Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (11 page)

"How are you finding the hotel?" asked Elizabeth.

"It's fine," said Mark.

"Just fine?" asked Elizabeth.

Mark shrugged and took a deep drink of wine. "Well, it's okay," he said. "It's just that the room I'm in is really irritating. The window is rattling badly. And there's this dog that keeps looking up at my room. I think I mentioned it to you before."

"Does she bark?" asked Elizabeth.

"She?"

"The dog," said Elizabeth. "Does she bark?"

Mark had to think about it. "Yes," he said, not entirely sure of it.

"Well," said Elizabeth, "there's nothing to worry about - the dog clearly likes you. Barking is a sign of submission in wolf packs."

Mark smiled. "I hadn't thought of that," he said. He thought of the dog, its bark in time with the almost-cry of "Let me in" - a shiver ran up his spine, goosebumps appeared on his arms.

Elizabeth's eyes danced down to look at Mark's arms - his shirt sleeves were casually rolled up. "Something spooked you?" she asked.

"No," said Mark, before taking another drink of wine. "It must be cold in here or something."

Elizabeth flicked her eyebrows up. "The fire is on," she said. "I thought that you would have been getting hot."

Mark swallowed hard and tried to laugh it off, but in the end he took another long drink of wine, almost draining his glass.

Elizabeth reached over and started slowing stroking his arm, gentle caresses tracing from elbow to wrist, smoothing the hairs down. "How's that?" she asked.

"Better," said Mark, stammering over his words. He got to his feet and spilled the wine glass, a small red pool flowing over the stripped wooden flooring. "Oh God, I'm sorry." He reached down and picked it up - luckily, hardly any was left in the glass.

Elizabeth slowly got to her feet. "Don't worry about that," she said. She reached over and stroked at his shirt, just above his chest. "I was just wondering if you'd like to reconsider my earlier offer?"

"What offer?" asked Mark.

"About staying here," said Elizabeth, eyes boring into Mark.

Mark stood there, like a rabbit stuck in the headlights of a ten-ton truck. He closed his eyes, letting the lorry drive right over him. "I think I should be going," he said.

Elizabeth face screwed up tightly. "I'm sorry?" she asked.

"I need to get back to my hotel," said Mark. "I've got lots of work to do."

Elizabeth sat down again on the sofa, took a long drink and folded her arms. "I see," she said, not making eye contact with Mark. "Ivor can show you out."

Mark struggled up the hotel steps with his bike, feeling the effects of the wine - he reckoned they must have got through at least three bottles between the two of them.
 

Eventually, he managed to get the bike inside the hotel and up the stairs into the storage cupboard. The reception area was deserted - no sign of Harris, or the young Polish girl that he'd seen helping out. Mark felt in a slightly mischievous mood and headed through to the bar, eager for the company of John or even the blacksmith. He needed somebody to play back his evening with Elizabeth and work out if the stuff in his head was real or not. Anyone except Adam.

The students and the blacksmith were the only people in. The dog wasn't there.

The students all turned and stared as he stood in the doorway. Mark looked at the girls and could see that any family resemblance he'd assumed before was illusory - the girls were all adopted.
 

The blacksmith sat on his own, reading a newspaper. Mark decided he couldn't face another sales pitch for some future wedding.

He looked at the bar and its tempting selection of beer and whisky. Eventually, he decided to go back to his room with a pint of water and some ibuprofen, and trudged from the dark oak of the bar, back towards reception.
 

"What were you looking at?"

Mark stopped in the doorway.

One of the male students was standing in the middle of the bar area, hands on hips.

"Excuse me?" asked Mark, his usual nervousness replaced by braveness bolstered by the wine.

"I said, what are you looking at?"

"I was seeing if anyone I knew was in," said Mark.

"Oh aye," said the man. "Finished with my mother-in-law, then?"

Mark shook his head then squared up to him. "I beg your pardon?" he asked. "I was invited to dinner. I had dinner with her. We had some drinks afterwards and then I came back here. And here I am, arguing with an idiot."

The man laughed. "You're a piece of work," he said. "Coming up here to gold dig, just like some wee floozy stalking chief execs in a London nightclub."

Mark shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever," he said. "I've no idea what your problem is. I'm writing a book and Elizabeth has kindly offered to provide some background material. That's all there is to it."

"You sure?" asked the man.

Mark noticed that his companions were on their feet now, though keeping a safe distance. The blacksmith had put his newspaper down. The barman was no longer drying his glasses and was focused on what was going on, hand poised under the flip-up section of the bar.

"I've no idea what your problem is," said Mark. "I'm going to bed."

The man got right in Mark's face. "You just watch your step," he said. "Consider yourself warned, all right?"

"Or what?" asked Mark, fuelled by the dutch courage.

"Or you don't even want to know what I am going to do to you." He pushed Mark, gently, but hard enough for Mark to stagger backwards.

Mark stepped forward and pushed him, sending the student tumbling backwards and grabbing hold of Mark's shirt, tugging him over with him. They rolled and struggled, Mark trying to release himself. He kicked out, connecting with the man's jaw, knocking him over.

Mark staggered to his feet, using a table to pull himself up. He caught his finger on the edge, cutting it slightly on some splinters, a droplet of blood forming.

The other students were either helping their comrade up, or staring at his finger.

"Right, you pair have had enough," said the barman, grabbing Mark and pushing him towards the door.

As he climbed the stairs, he wondered about Elizabeth's daughters having been away from the house while he visited. He couldn't work out if that was a good or bad sign.

It was dawning on him that they'd been focused on his blood. His stomach began churning, saliva welling up in his mouth.

"I need a coffee," said Adam, his over-sized digital camera dangled from his neck, having been clicked hundreds of times.
 

They walked down the high street to the tea room, Mark's finger stinging from the scuffle the previous evening. He felt like such an idiot, fighting with one of Elizabeth's sons-in-law like some drunken caveman. As well as keeping off the booze, he decided to keep away from her. Her behaviour was becoming increasingly
dangerous
- he should keep distance between them.

Adam banging on his door had woken him up, breaking off some strange dream about being stuck under water. He suggested that Mark accompany him as he took some photos around Ruthven village. Mark had slept through breakfast again and was feeling pretty rough. Hopefully Sarah wouldn't see him hungover the next time they spoke.

The tea room was reasonably busy - Mark figured it would be peak tourist season soon - but they managed to get a table by the window. Adam grinned as he showed Mark the photos. The shots were almost indistinguishable on the small viewscreen. Adam plugged a cable into his tablet, giving Mark a much better display.

"I see what you mean," said Mark, deciding that flattery was the quickest way to get him to shut up. "They look really good."

"Of course they look really good," said Adam, grinning. "I took them."

"I'm still worried about the expense of having you around," said Mark.
 

His expectation of the book's photography had been a couple of archive photos in the middle, plus a reasonably arty shot on the cover. That said, he hadn't bothered to call his agent to discuss it. He would no doubt be corralled into a protracted conversation about book progress.

"Chillax, Mark," said Adam. "I'm on a salary at your publisher. It's a company cost they take out of their profits. Besides, most of these shots are probably going to go in a coffee-table book I'm putting together. I'm heading up north at the weekend for more of my art shots."

"I'll need to check my contract," said Mark.

"Look, chill," said Adam. "The photos sell these books. You know that, I know that, the company knows that."

Mark decided not to say anything.

"Now, this is more like it," said Adam.
 

They were parked across from Ruthven Castle. Mark had insisted that Adam pay for the tea and coffee after he discovered he had a decent expenses policy with the publishers, unlike Mark. All he could do was offset certain costs against tax - he really couldn't be bothered arguing with his accountant about whether tea and scones counted.

"That is one hell of an atmospheric place," said Adam, staring through the viewfinder at the castle. "I could fill a memory card with shots just of that."

Mark was fully expecting him to. "I think it's pretty spooky," he said.

"What do you mean, 'spooky'?" asked Adam.

"You know," said Mark, "ghosts and stuff."

Adam laughed. "You don't believe in all that mumbo jumbo, do you?"

Mark shrugged. "Not really, no," he said. "It's just that… well."

Adam laughed even harder. "No, go on," he eventually said, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Okay," said Mark. "I normally don't believe in all that stuff, but I'm starting to wonder, that's all."

"Go on, you can tell me," said Adam. "What's happened?"

"Nothing really," said Mark, deciding that mentioning the window wouldn't be the smartest move. "It's just being here. It's so remote and barren."

"Yeah," said Adam. "I much prefer the cities. Even Inverness is a bit wee. I'm from Paisley, but I live in the West End now."

Mark nodded. "I quite like Glasgow," he said.

At one point, he'd even gone so far as applying for the University's masters in history, but in the end he'd settled for Edinburgh. Glasgow was a much more bohemian place - people actually made money from the arts, whereas Edinburgh was all financial services. Glasgow, while it had its problems, seemed a much more hopeful place to him, full of musicians, writers, comedians, artists and photographers.

His publisher was based there, in palatial offices just by the university in the West End. They had managed to luck out, signing up European exclusive rights on a number of American politicians while they were still junior theoreticians, and now owned over forty books by members of Obama's administration. They'd seen fit to invest a lot of the cash into Scottish works, hence Mark's reasonably lucrative contract.

"Miles better than Edinburgh," said Adam. "Miles better."

Mark didn't want to get into an argument about it. He stopped responding and Adam went back to taking photos. The sun - which had been so bright that morning - was now hiding behind a cloud, giving the place a sense of gloom. Adam used it to capture some atmospheric shots.

There was a face in one of the second-floor windows of the castle - Mark recognised it as Elizabeth. She waved enthusiastically - Mark returned a somewhat subdued gesture, hoping that Adam didn't notice.

"You know her?" asked Adam, a sly grin on his face.

This was what Mark didn't want to let slip, his big secret. He hadn't done anything yet and didn't plan to, but he wanted to keep it completely private.

"Lady Ruthven," said Mark. "She called me about Kay. I've interviewed her a couple of times."

"Ooooooh!" called Adam. "Just the two of you was it?"

Mark felt his cheeks heat up as he got flashbacks to the previous evening, her hand on his chest. "It's nothing like that," he said.

Adam grinned. "That's who you were meeting last night, wasn't it?" he asked.

"I went for a cycle round the loch," said Mark.

"I believe you," said Adam. "Thousands wouldn't." He laughed. "Cycling round the lock doesn't get you into the sort of state that makes you start fights in hotel bars."

"How did you know?" asked Mark.

"I wandered into the maelstrom that you left," said Adam. "Tables and chairs everywhere. I chatted to some wee fella with a beard, said he's a blacksmith. Told me all about it." He grinned. "Told me a thing or two about your pal, Lady Ruthven. Puts it about a bit, I gather. The wee guy cleared off not long after." He snorted. "So, have you slipped her a length yet?"

Mark stammered out a reply. His face was burning with shame. He thought that ignoring Adam might be the best option.

He looked back at the castle - Elizabeth was still watching them. He felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. Even if he wasn't doing anything - hadn't and wouldn't - he knew how fast gossip could spread.

He looked over at Adam. "Are you done here? This place gives me the creeps."

"Does it give you the willies?" asked Adam, almost keeping a straight face.

Mark tried to think of a suitable retort but came up short. "Where next?" he asked instead.

"You're the boss," said Adam, "you tell me."

"I wouldn't mind heading down to the coast," said Mark. "We're so far inland here for one thing, but also I want to see where the kelp industry was."

Adam furrowed his brow. "I can almost see the chapter forming," he said. He pretended he was on some BBC Four documentary. "'It's hard to believe standing on the shore, but one hundred and fifty long and hard years ago, thousands of resettled crofters worked on the kelp trade here, drying seaweed for onwards sale to the lands in the south.'"

He gave a stoney-faced expression as he changed imaginary camera.

"'It was a pitiful existence - they'd long since learnt that they were no longer masters of their own destiny and were now merely employees of their clan chieftains, men who should have been their protectors but who had now left them penniless and destitute. Still, they learnt that they had never actually controlled their own destinies.'" He paused and did a slow spin around, much like the camera would on one of the documentaries. "How's that?"