Coffin Road

by Peter May

  He stood at the door, holding it open with one hand to steady himself, his other at his mouth. She could see blood oozing through his fingers, and she realised for the first time that he was wearing only boxer shorts. His skin was pale, apart from forearms, neck and face, which had been burned by the sun or weathered in the wind. He was wiry thin, but had well-developed pecs and the hint of a six-pack on his flat white belly. He took his hand from his mouth and looked at the blood on his fingers. It was smeared all around his mouth and beard, too. She had the iron taste of it in her own mouth, and she leaned forward on the bed to spit on the floor.

  ‘You fucking little bitch!’ he hissed at her, spraying blood into the blinding dazzle of electric light.

  Karen was scared. By the attack, by his anger, by what she had done to him. But more than anything, scared that he wouldn’t take her to see Sam tomorrow. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You frightened me. I . . . I overreacted.’

  ‘Fucking right you did.’ He put his hand to his mouth and brought it away with more blood. ‘Jesus, you damn near bit my lip off!’

  She slipped off the bed, her heart still hammering, and crossed the room to pull his hand away from his mouth. ‘Let me see.’

  He submitted like a child, and stood acquiescent as she tipped his head down towards her and took a look at his lip. The blood was coming from the inside. She could see her own teethmarks on the outside, but they hadn’t broken the skin, just bruised it.

  ‘Do you have a first-aid kit?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Show me.’

  He took her through to the kitchen and they found a green plastic box with a red cross on it, tucked away in a drawer. She opened it up to find a roll of cotton wool, a selection of plasters, a tube of antiseptic ointment and various silver-packaged painkillers.

  ‘Do you have salt?’

  He opened a wall cupboard and pulled down a packet of salt, and she immediately took a clean glass to make a strong solution of salt and water.

  ‘Here. Rinse your mouth with this. Don’t swallow. Spit out in the sink and rinse again.’

  Once more, like a child, he did what he was told, and rinsed several times before she drew his head down and gently pulled out his lower lip to see inside. She held it open to slip in a wad of cotton wool, pushing it down between his lip and his front teeth. Then she rolled kitchen roll into a thick wodge and held it under the cold tap until it was soaking, then made him hold it hard against his outer lip. She took him by the arm and led him back through to the sitting room.

  ‘Come and sit down. And hold the kitchen roll like that for five or ten minutes. The pressure should stop the bleeding. Mouths are great healers, and the salt solution should have disinfected it.’

  He sat meekly on the edge of the settee and looked up at her with now mournful eyes. Both his lust and his anger had dissipated. Perhaps, she thought, all he had really craved was the human contact.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘You really did scare me.’

  He nodded, but was afraid to speak in case he aggravated the bleeding. But the blood had stopped within a matter of minutes, and didn’t restart when finally he removed the kitchen roll and cotton wool fifteen minutes later. His voice came muffled through lips that he didn’t want to move. ‘Sorry I scared you.’ He met her eye. ‘Just wanted a cuddle.’

  It had seemed to Karen in the moment that he was after much more than that. But now she felt guilty, almost sorry for him. Gently, she encouraged him to lie down on the sofa. ‘You should get some sleep,’ she said. ‘The lip will be a bit swollen and bruised tomorrow. But you’ll live to kiss again.’ She grinned, and he returned a pale smile. ‘I’d better get some sleep, too. See you in the morning.’

  She walked carefully across the room, as if afraid to break the spell of tranquillity she had somehow managed to cast over his masculine aggression, and turned the light out before she slipped into the darkness of her bedroom, closing the door behind her and turning the key in the lock.

  For a long time she stood with her back to the door, listening to the pulsing of blood in her head and allowing her breathing to subside slowly. Then she tiptoed through the shadows to lay herself carefully down on the bed, wincing with the creak of the springs, her body still rigid with tension.

  It was going to be a long night, and she had no intention of sleeping.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  In spite of best intentions, sleep had stolen her away sometime in the small hours, and she woke now with a start, sitting suddenly upright and hearing the sounds of someone moving around outside her door. She rubbed her eyes and blinked hard to clear them of sleep, and swivelled on the bed to put her feet on the floor.

  All her fear and misgivings from the previous night returned. How was Billy going to be with her this morning? Would he still be prepared to take her to see Sam? If not, she had no idea what she was going to do. She was stuck here, miles from anywhere, with no transport, completely at the mercy of an unpredictable young man who might or might not have tried to rape her last night. Just how much resentment would he still be nursing after her violent rejection of his advances, and the biting of his lower lip?

  Tense and stiff from a night braced on the sagging mattress of her damp bed, she eased herself across the room to the door and turned the key very gingerly in the lock. She wasn’t sure quite why, but she didn’t want him to know that she had locked herself in. She opened the door abruptly and stepped out into the sitting room.

  Her first reaction was surprise at seeing sunlight flooding in through windows and a wide open front door, where a startled hen cast a long shadow towards her before clucking away across the clearing. The sun was still low in the sky, and it reached right across the room to the far wall. Her second reaction was pleasure at the perfume of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of cooking that came from the kitchen. Something spitting and hissing in a frying pan, and good smells issuing from the open door. Bacon.

  Billy turned as she appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was standing over the stove, breaking eggs into bacon fat. Cooked rashers sat on a plate next to the gas rings. He managed what seemed to Karen an almost cheery smile. ‘The big advantage of keeping hens is the freshest of eggs every morning. You want to grab a couple of plates?’ He nodded towards one of the kitchen cupboards.

  Karen retrieved plates and found cutlery, and he served up two eggs on each, along with half a dozen rashers of bacon. She carried them through to the table, and he followed her with the coffee pot and a couple of mugs. The milk and sugar were already out. She looked at him carefully as he sat down opposite. ‘How’s the mouth?’

  He shrugged. ‘A bit sore, but I’ll live.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She repeated her apology of the previous night.

  ‘Don’t be. It’s me that should apologise. I was out of order.’ He nodded towards her plate. ‘Tuck in. Who knows when we’ll get to eat again.’

  She almost held her breath. ‘We’re still going to see Sam, then?’

  ‘Of course. The sooner we get on the road the better.’

  *

  It was a stunning morning, cloudless and clear, the dark purple peaks of mountain ranges east and west rising up around them and reflecting on the still waters of Loch Carron as they headed south through Stromeferry and Plockton towards the Kyle of Lochalsh. Across the Sound of Raasay they saw the jagged outline of the Cuillins piercing the blue that framed the Isle of Skye, and the water of the Inner Hebrides lay flat and still in the windless silence.

  They drove for a long while without a word passing between them, then out of the blue Billy said, ‘Amazing things, bees.’

  Karen looked at him. ‘Did you know much about them before you worked on this experiment?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. It was a steep learning curve. But, you know, totally fucking fascinating. The hive, the colony, it’s completely run by women.’ He turned to grin at her, but winced in pain and raised a rueful hand to his mouth. ‘Shit,’ h
e muttered. Then, with both hands back on the wheel, ‘After all, it’s a queen bee, not a king. And the women do everything. They clean the hive, they nurse the young, they guard the entrance, and when they’re old enough they go out and do the foraging, bringing back the pollen and the nectar for storage.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s why they’re called the workers. The poor bitches only live for about a month, and never have any sex.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound fair. What about the men?’

  ‘Ah, well, the guys really have it cushy. Drones, they’re called. They just hang around doing fuck all, eating and making a lot of noise.’

  Karen laughed. ‘Sounds like most guys I know. So what’s the point of them?’

  ‘Same as the male of any species. To get the females pregnant. Or, in the case of bees, one female. The queen. She goes on a week-long fuckfest when she’s still a pretty young thing. It’s the only time she leaves the hive. Flies off looking for drones, who usually hang around high spots like church towers so they can see her coming. Imagine their excitement. Finally going to get their end away.’ He laughed. ‘Almost literally. Cos what they don’t know is that they only get to do it once. Their tackle is barbed, you see, and gets stuck inside the queen, ripping away their insides as she flies off. She’ll screw a dozen or more of these daft drones, and you’ll often see her flying around with their remains dangling from her doodah.’

  Karen wrinkled her nose. ‘That sounds vile.’

  ‘Yeah, but what a way to go!’ He glanced at her, eyes shining. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I think I’d rather be the queen.’

  ‘Nah, I doubt if you would. She has a pretty tough life, as well. After a week of screwing around, she has enough sperm inside her to lay fertilised eggs for two or three years. And that’s all she does. Goes back to the hive and lays eggs. And when she starts running out, the other women kill her and feed up one of their own with royal jelly to make a new queen.’

  ‘And the men?’

  ‘Like I said, they just hang around the hive, feasting and spitballing until the end of the season, when the women figure they have served their purpose and kick them out to die.’

  Karen blew air through her lips. ‘That’s pretty brutal. Don’t think I much fancy being a bee, of either sex.’

  He grinned. ‘You’re never alone, though. There’s anything up to sixty thousand bees in a hive. And all of them your relatives. Imagine writing the Christmas cards for that lot!’

  Karen laughed out loud.

  There was very little traffic on the Skye bridge as they swept down to cruise across the first stretch of it, before seeing it rise ahead of them in a perfect arch over the waters below. Mountains shimmered darkly against a distant blue sky as they looped down through Breakish and Broadford, turning north then and heading for Portree.

  They had driven for perhaps another twenty minutes in silence before Karen glanced at Billy. ‘How can you afford a big four-wheel drive like this?’ she said.

  ‘Needed a big beast to get up and down to the cottage,’ he said. ‘Especially in the wet and the snow. Our sponsor covers the costs.’

  ‘Sponsor?’

  ‘Well, we couldn’t have done it without one, could we? I mean, financing the three of us for two years apiece, never mind the equipment we had to fork out for, and the lab tests in Edinburgh . . . It’s all cost a bloody fortune.’ He glanced at her. ‘We get our funding from an environmental campaign organisation.’

  She nodded. ‘OneWorld.’

  ‘Bet Deloit was not best pleased when you turned up threatening to blow the whole thing.’

  ‘I wasn’t threatening to blow anything!’ Karen said, indignant. ‘I was looking for my dad.’

  ‘Aye, who everyone thinks is dead, and who wants to stay dead till this is over.’

  She threw him a look.

  ‘I mean, see it from their point of view, Karen. They’ve put out a small fortune on this. If Ergo cottoned on to what was happening, and where, it would be a total disaster. They could wreck the whole thing in any number of ways. Not least by exposing your dad as a liar and a fraud.’

  ‘I’m not going to blow anything,’ Karen said huffily. ‘No one even knows I’m here. All I want to do is see him.’

  ‘Well . . . we’ll see what Sam says.’

  At Borve they turned off the main A87 on to the road for Dunvegan, winding through rolling, treeless green countryside, across the River Snizort, then heading west until they reached the turn-off for Waternish. The island was dazzling in the late September sun, still purple with heather, but mixed now with the golds and browns of autumn. The road north along the west side of the Waternish peninsula rapidly turned into single-track with passing places. But they only had to pull in a couple of times to let oncoming cars past.

  After a while, they saw sunlight coruscating across the clear blue waters of Loch Bay, off to their left, passing the tiny communities of Waternish and Lusta and Stein. A single white-sailed yacht cut a straight line through the sea loch, leaving a spreading white wash in its wake. Billy slowed down, glanced several times beyond Karen to the waters below. ‘Perfect day to be out sailing,’ he said. ‘Wish it was me.’

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘You sail?’

  He turned resentful eyes on her. ‘Why? You think sailing’s too middle class for a boy from Balornock? That’s a bit elitist, isn’t it?’

  Karen was startled by his sudden umbrage. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t think you were the type, that’s all. My dad was a great sailor.’

  ‘I know. He ran the sailing club at the Geddes. That’s how I got into it. There were only about a dozen of us, but your dad got an instructor in from the Scottish RYA to coach us. Out on the firth almost every weekend. A really nice guy, Neal Maclean. Poor bugger died not long before your dad got kicked out. Heart attack. You’d never believe it, a guy that fit.’ And he fell into what felt to Karen like a sulky silence.

  The road dipped down, mid-peninsula, and they passed the homes that incomers had made in pristine whitewashed cottages nestling in anonymity behind shrubs and small trees splashed autumn red and yellow. Billy slowed down and took a tight right turn towards a place called Geary, or Gearràidh as it was signposted in the Gaelic, and the road climbed steeply uphill across virgin moor tinted mauve with heather in bloom. As they crested the hill, and passed a sign for schoolchildren crossing, a spectacular view across Uig Bay fell away below them towards the Trotternish Peninsula and the village of Uig itself. It was from there that the ferries left for Harris and South Uist, and the islands of the Outer Hebrides could be seen clearly, simmering darkly along the horizon. A little white schoolhouse sat on their left, and Karen marvelled at the thought of going to a school with such a view. She would never have paid the least attention to any of her lessons.

  Beyond the school they turned right, descending steeply then to pass through and leave behind them the small settlement of Gillen, houses hiding discreetly behind trees and tall shrubs. Less than half a mile later, Billy took a sharp, unexpected right turn on to what was little more than a dirt track, leading them up through a scattering of Scots pines into the shadow of hills rising steeply to the west. They bumped over ruts and potholes, and a crude wooden bridge across a tiny gushing stream, cresting a rise then and dropping suddenly into a small hidden valley where an old shepherd’s cottage stood among a clutch of trees, glowing white in the sunlight that washed down from the peaks.

  ‘Et voilà,’ Billy said, and pulled the Mitsubishi to a sudden stop on the grass in front of the cottage.

  As she climbed down from the four-by-four, Karen saw how run-down the place was. A wooden fence around an overgrown garden was rotten and had collapsed in several places. The slate roof was almost green with moss, and the trees that crowded the flaking whitewashed walls cast their gloom all around it. A stream splashed and tumbled over the rocks behind the house, catching the sunlight and cascading down the hill beyond, before losing itself among the go
rse and heather.

  The rest of the valley was a shambles of rock spoil from the hills above, and thick tangling heather that grew abundantly in wet, black, peaty soil.

  Billy stood scratching his head. ‘He’s not at home.’

  Karen rounded the SUV, disappointment clouding this sunny morning. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘His Land Rover’s not here.’

  She followed him up an overgrown path to the front door and he pushed it open into a gloomy interior. It breathed dampness and old woodsmoke into their faces. A tiny square hall stood at the foot of narrow stairs that rose steeply to dormer rooms in the attic. On their left, old, overstuffed furniture gathered itself around a long-dead open fire in a small sitting room. On their right, a kitchen smelled of stale cooking, and on a scarred wooden table the remains of an abandoned meal had turned mouldy.

  Billy’s voice was hushed and barely audible. ‘I don’t like this.’

  He turned and almost ran out of the house. ‘What? What is it?’ Karen called, then hurried after him as he started purposefully away through the heather and rocks, following what looked like a deer path. By the time she caught him up, they had reached the summit of a small rise and found themselves looking down into a sheltered hollow. Eighteen beehives lay smashed and scattered among the rocks.

  Billy stopped abruptly. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered through breathless lips. And he ran on down into the hollow, moving among the remains of the hives, pulling out long-abandoned frames where honey and wax exposed to the weather had turned hard and black. Karen watched him with a growing sense of trepidation as she saw his panic mushroom. All the bees were gone, the hives destroyed by some hand determined to make them unserviceable. He looked up at her, and she saw how pale he had grown, his tan looking yellow now, like jaundice.