Black Cairn Point

by Claire McFall

  ‘We need that to mix with the vodka!’ Darren hollered from behind the dunes, somehow hearing me across the distance.

  Dougie rolled his eyes.

  ‘I think Darren’s an alkie,’ he joked. ‘I’ll go hunt it out of the car.’

  Emma climbed lithely out of our tent just as the bacon sandwiches slid onto paper plates, her expression expectant. Despite the fact that she’d gone to sleep in last night’s clothes, she was now wearing pyjamas. It wasn’t hard to work out why. The little camisole and shorts set was clingy and revealing, showing off her long legs and tiny waist. As she sauntered over every pair of eyes was fixed on her, mine the only two that were disdainful.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Am I too late to help?’ she asked, eyes wide and innocent.

  I suppressed my sigh. When had my best friend turned into this complete and utter airhead?

  ‘Don’t worry, we made you one.’ Dougie held the plate out to her, smiling, and I wondered yet again if she was the mysterious girl he fancied. At least I had the comfort of knowing he’d never act on it, not when she was going out with someone else.

  For a short while everyone was quiet as they munched on breakfast, washed down, despite Darren’s complaints, with the orange juice.

  ‘So what are we going to do today?’ Martin asked, licking the grease and tomato sauce from his fingers.

  ‘Do?’ Darren asked, looking at him with feigned confusion.

  ‘Yes, do,’ Martin repeated. ‘You’re not planning to just sit here all day, are you?’

  ‘Sunbathing,’ Emma asserted, lifting one leg to run her fingers along her silky-smooth calf. ‘That’s what I’m doing. I’m pale.’

  Martin pulled a face that made it clear sunbathing was about as appealing as stabbing himself in the eye.

  ‘I’m up for a bit of exploring,’ Dougie offered. ‘My dad said there are some ruins of an old castle or something up over the hill.’

  ‘Exploring sounds good.’ Martin grinned.

  Dougie turned to me. ‘Heather?’

  ‘Heather’s going to sunbathe with me,’ Emma announced.

  I raised one eyebrow at her, then turned to Dougie.

  ‘I’m up for some exploring,’ I said quietly.

  Darren opted to stay behind to ‘watch Emma sunbathing’, he said, eyes trailing her provocative outfit, so it was the three of us who made our way slowly up towards the car park. We passed by the Volvo, finding a trail that wound its way in a zigzag from the beach, in the opposite direction to the road. It was a steep climb and I soon found myself lagging behind the two boys, panting for breath. Luckily the sun still hung low in the sky and the air was cool. Even so, I had to yank off my jumper, knotting it around my waist.

  ‘Check out the view,’ Dougie said to me as I crested the top.

  He pointed back the way we’d come and I spun on the spot, using it as an excuse to hide my flushed cheeks and heaving lungs. He was right, though. It was beautiful. The sea spread out like an undulating blanket of blue, bordered by a thin strip of cream-coloured beach. Beyond the sand was a carpet of greenery, emerald in the sunlight. It was breathtaking, maybe more so than the hike to get up there.

  ‘I think I can see the ruins your dad was talking about, Dougie,’ Martin called from behind me. I turned to see him pointing to the peak of another hill. The ground dipped away from us, so although the blurred jumble of stones didn’t look to be any higher than we were, it would involve trudging up another steep incline. I groaned inwardly.

  There was no trail up on top of the hill so we clambered three abreast across the rugged heathland. Despite the sun, the grass was damp with dew that quickly soaked the bottoms of my jeans and slithered into my trainers.

  ‘So how do you think the exams went?’ Dougie asked me as we walked.

  I shrugged, made a face. ‘Not sure. English was okay, I think. Maths … who knows? I probably failed physics.’

  ‘Reckon you did enough to get your uni place?’

  Another shrug. ‘Hope so. You?’

  ‘I think they went all right,’ said Dougie, smiling impishly.

  I snorted a laugh. Dougie had been named the Dux – the top pupil in the school. He was practically guaranteed to get five As.

  ‘Martin,’ I turned to my other side. ‘What about you?’

  He sniffed, shoved his glasses back up on his nose.

  ‘Sciences went well. English will probably be my downfall.’

  ‘Think you’ll leave school?’ I asked.

  I knew he hadn’t applied to any courses yet, but there was always Clearing. Universities offered last-minute places on any courses that weren’t full. Martin was shaking his head, though.

  ‘Not allowed. My parents say I’m too young. Plus I’d quite like to do a couple of Advanced Highers. Maths and Chemistry. Maybe Biology if I get a good enough grade.’

  ‘Will you miss us?’ I asked teasingly.

  He gave me a strange look, not matching my jokey tone.

  ‘Yes,’ he said soberly.

  My grin vanished.

  ‘Well, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll probably be back in August, doing re-sits.’

  He still didn’t laugh.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said quietly.

  I looked away, feeling awkward although I wasn’t sure why.

  The rapidly inclining hillside cut off the conversation, although it had been dead already. For several minutes there was just the uneven melody of three sets of lungs, panting. The sun, climbing steadily higher in the sky, began to reach out with its heat until I could feel it starting to burn my bare shoulders. I hadn’t thought about sunscreen.

  Finally we made it to the top and there, taking centre stage at the very peak, were the ruins Dougie had told us about. He’d said it might be a castle but looking at what was left it was hard to discern any sort of building. There were no walls remaining, just one large mound of stone that spilled over at the edges, sending irregular lumps tumbling into the grass.

  ‘I don’t think it was a castle,’ Dougie commented, hands on his hips, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘My dad probably just looked at it from the beach; he’s not much of one for exercise. I don’t think this was even a building.’

  He moved over to get a closer look.

  ‘Look at this,’ he called, waving Martin and me over. ‘There’s a sort of entrance here.’

  I looked to where he was pointing, trying to see what he saw. This was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to study at university, but I had to admit that all I saw was a jumble of stones. I squinted, trying to create any sort of identifiable shape. It reminded me of when my cousin had shown me her baby scan and she’d pointed to blobs and circles, telling me they were limbs, a head. I hadn’t seen anything then, and now was no different.

  ‘Do you see it?’ Dougie asked. ‘Right there.’

  Martin circled the spot, eyeing it critically.

  ‘Okay, Indiana,’ he joked, his face sceptical.

  At least I wasn’t the only one.

  Dougie wasn’t giving up, though. He stood there for ten minutes, gesturing with his arms and trying to talk us through lumps and bumps that he said were an entrance, a roof, a protective wall. At first I was just as lost as before, but the more Dougie talked, the more some sort of hazy structure started to appear. Little by little I began to see what he was talking about.

  ‘So what do you think it was?’ I asked, when I was sure I had the outline straight in my head. ‘A house?’

  Dougie shook his head.

  ‘A tomb,’ he said. ‘A cairn,’ he expanded, seeing my puzzled look. ‘This is probably what the place is named after. When important people died they used to bury them at the top of the hill then pile all these stones on top. If you could get into it, there’d be a sort of chamber in there. That’s if it hasn’t collapsed.’

  I nodded along as he spoke, trying to look as if this wasn’t all new to me. Martin’s sceptical look folded into an incredulous frown.

  ‘Th
ey hiked all these stones up here? Seems it would have been easier to just do it at the bottom. Prestige, I suppose.’

  Dougie nodded.

  ‘You know,’ he said, turning to me, a wicked gleam in his eye, ‘this is exactly the sort of place a druid spirit, hungry for vengeance, might choose to lurk.’

  My stomach lurched, a burst of adrenaline making my skin crawl like hundreds of spiders were slithering over me as I stared at the cairn with a sudden horror – and fascination – before I gave myself a shake.

  ‘Shut up, Dougie,’ I said. ‘You made that bit up!’

  ‘Did I?’ He grinned, then he turned his back on me to bend over and start hauling at some of the large stones covering what he’d identified as the entrance.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘We might be able to get in,’ he said.

  In. To a tomb.

  ‘You don’t think there’s a body in there?’ I said, revolted yet somehow drawn forward. I didn’t want to see the cracked, yellow curve of some skull come tumbling out and land at my feet.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Dougie puffed, still trying to yank a particularly large stone out of the way. ‘This will be thousands of years old. There won’t be anything left. People used them as sacred sites, though. They didn’t know what they were. So you never know what you’ll find if you rake about.’

  ‘My money’s on an empty bottle of cider and a crisp packet,’ Martin quipped.

  ‘Wrong!’ Dougie announced, at last getting the stone out of the way and delving deep inside with his hand. ‘It’s a can of juice!’

  He held it up triumphantly as Martin and I let out matching cackles of laughter. The can had obviously laid there for a long time; the colours had seeped from the metal so you could no longer tell the brand. Rust surrounded the rim and a gash in the centre.

  ‘Better call the National Museum,’ Martin chortled.

  Dougie ignored him. He was down on his knees, poking his head deep inside the hole he’d made.

  ‘Anybody have a torch handy?’ His voice was muffled, coming out distorted.

  ‘Oh yes, I always carry a torch. That and a defibrillator, a pocket guide to Wales and a pair of bicycle clips.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Dougie leaned back and threw Martin a scathing look. ‘How about a phone, then?’

  ‘I’ve got a flashlight app on mine,’ I offered, holding my mobile out.

  ‘Cheers.’ His face already back in the depth of the cairn, he reached for it clumsily. His fumbling fingers grabbed mine instead of the phone, sending a wave of heat up through my hand. ‘There’s something else in here,’ he called. ‘Maybe I can reach it.’

  ‘What is it this time, a Durex wrapper?’ Martin snorted.

  Dougie made a face at him, his body turned to the side so that he could wedge his shoulder into the gap and reach an extra few inches.

  ‘I’ve nearly got it,’ he said, straining. ‘Ah-ha!’

  This time when he held it up we were all silent. Wordlessly, Martin and I edged closer for a better look.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  It was small, flat and circular. The centre had been cut out, with a thin line connecting across the diameter. The surface was textured, bobbled and pitted like rusted metal, and it was coated in dirt. Beneath that, though, I could just about make out the faded etchings of curves and shapes carved into the facade.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dougie spat on his finger and rubbed at the surface, removing the top layer of dirt. ‘It’s metal, anyway. And old. It’s pretty cool. Here.’ He chucked it at me. ‘Take a look.’

  I snagged it with my fingertips, almost snapping the fragile, corroded circlet. Turning it over in my grasp, I traced the hinted-at carvings.

  ‘It needs cleaning up,’ I murmured. ‘You can’t really see it right.’

  ‘We’ll dunk it in the sea,’ Dougie agreed.

  I looked up at him, a little shocked.

  ‘You’re going to take it?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ He smiled at me, puzzled by my tone.

  ‘But, that’s …’ I stopped short of saying stealing, not sure if it was. ‘But this is someone’s grave.’

  Grave-robbing was definitely illegal, I was sure of that.

  ‘This isn’t a grave-good,’ Dougie disagreed. ‘Probably someone left it as an offering or something. Cairns are a bit like stone circles; people forgot their original purpose, just remembered that they were important.’

  I pursed my lips. That didn’t feel any better. But I made no move to stop him as Dougie reached out and plucked the object out of my hand. I watched as he ran his fingers over it one final time and then slid it into his pocket.

  ‘Want to head back down?’ he suggested. ‘It must be just about lunchtime. I’m starving.’

  With Martin’s help he replaced the stones he’d disturbed and then led the way back down towards the beach, pointing out more archaeological features in the hillside as we went. I tried to pay attention to what he said, hoping I might learn something to prepare me if I did manage to get on my course – but it was hard to focus. My mind was still up at the cairn, at the deep, black hollow surrounded by ancient stones. The druids’ haunt, as Dougie had joked.

  I couldn’t help thinking we’d done something wrong, somehow. Time and time again my eyes were drawn to Dougie’s pocket, where the thing he’d taken was safely nestled.

  I felt like a thief.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Now

  The phone rings. Its shrill, agitated tone cuts through the thick tension in the room like a chainsaw through butter. Dr Petersen glares at it. The offending machine is sleek, black and looks old-fashioned. Not antique, though. Just made to appear that way.

  I raise one eyebrow at him. Isn’t he going to answer it?

  He sighs, shoots an annoyed look at the door. Or through it, really, to the secretary who has dared to interrupt our session.

  I’m not annoyed. I’m grateful. It’s a reprieve, a chance for me to take a breath. Refocus.

  With an exaggerated tut, Petersen picks up the stylish handle and presses the brass-edged mouthpiece to his lips.

  ‘What?’

  I can’t hear the response, but Petersen’s eyes widen, then narrow.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a session, Helen.’

  Helen knows this. She let me in here, after all. Guess it must be important. Maybe important enough to cancel the rest of this ‘therapy’ session. I cross the fingers on my good hand hopefully.

  Just the phone call is a plus, though. It’s eating away at the minutes before I can leave. Because no matter how long we’re interrupted for, Petersen will despatch me precisely on the hour. Nothing messes with his meticulous schedule.

  He gives another sigh. I look away from the bookcase I’ve been examining – full of books with spines that are yet to be broken – and go back to gazing at Petersen. He’s looking right at me, frowning.

  ‘No, I can’t talk just now. I’ll have to call him back.’ Pause. I imagine I can hear the tinny whine of Helen wittering on the other end of the phone line. ‘Yes, I know that!’

  Ooh, snappy. Petersen immediately takes a deep breath, reining in his irritation. Not before I smile at him, though.

  It’s a fake smile. What I really am is disgruntled. How has insipid Helen managed to get under his skin when everything I’ve done – and I’ve done a lot to try to antagonise this man – has been met with nothing but measured calm? I tried to stab him, for God’s sake!

  ‘Tell him … tell him I will call him after my next patient … Yes, one o’clock.’ He hangs up, grimaces at me. ‘I am sorry about that, Heather.’

  Don’t be. I’m not. I’m back on the defensive. Walls up, mind alert, ears pricked. But that’s just on the inside. Outwardly, I’m slumped in the chair, eyes heavily lidded like I’m so bored I could fall asleep; feet scuffing against the carpet. I blow out a breath, making sure he knows I think that sitting here is dull and mind-numbing and beneath me.

 
‘You were going to tell me about the cairn,’ he prompts, when it’s clear I’m not going to acknowledge his apology.

  No, I wasn’t.

  I set my lips, stare at him. I don’t blink. I’m good at this, the silent treatment; I’ve been doing it to my mother since I was six years old. I can keep it up for a long time, easily long enough to see out the hour.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it today?’

  I can hear the oh-so-slight emphasis he puts on the word today and I know we’re about to take a trip through my previous transcripts. Back to the days when I actually tried to talk to him, tried to explain. Back when I thought he was here to help me, when I believed his bullshit.

  ‘Do you remember telling me about the burial site, Heather? Do you remember what you said, about the thing you took from the cairn? The artefact?’

  Not my exact words, no, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.

  He rifles in a drawer in his desk and comes up with a huge folder, papers spilling out. It’s my old file. Crazy Heather’s back catalogue. Spreading it out on the desk, he begins to flip through sheaf after sheaf. I can’t read what’s written there, but I can see row upon row of spiked calligraphy. Dr Petersen’s notes. All about me. I don’t want to read it, but at the same time I’d love to know what ludicrous theories the man has come up with about my ‘deluded’ state of mind.

  ‘Ah, here it is. You told me it housed the spirit of a druid, an ancient being. Sent back to wreak havoc and vengeance. Do you remember saying these things?’

  I stare at him steadily. It’s subtle, just the merest hint, but I know he’s mocking me. He may as well say, ‘Do you remember when you were off your head, Heather? Does that ring any bells?’

  No, Dr Petersen, I can’t say I do remember talking to you about that. But I remember having my arms hauled back so hard I thought my shoulders would dislocate. I remember the needle that was jammed into my arm. And I remember waking up with a pounding headache and a horrible sense of hopelessness. Tied down, trapped. Terrified. Not of the room but of something I could never outrun.

  He waits. Just in case I’ll suddenly and miraculously open up to him. Sorry, Dr Petersen. No miracles today. He sees that in my eyes.