Sophie's Run (26 page)

“Yeah, right, and we’ll arrive at around midnight,” Steve muttered darkly. “How could I be so stupid? Why didn’t we leave earlier?”

“Shush,” I soothed. “We’ll get there. C’mon, let’s go.” And I dragged him to the ticket office, where we discovered that we could take a train to Edinburgh just after one p.m. We would arrive at six-thirty p.m. and would catch a connecting train to Pitlochry just before eight. Our luck appeared to change, and the nice lady behind the counter even changed our existing tickets to cover the new journey.

Steve was still tense, but he relaxed a little over a quick cup of coffee and a spot of lunch in a coffee shop. Acting on a loved-up impulse, I gave him a big kiss, leaning over the table and nearly knocking over the cups. He smiled weakly.

“What was that for?” he asked, sounding like a husband of twenty years who was taken aback at an unaccustomed display of affection by his wife.

“Nothing. It’s just that I love you very much,” I declared cheerfully, and finally the hint of a sparkle returned to his eyes.

“I…” He interrupted himself, looking thoughtful for a minute or two while he rummaged around in his rucksack. Then he shrugged as though silently dismissing an idea.

“I love you, too,” he said as he sat back in his chair once again, and we smiled at each other.

Things were looking up.

The train journey to Edinburgh was relatively uneventful. However, halfway across the country, the sunshine vanished and grey skies loomed.

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, I declared loudly and brightly, “Never fear, the weather is meant to be really changeable in these parts, I’m sure it’ll be fine and sunny tomorrow.”

“Och, it’s a wee bit o’ Scotch mist, lassie,” a passing passenger chipped in. “It winna fash ye. The thing to watch oot for is the midges, they’re fair ferocious this time o’ year.”

I didn’t have a clue what he had said, but I was too embarrassed to show myself up as a total Sassenach so I smiled apologetically and shrugged.

Seeing my confusion, he took pity. “It’s just a bit of rain, it won’t hurt you. But watch out for the mosquitoes,” he stated cheerily in clear Queen’s English. Shaking his head, he continued his journey down the train. I rather wished he hadn’t offered this comment. My heart sank to my boots with the thought of eternal drizzle, muddy shoes, damp clothes, frizzy hair, and mosquitoes. I was a real mozzie-magnet and couldn’t stand the wee beasties. This time, however, it was Steve who rallied.

“Well, we’ll scratch the walks and hole up in our sumptuous accommodation,” he whispered in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of way, and I giggled.

When we eventually pulled into Waverley station, we were cold, hungry and dispirited, and we had well over an hour to kill before catching our connecting train.

“Now what?” Steve wanted to know, sounding as though this was all my fault. I bit back a sharp response and continued in
rah-rah
mode.

“Every cloud has its silver lining,” I declared staunchly. “We have some time, right? Come on, let’s grab a quick dinner somewhere.”

The warm and cheerful interior of a nearby pizza place–not to mention the pizza-and-garlic-bread combo we consumed in record quantities—did much to cushion the blow of still being on the road. It proved difficult to be pessimistic on a full tummy and after a glass of wine. Thus it was with relative enthusiasm that we boarded the little trundle train for Pitlochry where we finally arrived at half-past nine, once more weary and bedraggled, but buoyed by the knowledge that we were nearly, nearly there now.

Alas.

The next obstacle proved to be finding a taxi as the hotel was a good half-hour’s car ride from the station. It was completely dark and pouring with rain. Obviously, neither of us had packed a raincoat, or even an umbrella. My mood sank again. I wanted to be dry and in bed. I wanted to sleep.

Please, please, find a taxi, Steve.

Steve did the manly thing. He deposited me under a three-way enclosed bus shelter with our luggage and went off in search of transportation. It seemed to take an age, but in reality he was back within ten minutes, drenched to the skin but exultant—a taxi would pick us up shortly.

Sure enough, a hesitant sputtering announced a vehicle approaching along the station road. There were no taxi lights on the green Vauxhall Astra, which was at least fifteen years old and barely roadworthy even by my inexpert standards. Still, at that precise moment, it had to do.

Steve carefully deposited our luggage in the boot and we jointly sat on the back seat, sinking so far into the upholstery that our chins almost touched our knees. The driver appeared to be a relic from a pre-motoring age. He was at least eighty, with crinkly skin and deep set eyes only barely visible behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. His whole skinny frame was shaking incessantly, and the steering wheel wobbled accordingly.

Thirty-seven interminable minutes later, we pulled up outside a gated property surrounded by high hedges. The hotel wasn’t visible behind all the greenery. There were no lampposts and no lights, and after Steve had settled the fare, retrieved our luggage and had been dismissed by an unduly cheery “Bye the noo,” we were left in utter darkness.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I inquired, eying up my black and wet surroundings doubtfully.

“I told the man
three
times where we wanted to go,” Steve reminded me. “I can’t see how he could have gone wrong.”

I shivered, and Steve put his arms around me protectively.

“Well, I don’t know,” I persisted. “This doesn’t look right to me. We’re in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

Steve suddenly chuckled.

“What could possibly be funny?” I demanded to know, on the verge of hysteria.

“It’s quite
Rocky Horror Picture Show
, isn’t it?” he offered. I had only ever seen that film once, in the arty cinema off Leicester Square on a Friday night. I had been ill-prepared for it and got absolutely soaked. Nonetheless, I knew exactly what scene he was referring to.

“We’re the couple arriving at the castle,” I whispered. “Oh God, I hope not.”

“And so it seemed that fortune had smiled on Steve and Sophie…
” Steve intoned in his best narrator voice. He continued, “…
and that they had found the assistance that their plight required
…” He gave a little audio
ta-ta-ta
for the ellipsis before the dramatic rhetorical question, “…
or had they?
”

“Stop it, you’re frightening me,” I protested. He had a point, though. All we needed was the riff raff to appear and the set would be perfect.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologized dutifully. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s one of my favorite films, and this is kinda great.”

I wanted to thump him on the arm to make him stop, but I never got the chance.

“Can I help you?” a brittle and tremulous voice inquired from somewhere in the dark. “Only I have to inform you that you are trespassing.”

I shrieked with fright. Steve held my hand very tight, and I could hear him swallow.

“Uh, we have reservations for tonight, and for tomorrow, too,” he declared courageously. “In the name of Steve Jones?” He waited for some kind of acknowledgement, but when none came, he elaborated some more. “I booked the four-star Heather suite?”

The disembodied voice erupted into cackles of mirth. “Och aye, the Heather suite?” it repeated incredulously. “You’d better come in. Aye.”

The gate swung open with a blood-curdling squeak, and the source of the voice became apparent. The man was extremely tall and his face shone palely like a ghostly moon. A long coat flapped on his gangly frame. Without another word, he led the way toward the dark and abandoned-looking house. I couldn’t help thinking that if that was a four-star hotel-spa-resort, I was the Queen of England. There had to be a mistake.

Steve stroked the palm of my hand with his thumb as if to say,
hang in there, it’ll all be all right.
But everything was far from all right.

The inside was also like something straight out of the set of Steve’s favorite film. It was all blackened oak beams and grimy red wallpaper, with a rucked-up rug running the length of the entrance hall. At least there was an official reception desk, upon which lay an ancient ledger that the…the…the keeper, for want of a better word, now duly opened. I half expected him to load a quill with ink, but disappointingly, he retrieved a cheap black biro from his coat pocket.

“Steve Jones, was it?” he muttered to himself.

Steve nodded, and I elbowed him sharply to speak up.

“Yes, that’s right,” Steve obliged, earning himself a glare from our host. And what a glare it was. The man certainly was the palest-looking creature I had ever seen. His face was beyond white; the skin was almost translucent. He had deep-set black eyes gleaming like tiny coals under bushy black eyebrows, and an unruly shock of jet-black hair. He looked like a mortician, or something out of a horror movie.

Meanwhile, Steve stood his ground.

“So, the Heather suite, please,” he reiterated firmly. Frankenstein’s nephew unleashed his scary cackle again. “Och noo, you cannae have that. There’s no Heather suite in this hotel,” he uttered ominously. “But yer can have our wee best room.” He set off immediately, swinging a set of keys in his bony right hand.

“Do you think we should really stay here?” I hissed under my breath, tugging at Steve’s sleeve to get his attention.

“I don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper, “but what else can we do? It’s very late and we’re not going to walk away from here, and not in this rain, are we?”

“This isn’t the right place,” I persisted. “Please won’t you ring a cab to get us out of here?”

Steve shook his head. “The mobile is dead. There’s absolutely no reception whatsoever. We’re stuck for the night.”

I shivered. “This place totally spooks me,” I confessed. That it was also cold, and dirty, and utterly unwelcoming, went without saying.

The “wee best room” revealed itself to be a circular attic room at the top of some kind of turret. Having progressed through a rabbit-warren of passages and stairways, eventually the door swung open on a room that was, in fact, mildly inviting. It held an enormous four-poster bed and a couple of armchairs. There were three big sash windows fully exposed to the howling gale, and rain was oozing in through the frames. Our host quickly pulled the curtains to distract from the water ingress, but dislodged great clouds of dust instead. Evidently, the room hadn’t been used for ages. Years. Decades, possibly.

“Breakfast is at eight. You have a good night, noo,” the nephew uttered, leaving it open whether he meant “noo” to signify “now” or “no.” Then he left and we were on our own.

I did the only thing a girl could do in such a situation. I sat down on the bed and wept. I was tired and frustrated and disappointed, and I didn’t have it in me to hold it all back. However, noticing Steve’s crestfallen appearance, and the way he was picking at the curtains trying to mask his disbelief, I suddenly saw the funny side and started laughing instead. Great convulsions of laughter were racking my body, and Steve came over, concerned.

“Oh dear, I think I’m going mental,” I erupted. “It’s not a laughing matter, I know, but I can’t help it.” Now I was laughing and crying at the same time. “Come on, you gotta see it. This is a disaster. My goodness, this place is something else. If you saw it in a film, you’d be weeing your pants with mirth. This is
totally
surreal.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. We were going places. I lifted the counterpane experimentally, but dropped it back in horror. I couldn’t be certain, and I certainly didn’t want to know for sure, but it looked like there were mouse droppings on the sheet. Droppings of some description at any rate. Steve took another look for me and came back grinning.

“Not mouse droppings,” he said. “Just mildew marks.” He bent over the sheets and inhaled daringly. “Actually, I daresay these are clean. As in, not used since the last time they were washed. They’re certainly musty and they don’t look great, but I think they’re safe to use.”

I took a dubious sniff myself. Surprisingly, all I got was a whiff of detergent. Perhaps—just perhaps—this could be braved.

As it was rather late, we decided to call it a day. I explored the hallway to locate the bathroom for my evening ablutions and immediately resolved to go skanky in the morning. There was
no
way I was going to submerge in that bath. Steve ventured forth himself and returned with a similar conclusion. Thus united, we crawled under the blankets, holding each other close, and hoped for morning to come quickly.

That moment turned out to be the best part of the night. Shortly after, the storm picked up another notch and the windows rattled menacingly in their frames. The room proved cold, draughty and damp. And the damp turned into wet when the roof started leaking. Fat drops of water fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing the bed but making an inordinate racket on the wooden floor. The old house creaked and groaned like a being possessed, and sleep proved elusive. Steve and I were both awake—still awake—at the first light of dawn, and I felt gritty and very much out of sorts. Steve didn’t fare much better. Silently, we packed our bags in the unspoken agreement that we weren’t staying a minute longer. The real hotel had to be found.