“Thank you,” says my mum, suspicious. “You’ve never been one to notice hairdos, Alistair. What’s up with you?” Mum reads Uncle Alistair as well as she reads us.
“Yeah, no, you’re right. I was just at the bakery there, brought you some muffins. Cranberry, the ones you like…” Uncle Alistair hands her a pale blue box.
“That’s nice. So. What do you want?”
“What makes you think that…”
Mum looks at him.
“Ok, ok.” He takes a deep breath. “I need the children. In the October week, I mean. I’d like to take them somewhere. For my work.”
We prick up our ears. I can see Valentina opening her mouth, and I kick her under the table. Better leave them to negotiate, for now.
“Oh Alistair, the whole week? I was hoping that we might do something together, if Duncan took some time off… all of us, you and Shuna as well…”
“No, no, just for three days!” Uncle Alistair holds his hands up. “After that, I’d love to do something with you all.”
“Where would you take them?”
“Shetland. This farmer found a nest of ferrets in his sheep shed. Not dangerous, just that there’s a lot of them. Dozens.”
We gasp. Shetland! I’d love to go! I’m crossing my fingers…
“Ferrets?”
“Deadly for sheep. They carry these viruses…”
“Shetland is a long way away…”
“I know, I know. Ferry to Glasgow, plane to Orkney, plane to Lerwick.”
“Oh Alistair, I don’t know…” My mum sighs. We hold our breath. “Three days, you said?”
“Yes. Maybe four. At the most. It takes ages to get there…”
“No point in asking you two whether you want to go, I suppose?”
“We’d love to go! Please Mum!” cries out Valentina.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Why? I mean, why think about it,” says Valentina, “when you could say yes now?” she looks at Mum with big, brown puppy eyes.
“Even if I say yes, I’m not sure that your dad…”
“Dad is going to spend the whole October Week in his study, Mum. It won’t make much of a difference if we’re here or in Shetland,” I say, and immediately regret it. I wish I could take the words back, because a wave of sadness passes over my mum’s face, like the shadow of a cloud on the hills.
“I know, I know. Listen. I’ll ask him. Ok?”
“Luca is right, I’m afraid. Go and have fun.” It’s my Dad. We hadn’t heard him coming.
“Seriously?”
“I have to work throughout the October week, anyway…” My mum’s face falls. Only now I notice how tired Dad looks.
We cheer. We’re going to Shetland!
“Alistair, you’ll watch them, won’t you?” Dad adds quickly.
“Don’t I always.”
“Thank you, Alistair,” he adds, unexpectedly. “Thank you for doing so much for them.”
“Thank you for letting them come, Duncan.”
If only Dad could forgive him. Let him back into the family, properly. A look passes between the two brothers: it’s like they see each other for the first time in a long, long while. For a moment, I feel change might be possible, sometime in the future. But then Dad seems to shake himself – he turns away, and the spell is broken. Uncle Alistair’s face falls in disappointment.
So many times now Alistair had told us he’s trying to make it right. But how? And when?
***
“So what are we doing? Really?” I ask.
We’re on our way to the ferry, driving in our little blue van. The van always looks like it’s on its last legs, coughing and spluttering, sitting at the car repairer’s day in and day out. But somehow, it keeps going.
“We’re investigating a series of kidnappings. Sheepnappings, to be more accurate.”
Valentina and I look at each other.
“Fifteen sheep disappeared with no trace.”
“We’re going all the way to Shetland for that?”
“Let me think… a murder of sheep… a wolf? A werewolf! Yes, it must be!” exclaims Valentina.
“Maybe. Shetland is home to a few fine werewolves. But let’s not draw conclusions. Luca, can you get my jacket, just beside you? The Blackberry is in my pocket. Look among the last emails, the name is Moller.”
“There. Is it… Andy Moller? Help needed in Scalloway?”
“Yes. Can you read it aloud please?”
“Sure. Here it goes…
To [email protected]
From [email protected]
Dear Mr Grant,
My name is Andy Moller. I’m a Shetland man, born and bred. I have a few hundred sheep near Scalloway, not far from Lerwick. In the last few weeks, many of them have disappeared. Vanished, just like that. We all know who did it. It’s a Luh, of course…
“What’s a Luh?” asks Valentina.
“A werewolf.”
“Just like I said!”
“…but we can’t find head nor hair of him. Not a trace. I’m not for this Internet malarkey at all, but I found ReallyWeirdRemovals.com and I thought: just the thing. We need your help, because every night some more sheep disappear, and we don’t seem to be able to stop it. If you want to take the job, we’ll reward you, of course. Drop me a line, or phone me…
“…And so on and so forth, best regards, blah blah,” I finish.
“Thing is…” says Valentina, looking thoughtful, “…I read a bit about Luhs in that book –”
“Moonlight and Me: Memoirs of a lonely Luh?” interrupts Uncle Alistair.
“Yes, that one. It said that they aren’t aggressive at all…”
“That’s true. Which is why I doubt that Andy knows what’s really going on. Werewolves can be aggressive, but Luhs feed on fish.”
“Do you think it was something else?”
“I do. And I think some poor Luh is going to get the blame for it.”
“We need to help him!” Valentina is vehement.
“I’ve never seen a Luh. But werewolves…” Camilla has just materialised between us. “There’s one who hunts in Kensington Gardens…” she shivers at the thought, and floats up a bit as she does so. “You don’t want to cross his path, believe me.”
“I know a couple too. And yes, you don’t want to cross their path,” says Uncle Alistair grimly.
It’s my turn to shiver.
***
The Moller farm consists of a whitewashed cottage in the middle of nowhere, a shed just next to it and fields of green grass all around. The cottage is only a few hundred yards from the sea, and from the stone-floored kitchen we can hear the waves breaking against the shore. It’s a comforting sound. The music of the sea is home to me.
Andy Moller is a short stocky man with red cheeks and jet-black hair, bushy eyebrows and enormous hands. After a warming cup of tea and biscuits, he stands up and points to the door.
“Let me show you what I laid out. For the hunt.” Hunt? I look at Uncle Alistair, but his expression is unreadable.
Andy leads us into a tiny shoebox-like building at the side of the main cottage. It’s a gloomy sort of place, full of cobwebs and farming equipment. A mouldy smell pervades the air, and it’s so damp I start shivering.
As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see what’s lying in the middle of the floor: a net, what looks like a snare and a hunter’s knife in its sheath. Valentina is looking on, pale and horrified.
Andy gestures at the weapons.
“Will this be enough? I’ve got guns, as well. My grandfather shot two, in his day.”
“Two… what, if I may ask?” Uncle Alistair’s tone is polite, but I can feel an edge to it.
“Luhs, of course. This thing is to catch them.”
“Luhs feed on fish! They don’t steal sheep! There’s no need to shoot him! Or trap him! Or… skin him!” cries out Valentina.
Andy looks at her like she’s crazy.
“Do you want
half men, half wolves around your house, Missus? ‘Cause I don’t!”
“They don’t harm anything! Or anyone!” Valentina is on the verge of tears.
Uncle Alistair crouches beside the hunting equipment, and picks up something invisible with his fingers. “A Luh hair,” he says.
“See! I told you it was a Luh! And it was in my house! I’m telling you, it’ll make a good rug for my living room…”
“You know what this means, children?” says Uncle Alistair quietly, lifting the black hair between his fingers.
“That the Luh knows Andy is after him. He’s seen the net, and the snare. And the knife,” I say, shivering once more – and not because of the cold this time.
Valentina gasps. Poor Luh. Alone and frightened. About to be turned into a rug.
Uncle Alistair gets up swiftly. “Something else is taking your sheep, Mr Moller. It’s not a Luh.”
“Like what, then? Whatever it is, it’s not human. He leaves no traces…”
“We’ll see. Would you be so kind to take us to the site of the disappearances?”
“Aye. It’s just down the road.”
An hour later, we’re still walking. I was glad to leave the gloomy shed, but outside it’s bitter. We’re soaked to the bone, and the salty wind is blowing us off our feet.
“Didn’t think it was worth to take the Jeep. Not for short distances,” shouts Andy, over the noise of the wind and rain.
“Nah, not worth it!” answers Uncle Alistair cheerily.
“They’re crazy,” mutters Valentina under her breath.
“I’m freezing,” I reply. We’re wearing our waterproof jackets with hoods up, hats, gloves, scarves and wellies. But the rain is still finding its way inside our clothes, and our hands and feet are icy cold.
“I’m freezing too.”
“Me too,” whines Camilla.
“You’re a ghost, you can’t be cold!” Valentina points out.
“I know… I just feel for you.”
“HERE!” shouts Andy over the wind. “It happened RIGHT HERE!” He stops abruptly.
We look around. Grass. Grass. And more grass.
“There’s nothing here!” I point out.
“Exactly. I had a few sheep grazing here the other day. Gone. Not a trace.”
“Children, help me,” says Uncle Alistair, taking three magnifying glasses out of his brown leather rucksack.
“A magnifying glass?” whispers Valentina. “Does he think we’re Sherlock Holmes?”
“Shhhh!” I frown and shake my head. Thankfully, Uncle Alistair can’t hear whispers, unless he reads your lips.
“Look for clues. Any clues. Possibly, black or grey hairs.”
We get on all fours, reluctantly. We are soaked.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing” we reply, mutinously, rain pouring down our faces. Andy is looking on, frowning. His monobrow looks even bushier.
“Thought so. Take this.” Uncle Alistair takes something out of his bag. It’s like a plastic… spray bottle thing, like the ones you’d use to clean the kitchen. There’s one each.
“Spray.”
We look at each other. Valentina shrugs her shoulders.
We start spraying.
“A bit more here. Over there. Just a bit more… There. Done.”
“And now?”
“And now we wait.”
A few minutes later, the grass starts glowing blue.
“I thought it could be that,” smiles Uncle Alistair. “When you said no traces…”
“That?”
“A ghost, of course.”
“A ghost? On my land! How do I shoot a ghost?” barks Andy.
“You really are obsessed with shooting, aren’t you?” says Uncle Alistair pleasantly.
“I can’t stand him!” murmurs Valentina.
“I’m afraid that ghosts can’t be killed. They’re dead already.”
“So how do I get rid of it? I can’t keep losing sheep! It’s costing me money!”
“We ask the ghost: ‘Please, stop doing this.’”
“What? And that’s going to work?”
“Worth a try,” says Alistair, and walks away. Valentina and I run after him.
“Ghosts can be vanquished,” I say, making sure I’m out of Andy’s earshot, “maybe you could do that.”
“I could, but I won’t. I don’t vanquish, I don’t shoot, I don’t kill and I don’t destroy. Anything, ever. Unless they’re about to destroy me. And even then, I’d think twice.”
“Of course, but there’s that poor sheep too…”
“The sheep are ok.”
“Are they? How do you know?”
“Just a hunch. Camilla!”
“Yes?”
“You know what to do.”
Camilla nods, a determined expression on her little face, and she floats away in the pouring rain.
***
Andy’s wife, Hilda, has set up a lovely welcome for us. She lists the menu: a delicious stew with potatoes called “reestit mutton”, sea trout with buttery toast, and a mouth-watering treacle cake.
“I hope you’re enjoying our Shetland hospitality,” she says warmly. Hilda has white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and an open smile.
“Very much, thank you, Mrs Moller,” I reply.
“Mmmmm. Mmmmm….” says Valentina. “This fish is amazing.” She’s at her third helping.
“I’ll give you some to take back,” says Hilda, generously.
“Yes, please. My mum would love all this. She’s a great cook too.”
“I’ll give you the recipes as well.”
“Thank you!” we say in unison.
“I’m back…” A little voice comes from under the table. Camilla.
Alistair nods, without looking down.
“I think I found the ghost.”
“Speak later!” whispers Alistair as soon as Hilda turns her back, and Camilla perches herself on the windowsill, waiting patiently.
The Mollers have invited a few people, to give us a proper Shetland welcome. There’s music, chat and whisky for everyone – orange juice for Valentina and I – until the small hours.
The music is amazing – a few fiddles and an accordion, played brilliantly. Valentina and Uncle Alistair clap and tap their feet, smiling broadly. They both have music in their blood, I think.
The musicians take a break – more food prepared by Hilda – and Alistair takes us outside for a minute, to speak with Camilla.
“So. Who’s this ghost?”
“A grumpy man. With a cap and wellies, and a long red scarf. He didn’t say his name; he says he wants to speak to Andy.”
“Did he seem reasonable to you?”
“S’pose.”
“Where shall we find him?”
“He says Andy knows.”
“Where did you find him?”
“I didn’t. He found me. In a field. Not sure which field, the place is full of them.”
“Fair enough. I’ll tell Andy tomorrow.”
It’s past midnight when we make it to our room. Our beds are soft and wonderfully warm. We fall asleep to the sound of the sea and the wind whistling around our window, with the fiddle music still drifting from the living room. Fiddles and the sea, a real Shetland lullaby.
18. BROTHERS
Alistair Grant’s Scottish Paranormal Database
Entry Number 140: Angry ghost
Type: Ghostly apparition
Location: Inverary, Argyll
Date: Autumn 1999
Details: An angry apparition terrorised Inverary for two months – September and October 1999 – until a local woman, Margaret Baird, spoke to him. Nobody knows what was said, or what the ghost wanted; Margaret never revealed that information. He was never seen again.
The next morning, while we’re having a lovely breakfast of herring on toast, Uncle Alistair clears his throat.
“Andy, we found your ghost. Actually, he found us. He wants to speak to you.” Andy’s face
turns a pale shade of green. “An old man, with cap, wellies and a long red scarf. You must know who he is. Or at least have some idea. He says you know where to find him.”
“A long red scarf?” he mutters. His face goes white, then bright red, then green again.
Uncle Alistair looks at him with narrowed eyes.
“I think you know what all this is about, Andy.”
Andy swallows. He seems about to faint. Hilda helps him to a chair.
“What’s going on, Andy?” she says.
“Never you mind, Hilda. I’ll sort it,” he says brusquely, but puts his hand on hers.
***
We’re driving in Andy’s dark-green Jeep, through lush, shiny green fields. The sea seems all around us. We can see it from every direction.
“A bit drizzly, isn’t it?” Andy says. It’s pouring. Lashing down so hard that you’d get soaked in minutes. And possibly drown.
“A bit,” says Valentina.
“A touch,” I say.
“A shadow,” says Alistair.
“Yes, a shadow,” agrees Andy.
“No, I mean, a shadow! There!” Uncle Alistair is pointing somewhere beyond the thick curtain of rain.
Andy brakes suddenly, and we all get propelled forward, our breath taken away by our seat belts.
“It’s him!” whispers Andy. He’s green again.
“Where?” asks Valentina. We peer. The rain is so heavy, we can hardly make out anything.
“There, there, look! In front of us!” Andy is now properly panicked.
I can see him now. A human shape, greyish, blurry, like Camilla gets sometimes. The rain seems to go through him, yet somehow it flows around him as well, so that he looks like he’s made of rain.
He’s stopped right in front of us, blocking our way.
The rainy shape lifts his arm, and waves.
“He’s telling us to follow him,” says Uncle Alistair.
“Yes. Yes,” whispers Andy, and starts the car again, following the flying ghost.
“You know what this is about, don’t you?” asks Alistair.
Andy nods. I can see he’s terrified.
To be honest, so am I. An avenging ghost on a stormy day. Just about the last thing I want to see.
We drive for another wee while, until we get to what looks like an abandoned, half-ruined whitewashed cottage. Andy stops right in front of it.
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