I didn’t know when we spoke that first time that James had been in a car accident and had his lower left leg amputated. When he mentioned it on the phone a few days later, it was only because he wanted to reassure me that it wouldn’t get in the way of our camping trip. We met up at my place in Liverpool the following day. James drove for eight hours to visit me. I couldn’t wait to rip off all his clothes and see what lay beneath the surface. That prosthetic leg made James seem even more edgy. I say “even more” because he also had long hair, tattoos, and a pierced cheek. He wasn’t just a nice guy; he was an exotic species.
We didn’t have sex that night, as it happens. We baked a beef Wellington.
I finish my beans and put my empty plate on the side, ready to wash under the outside tap in the morning. I put a log on the fire and climb back into bed. I could do a bit of reading. I finished the folktales during decompression, but I’ve still got the thriller James gave me. Little Deaths.
That reminds me of something. I look at my phone and search for information on congenital disorders among children of divers.
My period still hasn’t come since I stopped taking the pill. I really need to stop wondering if I’m pregnant, though. People try to conceive for years. It’s so unlikely that it will have worked first time. And if it has worked . . .
I reach for the wooden hatch above me and slide it back to reveal a Velux window. I can see the night sky, speckled with stars: the Milky Way. Or the Milky Circle, which was apparently the ancient Greek name for our galaxy. They believed that stars were the goddess Hera’s breast milk, splashed across the sky. I like the Greek name better than ours, because calling it a circle reminds me that it’s always there, wrapped around us like a motherly hug.
12
“Another Oban, please.”
“Right you are,” says the woman behind the bar.
I’m at the Kilchoan Hotel, working my way through a bottle of fourteen-year-old single malt. Tastes of cigarettes and disinfectant. I’m avoiding contact with James so that I don’t have to tell him I’m out of saturation. At least I feel connected to him by having his favourite drink.
I should probably eat. I’ve had all my meals in the hut so far, throwing together whatever I can get from the local shop. Spaghetti hoops, Dolmio pasta pouches, Super Noodles. The Ardnamurchan beefburger should be exactly what I fancy, but even though I’ve had an active day, I’m not hungry.
This morning I climbed to the summit of Ben Hiant. Lizzie told me it’s a “must” if I’m going to be staying all week. She even lent me some crampons. On a clear day, at the top of the hill, you can get panoramic views across islands that sound like settings for fairy tales: Tiree, Coll, Rum, Eigg. This morning started off clear, but by the time I got to the summit, I could see only the ground beneath my feet.
After that, I went back to the hut and started the crime novel, which is based on a true story: two children are murdered in New York in the sixties, and the prime suspect is the mother. She’s a good-looking divorcee who drinks, smokes, and wears lipstick, so clearly she’s not to be trusted. Twenty pages in, I decided to walk to the nearest pub.
The barmaid hands me a whisky, and I add a splash of water from a pottery jug that says “Teacher’s” on it. Then I sit in an armchair by the open fire and close my eyes.
“Mind if I join you, hen?”
I look up and see a man, maybe sixty, dressed in faded jeans and a checked shirt. He’s got a bushy grey beard and has a definite lumberjack look about him.
“No, no, please do.” I shift back, as if making room for him on my chair.
He takes the chair opposite and lets out a long, artificial sigh. “That’s better. It’s Baltic out there. Plays havoc with the chilblains.” He puts his beer on the table. The label says “Vital Spark.” He holds his hands up to the fire. “You looked a million miles away then, lass.”
I have a mouthful of whisky and wonder if it’d be rude to close my eyes again. “I wish I was a million miles away,” I say.
The man laughs. “Ach, you’re always a million miles away from somewhere.” He takes a long draught from his bottle. Indulges in another artificial sigh. “Good stuff, this,” he says. “Brewed in Fort William. Slightly less than a million miles away.” He chuckles, as do I. “What brings you to Kilchoan? I’m presuming you’re no local. The accent. The hiking gear. The look of someone who’s come here to get away and is no really wanting an auld fool blethering on at her when she’s come in for a bit of peace and quiet.”
“I’m actually supposed to be working right now,” I say. Revealing this makes me feel lighter, like a secret has been unloaded. I continue: “I’m a diver in the North Sea, but my dive was cut short, so I drove here from Aberdeen instead of going home.” There: that is my confession. Maybe, somehow, via the movement of particles or energy, James has been able to absorb that admission from his position in Cornwall.
“A diver, eh?” The man scratches his beard. “We had a diver die out here last October. In the Sound of Mull. The RNLI took him to hospital, but he didn’t make it. Terrible business.”
The last thing I need is yet another person telling me what a dangerous career I’m in. The greatest danger divers face is being told how dangerous their job is every five minutes. So I ask: “What
