Holiday of the Dead (12 page)

Loch Tay was a wide gouge in the terrain, really a widening of the river of the same name. At its western end was a tiny town called Killin, but coming from the east, Josh arrived in Kenmore, a village that time forgot. There was a hotel, a church, a row of white cottages and a tiny post office that looked exactly like they would have two hundred years ago – if not for the cars and 4x4s parked in every available spot. A bridge spanned the river and on the far side were a walled holiday complex, a mini-shopping mall and a caravan park. Josh had no intention of going that side of the bridge. He wanted to get away from it all, so he took the narrow trail that ran along the southern banks of the loch. He noted a reconstructed Neolithic ‘round house’ built on the water, and pinpointed it for a visit later in the week.

His landlord lived in an ultra-modern split-level house with views over the loch to die for. Josh had booked over the Internet, exchanged emails, and arranged to pick up the keys. The guy made an impression of his credit card, got Josh to sign the slip; no such a thing as chip and pin out here.

‘Then you’ve come to the right place. Keep going that way for three miles, look for a white gate on your right; it’ll be open. If you see a phone box, you’ve gone a wee bit too far.’

Christ, Josh thought, if you saw a phone box in Newcastle you’d have gone back in time!

Back in the car he’d followed the road, noting that the further it progressed the less maintained it became. Before he found the phone box and had to perform a hairy three point turn, the road was primarily loose gravel and potholes. Backtracking, he found the white gate and pulled into a steeply descending drive, and at the end of it the small cottage he’d been seeking.

Beautiful, he thought.

The cottage was sandstone, with a slate roof and wooden conservatory, all of it practically hidden beneath a blanket of ivy and flowers he couldn’t identify. Bethany would have loved the place, would have thought it idyllic and charming. She’d have loved to have walked hand in hand with him over the brook – or
burn
here in Scotland – and down to the waterside. Maybe they’d have even made love out on the pebble-strewn shore, the sound of the chuckling water a romantic backdrop. The thing was, his relationship with his wife had turned as frosty as had the one with his dad. His own fault; he shouldn’t have shagged that blond probationer in the back of his police van. It had been a slow night, but that was no excuse. Beth found out about his dabble from a well-meaning colleague, and that was it. She left him, went home to her mum, and the divorce was through within eight months. It seemed like the back of a police van was anathema to all Josh’s family relationships.

More than a hundred years old, he half expected the cottage to be old fashioned, but it had been done out with all mod cons. Nevertheless he could feel the history in the house, could almost imagine the hustle and bustle of the many generations that must have dwelled here over the years. The landlord had stocked up on the necessities; bread, milk, bacon, tea and coffee, even a few home baked scones. A fire was already burning in the stove in the living room and a small bucket of coal and a basket of logs were set out for him. He fed the fire, and settled down with a mug of tea and bacon buttie. Tomorrow he’d get his fishing rod out and go down to the loch, but now it was getting dark, and, anyway, he was at peace with himself. And that’s what the trip was all about. Peace and getting away from it all.

There was one problem he hadn’t considered: how did anyone get away from the end of the world?

Josh was wakened in the night by something strange.

He had fancifully entertained the notion that his father’s spirit would join him on this trip, but it had been an abstract thought at most. Josh didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really.

The sound was a series of knocks, a rhythmical cadence that speeded up towards the end.
Bump … bump … bump … bumpbumpbump
.

Ever the brave copper, this time something held him tight in the fireside chair. The fire had burned down to cinders, where only a red glow of smouldering coals gave any light to the room. He’d fallen asleep without putting on any of the lamps, and on the floor at his feet were his empty sandwich plate and his cup with a film of cold dregs in the bottom. He was fatigued from the long drive up here, but hadn’t realised just how tired he was. He couldn’t recall placing down the cup or plate, and must have done so in a semi-dream state. Now he was wide-awake and his heart was jumping in his chest.

He peered behind him, checking out the unfamiliar room, craning to inspect the narrow flight of stairs to the bedrooms and bathroom. He half-expected to see someone standing on the stairs, having chased the ball that had bounced down them. There was no one there.

He heard the sound repeated.

Bump … bump … bump … bumpbumpbump
.

A smile of embarrassment flickered for a moment. Josh leaned over and tapped on the stove. Again the sound repeated itself, but this time it was followed by a gurgle of water through the pipes. The stove was cooling, and so was the water in the central heating; the bumping was the contracting of the pipes as they settled.

‘Ghost, my arse!’

The eerie feeling persisted in him though, and his pulse was still up. He thought that there was no way he would get back to sleep. Not for a short while at least. He stood up, flicked on a lamp, and grabbed logs from the basket and fed them into the stove. When that was done, he went through to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. He used a different cup, left the dirty dishes for tomorrow, a habit born of bachelordom. Then he went outside for a smoke.

A small garden ran down the side of the cottage, with a high hedge, but at the end it dropped off sharply to the brook. He could hear the water rushing by, but couldn’t see it in the darkness. Out beyond the brook were the floodplains that gently descended towards the loch, but he had no impression of the immensity of water, or the hills on the far side. The clouds had built through the evening, obscuring the moon and stars, and it was as if he stood at the edge of a black void. He stepped back, taking solace in the soft glow of light from the living room window and in the red pinprick glow of his cigarette tip.

He heard a scream.

At least he thought it was a scream.

Could have been an animal – a fox, or one of them huge grouse things the size of a turkey he’d heard roamed hereabout – but he wasn’t sure.

‘I love the smell of haggis in the morning!’

The young waitress didn’t get the movie reference, and Josh wondered if they were so out of touch here in the remote outback that they hadn’t got satellite TV or DVDs or any of the other things a big city lad took for granted. Then again, it was a pretty lame play on the famous Apocalypse Now line. Except the breakfast she plonked down before him looked like it was familiar with napalm. The bacon was nigh on black, the eggs crispy, the sausages torched and even the toast was sliced carbon lathered with butter. The haggis looked good, though, and Josh was looking forward to tasting the local delicacy.

He’d discovered that the monstrous grouse thing was called a capercaillie, and he was sitting beneath one that had been stuffed and mounted on a cross beam in the café. He thought the huge dog reclining just inside the front door was stuffed as well, but the old thing was just sleeping. It was a docile beast for all its size, and he’d stepped over it without it stirring and entered the café. There were two girls waiting on, but they outnumbered the clientele this morning. Josh was the only one who had turned up for a fried Scottish breakfast.

‘Is it always as quiet round here?’ he asked.

The girl, a pretty thing with pale, almost translucent skin, and fair hair pulled back in a ponytail, looked back at her friend who was watching from the till. The teller looked almost identical to the waitress now that he thought about it, perhaps a sister rather than a friend. The girls exchanged a shrug.

‘I thought you might have got a few visitors from along at that time share spot at Kenmore.’ Josh looked at them both, hopeful for some interaction at least.

‘It’s the flu,’ his waitress said, her accent a pleasant singsong. ‘Naebody’s oot and aboot at the minute.’

Josh thought of the news reports, the panic over the recent rebirth of the swine flu, a more virulent strain than the one that had raged throughout the world last year, and thought it was just another of the bad news stories he’d have left behind in the ‘real world’. Shit, there’d been all these calamities lately, with unprecedented snowfalls, floods, earthquakes and recently – like a Biblical prophecy of doom – in America an entire flock of birds had reputedly fallen out of the sky stone dead: anyone would think that the end of the world was nigh or something.

‘Is it bad here? I’d have thought it wouldn’t’ve spread here, being so … uh, remote.’

‘We get loads of tourists through,’ the girl said defensively. She sniffed, wiped at her nose surreptitiously with her sleeve. She gave him a look that told him he might be a virus-infested sack of pestilence and moved away from him. ‘They bring it here with them. But you needn’t worry aboot catching it; we’ve had oor jabs here. Enjoy your breakfast.’

‘Uh, thanks,’ Josh said, but he’d lost his appetite.

Ten minutes later he’d finished pushing the burnt offerings around his plate – although the haggis had been good – and he took a walk over the bridge and onto the waterfalls that made Killin a stop off on the tourist trail. There were signs to an ancient clan burial ground on an island in the centre of the river, but the path across to it was gated, the gate padlocked. So much for seeing that landmark, too. He watched the rush of white water over the rocks, wondering if the fish were biting. That turned his mind to his real reason for being here and he returned to his car and took the narrow south road back to his digs. On the way, he flicked on the car radio. The reception was hit and miss, and – coincidentally – the news report was about the flu epidemic sweeping the country. Not to worry, though, the NHS was on the case and had already implemented a nationwide vaccination programme, despite fears of side effects from the rushed and untested vaccine. Some doctor or other guested on the show, offering advice and calming the listeners over the unsubstantiated rumours of … the radio cut out.

Josh turned it off. The road demanded all of his attention. Jesus, it was even worse at this end of the loch. Up and down it went, twisting and turning, following the contours of the land. He could see where recent rain had washed miniature landslides over the road, and from the lack of disturbance to the dirt and twigs it didn’t look as if many vehicles chanced this route that often. He passed a hotel set on the hillside. When he’d researched Loch Tay, seeking his ideal getaway, he’d learned that the hotel was a popular eatery, with top grub on the menu. He thought that anyone risking this road of an evening must have a strong constitution to eat a meal afterwards. There were vehicles in the car park. He saw a woman, her hair under a woolly hat, wearing a North Face ski-jacket, but for all of that she still looked cold. Her features were ruddy, her nose streaming with mucus, and she was shivering wildly as she watched him drive slowly by. It looked like some five star grub would do her good, because the lingering stare she followed him with was one of intense hunger. He thought that she even took a couple of steps after him, but then she was lost to sight by a bend in the road.

Coming this way, the ancient telephone box was on his right. It had been there so long, at the mercy of the elements, that it had required many coats of paint over the years. The latest paintjob was beginning to look a little worse for wear, and the box had sunk at one corner so that it now leaned awkwardly towards the water. He followed its lead and looked across the loch, watching the sunlight sparkle on the crests of waves kicked up by the breeze. He couldn’t recall it being that cold when he’d been at the falls at Killin, but maybe here where the valley broadened out, the wind was chilly as it raced through. That might explain the state of the woman he’d passed a couple miles back. Or she had the frigging flu.

He turned into the lane that led down to the cottage.

There was no time like the present, he decided. He’d paid for a license to fish on the loch, and the cottage came with a private strip of beachfront. He collected his rod and tackle, his bait box, and headed off down by the water.

Out of the fly fishing season, he elected instead to bait his hook with maggots he’d purchased before leaving Newcastle and carried here sealed in a Tupperware container. It was a long time since he’d been out on the Tyne with his dad, and back then he hadn’t taken much interest in the technicalities of fishing. He had been more interested in sitting in companionable silence with his dad, feeling the closeness, the connection without the need for conversation or instruction, and catching fish was secondary. He felt out of practice now and wasn’t fully sure he was using the correct method for a loch. He believed that most lochs had gently sloping shallows that then dropped off to great depths. For such places his dad used to employ a method called ledgering, where a baited hook was supported by a float that ‘dangled the bait over the ledge’, attracting the fish that gathered there. Because he wasn’t necessarily interested in catching fish here, as much as he was attempting to rediscover that feeling of peace he’d once known at his father’s side, Josh made do with baiting a hook and adding a couple of lead weights. He cast the line out into the water, and then sat down, supporting his rod across his knee as he waited for the almost imperceptible tug that a fish was biting. For him, the waiting game of fishing was meditative, Zen-like.