I was scrambling for things to say to relieve the tension and get things back to normal. Sunny was clearly doing the same.
“I didn’t have you pegged as a car guy,” he said.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover?”
Sunny laughed and retreated to the open door.
“Thank you for today,” I said, before he could disappear.
“Don’t mention it. Night, uptown girl.”
Sunny pulled the door closed behind him. I pulled the duvet over myself, curling up to sleep, still fully dressed.
Chapter26
Ludo
The next morning was a dark-sunglasses-inside kind of day. My head both looked and felt like someone had popped it inside a rugby ball and given it to Torsten and his mates for a Sunday-afternoon kickabout. Fortunately, we did not have to be up early. Unfortunately, today was travel day, which meant returning to London with a throbbing head and a stomach that might not have the most reassuringly firm grip on its contents. Still, I couldn’t wait to get home. Shetland now felt like a holiday that had gone on just a bit too long—when home is preferable to anything a previously longed for destination could possibly hold, when the novelty of the sunshine and snippets of phrase book pleasantries had soured.
We never did meet Mr Gallacher, the master of the house, but just the mention of his name will forever bring the sulphuric stench of that B & B to mind—as clear and pungent as if he were in the room. As we said our farewells to Mrs Gallacher on the front porch, she handed us each a small cardboard box wrapped in pink ribbon.
“What’s this, Mrs G?” Sunny said, accepting his gift.
“Otter shite,” Mrs Gallacher said.
“Pardon?” I said.
“It’s notactualotter shite, is it, Mrs G?” Sunny seemed in need of reassurance. He was not alone.
“Och, no, laddie. They’re chocolates. There’s a place up in Lerwick makes these wee choccies they call puffin poo. They charge like a fucking wounded bull, and I can soon as make them meself. But I cannae call them puffin poo in case they fucking sue us, so I call them otter shite instead, on account of us being the Otter’s Den. D’ya ken?”
“I ken, Mrs Gallacher, I ken.”
Sunny, already ferreting around in his box (if that’s not mixing my mammals too much), plucked out an otter poo and popped it in his mouth. He mawed at it, making appreciative noises, and gave Mrs G a big thumbs up and a cheesy grin.
“Best otter shite I ever tasted, Mrs G,” he said.
“I’ll save mine for the flight,” I said. “I always want chocolate on a plane trip.” In truth, I was struggling with the psychological barrier of putting something called otter shite in my mouth.
The coach came rumbling into view.
“That’s us,” I said. “Thanks ever so much for having us, Mrs Gallacher.”
“You’re very welcome. We hope to see you back some day. Tell everyone about Shetland and the Otter’s Den.”
“You can be sure we will, Mrs G.”
“Fuckety-bye,” Mrs Gallacher said. She waved, turned, and dropped her guts before opening the door and disappearing inside.
The coach pulled to a stop, the air brakes screeched, and I thought my eyes might bleed. The doors opened.
“I really must remember to read the Tripadvisor for this place at some point,” I said, as we climbed onto the bus.
When we got to Sumburgh Airport it became clear we were flying home commercial and not by government jet.
“That’s my fault,” Sunny said. “I kept threatening Torsten with a story about this trip’s greenhouse gas emissions.”
It made for a much slower journey, including a stopover in Aberdeen, but in the end it wasn’t too bad. I sat next to Sunny on the first leg—which was less awkward than I feared it might be, after being rebuffed the night before—and Rafiq on the second. At Aberdeen Airport, I bought a giant Toblerone and shared it with them both—the otter shite having been consumed before we’d even taken off from Shetland. At Gatwick, faced with a train and a Tube and a walk, all of which meant certain death, I said my goodbyes to them both and slipped off to take a cab. If I was feeling generous, I would have suggested Sunny share the ride, seeing as Willesden Green isn’t that far from Hampstead. As it was, I felt like I’d had my fill of Sunny Miller for one week. I was feeling a bit tender, my face was black and blue, and all I wanted was my bed.
