“But mostly to you.”
“Urgh, let’s just get this done with, please, and agree to no further chatter. You’re making my head hurt.” And he actually is. A throbbing sensation is growing right behind my eyes. I want to lie down in a dark room. I do not want to be walking down a chilly road in quite possibly one of the farthest parts of Scotland with the worst person I know. This is my idea of hell.
“Smartest thing you’ve said today,” James replies before stepping ahead of me and lifting the pace just enough to make my feet scream in pain again.
*
“This is a town?” James asks, squeezing the back of his neck with both hands.
I try not to get distracted by the way his shirt goes taut against his core muscles and force my eyes ahead.
The town is a small church, a few grey stone houses and what looks like a tiny school building. It’s surrounded by a magnificent estuary, with boats anchored, dotted around or tied up on one of the rickety docks. Gentle grey waves lap against them making them sway or dip. I have the urge to pin my nose. Clearly, the smell of rotting seaweed I experienced in the airport originated from this village. The gusts are so strong I can lean my whole body into them and stay upright.
A bearded man looks up suspiciously from his small blue fishing boat about fifty metres away. He’s probably not used to seeing new people around here. And if he does, they’re probably not wearing smart office clothes.
“Go talk to him,” I say to James, nodding in that direction.
He frowns. “Why me?”
“You’re the salesman. Isn’t talking to strangers like your key skill?”
I think he’s about to fight me on this, argue against it, but I guess I’ve already worn him down because he just rubs his face in his hands and walks slowly over to where the man is trying to avoid eye contact with us. I follow behind, leaving enough distance between us to show that I am the submissive one when it comes to this conversation, my arms folded to protect myself from the wind.
“Morning,” James says, with a friendly wave. He really is confident with this sort of thing. I’ll give him that.
The man looks up and around as if James might be talking to someone else. I look too. There’s literally not another soul in the vicinity. Who does he bloody think we’re talking to?
“We’ve broken down a few miles back that way,” James points, not bothering to wait for the man to respond. “Can you help us out? Do you know where we can find a phone?”
“There’s one in the church,” the man says, going back to unknotting the fish netting on his deck.
That appears to be enough for James, who, without looking at me, storms in the direction of the steepled building in the middle of the town. I totter along behind him.
As we step into the church a calmness comes over us. The wind isn’t invading the thick stone walls at all. Inside there’s a peaceful serenity. Again, nobody to be seen. It’s pretty bog standard as far as churches go with the pews, the wooden carved crosses and the organ taking up a whole corner. Right in front of the dark porch there’s a desk, a chair and a phone complete with wires and number pad.
“Blast from the past,” I say.
James ignores me, inspecting the ancient device. There’s a list of contacts beside it, plus a Yellow Pages. We sift through it until we find a local breakdown recovery service. Turns out there aren’t many breakdowns around these parts and the man says he’s off right away.
After that, James shoos me out to make a personal call. With only a minor grumble, I step back out into the fresh air to see the fisherman is now out in the water, slowly feeding the netting back into the estuary. There’s the sound of school kids playing, but other than that it’s eerie how quiet this place is, except for the wind whistling through the gaps between the houses lining the harbour.
“Let’s go,” James says, marching on in front of me.
“Everything ok?”
“Do you really care or are you just asking?”
“Back to silence?” I suggest, not enjoying his arrogant tone.
The walk back takes us longer. Turns out we’d been going slightly downhill the whole way to the village. But now we’re heading uphill, my heels are rubbing themselves raw at the back of my boots. It’s making my eyes water, but taking them off is not a solution. The ground is damp with sea mist and my knitted tights will soak it right up like a sponge.
As the lake where the minivan broke down comes into view, James’ step falters. I nearly crash into the back of him, giving him a little shove with both hands.
He moves to the side enough for me to see the conundrum.
“Where’s it gone!?” I demand. “Where’s the van!?”
James is speechless. He stands completely still for a few more seconds before ramping up to a flat-out sprint in the direction of the layby. My heart races in my chest as Itap, tap, tapbehind him. He’s way ahead of me, stopping once again beside what appears to be two large hiking backpacks. He lifts and reads something, then he lets out this low-pitched, agonised wail that echoes off the surrounding water and rocky hills.
