The tattoos looked amazing. It was definitely the right decision.
When I got home I stood in the bathroom, removed my T-shirt and the coverings, and stared in the mirror, focusing on the new ink. I had my permanent reminder. Not that I thought I would ever forget, but the memorial service her friends held had felt inconsequential and so this had felt necessary. It was cathartic somehow. It was my own personal tribute to Mairi and what we’d shared.
After the utter bitch my ex-wife had become, Mairi was the light in the darkness. She was the one person to make me hope again. To love again. I doubted whether I would ever love as strongly again, but… as my tattoo reminded me: Love conquers all.
As I stared at my sore and bloody reflection, my lip began to tremble and my eyes stung with tears. Barbed wire was a fitting symbol of the agony I had gone through in the last four and a half months. Barbed wire that sliced into my heart and tore at my insides as I grieved without really knowing the truth and without being able to say goodbye.
I re-covered the newly inked wounds, taking care not to catch the raised lines where it was sorest to the touch. A sob ripped from my chest and I hung my head as I let my grief pour out once again. How could this have happened? Mairi was an experienced climber. I just don’t fucking get it. I clenched my fist and slammed it onto the tiled surface surrounding the sink. The pain of the impact was a distraction from the aching in my chest, but it was only fleeting. A growl erupted from deep within my body and I smashed both fists down this time as I let a guttural, incoherent roar free from my throat. The noise sounded completely alien to me, and shivers vibrated down my spine.
Why? Why did this happen to Mairi? Where’s the fucking justice? She was so young, so beautiful, and so special. And she’s fucking gone! Ripped from me far too young and I can’t handle it.
I just can’t bear it.
I dropped to my knees on the cold, tiled floor and held my head in my hands. My stomach knotted; and as I clenched my eyes closed, the dreaded images from my nightmares came back to haunt me yet again, assaulting my frontal lobe with such vividness. The fear in her eyes was more than I could take. Her outstretched hands reached for me as she fell. Is this how it actually happened? Her falling, terrified, to her death? Oh God, I hoped not. Why did my psyche insist on torturing me in this way?
I tried to breathe deeply, and after eventually gathering myself, I staggered downstairs to grab the half-empty bottle of single malt from the kitchen countertop. I didn’t bother with a glass this time. I flicked on the CD player and turned up “From Where You Are” by Lifehouse as loud as it would go. I needed to get out of ma head. I dropped onto the couch as the lyrics seeped into my mind and took hold of my heart, making my chest ache. The harsh sting of the tattoo was nothing compared to the nagging throb of emptiness inside of me. I needed to numb the pain, and whiskey was the only way I knew how.
Chapter Five
February 2011
The nightmares continued and I found that whiskey helped but it didn’t block out the terrors completely. January ran into February and my routine continued. Work, get drunk, sleep, have nightmares, wake, and the whole cycle would start over.
One such morning after, I was woken by an ear-piercing, high-pitched ringing. At first I presumed it was just my dehydrated brain rattling around in my head on account of the whiskey consumption of the night before; but… as it continued, it registered in my foggy consciousness as the telephone.
Oh, fuck. Who the fuck is bothering me at this fucking time? It’s the middle of the fucking night. No one ever fucking rings me unless I’m feeling like shit! What the fuck?
I dragged my arse off the sofa where I’d crashed out and rummaged around with my eyes half closed until my hand located the cold plastic casing of the landline phone.
“What?” I barked down the line.
“Gregory? Are you okay?” a worried voice asked.
Shit.
“Oh… erm… hi, Stella. Yeah, yeah I’m okay. Sorry for snapping. What’s up?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s gone twelve and you’re supposed to be at the pub for your shift, hon.”
“What? It’s gone twelve? Midnight?” Why would she want me in when the pub was closed?
“No, hon. Midday. You were supposed to start at half eleven today to stock the bar up.”
Shit. I’d overslept… no… no, hang on… I’d actually slept.
No nightmares.
“Oh, fuck. Shit, sorry for swearing, Stella.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard much worse from your mouth, Gregory. So, are you coming down?”
“Erm… yeah, sure. I’ll have to shower and… I probably shouldn’t drive, so I’ll walk down. Give me an hour or so and I’ll be there. Sorry. I had a really shitty night.”
“So I gather. Don’t worry. I was just worried you’d disappeared into your own head again like you did at Christmas.”
“Na’… nothing like that.” My stomach rolled and bile rose in my throat as my mind flicked back to why I had drunk so much the night before. “Just… thinking too much, that’s all.”
“I see. That’s what I was worried about. You’re not helping yourself, Gregory. You’re spending too much time on your own. It’s not healthy to do that when you’re grieving.”
Grieving. That fucking word. “I’m fine, honestly. I used to spend time alone before… before she—”
“Look, love, I don’t mean to interfere, but I really think you need to stay busy and… and be with people. I can give you some extra shifts at the pub or… or you could come and play at the pub on an evening like I suggested to you. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Stella. I just don’t know if I’m cut out to be a performer, you know?”
“I’m not asking for you to be Freddie Mercury, love. Just sing and play like you did that time I was listening. It was lovely. You’re a natural.”
“I’m still thinking on it. I’ll let you know, okay? Look, I’d better go get ready before the lunchtime rush, eh?”
“Alright, hon. See you in a wee while.”
After I hung up, I rubbed my hands over my face and made my way up the stairs to the bathroom. I downed a couple of painkillers then turned on the shower and waited a few minutes for the water to run hot. After stripping out of my jeans and boxers, I flung them into the laundry basket and climbed under the cascading water. Drained of energy and emotion, I easily could’ve fallen back to sleep on my feet. My muscles ached like I’d been fighting, and my head throbbed like bloody Riverdance was going on up there.
~~~
About an hour and a half later I arrived at the pub. I glanced over at the bridge, where a young couple was standing looking out at the view, arms around each other. For a split second I was filled with envy at how happy they seemed to be. Laughing and pointing out into the distance.
For a split second I hated them.
I pushed through the door and made my way through the crowd of tourists to take my place behind the bar. A blonde woman sitting on her own was eyeing me up as I began to take drink orders from the busload of tourists that had descended upon the place. I’d noticed the coach parked over by the little shack across from the pub, and I hoped I’d arrived in time before Stella got pissed off with me for abandoning her on such a busy day. But I mean, come on, who goes on a bloody coach tour in the Highlands in February? Apparently Londoners who like to ski do.
The blonde woman was wearing a low-cut sweater despite the winter chill and was eye-fucking me from the far end of the bar. I glanced over to make eye contact. She gave a sultry come-get-me smile and licked her full lips as she held her empty glass aloft. What the fuuu…? I finished serving the tourists and made my way over to her.
“What can I get you?” I asked in my usual surly manner.
She leaned forward, giving me a full view of her cleavage.
“What do you recommend?” Her accent wasn’t Scottish but I couldn’t quite place it.
�
�Well, that depends on what your tastes are like,” I said, propping myself up on the bar before her.
“Oh, I have very… how should I put it? Hmmm… varied tastes.” Her eyebrows rose infinitesimally. The innuendo was not lost on me.
I swallowed hard. She was an attractive woman, but she was no Mairi. Blonde hair in a flicky kind of style just above her shoulders. Nice figure, if a little too thin for my taste. But as I watched her, I wondered if maybe what I needed was uncomplicated, no-strings sex. Would that help? Probably not in the long run, but it was clearly being offered on a plate—and I am a hot-blooded male after all.
“I can recommend the Oban single malt. It’s very smooth going down.” What the fuck was I saying?
She bit her lip. “I like things that are smooth… going down.” I poured her two fingers of the amber liquid and handed her the glass. She pouted. “And one for yourself. I don’t like drinking alone.”
I poured myself the same and took a mouthful, hissing as the warmth coated my throat. “So, what brings you to Clachan Seil?”
“I’m here with those guys.” She gestured with a nod of her head. Her expression told me she was none too pleased about the fact. “I live in London. I was supposed to be here with my boyfriend, but he broke up with me two days before the trip so I figured fuck it, I’ll go anyway. I thought perhaps I might meet someone to help me take my mind off things.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and looked at me from under her long eyelashes.
I dragged my cloth across the bar in front of her. “You’re not a Londoner though, eh? What’s that accent?”
“I’m from Adelaide originally. I came to the UK with my family when I was around sixteen. I stayed. Never lost the accent though.” She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.
“What do you do for a living, then? I’m guessing you’re a model.” Oh fucking hell, seriously? Now you’re trying too hard, pal.
She laughed. “Very observant of you. I am actually a model.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Fuck, really? And here was I thinking it was a shitty pickup line.”
She tilted her head. “And is that what you’re aiming for here? To pick me up?”
I stopped wiping the bar in front of her and considered her question. Was I trying to pick her up? I’d thought it was the other way around.
Stella came through from the back and made her way over to me. “Greg, I need you to change the Gairloch grinder. It’s empty.” She scowled at me as if she’d caught me doing something wrong.
I frowned. “Aye, okay. Be right there,” I told her before turning back to the blonde woman whose name I didn’t even know.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Someone’s a little pissed off that you’re chatting to me.”
I cringed. “Aye, well, she is ma boss so I’d better go and do ma job, eh?”
“Okay, Greg.” She said my name as if the feel of it on her lips turned her on. I nodded, at a bit of a loss for words. I was filled with a sense of relief that the conversation had been cut short. To be honest, I had no clue what I’d have done if I’d taken her home. No doubt I would’ve chickened out at the last minute and made a complete tit of myself.
As I walked through to the back to make my way to the cellar, Stella grabbed my arm.
“Look, Gregory, I know I wasn’t meant to interfere, but…” She sighed as if unsure whether to carry on. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you and that blonde girl, but be careful, okay? Tell me to mind my own business, and obviously you do what you want to do. But you’re grieving, and I know from personal experience that silly mistakes can be made when you’re in the wrong frame of mind.”
I nodded and she released my arm and patted it.
As I changed the beer barrel down in the dimly lit cellar, I thought about what she’d said. She was right. I was a one woman kind of guy. Sleeping with someone for the gratification of it just wasn’t me. I think maybe I needed to keep that in mind when I went back up to the bar.
The barrel was a tricky fucker, and I was down in the dingy cellar longer than anticipated. When I arrived back up at the bar, I spotted the blonde sitting on the lap of one of the other London tourists. Her tongue was stuck down his throat. I shook my head and got back to work. Good to know I was so desirable, eh? Well, at least the experience taught me something. I’m not a one-night stand type of guy. Never would be.
Lesson learned. Thanks, blondie.
Chapter Six
March 2011
February turned into March, and I was astounded at how life was going on as normal despite my grief. Stella gave me a weekend off, second weekend in March, and I decided to get out of the village. I packed up my Landy with my sleeping bag and a thick fleece blanket, a little stove, and some tins of crap I wouldn’t normally be caught eating. Angus and I got in the car and headed over to Etive Mor. We’d set off when it was still light, but it would be over a two-hour drive.
As the Buckle—otherwise known by its proper name, the Buachaille—came into view, my heart leapt at the stunning sight of the snowcapped mountain rising out of the bracken. I turned off down a little side road that I was very familiar with and pulled into my usual lay-by off to the left. Pulling my sleeping bag and other stuff from the car, I made my way down to the water and under the little bridge. Angus followed close behind. He knew the routine. I placed my sleeping bag and my stove on the ledge there and trudged back up to the road again. After gathering a few twigs and branches, Angus and I played for a while. He loved to fetch sticks, but he never brought back the one I’d thrown. Instead he always managed to find one that was far too big for his mouth and weighed far too much, almost toppling him over as he ran back to me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy canine.
As night fell, the temperature plummeted, and I sat myself on the little rock facing the craggy mountain where I’d met my true love a few years before. I pulled the flask of whiskey from my coat pocket and unscrewed the lid. I took a long pull and gulped it down. The moon was clear and bright, and it cast the most wonderful spotlight on my mountain.
Our mountain.
The night was cold but peaceful, and I stared upwards at the starry sky that surrounded the summit like a crown of diamonds. Was she up there, in the heavens, watching me? If she was, that would be the cruellest kind of torture. The familiar lump lodged in my throat, and tears began to trickle down my unshaven cheeks; the moisture left cold trails in its wake, but I didn’t much care.
There was a sense of calm around the place. I felt at home despite my melancholy. Mairi and I had camped under the bridge a couple of times, and it had become a special place for me. I felt her there. It was like she was some otherworldly presence wrapping herself around me and comforting me.
The trouble was, whenever I came here I didn’t want to leave.
Eventually I began to yawn, and so Angus and I made our way under the bridge to shelter. The big ball of fluff snuggled up to me under the blankets as if he understood that I needed him, and I eventually wept myself to sleep.
My dreams weren’t as traumatic when I was here. I’d be sitting on the rock, playing Rhiannon as Mairi watched, her head on one side as she swayed to whatever romantic mush I was playing for her. Oftentimes, I’d dream of taking her in my arms after night had fallen, and we’d make love in the car before making our way down to the underside of the bridge to sleep. Those dreams were a double-edged sword. Waking up was a cold slap in the face from reality when I realised I was alone again.
~~~
Just as the sun was coming up, my eyes fluttered open. My body clock was attuned to this place. Sunrise was by far my favourite time of day here. Angus stood and stretched, and I grabbed the fleece blanket we’d been curled up under. We followed the trail back up to the road to my favourite little rock so I could sit and watch the sun come up. Angus sat beside me and laid his head on my fleece-covered legs. The orange and golden hues of the sunrise cast an ethereal glow over the mountain, and I sat in silence as more and more of the j
agged rock face became illuminated.
Simply breathtaking.
Once again I was taken back to times when it was Mairi and me sitting here. Me on the rock and her between my legs, head resting on my chest as we watched the changing colours of the morning. Just thinking that I would never do that with her again brought the anger and sadness bubbling to the surface once more. I’d cried so much in the months since she’d gone that it was a wonder there were any tears left.
When the latest stream of tears had subsided and the sun was fully risen, Angus and I enjoyed a tin of some breakfast concoction that didn’t taste half bad. We walked for a while and played fetch again. This time Angus’s large stick fetish sent him tumbling into the freezing stream that ran toward the river. I laughed loud and unabashed for the first time in a long while, and it felt good.
Mad bloody dog.
Once we were back in the car, however, and all’s I could smell was stinky, wet dog, I glanced up at the guitar-shaped air freshener that Mairi had bought me. My laughter dried up. “Fat lot of fucking use you are now you’ve lost your smell,” I told the inanimate object and then rapidly questioned my sanity. It was one thing to talk to a dog—but an air freshener? Yep, I was losing the fucking plot!
~~~
When we arrived back in Clachan Seil and crossed the bridge over the Atlantic, I spotted a removals van down by James McLaughlan’s cottage. His furniture was being carried out and loaded into the van. That meant the new folks would be moving in any day now and I had mixed feelings about that. More tourists were good for my business and the pub, but if they were only here for weekends, would they take the time to get to know people? Or would they simply use the house as a base to travel from? The village had always been a close-knit community and it saddened me that it could be about to change. Not a lot I could do about it, really.
Bridge of Hope Page 3
