The Visitors (16 page)

‘It must be about here,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘Can you see the boulders?’

We both peered up, searching out the stones between the bracken, and finding only an ocean of green. The ferns shifted together in the sea breeze, swaying like an audience.

‘Come on,’ said Ailsa. ‘Let’s get lost.’

She forged off the path, striking out uphill, and in a heartbeat was swallowed by the bracken. For a moment I was alone on the hillside, and then I followed her, plunging myself into a sea of green.

As we entered the belt of bracken, Ailsa raised her arms above the broad fronds and weaved, twisting her body to pass between them with minimal contact. I did the same. It was a bit of a game, trying not to touch them, though the growth was dense throughout, and in places the ferns grew taller than us both.

After twenty hard minutes, the bracken thinned and stopped abruptly, and we emerged into a wide empty bowl, much of the perimeter marked by ancient rockfall. I stepped out after Ailsa and lowered my aching arms.

‘Is this it?’ she asked, doubtfully.

We were in a corrie, right enough. Long since scoured by glaciation, the broad scoop now provided some shelter from the wind. After the uphill climb and the gusting sea breeze, it felt suddenly, uncomfortably still. The corrie was steep-sided and held the sun at bay. In the shadows, it was cold, and the sweat in the small of my back turned clammy.

‘Why does the bracken stop?’ I said.

Ailsa frowned and studied the ferns. They ended at the corrie as though at a wall. The scoop should have provided shelter for them to thrive. The ring of large rocks and small boulders lay matted with moss and lichen. No birdsong. No wind in the ferns. No sea. The silence was dense. I looked at Ailsa, spooked by the quiet.

Something small and dark speckled at her throat. It might have been a mole, or a freckle, but it caught my eye, and I leaned close to look.

‘Ailsa. Don’t freak out, but there’s a tick on you. On your neck.’

Her hand flew at once to her throat. She felt the insect, and jerked her hand away.

‘Aw, that’s disgusting! Will you get it off?’

‘Aye,’ I said, reluctantly, ‘I’ll try.’

I leaned closer. The tick was caught fast, denting her skin. The head was buried deep, and its little legs wiggled slowly. It sent shivers straight through me. I brought both hands up and pressed the thumbnails into her neck, bringing one to bear on either side of the tick, and started easing pressure against its burrowed head. Ailsa winced, but kept still. Beneath the pressure of my fingers, her pulse hammered hotly, madly, veins thrumming close to the surface. My nails met around the tick. It wriggled as I pulled it, squeezing gently, careful not to break it off and leave the head embedded. Ailsa’s skin tented outwards with the pull of my fingers. The tick popped free after a minute of teasing and pressure, leaving a single, minute bead of blood on her neck. Released, she took a step away, breathing deep and rubbing at her throat.

‘I hate those things,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Nae bother.’

The tiny tick was wriggling madly, trapped between my nails. I pressed both thumbs together, squeezing hard until I felt it pop. When I looked, it was smeared on my nails.

She took her hand away, examining her fingers. There were red wings on her neck from the pressure of my fingers, a red weal at the centre.

‘That looks sore. I’m sorry.’

‘Better out than in. Don’t worry about it. I’m grateful.’

We stood in awkward silence.

‘We should get on.’

‘Where should we start?’

‘You go that way. I’ll look this side.’

We worked away from each other, examining the jumbled rocks. The sun finally peeled around the side of the Ben, and I was grateful for the warmth on my back. At first glance, all the stones seemed pretty much the same, but as I moved around the corrie, I approached a couple that looked different from the others, tinged distinctly pink against the flinty greys. They were noticeably longer, too, and thinner.

‘Hey, over here,’ I called, ‘I think I might have found them.’

Ailsa scrambled across the corrie as I kneeled to peel sprigs of heather from the first stone. It was coated in lichen, old man’s beard, and I had to snap some of the growth away. Ailsa started on the other. After a minute of work, the stones were clear enough, and we were stilled to see what lay underneath. On the first were animals, creeping in strange, stilted shapes across the eroded surface of the rock. Centuries of moss and rain and wind had dulled their edges, but they were mostly clear enough. Stags, for sure, and something that was either an otter or a dog. There was a border of fish set around the edge, in places so eroded that they were indistinguishable from natural dings in the rock.

On the second stone, men moved in rows, lofting spears and swords. At the foot of the stone, best preserved of all, was a longship. And, there, beneath the boat, was something else. Another animal, carved right at the base of the rock, half-sunk in the ground. I crouched right down and dug the soil away.

‘What’s that one?’ I said.

Ailsa reached in to touch the chiselled shapes, her fingertips brushing across the weals in the stone. She traced an oval around the animal.

‘I think it’s a seal,’ she said after a moment.

‘Seals. Cool. I love seals.’

‘You do?’

‘Who doesn’t love seals? Here, stand back. I want to take a rubbing.’

She stepped aside and I kneeled closer. I fished paper and a pencil from my bag, and started shading across the stone. In the end, I had to lie on my belly to get the right angle, stretched out in scrub. I worked gently, wary of tearing the paper on the stone, and slowly men and beasts emerged onto the page, growing into careful layers of graphite. I levered myself up and brushed the curlicues of heather from my jeans.

Ailsa was standing a wee way off from the stones, on a boulder on the edge of the corrie. The clouds were ribbons, bunched up as they fell into distance. For a while, we both looked down onto the sea. This high up, the Atlantic marked a clear curve on the horizon.

‘Flo,’ she said.

‘Aye?’

‘What can you actually do for fun on this island?’

‘I take it you don’t mean like playing solitaire and learning tapestry?’

‘No. I was thinking more about getting dressed up and having a drink.’

‘Ah. Well, that doesn’t happen too often for me. The mainland’s not an option. It’s not like you can take a taxi back. Richard’s dad was good friends with the landlord at the Bull. We used to get a bit pissed there, sometimes, as long as we kept it quiet.’

‘Reckon they’d serve you now?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, weighing the options. ‘Richard was closer to eighteen than me. Maybe.’

‘Well then. D’you fancy it?’

‘Not if Ronny and Anders are there,’ I said. ‘They turn into boys when they’re drinking. They’ll take the piss all night.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘Dunno. Anders might still be staying at his place. He hasn’t been at ours for a couple days.’

‘How about it, then?’

I thought about it. It would be weird to go there without Richard, and face the stares of island faces who knew precisely how old I was. Maybe it would do me some good, though, to get tarted up and go out for a night. Reclaiming some independence would be a tonic. I thought again of Richard and another girl – any other girl. My imagination always conjured him at the moment of waking, shafts of dusty sun pouring in through floral curtains, the smell of bodies. Waking, stretching, sleepy as cats, they turned to face each other …

Ciao, babe. Love always. Xx
.

Kisses. Kisses for someone else.

‘Well?’ said Ailsa.

I made my mind up.

‘Hell, yes,’ I said.

We settled on Saturday. Ailsa came round late afternoon for tea and to get ready. She wore jeans and a jacket zipped up, and carried a wee rucksack with her. Mum and Ronny managed to rein in most of their nosiness, though they were clearly brimming with questions. I steered her through the introductions and through dinner, then we hurried to my room. With two of us in there, I was conscious that it was even smaller than hers. I put some tunes on the stereo, then pointed out the window.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘d’you see?’

Dog Rock sat in the bay like an actor on an empty stage.

‘Tin-can telephones it is, then.’

‘Mad to think you’re that close, and there’s still a wee stretch of Atlantic between us.’

‘Islands,’ she agreed, non-committal. I waited for more, but she didn’t elaborate.

She reached out to touch an old poster. ‘I love Idlewild,’ she said, the paper buckling under her finger. ‘D’you know, I used to have such a crush on Roddy Woomble.’

‘Not any more?’ I said, pointing her towards the bed. I sat at the desk and poured a can of cider into two glasses.

‘Not any more, no. Grew out of that one.’

‘Poor Roddy. He’ll be gutted. Here you go,’ I said, handing one to her.

‘Do your folks not mind?’ she said, reaching for the glass.

‘Mum makes the rules, really. Ronny mostly does what he’s told. I’m allowed a wee bit as long as I don’t get silly. They’re not daft. They knew about me and Richard heading out to the Bull, and they’ll have a fair idea that’s what we’ve got planned.’

‘That’s pretty sound.’

‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘She reckons it’d be a lot worse if I never had alcohol at all, then turned up at a pub when I was eighteen to find out what the fuss was all about.’

‘She’s probably right. Wish my dad was that sorted.’

‘Does he not let you drink?’

‘God no. He’d hit the roof.’

‘So what have you told him about tonight?’

She looked guilty. ‘I told him you and me were watching films, and that I was staying over. I figured, if we took the back door and went out through the woods, he’d never see us leaving.’

‘Do you think he’ll guess?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I don’t really care, either. I never get to go out. Sláinte.’

‘Sláinte,’ I replied, chinking glasses. Ailsa took a slug of cider, then placed her glass on the bedside cabinet. She turned her rucksack upside down, and two dozen crumpled tops tumbled out onto the bed.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now what are we wearing?’

It took us an hour or so to get there, but in the end we were ready. I wore things I’d never wear, choosing a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless blouse, plus a wee jacket. Ailsa wore skinny jeans and a bomber jacket over one of my vest tops, a flash of stomach on show. Her hair was up. Mine was plaited loosely to the side. Both of us wore heels. It was ridiculously over the top for a Saturday in the Bull, but it was
a treat. There wasn’t that much skin on show, but we almost had a you’re-not-going-out-dressed-like-that moment with my mum. She scanned us up and down, looking for reasons to make us change. When she couldn’t find any, I think she realised that we simply looked rather more adult than she’d like. She let us go, lips pursed in disapproval.

‘You’ll be careful, Flora,’ she said, and there was no mistaking the warning in her voice.

‘Of course, Mum,’ I replied, looking as innocent as I could. ‘It’s just a few drinks.’

‘Aye, well, make sure it stays that way. I don’t want a call from the landlord. Or the constabulary. Either of you.’

‘Course not, Cath,’ said Ailsa, wide-eyed.

Mum looked at us, one and then the other, and then she gave up.

‘Off you go, then. Behave yourselves. And have a good time.’

‘Hang on,’ called Ronny, leaning round the door. He had the phone pressed to his ear. ‘Before you go, Flo – have you heard from Anders?’

‘Not since he was last here. Why?’

‘Ach, nothing. I’m still trying to get hold of the galoot. He never showed to watch the football in Tanno yesterday. It’s not like him.’

‘Who won?’

‘Denmark, more’s the pity. Two-nil. I could understand him hiding if Scotland had won, but he’d never miss a chance to gloat.’

‘He’ll be fine. He’s Anders.’

‘I’m just a bit worried, that’s all.’

‘Oh no, Teenwolf,’ I said. ‘You don’t think … You don’t think …’

‘What?’

‘You don’t think he’s found another man?’

Mum snorted, and Ronny threw a pencil at me. Still laughing, we clattered out the kitchen door, across the stones that passed as a garden path, and through the back gate that opened onto the woods. We must have looked quite the sight, walking through the forest dressed for a night out. The evening was fairly set in, every tree silhouetted black against the deepest violet sky. I carried a headtorch, and the light skittered in twigs and needles. We stumbled and giggled through the trees, emerging onto the road past Grogport and well out of sight of Dog Rock. After walking for ten or fifteen minutes, a muddy estate car scooted by. We shrieked and yelled, and the driver slammed on the brakes. It was McKendrick, the farmer. We bundled into the back seat, giddy from the walk and the cider. We made Tighna in good time, nattering nonsense with McKendrick all the way. He claimed to be seeing a man about a dog. I understood this to mean he’d be tending to his stills. Even now, whisky beat a pulse throughout the island, coursing in the burns and heather. You could squeeze whisky from the stones.

McKendrick dropped us near the Bull, then turned off for the pitted track towards the abandoned northwest coast. Outside the hotel, the gravity of drinking underage weighed a little heavier on me, but Ailsa strode ahead, heels clattering a tattoo on the asphalt. I skipped to catch her up, and caught my breath just as we reached the double doors of the hotel. Painted white, with the sills and drainpipes and woodwork shiny black, the Bull was a focal point for Tighna, and the only pub on Bancree. We paused, looking at each other. As she leaned against the door, a crack of light and noise spilled out. She grinned, and I followed her into the bar.

We moved through the wee hallway, into the public lounge and without breaking stride, crossed the orange carpet to the
bar. The locals stared. I knew them all in some small way. We stepped up to the counter, and perched on tall stools. Tony, the landlord, emerged from his hutch at the end of the bar. Ambling down the bar, he sized us up, grinned and shook his head.