bloody freezing out here.”
I finally came fully awake. He was at the front door.
“Hold on—I’m coming.”
I got up off the sofa too fast and had to hold on to the mantel to avoid falling to the floor. Using the wall and furniture I was able to stay upright until I got to the door and opened it wide, just in time to see a taxi depart back down the track.
“Happy New Year,” Alan said, and thrust a bottle of whisky at me. His smile turned to shock as he looked me up and down.
“For God’s sake, Jim. What’s happened here?”
I tried to smile and nearly managed it.
“I had a wee bit of car trouble,” I said.
“What did it do, try to eat you?”
I looked down at my clothes—I was caked in dirt from neck to toe, my trousers torn, shirt frayed. My hands were gray with clotted gravel, looking like a bad effect from a cheap horror movie, and I guessed my face must look the same.
I laughed, and Alan smiled back, but I could see he was concerned.
“I lost the place a bit,” I said. “Bloody thing refused to start so I decided to see if a good kicking would sort it out.”
“And did it work?”
“No. But I felt a damned sight better afterwards. Come on in—I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I left him in the kitchen while I went for a shower. On my return I found him heating a takeaway in the microwave.
“Curry and Talisker,” he said as I joined him. “It’ll cure most anything except for a moody car.” He passed me a large glass of whisky. “And in case you missed it the first time—Happy New Year.”
I looked at the clock—it was two in the morning.
“I’m not dark, not handsome, but I’m tall—and I have more booze in the bag, so I’m the perfect first foot.”
“I must have fallen asleep,” I said.
I saw him look at the sofa, and the trail of dirt that led from there across to the patio doors.
“Cleaner’s day off?” he said, and raised an eyebrow.
I knocked back the whisky in one gulp, feeling the heat warm me from the inside.
“Get me pissed enough and you might get a story before I fall asleep again,” I replied.
“Best offer I’ve had all year,” Alan said, and poured another.
* * *
On that first morning of the year, the whisky kept me fueled and I did indeed tell Alan a story—some of it was even true. I talked about Beth, how we met, how we lived and how she passed. I talked about grief, and why I kept her ashes in the urn on the mantel. I talked about why the painting I’d given his parents for Christmas was so bloody bleak and empty, and I talked about loneliness, and closure.
What I didn’t talk about was the house. If Alan noticed, he didn’t say, and after a while we’d both had too much whisky to be attempting any rational thinking. With my confessional done, Alan took over the talking duties, keeping me amused with more tales from Portree and the lives of both the locals and the tourists who descended on the place in the summer.
At some point around sunrise everything caught up with me and I drifted off to sleep in the middle of a tale about a policeman, a nude sunbather and a Great Dane that would have been uproariously funny if I’d been sober enough to appreciate it.
When I woke, it was dark again, and Alan was gone.
He’d left a note on the table.
Family duties call. See you next Saturday in Dunvegan?
The way I felt right then, booze was the last thing on my mind. I spent ten minutes clearing up the worst of the dirt between the sofa and the patio, put on a load of washing, and loaded up an old movie on the laptop. All the time I was aware of the reopened hole out on the shore, worrying at it like a tongue at a fresh cavity. I’d opened a door. I didn’t need to have my thumbs pricked to know that something was coming through.
It was just a matter of when—and what.
PART 3: CLOSURE
1
I didn’t sleep well that first night. I lay awake watching shadows crawl, alternately
I finally came fully awake. He was at the front door.
“Hold on—I’m coming.”
I got up off the sofa too fast and had to hold on to the mantel to avoid falling to the floor. Using the wall and furniture I was able to stay upright until I got to the door and opened it wide, just in time to see a taxi depart back down the track.
“Happy New Year,” Alan said, and thrust a bottle of whisky at me. His smile turned to shock as he looked me up and down.
“For God’s sake, Jim. What’s happened here?”
I tried to smile and nearly managed it.
“I had a wee bit of car trouble,” I said.
“What did it do, try to eat you?”
I looked down at my clothes—I was caked in dirt from neck to toe, my trousers torn, shirt frayed. My hands were gray with clotted gravel, looking like a bad effect from a cheap horror movie, and I guessed my face must look the same.
I laughed, and Alan smiled back, but I could see he was concerned.
“I lost the place a bit,” I said. “Bloody thing refused to start so I decided to see if a good kicking would sort it out.”
“And did it work?”
“No. But I felt a damned sight better afterwards. Come on in—I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I left him in the kitchen while I went for a shower. On my return I found him heating a takeaway in the microwave.
“Curry and Talisker,” he said as I joined him. “It’ll cure most anything except for a moody car.” He passed me a large glass of whisky. “And in case you missed it the first time—Happy New Year.”
I looked at the clock—it was two in the morning.
“I’m not dark, not handsome, but I’m tall—and I have more booze in the bag, so I’m the perfect first foot.”
“I must have fallen asleep,” I said.
I saw him look at the sofa, and the trail of dirt that led from there across to the patio doors.
“Cleaner’s day off?” he said, and raised an eyebrow.
I knocked back the whisky in one gulp, feeling the heat warm me from the inside.
“Get me pissed enough and you might get a story before I fall asleep again,” I replied.
“Best offer I’ve had all year,” Alan said, and poured another.
* * *
On that first morning of the year, the whisky kept me fueled and I did indeed tell Alan a story—some of it was even true. I talked about Beth, how we met, how we lived and how she passed. I talked about grief, and why I kept her ashes in the urn on the mantel. I talked about why the painting I’d given his parents for Christmas was so bloody bleak and empty, and I talked about loneliness, and closure.
What I didn’t talk about was the house. If Alan noticed, he didn’t say, and after a while we’d both had too much whisky to be attempting any rational thinking. With my confessional done, Alan took over the talking duties, keeping me amused with more tales from Portree and the lives of both the locals and the tourists who descended on the place in the summer.
At some point around sunrise everything caught up with me and I drifted off to sleep in the middle of a tale about a policeman, a nude sunbather and a Great Dane that would have been uproariously funny if I’d been sober enough to appreciate it.
When I woke, it was dark again, and Alan was gone.
He’d left a note on the table.
Family duties call. See you next Saturday in Dunvegan?
The way I felt right then, booze was the last thing on my mind. I spent ten minutes clearing up the worst of the dirt between the sofa and the patio, put on a load of washing, and loaded up an old movie on the laptop. All the time I was aware of the reopened hole out on the shore, worrying at it like a tongue at a fresh cavity. I’d opened a door. I didn’t need to have my thumbs pricked to know that something was coming through.
It was just a matter of when—and what.
PART 3: CLOSURE
1
I didn’t sleep well that first night. I lay awake watching shadows crawl, alternately
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