That takes guts, I suppose. Courage.
There’s something to admire in that.
As if my thoughts have summoned her, she appears in front of me. She’s trudging dismally through the rain, one slow step after another, no waterproof in sight. Her legs are coated with mud, and her shorts are soaked, her black thong visible between her cheeks. She’s clearly had a fall.
I hang back. After our previous encounter, I don’t want her to see me. Don’t want anything to do with her.
But the track is narrow here, and her pace is slower than mine. It’s only a matter of time before I overtake her, no matter how much I try to amble, and I know that when I do it will be awkward as fuck.
And then she starts singing.
If such a word can be applied to the strangled cat sounds that are coming out of her mouth, as though someone has tied hervocal cords in a double knot and used them to play a broken violin. It’s closer to a caterwaul than a song, not only out-of-tune but also as if she’s only heard the music once, underwater and drunk, and then decided to play it back a decade later.
It’s untenable. Unmentionable.
I have to act.
I pull my cap down, eyes on the track. One foot after the other, and then I’m next to her, ignoring her startled gasp, thanking God for the break in her awful singing. I can feel her register me, feel her surprise turn to rage, her eyes lasers at my back, and then I’m past, home free, practically running to get out of range.
I hit the upward climb at speed and don’t stop until I’m out of breath and at the top. From here I can make out the tip of the loch, and Conic Peak, where I’m headed next. Behind me, there isn’t even a hint of neon on the track.
I’ve outpaced her a fair way then. Perhaps even enough that we won’t cross paths again.
Finally.
Some peace.
Chapter Four
Rowan
Victory is almost in sight. I stagger into the first campsite I come across, perched on the banks of the loch, idyllic in the waning afternoon light. A couple exchange soft looks at a picnic bench as they eat their dinner from outdoorsy-looking silver pans, while a mother and daughter pair are hard at work setting up their tent, the mother handing the daughter poles and watching patiently while she struggles to thread them through the lining.
Ducks quack in the distance. Water laps at the shore.
I can hardly feel the pain in my feet. Or, rather, I can hardly feel my feet. Or anything below my now tightly strapped waistband. I poke tentatively at my hips. Nope, nothing except the cold of my still-wet shorts. Hopefully feeling will return eventually.
Then again, given how much my back is complaining, perhaps it’s better if it doesn’t. I shudder to think about how much pain I’ll be in come morning.
I’m half-exhausted, half-elated. One day of walking might seem small to a lot of people, but to me it’s monumental. I haven’t done anything this adventurous in years. Scratch that: I have never done anything this adventurous. After the GreatCollapse, I promised myself I would stay in my lane, where it was comfortable. Safe.
Unlikely to precipitate another breakdown.
So this? This small achievement? It’s big.
And right now, there’s only one obstacle standing between me and a well-earned pint: setting up my tent. I watch the mother and daughter for a minute. They’re smiling, laughing even, easily banging pegs into the ground. Great. That doesn’t seem so hard.
Half an hour later, as I sit on the ground staring at the various pieces of plastic and metal I’ve pulled from my bag and trying once again to understand how any of them fit together I realise it really is quite hard when you a) have never set up a tent with someone else, let alone on your own b) do not have the first clue what you are doing and c) have realised the tent you borrowed doesn’t come with instructions.
The sun dips towards the horizon, and my mood dips with it. I miss my boyfriend, cheating arsehole that he is. I wish someone would put their arms around me and tell me everything’s alright. I’m wet and muddy and I want a pint, a hot shower and some dinner, not necessarily in that order. And to add injury to insult, the sensation in my legs and feet has returned with a vengeance.
Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I’m ready to burst.
MARNIE:You got this, babe! You can do it!
The text is accompanied by a picture of Brian and her grinning through facemasks, a tub of ice cream nestled in each of their laps. I want so badly to be there with them, curled up under one of Marnie’s fluffy blankets wearing my favourite lime-green slippers, watching a crap movie and eating until I’m fit to burst.
Instead, I’m in bloody Scotland failing to put up a bloody tent and if I don’t bloody work it out, I’ll be doing it in the dark.
