A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “Oh, shit!” she said.

  Matthew retreated, eyes fixed on her.

  She blinked. “At least it isn’t orange,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of his shirt.

  Orange? He tilted his head.

  “You know,” she went on, giving him a faint smile. “Like those Hare Krishna people.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but nodded all the same. Her eyes lingered on his breeches, his bare shins and feet, they stuck on his belongings, returned to his breeches and flew up his shirt.

  “Who are you?”

  He had no intention of telling her that, at least not yet, so instead he mumbled something unintelligible. Despite an odd accent, the woman spoke good enough English, not Scots, but what did she mean with her comment regarding his shirt? And why was she gaping at him as if she’d never seen a normally dressed man before? To be fair, he did look somewhat worse for wear. The shirt was old, and the breeches were the ones he’d stolen from the drover a few weeks back, but at least both garments were whole and reasonably clean. The woman sat up too fast, groaned and clutched at her ribs. She vomited, standing on all fours.

  “Jesus,” she said, making him frown at her careless use of our Lord’s name. “What’s happened to me?”

  “It looks as if you were struck by lightning.”

  She stared down at the burnt foot, turned her head to the side and retched.

  “My shoes,” she said, “where are my shoes?”

  “Not here.”

  She struggled to sit up. “I think I remember, so much noise, so much light, and then I was flat on my face.”

  He nodded and helped her to stand, one arm round her waist to keep her upright. She leaned against him and was sick all over their feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered afterwards. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Not to worry, but we have to get out of this rain. You’re cold, and need to lie down. Up there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the cave.

  “Maybe we should call for help.” She slid her hand into a slit in her strange breeches.

  “Here?” He almost laughed. Who would hear them? And besides, he had no intention of doing anything to attract attention. He studied the bright red object she’d pulled out.

  “It’s brand new,” she said, catching his look.

  “Ah,” he nodded, eyes stuck on the shiny metal casing. A wee enamelled box, but what might be the purpose of it? She glanced down at the object and made a face.

  “Stuff never works when you really need it, does it?” She shoved it back out of sight.

  With his help, she limped her way up the hillside, and by the time they’d reached the cave she was trembling with effort. He lowered her to sit, and she mumbled her thanks.

  “Were you on the road as well?”

  “Aye.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. No shift, no covering skirts, only those strange elongated breeches, hugging tight around well-shaped thighs and a round, strong arse. Christ in His glory! He hadn’t been this close to a woman in several years, and his blood raced through him, making him ill at ease and elated at the same time. Where was she from, to dress in such an immodest fashion? He’d belt any woman of his before allowing her to so expose herself.

  “What?” she demanded. “Do I look strange? Am I green all over?”

  He muffled a laugh. “You look very strange, but nay, you’re not green”

  “Well, thank heavens for that, I would have hated being turned into a frog or something.”

  “A frog?” He shook his head. “You don’t look like any frog I’ve seen.”

  A smile flickered over her face, held for a heartbeat or two before becoming a grimace. She raised a hand to her forehead.

  “My head; it’s killing me.” She closed her eyes.

  *

  Alex rested back against the cave wall and concentrated on breathing without hurting herself. She studied him from under her lashes, irritated to find he’d gone back to gawking at her. What was the matter with him? Had he never seen a woman in jeans before? She looked closely at him. Tall, broad in shoulders and chest, but thin and with an underlying pallor to his skin – as if he’d been ill, just recently allowed out of bed. His hair was cut unbecomingly short except at the back where some longer strands still hung on, his cheeks were covered by a dark, unkempt bristle, like the one Magnus, her father, would sport at the end of his summer holidays – so far nothing alarming. His shirt though…worn linen that laced up the front, mended cuffs – all of it hand stitched.

  Maybe his girlfriend had made it for him, or maybe New Age people believed in doing everything from scratch, in which case they needed a serious fashion update. She moved, scraped her foot against the rocky ground, and winced.

  “Is it alright if I touch you?” he said. “It might ease somewhat if I wash the blood off.”

  “Sure, go ahead, touch all you want.” Well, within limits of course.

  He looked at her with a hesitant expression. “All I want?”

  She made a huge effort to look him straight in the eyes, despite the fact that she could see two – no, three – of him.

  “Help me, I’m not feeling too good.” She turned her head to the side and retched, but this time it was just slimy yellow bile that burnt her throat as she heaved. “Damn,” she said afterwards, keeping her eyes closed to stop the whole world from spinning. “I must have hit my head really hard.”

  He spent quite some time on her forehead, close enough that she could smell him, drawing in the scent of sweat and unwashed male. She wrinkled her nose. Phew! How about some soap?

  “What?” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She wasn’t; her brain was banging against her skull, the broken skin on her forehead itched, her ribs were using her lungs as a pincushion and her foot…no, best not think about her foot, because it looked absolutely awful, blisters like a fetter round her ankle and all the way down to her toes. She flexed them experimentally. It hurt like hell.

  He poured some more water onto the rag he was using and wiped her face. She liked that, opening her eyes to smile her thanks at him. He smiled back, teeth flashing a surprising white in the darkness of his beard. He sat back on his haunches, a worried expression on his face.

  “What?” Did she need stitches? Because she really, really hated needles.

  “Your ribs, I have to do something about them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Bandage them, so that you don’t shift them too much.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “It happens, aye.”

  “Oh, so you’re a doctor?”

  “A doctor?” He laughed. “Nay, lass, I am no doctor. But setting ribs is no great matter, is it?”

  “It is when they’re mine.” She shifted on her bottom. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

  “No, but I will have to…err…well, I must…the shirt, aye?”

  “The shirt?”

  “Well, you have to take it off.”

  “Oh.” Where did this man come from? “That’s alright; you won’t be the first to see me in the flesh.” He looked so shocked she laughed, but the pain that flew up her side made her gasp instead.

  He pulled his bundle close and rummaged in it, muttering something about having to find something to bandage her ribs with. Finally he extracted what looked like a rag and proceeded to tear it into strips.

  He was very careful as he helped her out of her jacket and her shirt, and at the sight of her bra his eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. She sat up so that he could wrap the torn lengths of cloth around her. His exhalations tickled her skin, and she took short breaths, staring straight ahead as his big, capable hands worked their way around her torso, a gentle touch that sent surprising and quite unwelcome tingles of warmth through her body.

  She was aware of his eyes on her skin, on her neck, but mostly on her breasts, quick glances that returned time and time again to the lacy red
bra edged with cream that cupped her breasts and lifted them high. She sat up straighter, shoulders pulled back. She peeked at him, met his eyes and looked away.

  “What’s this?” He put a finger on the satin strap. Impossible; men that hadn’t seen a bra didn’t exist – not where she came from.

  “It’s a bra.”

  “A bra,” he echoed, tracing it round her middle. She jerked back, making both of them gasp.

  “My apologies.” He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I shouldn’t… But there, now it’s done.” He gave her the shirt and averted his eyes as she struggled to put it back on.

  Alex closed her eyes, trying to come up with a label to pin on this strange man. Isolated goat farmer? Recluse? Maybe he was an old-fashioned – extremely old-fashioned – Quaker, or maybe the Amish had set up a little colony up here in the Scottish wilderness.

  Her thoughts drifted; she wondered where her computer might be, considered crawling out to look for it, but couldn’t find the energy. The meeting! Bloody hell, the meeting! And Isaac, she was due to pick him up before five today. Right, she had to, yes she had to…what? Walk? With a foot that looked like a barbecued piece of pork? She slumped against the wall. No; stay here. Yes, just…rest, sit still. John would sort it all out. John would come and find her – of course he would.

  *

  It was getting dark. The woman was shivering, and after covering her with one of his threadbare blankets, he disappeared into the night. Everything was wet, and he had to go far afield before he had enough half-dry wood to even attempt a fire. When he ducked back into the cave, she seemed to be sleeping, her head lolling to one side. He fumbled for his flint and kneeled down to start the fire, small sparks flying off the steel with little or no effect. Wisps of faint smoke uncurled and faded but no flames took hold, and Matthew evicted a long, very colourful string of curses under his breath, a worried glance in the direction of the woman. Her eyes were wide open.

  “What are you doing?” Her gaze drifted from the piled wood to the flint and steel in his hands.

  “I’m trying, but the wood’s wet, and —”

  “Give me my jacket,” she interrupted, indicating the red garment. He handed it to her and she dug into one of the outer pockets, grinning as she brandished a small box. “I collect these.” She threw it in his direction. He studied the little box, turning it this way and that. She sighed and crawled over to join him by the opening.

  “Here.” She took the box and opened it. “Matches.” She held a brittle stick aloft.

  His eyes never left her hands as she struck the head of the stick against the side of the box. He had to force himself to remain where he was when the flame sprung forth. Magic, this was magic, and behind his back he made a sign for protection against evil. No wonder he thought her strange, she was a witch or a fairy. She hadn’t noticed his reaction, but was busy putting the flame to the little pile, smiling when some of the drier twigs caught. She raised her eyes to his.

  “What?” She frowned, shoving her short, dark hair off her brow. She didn’t look like a witch, her eyes wide as they met his. Still, he muttered a silent prayer – just in case.

  “How?” he stuttered, pointing at the little box in her hands.

  “It’s just a box of matches.”

  “Matches,” he repeated.

  She put the box in his hand. “Try.”

  He wanted to refuse, and at first he just sat with the box in his hand. Finally, he did as he’d seen her do, pulling out one of those wee sticks with that curious knob on top, and striking it against the side of the box. He dropped it with an exclamation when it burst into fire. She laughed and he scowled. He repeated the procedure, and this time he didn’t drop it, but held it until it singed his fingers before blowing the little flame into extinction.

  “Bravo,” she said. He handed back the box but she shook her head. “No, keep it. I’ve got more.”

  She smiled a refusal when he offered her a piece of his bread, muttering something about not thinking her stomach could handle it – not yet. She kept on blinking, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, and he suspected her head was hurting her something frightful. Every now and then she’d slide her hand into the side slit of her breeches, pull out that wee enamelled box, stare at it and frown.

  “Stupid, worthless gadget,” she said at one point, raising her arm as if she intended to throw it. But she didn’t, returning it to its place before lying down, arms cradling her head. Matthew stretched out beside her. Too close, but what was he to do, given the cramped space?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Matthew,” he replied after a while, rolling over in her direction. “Matthew Graham.”

  “I’m Alex Lind.” She eased herself up to sit. She licked her lips, and he fumbled in the dark for his water skin, extending it in her direction.

  “Alex?” he sat up. “That’s a lad’s name.”

  She snorted and drank some more. “No it isn’t, last time I looked I was definitely female and it’s still my name. Short for Alexandra.” She twisted her head in the direction of the opening, exposing her nape, a bare patch of skin highlighted by the severe haircut. She had right pretty ears, tight to her skull and ending in a slight, pink point. Fairy ears…

  “What are you?” he whispered, making her turn to face him.

  “Just plain Alex; you know, an ordinary woman.”

  “No you’re not; in my world women don’t walk around baring their bodies like you do, their hair cut short.”

  “I’m not baring my body! I’m fully dressed, for God’s sake!”

  He winced at her careless blasphemy. “Aye, there’s cloth all over you, but it reveals more than it conceals.”

  “Tough, okay? You’d better learn to live with the times, mister. Just because you’ve chosen to live in some kind of archaic religious context, it doesn’t give you the right to judge the rest of us.”

  “Religious context?” he echoed. “Archaic?”

  “Well, look at you! You dress like a cross between a Hare Krishna monk and an Amish person, you stare at me as if you’ve never seen a bra before. You must’ve been living in some kind of secluded all male community.”

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Aye, that was very true. He leaned towards her, trying to see her eyes in the dark.

  “What’s a Harray krissna monk? And I haven’t seen a – bra, is it? – before. I would definitely have remembered.”

  She was staring at him, hands clenched tight around each other. Matthew gave her a wary look; the lass was gaping as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “But you know what a car is, right?”

  Matthew shook his head.

  “A TV? Radio? A phone?”

  He frowned; was this some sort of game? “Nay, I’ve never heard of any such things.”

  She gulped and scooted away from him, eyes flying to his bundle, the flint and steel he’d left discarded on the floor. She moaned, hid her face in her arms.

  “No,” she whispered. “No way. Stuff like that doesn’t happen, not in real life.”

  “What?” He came after her, but she reared back, and the expression on her face made him raise his hands, palms towards her. “I’m not about to hurt you.”

  “It’s not you, it’s just…” She broke off to stare yet again at him and his possessions. “Bloody hell, no, no, no.” She crawled towards the opening. “The car. My car, it’ll be right there, where I left it. This is just a bad dream, an effect of hitting my head too hard.”

  “What’s a car?” he said. She laughed, and then she began to cry instead. He followed her outside, made a grab for her when she slipped.

  “My BMW,” she said, “it has to be here!”

  He had no idea what she was looking for as she limped up and down the slope, but whatever it was, it wasn’t where she’d expected it to be.

  “A dream, it’s just a dream, isn’t it?” She looked at him beseechingly, and he had no idea what to say. Thi
s was no dream, not unless they were both sleeping and dreaming the same thing.

  “It can’t be true.” To his surprise she placed a hand on his arm. “Too solid,” she moaned, “you’re too damn solid, you hear?” She hit him, repeatedly.

  “So are you, lass, but I don’t take to hitting you, do I?” He wrapped his arms around her, pinned down her hands.

  “Sorry,” she hiccupped before breaking down completely, a warm weight against his chest. Dearest Lord, but it felt good to hold a woman this close, her hair tickling his nose. It was a near on perfect match, her body a collection of curves that fitted comfortably into his larger and broader frame, her head resting against his shoulder. With an effort he released her. She was still weeping, albeit silently, and he coaxed her back inside, unnerved by her dejection.

  “What is the matter, lass?”

  She just shook her head, mumbled something he made out as ‘impossible’, and sank down to sit before the little fire. She quieted, drew in a few shaking breaths, and wiped at her face.

  *

  Alex dragged a finger through the dirt of the cave floor. Think, Alex, think! There had to be some sort of explanation to all this. Total blank. She snuck him a look, this man in old-fashioned clothes who used flint and steel to light his fire, who’d never heard of things like TVs and cars. This couldn’t be happening to her – to be precise, it couldn’t happen to anyone. Time was a fixed dimension, no bloody variable! But her car; gone! Maybe she was looking in the wrong place, down the wrong hillside. A flare of hope rushed up her spine only to crash into the rational part of her brain, the part that was telling her all the evidence pointed in one way and one way only. Something impossible and incomprehensible had happened to her – but it had happened.

  She glanced at Matthew, met eyes framed by a concerned frown.

  “Better?”

  “Not really.” She took a deep breath; here goes. “What year is it?”

  “What year? Don’t you know?”

  She hitched her shoulders. “I do, but I just want to check.”