THE NEXT MORNING they went down to the pier to take a trip around the loch. The boat they took was called The Maid of the Mist. When Marion was a small child, she had believed it to be as grand as an ocean liner; now she realized it was nothing more than a shabby little ferry.
As the boat cut through the choppy waters of the loch, they clung to the guardrail, taking deep breaths to reduce seasickness. Marion was sure the scenery would have looked breathtaking if it weren’t for the blinding rain blowing straight into her eyes. The worsening weather forced the family to find indoor activities over the following days. They visited the Museum of Marmalade, where John spat out the preserves on the floor, then a ruined castle, taking a tour of the dungeon.
A guide, dressed in a black cloak, showed them around the subterranean vaults, relating the history of the castle while in the character of a medieval executioner. The performance was subject to John constantly querying the guide’s knowledge of historical facts and laughing at his attempts to frighten the visitors with stories of historical “ghosts and ghoulies.” The other members of the group coughed and shared glances while Mother simpered apologetically. Neither she nor Dad seemed to have the courage to stand up to John.
“You’re spoiling everything,” Marion whispered. “Why can’t you stop being so horrible?”
“Why can’t you stop being so ugly and stupid?” he spat back at her.
“I just don’t know why Dad lets you get away with being like that.”
“He won’t say anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know stuff.”
“What do you mean, John?”
“Stuff he doesn’t want her to find out about.”
Then he gave her a look and tapped the side of his nose, which had recently begun to sprout blackheads. What on earth could John know about Dad that he didn’t want Mother to find out about? For some reason, Marion was sure it had to involve the time the two of them spent down that awful cellar together. Yet part of her didn’t want to know, any more than she could face the idea of descending those steep stone steps and nosing around amongst the mold and shadows.
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IF THINGS WEREN’T bad enough in public, Marion hated being alone in the hotel room with him even more. She always went into the bathroom to get undressed, but on more than one occasion John pulled down his pants right in front of her, making her burn with shame. He left the toilet unflushed and farted without caring if she was in the room or not. Complaining made his behavior even worse; it was as if he enjoyed shocking her.
“But what would you like to do today, John?” Mother asked one morning over coffee and grapefruit segments in the breakfast room.
“I dunno, what is there to fucking do in this boring hole?”
Mother’s hand went to her jaw as if she’d just fractured a filling. She glanced at Dad, who was staring out the window, his face expressionless.
“I mean, why the hell do we even bother coming here?” John continued. “We might as well stay in the Northport Grand and play bingo with the old codgers.”
A gray-haired lady in a tweed suit looked at them over her copy of the Herald.
So they stayed in the hotel that day, Dad drinking whiskey after whiskey in the bar, while Mother read her tarot cards in the Glen Carrick Room, with its roaring fire and panoramic view of the loch. Marion went up to her room to fetch a book to read; as she was about to go back downstairs, she saw John standing with his back pressed against the door, blocking her way.
“I know, why don’t we play a game?” he suggested with a malicious glint in his eye.
The “game” consisted of John making Marion do increasingly ridiculous and humiliating things. He made her touch her toes fifty times until she nearly fainted from lack of breath, then eat toothpaste until she threw up. She crawled on the floor like a dog while he prodded her with a walking stick he’d found in the lobby. He said if she didn’t do these things, he would stuff Bettina down the toilet.
Marion thought at least by playing his game she might draw off the dark energy, and he would turn back into the old John who had helped her with her homework and played gin rummy with her, sometimes even letting her win, but it soon became apparent his nastiness was in never-ending supply.
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AFTER DINNER ON the final night, they went to the bar to listen to Mrs. Galloway sing. Marion thought she looked elegant in a white shift with tartan sash, her long brown and silver hair piled up on top of her head. A smiling Canadian couple, round as pumpkins and wearing matching Fair Isle sweaters, said good evening as they sat down at the table next to the Zetlands. Mr. Galloway played the piano while his wife sang in a swooning soprano of banks and brays, lasses and laddies and rye.
As soon as John began to snigger, Marion got a sharp feeling in her throat.
Mother slid a cigarette from the gold-and-green packet with shaking fingers, and Dad lit it for her.
“Please stop it,” Marion muttered.
“Rubbish,” said John, loudly enough for the Canadian couple to stare at him, their smiles hollowed out into little cavities of shock. Mrs. Galloway kept on singing.
“John—you bugger,” hissed Dad.
Then John cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Shut up, you ugly old trout!”
The singing finally stopped, and the room fell quiet. Mrs. Galloway’s fishlike eyes peered at them from beneath drooping lids.
Dad grabbed John’s arm, pulling him abruptly to his feet, then Marion jerked her head backwards, feeling the slap across her brother’s face as keenly as if she had been struck herself; in fact, she would have preferred to have taken the punishment. That way the horror would have stopped there. As John rushed out of the room, Mother got up to go after him, but Dad told her to sit down and finish her drink. So the three of them stayed and listened to the rest of Mrs. Galloway’s performance, which had tentatively started once again.
An hour later, Marion went back to her room, fearful of what might await her. When she turned on the light, it took a minute for her mind to reassemble the broken-up jigsaw before her. Furniture had been overturned, things smashed, beaks and feathers, mongoose fur, sawdust, tufts of woolly stuffing were scattered everywhere.