The House on the Shore (2 page)

It was taken at
the
university picnic.
She and Mark knelt in the gra
ss by a gigantic oak tree, side-by-
side, heads slanted toward each other, arms around shoulders, clearly and disgustingly in love.
When was it taken?
A year ago?
Two?
Had they been together that long?
She swallowed
the
pain as she took the photograph out of the silver frame.
The frame she would keep.
The photo…she held it in both hands and struggled to tear it, but couldn’t see it through the tears.
She settled for balling it up and letting it fall to the floor.

There was no denying Mark was a complete bastard.
Thank God she’d never asked him to move
in
to the apartment
with her.
Obviously
he had no intention of marrying her.
He’d been adamant that he woul
d never stoop to such old fashioned sensibilities.
For a time she ha
d agreed with him.
What was marriage anyway, but a contract that didn’t just bind two parties,
but frequently strangled them?

Damn.
She could have been a good wife.
Was she doing the right thing
by moving away
?
While she could never forgive his infidelity, she would miss her job and her friends.
She scrubbed a tear
away with the back of her hand.

It was too late now to change her mind, she thought,
as she
fold
ed
a pair of jeans into her suitcase.
She ha
d already surrendered the lease on her fashionable Morningside apartment.
The rent, barely manageable on her salary, ate into her savings
quicker than a ravenous hyena.

“It’s all for the best,” she told her two
B
order collies.
Their tails wagged as if they understood.
“Besides, I’ve been breaking the lease with you here.
No pets allowed, remember?”
The younger collie, bright eyed with dappled paws
,
edged over and gave her hand a quick lick.
Anna ruffled the black and white head.
“You’re a good dog, and I’m doing all of us a favour.
We’re off to the country, my girls.
Peace, quiet, an
d who the hell knows what else.”

Anna locked the suitcase and placed it next to the door with the others ready to carry down to the old beat-up Land Rover.
She took one last look around the room.
Emptied of its contents, the apartment looked huge
.
She couldn’t take her furniture with her and had arranged to put it into storage.
All that remained of
the last seven years of
her life
,
was a carpet that needed shampooing and places on the wall where lighter paint called attention t
o where her paintings had hung.

She picked up her handbag.
This phase of her life was over.
She had a book to write.
Apart from her clothes, laptop, printer, and the few books she intended to take with her, the things she most wanted to leave behind were th
e raw sores of an aching heart.

She knew she’d be taking them too.

Five hours later
,
she coaxed the elderly
vehicle
down the potholed track toward Tigh na Cladach, her late grandmother’s remote croft on the shore of Loch Hourn
,
in the rugged northwest Highlands.
She couldn’t afford to break
down now, not when she was so close to reaching her destination.
There had been times during the drive from Edinburgh when she thought she would get no further than the city limits, but despite the vehicle’s faded green paintwork and battered appearance, the engine seemed sound.

With a sigh of relief she yanked on the handbrake, climbed down out of the driver’s seat, and stood for a moment savouring the silence.
After the bright lights and noise of the city, it felt strange to be so far from civili
z
ation.
She glanced at her watch
-
ten
o’clock
on a summer
evening -
yet she could se
e every rock and bush clearly
for
it never became truly dark this far north.
Indeed, night itself
was
no
more
than
a deep dusk.

Ensay and Rhona,
the
two black and white Border collies,
free
d from the confines of the rear seat, chased each other on the lawn in front of the small
stone
cottage.

The old
squat house was small, about forty or fifty feet long, and of traditional one and a half storey height
.
A
chimney
rose
at either end.
The walls were three feet thick and built of rough,
whitewashed
granite
.
The building stood some thirty yards from the water’s edge, nestled in th
e natural curve of the hillside
as if seeking protection from some invisible force.
Whoever had built it
,
had chosen the location well
.
I
t fitted into its surroundings perfectly, its
stone walls
standin
g the test of time and weather.

Either side of the bright green door were two small quartered windows, set deep into the stonework.
The one on the right belonged to the kitchen, and the
one o
n
the left
to the sitting room.
It wasn’t much, but it had been her grandparents’ home.
True, it was miles from civili
z
ation, but it was mortgage-free
, a
nd
now
hers.

She collected
her handbag, laptop, and a box of groceries from the passenger seat, locked the Land Rover
,
and
scrambled
over the cobbled path to the croft.
All she needed now was a hot drink and a good nights’ sleep.
The rest of her unpa
cking could wait until morning.

Inserting her key in
to
the lock, she pushed open the door, flicked on the hall light, and
trudged
into the kitchen.
The scent of lavender hung in the air.
Not only had her dear friend, Morag McInnes, dusted and aired the cro
ft in time for her arrival, she ha
d
also
left a bowl of her favourite
pot
pourri on the oak dresser.

A
nna filled the electric kettle and put it on to boil. While she waited, she
opened the mail sitting on the table where Morag had left it.
There were two letters.
The first
turned out to be
a demand for taxes from the local council.
The second envel
ope was made of heavy parchment. Printed on the top l
eft-
hand corner was t
he name and address of a firm of Glasgow solicitors.
Curious
as to why they
sh
ould be writing to her, Anna slipped a neatly manicured fingernai
l under the corner of the flap and tore it open.
It contained a very generous offer
,
on behalf of their unnamed client, to purchase Tigh na Cladach.

“
O
f all the nerve,” she said
,
as she slumped into a chair
.
She read the letter again to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood.
Th
eir client could go to h
ell. S
he
stuffed the letter back into the envelope and propped it up against the pepper pot.
T
oo tired to deal with it now
, she would write
in the morning,
and tell
them
t
he croft wasn’t for sale
, n
or would it be at any time in the future.

Stretching to ease the stiffness in her shoulders and neck, she made herself a cup of
tea
and carried it to the table.
She fed and watered the dogs, then made her way up the narrow wooden staircase to the bedroom she’d slept in
since a teenager.

Situated directly above the kitchen, the room nestled under the eaves of the roof.
Light, airy
,
and warmed by the heat of the range below, it was painted a delicate shade of pink.
Rose-coloured chintz curtains bordered the window, which overlooked the loch
.
A large, brass
four-poster
bed, covered by a hand-stitched patchwork quilt in shades of red, rose, pink and green, stood opposite the door.
Her grandmother’s music box, the key long ago lost,
sat
on
top of
the chest of drawers in the corner.

With a long exhausted sigh,
Anna
quickly u
ndressed
and climbed into bed. She ha
d only been asleep for a couple of hours when s
omething woke her.
The digital clock on the bedside table flashed
two fifteen
.
Her hands twisted nervously in the blankets
as
she held her breath
and
listened for the slightest sound.
Apart from the gentle snoring of the two dogs curled up on the rug at the foot of her bed, there was silence.
She felt uneasy, but told herself it was foolish to feel afraid.
Nevertheless, her hand trembled as she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp.
A shaft of light struck her pillow, making her squint but leaving the rest
of the room in eerie darkness.

She sat up, let out a long, shuddering breath, and ran a hand down her bare arm
.
I
t
felt
cold, clammy and
was
covered in
goose bumps
.
The hairs on her n
eck prickled
as if touched by some invisible hand.

There wasn’t a sound
—
not even the pitter-patter of the mice that inhabited the roof space of the old croft.
Yet something had wakened her.
She shiver
ed, and chewed on her lower lip
as she stole a look at the dogs.
Odd
—
they were her early warning system and reacted to the slightest noise, but neither seemed alarmed.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily.
Had she been dreaming?
She t
hought not
and yet the feeling
that
something was wrong persisted.

Unable to settle, she pulled back the blankets
. She
swung he
r legs over the side of the bed
and went to the window.
She drew back the curtain and peered into the twilight.
A ghostly silhouette moved across the lawn.
T
he curtain slipped from her
fingers as s
heer black fright swept through her.
For once she wished the croft wasn’t quite so isolated and that her grandparents had installed a telephone.
But they hadn’t, and even if they had, it would take the police the bes
t part of an hour to reach her.

She tried to ignore the creaking and settling of the old house, but the strange sounds only added to her nervousness.
S
he shook her head in an attempt to clear the fog of sleep from her brain
and searched for a plausible explanation
.

Had she seen a figure
or
had it been a shadow
cast
by a cloud crossing the moon?
Summoning all her courage she parted the curtain once more.
To her relief there was no one there.
Her heart still pounding, she tugged on her green candlewick dressing gown, t
ied
the belt tightly around her slim waist
,
and
crept
downst
airs.