‘Do you want to try starting it?’ the girl asked.
He did, and seconds later the car roared to life.
We left the leads attached for ten minutes, letting the battery charge itself back up, during which time Darren managed to find the decency to thank the girl. No gratitude for Emma or me though, I noticed.
When the leads came off, the car kept running and we were back on our way.
The beach we were heading for was somewhere none of us had ever been. It was a place Dougie’s dad used to go fishing and camping with his friends when he was a teenager. He’d given us a scrap of paper with directions scrawled across it, something Darren resolutely ignored until we hit the seaside town of Stranraer.
‘Right.’ He pulled over, idling illegally alongside double yellow lines. ‘Emma, get out. You’re swapping with Dougie.’
Emma looked outraged.
‘What? Darren!’
‘Sorry, angel, but I have no confidence in your ability to direct me. In the back you go.’
‘Because I’m a girl? That’s totally sexist!’
‘Not because you’re a girl. Because you’re you. I might have let Heather have a go –’ I focused incredibly hard on not letting a fleeting wave of smugness show on my face – ‘but you’d get us lost in about five seconds.’ He paused, stared at her. ‘Come on, shift before I get a ticket.’
She glared back at him and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to move. I watched, proud of her defiance and eagerly anticipating fireworks, but Dougie had already climbed out and when he opened the passenger door she vacated the seat without complaint. Muttering venomously under her breath, she plonked herself down next to me. There was more room with Emma next to me instead of Dougie, but her disgruntled aura filled the space and I soon found myself wishing for my old seating partner back.
Looking to escape her bad mood, I leaned forward between the front seats, watching Dougie and Darren navigate, drinking in the scenery.
‘Are we close?’ I asked. I didn’t recognise any of the names on the signs we passed and hadn’t seen any for Black Cairn Point, the place we were heading.
‘Yes.’ Dougie twisted his head, smiled at me. ‘We’re nearly there now. Turn here, Darren.’ He pointed to his left.
Darren steered the Volvo round the bend onto a single-lane road. High hedges closed in on us on both sides, hiding the fields from view. Then the road dipped down and away, revealing …
‘The sea!’ I said, instantly sitting up straighter.
It glimmered deep blue in front of us, almost sapphire against the paler sky. I stared at it eagerly. Living in the heart of Scotland it was a sight I rarely saw, especially in such glorious weather.
‘Is that it, is that where we’re going?’ I asked excitedly, sounding a decade younger than my sixteen – almost seventeen – years.
‘Sort of. The road hugs the coast for a bit before we drop down,’ Dougie replied, studying the hastily drawn map.
It was an impatient wait for me as Darren guided the car along the road, which twisted and turned, narrowing further until it was a squeeze for us to force our way through. Windows were wound up as nettles, brambles and long grasses from the hedgerow scraped against the sides of the car. For once, Darren drove at a sensible speed, trying to dodge potholes and the worst of the crumbling tarmac.
‘Where is this place?’ he asked tersely, finally provoked as the bottom of the car grated noisily, wheels dipping into a particularly deep crevice.
‘I think we’re nearly there,’ Dougie replied, frowning intently at his paper. ‘My dad says there’s a dirt track off to the left that’ll take us right down to the beach.’
‘How long since he’s been here?’ Martin asked. ‘Is the track definitely still there?’
‘Yeah,’ Dougie mumbled. ‘Yeah, apparently his friend was here fishing last summer. He said it was still the same, still deserted. Just … just keep your eyes peeled. It might be pretty overgrown.’
We continued forward in near total silence, the music turned off, only the growl of the engine and the whir of the fan – working overtime now we were closed in by the attacking plants – breaking through the quiet. Each of us stared to the left intently, convinced we’d miss the turning if we so much as blinked.
It proved remarkably easy to find.
‘There!’ Dougie shouted, pointing.
A wide gap in the hedge, tousled by a breeze that none of us could feel, seemed to wave at us. Darren smiled, easing the car round the tight bend. From there it was a steep drop, the road scything its way across a hill that was so devoid of plant-life it was really more of a cliff. At the bottom was a narrow parking bay of compacted dirt, a low stone wall separating it from the grass-covered dunes. Beyond them I could make out smooth sand and the vast rippling blue of the ocean.
Darren parked haphazardly in the centre of the makeshift car park. He barely even had the handbrake yanked up before all four doors were open and we tumbled out.
Like children, we clambered excitedly down the narrow sandy path between the dunes, eyes set on the wide expanse of shimmering sparkles thrown up as the sun tickled the sea. It was a totally deserted landscape. Not even a bird swooping in the broad blue sky to interrupt the peace and quiet. The beach, several hundred metres long, curved in a thin crescent like a new moon. Tumbles of rocks hemmed us in at both ends and behind us hills covered in heather and long grasses provided a backdrop. With the road hidden from view, the spot seemed completely inaccessible, completely protected. Completely isolated.
‘All ours,’ Darren smiled. ‘I bet there’s not a soul for miles.’
‘Awesome,’ Dougie grinned back.
Awesome, right. I spun in a slow circle, taking in the glorious beach, the rugged hills, the absolute emptiness. I tried to keep the sudden nervousness I felt off my face. So we were alone, big deal. That was what we wanted, right? I looked to Dougie to reassure myself.
‘Shall we get our things, then?’ I forced my voice not to tremble.
It took several trips back and forth to the car to unload our provisions. Parental permission had been based on the fact that we separate into two tents – girls and boys – and our stuff was split pretty much fifty-fifty. I had to lug most of Emma’s and my gear alone. On the first return trip to the car Emma spotted a fish that some fisherman had hooked and discarded, leaving it baking on the top of the low stone wall. It was dried out and rotting, maggots writhing in its belly. It stank and was repulsive to look at. Emma absolutely refused to go near the thing, and it was cart our load myself or go without our tent, clothes, toiletries …
I was sorely tempted just to take my own things, but I didn’t want to look petty. My irritation was plain on my face, though, and I made sure to scatter sand over Emma’s prone body – sunbathing as she ‘watched our stuff’ – every time I dumped something new on the pile. It was mid-afternoon and the heat was suffocating. I was sweating as I stormed back up the short hill, trying not to breathe so I wouldn’t inhale the putrid stench of decomposing fish. Hissing out a string of profanities at her newfound selfishness, I rounded the back of the car, arms already reaching for the heavy bag containing Emma’s assortment of beauty products (another new development) and the two sheathed sleeping bags. My fingers closed on air; the boot was empty.
‘Hey, has anyone seen –’ I looked around just in time to see Martin and Dougie heading back towards the beach, the rest of our stuff slung awkwardly across their shoulders.
I watched them go, bemused. I wasn’t used to anyone doing things for me. Well, boys doing things for me. Something about me didn’t scream damsel in distress.
After a second I shrugged, grabbed the last couple of things from the back seat – an air mattress and a can of insect repellent – and ran after them.
‘Thanks,’ I said, a little breathlessly, as they plonked everything down by the rest of our gear.
‘No problem.’ Martin smiled.
Dougie gave me a half grin and a wink.
A wink?
I blushed scarlet. Luckily both boys had already turned their attention to their own pile. Darren was busy picking through the boxes and bags, so only Emma was left to see my burning cheeks, but she had her eyes closed, sunglasses staring up into the fiery heat of the sun.
‘Right, Emma!’ I barked, exasperated by my motionless teammate. ‘Help me.’
She flipped her shades up and eyed me speculatively.
‘What?’
‘Help me,’ I repeated. ‘We need to get the tent set up.’
‘Now?’
‘Unless you’d rather do it in the dark,’ I replied acidly.
Five minutes later I wished I’d left her lounging in the sand. Emma was worse than useless. She just stood around, hovering ineffectually, fiddling with the straps on her top or the hang of her skirt, glancing over to see if Darren was looking back at her. Without her help, I managed to get the canvas unravelled and oriented on the lumpy beach. Then I dug out the poles and snapped them into a long, bendy line.
‘Just hold this here. Like this,’ I ordered her.
She ambled over and stood obediently where I’d asked, keeping one end of the pole jammed into the ground whilst I ran round attaching clips and forcing the tent to assume its erect shape. After several seconds of watching me, Emma looked over to where the boys – or rather, Martin and Dougie – were having much more success. They were already hammering in the tent pegs to hold the fly-sheet. Darren appeared to be ‘supervising’, standing with his legs planted in the sand, finger pointing imperiously.
‘Their tent is bigger than ours,’ she pouted.
‘There are three of them,’ I reminded her.
‘And theirs is taller.’
‘Well, this is what we’ve got,’ I huffed, struggling to heave the fly-sheet up and over the apex of the tent. ‘You can let go of that now.’
She released the pole and I waited anxiously for a few seconds, but the tent remained standing. I grinned at it, pleased with my handiwork.
‘Are we done?’ she asked, eyes once again on Darren, now lounging in a camping chair and arranging bottles and cans in the cooler.
I exhaled heavily, but it didn’t register with Emma.
‘You’re done,’ I said.
Emma pretended not to hear the emphasis in my words.
‘Okay.’ She smiled brightly and trotted over to her boyfriend, leaving me with a jumble of ropes and twisted pegs.
I got finished fairly quickly on my own, quicker when Martin and Dougie came over to help me get proper tension on the lines and blow up the air mattress with Martin’s little electric pump. Even so, it was close to dinner-time once we flopped down onto the folding chairs that Darren had deigned to dig out and arrange for us – pretty much the only contribution he’d made to the whole pitching-camp operation.
‘Drink?’ Darren asked, holding out a beer in the general direction of Martin, Dougie and me.
I stared at it. It was glistening, chilled from its bed of ice in the cooler, perspiration dripping down the shining silver can. But I didn’t really want it. My mouth was dry from exertion, sweat beading on my forehead. My head was aching from the heat and the hassle of trying to get the damned tent up mostly by myself. What I really wanted was one of the bottles of water or cans of fizzy juice hidden beneath what seemed a mountain of alcohol. I could imagine Darren’s expression if I said that, though. More importantly, what would Dougie think? I grimaced at the dilemma.
Not wanting to look immature, I started to reach out, but stopped at the look on Dougie’s face. He was wrinkling his nose, half shaking his head at Darren.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘I’m starving. Barbecue?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Now
‘Shall we talk about your issues with self-esteem, Heather?’
Dr Petersen’s voice cuts through my reverie. I’m not sure how long he’s continued to talk; I haven’t been listening. This question rankles, though.
‘I don’t have issues with self-esteem,’ I shoot back, then scowl. I’m annoyed at myself for letting him goad me into speaking.
Two–one to him. Another reason to scowl. He smiles, gloating.
‘Do you deny that you have difficulties talking about your emotions? Or believing your self-worth? Let’s talk about your feelings for your friend, Douglas.’
I open my mouth to correct him – Dougie hates to be called Douglas – but then close it again. Take a deep breath. Rearrange my cool, nonchalant expression. I won’t talk about Dougie. Not with him.
I can all but feel the tables turning as the hour passes, handing the advantage to Petersen. The smugness I had when I walked in now lies in tatters around my feet. With a tremendous effort, I force myself to smile at him. It’s not warm but something more akin to manic. I watch as he squirms uncomfortably under my stare, and my smile becomes real. Almost uncontained. He clears his throat.
What will be his next avenue of attack? The self-esteem thing sideswiped me, but I wasn’t concentrating. I am now. Focusing like a boxer in the ring, waiting for my opponent to make his move. A sharp jab, a hook, an uppercut. What does he think will land that knockout blow?
While Petersen deliberates, I decide to defend with feigned indifference. I sigh, look away as if I’m bored.
I am bored; bored of the circles that we spin around and around in. Bored of trying to pretend I’m sane now, when I was never insane in the first place. Bored of dreaming about getting out of here.
At least, I tell myself I’m bored, and I almost believe it.
What I really am is afraid. Fear, my constant companion, churns in my gut, but I’ve lived with it for so long now I can almost ignore it. Here, in the light, the shadows in my mind are pushed back, almost vanquished. The only monster sits opposite me.
‘I spoke to your mother, Heather.’ He pauses, watching keenly for my reaction. I blink, nothing more. ‘She tells me you’ve been refusing to take her calls …’
He tails off, hoping I’ll fill the silence with a response. Any response.
I have one: I have nothing to say to her.
But I don’t say that. And it’s not just because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m opening up to him. It’s because I don’t want to admit it, even to myself. But it’s true. I have nothing to say. To her or to any of my family. Because they didn’t believe me … and there’s just no way past that.
Neither did Petersen. But I don’t give a shit about him.
While he lets the silence drag on – hoping I’ll break – I let my gaze wander across his desk. Half my mouth lifts up in a smirk. The silver letter opener is gone. It was there, in pride of place, the first day I came here. It’s been there every time since. Silly thing for a shrink to have in his office, really, something like that. Sharp. Deadly. I don’t believe for a second that I’m the only person to have tried to stab him in the neck with it. I do wonder if I got the closest …
‘Heather?’
At the sound of my name like that, like a question, I look up. It’s involuntary. Still, it annoys me. I glare at him, eyes sparkling in defiance. He sits up straighter, thinking he sees tears.
‘She’d like to see you.’ He’s dropped his voice and made it patient, kind, indulgent. Almost loving.
It’s like the squeak of wool between teeth. But I don’t react. Well, my lip curls a little, but I can’t help that.
‘Your mother’s offering you a second chance,’ he scolds gently.
Is she? I laugh bitterly to myself. It’s me who should be offering her the second chance. If I ever decide to.
I compose myself once more and go back to smiling at him. I’m sure I know what’s coming next. Another barbed threat. Something about how healing the division with my family will show I’m making progress. Maybe a reference to moving up his stupid ladder.
He surprises me.
‘Tell me about the cairn, Heather. Tell me what you found there.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Then
By the time we’d managed to cook burgers on the tiny portable barbecue Dougie had brought with him, the sun was sinking low in the sky. It hovered an inch above the horizon, the first hues of a beautiful sunset ebbing out over the cloudless blue. I leaned back in my chair, stuffed full of food, and let the last of the day’s heat play across my face.
‘Time to get the fire going, d’you reckon?’ Martin asked quietly.
At the word ‘fire’, both Dougie and Darren jumped up, their expressions eager and enthusiastic, Darren losing the cool, superior look he usually wore. It made him look a lot younger suddenly. Nicer. I almost smiled at him as he rubbed his hands together, practically gleeful.
‘Definitely,’ he said.
Neither Emma nor I moved. It was obvious that this was a boy thing. I wondered, as I watched them dig a hole and then rearrange a hastily gathered bundle of firewood, whether any of them were ever boy scouts. Martin, maybe. He seemed to be moving the most purposefully, taking charge of constructing the twigs into a tepee shape, cradling a crumpled wad of paper in the centre and setting a match to it.
‘This’ll get it going,’ Darren announced, holding up a bottle of something. Vodka, I realised.
‘No!’ Martin yelped, jumping up with an arm aloft to halt Darren, who was already halfway towards pouring the alcohol onto the smoking wisps of fire.
In an instant the friendly camaraderie was gone. Darren bristled, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. Martin took in Darren’s posture – the way his fingers curled themselves into a fist, the broadness of his shoulders and curve of his bicep revealed under a ludicrously tight t-shirt – and his expression went from alarmed and irritated to supplicating.
‘Don’t want to waste it,’ he said, attempting a smile. ‘The fire will catch, just give it a second.’
‘But since you’ve got the vodka out …’ Dougie appeared behind Darren, a stack of plastic cups in his hand.
Black Cairn Point Page 3
