This girl. This person. What can you do?
Just outside the village proper I pass the mill: a long, windowless building with a single tower churning white steam into the air, as the giant waterwheel sucks up water from the river. The noise this close to it is deafening, all roaring and creaking and thumping, and I scrunch my nose up against it, as if that’ll help. It’ll be a hundred times worse when Giles expands the mill. And the water it’ll need…
Not my business, I remind myself. Not my business, not my problem. Not any more.
I de-cock the gun and tuck it into the basket as I arrive into Ormscaula, where my mood immediately sours. Up close it’s still like something from a storybook, but the moment I cross the bridge and enter the village, the story changes from one where I might be the plucky young heroine to one where I’m the monster. Or, if not the actual monster, then the monster’s daughter. That’s what Giles would have them believe, at any rate.
And he’s right. My father is exactly what Giles says he is. He is a murderer.
I know, because I was there.
It’s why I can’t be angry with them for the way they treat me.
I pass Auld Iain Stewart, some third or fourth cousin of Giles, sitting out in his garden. He spots me and sucks in a deep breath, then kisses his knuckles and presses them to his forehead, warding against me like I’m a mountain geist. Women pull their children away from garden gates as I walk by, like being motherless is catching. Men passing me on their way to the mill stare through narrowed eyes, as if trying to figure out who I’m more like: my maybe-murderer recluse of a father, or my maybe-child-and-husband-abandoning mam. I don’t know which they think would be better.
From what Ren says, no one really believed Giles when he came haring down the mountain, shouting about murder. They nodded and said, aye, how terrible, but most folk reckon my mother left of her own free will, making for Balinkeld and beyond when she realized she’d shackled herself to a man who would always put the loch first. They saw enough in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance to believe she finally snapped and ran away.
It’s what gave me the idea to leave, actually. I like how they believe my mam is out there, living a life she’s chosen. I couldn’t save her from my da, but I can do this for us.
When I finally reach the village square I’m surprised to see people tossing old furniture and scraps from the mill to build a bonfire at the centre. Then I remember it’s almost time for the feis samhaid – the festival to bring on summer.
As I stare at the burgeoning pile I can almost taste charred sausages, salted butter and hot bread. I think of the last of the harvest apples from the autumn before, dried over winter, then sliced, speared on sticks and dipped in hot caramel that dripped on to your hands so you had to lick them clean. Birch sap in tiny cups, tasting like silk. My father lifting me on to his shoulders so I could see over the crowd to where the violinists were sawing away, the dancers spinning about the Staff, the lovers kissing.
I remember one particular year, him setting me down while he bought hot whisky for himself and my mother, and a cone of pine candy for me to suck while they supped. How my mother pushed her cup away and laughed.
“I can’t drink that now, can I?” she’d said, and he’d stared, baffled for a moment, before slapping his forehead.
“I forgot,” he’d grinned.
“Lucky you,” my mam had replied, and they’d both laughed.
I didn’t understand what was funny at the time. When they’d hugged I remember feeling left out of it, and alone…
Another memory pushes through, of the same feis, one of a scrawny boy with dirty-blond hair falling in his eyes, sitting alone on the well, a sturdy brace strapped to his leg, glaring around him as though he could repel people with the power of his mind. But not me. I walked over, away from my embracing parents, and sat next to him. I offered him a candy. I remember the crack it made when he bit into it, the crunching sound of teeth on hard sugar. He asked for another and I gave it to him. He ate the whole cone while I sucked the one sweet until it was gone.
Ren.
That was the last feis samhaid I went to. Just before…
“Alva?”
I realize Gavan Stewart, Giles’s son, is right in front of me, tentatively waving his hand before my face. Behind him his friends – who used to be my friends too – are watching. Their faces are amused, confused, and maybe a little disdainful, all at once. I straighten in response.
“Hallo there,” Gavan says, brown eyes lit with pleasure. “It’s nice to see you. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I nod towards the bonfire. “How’s it going?”
“Good. It’s going to be a great night. The best one yet, I reckon. Will you… Are you planning to come this year?”
Not many would ask me that without a snide note in their voice, but Gavan means it sincerely. He’s genuinely interested. He’s his father’s double – same reddish-gold hair, same ruddy complexion, same stocky build – but in temperament Gavan’s as sweet as can be. And he doesn’t need to be, not with Giles as a father and everyone desperate to curry favour because of it. The mill will be his one day – which means Ormscaula will be his, or as good as. Most boys would turn nasty with that sort of power.
But Gavan… He was always kind.
“No,” I say, finally answering him and putting the others out of their misery. Gavan might be decent, but Hattie Logan, Cora Reid and James Ballantyne aren’t. It’s been a long time since we were friends. Seven years, in fact.
“You should think about it,” Gavan continues. “We never see you any more.”
“Da keeps me busy,” I reply. “Lots to do on the loch.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll save you a dance.” He smiles at me, and it’s so bright and lovely that I smile back without meaning to.
And then I see Ren, giving me the briefest wave before ducking down the alley towards the tavern, reminding me I’m not here to annoy the villagers.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Until tomorrow?” Gavan says, his tone hopeful.
“I’ll see you,” I say, only realizing as I walk away that it could be taken as a promise.
*
I go to the general store first, lurking in aisles stacked with jars of pickled cabbage and onions, and cans of milk and oil, pretending to choose between different sacks of flour until the only other customer leaves.
“Has the mail cart been sighted?” I ask Maggie Wilson as I approach the counter, not bothering to greet her first. There’s no need to pretend we’re pals.
I once heard her telling Mrs Logan, in a too-loud whisper she meant me to hear, that I’d cut myself one day if I carried on being so sharp. Old hypocrite. She’s not exactly soft herself.
Maggie Wilson knows everything about Ormscaula – Giles Stewart uses his money and his mill to grease the wheels, but Maggie is a born leader. She’s been the sole proprietor of the store since her husband died a few months into their marriage. Local legend says she took three days to grieve: one to cry, one to bury him, and one to rearrange the layout of the store to suit her better. After that she opened the doors once more and they haven’t closed a day since. That was some forty years ago, and she’s still going: iron haired and hearted.
I’d rather be sharp than dull. Knives are better sharp. You’d think she of all people would agree.
She peers at me over half-moon spectacles. “Aye. He’ll be here midday tomorrow, by my reckoning. In time for the feis this year, it seems.” Then her eyes narrow. “I just hope everyone behaves themselves while we’ve company.”
And, right on cue, my cheeks start to burn.
I had a crush on Duncan Stroud, the mailman, a couple of years ago. I was hardly the only one; the first time he came, aged twenty and new to the job, the square was packed to the walls with every woman in Ormscaula eager for a look. I went half-daft watching the muscles in his arms move when he bore the weight of each
sack to the ground. I’d never seen anything like it.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d said as he was leaving, tipping me a wink, and I was done for. That was all it took.
I spent six months waiting for him to come back. I’d already hatched my plan to leave the village, but after Duncan my fantasies of escape took a different turn, ones that involved him throwing me over his shoulder and saying he had to have me as his bride, he couldn’t live without me, and he was taking me with him.
In my defence, I was fourteen. I didn’t know any better. So I suppose what happened next served me right.
When he returned, I was waiting. Sitting at the side of the road outside Ormscaula in my best skirts and blouse, trying not to squint when the sun got in my eyes. He recognized me and pulled his cart over, offering me a ride. I promptly got in, gave him the completed transcripts, and as he leaned forward to put them away, I tried to kiss him.
I caught his cheek. He didn’t laugh, to be fair; just moved me away and told me in a heartbreakingly gentle voice that I was very bonny, but too young for him. And in response I ran. Jumped out of the cart and bolted back up the mountain to lick my wounds.
He left the new manuscripts for transcribing with Maggie, who glared accusingly when I slunk into the store to ask if she knew what he’d done with them. I’m sure he never told her what happened, but since then she’s always had a censorious look in her eye when I’ve asked her about him.
“I suppose you’ll be back to meet him then?” Maggie says, right on time with her sniff of disapproval. “For your work,” she adds, and I fight not to blush again.
If only she knew that Duncan was my unwitting escape out of here. That in a few days’ time I’ll be hidden under sacks of mail and goods, grateful I never have to see her mug again.
“Got to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Wilson.” I smile widely at her.
“I should think it’s the wolf already inside you’d want to worry about.”
My chest tightens. “And what does that mean?”
“Nothing at all,” she says, in a tone that means the opposite. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
She means “get out”, so I do, before I say something I’ll regret.
SIX
I find Ren in Mack’s Tavern.
It’s got what a generous person would call “a lot of character”: ominous dark stains on the wooden floor, tabletops scarred with pocks and scratches, a mangy one-eyed cat sitting sentinel on the bar that would bite you as soon as look at you.
It’s got what I call “a death-trap air about it”, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The tavern sells two types of stout, one type of whisky and that’s your lot. For the nobler folk, like Giles Stewart, there’s the inn, where you can buy a nice dinner from Rosie Talbot and wash it down with wine; but for the likes of Ren and me, and a lot of the folk who work nights at the mill, it’s the tavern. Today, though, it’s nearly empty; everyone at work, or asleep before the night shift.
Ren sits in a corner, nursing a clay tankard. He’s wearing a black coat with the collar turned up, his hair spilling over it. He doesn’t look up until I sit opposite him, and then sharp blue eyes meet mine.
He ate the whole bag of pine candy. All but the piece in my mouth.
How could I not remember that?
“Hi,” I say, covering my confusion by reaching for his tankard and drinking from it.
It’s not ale; it’s apple juice. Refreshing after my walk. But surprising. I push the tankard back towards him.
“Have you got the money?” he says quietly.
I reach into my basket and pull out the money for my bullets, a discreet bag of coins, each one wrapped in a scrap of cloth to keep them from chinking together and revealing themselves. I check Mack isn’t in sight before I slide it across the table to Ren. The cat eyeballs us, supercilious.
It looks like Ren simply waves a hand over it, then it’s gone and his hands are clasping the tankard once more. He still doesn’t say anything, lifting his cup and drinking.
“And my half of the deal?” I ask when the bullets don’t appear on the table with the same sleight of hand trickery.
His eyes slide to the side, where Mack has appeared, joining the cat in watching us with mild derision as he dirties a tankard with a grubby-looking cloth. “Not here.”
I lower my voice. “Then where?”
“Come on,” he says, standing and sliding out from the table, his bad leg making the movement awkward.
I stand to follow, only for Mack to step out from behind the bar, thick arms folded ominously.
“It’s a groat for the drink.”
Trust Ren not to have paid.
I pull my purse from the basket and hand Mack a dull silver coin, then follow Ren outside.
He’s already halfway across the square, coat flaring behind him like wings, courting the same unfriendly looks from Gavan’s circle as I did, though he does a better job of ignoring them. At the edge of the square he stops, waiting for me to catch up.
“Everyone is looking at us,” I mutter, glancing back to where James Ballantyne and Cora Reid are giving us both filthy glares.
“And that bothers you?” he asks, a curious expression on his face. “Ashamed to be seen with me? Don’t want them to think you’re friends with that Ross boy?”
He does a surprisingly good impression of Maggie Wilson. It takes me a few seconds to recover, and all the while he watches me.
“I just mean I don’t want people gossiping that I’m following you around Ormscaula like a lost lamb,” I say.
He grins but doesn’t reply, stalking off again.
I follow him, silently seething, through the village, past the butcher and the baker, past the village hall and the tiny chapel, and Iain-the-Smith’s smithy. We walk on, leaving behind the neat houses with their white fences and brightly painted doors, past scrubby wee houses that are rundown, the paintwork chipped, the yards overgrown and littered with bottles, houses where the windows are dirty, smeared with grease and fingerprints.
There’s a moment when I think maybe he’s taking me to his home, and I feel a thrill of excitement – Domestic Ren isn’t something I can imagine; he seems too fey to live in something as mundane as a cottage. But we pass the last of the dwellings, with their sparse thatch and patched walls, and move into pasture, heading towards the forest.
“Are we going to the woods?” I ask. “Ren? I have to get back.” I’ve been away for nearly two hours, I don’t have time to mess around.
“We’re almost there,” he says, his limp more pronounced now the ground is uneven.
“Where?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
It’s much cooler under the canopy of the trees, the scent of resin and pine thick and clean. Again I think of the candy, and his tiny, boyish face, the greed and fear on it, and I wonder if he remembers, or if he’s forgotten, like I had.
Brown pine needles crunch under my feet, and I drag my boots through them, kicking them, until Ren stops in a small clearing and sits on a fallen log, extending his legs in front of him. The right one turns inwards slightly, but that’s the only tell he was born with a twisted leg. Carefully, I sit too, perching on a raised root, resting the basket in the space between us.
“Was this really necessary?” I ask, shifting to face him.
“I’ve not brought you here before, have I?” he says, and I shake my head. “It’s my favourite place. I come here to think.”
I look around, trying to see what’s special about it, but my attention moves back to him when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a package. The bullets. My pulse quickens.
“What are they for?” he asks, weighing the parcel in his hands.
“A gun.” I give him my best grin.
He fixes me with a glacial look. “What are they for?”
“I just told you.”
He tilts his head. “Fine. So they’re for a gun. What about the new earasaid, and the dresses?”
“I decided I need to get out more.” I smile.
He doesn’t return it. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? That’s what it’s all been about. All the stuff you’ve asked for. You’re running away.”
I don’t even blink. “No.”
“Where are you going?” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Inverness, it has to be.”
“Ren…”
“I want to come with you.”
I choke on thin air.
“Is that so strange?” He looks at me. “I have as much reason to want to leave. More. I’m not from here, remember?”
I shake my head. “Can I just have my bullets, please?”
He puts the package back in his pocket. “You want them, let me come with you.”
“Will you get it out of your head that I’m going somewhere, Murren Ross? This is ridiculous.” I stand and walk towards him, holding out my hand.
“Full naming me, gosh, it must be serious. So am I: no me, no bullets. You can have your money back.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bag I gave to him, dangling it in the air, where it twirls one way, then another.
Maybe I don’t need those bullets. I can take another gun, it doesn’t have to be that one. I’ll throw the gun into the loch, let it go. It’s about time. What would I even need a gun for in Thurso?
But the thought of not having it makes me feel panicky; immediately sweat prickles along my shoulders, my heart beats a little harder. No, I can’t leave it behind. I can’t get rid of it. I need it. I need the bullets for it. I don’t know why but I do.
“I thought we were friends,” I try.
“We are. That’s why you should tell me when we’re going. That’s what friends do.”
I growl in frustration. “Ren, give me the bullets or I swear—”
“Swear what?” He looks me up and down, smirking, as he tucks the money pouch away once more. “Alva, come on. You don’t need to put on your tough-girl boots. I know you.”
Hold Back the Tide Page 4
