The Jack in the Green

by Lee, Frazer

  In the dark of his nightmares the night before, Tom had known what it felt like to be that rabbit, dangling helpless beneath its abductor. But in the cold, autumnal light of day, Tom felt something else entirely. As the powerful bird flapped and glided off into the far distance behind them, accompanied by the ever-droning soundtrack of the engine, Tom smiled to himself. He felt privileged, like he had witnessed something secret, something primal and utterly pure. The feeling elevated him just as powerfully as those talons had carried him aloft in his nightmares. His senses soared.

  This must be what it feels like to escape, he thought.

  The mountains parted, like great curtains of green velvet, and the car began its descent into the lower slopes where, presumably, Douglass was hidden. Dieter slowed his driving pace a little with the new terrain, something for which Tom was thankful as they passed over a wooden bridge that offered a view of the landscape behind them. It took Tom’s breath away to gaze at the mountains again, then at the foaming torrent of a waterfall spilling over a shelf of rocks just beyond the bridge. Turning a bend deeper into the valley, the road became nothing more than a track. The wheel arches of the rental car clicked and popped with the impact of loose stones and gravel kicked up by the wheels. It sounded as though the car, too, was excited about reaching its destination. Then, Dieter gasped and hit the brakes, causing the car to skid to a sudden halt.

  Tom felt the seat belt bite into the tender spot in his chest, a stark reminder of the violent mayhem they had witnessed at the airport protest only the night before. Hearing bleating sounds, Tom looked up from the dashboard just inches from his nose and saw the source of Dieter’s alarm. A flock of sheep was making its way slowly across the track from one grassy plain to the next. The animals bleated, cajoling each other as they made their crossing. A large ewe, bigger than her sisters, paused for a moment in front of the car. She fixed the occupants of the Ford Focus with stern black eyes and bleated as loud as an angry teacher berating her pupils.

  “That told us,” Tom laughed.

  “Sure did!” Dieter replied, finding the ewe’s protest equally amusing.

  Dieter moved off when the last few stragglers had joined their fellows in the field to his side of the car. Looking out the windscreen, Tom spied something above the dense tree line in the distance.

  “Is that…?”

  “Yes it is.”

  Tom peered up the track ahead of them. At first, he’d mistaken the plume of smoke above the fir trees for yet more mist. But unlike the mist, the smoke had purpose.

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s…”

  “A public house!” Dieter said as they neared an elderly building with The Rock in a Hard Place emblazoned beneath its eaves.

  But his joy quickly subsided as they passed the building. It had been boarded up long ago. The source of the smoke now looked to be from deep within the forest, not from the pub as Dieter had imagined, and the sky had darkened as the thick green of the firs became a huge verdant wall either side of them.

  “Is this really the place? Could we have taken a wrong turn somewhere?” Tom asked.

  He was already reaching for the map he’d tucked away in the glove box with his bottle of water. Their smart phone map apps were not an option out here in the wilderness. Dieter remained silent, eyes fixed on the road ahead, looking for anything resembling a landmark in the thick of the trees. Tom’s consternation turned to relief as they drove past a weathered sign at the roadside and he left the map where it was.

  The wooden sign was clinging onto its moss-covered post for dear life via a cluster of huge nails. Rust stains had formed around each nail—blood red, like gunshot wounds. The sign was framed with a green border of mold. Its painted letters were peeling from the surface of the wood after what looked like several human lifetimes of wet weather had been visited upon them. Tom blinked as they shot past the sign, the letters imprinted on his vision: Douglass.

  They drove on for another mile or two and, just as Tom was planning how to break it to his boss that the village was no longer there, they arrived in Douglass proper—though the streets were deserted.

  “Where is everybody?” Dieter muttered.

  “Expecting a welcoming committee?” Tom said.

  “Hardly,” Dieter replied.

  And he had a point. Tom felt a little uneasy all of a sudden at the thought of steaming into this remote little village on a mission to buy up all the land for biofuels development. He doubted they would be welcomed with open arms, or even an open hotel.

  “Weird isn’t it…not a soul out today? Oh wait, what have we here…”

  The first sign of life came in the form of a cluster of little picture postcard cottages, set back from the road behind higgledy-piggledy walls constructed from irregular blocks of local stone. Tom glanced at the thatched roofs and saw smoke spiraling out from a couple of the chimneys, proof positive that their owners must be home.

  “Guess it’s not a ghost town after all.”

  “Ja,” Dieter muttered. “But there’s not much life here either by the looks of things. What’s the place called again?”

  Tom took the slip of paper from his pocket.

  “The Firs,” he said. “How imaginative. Damn well hope it’s in better shape than the place we saw back there.”

  Dieter nodded, as he drove on at a crawl through the village. Among the few other buildings they encountered was a little post office and general store, which looked to be shut. They followed the road as it swung a right through the impenetrable forest flanking it and clanked over a metal cattle grate. About five hundred meters farther on, they finally saw the sign for The Firs and its parking lot, which another sign declared was For Patrons (and their animals) Only. Dieter chuckled at the sign and Tom could tell the big man had already added the gag to his ongoing comedy routine for future use in a potential romantic situation.

  They parked up alongside the only other vehicle in the car park, an elderly, mud-encrusted pickup. Dieter killed the engine, and they both removed their seat belts and clambered out of the rental car.

  As he listened to Dieter groaning and stretching after hours in the driver’s seat, Tom marveled at the freshness of the cool mountain air. It was damp, loaded with the scent of pine and the deeper he breathed the giddier he felt. There wasn’t a single sound to be heard, save for his own breathing.

  “Amazing,” Tom whispered.

  “You think?” Dieter looked unfazed.

  “You’re from the countryside?”

  “Not from. But my family moved to the Alps when I was a boy. Lived there ’til they sent me to school in Cali.”

  “I envy you. I lived in the city my whole life. Places like this look like pop-up books to me.”

  “They lose their appeal in the bad weather, believe me,” Dieter laughed. “Okay when the snow comes, at least you can go skiing then, but in the fall—damp can be a total bitch, gets right into your knee joints, you know?”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to laugh.

  “You sound like an old man.”

  “And right now I feel like one,” Dieter said, stretching his aching limbs, “Come on, let’s find a fire to sit beside. And some food…”

  Dieter popped the trunk and he and Tom retrieved their luggage. Locking the car, a city dweller to the last, Dieter led the charge to the side door of the pub.

  The door, which had Guest Reception & Lounge hand painted on it in elegant golden letters, creaked as Dieter held it open to let Tom inside first. Tom made his way down the short corridor that led to the reception area, glancing at framed watercolors of rustic landscapes that lined the walls. The corridor opened up into a lobby where an unmanned reception desk stood at the foot of a carpeted stairwell. A log fire crackled in the hearth of the adjacent dining room. Tom peeked inside and saw half a dozen tables, each surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs that overlooked leaded windows and views of the fir trees beyond. The warmth from the fire had permeated the entire area, making a mockery o
f the cool mist outside, and Tom removed his coat. Folding his coat and placing it atop his luggage next to the reception desk, he tapped the brass bell with the flat of his hand. The bell rang out shrilly and the sound had all but faded when Tom and Dieter heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs above.

  “Ah, you must be our American guests.”

  The voice wafting down the stairs was soft and lilting, like birdsong. It was a male voice, but one with a range a few octaves higher than the average. The Scottish intonation added an intoxicating bent to the delivery, making the most ordinary of words sound exotic, almost magical.

  “That’s us,” Tom said.

  He peered up the stairs to get a view of the extraordinary voice’s owner.

  A rake of a man appeared, navigating the last few stairs with great care and holding on to the banister so tightly that he could have been a passenger on the Titanic. In his early sixties, he had thinning white hair, combed back and left long at the back and sides so it crowned his slightly feminine features like wisps of cotton candy. His skin was flushed pink and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, presumably due to the exertion of his rapid descent. As he maneuvered himself into a practiced position behind the reception desk, the old man took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow.

  “You know, we we’re expecting you yesterday,” he said, leafing through the ledger on the desk before him. “Get lost along the way?”

  “Trouble at the airport,” Dieter said. “We called ahead this morning. You get our message?”

  “Message? No, no message.”

  The old man stroked his chin for a moment, deep in thought.

  “But the girl said…”

  “Ah, that’ll explain it. My Holly is adept at taking messages, but passing them on is a skill she’s yet to master,” he chuckled, then turned the ledger around on the desk. “If you could both sign here please.”

  Tom glanced over the names and signatures of previous visitors, with a column for their place of residency filled with obscure names: Gravesend, Downton, and Grimsby all sounded like fun places. Then, Tom saw a familiar name, and that of the most recent guest—Monroe. Tom wavered for a moment, remembering the man’s final words to him as the blood had spiraled around his head after his fall.

  “He’s in the trees… He’s waiting…”

  Goose bumps erupted across Tom’s forearms, a microscopic mountain range of chilled flesh. Tom’s hand faltered above the ledger, pen hovering, poised above the dead man’s name.

  What the hell happened to Monroe that he was so damn frightened?

  “How was Mr. Monroe during his stay?” Tom asked, hoping that by mentioning the dead man’s name aloud he might will the gooseflesh away.

  Their host towered over Tom, scrutinizing him in the way a teacher would scrutinize a student in an exam.

  “Quiet man, kept himself to himself. Oh, he was nae bother. A good guest.”

  Nae bother. The turn of phrase amused Tom and he shared a surreptitious smile with Dieter. Then, hearing a rapping sound, Tom saw the old man was now tapping the pen against the ledger with a slight scowl on his face. Tom took a sharp intake of breath, then signed and dated the ledger on the next available empty line. He was struck by a welcome distraction; another curious place name.

  “Kintail sounds interesting, where have I seen that name before?”

  “On the map,” Dieter said.

  “Aye, the Kintail Mountains are north-northwest of here. Lovely place. But you’ll have to wear your long johns if you’re to visit this time of the year,” their host quipped.

  Dieter took his turn to sign the guest ledger, his eyes on the roaring fire and dining tables in the adjacent room the whole time. He pushed the ledger back across the desk to the old man, who lifted it up and studied it intently with those glassy eyes of his.

  “McCrae?” he said, scanning Tom’s entry in the book like it was forensic evidence.

  Tom nodded. “Tom. Pleased to meet you, Mr.…?”

  “I’m a Tom too, funnily enough. Tom MacGregor, but most folks call me Tommy,” the hotelier said in that musical voice. “You have family up here, I suppose?”

  Tom shook his head.

  The old man looked perturbed.

  “Have’nae had anybody by the name of McCrae in Douglass for…well…”

  His voice trailed off, and Tom and Dieter waited patiently while the old man finished his scrutinizing. Their remaining patience was sorely tested as he then took his sweet time locating their room keys.

  “Upstairs, through the fire door and along the corridor,” the old man instructed them as he handed over their keys. “Your rooms both have telly, en suite bathroom, and if you’re hungry and thirsty there are tea and coffee facilities—and complementary biscuits.”

  His last statement was delivered with great relish, as though he’d just announced a free Michelin-starred banquet.

  “I don’t think tea and biscuits are going to sate this beast.” Dieter’s stomach growled, as if on cue. “I’d like to place a lunch order, say fifteen minutes—after I freshen up. How about you, Tom, hungry?”

  Tom nodded. He’d forgotten how hungry he was until Dieter mentioned food. Breakfast was a distant, fading memory and the snack stops they’d made during the drive hadn’t constituted a proper lunch. He was just about to articulate his hunger, when the old man frowned and interjected.

  “Oh, I’m afraid lunch is finished for the day, gentlemen.”

  “Finished?” Dieter sounded bereft.

  Tom felt Dieter’s pain. His stomach growled too, as though in protest.

  “How can lunch be finished?” he asked.

  Their elderly host turned to a clock mounted on the wall opposite the stairs. It was a garish thing, its hands inlaid with mother of pearl, and a brass surround that could have done with a good polish. It was just after three in the afternoon.

  “Lunch is served from twelve until two.”

  “That’s insane,” Dieter said. “Lunch is when guests want it, surely?”

  “In the city, perhaps,” the old man replied calmly, his eyes twinkling. “But this is not the city. Only the two of us to run the place; our cook defected to Edinburgh some time ago.”

  “But what are we supposed to do?”

  “Dinner service starts at six…”

  “I’ll have died of starvation by then. Is there somewhere else to eat?”

  “The Rock used to do good food, but it’s…”

  “Closed down, I know,” Tom struggled not to sound annoyed, but the old man’s manner was beginning to grate. “We saw it on the way here.”

  “Of course you did.” The old man smiled.

  “So is there anywhere else?” Dieter snapped.

  “You’d have to go up to Plockton, they have a good restaurant there.”

  “Great.” Tom tried to sound positive through his grimace. “Plockton sounds nice. Is it far from here?”

  “About an hour and a half—with a prevailing wind.”

  “Ninety minutes?! Ninety damned minutes…for lunch?!” Dieter had clearly had enough.

  “We are rather remote.”

  “You’re not fucking kidding.”

  Dieter strode over to a cardboard rack filled with tourist attraction leaflets and started rifling through them, presumably to avoid a charge of assault and battery on an elderly man.

  Tom leaned over the desk, lowering his voice to offset Dieter’s rage.

  “Could you make an exception this one time? Rustle something up for two hungry travelers? We’d be very grateful.”

  The old man looked at Tom like he’d just asked him for permission to screw his wife on the reception desk. Torturous silence passed, marked by the loud ticking of the ugly brass clock, before he spoke again.

  “I suppose Holly could make you some sandwiches.”

  “Sandwiches would be great,” Tom enthused, before Dieter could say something he might regret later.

  The big man’s face had
reddened from the pain of keeping his mouth shut.

  “You’ll have to eat them in the bar, you understand,” their host added.

  “In the bar, in our rooms, wherever is just fine.”

  “I’ll tell Holly. What do you gents like? Ham? Cheese?”

  “What else do you have?” Dieter asked, his pent-up bile free at last.

  The old man pondered for a moment. “Ham. And cheese,” he replied.

  “We’ll take it,” Tom said, ushering Dieter and their luggage up the stairs, intent on avoiding a diplomatic incident.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cosmo tended the fire because it was all he had, apart from the girl.

  Throwing handfuls of dry bracken onto the fire, he knelt down and blew into the base of the flames, listening to the life-affirming crackle and pop of the newer wood igniting. Those branches that were more recently deceased still had sap and moisture locked inside them, causing them to spit and whistle like the cadavers he and his comrades had torched in the old days. His army days, Kosovo days. The mere thought of the place conjured the same fleshy stink that had clouded the very air he’d breathed. He shut his eyes and tried to blot out the phantom screams of the women and children, screams that had followed him throughout his war and across the sea to this place.

  My forest, my home, my trees.

  Cosmo opened his eyes again and looked skyward, to the place where the tips of the firs met the sky. The forest, his forest, was in a state of perpetual twilight due to the thickness and density of the foliage. Here on the forest floor, alone with his fire, his roasting rabbit, nothing could reach him. No one could see him, nobody could find him, and yet he felt altogether vulnerable. He turned the rabbit, a quarter turn on its spit, out of habit now rather than hunger. The smell of the flesh had become fused with the scent memory of those burning mothers, their screaming children. Burning alive, some of them. He heard a Red Kite’s cry echo across the treetops and his flustered mind conjured screaming children, begging him to rescue them from the funeral pyre he and his brothers had built for them in the old storehouse that day. Muscle memory made his hand hot with shame, just the way it had felt when he’d pressed his fingers against the red bricks of the storehouse. Six inches of stone and mortar was all that had separated him from the dying on the other side of that wall. The more the smoke had billowed from the airbricks and cracks in the structure, the fewer the cries of anguish. The fewer the cries for help. The little lambs inside had lain down and gone to sleep. Even now the words of his little lullaby to them came back to haunt his lips. Each and every syllable the last breath of a pregnant mother; a defiled and weeping child.