by Lucy Foley
Beyond this, the path is uneventful for a stretch. But at one point I come to a small patch of burned ground, a circle, as though someone has lit a fire here. Nearby are a couple of burned, rusted beer cans. I remember what Heather told us about poachers.
I step off the pass onto the bank that shears down to the water, ducking my way through the branches of the trees at the lochside, stumbling and slipping over ancient moss-covered roots, twigs snagging at my hair, face and jacket. At one point I almost lose my footing entirely and begin slithering towards a small inlet of water to my right, only just regaining my balance at the last minute. As I do I catch sight of something gleaming beneath the surface. Shocking white, so much brighter than the brownish rocks surrounding it. I peer closer, and realise what it is. A bone. Quite a large one, half concealed by rotted leaves. As I look about me I see another – and another, scattered about the grassy bank. Some are even larger than the one in the water, as long as my own femur. They are animal bones, I know this. I tell myself this, as I search for the skull that will confirm it. An animal killed by another animal, or dead from old age. But some of them, I see, have scorch marks. And there is no skull to be seen. Again, I remember the warning about poachers trespassing; perhaps they’ve taken the heads away for mounting. I shudder. The killing of something this size must have involved a certain amount of violence, and intent.
I need to put some space between myself and this place. The grisly discovery sits queasily on my empty stomach. So I push myself going up the slight incline until I can focus only on the burn in my lungs and legs. I remind myself what a beautiful place this is. The bones have sent a chill through me, put a dark cast on things. But there is nothing sinister here. It is just different, I remind myself. Remote, wild.
Now I’m almost at the opposite end of the loch from the Lodge: it glitters strange and magnificent on the other bank. There’s a gap in the trees that ring the loch here, leaving a bald-looking stretch with a lot of rocks and some dead-looking heather. There’s a building here, too, low-slung and timbered like the cabins. This must be the bunkhouse where the Icelanders are staying. All the windows are dark, no sign of life within. Perhaps they’re still asleep.
I carry on my way, picking up the pace for the second half of the lap as I always do when I run. As I plunge back into the trees again I hear a sound, high and keening, like an animal in pain. I think inevitably of the bones on the other bank. It’s difficult to tell exactly where the sound is coming from, but I peer in the vague direction of the noise into the dark thicket. And now I see them – I can’t believe I didn’t originally. Jesus. So much naked skin. The woman crouches on the mossy ground on her hands and knees, the man mounting her from behind, hips flexing powerfully, his hand tangled in her black hair. Her head is thrown back, or possibly pulled back by the force of his grip. Both of them are making a lot of noise, and the noises are bestial, uninhibited. There is something horrifyingly compelling about the sight. My feet are rooted to the spot, I’m unable to glance away.
And then the man turns his head and looks straight at me. With two fingers he makes a kind of beckoning motion with his hand. ‘Come,’ he calls, ‘join us.’ Then he laughs, a kind of cackle. He’s mocking me. The woman looks up, to see who he’s speaking to. She, too, grins at me: the half-drugged expression of someone in the throes of lust. Their exposed skin is very white in the stark light. Her knees are almost black with dirt.
And though I have always liked to think of myself as very open-minded, sexually liberated, once my limbs decide to work again I find myself stumbling backwards, then turning and running away as fast as my legs will carry me, branches snagging at my ankles and whipping my cheeks. I feel as though I can still hear his laughter ringing out, though worryingly I’m not absolutely sure that it isn’t in my head.
Back at the Lodge, I go to make myself a coffee from the Nespresso machine. My fingers don’t seem to work properly. They’re trembling. I’m sure it’s just the cold, but it would be a lie to say that scene in the woods didn’t rattle me. It was the animal nature of it, the violence of it, in the middle of all that wildness. I hear the door open behind me. I do not turn around. I’m already certain – from the lack of greeting – that it’s Mark. Oh, for God’s sake. I could really do without seeing him now.
Finally, I wrestle the little gold capsule into the slot and clunk the lever down. Press the button, and wait for something to happen. I hear the capsule fall into the cavity at the back. ‘Fuck!’ I seem to have become completely uncoordinated.
Suddenly Mark is next to me. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘you have to turn it on before you put the capsule in.’ He shows me, and a perfect stream of velvet brown pours into the cup.
‘Thanks,’ I say, without looking at him.
‘Miranda,’ he says. ‘Manda … I want to apologise for last night. I don’t know what came over me. I’d had too much to drink, and then those pills – what even were they?’
‘That’s no excuse,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says, quickly. ‘No excuse, I know that. I behaved unforgivably. Did I hurt you?’
I push up my sleeve to show him the bruise, which has turned a rather impressive purple.
He hangs his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that. Sometimes – I don’t know, I let my anger get the better of me. It’s like something takes over … again, it’s unforgivable. And it wasn’t even you I was angry at – of course it wasn’t. It was Julien. That’s one thing I won’t, can’t, take back. He doesn’t deserve you, Miranda. He never has. But especially recently—’
‘No,’ I put up a palm, ‘whatever you think you know about his “little secret”, or whatever you call it, I want you to keep it to yourself. For my sake, if you won’t do it for his. Do you understand?’
‘I think so, but …’ he looks dumbfounded. ‘I just— I’m thinking of you, Miranda. I feel like you have a right to know what he’s been up to. You’re sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say, nodding my head for emphasis. ‘Absolutely sure.’
I sip my coffee. It’s too hot, and scalds my tongue, but I won’t wince in front of him. ‘Oh, and Mark?’
‘Yes?’
‘Touch me again like that – either like you did on the Twister mat, or in the bathroom – and I’ll fucking kill you. Have you got that?’
KATIE
I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t think I’ve slept properly for months. It feels like years.
When I come in for breakfast, Emma is standing in the kitchen of the Lodge, making preparations for tonight’s supper. Her hair is scraped off her face, no make-up. I’m not sure when I’ve ever seen her without make-up, actually. It’s odd, sometimes, seeing someone bare-faced for the first time. Especially someone fair, like Emma, who is usually equipped with the punctuation of mascara, eyeliner; she looks almost featureless.
She has planned a big feast for this evening, she tells me. The fridge is packed with smoked salmon and the finest beef fillet, and she’s whipping up a batter for blinis. She makes her own blinis, for God’s sake. ‘The shop-bought ones taste like rubber,’ she says. ‘And it’s so easy to do them.’ She is in her element, humming away to herself. She has me cutting tiny triangles of salmon with much more care than I normally would. It’s actually nice to have something to focus on. Though try as I might, my thoughts keep wandering. I carry on until Emma cries out, ‘Katie, oh my God! You’re bleeding! Didn’t you notice?’ And in a slightly irritated tone, ‘Oh, you’ve got blood all over the salmon.’
‘Have I?’ I look down at my hand. ‘Oh.’ She’s right, I’ve cut quite far into the flesh of my forefinger. A bright red gash. The fish is slick with it, made suddenly gory.
Emma stares at me. ‘How did you not notice?’ She takes my hand, a little roughly. ‘Oh, you poor thing. That must have hurt. It’s quite deep.’
She is trying to sound sympathetic, but it doesn’t quite conceal a note of irritation.
All at once the pain arrives. Sharp, bring
ing tears to my eyes. But I find myself almost enjoying the sting of it. It feels right, like what I deserve.
Later, we eat brunch in the dining room at the Lodge, all of us around the big table in the centre, apart from Samira and Giles, who haven’t arrived yet. They’re awake though – when I passed their cabin I heard raised voices and a shriek of infant rage.
The atmosphere is subdued this morning – the conversation around the table stilted, everyone picking listlessly at their fry-ups. There are the hangovers from last night, of course, but maybe there’s something else, too. Something slightly strained … as though everyone’s somewhat exhausted their quota of niceness on yesterday’s reunion. Only Emma is all brightness and bustle, checking everyone has enough bacon, enough coffee.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Julien says, ‘sit down Emma! We’re all fine.’ I’m sure he was going for a light, teasing tone, but he doesn’t quite manage it.
Emma sits, a flush stealing up the side of her neck.
‘Katie,’ Miranda pulls out the seat next to her, ‘sit by me.’
I take the seat and reach for a cold piece of toast to butter. Miranda’s wearing a lot of perfume this morning, and, as I chew, it’s like the toast has taken on the heavy, fragrant flavour of it. My stomach churns. I take a swig of coffee, but this, too, tastes off.
When I finally look up, I realise Miranda has turned in her seat to look directly at me, her head on one side. I see rather than feel the piece of toast tremble in my hand. Those X-ray eyes of hers. ‘You’ve got a new man, haven’t you?’ she asks. She’s grinning at me … but it occurs to me that it’s more a grimace than a smile. I know her too well not to guess when something is off. If I were a good friend I’d ask her about it … but I can’t quite bring myself to. Besides, I reason, it’s too public a forum here, with everyone around us. ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
‘I can tell. You look different. The hair, the clothes.’ I move an inch or so away; her breath is a little stale, which is unlike her. She once told me that she brushes before and after breakfast in accordance with some fascist rule of her mother’s. She must have forgotten. ‘And,’ she says, ‘you’ve been so elusive recently. Even more so than normal. You’ve always done this when there’s a new guy on the scene. Ever since I’ve known you.’ Everyone else suddenly seems to be listening. I feel the eyes of the room upon me. Nick’s eyebrows are raised. Because if I am seeing someone, I know he’s thinking, I would have told him, wouldn’t I?
I take a bite of toast, but it sticks in my gullet and it takes several attempts to swallow it. My throat feels raw, wounded.
‘No,’ I say, hoarsely. ‘I don’t have time at the moment – I’m far too busy with work.’
‘God,’ she says. ‘All work and no play, Katie – have you ever heard that one? You’re completely obsessed. I don’t understand it.’
But then she wouldn’t. Miranda has tried and failed to make a go at several different careers, with no real success. She crashed out of Oxford with a Third, in the end. She didn’t care, she told me. But I know better. She had been arrogant enough to think that she could just breeze through as she had always done. The thing is, Miranda is clever, but she isn’t necessarily Oxford clever. Her mum hired a tutor to help her get those four As at A level, and I’m sure she dazzled them in the interview. But still. Once in, she was in a different league entirely. She somehow managed to blag the first and second years of university, and she ignored the warning signs in our third year that she wasn’t on the right track, even though I tried to point them out. I swear I wasn’t pleased when she opened that envelope and saw her result. But I must confess that perhaps I did feel a little – a tiny tiny bit – as though justice had been done.
That Third was an insult. It smarted. It stung her pride. If you look at all of us, now, she’s the odd one out. All of us have good jobs. Samira’s a management consultant, I’m a lawyer, Julien works for the hedge fund, Nick’s an architect, Giles is a doctor, Bo works for the BBC, Mark for an advertising firm. Emma works for a literary agency – I remember when Miranda learned that one. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How did you get that job in the first place? I thought that agency only picked from redbrick, and usually Oxbridge.’
Emma was unfazed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I suppose I must just give good interview.’
Miranda herself had had a crack at getting into the publishing industry. Then a go at advertising. Mark gave her a much bigger leg up than he probably should have done, persuading one of his colleagues to interview her for an assistant position. She got it, but left after only two months. She was bored of it, she said. But I met a girl who used to work there at a wedding and she told me that it was a little more complicated.
‘They let her go,’ she told me. ‘She was unbelievably lazy. She seemed to think she was above things. Once, stuffing envelopes, she actually refused to lick them to seal them shut. She said she hated the taste and it was below her pay grade to do it. Said she hadn’t been to Oxford just to do that. Can you imagine?’
Yes, bad friend that I am, of course I could.
Giles and Samira have arrived now. They look several degrees more shattered than everyone else. Samira flops into a chair and puts her head in her hands with a groan, as Giles tries to lift Priya into the highchair. She grizzles, fighting this restraint. As the pitch rises to a shrill whine I see Nick sneak his fingers into his ears. ‘Oh God,’ Samira groans. ‘Priya woke us up at five, and then again at six.’
‘I can’t even imagine,’ Bo says. ‘I couldn’t dress myself this morning, let alone a little person. Nick had to point out my T-shirt was on backwards, didn’t you?’ Nick smiles, wanly.
‘Well I suppose it’s a life choice, isn’t it?’ Miranda says, breezily, pouring herself an orange juice. ‘It’s not like you’re forced to have kids, is it?’
Even for Miranda – who miraculously often manages to get away with such comments – this is a cattiness too far. But then there’s definitely something about her this morning. Her brightness has a brittle edge.
I haven’t seen Samira angry for a long time, but now I remember that it’s a terrifying spectacle. There’s a proper temper hidden under that calm, groomed exterior. She has gone absolutely rigid in her chair. We all watch her, silently, waiting to see what she will do next. Then she seems to give a sort of shiver, and reaches for the cafetière. Her hand shakes only a little as she pours. She does not look at Miranda once. For the sake of group harmony, perhaps, she has evidently decided to rise above it.
With a bit of a stutter, the conversation around the table moves on. We’re going stalking today, because apparently this is a ‘must-do’ if you’re staying on an estate in Scotland.
‘I suppose you two won’t be coming stalking, will you?’ Mark asks, indicating Nick and Bo.
‘Why not?’ Nick asks.
‘Well,’ Mark’s mouth curls a little at the corner. ‘Because – you know.’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘Just didn’t think you’d be into that sort of thing.’
‘Hang on a sec, Mark,’ Nick says. ‘If I’ve got this correct, it sounds as though you’ve decided we won’t be coming because we’re gay. Is that really what you’re saying?’
Spoken aloud it sounds so ridiculous that even Mark must be able to see it.
‘It’s not a disability, Mark. Just want to make that clear.’
Mark makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Nick’s knuckles are white about his coffee mug. For all Mark’s muscle, I’m not sure that I would back him in a fight between the two.
‘It’s true,’ Nick goes on, ‘that like most sensible people, I don’t particularly like the idea of killing animals for pure sport’ – Mark assumes an aha! expression – ‘but, from what I hear, the deer numbers get out of control if they aren’t managed. So I’m at peace with the idea. I’m also a pretty good shot: the last time I went to shoot clays I hit eighteen out of twenty. Thank
s, though, for your concern.’
After this, no one, not even Miranda, seems to be able to think of anything to say.
NOW
2nd January 2019
HEATHER
I have made endless cups of tea, so much so that I have begun to feel like an extension of the kettle. No one seems to actually be drinking them, but every time I ask, they all nod, vaguely, and then sit holding the cups as the hot tea slowly cools, untasted. Beyond the windows the snow shows no sign of stopping. It is difficult to imagine a time when it was not there, this moving curtain of white.
Normally, after a body has been found, I am sure it is all flashing lights, men in white hazmat suits, and commotion. But this is no ordinary place. And in this case the landscape has had its own ideas. The weather has forced us to bend to its own whims. I realise, for one of the first times since I moved here, quite how alien this place is, how little I really know of it. It might as well be another planet. I am certain that there are secrets here beyond the whisky bothies, beyond the monster pike deep in the loch. Those are just the small things the landscape chooses to reveal.
There is a loud wail from the next room, cacophonous in the silence, startling me so much that I spill water from the kettle onto the floor. It’s just the baby, of course. I remember the sound of the baby crying on New Year’s Eve when I woke to go to the toilet, and when I saw – or thought I saw – that strange light, up on the flank of the Munro. And I wonder now whether it’s possible that the sound could have concealed any other noises out there.
I think of all the sounds in this place that have come to seem normal, that I choose not to question. As I wait for the kettle to boil I’m remembering one of my very first nights at the Lodge. I’d moved into the cottage, and was focusing on not thinking too much about anything. It was the week of the terrible anniversary. I’d had quite a lot of wine – a medicinal quantity, a bottle and a half, perhaps. I remember sinking into the bed and pulling the duvet up over me. One thing I have learned about ‘silence’ – at least this sort of silence, that of the wilderness – is that it is surprisingly loud. The building is old, it creaked around me. Outside in the night were the sounds of animals; two owls conversed in long mournful calls. The wind was moving through the tops of the great Scots pines just beyond my window. It sounded like a moan. It could be soothing, I remember telling myself. Perhaps I would get used to it. (I have never quite got used to it.)
