zoe caught Charles’s eye and he grimaced. ‘We’re in the doghouse,’ she said, handing back the photo, avoiding a last look at the woman’s stare. ‘I shouldn’t have kept him waiting, when he was going out of his way to help me.’ ‘It’s me he’s angry with,’ Charles said, though he didn’t sound as if this troubled him unduly. He picked up the document case and tapped it with a tobacco-stained forefinger. ‘But I only ever promised not to write publicly about the story without his blessing. I certainly never agreed not to discuss it. And as a publican, he should have a better grasp of human nature. The more he tries to stop you hearing, the more curious you’re bound to be.’ He took a long look at Ailsa McBride before slipping the picture back among the other papers. ‘How was your first night in the house, by the way?’ Zoe hesitated. For one reckless moment she considered telling him about the singing and the locked door, the figure on the beach. It would be a relief to voice the strangeness of it aloud, to have someone as unflappable as Charles reassure her that she had imagined it. But in the same instant she recalled the dream that had preceded it, her own nakedness and fierce desire, and felt unaccountably ashamed, as if he would be able to read traces of that dream in her face. Besides, he had seen her at the pub; he must have noticed how quickly the whisky had gone to her head. He would be too polite to tell her it was the drink, but she could hardly expect to be taken seriously. She shrugged and smiled. ‘Fine. I needed the sleep.’ He raised his head, eyebrows cocked in a question. ‘You didn’t find the silence unnerving? People often do.’ ‘I’m OK with silence,’ she said, still smiling, though her face had begun to feel rigid. ‘That’s good. Few people really know how to be comfortable with it, I find.’ ‘Will you tell me the rest of the story?’ Charles appeared to be on the point of answering when the shop bell rang again and a wavering voice called out as the door banged shut. ‘Anyone there?’ Horace lumbered up from under his chair to greet the newcomer. An elderly woman in a clear plastic rain hood picked her way through the piles of books, nosing the air like a woodland creature. ‘There you are!’ Her watery eyes alighted on Zoe. ‘Oh, but I don’t want to trouble you if you’re busy, Professor.’ ‘No trouble at all, Betsy. It’s always a pleasure to see you.’ He pushed his chair back, turning to wink at Zoe over the woman’s head. ‘Do help yourself to more coffee, Ms Adams, and a book, if you like.’ But Zoe sensed the earlier intimacy had been broken; Mick’s appearance had cast a shadow of guilt over their conversation. She picked up her jacket and tucked The Myths That Make Us inside it. ‘Thank you – I should get on with my shopping. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ ‘Not at all.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’ve left you on a cliffhanger so you’ll have to come back and see us.’ The old dog followed her to the door, sniffing at her legs. She scratched his head between his ears on her way out and he made a low, throat-clearing noise of appreciation, sitting down solidly in the doorway. Zoe turned to see the elderly woman watching her through the glass as she walked away. 5 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1) She spotted the young teacher as he jogged across the empty playground, clutching the hood of a waterproof hiking jacket around his face against the downpour, while she cowered under the brick archway of the bike shop yard, peering out at the sky, bewildered by its sudden betrayal. She took a bold step forward into his line of sight, one hand protectively clamping the saddle of her new bicycle, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. The plastic carrier bag from the supermarket knocked against her leg as it swung from the handlebars. ‘Oh. Hello again.’ Edward’s face lit up as he approached; rain had spattered his glasses and he had to take them off and wipe them with a tissue. ‘You picked the wrong day for a bike ride.’ ‘I know, right?’ Zoe pushed a wet strand of hair out of her face and grinned. ‘What’s going on? It was fine when I came out.’ She patted the bike. ‘And I just paid the guy to take this for a month. He didn’t tell me it was monsoon season. Reckon I could get a refund?’ ‘If he gave money back for every day it rained here he’d have gone bust long ago.’ Edward smiled. He seemed nervous. ‘Seriously, though. You can’t ride all the way back in this. You should wait it out – the weather changes from one hour to the next.’ ‘I see that.’ She pulled her scarf tighter. ‘I was going to take my groceries home. You guys are not big on cabs around here, I understand.’ He laughed. ‘Uh, no.’ ‘I guess it’s back to the bookshop till this clears up.’ She glanced along the street. ‘Your Professor will think I’m hitting on him. Though I’m not sure I can afford to pay my way in buns.’ ‘You can wait at mine if you like.’ The way he said it; too quickly, trying to make it sound casual. ‘I’m across the green there, in the School House.’ He indicated through the billowing curtains of rain. She frowned. ‘But you were on your way somewhere.’ ‘Nothing urgent. I’ve got biscuits, and coffee,’ he added, as if to persuade her. Zoe wondered if he had seen her from the window; if he had come out specifically to bump into her. The possibility fired a small, bright buzz in her chest. ‘Well – that’s really kind. If you’re sure I won’t be in the way?’ ‘Of course not. Charles will be closing up soon anyway, you might as well. Here, let me take that.’ He reached out for the bike; she unhooked the bag and let him steer. Together they scurried across the green, heads down into the rain as it drove harder all around them, bouncing up from the road and sluicing along the gutters in a brown stream. She stole a glance at his profile as he fumbled to unlock the gate at the side of the School House, the bike balanced against his hip. Neat, regular features, glazed with the uncomplicated smoothness of youth, save for that fine crease between his brows that hinted at deep preoccupations, a serious involvement with the world. A brief shiver of unease rippled through her; an absurd sense that she should not step across the threshold into his life, that to do so would be to invite a curse, as in a fairy tale. She shook the rain from her hair briskly and smiled as he held the front door open. The School House was built in the nineteenth century from the same hard grey stone as the school it served. Inside it had been furnished sparely, the floral curtains and plain upholstery faded, the carpet’s pattern worn indistinct by the feet of previous tenants. Edward had imposed little of himself on his home, Zoe thought, as he showed her into the cramped living room. A curved silver wireless speaker on the walnut dresser; a black-and-white photograph of dreaming spires in dawn mist; a music stand under one narrow window, his violin case leaning beside it. Scanning the room, she had the impression that he had barely unpacked, and did not intend to stay long. Only the bookshelves offered any glimpse of him. They had been carefully arranged, poetry and classics together, literary novels and the kind of non-fiction she saw extracted in the New Yorker and always intended to read one day. Browsing the spines, she began to feel intimidated by him: his obvious intelligence, his earnest intensity. ‘Tea? Coffee?’ He took off his glasses and wiped them on the tail of his shirt. That English diffidence as he looked at her from under his fringe, fearful of being refused. Funny to think she and her friends would have looked straight past a boy like this in college. Now she was the one who feared being invisible. ‘Tea, thanks. If I have any more coffee I’ll shoot through the ceiling. No milk.’ ‘So you’ve been to see Charles already?’ he called through the open door of the kitchen, over the sound of running water. ‘Has he been filling your head with lurid legends?’ ‘I wanted him to tell me about the house.’ A wooden staircase led up from the main room, almost opposite the door. Zoe wandered over to the shelves beneath it and began lifting paperbacks from a stack. ‘In defiance of Mick’s Official Secrets Act?’ ‘Yeah – what’s with that?’ She picked up a hardback volume of Rilke in a plastic dust-jacket and flicked through the pages. Some had been folded down at the corners and here and there she glimpsed pencil notes in the margin. One of his college books, she guessed, and felt an odd pang of tenderness, to think of him so newly out in the world. ‘Did Mick give everyone orders not to tell me?’ ‘More or less.’ Edward came to stand in the doorway, a kettle in his hand. ‘He was afraid it would scare you off. He doesn’t like anyone talking about his family history at the best of times, but especially not in front of paying customers.’ ‘It’s a little paranoid. Every old place has its stories. I wouldn’t have chosen to live in a house like that if I was easily spooked.’ ‘Even so,’ he said, in a tone that suggested he was struggling to be fair, ‘it would be a big deal for some people, to find out you’re living in a house where a woman killed her child. And then after what happened last year – I can see his point.’ Zoe snapped her head up from the book to stare at him. ‘She killed her child? What did happen last year?’ He froze, guilt slinking over his face. ‘Shit. I thought Charles had told you?’ ‘He didn’t get to that part. Oh, come on,’ she said, when it appeared he was turning away, ‘you can’t throw that out and not explain it. Who killed her child – Ailsa McBride?’ Edward sighed, flicking at the kettle lid with his fingernail. ‘I’ve put my foot in it. At least wait till I’ve got the tea on, OK?’ Zoe scuffed impatiently as he clattered about in the kitchen. Over the chink of china and the wheeze of the kettle boiling, she heard him determinedly humming a tune that sounded familiar. She turned over the flyleaf of the Rilke book to find an inscription dated the previous summer in a rounded, girlish hand: My darling Ed – we’ll always have Prague! Here’s to all the summers to come, all my love, L xxxx. She darted a furtive glance towards the kitchen, where Edward was pouring hissing water into a teapot. Who was L? Nothing about this sparse cottage suggested the existence of a girlfriend. Where was L now, she wondered. What had happened to all the summers to come? He came in bearing the mugs before him like votive offerings, steam fogging up his glasses. Zoe quickly thrust the book back on the pile, but if he noticed, he said nothing. He set one of the mugs down on another stack of books beside the sofa and gestured for Zoe to sit, then flopped on the opposite end, pressed up against the armrest – there were no other chairs in the room – and tucked one leg under him like a child, both hands wrapped around his mug while he watched her over the rim. ‘Look, Charles is really the person to ask about this,’ he began, half-apologetic, half-defensive. ‘I only know what he’s told me, and the general gossip.’ Zoe smiled encouragement. ‘Tell me the gossip, then. Ailsa McBride killed her kid, is that it?’ He sighed and looked down into his tea, as if he might find a prompt sheet there. ‘Supposedly she went mad, or she was possessed, or something along those lines. She’s meant to have killed her son and then herself. But they never found the boy.’ ‘Then how do they know she killed him?’ ‘They found some of his clothes washed up on the rocks.’ He bit his lip. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ ‘Screw Mick,’ Zoe said, feeling bolder. ‘It’s not about Mick. I was thinking of you having to go back there on your own.’ ‘Couldn’t they both have been murdered?’ Edward tilted his head, considering. ‘I’ve never heard that as a theory, I don’t know why.’ ‘Because the whole island had it in for Ailsa, clearly. A woman of independent means, raising her child with no need of a man? Must be crazy. They both get killed – the crazy witch lady must have done it. Case closed.’ ‘It is a bit Wicker Man, isn’t it?’ Edward caught her eye and they both grinned; in that instant, Zoe felt the unexpected click of connection and knew, with a pang of relief, that she was no longer alone here. She had an ally. ‘What happened to Ailsa?’ she asked, when she realised they had been holding one another’s gaze a beat too long to be comfortable. ‘Her body washed up further round the coast a few days later, fully clothed, no wounds on her. So they concluded she’d drowned herself after killing the boy.’ ‘But if the kid was never found, they can’t even be certain he was killed, surely? Maybe he ran away.’ Edward shrugged. ‘I suppose. But he’d have turned up sooner or later, wouldn’t he, on a small island? People seem to have accepted the Ailsa version as fact, though. There’s a lot of whispering about how the land is bad in that corner of the island.’ ‘Bad how?’ ‘Cursed. McBride apparently tore down the remains of a ruined chapel and used the stones to build over its foundations, and the chapel had been built on an ancient pagan site to sanctify it, so he was asking for trouble.’ He grinned and shifted position, stretched out the leg that had been folded and tucked the other under. ‘Great. So I’m staying in a house with an ancient curse, haunted by a child-killing witch.’ Edward laughed. ‘Yup. Enjoy your holiday.’ Zoe leaned her head back against the sofa cushion and laughed along. Rain gusted against the window panes like gravel flung with malice, and the wind boomed down the chimney, shaking the doorframe. The room had grown darker around them as the last light leached from the sky; shadows stole out from the corners, settling over the hollows and angles of their faces. Edward reached behind him and clicked the switch on a standing lamp, warming their corner of the room with a soft amber glow. A silence unfolded, unhurried and companionable. She held the mug to her lips, breathing in its warmth, and found she had no desire to leave. For a while, she could almost forget herself. ‘I don’t know why Mick wants to keep all this hushed up,’ she remarked eventually. ‘Plenty of people would pay a fortune to stay in a place with that kind of history.’ ‘Exactly – ghouls. Unsolved-murder fetishists. Those weirdos who think you can measure paranormal activity with radio waves.’ He picked at a loose thread on the cushion cover. ‘There was a lot of resentment in the village when he inherited the house and started to do it up. There’d been a kind of unspoken agreement between the Drummonds and the islanders that the McBride house would be left to fall into ruin and the story allowed to die with it.’ He arched his back and folded his hands together behind his head. As he moved, his knee brushed briefly against Zoe’s leg and she felt a small shock jolt through her like static. ‘It’s seen as a taint on the island’s reputation – they take all that Gothic stuff quite seriously and they don’t want to be famous for it. It took Mick a long time to persuade the locals that he wouldn’t use the family history as a selling point.’ Outside, a gull’s mournful cry echoed across the empty schoolyard like a reprimand. ‘So everyone is sworn to secrecy,’ Zoe said, sitting up and wrapping her hands around her mug. ‘Did Mick tell you all this?’ Edward shook his head. ‘He doesn’t like to talk about it. This all happened before I got here. Charles told me most of it – and Annag Logan, the barmaid at the Stag.’ Zoe thought of her lipstick with a stab of resentment. ‘Are you and she …?’ She made a vague motion with her hand that implied conjunction. Edward’s look of confusion shaded to outrage as he understood her meaning. ‘Christ, no. Would you seriously think …?’ He straightened up, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘Not exactly my type. Apart from anything else, she’s only sixteen.’ ‘Is she really?’ Zoe nodded in mild surprise. ‘I’d have said older. I didn’t mean to offend,’ she added quickly. ‘Only – there can’t be many young women out here.’ ‘I didn’t really come here to meet women.’ A corner of his mouth twisted; there was a darker note in his voice which piqued her interest. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’ ‘You came here to meet men?’ It took him a moment to spot the glint in her eye; he threw a cushion at her, laughing as she tried to duck. ‘That’s right – big fishermen and rig workers. I love an oilskin, me.’ ‘And how’s that working out for you?’ He made a face. ‘I’m sick of the smell of herring, truth be told. And they’re away so much. I’m a herring widow.’ Zoe laughed and chucked the cushion back; he jerked his mug out of the firing line, too late, as tea sloshed over the upholstery. ‘Hey, watch the sofa! It’s a priceless heirloom.’ ‘It’s definitely historic.’ Zoe rubbed the cheap brown fabric with a finger where the arms were worn shiny with use. Wind snarled down the chimney and worried the window frames; she thought she caught the bass note of distant thunder. ‘Should I light a fire?’ Edward glanced at her for approval; when she shrugged, to say she didn’t mind either way, he sprang to his feet and knelt in front of the hearth. ‘I usually sweep it out and leave it ready in the mornings, now the nights are getting colder,’ he remarked, over his shoulder, as he reached for logs from a basket to one side. It was the sort of thing her grandmother might have said. Zoe watched his careful, methodical movements and found it suddenly unbearably touching – the thought of him waking here alone, dutifully sweeping out the night’s cold ashes before the children piled shrieking into school, laying his little fire for the long dark evening with his music and his poetry. She wondered how he could stand it, the loneliness. The room seemed shrunken in the half-light, the walls and ceiling pressing in. The McBride house was lonely too, but at least there was a grandeur to its solitude; its proud aspect, facing out to the open sea, lent an aloofness to the isolation. This cottage was merely dingy and sad; it smelled faintly of damp and spinsterhood. She watched Edward as he leaned forward, tucking old newspaper around the kindling. The movement caused his shirt to ride up, revealing a hand’s breadth of bare skin above the waistband of his underwear, dusted with blond hairs; fine, taut muscles either side of his spine, not a spare inch of flesh. Zoe felt a stirring deep between her legs, a vestige of that restless energy that had not quite dissipated after the night’s unruly dreams. A hot, strong throb of desire pulsed through her; for the space of a blink, she thought she recalled the elusive face of her dream lover, but when she tried to focus it had dissolved into shadow. She squeezed her thighs together and clutched the mug tighter. ‘Why did you come here?’ she asked him, fighting to keep her voice level. She pressed one hand to her cheek and felt it blazing. He rocked back on his heels and turned to look at her, a box of matches poised in his hand, his face frank and open and impossibly young. ‘I broke up with someone. I was planning to stay in Oxford for another couple of years while she finished her PhD, but … well. She met someone else. That’s what happened.’ He dropped his gaze to the matchbox, turning it between his fingers. ‘So I wanted to get as far away as I could. I saw this job advertised. I didn’t think they’d take me – I’d only just graduated. But it was halfway through the year and I guess they weren’t overwhelmed with applicants. A place like this isn’t for everyone, I suppose.’ ‘Is it for you?’ He paused. ‘It’ll do, for now. I wouldn’t want to settle.’ He stared into the fireplace, letting out a long sigh and covering it with the hiss and flare of a match sparking. The room fell silent; only the crack and spit of the fire as he coaxed it to life. A dark scent of woodsmoke drifted up from the hearth. When he was satisfied, he sat back, cross-legged, and turned his gaze on her. ‘How about you?’ ‘What about me?’ It came out sharp-edged; she had not meant to sound so defensive. He blinked, his expression mild behind his glasses. ‘Why did you come here?’ She hesitated, watching him. How much should she say? Could she tell him everything that had happened with Dan this past year; could she unspool the brittle thread of events that had led her to this place? How much of that could he hope to understand, this dark-eyed, earnest boy, whose first serious break-up had sent him fleeing to the other end of the country? The urge to unburden herself rose up through her, fierce and strong; she caught her breath and pulled back from the edge in time. ‘I wanted some quiet.’ She ran a finger around the rim of her mug. ‘A place to paint.’ ‘Long way to come for it.’ Edward hugged his knees. His tone offered no judgement, though it was half a question. Zoe made a small movement with her shoulders to acknowledge the truth of this. ‘So, do you have a partner?’ he asked, in the same light tone, when it became clear that she was giving nothing without a prompt. Firelight sparked in bright reflections from his glasses; behind them, she could not see his eyes clearly. She left a long pause, not because she wanted to guard her privacy, but because she was no longer even sure of the answer herself. ‘I did,’ she murmured, after a while. Her eyes flicked away to the lurching shadows thrown by the flames. Edward nodded, as if he understood. When he didn’t say any more, she let her shoulders unclench and thanked him silently for having the grace not to force it. ‘The Professor was right, then,’ he said, as he levered himself to his feet and brushed down his trousers. ‘We are all running away.’ Zoe looked up at him briefly with a closed little smile. She wrapped her arms around her chest and drew her knees up, turning back to the fire. Edward bent to pick up her mug. ‘Do you want more tea? Or …’ His eyes darted away from hers and he dipped his chin. ‘I have a bottle of wine somewhere, if you’d rather?’ He was looking at her from under his lashes, shoulders hunched, his torso twisting with awkwardness. Zoe shifted, wincing as the sofa’s defeated springs dug into her leg. Again she felt wrong-footed by the difficulty of recognising his motives. If a man her age had offered the same, she might have presumed he was making a move, but she had no way of knowing how Edward regarded her. Perhaps he was being friendly to a stranger because he had been raised well; perhaps he simply wanted someone to talk to, and would be appalled to think she might have taken it any other way – a woman nearer his mother’s age than his. She glanced away to the window; the sky had turned the colour of wet slate and rain drove at the panes with determination. There was no way she could ride the bike back now, whether she had a drink or not. Part of her wanted nothing more than to stay, to feel that first thick heat of the alcohol sliding through her, gently teasing out the snarls and tangles of her mind; to sit here and listen to this beautiful boy, so pristine in all the blithe self-assurance and anxious uncertainty of youth. She would have liked to pretend, for one night, that she was his age again; to drink wine, play music, sit on the floor into the small hours until he suggested that she stay over. Just for the company, the warmth of another body, the knowledge that she was still desirable. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. This was exactly the kind of situation she had resolved to avoid. If she relaxed now, she would find herself talking. It would all come out: everything she had worked so hard to tamp down, out of sight. A patient listener would undo her. And she could tell he would listen well; there was a stillness about him, an attentiveness to others rare in a boy his age. The children must adore him, she thought. Caleb would. She swiped that thought away before it could settle. Besides, she had begun to feel a strange compulsion to return to the house, a chafe of anxiety behind her sternum, as if it were calling her back. ‘You won’t be cycling out there now, in any case,’ he said, nodding to the window as if he had heard her thoughts. ‘I can drop you home later if you like, though you’d have to leave the bike here. If I only have one glass.’ ‘No!’ The word cracked out of her, hard and fast as a shot, ricocheting off the walls. Edward stared at her, alarmed. She breathed in and out, tightened her hand around the arm of the sofa. She was shocked at herself; she had not meant to sound so fierce. ‘I meant – you shouldn’t drink at all, if you’re going to drive,’ she said, not looking at him, shaping each word clearly and precisely so as to keep her voice steady, though she could feel the colour rising up her neck. ‘You never know—’ She broke off, aware that she sounded like a parent. Well, let him think that. Edward shuffled, chastened. ‘No, you’re right. I wouldn’t usually, but you don’t get pulled over here. More tea, then?’ When she hesitated, he said, as bait, ‘I haven’t told you yet what happened last year.’ Her scalp tightened. She was no longer sure she wanted to hear any more of these stories. Charles was right; they would take on a different shape once she was back in the house, alone, with the darkness pressing in. Whatever Edward was about to tell her, she could not unknow. But she merely nodded, watching him as he padded softly in his socks back to the kitchen to fill the kettle. ‘A child disappeared at the McBride house,’ he announced when he returned, holding out her mug. He settled himself on the floor near the fire with his back against the sofa. His head was close enough to her knees for Zoe to reach out and stroke his hair. She wondered briefly how he would react if she did, and clamped her free hand firmly under her thigh, because she did not entirely trust herself. ‘Disappeared?’ Her voice sounded high and strange. ‘How?’ ‘They don’t really know.’ He stretched his legs out and crossed his feet at the ankles. ‘It was last August, just over a year ago. Mick was a few months into the work and the place was a building site, but the business had stirred up a lot of talk in the town, about the house’s history. Two of the village boys picked up on it and dared each other to spend a night out there, ghost-hunting, for a laugh. One of them didn’t come back.’ The fine hairs prickled along her arm. ‘Jesus. What happened?’ ‘The boy who survived, Robbie Logan – that’s Annag’s brother – thought his friend saw something in the ruined house. They’d hidden on the beach at first, but Robbie said when he got there, he lost his nerve and refused to go in. He stayed down by the rocks. Iain Finlay, the other boy, went alone.’ He paused to sip his tea, snatching glances at her from the tail of his eye. ‘Robbie says he heard Iain scream, and saw him running away, up on to the cliffs, but he couldn’t be sure because it was dark and he was terrified, so he hunkered down out of sight.’ Zoe let out a soft whistle. ‘Did he fall, then – Iain?’ ‘So they reckon. If he ran up on to the headland, away from the house, he could have missed his footing in the dark and gone over the cliff. It’s a sixty-foot drop there and the water covers the rocks at the foot when the tide’s high. By the time the police were called, it had already been in and out. They concluded the body must have been washed away without a trace.’ ‘And the other boy, Robbie – he really saw nothing?’ Edward shook his head. ‘Apparently not. Although …’ he hesitated, rubbing his thumb along his chin, ‘there was a lot of talk about that, too. How much Robbie knew.’ ‘Shit. I’ll bet.’ ‘The police had trouble getting anything out of him. There was a social worker assigned to the family – she told me all this when I started at the school. Robbie didn’t go home till the next morning – he’d been wandering all night, out on the moorland, he said. He hardly spoke, except to give them that version. The social worker seemed to think he’d been traumatised, but …’ He held out his hands, empty. ‘Not everyone believed it, huh?’ ‘He was only ten at the time, but he’s a big lad and he had a reputation as a bully. The younger kids are scared of him, though he mostly keeps to himself now. I think people didn’t buy the idea of him cowering down on the beach. Iain was always the weaker character, they said – he did what Robbie told him.’ ‘Why didn’t the parents raise the alarm?’ Zoe sat upright, indignant. ‘How did they not notice their kids were out all night?’ ‘The boys snuck out after everyone was in bed, apparently. Though in Robbie’s case, I’m not surprised no one noticed. His mother’s dead and his dad’s a lorry driver, he was away working on the mainland. Robbie was at home with his sister. She says she had no idea he’d left the house until the next morning.’ ‘So people secretly think he pushed his friend over the cliff?’ ‘Not so secretly, in a lot of cases. It seemed the police did too, for a while, but there was no evidence. Iain’s family moved away soon after, though, and a couple of other families moved their children out of the village school. Reading between the lines, I think that’s what did for the old teacher – the one I replaced. She couldn’t cope with the thought that one of her pupils might be a murderer and no one would ever be certain.’ He leaned forward and poked the fire; a flurry of sparks erupted and vanished. ‘But I think there’s just as many in the village really believe it was the curse of the McBride house. Another vanished boy, on the site of a famous child murder. It got a lot of attention in the Scottish papers and of course they dug up the old story – exactly what the islanders didn’t want.’ ‘God. No wonder Mick’s so touchy.’ She fell silent, wrapped in her own thoughts. ‘He was so pleased you hadn’t heard about it. He wanted to keep it that way. I’m sorry – it’s a horrible story,’ Edward said. Zoe kept her eyes fixed on the floor. She knew he had seen her flinch. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. Even if you don’t believe in all that, it’s still …’ He tailed off, uncertain. ‘All what?’ ‘Well. Ghosts. Curses.’ She laughed, to show her disdain, but it sounded too loud in the small room. ‘I don’t mind a ghost story. It’s the living you have to be afraid of.’ She stopped, seeing his expression, hoping she didn’t sound paranoid. ‘I mean – when you look at the news, right? The stuff that goes on.’ He nodded. ‘True. There’s enough evil in the world without inventing it. I hope it won’t frighten you away, though,’ he added, glancing up shyly, a half-question in his eyes. She looked at him, disconcerted; once more her awareness of the age gap that separated them was scrambling the signals. She felt herself flush with confusion. How mortifying it would be to respond as if she were flattered, only to find his concern was whether he would upset Mick; the embarrassment that would persist between them for the rest of her stay would be unbearable. In a place this size she could not risk having to avoid someone. Nor would it be smart to make herself a bigger target for village gossip: the American cougar. Even if he were flirting, what could come of it? She was still technically married, though she doubted that was weighing on Dan’s conscience much, back home. And really, who could blame him, the way she had been this past year? ‘It would take something genuinely terrifying to drive me away,’ she said firmly. ‘Like blocked drains.’ He laughed, but she could not help noticing the way he dropped his gaze back to his mug, as if unsure whether he had been rebuffed. They sat in silence, listening to the whispering of the fire. The conversation seemed to have petered out now they had exhausted the subject of the McBride house. She wanted to ask him more about himself, this curious life he had chosen, but was afraid it would look like she was prying; beyond that, she thought, what did they have in common, she and this boy, besides the fact that they were outsiders here, both running away – the very thing neither wished to talk about? The rain had eased its assault on the window and through the narrow pane to her left she made out streaks of brightness struggling to break through the heaving clouds, though dusk was approaching. She shifted in her seat as a prelude to leaving, when her eye fell on the violin case in the corner. ‘That song you played last night,’ she said. ‘The haunting one – what was it called?’ ‘They’re all haunting,’ he said, twisting to look at her with a smile, seeming grateful that the silence had been broken. ‘It’s the local speciality. Any more clues?’ ‘It was right before you took your break. Before we went out for a smoke.’ ‘Oh, you mean “Ailein Duinn”?’ He hummed a few bars and she nodded, hard. ‘Yes, that one always gets to people. Especially the way Kaye sings it. It’s a lament for a sea captain who was drowned, supposedly composed by his fianc?e. She went mad with grief and drowned herself too, a few months later. So the legend goes. The lyrics are a bit grisly, though.’ He hesitated, as if he wanted to protect her from any more unpleasantness. ‘Tell me.’ ‘She sings of how she wants to go to him in the sea. It ends by saying she wants to drink his heart’s blood after he’s drowned.’ Zoe tried to recall how it was to feel that kind of desperate passion for someone, the kind that draws you willingly to your destruction after them. She had been wildly in love with Dan at the beginning, or thought she had, which perhaps amounted to the same thing, but when she tried to remember the sensation it was as if she were remembering a movie she had seen long ago, or a second-hand anecdote. Now there was only Caleb. ‘Eat you up, I love you so,’ she used to whisper into his neck when he was smaller, clean and powdery after his bath, his hair damp; she would nuzzle closer, pretending to chomp his soft, soft skin, until he squealed with delight and wriggled away. Sometimes she felt the breath crushed out of her by that desire to enfold him, take him back into the protection of her body where she could keep him safe. But he had grown too big for that game; he had learned to push her away. ‘The older folk get very emotional about that song,’ Edward continued. ‘We have to play it every time. I suppose it’s not so long since every family on the island knew what it was to lose someone to the sea.’ It sounded like the story of Ailsa McBride. Had she too gone mad with grief for her drowned husband, and walked into the sea to join him, first killing her son, perhaps out of some deranged maternal instinct not to leave him alone? But nothing in Charles’s account so far had suggested that Ailsa’s ‘madness’ was any more than malicious gossip about a woman who refused to surrender her independence to other people’s expectations. Once more Zoe found herself wondering what had really happened to Ailsa and her son. ‘Will you play it for me?’ He looked surprised. ‘Now?’ She shrugged, gesturing to the sky. ‘Before I go.’ ‘I can’t sing it,’ he said, with a hint of alarm. ‘It’s not really the same without Kaye.’ ‘I’d like to hear the music.’ She smiled encouragement and, after a brief hesitation, he sprang up from the floor in one easy bound. She watched him tuning the violin, plucking each string with his head cocked, as if listening for invisible echoes only he could hear. In the corners, the shadows lengthened. If that song had been stuck in her head last night, to the point where she had imagined hearing it in the house, there was no sense in reminding herself of it, only to have it turning round and round once more as she tried to sleep. But she figured that perhaps hearing him play it in that drab but oddly cosy little room might rid it of any associations with last night’s strange dreams and sleeplessness; a kind of aversion therapy. If it came to her again in the night she could think of the music without the words, and picture the intensity of Edward’s expression as he played with his eyes closed, lashes resting on his cheeks, lips pressed firm in concentration. As soon as he struck up the first bars, she realised that she had made a mistake. Dusk fell as if suddenly across the room; the last hopeful streaks of light in the sky obscured by fast-moving clouds. The violin’s mournful notes trembled on the air. Strangely, she found that she knew the words; she had the curious sense that she could hear them quite clearly, though silently, inside her head, as if it were an old familiar tune echoing in her memory – but how could she hear the words so intimately when she had no knowledge of that ancient, guttural language? She wanted to ask him to stop, but the song filled her mind so entirely that there was no room left for other words; she could not form the sounds. Behind her breastbone she felt a pressure building, tightening her throat, a great wave of grief rising up; all the grief she had ever known and buried, gathering force like a wall of black water called into flood tide by the song, threatening to overwhelm her while he went on playing, his eyes shut, oblivious to the danger; she must escape the music or the weight of it would burst her defences and drown her— With one mighty effort of will, she wrenched herself up from the sofa and ran from the room, snatching up her jacket on the way out, wrestling with the bike in the passageway, trying to ram it backwards through the door as he followed, bow in hand, his face taut with alarm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ But she could only shake her head, teeth clenched; she could still hear the song, yearning and wistful, and her only thought was to get away, as if it were not in her mind now but somewhere in the cottage, so that she might be able to outrun it. He tried to take hold of the handlebars, protesting about the weather and the dark, but she did not hear it, she knew only that she had to get out before she lost control in front of him; yanking the bike from his grasp, she blundered through the schoolyard to the gate, swung herself on to the saddle and rode away down the green without looking back, her plastic bag of shopping smacking hard against her shin, hair whipping in her eyes, her open jacket snapping in the wind. A mile or so out of the village she found herself slowing as the road began to climb an incline; the street lamps had ended and dusk was closing in fast over the moorland, the daylight all but dissolved, though it could not be much past four. She brought the bike to a stop, aware, as she returned to herself, of the ragged breath tearing at her chest, the blood pounding in her temples. She zipped her jacket up to the neck – cursing at leaving her scarf behind in her haste – and cast a glance around her. The horizon had dwindled to a pale streak above the dark spine of hills. She could hardly make out the line of the road as it rose. The bike was fitted with lights but she had been in such a hurry to leave the shop that she had not waited to check the batteries; now she flicked the switch on the headlight to reveal a wavering beam that did little to cut through the shadows ahead. At least the song in her head had stopped. Rain spiked her face as she strained to listen, relieved to find she could hear nothing now but the cries of seabirds and the low moan of the wind through heather. Perhaps she should call Mick and ask him to come out and find her in the Land Rover. It would be folly to try and continue along an unfamiliar road through moorland in the falling dark on a bike with poor lights, even if another downpour held off. Common sense told her so unequivocally; weighed against it was her pride, and the embarrassment of her emotional outburst, the way she had fled from the School House like someone in the throes of a breakdown. What must he think of her, the young teacher? Neurotic middle-aged woman, she supposed; it would be the last time she was likely to be invited there for a bottle of wine, anyway, which was probably for the best. She peered up at the sky. She had come here to learn how to be alone, not to rely on men for company or to ferry her around; she must not crumble at the first hint of difficulty. That was what Dan expected her to do, and so she must prove him wrong. The house was not even five miles away, and a faint light clung to the horizon; from what she could recall, the road ran straight across the moors to the cove. Setting her face into the drizzle, she pointed the bike up the hill, stood on the pedals and picked up her pace, this time feeling every twinge in her muscles without the spike of adrenaline that fear had lent her. Fear of what, though? Nothing she could quite name. Fear of betraying herself, was the closest she could come to defining the panic that had driven her from Edward’s room. A brief sense of triumph washed through her as she crested the hill, only to ebb away at the sight of a fork in the road up ahead. She did not remember this parting of the ways from her drive earlier with Mick, and neither branch had a signpost. The road that veered away to the left was narrower, less frequented, and since she could not recall a turning, she made the decision to take the right-hand fork, which seemed a continuation of the main road. There was no sign of any traffic. Long needles of rain fell harder across the cone of light from her headlamp; the wind bit colder out here and her fingers numbed around the slick rubber grips of the handlebars. Fifteen minutes of unchanging scenery passed: undulating hills, dark heather, a pale ribbon of road unspooling ahead, edged by occasional boulders. Her legs began to ache and the earlier alarm flickered in her chest. Finally, defeated, she planted her feet and reached inside her jacket for her phone to call Mick, but when she swiped the screen, shielding it from raindrops, she saw that there was no signal. She should have guessed, out here. No choice, then, but to press on. But as she stood reluctantly on the pedals, she caught sight of a figure up ahead in the distance, walking with a purposeful stride along the left-hand verge at the side of the road, away from her. For an instant, her heart clutched in fear – there was no one else around for miles – but as she peered harder, she felt certain it was a woman, wrapped in a long all-weather coat. One of these hardy crofters who barely noticed the rain, she supposed; out gathering peat or whatever people did up here. ‘Hello!’ she called, but she was too far away and the wind too loud for the woman to hear. Zoe paused to re-tie her wet hair back from her face and redoubled her efforts to catch up, rising out of the saddle, crouching forward, the bottle of wine in the shopping bag bruising her legs with each movement as she pumped towards the brow of the next incline. She tried shouting again but the figure did not turn around before disappearing over the hill and Zoe was too short of breath to put more effort into it. She would overtake her on the downward slope, she thought, pushing onwards, though it seemed the woman must be walking unusually fast. Zoe breasted the hill and eased up on the pedals, coasting a little as gravity took over, straining her eyes to see the woman, expecting to draw level with her at any moment. But the road was empty; there was only the black ridge of more hills ahead. She called out a third time, but heard no answer. Blinking hard, she wiped the rain from her eyes with the heel of her hand. She had not imagined it; that was impossible. She had seen her, a person walking up ahead, perhaps fifty, sixty yards away. The woman could not have vanished – unless she had left the road and taken a path across the moor, but surely she would have heard Zoe shout. It made no sense. The rain fell harder; a heavy, vegetable smell of wet earth rose from the moorland to either side. Zoe pressed the inside of her wrist against her forehead, trying to think – the worst she could do would be to waste time here, indecisive and exposed. If Dan could see her now, he would feel entirely vindicated. Before she had left, when he still thought there was a chance he could change her mind, he had insisted, over and over, that she would not be able to cope on her own, but she understood now that this was part of his strategy, one of the ways he had subtly undermined her independence over the years. When she now understood that it was he who could not cope with her finding the determination to make her own decisions, to steer her life without deferring to his judgement and his choices. If it weren’t for Caleb, she would have broken away much sooner, she told herself, and the thought made her immediately uncomfortable. She had been repeating this for months, but it had taken on the shape of a comforting reassurance that she knew, deep down, to be false. She was not even sure that she had left him this time. For now they were both playing along with the idea that this was a temporary departure, a rebellion she had to get out of her system. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. 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