‘Well, let’s give it a go, and turn back if it gets too bad,’ Dad says, putting the car in gear, and pulling away.
It will take over four hours to get to Drummondale House, so I bring out my phone, shove in my ear buds, and begin trawling through YouTube videos, particularly enjoying a video of a cavalier puppy being taught to high-five and roll over. Eventually, despite not being tired, my eyes grow heavy – and sleep with its awful nightmares of a year ago beckons.
I’m going to where I last saw Lark.
A sense of foreboding rises. Why do I feel this is the biggest mistake of my life?
Chapter 3
Present Day
Amelia
The first two hours of the ride is silent, and by the time we get to the services in Perth, the snow has turned to rain now lashing across the windscreen.
Dad pulls onto the forecourt. ‘Need to stretch my legs,’ he says. And we take the opportunity to grab a takeaway.
Dad and I get out of the car, and race towards the McDonald’s, and despite him using his coat as a makeshift umbrella for us both, rain splatters down my collar, making me shiver.
We are silent in the queue. We are silent returning with the burgers. We are silent while we eat in the car.
‘Well at least the snow’s cleared,’ Dad says finally, finishing the last of his burger and screwing up the wrapper. ‘I was beginning to worry we would end up snowed in in the Scottish Highlands.’ He laughs. ‘Imagine that.’
‘I’d rather not,’ I say, though the thought of it raining all the time we are there is almost as bad.
‘Only another two and a half hours,’ Dad says, wiping his hands with a serviette. ‘You’ve got a splodge of something on your cheek, love,’ he adds, and I instinctively touch my face, and get mayo over my fingers.
Back on the road, I find myself dozing once more. When I wake, the car’s heater is pumping out a dry heat, and snow tumbles from a charcoal-grey sky once more, as though someone’s tipped out a giant bag of cotton-wool balls.
Dad is crawling along at ten miles per hour and the wipers struggle to and fro – thump, thump, thump onto cushions of snow each side of the windscreen.
‘When did it start snowing again?’ I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
‘About an hour ago,’ he says. ‘We’re almost there.’
We make our way up a steep hill, skidding and sliding. ‘I think we should have turned back, Dad,’ I say. But there’s a determined look on his face. He’s desperate to get there.
As the wrought-iron gates that separate Drummondale House from the rest of the Scottish Highlands loom in front of us, my stomach flips. Memories of the last time we were here invade my thoughts, and a feeling of absolute dread rises inside me.
The gates stand open, and as Dad pulls through them onto the drive that leads to the ruin, I battle an urge to grab the steering wheel and turn the car around. We shouldn’t have come. My heartbeat quickens, banging against my chest as I catch sight of Drummondale House, shrouded in snowflakes. A few years back I would have whipped out my phone and taken a picture. Put it on Facebook or Instagram. But I’m a different person now. Broken.
I sense Maddie moving forward in her seat, her breath hot on my neck. ‘This weather is awful, Robert,’ she says. ‘I mean I love snow, but this is crazy.’ There’s tension in her voice. ‘We should have turned back an hour ago.’
I turn and glare at her. ‘Well, maybe you should have said something an hour ago.’
‘It’s too late now, Maddie, love,’ Dad says, meeting her eye in the rear-view mirror.
I snap a look at Dad, my body tense. His eyes are back on the windscreen, and he’s hunched forward over the steering wheel.
‘I’m sure it will clear up by morning,’ he says.
‘Unlikely. I’m pretty sure this snow is here to stay, Robert.’ There’s a quiver in Maddie’s voice.
‘Well we can’t go back now,’ he says, blinking. ‘It’s too late. We’re here now.’
We pull onto the snow-covered car park, and memories of twelve months ago skid into my head like a skier on a downward slope. I remember it all so well.
I press my forehead against the side window, eyes tipped towards the sky. It’s blustery out there – the wind rattling and moaning as it wraps itself around tall trees that sway as though dodging its icy hands.
A sudden thump on the glass makes me jump. ‘Fuck!’ It’s Ruth, the owner, far too close to the window, peering in at us, her small, grey eyes screwed up against the weather. I sink down in my seat, holding my chest, taking deep breaths to calm myself.
‘I’ll get the keys,’ Dad says, switching off the engine. He leans over his seat, grabs his coat from between Thomas and Maddie, and opens the door, which swings outwards, almost ripping from its hinges. Snow invades the car.
Once outside, Dad struggles to put on his coat, wind whipping it into the air like a kite, as he pushes his body weight against the door to close it. Finally, he beats the wind, and manages to get his coat on, doing it up as he trudges through settled snow, Ruth by his side.
I glance back at Thomas. He’s asleep, making puff puff sounds as he breathes. It breaks my heart that he messed up his young life. I can still recall how excited he was a few years back when a Hollywood director hired him to write a screenplay for a new feature – we all were. He’d flown to the US full of so much hope. But he struggled. Mingling in circles where he didn’t quite belong was too much for him. He began drinking and dabbling in drugs to cope, and instead of his life taking off, as it should have, he
