‘Birdy,’ he would say as he opens the door. He knows my real name, in this version. He knows me. Perhaps he knows what I’ve done and wants me anyway. He puts his full weight on top of me, crushing me into the too-soft mattress. I want to be crushed. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ he’d whisper in my ear, as his hand runs down my neck to my breast. I wouldn’t stop him. I’d let him take me exactly as he wanted.
‘But,’ I’d protest, ‘what about Tim?’
‘You don’t care about Tim,’ he’d say, breathing into my ear.
You cannot fall in love with James. You have a job to do here. Learn the wine list, Birdy. Do a good job. Focus on getting out of here without further incident. Sort your fucking life out. You cannot fall for James.
Besides. He thinks you’re Heather.
A wave of adrenaline rushes through me, and I have to get up and do something. I pull on my trainers and make my way sleepily into the kitchen, flick on the light and make myself a cuppa.
I grab a hideous-looking jacket from the entrance. It’s orange and man-sized, but I don’t care. I balance the tea in one hand, turn the handle of the front door with the other and slip out into the darkness. There is no fog any more, but it’s still what one might call brisk. I clutch at the mug in my hands, feeling its comforting warmth.
I sneak past the stables. A dim light is visible through the far window, and the occasional sound of scuffing is the only break from the eerie silence.
The gentle breeze is cleansing. And before long I find myself at the bottom of the bank and down at the river that leads to the loch.
I am moving towards it, the loch, without really knowing why. In the blue-black of the light, under the canopy by the river, I step carefully over knotted roots and slippery rocks. The path is treacherous in this minimal visibility, but I am not afraid of slipping any more. I duck as I feel something pass overhead, and hear the hoot of an owl as it flutters to rest on a branch above me.
As I emerge on the shore of the loch, I look left and right, choosing the less obvious path that leads away from the estate and meets a small foot-track that heads all the way to the far side. I misstep and my feet sink into thick, cloying mud. My sneakers nearly pull off as I haul them free – spraying mud up my legs. I like it. I like the mud clinging to me; it feels good to be dirty and earthy, after years of London’s polished concrete and glass.
The sky is now hinting at morning, but the stars above still spray out in a fan, mirroring the direction of the loch and leading me on. I sip the tea, which I find is beginning to cool, so I knock the whole thing back and shove the mug into the deep pockets of my jacket. I want to feel nothing but this silence.
A large rabbit – perhaps a hare – scoots in front of me, the white rounded tail illuminated by the full moon, which has emerged low in the sky from behind a cloud. I gasp as its reflection stretches across the water, like a silver path to my feet.
I stop, the sound of my footsteps disappearing into the noises of the morning. Birds beginning to wake. Crickets beginning to sleep. Occasional unexplained splashes, coming from the surface of the loch below.
My phone beeps in my pocket, and I feel a sting of resentment as I slide it out of my pocket. The bright light of it shocks my senses and dims the twilight back to darkness.
A message from Tim, whom I have not spoken to or messaged in days. Out of sight, out of mind.
Late night. Where you been? Radio silence. How’s it going?
And then I notice a message from Heather, which must have come through in the night.
Just thinking about us maybe planning a little weekend together somewhere … on me. Would you like that? We could meet in Madrid or something?
I stare at the message, wanting to say yes, knowing that it would be impossible.
But I feel some sense of hope this morning: that perhaps I can get through this. Perhaps I will be able to tell Heather what happened, over that beer.
I put my hand down to check how damp the earth is – a little – and decide to sit and watch the sunrise.
Across the loch, the sun starts to make its presence known, low cloud picking up the blood-red and then orange as it rises. I make a little coo sound, and hear it echo round the loch, bouncing off the hills and back to me. And then silence.
I coo louder, and listen again. My voice like a stone, skimming off the mountains.
It’s June – we’re still a couple of weeks from the solstice and there is precious little dark night, this far north – and it must be around 5 a.m. when the first ray of sunshine bursts over the hill and hits my face. It is welcome, as the ground is cold and I am suddenly shivering.
I decide to take a walk all the way round the loch and back to the hotel. As I stand, I feel a damp patch on my bum. I remember someone saying it is a popular guest trail and passes the ruins of some stone houses, somewhere. I take in the entirety of the loch and, guessing it can’t be more than two hours all the way round, decide to go for it.
I set off slowly at first, then my pace begins to pick up and suddenly I’m running. I run and I run. And I don’t stop until I’m on the far side of the loch, looking back towards the estate. As my heart pounds in my chest and the sun shines on my face, warming my skin, I feel alive.
I double over, breathless, panting, and as my breath subsides, I spot something that looks for all the world like mint, poking out of a rock in a bunch. Is there such a thing as wild mint? I pluck the small top leaves off and sniff them, and just as I’m about to taste the little edge of one, I hear the clop-clop of horses’ hooves behind me.
‘Heather?’
I hadn’t heard them before. I didn’t expect anyone to be up. And I certainly didn’t expect to see James again so soon. The horse Brett is riding is enormous. A stallion that is in no mood to stop. It leans its long neck towards me, then kicks a little when Brett tugs him back.
