Body of Water (8 page)

"You what?" I said immediately, an unconscious reaction as I translated what he'd said. It was a habit I'd grown into as a child, stalling for time when I'd done something wrong and needed to think up an excuse.

He lifted me higher until his face was level with mine. He remained silhouetted against the doorway so I couldn't make out his expression but his tone was unmistakeable. As if talking to an imbecile, he repeated slowly, "Who ere ye?"

I opened my mouth but doubted that I'd be able to speak, from equal measures of fear and shock. Could this monstrous man be Mackay, my real father, who had invited me here? If he was he looked much bigger than his photo suggested.

He shook me for an answer. "Ere ye the beuy?"

Back in London I would have come back with something smart about being a man, not a boy. In my early teens I'd hung out with the wrong crowd long enough to hold my own but now, cold, wet and lonely, suspended in this brute's grip, my confidence melted away.

Mute, I nodded, and tried uselessly to pull his hands off me. I tasted a sudden salty bitterness but couldn't tell if I'd started crying or if it was the ocean spray whipped up from the waves that crashed somewhere out in the darkness. Right now all I wanted was to be back in London. I wasn't ready for this.

He set me down roughly. "Mackay's expectan ye." Fear loosened its grip on my guts. This man wasn't my father but that didn't stop his unrelenting attention from unsettling me.

Fresh barbs of rain shredded the last tatters of my patience. I should be welcomed as a guest, not assaulted and questioned like an intruder.

I puffed out my chest and set my chin high. I didn't feel confident so hoped I could fake it. "If I'm 'the boy' then I guess you're 'the help'?" The words left my lips less boldly than I'd have liked but I managed to get them out, and heard, over the storm. This brute didn't look like any carer I'd ever seen but my father had written that his health was failing and someone looked after him.

The man drew himself up and I took an automatic step back, ready to flee if he lunged for me again, but he turned and opened the door, standing to the side so I'd have to squeeze pass him if I wanted to enter.

With his head turned towards me I detected one half of a sly smile on his face. "Hid's a bit blowy oot here. Ye'd better go in."

A bit blowy. At any moment I expected the house to be ripped from its foundations and he's calling it 'a bit blowy'?

I hesitated, half-expecting him to trip me as I passed him, but I shook the feeling off and stepped into the house. I fired a withering glare in his direction but underestimated his height and wasted the look on his collar bone.

I found myself in the kitchen and not the hallway as I'd expected. Blessed warmth radiated from an AGA on the far wall. I shambled towards it like an acolyte, my hands raised in soporific adoration. The nearer I drew to the enamelled cooker the heavier my feet became.

He lobbed some fabric in my direction. "For yir her."

I looked down at a mangled tea towel so dirty that I resisted lobbing it right back at him but I was too polite to refuse. With one hand I rubbed it roughly over my head before unzipping my sodden jacket. His shadow loomed behind me and I felt him tugging at my shoulders, until he finally wrestled it off me.

The familiar sound of wood dragging against stone broke the silence and something hard nudged the back of my knees. He pushed me down into the chair he'd pulled up for me.

"Yir wet throo." No hint of concern presented itself in the statement so I didn't bother to respond. "Ah'm oot."

I must have misheard him. Surely, not even out here in the Orkneys, could Oot be a regular name. "Your name is Oot?"

"Nae. Me name," he strung the words out, "is Dom. Ah'm gaan oot." He remained out of sight. I heard what sounded like the rubbing of bricks on canvas and guessed he was already at the door.

"In this weather?" I realised to my horror that I sounded like Mum. "Where are you going?"

I got up to face him and my mouth fell open. He must have been six-foot-five with a smooth, olive tan and a jaw-line you could build a city on. And then there were his eyes, slate-grey and ominous. Stamped above each one was a thick, black brow, as if to certify the workmanship of the steel discs below.

He tucked a lock of wayward hair behind his ear and ran the same hand over his face. It rasped against his stubble.

My vanity urged me to run away again, to lock myself in a bathroom and not come out until I was washed and polished. But even then I doubted I could compare to him. Judging by the size of his shoulders and chest alone I needed six months in a gym, maybe more.

His breathing quickened as he studied me carefully but he remained silent. I vowed never to take my shirt off in front of him.

When he finally spoke he failed to keep the anger out of his voice. "Ah dinnae ansa tae thee."

"When will you be back?" I couldn't help it. Mum had always wanted to know where I was going and when I'd be back. Although it drove me up the wall I knew that she did it for the right reasons.

He tilted his head and his expression changed from defiance to surprise. "Ere ye a peedie simple, beuy? Ah'll see ye the morn's morneen. Dinnae disturb Mackay. He's no weel the night. Find yirself a room and do whit ye will."

A gust of freezing air whipped around me as he opened the door then slammed it shut behind him, leaving me cold and perplexed. Although I had understood that my father wasn't to be disturbed and that I should find a room, I'd need an interpreter for the rest.

Gathering up my things I explored my temporary home. The house was beautiful, the downstairs largely decorated in honey tones. I imagined bright coastal light flooding the rooms on sunny days. Everything seemed old but new at the same time. I recognised the furniture's classic design but also its pristine condition. Even the wallpaper, although old-fashioned, looked like it had just been hung; the colours vivid and bright. As I climbed the stairs I felt like I was on the set of a period drama and my clothes felt out of place among the antiques.

But there was no comfort here. Yes, the house was decorated with things that should have felt warm and inviting but it didn't. It felt like a forgotten place, never lived in by breathing, laughing, loving people.

I climbed the stairs and felt increasingly uncomfortable that each step took me closer to my father. I tried to imagine the hand that had written the letter inviting me here. I wasn't sure that I was ready to see him yet, if at all.

Doors flanked the landing on both sides and, at one end, light marked the edges of the only occupied room.

My father's room.

My curiosity piqued, I tip-toed to the door and pressed my ear against it. I heard nothing, not even the sound of breathing.

Despite Dom's warning I put down my things and tried the handle. Locked. My hand shook so much that the door rattled in its frame. Anxious, I edged back down the landing and tried the four remaining doors. Two opened into bedrooms, another was locked and the last was the bathroom.

A tug on the pull cord illuminated the room. The strong, dark-green walls made the large open room feel warm and cosy. Waist-high, vertical wood panelling drew my eyes down to a black-and-white tiled floor. A deep, roll-top, cast iron bath with clawed feet beckoned me to the other side.

I ran my hand along the smooth edge of the bath and smiled. My own bathroom at home was modern but it had no character. This bathroom looked like the magazine photos I'd pore over in a waiting room. Resisting the urge to run the water straight away I retrieved my things and set about choosing a bedroom.

One room faced inland and the other out to sea. To my mind there was no contest; I picked the room with the sea view and hoped that the weather would be better in the morning. I might not be allowed in the water but I still found it fascinating to look at.

The bed was a showy affair made from brass, elaborately dressed with drapes and lots of pillows. A round, marble-topped table served as a nightstand. On top of this table were a crocheted doily and a crystal lamp. A wooden dresser, also topped in marble, supported a tilting mirror. Drawers embellished with carvings sported ornate brass handles.

I looked at my reflection and confirmed the worst; I looked as terrible as I felt. Red welts circled my neck from where Dom had picked me up. Hopefully I wouldn't bruise. What had caused him to be so aggressive? How could my arrival trigger that sort of reaction?

With a deep sigh, I closed the curtains and turned on the bedside lamp. I switched off the main light, peeled off my wet clothes and emptied my case onto the bed.

The pained cry of an animal distracted me from sorting my clothes into the drawers and drew me to the window. I was surprised to hear anything over the wind that buffeted the house. Ignoring my nakedness, I pulled back the heavy velvet curtains and looked both left and right but saw nothing save for the uneven sheet of water running down the glass.

I closed the curtains again and finished my unpacking. As soon as I was dressed in something more appropriate for the weather outside, I went out to explore.

The rain had stopped but leaden clouds still edged across the sky. Mum had told me that during the summer months here the nights were never truly dark but the storm smothered the remaining light and made exploring difficult. I'd have to watch my step.

I checked my watch. Midnight.

I picked a path and followed it until it petered out close to the cliff's edge. To my right was the drop-off and beyond it the open sea.

A break in the cloud illuminated the muddy broth that churned and crashed against the beach below. My stomach tightened as I looked over the edge so I drew back, fearing I'd be picked up and flung into the waves below.

I walked the other way, glancing back at the house. A dim red light from a second-floor room followed me like an eye. That must be my father's room. Perhaps the locked door led to another staircase?

Any island peaks had been weathered flat. Squat houses speckled the planed surface, hunkering down in the distance, as if scared to face the wrath of the howling wind that still raged around me. No living movement registered. Everything seemed to have found refuge where it could.

The ground hardened beneath my feet and became another path of sorts, the tough grass worn away by many feet. I followed and smiled when I finally saw the inviting glow of a pub, The Auld Hoose. Trust a pub to look like the only welcoming place here.

I loitered outside, unsure whether or not to go in, until the dropping temperature forced me to take shelter. I hoped the locals were friendlier than Dom because I wasn't in the mood for any more disappointment tonight.

But only wood-smoke greeted me as I stepped in. I flexed my stiff hands as I looked around. A slack-jawed woman stood behind the bar, staring at me with utter shock.

"Who are ye?"

"Hello." I didn't walk towards her but hovered by the entrance. She looked like she might scream at any moment. I had no idea what she was so frightened of and then remembered how late it was. I wasn't sure what the licensing laws were here but pubs weren't normally open this late. "I'm sorry. Are you closed?"

"Who are ye?"

"I'm Leven. I've just arrived."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Are ye Mackay's beuy?"

Here we go. I nodded. "So I'm told."

She looked left and right at the five other people in the bar who watched me with equal astonishment. They were so quiet and still that I hadn't noticed them. To my left an old man sat by the fireplace while an old dog slept in his lap. The table of four men to my right realised they were staring, cast inscrutable looks at each other and then stared into their glasses instead.

It only seemed fair that I could ask a question of my own. "And you are...?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Where are me manners? I'm Maggs." She held out a podgy hand and her round face burst into a smile but, just as suddenly, she dropped her hand as her eyes filled with tears. "I'm very sorry for yer loss."

I was surprised that she knew about Mum but I didn't feel ready to ask her how she knew of her death. I still felt unsettled from Dom's reaction to my arrival and I didn't know who I could trust. "Thank you. Could I have a pint please?"

"He's got some manners then," one of the men chuckled. "Might be hope for him yet."

What the hell did that mean?

Maggs pulled the pint, placed it on a dog-eared bar towel and cast a look over me. "How's yer dad? We haven't seen him in a long time."

She asked about him so nicely that I knew she didn't like him at all and I wondered why. I gulped the pint down in a few seconds. "I haven't actually met him yet. Can I have another please?"

She pulled it. I drank it. Rinse and repeat. So far, so good. I figured that if I got drunk enough I'd pluck up the courage to ask about my father and, with a beer coat, I'd find my way back to the house without dying of exposure.

The men at the table looked amused at her obvious discomfort.

"And Dom?" she said. "How is he?"

Feeling reckless, I pulled down my collar to show her the welts on my neck.

"Dom did that? I don't believe it," she chuntered. Did this woman only do disbelief?

"You're joking, right? He's a madman. He talks gibberish."

She laughed incredulously. "His English is very good considering he..."

"He what?" It seemed there was more to both my father and Dom.

She ignored the question. "Ye must have scared him. Dom's the softest thing God put on this earth. I've never seen him raise his hand to anyone."

I felt a tiny spark of irritation at her attitude. As she continued to praise him the spark lit a low flame of anger. My right hand clenched around my glass as I tried to snuff the flame out. "Clearly you haven't seen him around many people."

"And is it any wonder, the way he's been treated?" Her entire head turned red as soon as she said it and I knew she was talking about Mackay. She busied herself by rubbing a cloth over a perfectly clean section of the bar and avoided further eye contact with me.