‘No,’ I said, curtly.
‘I suppose you get used to it,’ he said, either not noticing or ignoring my rudeness. ‘Where we come from, one understands what it is to be alone, you see. Though, if you’re not careful, it can send you a little crazy.’ He made a boring motion with a finger at his temple. ‘All that darkness in the winter, all the solitude.’
Not quite true, I thought. Sometimes solitude is the only way to regain your sanity. But it also got me thinking. If you lived in Iceland – with its long winter nights – wouldn’t you go a little further from the cold and dark than Scotland? For the price of the cabins at this place you could get all the way to the relative warmth of Southern Europe. And for that matter, I wondered how two people who got here by hitch-hiking on a fishing trawler could have afforded our rates. But perhaps they did it simply for the adventure. We get all sorts, here.
‘Should we be worried?’ Ingvar asked, next. ‘About the news?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t know? The Highland Ripper.’
Of course I knew. I’d been hoping the guests didn’t. I’d seen the pictures in the paper the day before: the faces of the six victims. All youngish, pretty. You might bump into a hundred girls like that walking down Princes Street in Edinburgh – and yet the images had the ominous look of all victim photos, as though there was something about each innocuous smiling snap that would have foretold their fate, if you had known what to search for. They looked, somehow, as though they had been marked for death.
‘Yes,’ I said, carefully. ‘I’ve seen the papers. But Scotland is a pretty big place, you know, I don’t think you’ve got anything—’
‘I thought it was the Western Highlands, where they found the victims?’
‘Still,’ I said, ‘It’s a pretty large area. You’d be as likely to bump into the Loch Ness monster.’
I sounded a little more blasé than I felt. That morning, Iain had said, ‘You should tell the guests to stay indoors at night, Heather. On account of the news.’ It rather put me on edge that Iain – who hardly ever mentioned the guests – had expressed concern for their welfare.
I didn’t think this man, Ingvar, was really scared of anything. I sensed, instead, that he was having a bit of fun with the whole thing; a smile still seemed to be playing around the corners of his mouth. It was a relief when he asked about hunting, and I could escape the scrutiny of those pale blue eyes. I remember thinking that there was something unnerving about them: they didn’t seem quite human.
‘Oh, you’re better off asking Doug about hunting,’ I said. ‘That’s definitely his side of things. Doug?’
Doug glanced over. The blonde looked up too, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
‘Do you ever shoot the animals at night,’ Ingvar asked, ‘using lamps and dogs?’
‘No,’ Doug said, very quickly and surprisingly loudly.
‘Why not?’ Ingvar asked, with that odd smile again. ‘I know it’s very effective.’
Doug’s reply was bald. ‘Because it’s dangerous and cruel. I’d never use lamping.’
‘Lamping?’ the blonde guest asked.
‘Spotlights,’ he said, barely glancing in her direction, ‘shining them at the deer, so they freeze. It confuses them – and it terrifies them. Often it means you shoot the wrong deer: females with young calves, for example. Sometimes they use dogs, which tear the animal apart. It’s barbaric.’
There was a rather taut silence, afterwards. I reflected that it might have been the most I had ever heard Doug say in one go.
The two Icelandic guests have been very eager to help with the search. They’re probably the only two that I’d trust in these conditions: they must see similar weather all the time. But they are still guests, and I am still responsible for their well-being. Besides, I know nothing about them. They are an unknown quantity. All of the guests are. So my lizard brain is saying, loud and clear: Trust no one.
I wonder what the guests all make of me. Perhaps they see someone organised, slightly dull, absolutely in charge of everything. At least, that is what they will have seen if I have pulled it off, this clever disguise I have built for myself, like a tough outer shell. Inside this shell, the reality is very different. Here is a person held together by tape and glue and prescription-strength sleeping pills – the only thing I can be persuaded to make a foray into civilisation for, these days. Washed down sometimes, often, with a little too much wine. I’m not saying that I have a drinking problem; I don’t. But I don’t ever drink for pleasure. I do it out of necessity. I use it as another painkiller: to blunt the edge of things, to alleviate the chronic, aching torment of memory.
Three days earlier
30th December 2018
MIRANDA
Dinner is served in the big dining room in the Lodge, off the living room, which has been lit with what appear to be hundreds of candles, and staffed by a few spotty teenagers in plaid aprons. We’re two short: Samira and Giles are having supper in their cabin. Samira said she’s heard too many stories about parents ‘just leaving their kids for an hour or so’ when everything goes horribly wrong. Yes, I told her, patiently – but not in the middle of nowhere. Besides, Priya’s hardly going to be wandering off on her own at six months, for God’s sake. Still, Samira wasn’t having any of it.
I almost can’t believe this woman is Samira, who at one party in our early twenties decided to jump the two-foot gap between the house building and the building next to it, just for a laugh. She was always one of the wild ones, the party girl, the one you could rely on to raise the tempo of things on a night out. If Katie’s the one who I go way back with, Samira’s probably much more like me: the one I’ve always felt most akin to. Now I feel I hardly recognise her. Perhaps that’s just because she’s been so busy with Priya. I’m sure the real Samira is in there somewhere. I’m hoping this will be our chance to catch up, to remember that we’re partners in crime. But honestly, when some people have kids it’s like they’ve had a personality transplant. Or a lobotomy. Maybe I should count myself lucky that I don’t seem to be able to get pregnant. At least I’ll remain myself for Christ’s Sake.
I’ve got the gamekeeper, Doug, on one side of me and the other guy, Iain, on the other. Both of them are wearing identikit green kilts and sporrans. Neither looks particularly happy about it. As you might imagine, the gamekeeper wears his outfit best. He really is quite attractive. I am reminded of the fact that, before Julien, I was sometimes drawn to men like this. The reticent, brooding sort: the challenge of drawing them out, making them care.
I turn to him and ask: ‘Have you always been a gamekeeper?’
He frowns. ‘No.’
‘Oh, and what did you do before?’
‘The Marines.’
I picture him with a short back and sides, in uniform. It’s an appealing image. He looks good scrubbed-up, even if I’m sure his hair hasn’t seen a brush any time in the last five years. I’m glad I made an effort: my silk shirt, undone perhaps one button lower than strictly necessary, my new jeans.
‘Did you have to kill anyone?’ I ask, leaning forward, putting my chin in my hand.
‘Yes.’ As he says it his expression is neutral, betraying no emotion whatsoever. I experience a small shiver of what might be disquiet … or desire.