Rock Paper Scissors

by Alice Feeney

  Robin had known a storm was coming, so it was a surprise when they drove past her little thatched cottage at the end of the track. She didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to take the coastal road or risk the mountain lanes in this weather. Robin doesn’t own a TV, but there had been several warnings on the radio, and you didn’t need to be a meteorologist to look outside the window. It has been cloudy and bitterly cold for days, just like it always is before the snow comes. Robin has spent several years of her life living in the Highlands, so she knows not to trust the Scottish weather, it has a rhythm of its own and no rules. When a storm is on the way, all the locals make time to prepare and take the necessary precautions, because they know from past experience that it could mean being stranded or trapped indoors for days. Nobody in their right mind would come here at this time of year. Unless they wanted to get cut off from the rest of the world.

  Robin had watched from the window in her cottage, hiding behind her makeshift curtains, transfixed by the sight of the visitors’ car as it got closer. It was an old-fashioned, mint green thing, and looked as though it belonged in a museum, not on the road. How they had managed to get all the way to Blackwater was nothing less than a miracle or a mystery. Robin couldn’t decide which.

  She watched as they carried on down the lane towards the chapel, before parking dangerously close to the edge of the loch. It was pitch-black outside. The wind was picking up and the snow was falling hard, but the visitors seemed oblivious to the danger. The chapel was only a short walk away from her cottage, so she followed them to get a closer look, keeping her distance.

  Robin watched them get out of their car, and was pleased to see the big black dog leap from the boot. She has always been fond of animals, but sheep aren’t the best when it comes to company. Even from a few metres away she thought the man appeared tired and unhappy, but then long journeys do tend to have that effect on people, and they both looked like they had been on one. Robin stood perfectly still as the couple and their dog walked up to the old chapel, only to find the doors locked and nobody there to greet them. They both seemed so cold and defeated. Someone had to let them in.

  The woman had been the one driving the car, and Robin was fascinated by everything about her: the fashionable clothes she wore, the long blonde hair, and expertly applied make-up. Robin hasn’t had anything new to wear for years, she dresses for warmth and comfort. There is nothing in her wardrobe that isn’t made from cotton, wool, or tweed. Most days she wears a uniform of long-sleeved T-shirts beneath her ancient dungarees, along with two pairs of knitted socks to keep her feet warm. Robin’s hair is long and grey now, and she cuts it herself when the tangles get too troublesome. Her rosy cheeks are the result of cold winds, not blusher, and even she finds it hard to remember a time before she looked and lived this way.

  Robin watched them go inside, then she walked around the chapel, looking in through the stained-glass windows. She wished she could hear what they were saying but the wind stole their words from her ears. The layers she was wearing had paid off, but she wasn’t immune to the cold. Or curiosity. Despite the dust that had settled since the last time someone inhabited the place, the visitors soon seemed to make themselves at home. They lit candles and the fire that had been prepared for them, warmed some food, drank some wine. The dog stretched out on the rug, and the couple almost held hands at one point. From the outside looking in, it was quite a romantic scene. But looks can be deceiving, everyone knows that.

  They didn’t look scared at all.

  She wondered if it was because they were together. The world can seem less frightening when you don’t have to face it alone. But then life is a game of choices, and some of Robin’s have been wrong. She can admit that now, even if only to herself because there is nobody left to tell. Watching the couple start to relax inside the chapel, she knew that they had made poor choices too. And coming here was probably top of the list.

  Amelia

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Adam says. It’s a question my husband frequently asks without really wanting to know the answer.

  ‘Nothing. What now?’ I reply as we stand in the boot room staring at one another. I catch sight of my reflection in some of the miniature mirrors on the wall, and look away. This place is a little too Alice in Wonderland for my liking. All that’s missing is a white rabbit.

  ‘I was looking forward to another glass of wine but you smashed that idea when you dropped the bottle…’ Adam says.

  ‘Well, you said the crypt was full of them. We could just open another—’

  ‘It was, that’s true, and it’s your turn to go down there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Once you see there is nothing to be afraid of, you’ll stop being scared.’

  I’m not sure I agree with his logic, but I do have a feminist backbone, and anything my husband can do I can do just as well. So, although I don’t want to go down into the crypt, I will. To make a point as well as get some much-needed alcohol.

  I notice that Adam closes each door behind us as we head back towards the kitchen, as though trying to keep something out. Although I’m sure he must just be trying to keep the heat in. When we reach the larder, he heaves open the trapdoor in the floor, and my senses are immediately assaulted by the dank, musty smell.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Damp?’

  It’s far more pungent than any damp smell I’ve encountered before.

  ‘Pass me the torch,’ I say.

  ‘The battery is completely dead now, but there is a light switch down there. It’s on the right as soon as you reach the bottom.’

  He holds the trapdoor open as I start down the stone steps. There is no rail to hold on to, so I feel my way down the wall. It isn’t just cold, it’s wet. Slimy might be a more accurate description. My fingers find the switch, and an ugly fluorescent tube on the ceiling comes to life, creating an eerie green glow. The humming sound it makes is oddly comforting.

  Adam was right, there are no ghosts or gargoyles, but the place definitely feels spooky. Everything is made of ancient-looking stone – the walls, the ceiling, the floor – and it’s so cold down here that I can see my breath. I count three rusted metal rings embedded in the wall, and do my best not to think about what they were used for. I spot the racks of wine in the distance and hurry to take a closer look, keen to get back upstairs. Some of the bottles are coated in so much grime and dust, it’s impossible to read the labels, but I spot what looks like a bottle of Malbec.

  Then the lights go out.

  ‘Adam?’ I call.

  The trapdoor up above me slams shut.

  ‘Adam!’ I scream, but he doesn’t answer, and all I can see is black.

  Robin

  Robin has never been afraid of the dark. Or storms. Or the strange things that sometimes happen at Blackwater Chapel. But, unlike the visitors, Robin is always prepared.

  Earlier today, she made the monthly trip to town to get everything she needed. The journey through the valley and the mountains takes just over an hour there and back, and shopping has never been one of Robin’s favourite things to do. She’s a little rusty when it comes to people skills; living alone for a long time can do that to a person. The solitude of her life is something she has learned to live with, but she still worries about the strange sounds her mouth makes these days, on the rare occasions when she opens it. So she tends to keep it shut.

  Being shy and being unfriendly are not the same thing, but sadly most people cannot tell the difference.

  Her old Land Rover has seen better days – a bit like its owner – but it is at least easy to drive and dependable, even in the worst kinds of weather. ‘Town’ is really just the nearest village. A sleepy place called Hollowgrove on the wild west Scottish coast. It consists of little more than a handful of houses and a ‘local store’. The shop – which doubles up as the post office – only stocks essential items at the best of times. Everyone starts to panic buy when they know there’s a storm on the
way, and a lot of the shelves were already empty. The fresh fruit and veg were all gone, as was the bread, and toilet rolls. Why people needed to stockpile them was beyond her.

  Robin snaffled the last pint of milk, some cheese, some matches, candles, and six tins of Heinz spaghetti hoops. She had at least twenty tins of Heinz baked beans at home already, and a cupboard full of nothing but Del Monte tinned mandarins, along with enough cartons of long-life milk to hydrate a primary school. Her dietary choices are nothing to do with the storm. Robin likes tinned food. And she likes to always have enough of it neatly stacked at home to know that she won’t starve anytime soon.

  She added the last few jars of baby food on the shelves to her basket. The woman behind the till paused before scanning them – as always – and Robin felt herself shrink a little under the weight of her stare. She had been buying baby food in this shop for as long as anyone could remember, but people knew better than to ask about a baby. They all knew she didn’t have one.

  The cashier’s name badge read: PATTY. Along with the woman’s face, it made Robin think of raw burger meat, which made her feel nauseous. Patty was in her fifties but looked older in her frumpy clothes and red apron. She had messy, boyish, blonde hair, sallow skin, and dark shadows beneath her beady eyes. Robin noticed that the woman gulped a lot for no reason, which only seemed to accentuate her drooping jowls. Patty was a person who wallowed in bitchy gossip and self-pity. Robin didn’t mean to judge the woman who was judging her, she tended to steer clear of rude or unkind human beings, and she had witnessed Patty being both. The woman wore her bitterness like a badge; the kind of person who writes one-star book reviews.

  Robin thought about saying hello – knowing that’s what ‘normal people’ do. But if there was a litmus test for kindness, it was clear Patty would fail every time. So even though Robin sometimes longed to strike up a conversation, just to see if she still could, Patty was someone she didn’t care to talk to.

  By the time Robin got back to the cottage, the power was already out, and the place was dark and cold. It wasn’t much – a small stone building with two rooms, a thatched roof, and an outside toilet. But it was hers. And it was as close to a home as she had these days. The cottage had been built by hand over two hundred years ago, for the priest who looked after the chapel when it was still used for its original purpose. Some of the thick white stone walls have crumbled in places, to reveal dark granite bricks. The fingerprints of the men who made them are still visible, two centuries later, and it always cheers Robin up to think that nobody disappears completely. We all leave some small part of ourselves behind.

  Robin’s mother sometimes slept in this cottage. Years ago, when Robin was just a child and things were… difficult at home. Her mother had a key and would come here whenever she needed to run away, or hide. She was a happy woman trapped inside a sad one. She loved to sing, and cook, and sew, and had the most wonderful ability to make everything – including herself – look pretty. Even this sad little cottage. Robin would follow her here – she always took her mother’s side in any argument – and they would sit together in front of the fire. Comforting each other without words, and waiting for the latest marital storm to blow over. The place became a ramshackle sanctuary for them both. They made it cosy, with homemade curtains and cushions, candles for light, and blankets for warmth. But all of that was long gone when Robin returned years later. Just like Robin’s mother. Nothing but the dust of a memory.

  The thatch is a little more recent than the cottage’s walls, and not without holes, but they can be repaired when the weather gets warmer. Which it will, because it always does. That’s the thing Robin has learned about life now that she is older: the world keeps turning, and the years go by, regardless of how much she wishes she could turn back time. She wonders about that a lot: why people only learn to live in the moment when the moment has passed.

  Robin doesn’t have much in the way of furniture. Her bed is made from a series of wooden pallets that she found on the side of the road, but it’s surprisingly comfy thanks to a thick layer of woollen blankets and home-made cushions. In the room with the fireplace – where she spends most of her time to keep warm – there is a small table with a wonky leg, and an old leather armchair that she rescued from a skip in Glencoe. Having belongings that were her own was more important to Robin than how they looked or where they came from. She didn’t have much when she arrived here, just a suitcase filled with her favourite things. Robin left everything else behind.

  The plates, cutlery, cups, and glasses in the cottage were all borrowed – some might say taken – from cafés and pubs she had visited in the Highlands. Robin never saw it as theft when she slipped the dirty items into her bag, because she always left a tip. She took a guest book from a tea room once, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe all the friendly, handwritten messages inside made her feel less lonely. Robin collected all of the things she needed before the money ran out. She didn’t have everything she wanted, but that was a different story. The cash she had left was kept for emergencies only, and this was definitely one of those.

  With no electricity for the foreseeable future, she lights some candles before building a little fire in the grate for warmth. Then she ties a can of baked beans above the flames. Hot meals are important in cold weather, and this isn’t the first time Robin has cooked for herself in a storm. When the tin is empty, she’ll wash it out, carve two eyes and a smile in the tin, then use it as a candle holder. There are tin-shaped faces all over her little home. Some happy, some sad. Some angry.

  Wearing mismatching oven gloves, she removes the can from above the fire and eats the hot beans straight from the tin. It saves on both time and washing up. When she has finished her own dinner, she opens a jar of baby food and spoons the contents into a bowl. She knows he’ll eat when he is hungry.

  Robin eases into the old leather armchair. She’s wearing fingerless mittens indoors, but her hands are still freezing. She throws another log on the fire, then searches inside her cardigan pocket for the wooden pipe, holding on to it like an old friend. It wasn’t always hers – something else she borrowed. Sometimes it’s enough just to feel it, but not tonight. She takes it out, along with a small, round tin of tobacco. It’s a Rattray’s pipe, made in Scotland, just like her. A classic Black Swan.

  She unscrews the tin, and sprinkles three pinches of tobacco just like he taught her when she was a little girl. It feels like feathering a nest before burning it down. A few strands fall onto her lap, where they stay, abandoned by unsteady hands. She notices the dry skin and bitten nails as she strikes a match, so closes her eyes briefly, to hide herself from herself, while she enjoys the smell of the pipe and the nicotine hit she’s been craving all day.

  Robin stares at the chapel in the distance. From her window she can see that the lights are still on. Unlike her little cottage, the chapel still has power, because the owner suffered too many Scottish storms and installed a generator a few years ago. For all the good it did them. She listens to the radio while she waits, Robin is good at waiting. Patience is the answer to so many of life’s questions. She sits and she waits, even when the pipe is empty, and the fire has burned itself out. She listens to the voices on the radio – as familiar as old friends – while they report that the storm has already resulted in several road accidents. Robin wonders if the visitors know what a lucky escape they’ve had, managing to get here in one piece. When she glances out of the window again, and sees that the chapel is in complete darkness, she thinks that the visitors’ good luck might be about to change.

  Maybe it has run out altogether, only time will tell.

  Robin hears something then, tiny footsteps in the gloom behind her. The bowl of baby food is empty. It’s been licked completely clean and that makes her happy. Company is company, in whatever form it takes.

  Amelia

  I feel crazy for thinking it, but I don’t think I’m alone down in the crypt. I blink into the darkness, and spin around, but I can’t see
anything. In my imagination, the walls are closing in on me, and I think I hear my name being whispered in the shadows.

  Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.

  My breathing soon starts to get out of control. I feel my chest tighten as though a heavy weight is pressing down on my lungs, and picture invisible hands strangling me as my throat starts to close.

  Then the trapdoor opens up above, but I still can’t see.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Adam’s voice calls into the darkness.

  ‘No! What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know; power cut, I suspect. I dropped the door when the lights went out, sorry. Try and make your way towards the steps.’

  ‘I… can’t breathe!’

  He doesn’t just hear my words, he hears the rasping sound of my breaths between them.

  ‘Where is your inhaler?’ he shouts.

  ‘Don’t… know. Handbag.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Kitchen… table?’

  ‘Wait there,’ he says, as if I have a choice.

  I’ve had asthma since I was a little girl – being raised by people who chain-smoked and living in inner-city flats probably didn’t help. Not all of my foster parents were child-friendly. My asthma isn’t as much of a problem these days, but there are still things that can trigger an attack. Being trapped in an underground crypt in the dark seems to be one of them. I edge forwards trying to find the steps out of here, but my fingers only find a damp wall, and a cold metal ring. It makes me shudder. If only the torch batteries hadn’t died, or I had my phone. I think of all the candles up in the library, wishing that I had one now, but then I remember the matchbox I used to light them. It’s still in my pocket.

  The first match I strike goes out almost instantly – it’s an old box.

  I use the second to try and get my bearings, but I still can’t see the steps, and I’m struggling to get enough air into my lungs.