Red Skye at Night (35 page)

“No, Sir. It’s in my bag.”

“You brought it with you?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m not sure why exactly. I mean, Scotland… Lucky I did, though, as it turns out.”

Harry pats my bum, causing me to yelp. “Luck had nothing to do with it, girl. You were always coming. Speaking of which, I need to fuck you. Now. Then we can go and tell everyone else the news.” He grins at me as he stands to unbutton his shirt. “We’ll need to charter a plane at this rate.”

Epilogue

Winnipeg, June 2014

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes…” The soft but competent tones of the celebrant ring around the small chapel, flowing over the familiar words.

We stand, heads bowed, the occasional sniff or rustle of a tissue punctuating the otherwise hushed atmosphere. There’s comfort, I find, in the predictability of the funeral service, the cold finality of it, closure on a life lived long and full.

I reach for Harry’s hand, find it as always, right beside me. He squeezes my fingers. I lean toward him and his arm is around my shoulders.

“You all right, baby?”

I nod as I bury my face in a handful of tissues.

“We are here to say our final farewells to Ann-Marie McLeod, a woman of immense strength, dignity and resilience. A woman who never gave up hope, a woman dearly loved by all who knew her. A woman who lived a long life, most of it an ocean from where we now stand, united in respect and sorrow at her passing…”

The words continue, speaking of Ann-Marie’s enormous courage, of a life of hardship and fortitude, but filled with an abiding love for her husband, Angus, whose death preceded hers by just a few short months. A life in which her love for her family never dimmed. The celebrant speaks of separation and loss, and of reunion. I reflect on the quiet but impassioned words and have to admit that she’s good. She never actually met Ann-Marie, but she’s capturing the essence of her life beautifully.

Ann-Marie got her wish. Less than a fortnight after that family gathering in the lounge of the Portree Hotel, she and Angus boarded a plane bound for Canada. They never returned to Skye.

We have Jill to thank for the rapid turnaround of their passport applications, but she somehow managed to get the documentation sorted in a few days. It took a trip to Edinburgh to attend the office in person, but Angus and Ann-Marie came away with British passports. Ritchie and Sarah stayed with them until the paperwork was completed and the four traveled together. The rest of us had gone on ahead, including Daisy.

Harry was right, of course. Canada is a wonderful country. I’m settled here. I love it. I love Harry. He loves me. I’m happy. Why did I ever doubt it? If Harry ever wonders about that he doesn’t mention it.

Angus had mixed feelings about the move. We all knew that. But he did it, for his wife. He loved her. He would have done anything for her, even leave his beloved Skye. Ann-Marie had no such misgivings. She’d have lived on the moon if Ritchie was there. Harry was right about that too. The rest of us were just the icing on the cake.

Even so, Ann-Marie and I enjoyed a special bond, or so I like to believe. I don’t think I’m wrong. Our connection was forged as we sat outside Kilmuir that afternoon, sharing confidences about submission. We spoke of it frequently over the next two years, and it has been as much from that wise old lady as from Harry that I learnt to embrace my kink and to understand more about this lifestyle. To glory in it, to savor the sweetness of surrender.

Harry has never let me down. I no longer fear that he might. We had wonderful role models. I’ll miss them so.

Angus passed away in February of this year, aged ninety-seven. He died in his sleep. Ann-Marie woke in the middle of the night and knew he’d gone. She lay beside him until morning. On Angus’ death, the tenancy of Kilmuir skipped a couple of generations and passed to Harry. He has since purchased the land too, so now the croft is ours outright. We intend to be frequent visitors.

Ritchie offered to arrange for his father’s body to be repatriated, so he could be interred in the land he loved. Ann-Marie wouldn’t hear of it.

“I’ve spent all my life beside that man, I’ll no’ be separated now. An’ I’ll no’ be leavin’ my family either. So we stay here, both of us.”

Ritchie was surprised, I think we all were. “But wouldn’t he have wanted to be buried at home. At Kilmuir?”

“Maybe, given the choice. We ne’er spoke of it. We made no plans.”

I recall her eyes softened as she tried to explain.

“I ken he seemed a gruff auld bugger, harsh even. He was far too hard on ye when ye were young. But he was never like that tae me. He gave me what I needed, always. Even when, well, ye ken about that. An’ ye ken how he tried to make matters right again. An’ now, o’er this, he would ha’ done this for me, if I asked him. So I hae nay need tae ask. I know. We’ll be stayin’ here.”

Angus was buried in the graveyard a couple of miles from Ritchie’s home in Winnipeg, the same cemetery where we are now gathered to mourn the passing of Ann-Marie. Her death so soon after his came as no real surprise—neither of them was ever going to outlast the other by much. In Ann-Marie’s case it was a massive stroke. She regained consciousness briefly, her twisted smile of recognition enough for us to know that she saw us there, her entire family clustered around her bed in loving, helpless silence. She slipped from this life surrounded by all the people who mattered to her, to be reunited with her beloved Angus, her dreams intact.

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

A Richness of Swallows: Rich Tapestry

Ashe Barker

Excerpt

Prologue

Shit! What was that?

I slam on the brakes, more or less standing the car on its nose. I just hit something, definitely. I saw the silvery blur in my headlamps, caught the rush of movement just before the jolt of impact. Thank God Freya’s immaculate new BMW has a decent set of tires, even if I have just left half the tread on the road. Christ, she only got the thing a couple of weeks ago. She might be my best friend but I can guarantee she’ll never lend me her car again if I’ve managed to bend it.

I peer into the rear-view mirror, expecting to see—what? I’m not sure. I can only make out vague shapes in the blackness. It’s early evening still, but night falls fast in Cumbria in November. The darkness is total.

It was an animal, I’m certain of it, but beyond that I have no idea. Too big for a cat, wrong color for a fox. Dog perhaps? No, not a dog—or if it was it was like none I’ve seen before.

I flirt with the notion of just driving on. It must have been some sort of wild animal, and as long as it’s not in the road causing an obstruction there’s no need to report it. I dismiss that idea as quickly as I dreamed it up. Whatever I hit, I should check. Until I do I can’t be sure it’s not still on the carriageway. At the very least I need to know that the casualty is dead and not suffering at the road side.

I draw in a deep breath to firm up my resolve, then dig in Freya’s glove box for the small torch she usually keeps there. I get out of the car to stand in the middle of the narrow lane looking back the way I came, sweeping the beam of light across the road. The—whatever—shot out of the undergrowth on the left hand side and across the front of my car. I assume it kept on going after I hit it, which would place it somewhere to my left now. I start to retrace my steps. The skid marks on the tarmac show me the point of impact so I concentrate my attention on the long grass and brambles lining the roadside just there. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for.

A badger.

Illuminated by my torchlight the creature is the size of a small dog, but there the similarity ends. A short, squat frame, black and white striped muzzle, brownish body, its short legs are endowed with paws designed for digging. They sport the most vicious looking set of claws I’ve ever seen. The animal is lying quite still on its side, maybe four feet from the edge of the road. A trickle of blood is visible on its shiny black nose but that is the only obvious injury. The rest must have been internal.

I feel a pang of guilt as I turn to leave. I wasn’t traveling especially fast, certainly well within the speed limit, and in reality I know there was nothing I could have done to avoid the badger. But still, a life lost for no good reason. It saddens me.

I’ve taken no more than two steps when I hear it. A low sound, a grunt, then breathing. Labored, desperate breathing, the animal is fighting for every gulp of oxygen. But fighting it is. It’s not dead.

I turn back, crouch at the edge of the road to get a better look. I can see the badger’s flanks moving now, where I’m sure they weren’t before. Perhaps it was stunned for a few minutes. Whatever, it’s definitely alive, and injured.

This is a problem, and one I hadn’t really anticipated. I was sure I’d killed it. Now, I’ve no idea what to do to help the poor creature. I could have left it if it was dead. I’d have been sorry, but I would have done it. Not now. I’m responsible, sort of. I shuffle a bit closer, and can see that although the animal is breathing, and making sounds, it appears to be unconscious. Its eyes are closed—it seems unaware that I’m here.

I reach out, tentative, cautious. These things have a nasty bite, or so I’ve heard. Somehow this chap doesn’t look to be in any state to take a lump out of me though. Not today.

I lay my hand on the badger’s heaving side. I can feel the flutter of a heartbeat, and the tortured movement of its chest as it battles for breath. I don’t think this struggle will go on for long, but even so I can’t just leave it to its fate, however inevitable.

A vet, that’s what’s needed. Trouble is, I’ve never owned so much as a hamster so I’ve never required the services of a vet. I don’t have one on my speed dial, and I’ve no idea where the closest surgery might be located. There must be one somewhere near here. For heaven’s sake, Cumbria is full of animals, you can’t move for sheep half the year. There must be an army of vets, stethoscopes poised, syringes at the ready. It’s just that I can’t call one to mind.

I consider my options. Ulverston, perhaps. Barrow certainly, though that’s over ten miles away. How would I even get the poor thing there? I wonder if a vet would come out here. Probably, but by the time anyone arrives the badger will be past helping I suspect.

Then it hits me. The zoo. I’m only a couple of miles from Dalton, site of the Lake District Wildlife Park. They deal more in giraffe and rhinoceros if memory serves. And tigers. But surely the principles are the same. Any vet who can deal with lions and tigers can surely handle a little badger.

I glance at my watch. It’s already after six in the evening—the zoo will be closed by now. Even so, there must be staff there. They wouldn’t just leave all those valuable animals to their own devices. What if one gets ill? There must be a vet there, or at least a veterinary nurse.

My course decided, now it’s down to logistics. The only possible method of transport is Freya’s back seat, which means I need to heave the poor badger out of the hedgerow and somehow manage to carry it to the car. Touching its side to check if it was alive was one thing, the prospect of actually picking it up quite another.

Still, needs must. I remember that Freya has a car blanket in the boot so I go to fetch that. The badger sounds to be getting worse when I return with the tartan rug, and again I’m tempted to just let nature take its course. After a few seconds the sound settles down again. Seems I’m still committed.

No point drawing this out. I assume my most determined attitude and toss the blanket over the injured animal. I scramble into the brambles, wishing I was more appropriately dressed for this sort of activity. I was on my way back from a job interview, just part-time work to help out with my college fees, when the badger with a death wish crossed my path. I’m wearing my—well, Freya’s—best business style suit and spiky heels. I managed to look the part earlier at Kirkby-in Furness community library, but I feel somewhat overdressed now. Short on options I grit my teeth and get on with it.

I lean across to tuck the ends down over the far side of the creature, ensuring those fearsome looking claws are completely contained. Then, steeling myself, I push my hands underneath and heave the thing onto my lap.

It’s heavier than I imagined. Clearly there’s no shortage of beetles round here, or whatever badgers eat. This one’s not been going short. With a fair amount of grunting and wheezing of my own I manage to get to my feet, the badger bundled up in my arms. Bitterly regretting the heels I’m wearing I stagger over to the car and lower my burden carefully onto the back seat. The badger has not regained consciousness, which I daresay is a mercy for us both.

Ten minutes later I’m pulling up in the dark and deserted zoo car park. The place is locked up tight, not a soul around. No reason why there should be. I realize I have no idea at all what to do now. It’s not as though I can just go and rattle the gate and expect someone to come. I could try phoning the number on the sign outside, though it’s unlikely they have anyone on the switchboard at this time. I really should have thought this through more.

Just as I’m arriving at the conclusion that I’ll have to drive to Barrow after all a movement catches my eye. The small pedestrian gate beside the kiosk opens and a lone figure trots out. It’s a woman, a member of staff I assume, on her way home.

“Excuse me…” I call out to her as I scramble out of my car.

She stops, clearly puzzled and more than a little perturbed at finding a strange car in the car park way after hours. And a strange women bent on conversation. She turns, and from her startled expression I suspect she’s about to shoot back inside and lock herself in.

“No, wait. Please. I need to see a vet. Is there a vet here?” I’m rushing across the shale car park toward her. Even if she does prefer to talk to me from the other side of the gate, at least she could summon someone else. If there is anyone else.