by G Mottram
Jason shook his head and slid Dad’s lager over to him. If his hyper-paranoid father wasn’t worried about the greasy photographer then why should he be?
Chapter 2
‘There she is,’ Dad said, ‘our very own, real-life castle.’
Jason smiled. Eila Doone hadn’t changed - it never would. Like something from one his favourite old horror films, the squat turrets and thick walls rose straight out of a misted loch.
They had been picked up an hour ago from the station in the small town of Strayfele – the end of the line in so many ways. Old Duncan was their chauffeur as he had been for all of Jason’s life. He’d driven them into to a deep sea-loch valley where the small island of Mawn hunched down in an iron-grey lake surrounded by jagged, wind-ripped mountains.
As usual, they’d had to leave the first Land Rover in a ruined cottage to board an ancient ferry skippered by the equally ancient, white bearded, Frederick who made Old Duncan seem like a grinning loon.
Docking in Mawn’s tiny harbour had been hard on Jason. Ever since he could remember, he, Miranda and Mum had crammed themselves inside the tiny waiting room there to shelter from the inevitable storms while Dad had played the hero, waiting outside and making pathetic faces through the window.
Now it was only the three of them, Dad wouldn’t have to wait out in the rain any more.
‘Snap out of it,’ Miranda said, elbowing his ribs, ‘we’re here.’
Old Duncan pulled the island’s battered green Land Rover Defender into the cow shed that served as the castle’s garage. As he reached for the keys, a loud voice crackled from the cab radio.
‘Are ye there, Duncan…? There’s a man here for ye here at the station. He’s wanting to stay at the castle.’
Short wave radio was the main means of communication with Mawn. Mobile phones had no signal in the mountains and laying a land-line had never been worth the cost.
‘He could have shown himself when I picked you lot up from the train, couldn’t he?’ Old Duncan grumbled, banging the steering wheel.
‘That’ll be another sun-worshipper up for the weekend then,’ Miranda said, staring up at the thick cloud. ‘Another shamelessly bare body waddling in and out of the loch all day.’
‘We should drown them all,’ Duncan grunted.
The Willows clambered out as rain began to hammer down on the tin roof. Dad quickly pulled the bags out of the back while Old Duncan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Almost before Dad was clear, Old Duncan reversed out of the shed, winding down his window. ‘Mr Darillian will see ye in the High Hall,’ he shouted, ‘I’m away back for this blasted late-comer.’
Darillian was Grandfather’s surname. It used to be Jason’s of course - about four lives ago, but they’d changed their surname each time they’d moved, together with bank accounts, passports and everything else that recorded who they were.
As the Land Rover roared away, Jason and Miranda stared up at the castle through the driving rain.
Eila Doone had always been a pause, a safe haven in which to hide whilst their next new life was put into place by the “fixer” from Dad’s past - Alan Brash.
This was the only real home they’d ever known.
‘Watch the bridge,’ Dad shouted over the wind gusting in through the shed’s empty windows, ‘- it’ll be slippy.’
‘Dad, you’ve made us walk along the edges of icy planks since we were five,’ Miranda said without turning around, ‘I think we can manage the...’ Without any warning, she pushed Jason backwards and sprinted outside.
‘Cheat,’ Jason yelled and tore after her.
Miranda was too fast for him to make up for the head-start and she leapt onto the bridge first. It was no more than two metres wide, low walled and slick-stoned with rock-frothed waters churning below. Miranda streaked across it with Jason just a steamy breath behind.
On the tiny island, the second of two Himalayan Cedars was the traditional finishing post. The instant they were off the bridge, Jason flicked his right foot out and caught Miranda’s left. She tumbled forward but tucked into a tight roll and came up running at Jason’s side as he tried to pass her.
They swung semi-contact blows and trips at each other as they ran, each one blocked or dodged. Three metres from the finish, Miranda feigned a punch to Jason’s head and simultaneously shot her foot out to trip him.
Jason fell, just managing a roll but to the side, away from the tree. By the time he flipped back to his feet, Miranda was waving to him with one of the lower branches, her breathing almost back to normal.
‘You cheated,’ Jason said, kicking a bit of mud up at her.
‘I don’t think your grandfather is very impressed, cheating or not,’ Dad said, joining them under the branches. Rain ran from his hair onto the three cases he carried. He nodded towards the castle.
Jason knew exactly where to look. He swung his eyes up to a small window on the fourth floor – the High Hall. There, staring down at them through the rain-streaked glass, was the dark silhouette of their grandfather.
‘Well you trained us, Dad,’ Jason said, ‘it’s your fault if our Jakra isn’t up to scratch.’
‘I thought it might be,’ Dad grumbled.
‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ Miranda said, giving a joyful wave up to the window, ‘Grandfather’s smiling.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Jason groaned. After fighting dirty and nearly breaking his neck, Miranda was now going to put on her ultra-sweet, granddaughter act.
‘Come on, let’s say hello to the old… man,’ Dad said. ‘Remember…’
‘Best behaviour,’ Jason and Miranda chimed in unison. He’d been telling them that ever since he and mum had raced a pushchair each to the second cedar.
They each ducked their heads against the building storm and walked into the shadow of Eila Doone.
Ten-foot high, six-inch thick double doors studded with iron barred the entrance as they had done for about nine hundred years. Dad pushed them open easily enough though and they dashed inside. As Dad shut the doors behind them, the cold and silence of the castle closed in on them.
Eila Doone had given up very little of herself in becoming a hikers' hotel. Worn tapestries, pole arms, shields and claymores were still lashed to the walls from centuries gone by. The only sign that the ancient hall they stood in was now the reception area was a small desk in one corner. As usual it was unmanned.
Dad started humming “Home, home on the range” as they dumped their cases at the reception desk and started towards the main staircase. Brett Darillian, Grandfather, didn’t like to be kept waiting.
The staircase split and they took the right hand fork into a much smaller stairway spiralling up through a turret. Cold, grey stone screwed around Jason as he trotted up steps worn smooth by centuries’ of footfalls. Twice, the echoing walls broke open onto a narrow corridor and then sealed them in again before they approached the private fourth floor.
Jason smelled the fire in the High Hall long before he left the stairwell. It was one of the few family rooms Grandfather heated regularly. He stepped out onto the landing after Dad and Miranda and came face to face with the ogre himself.
‘You should have recognized Miranda’s feint, Jason – there was no power in it.’ Brett Darillian stared steadily at his grandson through dark, double doors opened wide. He stood at the far end of the long hall, framed by the rain lashed window and with a twelve-seat, mahogany table stretched between him and his family. Tall, powerfully built and with cropped grey hair over a face chiselled from stone, Grandfather might have been part of the castle itself.
‘We were only messing about,’ Jason said, attempting a smile.
‘There’s no “messing about”, not now ye’re coming of age. One day, seeing the difference between a feint and a real blow might save your life.’
Miranda let the sage advice fly over her head as she strode past the table and threw her arms around the old man’s neck.
Grandfather didn’t flinch from his lor
dly stance behind the Laird's Seat as she draped herself over him. Jason winced – Grandfather must be as comforting to hug as a rock. Still, Miranda usually managed to crack the ice a little and today was to be no exception. Awkwardly, Grandfather patted one bear-like hand against her back then eased her away.
‘That’s enough girl - ye’re no longer a bairn.’
‘There’s no age limit on cuddles, Grandfather,’ Miranda said, smiling up at him sweetly.
Jason crossed the hall to greet him with a little more decorum. Men didn’t hug each other in Grandfather’s world. He shook hands with his grandfather, putting all his strength in returning the old man’s cold, iron hard grip.
Grandfather gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘You’re getting somewhat stronger.’
‘Hello, father,’ Dad said. He’d remained between the open doors.
‘Where are ye running to this time, Richard?’
No one spoke. This was the only thing Jason hated about Mawn – there was such contempt in Grandfather’s eyes and it laced everything he said to Dad.
The two men stared at each other. Dad stood tall, not looking in the least bit intimidated but he dropped his eyes first, to give a sad smile to his children. ‘Do you want to unpack while I have a chat with your grandfather?’
‘Okay but no arguing, you two,’ Miranda said, in a particularly air-head sort of way.
‘As if…’ Dad said, winking at them.
Jason grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her out, closing the double doors behind them.
‘Your running away has cost too much, this time…’ Jason heard Grandfather begin as he and Miranda pressed their ears to the thick wood.
‘Father, will you lower your voice - the children…’ Dad cut in.
‘They’re no longer children, Richard. You still haven’t told them have you, even after having their mother shot in front of their eyes? They need to know – Jason will be coming into his…’
‘Will you lower your voice or do we have to leave now?’
Surprisingly Grandfather did what Dad asked and his voice faded out of hearing.
‘Bugger,’ Jason whispered, and the two of them started back down the spiral stairs. ‘What do we need to know? What am I coming into?’
‘Your inheritance?’ Miranda guessed. ‘Perhaps Grandfather’s going to leave sun-kissed Mawn to you when you grow up… which will be in about another thirty years I’d say.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jason grinned. ‘But really – d’you think it’s just the same old argument?’
‘Aye, laddie,’ Miranda said, dropping into a terrible impression of Grandfather’s Scottish accent. ‘It’s your duty to tell them everything, Richard – you can’t expect them to run for the rest of their lives as well.’
Jason nodded. This was the reason they’d never moved to Mawn permanently – Dad had always told them that he’d protect them from the dangers of his old life and that included telling them virtually nothing about it until they were “grown up”.
‘Sometimes I wish Grandfather would just tell us – get it over and done with.’
‘I wouldn’t listen to him, and nor would you,’ Miranda said, ‘it would be like betraying Dad’s trust. Anyway – what’s he going to say that we haven’t already come up with – Dad’s an ex-spy, or MI5 or on some witness protection programme? Just let Dad tell us in his own time.’
‘I suppose,’ Jason grunted. ‘I hate it when Grandfather has a go at him though. D’you think they’ll end up sparring again?’
‘I should think so but Dad can look after himself. Anyway, he needs someone good to train against. We don’t really push him.’
‘Speak for yourself, girlie,’ Jason barged his sister out onto the second floor as they passed it. He ducked as she threw a punch at his head.
They clattered down the stone steps into the still deserted reception area. Their cases lay where they’d left them. Miranda wrinkled her nose. ‘Sod the unpacking, let’s go to the village.’
Jason groaned, looking out through narrow windows. ‘But it’s pouring down.’
‘We’re in Mawn - what do you expect?’ Miranda said.
‘Nothing will be open,’ Jason mumbled, pressing his face against the cold glass and misting it up.
‘You want to stay here and wait for them to finish arguing?’ Miranda said, reaching for a bright yellow oilskin coat and hat hanging on the ‘for guest use’ hooks on one wall.
Jason shrugged but turned away from the window. ‘Mmm, attractive,’ he said, nodding appraisingly at her.
‘Mmm, dry,’ Miranda said.
Jason grabbed some waterproofs down for himself. ‘That’s a very practical, un-Barbie thing to say, Sis.’
She ignored him and pulled open the front doors then shrieked as a wall of freezing rain burst in.
Jason shoved her out and they both crossed the bridge then started up the hill leading to the village in the next dip. They trudged resolutely passed a small stable block. They were both excellent riders but taking out a couple of horses now would mean at least an hour’s rubbing down and grooming afterwards.
About half way up the hill Jason heard the throaty growl of Grandfather’s Land Rover. A moment later it struggled over the crest then came hurtling down towards them, veering from side to side on the rain-slicked track.
‘Run for it,’ Jason shouted, scrambling into the heather above the road. ‘Quick, Old Duncan won’t stop until he feels your head crunch.’
Miranda followed him, without the dramatics. ‘He’s got the latecomer with him, hasn’t he?’ she said, trying to peer through the rain streaked, misted up windscreen.
‘Looks like it… easier to see if Duncan understood new technology like de-mister switches.’
‘Oh goodie – someone apart from Grandfather for me to play with at dinner.’ Miranda waved, smiling brightly with rain running down her face.
Old Duncan crashed the gears and roared passed without a sideways glance. They hadn’t been able to make out the new guest at all.
Jason pushed his still-waving sister back down towards the track. ‘He won’t fancy you looking like that, whoever he is,’ he said, nodding at her shapeless yellow oilskins and wide-brimmed hat flopping down over her straggly wet hair.
‘Well I thought I just might change for dinner.’
‘Into what - a half-decent sister maybe…?’
‘…and you’ve said that one how many times now?’ Miranda feigned a laugh and jumped back down onto the road.
Miranda fell quiet for a while as they walked. Jason chewed his lip - quiet meant Miranda was either worried about something or plotting. Finally she spoke.
‘Will you be asking Laura back for dinner tonight?’
Plotting then, obviously.
Jason just grunted. He knew he should never have told his sister about fancying Laura McKenzie last year.
‘Well?’ Miranda nudged him.
Jason nudged her back, resigning himself for another attack of the cupid sister.
Sure enough, Miranda hit him with a relentless storm of advice as they walked. Even though he kept his head-down and only mumbled nonsense in reply, the chatting-up lesson didn’t stop until they reached the village.
It was almost six o’clock and the place was deserted. The rain had eased off to a drizzle.
‘Don’t you just hate rush hour?’ Miranda asked.
‘Shall we see if The Star’s open for once?’ Jason mumbled, trying to push back his dripping hair into some sort of order beneath the hood.
‘Oooh, now let me think…’ Miranda said, ‘there are so many other hot clubs we could try… oh go on then – the Star it is.’
Jason started forward, his heart starting to thump. The Northern Star was Mawn’s one and only pub. It had a ‘family room’ where Les, the landlord, let the island’s youth hang out, play pool, eat crisps and drink Iron Bru or Coke. If Laura was out anywhere this wet Saturday afternoon, it would be in there.
They pushed on past Mary M
oore’s general store/bakery/post office/chemist with its old bay windows then stopped.
‘Typical,’ Jason said, staring at a scribbled note, placed inside a plastic bag and hung by string from the Star’s main door.
Open at 7 for the football
‘I’m not hanging around for an hour,’ Miranda said.
‘Straight back to the castle, then,’ Jason mumbled and began to walk. ‘Whose master-plan was this?’
They were less than a mile out of the village when he realised they were being watched.
Chapter 3
A single silhouette waited on the hilltop before them, a long coat billowing out and a bushman’s hat pulled low over its face. Ragged strips of cloud whipped across the darkening sky behind.
‘Looks like a highwayman without his horse,’ Jason said, glancing across at Miranda.
‘I don’t like this,’ she said.
‘Don’t be daft – it’s probably that new guest, looking to get a pint in before dinner.’
Miranda tugged him off the track and started marching off through the heather. ‘Dinner’s in half an hour – he’d hardly have time to drink it. Come on, we’ll skirt around him.’
Jason glanced back up the hill. The stranger waved once and started to walk quickly down the track.
Jason could see him more clearly now - wide shouldered with the raincoat flapping open at the top to show a high necked, black jumper. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, head still down so the hat brim covered his face.
‘Move,’ Miranda hissed and sped up.
‘You’re being paranoid,’ Jason began, ‘he’s staying on the track. I tell you, maybe he fancies one of Les’ grotty pies or…’
Suddenly, the man cut into the heather and broke into a run. He lifted up his face.
‘It’s the photographer from the airport,’ Jason said.
‘Oh hell,’ Miranda hissed, ‘back to the village - quick.’
Jason sprinted through the heather after her but could almost feel the photographer closing on him. He glanced back, the man was only thirty steps away now, seeming to fly over the hillside.
