Not Far From Aviemore

by Michael Reuel

VII

  Affleck White

  Adam was drained and shaken, which was to be expected after a near-death experience as consciousness rejects the instinct to shut down in close proximity to an event that threatens its doom. Safety and homely comforts failed to persuade his brain that resting was agreeable and so he found himself doubting his ability to move forwards with the next stage of the expedition.

  Deep sleep had been desirable after the previous night’s attack. He’d never suffered a visitation two nights in a row so the timing would usually have proven convenient but, as comfortable as the hotel bed was, he soon found himself seduced by a single-malt instead.

  So it was that deep into the night he remained musing on his chase: what had actually happened and what did it all mean? He had decided to adopt the ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio’ philosophy as key to his approach, but in truth he did not expect it to be proven so dramatically. Adam had taken his own haunting to the Cairngorms to find out if the ghost of a giant might disrupt his spiritual makeup, but knew not what to make of those burning eyes and the mass from which they pursued him. The encounter seemed to belong to neither phenomenon, certainly not to the Fear Liath Mòr and wholly different to any experience he had previously known. There had been no attack on his psychology and no manipulation of the physical / spiritual boundary. Whatever pursued him had tread without shyness onto man’s roads displaying all the wrath and defiance of Satan before He was chained. On the other hand, that landscape had a history of various paranormal, or Underworld, activity. Had a new entity replaced the Grey Man as the warden of that supernatural epicentre; or should Adam flatter himself in supposing his activities had raised the stakes amongst the hellish hordes that coveted him, resulting in such a fearsome display to ward him off further meddling?

  There was much to consider and, as was typical, more questions than answers; speculation without substantial reasoning. As the nightly hours wore on, however, his grasp on professionalism waned and he began to let the drink – name of Ardbeg – help him forget serious matters for a few hours and allow some courage to return. His heart had never beat so fast as after the pursuit but on some level he should have been satisfied; this was after all the kind of terror he intended to locate. Scared he may have been but he was still alive and could dispose of the concern that he hunted in an uninterested universe.

  Surviving an attempt on one’s life should always be celebrated and, at some point during the night – no doubt with the help of the whisky – Adam found he was challenging himself to return to the scene in the morning.

  Liquor still warmed his system and, in truth, he knew he must have been slightly over the driving limit. He did not want his nerve on the matter to waver, however, and so Adam was back at the wheel of the car by 7am, heading once more to the evergreen of Rothiemurchus.

  The ordeal of twelve hours previously remained clear in his mind and it was with some anxiety that he turned from the crossroads, fighting grim images of his near miss with the lorry that must have come close to causing his life to flash before his eyes. Negotiating the subsequent bends that led to his first sighting of the deer and the clouded mass, he reflected he must have sped around them much faster than his driving skills could claim to be sensible. Never of a ‘boy-racing’ persuasion, he could barely look at some of the tyre tracks heading in the opposite direction for the likelihood that they were of his own making.

  Driving standards were at the back of his mind, however, or else he would have waited to sober up fully before setting out. No, his thoughts were on the burning eyeballs he had no desire to see again. Though his brain told him a second encounter was unlikely, his nerves could not dismiss the possibility or question the sanity of his plan to leave the car and investigate the surroundings.

  Coming to a stop only paces away from where the smoky mass had been, Adam found himself both anxious to be elsewhere as soon as possible but also hesitant to leave the insurance of the accelerator in order to get the investigation over with.

  Opening the driver’s window, he listened intently to the morning air and could hear nothing abominable amidst morning birdsong that only ornithophobics have ever found cause to fear. Neither occasion had given him warning that trepidation was necessary and so he was forced to trust to luck not wisdom as he stepped out of the car to dare whatever perils might lurk on that roadside.

  Once outside of the vehicle the atmosphere felt far less oppressive, as if standing up served to disconnect his mind from the memory of the encounter. The woodland delighted his sentiments in fact and he felt he could happily walk there all day, regardless of what inhabitants of fairieland might be sleeping about those glades in their secret Underworld pathways. Some form of inner peace found him again and he wondered how anyone could not feel at home in British woodland or brought themselves to sign the documents that saw their precious acres felled all too often.

  No great sense of evil lingered and he had almost satisfied himself to proceed with his expedition with nothing further to show. Until, that was, he let his gaze fall to the ground and the grassy verge that lined the roadside.

  What he saw there told him there was no fresh mystery to this demon at all, because beneath him was a hoofprint… then another… and a third, leading from the soft ground to the tarmac where they disappeared into what was surely the pursuit of his car.

  The hoofprints were back. Not bearing a curse this time. No, the being that delivered his curse had tried to kill him instead, meaning he now had more to contend with than his nightly abusers alone.

  His expedition had drawn attention and so any further delay might prove fateful.

  Giving in had never been on his mind, but it was a different feeling to believe he no longer even had that option. He might have been pitting himself against a power far beyond his comprehension, but there was no turning back once great danger had been stirred.

  For today at least he would stick to his plan and make his way to The Old Bridge Inn in the hope of coming across the man Affleck White, or else to get word of his location.

  Ah yes, Affleck White. There has been no mention of him before, but good researchers do not instantly credit every idea as invaluable until such a time as developments make them so. Now seemed the time to decide whether seeking contact with or overlooking this individual was necessary, and he could think of no powerful reason to favour the latter.

  The Cairngorm expedition had not been envisioned as a straight road, but a course on which many avenues would be left open. Contacting Mr White had always been a possible route, but no fixed impression had been made of how events would transpire once within the Grey Man’s territory and, with every hint that the land remained alive with paranormal activity, it would seem that the possibility of another’s insight was beneficial to whatever lay ahead; unless he desired to move on blind and friendless.

  Of all places, he had come across the name Affleck White online, whilst seeking for recent accounts of the Ben Macdui phenomenon.

  Although much of the mountain’s fame derives from tales told amongst climbers, the more famous of which are given earlier in this book, there have been numerous stories that never made it to notoriety. Throughout his research, Adam wasn’t concerned as to whether accounts were considered memorable but only whether they might be useful to his expedition. The relatively few modern accounts of terror on the mountain could point towards a decline in its supernatural activity, but it was also likely that climbers had become more tight-lipped when faced with a cynical press, or that local newspapers were not overly interested in reporting that someone else happened to have had a fright. During his post-1960s search for Grey Man activity Adam had encountered great difficulty finding anything substantial, so he was surprised, if understandably reticent, when coming across an Internet blog dated 2004.

  The blog related a first hand account of three male students, the writer of which was from Bristol, his two friends from Manchester and Glasgow, all of whom were studying at Sti
rling University. It would be fair to say that most serious investigators would not have paid much attention to the clumsily written piece and Adam could only hope the student in question was not attempting to graduate in language or literature; certainly the poorly related sighting, interspersed with tales of drunkenness and the writer’s own stance on government conspiracy theories, would not have made it into even the most desperate publications on supernatural activity – such as those inspired by Collie, Kellas, Densham and Frere – lacking as it was in any form of professional insight or integrity. Nevertheless, the blog included the only claim to have seen Macdui’s grey menace within Adam’s lifetime and in another sense it was unique for actually including a warden of the Cairngorm National Park who, the writer claims, was with the students at the time of the sighting. Not only this, there was even a photo of him.

  This park warden was named as Affleck White, whom the blog even alleged could easily be located by visiting the The Old Bridge Inn in Aviemore – whenever he was not pursuing his business as a warden of the park. According to the teller, White had talked the boys into letting him accompany them on their climb to the summit – a request they had given in to because they had been too nervous to refuse. Described in the passage as ‘no-nonsense and difficult to please’, by his photo Adam imagined the warden might not be the most approachable of people, but his presence in the excursion also suggested a deep responsibility towards the safety of mountain walkers.

  As the account was set down, the writer, someone who called himself Jack the Third, had been with his two friends James and Steven and the guide Affleck White when a passing mist and humanoid shadow had caused them to run, the result of which was that one of them suffered a fall and broke his ankle.

  Further investigation revealed that White was indeed listed on the national park’s website as the very warden the boys claimed he was. Whatever conclusions he was liable to draw on the over-active and unreliable imaginations of the three students, Adam was not inclined to believe the outing itself had been faked. There were many accompanying photographs, including one with two of the boys standing beside the warden, together with several grinning mugshots of the students themselves. It was probable the boys had not asked White’s permission to publish the pictures on the Internet, but Adam was determined to seek him out anyway, if just to ask why the fierce looking Highlander had been spending his time with such immature delinquents. Sporting a sizable beard and standing over six-feet tall, it should have been possible to locate such a distinctive-looking individual.

  Ignoring the account would have been unprofessional, as would passing up the chance to contact a local expert on the dangers the mountains presented to lone walkers. Jack the Third also made the claim that White owned a bothy located on the slopes of the neighbouring Cairn Gorm mountain, where a person could stay a short distance above the most direct path to the Ben Macdui summit. Having come across the bothy in a related story, Adam was enticed to find out if this was true, while also acknowledging it would have been feeble of him to not take up the student’s closing challenge, daring the reader to ‘…rent the shack for one week off [Affleck White] and dare the wrath of the grey giant for yourself’.

  By the time Adam reached The Old Bridge Inn he was determined to have another drink in order to feel as unprofessional as possible about the expedition. He would not endear himself to the humour of the locals through a fixation with doom and gloom and, in truth, he did not want to think too much on the nights in the wilderness that lay ahead, especially while the image of two devilish eyes still troubled him.

  Before entering the inn, Adam could not help wondering what reception the locals might give a lone Englishman and actually wished he was a tad more hungover for the task. Ever since his arrival he had behaved much like a ghost himself, appearing here and there but speaking to no one, accept for the mysterious Clara. Now it was time to leave the ethereal world behind, to resurrect the soul that had been cornered in some forsaken kingdom and let it breathe again.

  Once inside this apprehension soon left him, however. In a relaxed and comfortable atmosphere customers sat at leisure reading newspapers and talking in a laid back manner, some on their lunch breaks, some socialising for their afternoons. Most paid him little attention and, considering he still had a taste for alcohol, he could probably not have found a more ideal setting to waste away the days that were supposed to be his expedition. The open plan interior was spread out across several rooms so it was not immediately obvious to Adam where it would be best to position himself for the chance to strike up a conversation. Approaching the bar as he thought this over, a view into the furthest side-room opened out and he noticed four young men sat round a table of many empty glasses – one part of the inn that looked like it could have belonged in the bars he grew up with. Rather than being put off by the sight Adam even felt slightly jealous he could not go and join them, recalling the days when having the freedom to drink throughout the day with no other concerns made life much simpler. He could have been looking at himself ten years ago and, for the first time, he felt far away from all he knew, not because of the journey north, but because of the years he had left behind. Suddenly he was faced with a yearning for this mission of his to be dealt with and relegated to that same past. At the same time he wondered if world-weariness might yet overtake his ambitions and see him drink the day away instead… and then he saw him…

  Sitting at the farthest wall from the entrance in the darkest part of the visible interior, a stern and weather-worn expression could be seen within speaking range of the four young men – though clearly a solitary figure nevertheless. Though in shadow, the individual was clearly of a sizable build and when a younger man must have been imposing indeed. Without a doubt this was the man Affleck White. Adam didn’t imagine that many a stranger had approached him in the bar before without good reason. Despite this, it was his task to impress the man enough to draw him into some kind of conversation. Such a task would have been more feasible about the footpaths of the Cairngorms, but there was no guarantee that meeting would ever take place and so it would have to be in the atmosphere of the public bar that was clearly a second home to the warden and many more who were present. This was not to say that White was a drunk – and neither did he have such a demeanour – the inn itself was a type of community hub for the locals and, if his research had been interpreted correctly, Affleck was in fact a serious mountaineer and in long-term employment for the Cairngorm National Park. The task of avoiding accidents, even deaths, in those remote regions is a serious matter for those who practice it and it was such a responsibility to walkers unlearned in the risks and dangers of treacherous heights that Adam hoped to appeal.

  After asking the barman for one of the local ciders on offer, Adam once more checked the print-off in his pocket for the likeness. It was clear this was the same person and there seemed little other option but to take his drink and walk round, even though he knew it was something he would not be able to achieve casually and without his approach being obvious, including to the four jovial young men.

  Resisting an urge to take one of the empty seats near the bar, in the hope that an opportunity would present itself in a less direct way, Adam proved true to his promise not to resist any opportunities and was soon facing the individual he desired speech with. He’d actually suspected White had caught his glance as the cider was being poured, but the big man had made nothing of it, contributing briefly to the nearby merriment but otherwise enjoying his whisky alone.

  Reminded of what the girl Clara had told him – that everyone knew everyone here – he knew he could not avoid the audience of the four young men and, when they quietened to look up at him, he almost surprised himself by his determination to converse with the lone figure.

  ‘Are you Affleck White?’ he asked, grateful for the music that played in the background so at least the entire inn wasn’t aware of the dialogue. White appeared unfazed by the question and, although tucked away at the back of the i
nn, Adam suspected he was not ignorant of anyone present.

  ‘Aye! Last time I looked,’ White responded, giving nothing away by his expression.

  ‘I’m looking for someone who knows Ben Macdui,’ Adam continued. ‘A little bird told me you’re the man.’

  ‘Now why would you be looking to go up Ben Macdui, now?’ Affleck asked, already with a mocking aspect to his tone.

  ‘I’m looking for Fear Liath Mòr,’ Adam replied, not quite knowing where the confession came from. Being blessed with many flavours of sarcasm enabled him to feel less awkward than he would have, though he had to trust that responding in kind hadn’t come across as offensive and not made him sound like an idiot either. Despite feeling he had succeeded, he knew he had also played completely to the four men’s delight as he sensed them brace for White’s response in the way a crowd might anticipate the punch line of a stand up comic.

  White himself gave no impression that the question was of any amusement or surprise, allowing quiet to settle before giving the four men what they wanted.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid the Loch Ness Monster ate the fucker!’ he responded. The reply didn’t disappoint, the men suppressed their mirth no longer, spitting beer in the process and ending any chance of Adam continuing with the conversation. Adam himself smiled, despite being the butt of the joke.

  ‘I must have been confused then,’ he replied, relenting with a raise of his glass before choosing a table nearby, not as if part of their group but close enough to show that he was not going to be made to feel awkward enough to disappear. Sitting down, he raised his glass once more at the four men themselves, who gave a nod in response but without seeking to hide the fact that he was the subject of their mockery. White showed no such glee however and, Adam sensed, continued to consider him thoughtfully.

  Deciding to leave any further discussion to fate, their brief exchange might have proved the end of the matter. The lads nearby cared not to mock him any further and soon returned to whatever had been amusing them previously. One of them was overheard suggesting they go on a hike to Loch Ness after a few whiskies to see if they could spot the creature, but there was no malice in them and, other than the owner of the Newtonmore bed & breakfast, Adam had no cause to complain of the attitudes he had encountered thus far as a lone Englishman wandering the Highlands.

  White left soon after, however. Clearly a no-nonsense fellow, he gave no indication that he wished to hear anything more on the Fear Liath Mòr. Adam was left drinking the remainder of his cider and trying to resist the temptation of ordering another before leaving. Excepting a chance meeting about the mountains themselves – which was entirely possible – the investigation might nevertheless have to be completed with no local contribution. Not being able to ask if there was any truth behind the most up-to-date account of Ben Macdui related phenomenon was a pity, but more useful might have been White’s advice on the risks taken camping out in remote locations, together with any chance of acquiring the Cairn Gorm bothy on a temporary basis.

  Accustomed to fate leaving him stranded, Adam was subsequently surprised to find this not to be the case when, emerging into the open air, he found someone waiting for him. Some of his relatives who were nervous of the Scots might have told him that waiting outside of a pub for a game of fisticuffs was an ancient Scottish tradition, but Affleck White did indeed wish to speak to the Englishman who had addressed him so openly and in defiance of the inevitable mockery he would face – though this did not mean the Highlander had any reason not to deliver more of the same.

  ‘You don’t look like a fruitcake, ladie,’ he called out, for Adam had passed by without seeing him, ‘though you talk like one,’ he added, ‘and I’ve met a few of them in my time.’

  Intrigued by this opportunity, Adam approached the park ranger and couldn’t help but wonder if the view of Ben Macdui over the Highlander’s shoulder had been decreed by some higher power. It might have been romantic to think so but for some reason he felt that White, who was even more imposing outside on his own, was some kind of Guardian of those heights and it would have felt wrong to approach them without his approval. The notion of a land belonging to a people was appealing and he imagined the warden’s ancestors cherishing their surroundings with a bond only the breaking of the world could sever, while the rest of the human race went about whatever business concerned those with no such sense of belonging. It was an impression he would not openly voice in case it seemed backward, but Adam preferred to think of it as ordained; like the mountain there seemed great value in something that had never been uprooted or needed to question itself, a complete opposite to the ever-changing face of the city he lived in.

  ‘I guess funny stories lead to stupid questions,’ Adam replied, feeling he had every right to be as guarded as White had been.

  ‘And what stories would those be now?’

  ‘The boys said you had your own name for the Big Grey Man; “The Shepherd” I believe it was.’ Expecting either a denial or a recollection, Adam found that the name merely led to a puzzled expression, so he continued. ‘You led three men on a winter camping trip?’

  ‘We don’t call it camping in the Highlands, lad,’ White told him, changing the subject and perhaps betraying what had really been his motivation for waiting outside. ‘Camping’s for namby pambys too stingy to pay for a hotel room when they visit Skegness.’

  ‘I guess it’s tougher on the slopes of the Cairngorms,’ Adam replied, encouraging the lecture to be completed sooner rather than later.

  ‘Aye, lad!’ White continued, his voice adopting a grim storytelling tone fitting for a haunted house movie just before its busty actresses retire for the night. ‘Oftentimes your tent is the only thing between you and a freezing death. They’re not to be taken lightly these heights, that’s why I’m such a miserable gobshite. I’m the one that gets asked all the questions when someone comes a cropper.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve come for your help.’

  ‘Aye, but don’t tell me you’re looking for ghouls and ghosts now. People who go looking for that end up dead or crazy.’

  ‘You’ve had a few then.’

  ‘Indeed, but usually in groups, part of this pish of a ghost-hunting craze started off by some TV frauds running around dungeons and things.’

  Adam knew exactly the kind of people he was referring to, having reservedly attended several ‘ghost hunts’, ouija board sessions and even nights in haunted houses as part of his research, but he had quickly concluded that no answers would be found through group investigation and discarded the idea as without merit – though partly because of the behaviour of those involved. (His notes had concluded with the decision ‘Do not include other humans in this research, as they are stupider than I had previously supposed’.)

  ‘Some want to go one step further,’ Affleck went on, ‘having heard tales of Highland ghosts, but they don’t come creeping round when the winter weather’s approaching and not on their own. So you’re either braver than most or daft.’

  ‘I’m on holiday, that’s all.’

  ‘Holiday season’s done.’

  ‘You’re right, but it’s the mountain I want to see. I’ve heard stories of mountain climbing all my life, of the solitude and atmosphere of the heights in the quiets of night-time, I wanted to experience that for myself. I hate hot beaches and Spanish bars, coz deep down I’m a miserable bastard just like you, but the music of the mountains might cheer me up.’

  In saying this, Adam thought he noticed a raised eyebrow at the word ‘music’ and hope stirred in him that he had made an impression. It was not difficult to guess the warden had a deep-seated love of the mountains and the very solitude he had described, regardless of his attempts to appear grumpy and unapproachable. Having read numerous stories of mountain adventures as part of his research, he had several times come across this reference to ‘the music of the mountains’. At first he had dismissed it as a crazed fantasy of one writer, only to find that many mountaineers report the pheno
menon and swear blind they hear it. Affleck White would seem to be one of these people, but he quickly recovered before giving away anything more.

  ‘Girlfriend left you has she?’ he teased.

  ‘I’m writing a book if you must know,’ Adam replied; a half-truth but again White worked this to his own advantage.

  ‘Oh that explains it, most writers prefer the boys to the women so I’ve heard.’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  ‘Aye, many’s a time when writers through the years have sought out mountains to spout poetry about. Coleridge and Wordsworth, even good old Robert Burns, but none have ever sought me out. What’s this “Shepherd” thing?’

  ‘A story I read online. I was curious and wondered if they’d made you up, it’s the only written account of the Fear Liath Mòr in my lifetime.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  Rather than trying to explain himself further, Adam took a printout from his inside pocket on which the bulk of the story had been set down, then let Affleck study its content for a while. Though he correctly guessed that the Internet was something Affleck would not be particularly impressed by, it was clear that the print-off had an effect upon the ranger, uncertain of being mentioned in some cyber world that meant nothing to him.

  ‘It names you several times,’ Adam pointed out, ‘even suggests you have an inside knowledge of the Fear…’

  ‘We don’t say the name,’ Affleck told him, shaking his head. ‘Not because this isn’t horseshit, but I never met a serious climber that wasn’t superstitious and treated mountains with respect rather than some freak show. This is really printed on that Intershite thing?’

  ‘For anyone who goes looking,’ Adam replied who, despite having to embrace modern technology throughout his life, felt that Intershite was a far more appropriate term for what the Net in fact was. ‘Makes you think, if you go looking you might just find something. Guess that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘And you came all the way from… where?’

  ‘Islington.’

  ‘From London, for some kids tale.’

  ‘No!’ Adam replied, laughing and hoping to relate the same dubiousness that any level-minded person would express. ‘I’m here to see the mountain, like I said. I like mystical places that’s all, also it says there that you own the bothy up on Cairn Gorm.’

  ‘Does it indeed?’ Affleck responded, regaining some of his former sarcasm. ‘Well I’m not in the business of humouring daft adventurers that don’t know what they’re getting into… thanks all the same.’ And with that the Highlander had given back the print-off to Adam and begun to walk away.

  ‘I’ll pay you well,’ Adam called after him, hoping to have the desired effect. It did stop Affleck (later Adam wondered if the money had really stopped him or if he was just playing along). ‘Fifty pounds a night, if you like, and I’ll leave it as I find it.’

  Affleck turned stroking his chin, but whatever reservations he continued to hold regarding this unusual Englishman the mention of money succeeded in rubbing away.

  ‘Ah, you know your way to a Scotsman’s heart lad that’s for sure,’ he gave in, though Adam could still not be certain that mockery was not behind the smile and compliment.

  ‘My grandfather was a Highlander,’ Adam told him. ‘Maybe my roots are showing.’

  ‘What exactly do you need it for?’

  ‘It’s just an insurance. In case the weather turns and I can’t get back. I don’t intend of dying of pneumonia on the mountain, you see I’m being sensible,’ he said, looking to humour Affleck’s professional concerns, ‘so you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

  Considering Adam’s lack of optimism before entering The Old Bridge Inn, he had to assess he had done rather well in achieving the level of scrutiny Affleck eventually gave him, regardless that no more was said on the matter of the print-off. In closing, Affleck agreed to meet him in the pub car park again the next day when he offered to drive him to the bothy itself before handing him the keys.

  As a result, Adam was more than happy to proceed with Plan B. His intention was to begin spending nights on the mountain as soon as was possible, but the keys to the bothy were worth waiting for, especially with the media still predicting snowfall was imminent (even if the TV weather people were beginning to look slightly embarrassed that their predictions had been wrong so far). The Cairn Gorm bothy would base Adam less than a mile away from the slopes of neighbouring Ben Macdui itself, rather than the four or five mile proximity of Aviemore.

  On the morrow, therefore, unless Affleck – who asked not to be called ‘Mr White’ – proved untrue to his word, Adam would at last begin spending his days and nights alone in the Cairngorm wilderness. Prior to addressing the issue of how to invite the Grey Man to reveal himself, it did not seem like there was much else in the way of investigation to accomplish unless it be to study more of the local cider, and so, after a brief trip back to his hotel, Adam gave in to his initial temptation and returned to The Old Bridge Inn. Having taken this choice it was perhaps not unpredictable that one drink led to another and, as he did not feel out of place, he ended up staying there well into the evening.

  Subsequently, as drinkers have the habit of doing, he then managed to find reason to justify an ever-lengthening session. The tales he had come to investigate were, after all, the result of local folklore. Where better than the public bar to overhear gossip and community secrets outsiders might not otherwise be aware of? He was also curious to see if the girl Clara might turn up again but, as the evening progressed, it appeared this was unlikely to occur and, if pressurised to submit an honest report on the fieldwork, he would have recorded that the broadcast of a Liverpool vs Manchester United football match and the attention all paid to the big screen gave him an excuse for drinking alone without feeling awkward. The intense rivalry of the two sides was a bone of contention he could not have cared less about, but he sensed that most present felt the same way and so watching for mere curiosity of the result – a habit most Brits are familiar with as far as football is concerned – was made as comfortable as a drinker could ask for.

  Having eaten alone in his hotel room once again, Adam had already begun drinking before he left for the bar and arrived without any of his previous anxiety. The town seemed tranquil and homely, although as evening arrived the shadows of the mountains where his expedition lay did not fail to be oppressive.

  Before giving in to drink once again he had noted a chill wind growing from the south-west that numbed the face on contact and knew that he would feel much of the same in the days ahead. As ominous as this seemed, still the sky brought forth none of the aforementioned snow, but it was sensible to presume that fate was withholding a large flurry of the stuff for his benefit alone.

  At some point during the evening he recalled that, for the third night in a row, he had failed to charge his phone and could not in fact remember where it was. He could already have caused his department’s collapse, losing his job and that of his colleagues but, rather than fret over his professionalism, he found that he was more disappointed for not hearing Becky’s voice again since that first night. The sound of her voice was a therapy that got him through the worst working days, making him smile regardless of whatever steaming pile of work lay on his desk.

  His mind wandering from the furore of tribal competitiveness, Adam, aided by the power of drink to show repressed desires more clearly, gave in to a self-confession regarding the love he held for his work colleague. During the course of his visit so far he had found himself imagining, at each landscape and scenario, how Becky would have reacted and what guidance she might have offered. Not only did he respect the sharpness of her wisdom, but he desired for every memory to be a shared one: rays of sunlight making a fleeting appearance through Highland mist; the anticipation of the first snowfall of winter and of course light stroking the loch surface as fingertips over a silk mattress.

  In the process he forced himself to admit his affections were not much of
a revelation, but there were further epiphanies to consider. Demons he had shared his life with without confronting and obstacles of another form he had overlooked as a result. Loneliness was the chief of these, a presence he would have presumed himself strong enough to endure, but whose sting now seemed to overwhelm his thoughts and drive him to drink. Theorising on the last few years, he surmised that seeing Becky in the laboratory each day might have coloured the emptiness of his existence and left him unaware of how clear it would otherwise have been. While it was also obvious that he had taken Becky for granted and she might easily tear his world apart if she was to announce her departure some day; she did, after all, have friends and loved ones across the ocean.

  In defence he attempted to tell himself that he had been wrong before on matters of the heart – but such confusions are hardly a universal secret and do not need to be further explored here by a writer no more qualified to give advice on them.

  The Inn’s pleasant atmosphere continued to entice as the night wore on, aided by local brew that seemed to appreciate being enjoyed too much to be rude and inform its drinker that he’d had quite enough. Very little useful banter was heard, however, accept on the subject of football, and he left having only learnt that his capacity for drink was greater than he remembered.

  By midnight he was taking a meandering route back to the hotel that ended up taking in many sights of the town. At first any views of the Cairngorms belonged to owls and other nocturnal creatures only, that was until the full moon appeared and made the peak of Ben Macdui itself visible, blending with the night sky as a slither of pastel bordering a blanket of stars.

  He was not so liquored as to predict the sight might have made him nervous if drink did not make him brave, but he still had to resist the idea of setting off immediately, thinking he could retrieve his one-man tent from the hotel and walk under the stars until the desire to sleep arrived. Denying this urge, it dawned on him there and then that his sentiments had become closed to the wonders of life. He looked upon a world that cursed him and offered no promise of the luck or fortune on which his journey to liberation depended.

  All colour had drained from Creation and every landscape was empty.

  Once back at the hotel, several attempts to put the key in the lock made him realise how ridiculous his idea of setting off had been, while moments after collapsing on the bed and just before passing out completely he recalled that he was supposed to meet Affleck in the afternoon anyway and his assurance that he was being ‘sensible’ had become a more fragile boast in the space of just a few hours.