Everyone was on their feet, holding hymn sheets. Some sang the confident song of those who knew the psalm well and felt secure in their surroundings but for most, being in church was unusual. This left them with two options; look down at the words and mumble along as best they could, picking up the tune as they went, or stare straight ahead in solemn contemplation.

Eilidh opted for the first option. She felt a sense of calmness when her voice blended into the crowd, even if she didn’t really know what she was singing.

“My soul he doth restore again; and me to walk doth make”

She stood three rows back from the front of the Church of Scotland in Portree but from her occasional glances behind her she knew the room was full, with people standing at the back of the church and spilling out the door onto the street. As the song around her continued, her own lips moving as she droned as many of the words as she could, she thought back to her first memory of the church, which she guessed was also her first of any memory.

She was sitting in a buggy, so that must have made her two or three years old, being pushed by her mum on a sunny June day. They stopped under the trees at The Square in Portree for some shade and looked over to the steps of the church. The doors were open and it looked like something was happening inside, but Eilidh wasn’t sure what. Then, around them, people began to gather and look towards the church. A few minutes later, people started to pour out of the doors and down the church steps. She remembered thinking it was funny that both the women and the men were wearing colourful dresses, only to find out in later years that the men were wearing kilts.

Eilidh, her mum and the gathered crowd watched the bride and groom follow the wedding guests out of the church, confetti flying everywhere and the piper playing something fast and loud. There was a huge laugh when one of the men (she now knew it was a guy called Ali ‘Handro’ from Edinbane) slipped on the last step and fell to the ground, only to stand up holding a hip flask aloft for all to see. Eilidh smiled briefly as she thought of that day. She wished she was at a wedding today.

“Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale, yet will I fear none ill”

In the row behind her was Danny MacLeod, a well-known local singer and musician from Achahork. He was doing a lot of the heavy lifting for their section of the church, belting out the psalm (which was at the top of his vocal range) in a way that felt inspiring rather than awkward. She wished she had his connection to music, or to religion, or to something. She listened to him intently as it came to the end of the psalm.

“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me: And in God’s house for evermore
my dwelling-place shall be.”

Eilidh switched off when the minister started speaking about God and Jesus with vague threats that if those gathered in the church didn’t start coming more regularly then they’d be going straight to hell.

“How could this happen? Where is the goodness and mercy in all of this? I just don’t understand.” She thought.

At the end of the service Eilidh and the rest of the crowd stood up and slowly shuffled up the aisle before exiting through the church doors and walking down the same steps that Ali Handro had slipped down. A crowd was gathered where Eilidh had watched from her buggy as a child.

Nobody was laughing today.

___________________________

Michael’s head bounced off the bus window with a thud strong enough for him to shout “ouch” in public. He stretched his legs as best he could in a bus seat and looked out at the view. The misty rain meant he couldn’t see much, so he focussed on the raindrops as they plotted their route down the glass on the outside of the window. The wind outside and the speed of the bus was forcing some of the raindrops upwards in long diagonal streaks, but most trickled down slowly before eventually dropping to the road below.

“Are you okay, wee man?” The woman across the aisle said.

“Yeah, fine thanks.”

“Quite a bump, do you need anything? I’ve got some water in my bag.”

“No, I’m fine,” Michael replied out loud.

“I’m not a fucking kid, you old boot”, he replied in his head.

As the bus crossed the bridge Michael felt a lump in his throat. It didn’t feel right to be leaving. But he wasn’t allowed a say in the matter. He was on his way to Fort William to stay with his aunty Mary for “a wee while”.

“A wee while?” Michael said when his Dad delivered the news. “That could mean anything. An hour is a wee while. Depending on timescales, a year could be a wee while.”

His dad replied his now familiar reply of - “...”

So here he was. Banging his head off the Citylink bus on the way to Fort William. Not Glasgow, not even Inverness. And in fact it wasn’t really even Fort William, aunty Mary lived in Caol. He hated it there. Everything in her house was either white or almost-white and all her ornaments were fragile. He couldn’t understand why anyone wanted to live like that, she was constantly on edge about something breaking or staining.

The bus stopped for a toilet break in Kyle. Nobody got off or on .

“Just move man, come on.” Michael thought, looking at the driver. He reached into his pocket while they waited for the bus to leave again and pulled out a small rectangular picture. He held it to the light and looked at it even though he knew the reaction it would prompt. He held his breath.

First he felt the knot already present in his stomach twist round painfully, then it seemed to grow tentacles and stretch up his body into his chest. Sharp pains darted at pace through his ribcage and he felt his face and head get so hot he thought he might faint. Then he exhaled. His eyes welled up and, with his mouth slightly open, he screamed, silently.

He rested his head on the headrest behind him and took a deep breath. With that, tears began to pour from his motionless face, which he’d turned away from the woman across the aisle.

“I’m so sorry.” He mouthed.

___________________________

Eilidh opened her back door to an unexpected - and unwelcome - visitor.

“I know”, said Becky.

“Well, come in then. It’s pissing down”, Eilidh replied.

Becky took her jacket off and hung it on one of the dining chairs in the kitchen that Eilidh’s back door opened into. The flooring had changed since Becky was last there, and she noticed Eilidh had new kitchen worktops too.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Eilidh offered, politely.

“Erm. No thanks. Actually. Yes. Please.”

“Okay.”

“In fact, just leave it.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have wine? Or.”

Eilidh went over to a small cupboard above her fridge and took out a bottle of red wine.

“I have red wine? People keep giving me it as a gift. I hate it.”

“Me too.”

“Do you want some?”

“Yeah.”

With a controlled silence, Eilidh poured two small glasses of red wine and brought them to the kitchen table where Becky was sitting. She sat opposite her. It was some time before either spoke.

“Are you not going to say anything?” Becky asked.

“You came here. You can start.”

“Okay. Sorry. I…”

Becky wasn’t sure what to say first. She’d come for a reason, but the atmosphere between her and Eilidh was suffocating.

“Where’s Catherine?”

“She was up all night with a cough. So she’s sleeping late.”

“How is she?”

“For fuck sake Becky. She’s fine. Now can you stop pretending it’s normal for you to be sitting in my kitchen and get to the point?”

“I’m Sorry.”

“Are you?”

Becky drank her glass of wine in one go.

“Classy, as always.” Eilidh said.

“Eilidh-”

“Becky.”

Another lengthy spell of silence fell over the kitchen to the extent where Eilidh’s novelty kitchen clock, which depicted a large sheep being “shagged” by a swinging, smaller sheep, started to sound aggressively loud. Becky glanced at the clock.

“Probably the only thing that’s not changed in this room since you were last here? It was a gift. My uncle would be offended if I took it down.”

“Erm”

“I had to get rid of nearly everything else. Everything I looked at made me feel… I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I am. I am. I’m sorry.”

“I felt like I could see you. Smell you. All over the house.”

“Can we-”

“In a minute we can, yes. But first I want you to just fucking sit there and feel fucking ashamed for a fucking minute. Okay? I think that’s fair.”

Eilidh slowly got up and poured another glass of wine for Becky.

“Okay. What’s going on?” She asked, without sitting back down.

“It’s Mick - it’s Michael.”

“Isn’t it always…”

They both laughed.

___________________________

As usual there were two young children out on the croft and the slow, jingly music was playing. The colours, true to form, were brighter than it seemed right for them to be. The grass was a perfect and vibrant green and barring an interruption from the tree at the top of the hill there was a clean line where the croft met the sky, which was clear and pleasingly blue. Although I couldn’t feel the temperature, I knew it was the good kind of cold, so I wondered why the kids always dressed the way they did? The boy with a green t-shirt and grey shorts. The girl with an orange summer dress. It was too hard to see their facial expressions as they skipped up the hill, holding hands and always with flowers in their other hand, so I never knew if they felt the same seemingly misplaced dread as I did watching this scene unfold. I searched again for?

Shit. Wait. They stopped. They stopped and I could still see them.

I ran up the hill. The grass, which I hadn’t realised had just been freshly cut, was wet and slippy. There was dog shit everywhere that I was trying to avoid like landmines without taking my eyes off the boy and the girl. They were still up ahead and they weren’t moving but they’d turned their backs to me. I knew it wouldn’t work, but I tried to shout them. As expected, no sound came out. But I was getting closer.

Then, the boy turned around.

He was smiling but shouting something to me. I wasn’t sure what. It was windy and his voice was getting lost in the gale. He raised up his arm and pointed at me. I was closing in on him and realised he wasn’t pointing at me, but behind me.

I looked over my shoulder. Portree. Well. It didn’t look like Portree, but I knew it was. Then, the lines of electric blue ripped through it and started coming for us up the hill. As they got closer, I felt the two kids stand either side of me. They held my hands. Then the lines came burning towards us and everything ended. But I was getting closer.

___________________________

“Annie, that’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door here. I told them you were wanting to chat”, Ally shouted to the back of the garden from the front door.

“Aye that’ll be right! Tell them to eff off!” Annie shouted back.

“That’s not very nice, is it now?” Ally winked at Michael and Becky, who were standing next to MIchael’s battered old Ford Focus in the driveway. They both laughed, which gave the game up with Nanny Annie.

“You old bugger. You’re not funny. You think you’re funny. But you’re not funny”, she said as she walked down the slope at the back of her garden then followed the path through the well maintained flower beds and novelty garden ornaments.

“He thinks he’s funny.” She said when she finally arrived at MIchael and Becky. “But he’s not.”

“Come in, come in.” Ally said as the group headed into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

“It’s good to see you, Michael”, said Annie once they were seated.

Jumping in on the conversation before an awkward silence broke out, Ally added, “and you too Becky. It’s been a while. How’s your granda?”

“Yeah, he’s fine, thanks” Becky answered.

“Still at the bikes?” Ally asked the same question every time he saw Becky.

“You know him! He’s some man for the bikes. He’s fixing an old quad just now as well - it’s an old banger but he reckon’s he’ll get it going again.”

“Oh he will, aye. He was always a good mechanic. Good with his hands.”

“When there’s not a drink in them!” Becky joked.

Ally gave a good natured laugh and Michael smiled. Annie has left mid conversation to go and make the tea. She returned with a tray containing four mis-matched mugs of tea and a plate with biscuits on it.

“No gorse tea today then, Nanny?” Michael realised that was the first thing he’d said since arriving. His mind was on the letter and he was tired. His eyes were trying to force themselves closed. When he reached his hand over to pick up his tea he saw it was shaking.

“No gorse, just tetley I’m afraid. Although it’ll be time for heather tea soon enough. How was the drive down?”

“Slow”, Becky answered even though the question was meant for Michael, “full of tourists. We saw one of them pulling over to empty their campervan toilet in the layby at Kingsburgh.”

“You’re kidding” and “Ridiculous” Annie and Ally said at the same time before going onto their own individual rants about how things had changed and you weren’t safe with all the tourists there. This happened quite a lot when you visited Michael’s Nanny and Papa, which wouldn’t be so bad except they both expected the listeners full attention at all times - and if they suspected you were listening to the other one instead of themselves, they’d stop and ask: “Are you hearing me?”

After a few minutes of them ranting and Becky and Michael nodding at one then the other they rounded up the conversation.

“They wouldn’t behave like that in their own countries, would they?” Annie suggested.

“Aye, that’s right Annie.” Ally agreed, leaving Michael a gap to divert the conversation.

“The garden’s looking nice”, he said.

“You’ve been busy since I last saw it.” Becky slipped in a compliment. She knew there was tension between herself and Annie but wanted to try and put it to one side to help get to the bottom of things for Michael.

“Tapadh leat Becky. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you, right enough. You’re looking well, I must say.” Isn’t she, Ally.”

“Huh?” (Ally had started reading the paper.)

“I’m saying that Becky’s looking well. He’ll be on page three is he? Dirty old man!” .

Becky was surprised at how much she laughed at Annie’s joke. The release of tension had worked and she felt suddenly at ease in the room.

Michael had been aware of the tension too but was focussed on his own ill-feeling. He found himself sweating again and the scars on his back were burning worse than they had been before. He sat taking deep breaths and looking out of the window. Annie noticed that he looked pale.

“Annie”, Becky started before glancing at Michael, who tried to avoid her eyes. “We need a bit of help from you.”

Annie and Ally put their cups of tea down and looked at Michael. He gave them a look that confirmed Becky’s request and showed how serious the situation was.

“Well then. You’d better come down to the back room. Come on.” Annie said.

___________________________

As usual we were out on the croft and the slow, jingly music was playing. The colours, true to form, were brighter than it seemed right for them to be. The grass was a perfect and vibrant green and barring an interruption from the tree at the top of the hill there was a clean line where the croft met the sky, which was clear and pleasingly blue. Although I couldn’t feel the temperature, I knew it was the good kind of cold, so I wondered why I was always dressed the way I was. In a green t-shirt and grey shorts. She was next to me, in an orange summer dress, holding my hand. I say ‘she’, but ‘she’ didn’t have a girl’s face. It wasn’t even really a face, more of a smouldering? It looked like the leftover ash of a fire with flickers of dying embers through it.

We were both searching again for? Something. We’d know it when we saw it, but describing what it was seemed to be impossible. Behind us there was a shadow? I think. The shadow was a man cloaked in darkness? I think. Always he was coming, always he was gaining on us and always he stopped us in our tracks. Abruptly, a force prevented us from moving and the music faded before everything blurred. Then there was a brief blackout and electric blue lines tore through everything. But the girl with the ember face never let go of my hand.
___________________________

Becky sat, three glasses of wine in, uncomfortably on Eilidh’s couch. She hated being there. She hated everything about it. But she didn’t really have anywhere else to go in the situation and the fact was, Eilidh was just good at getting stuff done. She was the first one their age to have a kid. The first to get a house. She was the first to learn how to drive. Becky was even pretty sure she was the first to get her fucking period. Maybe that’s what had made her so good at coping with life. And of course, she’d had to cope with Thomas and everything that had gone on there.

“Urgh, don’t think about him.” Becky thought. She stood up to get another glass of wine and Eilidh came bounding back into the room.

“Okay, Dad’s outside to pick up Catherine. Stay here. I don’t want him asking about you.”

Becky saw Catherine in the hall with her My Little Pony overnight bag. Their eyes met and Becky stuck her tongue out at Catherine, who smiled before following Eilidh out of the house. Once they’d both left, Becky slumped back down to the couch, put her head in her hands and started to cry.

“Jesus Becky, not everything is about you. Fucking… Suck it up.”

“Sorry.”

“Get your jacket on. We need to leave.”

“Are you sure we should do this? Maybe we should just go and tell someone?”

“Who? The police? The fucking coastguard?”

“Maybe.”

“Aye, great idea. Let’s go and tell the RNLI”, Eilidh picked up an imaginary phone.

“Hi guys, erm, our friend had gone totally fucking mental and it’s possibly really scary and mad. What makes us think that? Erm. Well. He had a wee bit of paper and now he’s run away? No, no he’s not a child. Ah okay, good idea. We’ll go fuck ourselves because phoning you was a stupid idea.”

“You’re just being cruel. I’m worried that’s all.”

“I’m not being funny Becky but if you don’t start behaving like an adult I’m going to punch you in your face. Don’t think I’ve not pictured myself doing that hundreds of times.”

“...”

Eilidh squatted down next to the still-sobbing Becky. Annoyed that she had to be the one comforting her, she put her hands on Becky’s knees.

“Becky. Punching you in the face was genuinely what I’d think about before going to sleep every night for a long time. But then, I decided to stop. That maybe you weren’t so bad after all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean. You’ve got nice.. Hair?”

Becky laughed.

“Now please. Shut the fuck up, put your jacket on, and let’s go.”

___________________________

As usual there were two young children out on the croft and the slow, jingly music was playing. The colours, true to form, were brighter than it seemed right for them to be. The grass was a perfect and vibrant green and barring an interruption from the tree at the top of the hill there was a clean line where the croft met the sky, which was clear and pleasingly blue. Although I couldn’t feel the temperature, I knew it was the good kind of cold, so I wondered why I always felt so hot. I felt as though I’d have gone up in flames myself if it wasn’t for the boy in the green t-shirt who held my hand and cooled me. His hand was cold, but his face was warm and though he was a boy, his face seemed timeless.

As we walked through the grass, we were both searching again for? Something. I think I knew we’d never find it. But without the boy, without the searching, it would be the end for me. So I was happy to relive this moment again and again, even if each time had the same ending. As I saw things, it was better to perpetually relive an ending and end only once and disappear.

The boy was worried about the shadow-cloak man behind us. But I knew more than he did. Maybe it would have been better to try and tell him, but in our own ways I think we were both happy to continue searching. We didn’t really need to know what we were searching for.

Then came the brief blackout. Then came electric blue lines tore through everything. Then came me waiting to do it all over again.

___________________________

“Well then. You’d better come down to the back room. Come on.” Annie said.

Michael’s Nanny and Papa’s house was the type of house where everyone stopped in for a blether and the craic in the kitchen. The postie, the neighbours, family, even occasionally some German tourists who had stayed there when it was a bed and breakfast several years prior. And the back door opened straight into the kitchen. So serious conversations were saved for the ‘top room’, which was what most people would call their living room. Perhaps because of the seriousness of its use, Michael never liked it. It felt cold. He was afraid of it when he was a wee boy.

Ally led them down to the top room, followed by Becky and Annie with a hesitant, shaky Michael last in the line.

“I’ll bring some more tea down in a minute”, Annie said as they walked down the hall, “unless you think we need something stronger? Ally, open up a bottle and we’ll have a dram.”

“That sounds perfect.” Becky replied.

“You’re telling me”, Ally turned and whispered to her before winking, nudging her side and sticking his tongue out.

They sat down on the rarely-used top room couches and Ally went to pour the drams when they noticed that Michael had gone. He had seen his opportunity as they passed the front door on the way to the living room and darted out of it and back to the car before driving away.

Something felt off to him. That back room. Becky being there. What had happened the night before. He just couldn’t deal with it.

What had been a nice summer morning was turning into rain. He thought of his dad standing with tourists in the pub, work trousers still on.

“You get all four seasons here in one day.” He’d say. Michael hated it when he did.

The rain was coming down hard now and Michael’s mouldy Ford Focus windscreen started to steam up. He wiped a section immediately in front of his seat with his sleeve, causing a momentary wobble from the car as he accelerated hard past the Earlish road sign. He didn’t want to be followed.

___________________________

As soon as his hand touched the phone inside his pocket, Davie remembered it had no battery left. His mind wasn’t functioning in an orderly manner. His foggy thoughts wandered as he held his phone in his hand inside his pocket. He remembered being a young boy. Young enough that he had to stand on a stool to reach the worktops in his house but old enough that he could still remember it. When he was left in the house alone, which was often as his mum and dad were out working the croft or at various jobs, he’d go on the hunt for something sweet to eat. Sometimes there was a bit of fruit loaf, maybe a biscuit or two if he was lucky. More often, there was not. So he’d sneak into the top cupboard, which had the baking supplies in it. If luck was on his side, there might be a green tin of Lyle’s Golden Syrup he could steal a spoonful of. If luck was against him, he’d see the red tin of Lyle’s Black Treacle. Every time he snuck a spoon of treacle he realised it wasn’t what he thought it was, and that he didn’t like it. But every time he saw the tin, he tried it again. For some reason, Davie thought about that red tin of treacle often.

Back in the present, confused and standing outside in the lane behind the old co-op that led to the old mill with his old hands in his old pockets, it was as though his thoughts were hidden inside that red treacle tin and he had to push through the dark, sticky substance to find the idea he was looking for. This sensation had been a part of Davie’s life pretty much every weekend since he was a responsibility-free 14-year-old and he began to drink to excess with his friends down by the water at Bayfield in Portree.

Having not been 14-years-old for several decades now he had long since lost the responsibility-free tag, and on the remaining days of the week he more-or-less maintained his adult life with a passable (even stoic) routine. Come Thursday evening however, he felt the same giddy excitement about seeing his friends and getting pissed he’d felt since he was a teenager sneaking his first drinking sessions by the various shores and fields around Portree and then when he was old enough at the dances in the Gathering Hall and the pubs of the village.

He stood, feet still but body swaying slightly, looking at his useless phone. It was dark and he could see the faint outline of his face reflecting back at him from the phone’s screen. He paused to listen but couldn’t hear anyone around him. After a moment, he realised his eyes were closed and decided he wouldn’t make it back to the pubs in this state. He turned around and started walking towards the industrial estate, where his work office was, reckoning it would be simpler if he went and slept in there than go home.

“I’ve been a wild rover, for many’s a year…” He sang as he walked, “and I spent all my money on whisky and beer.”

When Davie got to the chorus of the song, he shouted “right up yer kilt” as was the local custom, but with a little bit too much venom, and a little bit of pee trickled into his pants.

“Ya fucker ya”, he said, before walking over to the group of trees at the bottom of Matheson place for a pee. After relieving himself, he continued up the road to his office with ever-decreasing balance.

‘It’s fuckin’ chilly the night boy” he said, laughing loudly in conversation with his own penis, which was shrivelled up in the cold, even tucked away inside Davie’s pants as it now was.
___________________________

“Well, well!” John Mac said as Michael walked through the door to the Tongadale Hotel.

“What you saying to it, boy?” Michael replied the type of reply that didn’t expect an answer.

These were the social formalities that had to take place before the real conversation could begin. They usually trailed on a little bit longer and tonight was no exception. John continued -

“Fuck all. Yourself?”

“Ach, you’re seeing it.”

“That’s it, aye.”

“Aye” -

and just before they began to actually talk Michael took himself by surprise by adding in one further “aye”, made different from the first by the fact that it was said on an in-breath. Saying “aye” in this way was of course very familiar to him (most of the older population of Skye were fond of its use) but, to his knowledge, it was the first time Michael had himself spoken on an in-breath.

He was aware that John, who was sipping on a pint of Tennent’s at the standing-table they occupied and had already ordered Michael a Guinness from the bar, had started talking to him but Michael’s mind had wandered back to his early High School days, when he’d first become aware of the rules of pre-conversation chit-chat. Unsure of how it was to be properly used, he often found himself backed into a conversational corner. He marvelled at boys like Calum MacLeod from Broadford, who seemed so at ease with “ayes” and “what’s the caic-s” and “yourself-s?”

When people asked Michael how he was, he knew he should say “not bad, yourself?” That was the rule. But for some reason, the idea made him freeze and he didn’t say it until he was years into his schooling journey, instead offering a simple “fine” to the person enquiring as to how he was.

He tuned back into John.

“… but was your week was okay aye?” He said.

“Fine”, Michael replied.

He’d been looking forward to his first sip of Guinness all day and was glad to see the freshly poured pint arrive at the table, though he noted the glass had no Guinness logo, which disappointed him.

“There ya go, Mick”, said Becky, who worked behind the bar at the Tongadale.

She was the only one who called him Mick. It had started as a joke when he decided to wear a thin scarf out to the pubs on his 19^th birthday and Becky thought he looked like Mick Jagger.

“Mick Shagger more like” Michael had replied at the time, prompting a laugh from Becky, who was clearly aware that Michael was nothing of the sort. Now, calling him Mick has just become normal for them. Michael liked it.

“Are you wanting a dram with that as well tonight, Mick?”

“Ach, not just now. Thanks Becky. What’s your craic?”

“You’re seeing it all. Living the dream!” She said, getting the expected joke out of the way.

“Are you on till close?”

“No. Finishing at ten.”

“Ah well then, you’ll come and get a pint with us when you’re done?”

“Maybe.” Becky smiled and went back to work.

John gave Michael a look as Becky walked away and then downed the rest of his pint, let out a massive burp and said, “oh yeah, gotta get your burpees in, it’s good for your health and also your fitness.”

They both laughed, as did a table sitting across from them, who let out the type of too-loud, over-confident laugh that can only come from a group of English men on holiday. Michael glanced over at the table and saw there were six men, of varying ages, spread out on the stools and booth in the corner like they were Lannisters in Game of Thrones.

“Which one of you is shagging her then?” One of the English guys shouted over at Michael and John, rousing more laughter from the group.

John took the bait.

“Neither of us, lads. She’s actually my cousin.”

“Wouldn’t stop you lot up here!” More laughter.

“Mate, hold up your hands for me would ya?” Another one of them added, before holding up his own hands and loudly counting his four fingers and one thumb, the implication being that John or Michael would have more than him.

“He’s only winding you up, mate” one of the more reasonable of the fake Lannisters said.

“Let’s just go”, Michael quietly said to John, with a knot in his stomach, aware that there was a violent tension in the air now.

Michael finished off his Guinness, then he and John started to leave. He caught Becky’s eye behind the bar and gave her a nod.

“Fuck sake lads, no need to leave, we were only having a laugh”, said another of the Lannisters.

“You’re fine boys, we were heading anyway”, Michael said to try and diffuse the situation and get out, but before they could open the door Becky shouted from behind the bar.

“Maybe if you weren’t behaving like you own the place people wouldn’t feel the need to leave their local pub.”

“Becky, it’s fine. We’ll see you in a bit”, Michael tried to get his reply in before the English guys.

“Fuck me. You’re all getting pretty feisty tonight!” the oldest guy at the table said.

“Fuck me. You’re all getting pretty fucking obnoxious tonight!” Becky replied with an awkward sarcasm.

The air felt electric and time slowed down as Michael held his hand on the door. John stood sheepishly next to him, holding his jacket in his arms.

“Don’t worry babe. I like them feisty.”

More laughter.

“Mate, how much for a go with your cousin? Or is she your wife as well?”

Table slapping.

Glasses clinking.

More laughter.

Cries of various elongated vowel noises.

“Actually, on second thoughts, you’d have to pay me to have a go on her!”

Michael’s face was sweating, as was his hand, which was now slipping from the door handle. He had only just noticed the rest of the pub, who were now silently watching the situation unfold. He let go of the handle and turned to the table.

“Oh, this one’s got a bit of spine. I think we’ve touched a nerve, boys.”

The empty Guinness glass was sitting at the table where he’d left it. He looked over at it. John’s glass was still there too. He noticed the fire extinguisher hanging on the wall across from him. Michael took a step forward and felt Becky’s hand on his chest. She turned to lock eyes with him.

“The rest of the boys are over in The Isles. Just head over there. They’ll calm down and fuck off soon. I’ll come and meet you in a bit.”

John opened the door and he and Michael left to another chorus of vowel cries.

___________________________

I was limping down the road and felt a sharp pain in my left calf, but for the first time in a long time, I had clarity. I had instructions. I had a purpose. I had the letter - not that I yet understood what it meant.

I thought about what had happened at the top of the hill as I walked past the shinty clubhouse on my way home. Everything felt razor sharp. It was a cold night, but mainly due to the strong north wind.

“You’ve always known what this is about”, they’d said, with hair blowing wildly.

They. I knew the voice, but couldn’t place it. Were they a man or a woman? It was hard to tell. Although they came close to me, I never really saw their face properly.

“Have I?” I replied, timid and unsure.

“Michael. You know. You’ve known for a long time. But, you have to tell me, if you want to get answers. You must initiate it. It has to come from you.”

“Okay. I have some ideas. I think.”

“Go on.”

“But… I don’t know who you are. Not for sure.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can give you answers.”

As I thought about what to say next, they interrupted me.

“It’s cold, Michael. Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

I glanced over to where the figure was standing but somehow knew I wasn’t supposed to stare at them. So, I turned instead to face the other way. I noticed that a few yards away from where I sat, the ground had been cut into. It was a typical sight. Some years ago, someone had been cutting some peats. There were a few dry pieces sitting at the top that had presumably once been part of a stack.

“Do you have anything to light these with?” I asked.

“Do you want me to light them for you?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Good. Then offer them to me.”

The conversation was strange, I didn’t feel fully in control of my replies.

“Okay. Take them.” I replied

They must have lit something and I saw it fly past me to the peats, which caught quickly when the fire hit them.

“Good. Now, tell me why you think you’re here.”

“It’s to do with my mum?” I said.

“It’s to do with your mum?” Came the reply. I was unsure if it was a question or an answer.

___________________________

Becky traced the faint line running down the handle of her favourite mug like it was a river marked out on a map. She’d had the mug since she was a child and it lived at the back of the cupboard so it didn’t get overused, but the rest of the cupboard’s mugs and cups had happily found their way into the dishwasher so on this Sunday morning she got to use her favourite mug for her morning tea. She looked over to the couch from where she was standing in the kitchen and saw Michael stir a little. He was asleep with his back turned to her and had only recently stopped snoring. On the ground next to him were several tea towels and a t-shirt, all stained with blood. She walked over to the other side of the couch so she could see his face. His nose seemed like it had closed up from the swelling but otherwise he looked relatively peaceful.

Becky sat on the chair opposite the couch and let him sleep. It was bright outside and she could feel the heat of the mid-morning sun hit her face via the living room window. She closed her eyes for a minute and enjoyed the warm feeling. She faced into the light, so she could still see it, pink through her eyelids, then closed them as tight as she could until small patterns of light danced about her vision, always too quickly to be caught for a proper look. She remembered being aware of these electric-like patterns that appeared when she closed her eyes tightly for the first time. She was standing outside her friend Stephanie’s house at FIngal place in Portree, waiting in line for the ice cream van, when she turned to the sun and closed her eyes. Something about it felt magical and when she asked her mum about why her eyes (or the inside of her eyelids?) did this upon returning home, he mum told her to “ask her teacher”.

This was one of her mum’s go-to phrases.

“Mum, what are we supposed to do about the hole in the ozone layer?”

“...Ask your teacher.”

“Mum, you know drug dealers? What if they go into the co-op and inject all the food with drugs and then we’d get addicted. I mean there’s barely any security. How could we stop them?”

“... Ask your teacher.”

“Mum, how do we make a Viking longboat from toilet roll holders?”

“... For fuck sake Becky. Just ask your teacher, would you?”

Becky stopped chasing the lights around her eyelids and opened her eyes when Michael stirred, but he didn’t wake so she continued to drink her cup of tea. The cover she’d put over him had slipped off his top half when he moved so she snuck over to put it back on him and it was only then she noticed the scars on his back. She’d been too preoccupied with the blood the night before.

“What the fuck have they done to you, Mick?” She said, quietly.

She wanted to wake him and ask him, and to check on his nose, and to ask about what happened last night in more detail, but she decided to let him sleep and instead picked up the tea towels and t-shirt to wash.

As she was about to put the pile of bloody garments into the sink to soak the blood from them, a piece of paper slipped out from the pile and onto the floor.

She picked it up and inspected it. It felt like expensive paper, thick but not as thick as card. There were three black streaks across what felt like the front side, one of which had been highlighted red. On the other side there were words but they were in Gaelic, which Becky didn’t speak. She studied the paper, willing herself to understand more of the language than she did but to little avail.

___________________________

“I’m not sure what it means, yet. Not all of it anyway”, Michael said as he woke up, making Becky jump with his words, in part because his voice sounded more broken and grittier than usual.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Mick.” She replied.

There was a sudden, loud knock at the door which made them both freeze. Nobody would be visiting Becky’s flat on a Sunday morning and anyone that did would just have walked in, as the door was never locked. The knock meant one thing, it was a stranger - and given the events of the night before, strangers were most definitely to be avoided.

Michael went to speak but Becky cut him off-

“Shh.” She whispered, sharply.

Another knock came, firmer than the last. The type of confident knock of somebody who knocks as a part of their job. Becky sat on the floor in front of the couch where Michael was lying, so they were both hidden from the view of the door.

Michael peered round from the side of the couch and saw the letterbox, the type that was only a foot or so above the ground and built into the flat’s door, open and some fingers slid through to hold it in its open position.

He remained completely still, as did Becky. The letterbox stayed open and a voice that sounded male semi-whispered to them in a tone that was both relaxed and serious.

“It’s a shame nobody is home. I suppose I’ll have to try again later.”

The letterbox snapped shut and they heard footsteps walk down the steps in the close that led to Becky’s flat and then the main door at the bottom clicked closed with the type of quiet click you could only hear if you were paying attention. Becky walked over to the long window above the sink in her kitchen and looked out from the side, being careful to remain hidden behind the short, purple, open curtain that hung next to the window. She couldn’t see the visitor walking out the front, but then she might have missed him at the front door. He could be gone by now. Or he might have gone round the back where the bins were kept, for some reason? Or maybe he went into the flat downstairs and pretended to close the main door.

She sat on her knees next to Michael.

“Do you know who that was?” She asked, still speaking in hushed tones.

“Not exactly. But someone came to my house the other day, too. That’s… Ah man. I don’t know. Becky, I really don’t know what’s…”

Michael couldn’t finish his sentence, he felt his face go flush and the veins in his head begin to pulse. Then tears started pouring from his eyes - although he wasn’t crying. The salt of the tears stung his bloodied nose and lips.

“It’s okay Mick. I’m going to go and get him. You stay here.” Becky smiled sympathetically. Then MIchael realised she was bleeding too, from her nose.

___________________________

There were three black streaks across the paper, one of which had been highlighted red. On the other side there were words but they were in Gaelic, which Becky didn’t speak. She studied the paper, willing herself to understand more of the language than she did but to little avail.

“Fuck me, why am I here?” Michael asked as the sun on his face woke him. His head was blindingly sore and the light made him feel like he was going to be sick.

“Careful Mick. You’re in a bit of a state.” She replied.

“Shit. Ah. Fuck. That’s sore.”

“Your face? It’s pretty swollen.”

“No. My back. It feels like it’s on fire.”

Michael was struggling to speak as his mouth was so dry.

“Here, drink this.” Becky passed him her mug of tea and Michael immediately took a small sip, then adjudging it wasn’t too hot, gulped down the rest of the mug.

“I’m sorry. For coming here. I don’t. Well. I don’t know how it happened. Why am I covered in blood?”

“I was hoping you would tell me, Mick.”

“What’s that you’re holding?”

“It was in with your t-shirt and the tea towels I used to clean up the blood on the floor. I don’t know where it came from. Do you recognise it?”

Michael looked at the piece of paper. He wanted to explain more to Becky. He’d told her about some of his dreams before and she’d never judged him but he wasn’t sure if he should try and explain as much as he knew, or wait until he had something that would make more sense. Would it ever make sense?

“I don’t think so”, he lied.

“It’s written in Gaelic. Well, and then there’s these wee lines on the back.” Becky’s finger followed one of the lines to the end of the paper.

“Fuck!” She shouted.

“What?”

“Fucking paper cut.”

Becky ran to the pile of the already bloody tea towels and wrapped it round her finger.

“You’ll stain that.” Michael joked.

“Very-not-fucking-funny. Anyway, I know you’re lying about the Gaelic letter, for some reason. Whatever. Lie. Why would I care?

“I’m not… Okay I am, a bit. But I don’t know what it means, any of it. So there’s not really anything to tell.”

“Why don’t we go and find someone who might know, then? It’s not like it’s written in hieroglyphics.”

Michael knew that Becky was right.

___________________________

I spat out blood from my mouth in front of me and put my arms above my head. It had stopped hurting when the hits to my head came, so I wasn’t worried by them anymore. I was just looking for a moment, and more specifically an object. The blows had left me dizzy and this feeling intensified as my head was slammed off the heavy, ornate legs at the bottom of the table.

Then I spotted my chance. It was just like I’d imagined it. I picked up the pint glass and smashed it on the base of the table, then swung it up and to my right in the direction of where the blows were coming from. I felt almost no resistance as it cut through the hands and arms twisting in my direction.

I was laughing as I continued to swing the glass around. But so was everybody else. I grabbed the Tennents glass too and started stabbing them both around me. My face had closed up so I couldn’t see anyone properly but felt like I was forcing the hands back. But the more I did, the more laughter that came back at me.

I tried to shout back “shut the fuck up!” As loud and aggressively as I could, but I couldn’t speak.

Wait.

“Fuck. No. Fuck. Stop. This has to be real. Fuck.” I thought.

I tried to be calm. Look around. Where were the Lannister guys?

The pub was empty. Fuck. Where were they? The room filled up with smoke so I got down on my hands and knees and started crawling.

There was broken glass all around me so I had to move slowly. Still no sign of the Lannister guys but there were items of clothing on the floor. I crawled over to the table they’d been sitting at when Becky interrupted me.

“Mick? Mick! No! Please!”

“Right Michael, come on, let’s go! We need to be back before your aunty Mary gets here this afternoon and I’m not sure how long this is going to take us”, Katie shouted up the stairs to her son.

“Where’s my new t-shirt? I put it in the wash on, like, Tuesday” Michael replied.

“It might be in the ironing pile, I’m sure I washed it”

“It doesn’t need ironed. Why do you need to iron everything? Who cares?”

“Your Nanny irons her bedsheets. I’m not that bad.”

Subscribe now

Michael raced down the stairs, if he held on to the bannister and the wall he could make it down in two half-jumps, and to the kitchen table where the ironing basket was sitting, and dug through it to find the t-shirt he was looking for; a tight-fitting, mustard-yellow number he’d been given for his birthday. He wanted to wear that particular top as he and his Mum were about to go and climb up Ben Tianavaig and the path began right next to a house in Camustianaviag where a girl in his year called Becky MacLeod lived. A few weeks ago, it had leaked from his friend circle to the wider yeargroup that Michael had put Becky as number two on his ‘list’. It was mandatory in early high school for every student to have a list of the top three, or sometimes five, people they fancied in their year - and not uncommon for lists deemed ‘top secret’ to be leaked, on purpose, to the wider school environment by the list’s maker, with the goal of the information ultimately reaching those ‘listed’. It was how most relationships were established at Portree High School, and many hands were awkwardly held at lunchtime time as a result.

Given that he’d listed Becky, Michael wanted to make sure he was feeling his best should he see her at her house. In truth, it was he who had suggested to his Mum they attempt the walk up Ben Tianavaig (climbing hills was not something they’d ever done before) with the main reason being to walk past Becky’s house and maybe catch a glimpse of her. His Mum had said yes to the idea, unexpectedly and without knowing Michael’s ulterior motive, in part because Michael’s Dad had been out in the pub the night before and still wasn’t home.

Usual protocol when his Dad was on a bender was to take the two-and-a-half hour drive to Fort William to visit Michael’s aunty Mary, but today Mary was coming to visit them instead, leaving a rare opportunity to do something with just him and his Mum.

Michael squeezed into the t-shirt, then put his jacket on and walked into the living room where his Mum was sitting waiting.

“Jesus Mum come on now, time is money”

“Very funny parrot boy”, Katie replied in reference to his t-shirt, which had two pirate-looking parrots on it.

“Very funny parrot boy squawk”, Michael repeated like a parrot.

Katie burst out laughing, and gave Michael a joking slap on the head as she walked past him to collect her backpack, which contained some lunch for the walk. Michael had a backpack too but he’d only packed deodorant, cool waters aftershave, a spare pair of socks, a can of coke and a mars bar.

They set off on the journey along the Braes road to Camustianavaig, a ten to fifteen minute drive along mostly single-track road from their house. Michael pushed the cassette into the car stereo, unsure of what tape it was. It took a few seconds to recognise the song but when it got to the chorus he started singing along loudly.

“Well if it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?”

“I love this song”, said Katie, “Sheryl Crow is so cool.”

“Do you love it though? Because I only hear me singing along…” Michael replied.

Neither of them knew the words to the verses but when it came to the next chorus, they turned the stereo up, wound the windows down and both started singing wildly. Michael even took his seatbelt off and pushed himself partly out the window for maxiMum comedy effect.

Even when they pulled into a passing place to let the car coming towards them pass, they both continued to sing as loud as they could, laughing through the bits they didn’t know. Then, still hanging out the window, Michael suddenly stopped.

The car coming towards them, driven by an old bearded guy with a Russian-style hunting hat on, seemed to drive past in slow motion and Michael felt like he really might be sick as he noticed that sitting in the passenger seat was the girl in his year he second-most fancied. Becky MacLeod.

He threw himself back into the car and tried to sit as normally as he could, looking out his window with his head turned away from Becky’s car as it passed.

___________________________________

Upon waking, I sat up and could feel that the rough texture of the road had left an imprint on my forehead that felt like it was almost deep enough to pierce the skin. I used my hands to feel the ground beneath me but I guessed I’d hurt my hand as I couldn’t feel it properly. It was too dark to see anything. I tried to pick a bit of glass out of my lip but it was stuck, almost like it had been glued in place. I pulled at it hard and it came away, which didn’t hurt. I wanted to stand but still knew I felt lightheaded and was worried I might not be able to, so decided to stay sitting until I felt more alert.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness and, when my vision was in focus, I could see shards of glass, bits of plastic and some clothes scattered around me. Other than that the road was empty, it seemed to me. My body felt numb. I wasn’t in pain but I was shaking still - from adrenaline, I couldn’t feel the cold. I put my hand to my forehead again to see if the imprint on my skin was still there and noticed something lodged in my eyebrow. I was trying to feel for what it was when my finger started bleeding.

I closed my eyes for a minute. Or maybe longer. Then I startled myself back to reality and used my left hand to pull the glass in my eyebrow out. It came away pretty easily but released far more blood than the glass wound on my lip had done. It was making it difficult to see out of my eye and streaming into my mouth, all cold and metallic, and down my chest, which I’d realised was exposed as my t-shirt had been ripped open.

Still unsure if I could stand, I turned around onto my hands and knees and crawled towards the clothes. I picked up the first thing I came across, a small amount of green material. I was pretty sure it was a t-shirt, maybe my own, but it had been pretty well torn to shreds and was sticky to touch. Further ahead on the road there was a white sandal and further ahead still there was more clothing but I couldn’t make out what it was.

Outwardly, the numbness was dying off and my body was beginning to ache, although I was still shaking. Inwardly, I was confused but in a way I’d never been confused before. I was calm, and I knew why I was there. I knew what had happened. I knew what I had to do. But I couldn’t explain any of it. I both knew and didn’t know. Almost like my body was in charge of my mind.

I was snapped out of my internal confusion when I felt my feet getting wet. I looked up and saw I was standing in a dark purple river. It was ice cold. And rising.

___________________________________

“A bheil thu ag iarraidh tì no cofaidh?” Michael’s Nanny asked him, aware of how uncomfortable and ashamed it made him hearing her speak Gaelic but persisting anyway.

“Tea for me please, Nanny.”

“Eilidh?”

“Aye, tea please. I’ll tell you what I don’t want Annie, and that’s gorse leaf! Was he telling you about John Mac’s ‘experience’ last week?”

Michael erupted into laughter as his Nanny comically grabbed her rear end and started shouting “oh no, help me, help me! I’ve got the skitters!”

“Annie! That’s not very ladylike”, Eilidh suggested.

“Well, just as well I’m not a lady.”

“Do you miss speaking the Gaelic, Annie?”, Eilidh asked, “can’t be often you get to speak it, now.”

Annie had her back turned to Eilidh and Michael as she made the tea in a small, L-shaped kitchen and paused for long enough before answering that Eilidh wondered if she’d heard the question. Just as she was about to ask it again, Annie turned around with two cups in her hands and carried them over to the kitchen table at which Michael and Eilidh sat, and began to answer.

Michael was staring at her hands as she spoke. They were knotted and twisted with ever-worsening arthritis which meant his Nanny had to change the way she used them, which looked both odd and painful. He was struck by how adaptable the human body was, but also nervous that his own hands would go the same way. He tuned back into the conversation.

“And there’s my sisters. When they phone we still speak in Gaelic. But that’s about it. I don’t think about it too much. You need English to get on in the world and that’s just the way it is, Eilidh. Now. You’ll have a biscuit.”

She brought over a tub of chocolate biscuits to the table and then began to cut up a fruit loaf she’d made earlier.

“I’ll cut this up as well. It’s not very nice, you’ll prefer a biscuit. But I’ll cut it up anyway. It’s quite dry. But I’ll cut a few slices.”

Whilst she cut the loaf up, Michael’s Papa Ally, walked into the kitchen. He’d been out the back clearing weeds and was in his gardening clothes.

“Here’s trouble!” He said when he saw Eilidh.

“Hi Ally. She’s got you hard at work out there?”

“I never stop. I’m looking for a new wife, actually. Are you interested yourself, Eilidh?”

“Och, it wouldn’t be fair. I’d only be marrying you for the money.”

“For the money!” Annie interrupted, “I should be so effing lucky!”

There was general laughter from the others in the room, but Michael couldn’t focus well enough on the chit-chat to join in or to find it amusing himself. His hand was in his pocket, rubbing and holding the piece of paper he’d rediscovered in his jeans that morning. Whenever he stopped touching it, he doubted whether it was still there.

Unsure of what they’d been talking about since he was last listening properly, Michael abruptly entered the conversation.

“I’m just needing a pee. Be back in a minute.”

“Obh obh, are you sure it’s not the skitters!” His Nanny said.

When Michael didn’t respond, his Nanny was confused. Whether you found that funny or not, you laughed or pretended to laugh - that’s how conversations went in her kitchen. So shocked was she by the lack of response, she added, “Michael. Are you hearing me? I’m saying obh obh, are you sure it’s not the skitters!”

“Oh right aye”, he forced a laugh, “let’s hope not.”

Eilidh looked at Michael as he left the kitchen to go to the toilet, which was down the hallway. Something was definitely off with him, but she decided to keep her suspicions to herself, at least until they were back in the car.

“Is he okay?” Annie asked.

“Aye. He’s just getting older. Men turn into miserable old sods the older they get”

Ally spun round from the kettle with the cup of tea he’d made himself and a Kit Kat finger halfway into his mouth and looked at Eilidh.

“You don’t need to tell me that…” Annie said.

___________________________________

Michael wasn’t sure who had taken him home. Everything was a blur. When he got there, his aunty Mary was waiting at the front door. She was still. Like a zombie, almost. Or like she’d been frozen there by something. He walked down the steps and stood facing her, unsure what he was supposed to do next.

“Mich-” Mary couldn’t even finish his name. She grabbed him, pulled his face into her chest and sobbed. Michael remained still. He hated whatever musky perfume she was wearing and felt like it was choking him, so he started to push away from her.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Michael. I’m-”

Michael pushed past her and went into the kitchen, where he stood and looked out of the window. He looked over at the rocks on Ben Tianavaig, where he’d been with his Mum earlier. When? He wasn’t sure how long ago. Probably some hours had passed though, as it was getting pretty dark.

“I wish we’d made it to the top” he thought to himself.

Mary walked into the kitchen but Michael kept his eyes fixed on Ben Tianavaig through the window.

“I’m trying to get hold of your Dad. Nobody knows where he is. Do you have any ideas?”

“Erm. Not really. Sometimes he falls asleep in the work office, if he goes to the pub with his work keys he’ll go back and drop them in. If he’s really fucked he falls asleep on the floor.”

“Languauge.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Mary. I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

Michael turned to look at Mary. He seemed to be empty of any emotions. But he knew what he was saying was true.

“It’s my fault. We should have come to Fort William. I wanted to go up the hill. And not even because I wanted to go up the hill. Because I-” he couldn’t say the real reason why, “I’m just sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Mary stood with Michael, crying and stroking his face. He was glad she was further away this time and he didn’t have to choke on her scent. But she looked totally broken. And she blamed him. He knew she did.

“It’s not your fault, Michael. It’s nobody’s fault. You stay here. I’m going to try and find your Dad. I’ll spin up to the office.”

She kissed him on the head. Michael felt like she did it because she felt she had to.

___________________________________

He was aware he was taking too long in the toilet, but wanted to have a look at how the burns on his back were doing. He’d been trying not to think about them all afternoon but the pain was still present and was getting worse at his Nanny’s house on account of how hot it was in the kitchen. He was sweating, which was in turn stinging his back. He stood across from the mirrored bathroom cabinet, turned his back, lifted his t-shirt and strained his neck to look at the burns. For the first time, he noticed that all three were slightly angled and looked to be exactly the same length, presumably because of the ridged bars on the radiator that he had pressed against. Or was it? Something didn’t look right about them. Michael reckoned they looked too neat, or… He took his thumb nail and quickly but firmly scraped it along the top burn mark. He didn’t want to make any noise so found his eyes beginning to water with the pain. The pain gave his mind a momentary release from everything else he was thinking about. He repeated the motion on the middle burn and then, slowly and as hard as he could, pressed his thumb nail deep into the bottom burn mark and pulled hard across. He sat back down on the toilet and enjoyed the brief post-pain euphoria pulsing through up his back, then wiped his eyes clean and splashed some cold water on his face to cool himself down and try to lessen the redness in his cheeks.

“Okay.” he thought, as the pain was subsiding. “I know how this happened. The knock on the door. The heater. The living room. The voice at the window. They hurt like fuck. They’re real.

He pulled his t-shirt back down and went back to the kitchen.

“Oh don’t be daft, Eilidh, it is not! At least put some butter on it. It’s hellish dry”, he heard his Nanny say to Eilidh, who was eating a slice of the fruit loaf.

“It’s lovely Annie!”

“Nanny, we’ll need to go soon. I’ll give you a hand with those big plant pots next time, Papa. My back’s been playing up. Oh-”

Michael opened the kitchen door and grabbed the newspaper from the porch.

“And here’s your paper.”

His Papa took it from him.

“Ah. Thanks Mikey. Were they out of The Sun?” He said.

Annie gave Michael a ‘told you so’ look and then rolled her eyes at Eilidh.

“Well, thanks for coming to visit your old Nanny and Papa. See you soon. Come down any time! That goes for you too, Eilidh.”

Michael and Eilidh left the house and got back in the car. Eilidh watched as Michael struggled to get into his seat and to get comfortable sitting, but didn’t say anything. After they set off, Michael again at the wheel, she then noticed he kept putting his hand in his pocket. She ignored it most of the journey but as they were nearing Portree she decided to find out what was going on.

“Did you forget something?”

“What? No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just feels like you might have.”

“No?”

Eilidh decided she’d had enough.

“What the actual fuck is going on with you? Don’t give me your bullshit ‘oh I’m tired’ or ‘oh my back hurts’. Something is way off with you and if you don’t tell me what it is, I’m going to… Well. I probably won’t do anything. But it will be really shit of you.”

Michael started laughing, instinctively. She was so angry, which was quite unlike her, and hearing her shout was jarring but he also struggled to take it seriously. When Eilidh saw him laughing she (partly joking and partly not) hit him on the shoulder and Michael screamed out in pain. The car momentarily swerved into the middle of the road, but thankfully nothing was coming towards them. They were both stunned into silence and Michael slowed right down before pulling into the side road at Drumuie, where they’d had the near-miss with the tourists on the way down to Uig, and parking on the grass.

Michael undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. He took off his shirt and then pulled the back of his t-shirt out to let some air in.

“I’m sorry”, Eilidh said as she stood up next to the passenger door, “I didn’t think I hit you that hard.”

Michael laughed, again.

“Stop fucking laughing at me. Take me seriously. Take anything seriously. I’m worried about you.”

Michael walked to the front of the car and sat on the bonnet. From where she was standing, Eilidh noticed that the back of his white t-shirt was covered in blood.

“Jesus Michael, what the hell?”

“The blood makes it look way worse. It wasn’t bleeding earlier.”

“What wasn’t bleeding earlier? What’s happened to you?”

Michael didn’t really know what to say. He couldn’t be totally honest, as he didn’t know what being totally honest about recent events looked like. He wouldn’t know where to start.

“Ach, it’s silly really.” He tried to dismiss the situation as trivial.

“I’ll decide” Eilidh persisted.

Michael lifted his t-shirt off and showed her the burns across his back. Eilidh came closer to him to look at them properly and was shocked by their severity.

“Why, for the love of God, would you not tell me about this? Why wouldn’t you just say you didn’t want to do anything today? Why would you volunteer to drive when it must have been irritating as fuck. Why would… In fact, let’s start at the beginning. How did this happen? They look weird. Are they whip marks or something? I can’t tell exactly where they are because the blood’s been running.”

“I had a shit day yesterday”, Michael admitted. “I found an old photo album and it made me feel weird and sad and confused.”

That part was true.

“And I decided to have a few drinks. And then a few more. And. Well. Then I fell asleep on my bedroom floor against the heater and I guess it burned my back a bit. It’s in three, sort of, lines. Like where the radiator ridged bits were.”

That part was almost true.

“I did wonder why it was so hot in your house”

“Yeah, I don’t know why. I don’t think I set it that high. But then, I was pretty steaming. Anyway, they hurt like fuck.”

“Why are they bleeding, have you been picking at them?”

“No, I scraped my back on the wall in Nanny’s bathroom by accident. That’s why I took so long in there.”

“Oh, okay that makes sense. I thought you really did have the sk-”

“Can we not talk about poo stuff just now”

“Yeah, fair enough. You can tell me anything, you know. You don’t need to be all weird and secretive. Have I ever judged you before?”

Michael let that hang in the air. He knew she hadn’t. Not on any of the big stuff, anyway. They sat on the bonnet of the car and looked out at Portree from Drumuie. In the distance they could see the Red Cuillins, softer at the top than their Black Cuillin neighbours. Late afternoon on this clear bright April day, they would have been crawling with visitors from all over the world. To their left was, of course, Ben Tianaviag and poking out from behind it was the flat-topped mountain Dùn Caan, which was on Raasay. To the right of Portree was the less obviously dramatic hill, Fingal’s Seat. Michael’s eyes were drawn to the long streaks in the land that were clearly visible near the top of it.

“You see those big lines over there at the top of Fingal’s seat?” He asked Eilidh

“Yeah”

“How did they get there?” He’d just realised he had no idea. His head was guessing it was from cutting the peats.

“They’re called runrigs, I think. They were for growing potatoes.”

“Fuck off. Really?”

“Yeah, I think so. My Dad told me. It’s where the band Runrig got their name from.”

“Well. there you have it.” Michael concluded.

___________________________________

The wind was picking up the higher Michael climbed, blowing straight into his face. He turned and looked back down to see how far he had come and to catch his breath. It was almost dusk and the hills in the distance were silhouetting against the horizon, which was one of his favourite sights. There was something particularly pleasing about the light disappearing from the sky as the hills, trees and buildings that interrupted the skyline grew darker. It was like a nightly transfer of power. He could see the streetlights scattered across Portree and the lights in the changing rooms at the shinty clubhouse, the building closest to the hill, were still on.

There wasn’t any time to waste as he wanted to reach the top before it got dark, so he turned back to face the wind and kept on walking. He managed to get his breath back into a bit of a rhythm which was helping make the upward steps a bit easier. Breathe in on ‘one’, then out on ‘two, three, four’. Despite the sweaty back, walking up the hill seemed to get rid of the pain of the burn lines, which Michael was relieved about.

He wasn’t sure of the route to the top and he’d forgotten to bring a torch, so he just picked a spot near the runrigs and trudged through the heather and bracken towards it. The darker it became, the less sure he was that he was heading in the right direction but after another half an hour’s climbing, with the hill now fully submerged in darkness, he reached his destination.

He sat down on a flat rock and took his jacket off. The thin, waterproof material of the jacket was useful on the walk up but felt sticky once he stopped, so he folded it up and squashed it into his backpack, taking out his Dad’s battered old flask to make room for it. Next to the rock, there were a few small patches of gorse bush, as he’d expected, so he went and grabbed some of the leaves from them and put them in the flask of water, which hadn’t stayed as hot as he’d have liked meaning after a minute, he started to drink the lukewarm but fresh gorse tea and looked back over Portree.

He lay his back down on the rock and looked at the clear, vast, black sky and its sprinkling of stars. Then he closed his eyes for a minute and focussed again on his breathing. Breathe in on ‘one’, then out on ‘two, three, four’. Although he was only in his t-shirt now, he couldn’t feel the cold. Or the pain across the burns. He felt lightheaded. Dizzy, almost. When he opened his eyes again, the stars became brighter. Still blurry. But peaceful. Michael smiled.

I started doing the half-laugh that people do when they smile unexpectedly. I felt calm. Happy. Then small streams started to trickle into my ears and I noticed I was crying. I looked again for the stars but the tears and dizziness had merged them together into bigger clusters of light.

I tried to squint my eyes to separate the light clusters back into individual stars and as they narrowed tightly, nearly closed, I felt a flickering of fire-like light, lower to the ground, out of the corner of my eye.

I kept my eyes narrowed and looked toward the light, then I slowly sat up, opened my eyes and saw the outline of a figure standing between me and the gorse bush, in the trench of one of the runrigs.

“You came back.”

I recognised the voice.

Subscribe now

Read more

The sight of his bedroom roof, which was white except for the light brown stain marking an historic leak, appeared and disappeared a few times until Michael’s eyes were finally open. The first thing he realised was how thirsty he was. He always had a glass of water on the floor next to his bed but when he reached down to get it, pain shot from the bottom of his back right up to his neck and he felt the top of his head tingle. Afraid to move he tried to get his bearings. Okay. He was obviously in his room, he’d seen the stain on the roof. He’d felt the pain in his back. He was awake. Moving more slowly than before, Michael was able to sit up and see that he had fallen asleep on top of his duvet. Carefully, he picked up the glass of water and gulped it down noisily, spilling some on his chin and promptly wiping it away with his wrist, noticing his stubble was quite rough.

Michael had always wished he could grow a full beard but unfortunately he only had strong growth in the goatee area, so he never let it grow out for more than a couple of days; the goatee was a type of performative facial hair unacceptable in Portree. He touched the rest of his face to assess if he’d need to shave or if he could leave it another day or two when he noticed that his bedroom window was open - on its own not something he’d have thought much about, but added to the fact that the heater in his room was on full blast and his room was hotter than he could ever remember it being, he was confused.

He reached up for the window to push it shut, forgetting the pain he’d felt the previous time he moved too quickly and missing the metal bar handle at the top of the frame as he screamed and fell face down onto the floor.

“Fuck”, he said out loud and surprisingly calmly. “What the fuck?”

Michael jolted again moments later when he heard a car horn beep outside. He slowly pulled himself up to the window and saw Eilidh’s car parking. The pain he was feeling numbed a little and he walked quickly from his bedroom to the upstairs toilet and locked the door.

“Morning”, Eilidh shouted as she opened the porch door. “Are you alive? What happened, we were supposed to go to the cafe?”

Michael was confused and embarrassed. He remembered they were supposed to meet, he remembered the knock at the door, and as he tried to unstick the skin on his back from his t-shirt he remembered the burn of the radiator. But he had no sense of when it had happened. Was it earlier that day? Last week?

“Michael?” Eilidh shouted up the stairs. “I’m not coming to wake you up, I’m not your fucking mum.”

He opened the toilet door ajar and shouted back.

“Hi. I’ll be five minutes. Just jumping in the shower”

“Okay, I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want a roll or something?”

When was the last time he ate?

“Yeah. Bacon but on toast not on a roll and-”

“-and well done. And cut the fat off. And no sauce. And make sure the toast isn’t soft. Jesus, maybe I am your mum.”

Michael looked in the mirror. He reckoned it was about a day’s growth on his chin, so guessed that it was yesterday he was supposed to meet Eilidh. He reached into the bath and turned the shower, which sat above the bathtub, on and set it to cold before pulling his jeans down. He carefully lifted his t-shirt up and had a look at his back to assess the damage. There were three long, deep-red burn lines running across his back. The first ran along the bottom of his shoulder blades, then another across his lower back and a third just above where his boxers sat.

The pain on his now-exposed back was still present and he was dreading getting into the shower, but he could also smell himself and he was stinking. To prepare for the burst of pain that was coming and to help him try not to scream when it did, he faced down with his eyes closed and took three long, deep breaths then opened his eyes, ready to climb into the bath and wash.

Before he stepped into the bath, though, something caught his eye. Sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans on the floor was a piece of paper. He reached down to pick it up.

___________________________________

I couldn’t speak. That was the worst part. Not the fire, not the voice, not the crowd that was gathered in the shadows and not the pulsing that was so powerful I thought my bones were shaking.

I lay on a large, flat rock. It was wet. I wasn’t sure what was stopping me from moving. Was it my own fear that was gluing me down, or was there something pinning me there? Either way, I was stuck to the rock. I couldn’t lift my head up to look around, so I stopped asking questions and tried to focus on what I could see. I was facing the sky. It was dark but I couldn’t see the stars through the fog. Something didn’t feel right about the fog. It was warm? I think.

I tried to turn my head to the side but was met by something sharp stopping me. I felt the first sudden pulse shake the rock, and myself, and maybe even the sky?

I closed my eyes and held my breath. The sound of my heart pounding was distracting, I was trying to listen for any hint of where I was. I heard, or sensed, that there were other people near me but when I tried to shout to them I realised I wasn’t making any sound. My mouth seemed to be filled with something and when I tried to speak, my breath stopped and it was suffocating. I felt my heart rate increase but tried to remain calm.

Another pulse shook through everything in its path.

I switched my breathing so it was through my nose, which helped, and remained as still as I could, shutting my eyes again. I could smell burning now and when I reopened my eyes I could see through the fog that there were long lines of fire around me that stretched into the distance as far as I could see. They looked like they’d been dug into the ground with a giant rake.

“Wait. I think they’re the lines on the top of the hill at Fingal’s seat?” I thought.

“Good.” A voice replied.

Startled, I tried to respond out loud.

“Who are…” was all I could get out before my mouth filled and I struggled for breath.

“Don’t do that again.” The voice said.

I could feel blood running from my mouth down my throat. It was cold. I found myself drifting out of consciousness but was shaken back to the moment by another numinous pulse. I steadied myself.

“Why am I here?” I asked in my mind.

“Think.” Said the voice. “You have to tell me why.”

___________________________________

“Can you tell me why you’re taking so long?” Eilidh shouted up the stairs

Michael put the paper back in his jeans pocket, turned the shower off and opened the toilet door.

“That’s me just showered”, he lied, “two minutes!”

He had been dreading the thought of showering anyway, so wasn’t disappointed to miss it. He got back into his jeans and threw on a baggy t-shirt from the washing basket in his room and sprayed himself in ‘Cool Waters’ aftershave to mask the smell of sweat and sleep, forgetting for a moment the pain in his back, then panicking that the spray might sting the skin, then sighing in relief when it didn’t.

He was sitting on the top stair putting on his socks when he heard the house phone ring downstairs.

“I’ll get it”, Eilidh shouted.

There was only one person who phoned Michael on his house phone. He paid the BT phone bill exclusively to talk to his Nanny, who (no matter how often he tried to help her) couldn’t get the hang of phoning his mobile phone.

Michael listened in as Eilidh answered the phone.

“Hello? … Oh hi Annie … It’s Eilidh… Yes, aye… Uhuh… That’s right… It’s getting busier, yes… The roads aren’t too bad just now but… Oh, I know… It’s changed days aye… How are things with you anyway? … How’s Ally? … Same as usual then! Moany old bastard .. Tell him I said he’s a bad man!”

Eilidh was laughing away at the same jokes and conversation that Annie had been having with her since she was a teenager.

“Behave now, it would be like marrying my own brother… We’d end up like that girl Jenny who married her first cousin… Their kids have webbed feet, they’re the best swimmers in Portree! Ach, I’m just joking away here, I’ll go and get bugger-lugs for you.”

Eilidh put the phone down on the kitchen worktop and called to Michael, loudly so his Nanny could hear what she was saying.

“Bugger lugs! That’s your nanny on the phone. Quick-quick now or you’ll be in trouble. You know what she’s like. Helluva-violent woman, your nanny. Some temper on her. I don’t know how Ally has survived this long, the poor man.”

Michael walked briskly into the kitchen smiling at Eilidh’s antics and picked up the phone from the worktop, immediately hearing his Nanny’s protests.

“Poor man nothing, he’s a miserable old fart!”

“Who is?”

“Oh Michael, it’s yourself. I didn’t realise, I thought it was still Eilidh there. She’s full of fun, Eildih. A nice girl.”

Michael got some revenge for his Nanny by winding Eilidh up.

“Behave yourself Nanny, she’s not that ugly looking… A face like a melted welly? Here you’re harsh today.”

“Stop that! Tell her it’s you. Tell her, now! Michael, that’s awful!” His nanny, of course unheard to Eilidh, protested.

“Okay, Okay. Joking, Eilidh. Joking, Nanny. Let’s all play nice”, Michael said, “how are you, Nanny? What’s the craic?”

“Your Papa is out in the garden moving some of the plants out of the shade of next-door’s trees.”

“Oh right, aye.”

“These stupid bloody trees next door are needing to be cut down, but she’s never here. I put a note through her door last week but no reply.”

“Where’s she living?”

“Oh I don’t know. Chester or somewhere. Chesterfield. Chippenham. Cirencester. Wherever. I think it’s the son who looks after the house now.”

“And is he not in it either?”

“He lives in Hong-Effing-Kong!”

“Hong-Effing-Kong? Where’s that?”

“It’s in Chin-Effing-A.”

Michael laughed. Although undoubtedly getting older (she was in her late 70’s now) his Nanny was sharp of both wit and mind. He thought about going down to visit her later that day.

“Anyway, I’m just phoning to see how are you, Michael? Is everything okay? I’ve not heard from you for a few days.”

“Aye, I’m fine. Sorry, just been busy with bits and pieces. Oh, by the way, I let John taste some Gorse tea the other night. I’ve been making it a lot.”

“How’s John? He’s so funny, John. So like his dad. You’ve never met two people more laid back. So laid back they’re horizontal. His dad used to drink in the Uig Hotel and drive home. He never crashed once in forty years of drams and driving. Did he like the tea?”

“He didn’t mind the taste, but it went right through him.”

“Obh, obh.”

“Aye he had an arse like a tap for the night…”

“Oh no, he had the skitters!”

“He was cursing Nanny-Annie for teaching me how to make one of her potions. He reckons you might be a witch.”

“Well, they’ve never managed to burn me yet.”

“I’ll pop down and see you later on.”

“Bring me a paper would you. Not the Sun, or your Papa will spend the rest of the day ‘reading’ page three.”

“Okay grand, Cheerie.”

“Tìoraidh.”

Eilidh sat in the garden at the outside table where she had put Michael’s tea in his favourite cup, along with his bacon-on-toast special. She was finishing her roll and looking out at the view on another bright April day.

“She’s some woman is Nanny-Annie,” Michael said.

“Are you busy?” They immediately both said together, with soft, elderly Skye accents and extra emphasis on the ‘s’.

Still giggling away, Michael walked across the stones in just his socks, again trying not to let the pain they caused the soles of his feet affect him, as was his ritual, and sat down opposite Eilidh.

“Thanks for making me this, I’m flipping starving”, he said before taking his first bite and adding, “oh for fu… Did you leave the fat on?”

“... Oops,” Eilidh smirked, “the fat’s the best part.”

“Behave yourself, nobody actually believes that. That’s dad chat, that is.”

“Don’t cry about it, I only left a wee bit on to see what your reaction would be and boy, I’ve got to tell you, it was totally worth it.”

Michael peeled from his teeth the small piece of fat Eilidh had left on the bacon and threw it at her. He was aiming for her shoulder, but it landed in her hair.

“Eeeeew, Michael!” She shrieked as she removed it.

“What? I thought it was the best bit?”

“Urgh. Can you just be quiet and eat it? Then can we do something please? I’m so bored. Let’s go for a spin.”

“Could do. I was going to go and visit my Nanny later, maybe.”

“Sounds good. What happened to you yesterday? I didn’t see you at the cafe?”

Yesterday.

“Oh. I fell back asleep I guess. I was up late. Sorry.”

“Up late doing what?”

“Important stuff.”

“Like?”

“All sorts.”

“Uhuh?”

“I’ll tell you what, I was up late working away on stuff… Because I was-”

They both finished the sentence together.

“Busy, busy, busy.”

___________________________________

Davie picked up his cup-sized flask from the top of the old stone wall next to him. The wall followed the small hill he stood on all the way down to the flat ground where it met the main road, which was some half-a-mile in the distance below him. He paused to watch the cars drive past for a couple of minutes as he sipped the coffee and smoked one of his Golden Virginia rollies, six of which he’d pre-rolled before setting out for work. Barring Jamie MacDonald’s pickup, he didn’t recognise any of the other cars. The majority were brand new, SUV-style vehicles and although Davie couldn’t see the number plates from his distance he knew that, this year, they’d be ‘25 plates. Tourists.

He thought about his own first car; a 1980 Mk2 Ford Escort in electric blue that could pull like fuck. He remembered (recklessly) racing his brother from Portree to Uig in that Escort and (recklessly) overtaking him on the stretch of road just outside Portree that he was now looking down on. He both cringed and smiled at the thought of himself speeding out that road, desperate to put his brother in his place and certain that driving faster than him was the way to do it, then later bragging in the pub about making the 12-mile journey on winding roads in under ten minutes.

After a final gulp of his coffee and the last bite of a red Wagon Wheel biscuit Davie pushed the visor on his helmet back down, clipped together the orange straps across his chest and picked up the hedge trimmer that he’d left resting on a rock while he had his break. He felt a bit too warm and regretted wearing his long-john’s underneath his padded work trousers. It was always hard to dress for work in Spring, one day there was snow and the next it could be almost summer-like.

“You get all four seasons here in one day” was a line he’d often use when he got chatting to the type of tourists he’d been watching drive past - something he didn’t really do anymore, since he’d stopped going to the pub.

He pulled the chord on the hedge trimmer and it blew some smoke but didn’t start.

“Come on ya fucker ya” he shouted louder than he normally would, confident nobody would hear him up on the hill.

After a couple more unsuccessful chord-pulls, he finally got the machine started and set himself back to work. He was working slower than he’d have liked since he’d used quite a lot of his energy pulling the chord, which made him feel a bit ashamed. He felt older than he should do and recently, he could feel his strength going. Sometimes he felt like he was evaporating, day by day up on that hill.

The task itself was one he actually quite enjoyed, despite the physical energy it required. He knew he’d enjoy looking at the area he’d cleared by the end of his shift and was content to be working alone with little chance of anyone speaking to him. Even though the nearest houses were only about a hundred yards away from him down in Sluggans (a road of half a dozen houses or so on the road to the Portree dump) nobody bothered him there. Even as close as he was to them, once you were in amongst the gorse on the hill, you more-or-less didn’t exist.

___________________________________

She was sitting right across from me. We were both in separate giant, spinning teacups at the fair. The cups were going fairly slowly, but fast enough that it was quite disorienting when I tried to look at one fixed spot. Everyone else on the ride was watching me as I watched her and they were rooting for me, I could tell. One of them was even holding a blue and red painted sign that you might see at a public protest or Wrestlemania. I couldn’t quite catch what it said due to the movement of the teacups but whoever was holding it seemed to be smiling, I think.

I looked across to her teacup and kept catching her face, for a brief second, as it passed me. She looked so happy. I stood up in my teacup and waited for my moment, desperate to impress those watching me by timing my jump just right and making it over to her.

The ride was going in a pattern and there were flashing lights to match the movements. Just before her teacup crossed mine, there was a flash of red, then yellow, then blue light each time. I knew to jump after the blue light. My legs felt like jelly and the ride abruptly felt much faster than it had been. I could hear dance music playing, the kind where someone speaks over the top of the tracks. I held on to the handrail on my cup and positioned myself. I was ready to jump at the next blue light.

It turned dramatically cold as I leapt and I saw that the roof of the ride was now open. I made it to the teacup but the crowd who had been watching me seemed to have dispersed. I could see the back of her puffy, green jacket as I landed and I was elated.

Something was different. I was thinking about how I never usually made the jump. That this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. That I might not have long. That I was pretty sure it was a dream. It was all making sense, briefly.

I pulled at the jacket.

“Mum?”

She turned around.

___________________________________

“Can you drive please? I can’t be arsed” Eilidh asked Michael as they walked up the steps leading out of his front garden.

Ordinarily, this would be a straightforward “yes” from Michael, but today he was distracted by two fiery problems: the burning pain on his back; and the piece of paper in his back pocket, which felt like it was burning a hole in his arse cheek. He laughed out loud at the thought of the paper setting his arse on fire.

“What’s so funny?” Eilidh asked, laughing a bit herself now.

“Nothing. I don’t know. I was thinking of a joke. Or something”

“Go on then.”

“Erm. What’s the difference between a Mercedes SUV driver and a total fucking wanker?”

“I don’t know”

“Nothing.”

While she found this relatively amusing and agreed with the sentiment, Eilidh refused to laugh because she knew that wasn’t what Michale had been originally laughing at. She loved him, but he was hard to be friends with sometimes.

“Are you driving or not?”

“Okay but your car. I don’t have enough fuel and can’t be bothered stopping at the filly.”

“Fine.”

This was a good outcome. Eilidh’s car (a black Volkswagen Golf that she’d been given for her 21st birthday) was a far nicer drive than Michael’s (an old Ford Focus that had mould growing in the back seats and in which you had to have the radio playing full volume if you wanted the hot air to work).

They got into the car, Michael maneuvering into the driver’s seat more tenderly than usual, and set off for Uig. They were driving out of Portree when Michael realised he’d have to get out of his own head and start asking questions or Eilidh would know something was wrong and he didn’t know what was going on himself, yet.

“How’s Catherine? In fact, where is she?”

“She’s with my Mum and Dad, they’re away to Plockton for the day.”

“Plockton? Why?”

“Dad’s bought some car part or something from a guy over there. He’s some man for the bargains.”

“Wow. She’s okay though? Catherine? Is she enjoying school?”

“She bit Laney Smith’s wee boy the other day. On the face, apparently.”

Michael laughed.

“Superb! Although if he’s anything like his mum he probably deserved it.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what I wanted to say! but obviously I had to make her feel bad about it. You can’t just go about biting people whenever you want.”

“Excatly, you should hold on to your grudges and then seek revenge in a more calculated way at a later date.”

“Again, we both know I agree, but not the kind of thing you’re supposed to say to a six-year-old.”

“What’s her fav-”

Michael stopped speaking and swerved the car to his right hand side, as the car in front of him stopped quickly and without warning.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What is wrong with these people?” He shouted.

“Oh my god. Nice save. Are you okay? Idiots.”

Michael looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a dozen or so people with their phones and cameras out taking pictures of some cows in the field at Drumuie.

“They’re not even Highland cows”, he said, before fervently impersonating the offending photographers, “Quick, let’s pull in and take pictures of a normal fucking cow, and look at this. Grass! Wow, get me a longer lens. I simply must capture this moment.”

Eilidh looked over at Michael in the way only a friend can, explaining in a glance that he wasn’t being funny anymore, just angry, and he should probably stop.

“I honestly despair for us. As a species.” Michael reasoned, aware that he’d upset her.

“Just as well we weren’t in your car, you’d have ploughed right through them all, the brakes are that soft.”

“Yeah you’re right actually… We should bring it next time.”

As usual there were two young children out on the croft and the slow, jingly music was playing. The colours, true to form, were brighter than it seemed right for them to be. The grass was a perfect and vibrant green and barring an interruption from the tree at the top of the hill there was a clean line where the croft met the sky, which was clear and pleasingly blue. Although I couldn’t feel the temperature, I knew it was the good kind of cold, so I wondered why the kids always dressed the way they did? The boy with a green t-shirt and grey shorts. The girl with an orange summer dress. It was too hard to see their facial expressions as they skipped up the hill, holding hands and always with flowers in their other hand, so I never knew if they felt the same seemingly misplaced dread as I did watching this scene unfold. I searched again for? Something. Something to show me why I felt such a sense of unease. But focussing was hard and I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The next part was always, somehow, a surprise, even though it happened every time. I felt the kids slowing, the music fading and the colours pulse just as my vision began to blur. Then there was a brief blackout, before electric blue lines tore through the grass, the sky and the tree at the top of the hill. The kids cried out to me for help. Obviously there was nothing I could do. I was frozen still and not able to shout back. To explain. To tell them how sorry I was. To let them know I’d try harder next time.

The truth was, though, that next time would end the same as this time. It always ended the same. For as long as I’ve known. Someone, who I knew to be my enemy but never saw, was always one step ahead of me. Ready to destroy the boy, the girl and the croft with strikes of electric blue power, before I had the chance to understand why they wanted to.

___________________________

Michael bolted upright in his bed with a panicked gasp. Covered in sweat and momentarily unsure of where he was he looked down to see the somewhat reassuring sight of his erection pushing against his boxers. He gave the tip of his penis a wee flick with his finger and was relieved that he could feel it. He was awake. Michael suffered from sleep paralysis, which would often see him ‘wake up’ in the morning only to find that he had not in fact woken up and was trapped in another cycle of disturbing dreams. When he tried to explain his condition to other people, he had a couple of examples he always reached for.

1. “So I’d been pished the night before, to be fair, and when I woke up there was a chippy spilt all over the floor next to my bed. I spotted a bottle of ‘Kick’ (imitation Red Bull) next to it and reached over to get a sip, unsure if its sugary poison would kill or cure me. But I couldn’t move. There was some weird force keeping me pinned down so I pushed and pushed against it but it was just impossible to sit up. Then when I gave up pushing I started to, kind of, half-float up. And when I did, right, I saw the guy standing in my room facing me, holding a gun. And do you know who the guy was? Me. Myself. Pointing a gun at me. I mean. What the fuck?”

2. “The night before, I’d had sex with this girl I didn’t really know and when I woke up the space where she’d fallen asleep next to me was empty. I wondered if she’d got up to use the toilet? So I tried to turn on my side and check. But, of course, I couldn’t because the invisible force wouldn’t permit me to. I fell back asleep, then woke up and tried again. This must have happened at least a dozen times. In a lucid moment, I remembered to stop fighting against the force and to try to float back to consciousness, but as I focussed on floating I began to sink. There was a big swirly fucking black hole or something and I was being pulled into it. I didn’t know what was at the bottom but I knew it wasn’t good so I was shitting it, obviously. Then, some unspoken voice told me that if I could think of anything good I’d done in my life, I’d float. But if I thought of things I was ashamed of, I’d sink again. As it turns out, I struggle to think of any positive impact I’ve had on the world so I started to drop. But luckily, just before I hit the bottom, I woke up. Anyway, turns out the girl was still there and I got a handjob before I left her flat, so all-in-all, not too bad.”

The first one was more-or-less true, except he usually left out the part where he was also sick all over his bedsheets. To the second one (as he suspected most listeners knew) he’d added some dramatic flair. There was no girl, it happened on an ordinary Tuesday night after he’d been playing playstation, drinking cups of tea and eating spicy Monster Munch with his friend John Mac - and nor was it as coherent as he suggested. It was true to say there was a voice. There was the concept of right and wrong. And there were also further parts of that episode he didn’t understand. But he reckoned that didn’t sound as interesting.

He went to lie back down but found the sweat on his t-shirt had gone cold, so he peeled it off and reached to grab another one from a pile in a basket next to his bed. He turned his pillow over to the dry side and lay back down. From where he was lying he could see out of the window and over the top of the house across the street to the fields, where gorse bush had taken over everything. It was April, so the gorse was in its bright-yellow flowering season, something which made Michael feel hopeful. April is a sweet time of the year on Skye, he thought. The weather is generally dry (or as dry as it gets on the island) and bright. The nights are getting longer again after the winter months and local people begin to emerge from their hibernation, buoyed by the weather and ready to socialise uninterrupted by the yet-to-arrive clouds of midges and tourists.

He remembered being a wee guy and running through all that gorse. Getting himself covered in scratches. Getting himself in trouble for ripping his jackets/joggers/t-shirts on it. He also remembered the summer himself and John Mac, aged about 12, decided to take an axe from his dad’s shed and clear a big circle in the middle of the gorse bushes to create what would become a makeshift boxing ring. Michael only ever had one fight there (against Seonaidh Beaton) and neither of them wanted to punch each other so they tried long-distance kicks for half an hour without really landing a blow and everyone left, happy to say it was a draw. “One fight, zero defeats”, Michael would often rationalise.

Nobody really cared back then, but these days their haul of chopped up gorse bush might have earned them a fair bit of pocket money - had they sold it to one of the various sexy island cafes using it as a colourful brunch addition. Michael’s main interaction with the plant now was to collect its yellow leaves to make tea. His Nanny had told him about brewing her own gorse once and the idea had always stuck with him, but it wasn’t until last spring he had collected some leaves and made his first batch.

According to his Nanny, who was Michael’s link to anything ‘traditional’, gorse tea gave its drinker renewed confidence. To an extent her theory was proven correct the first time Michael drank some as, half an hour after his first cup, he confidently strode from the living room to the toilet and… Well, he didn’t have a very nice experience. However, he didn’t mind the taste and he’d collected loads of leaves so he decided to keep trying, eventually building up a tolerance to the tea and enjoying it through all of that April and May.

“Gorse is fully native to the British Isles”, John Mac had told Michael last week, in one of the pauses between games of Pro Evolution Soccer on the Playstation where one of them (Michael felt like it was him more often than it wasn’t) made the tea. Usually it would be Tetley for both of them but Michael had convinced John to try his dried gorse tea and stood by the kettle, letting the tea brew and listening to John read from a book called ‘Plants of the UK’ that his granny had (hilariously) given him for Christmas (John’s sister got £50).

“It is adapted to Atlantic, coastal, and upland climates and it loves poor soil, salt winds, and wet weather”, John added.

“It’s in the right place then”, MIchael replied.

John laughed and replied in a posh voice, “yes, of course. Highland Gorse Bush is native to the Isle of Skye and it loves big fucking hills, Sutherland’s garage and the Tongadale Hotel.”

Michael crossed the short distance from the kettle to the couch through the neat, open plan kitchen-living-room of John’s council flat and put the two cups of gorse tea on the table.

“Free tea, that. Hand picked by your old pal Mikey” he said, pointing at the cups.

They both picked up their tea for a quick sip while the next game of Pro Evo was loading and Michael watched John as he had his first taste, to see if he liked it. He didn’t really have any reaction but then, just as Michael put his own mug to his lips, John said, “Free Tea-bet”, and Michael spray-spat his tea out of his mouth. They both laughed way more than the joke deserved and their laughter only increased when John accidentally let out a tiny little squeaky fart - after which point he slipped off the couch and was on the floor, unable to contain his laughter. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

“Fuck”, he said, before abruptly standing up and running to the toilet.

“Yeah, you have to build a bit of tolerance to it. But it’s worth it!” Michael shouted.

___________________________

I sat up and felt a bit dizzy, so I took a moment to get my head together and regain my balance. I was heading up to the gorse and to save time quickly opened up the velux window and slid down the roof, grabbing onto the gutter and lowering myself down at the last minute to land on the stones below. I had a headtorch on, so I could see pretty well as long as I was facing the direction I wanted to look. I climbed the steps at the house, jumped the gate and was about to run across the street but a Lorry came flying past, way too fast for a small street like mine. I instinctively hid behind the bin. I glanced at the back of the lorry and was sure I could see people inside through the gaps in the back doors. After the lorry came a hearse, which only had the driver in it, so he must just have been visiting someone, I thought. After they had both passed, I looked left down the street and out of the corner of my eye caught the silhouette of a guy wearing a trench coat under the street light in front of Eilidh’s house.

“Fuck. He’s going to beat me there”, I thought.

I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen him and ran through Christine’s back garden as fast as I could but even though I couldn’t see him, I knew he was faster than me. I jumped on Christine’s coal bunker but missed the concrete and instead stamped on the metal lid which made a big clatter that echoed across the street. I could hear the guy laughing. Christine would be well asleep by now and no help to me even awake. She couldn’t even fill her own coal bucket, I had to do it for her - when she had coal, that was. Usually it was just a bunker full of damp peat.

The foot race with the man was as good as over, I wouldn’t make it there first. But if I was clever I could distract him and send him the wrong way. I crawled into the coal bunker, found a clump of peat and threw it into the gorse, which was now only a few yards away from me. The wind (that I had only just realised had been raging around me) calmed down and it became quiet. The guy had slowed down, but he wasn’t interested in the peat. If I could just get him to stop, I’d be in with a chance. I looked around for something to throw but nothing seemed right. Without realising it, I had picked up another lump of wet peat and lit it with a lighter that I had in my pocket. It caught alight much easier than I’d expected, burning my fingers a wee bit, then I threw it into the gorse. I still couldn’t see the guy but I knew that he’d stopped. Then, his body still hidden to me, I heard his voice.

“You have my attention.” He said.

___________________________

Michael lived in one of the fifty-two houses in a council estate in Portree called Matheson Place. He was in one of the semi-detched houses at the top of the slope on which Matheson Place was built. Portree itself was built on a steep gradient, with its name coming from the Gaelic ‘Port Ruighe’ meaning the port at the bottom of the slope.

“It’s been going downhill ever since they named it”, Michael’s Nanny used to say.

His house’s position meant he had a great view of Ben Tianavaig, a hill sitting just outside Portree. About two-thirds of the way up Ben Tianavaig and visible from Matheson Place sits a line of rocks with a path skirting around them for walkers to access the final ascent. Michael got as far as the rocks once when he and his mum set off to reach the summit, before she got tired and wanted to give up when they reached them. He complained at the time but was secretly quite glad, as he was tired too. He remembered thinking he was a bit fat at the time and that’s why he was tiring so early on the walk - in fairness all he brought with him that day was a can of coke and a mars bar.

He stood at the steps by his back door and felt the fresh sun against his face. He had a sip of his coffee and was glad he’d gone for the Nescafe Espresso version of instant coffee at the co-op instead of the regular kind; it was totally worth the extra £2, he thought. He walked over, barefoot, to the wooden table and chairs in the garden. It was a bit of a daily challenge he’d set, having to walk over the small garden stones in bare feet, ignoring the feeling of their jagged corners digging into his soles (part tickle, part pain) and pretending he was walking on a thick carpet so as not to spill his coffee or anything else he might be holding. Which in today’s case, was a 1980’s style red and purple floral photo album.

He sat down and looked over at Ben Tianavaig. The hill usually caught the light in the morning which made it feel protective. He’d been thinking about that day up there with his mum when he woke up, so he’d looked out one of the old photo albums as he was sure there was a picture of them inside.

He flicked through the sticky plastic pages until he found it. There was his mum sitting on a rock, red faced and eating a ham sandwich. And him. Standing up on a rock and posing in a tight-fitting, mustard-yellow t-shirt (with a design featuring two parrots on it), swigging on his can of coke.

“God, I look so much skinnier there” he thought, “and I love that t-shirt.”

He had another sip of coffee and closed his eyes. He tried to remember how he felt that day. Tried to remember packing his bag. Getting in the car. Starting the walk. Who they’d met along the way- then his phone, which was in the kitchen by the back door, started to ring. He ran across the stones to answer it.

“Ah, ya fucker”, he said after hitting a particularly sharp stone, an outcry which meant he had failed in today’s silent-stone challenge. It was Eilidh on the phone.

“Well, Well”, he said

“Well, well indeed” Eilidh replied

“What’s the craic then?”

“I’m just going to drop the wee guy off at school and then do you fancy going for tea and cake before my changeover?”

“Tea and cake. Aye. Where?”

“I don’t know. Cafe? Aros?”

“Yeah, maybe Cafe would be good. While we can still get in”

“Oh God don’t, there was a cruise ship in yesterday”

“Fuck off”

“Yeah I saw it when I was driving through the village”

“Were you doing a wee fanny lap, aye?”

She laughed. A fanny lap was (maybe still is) a famous Portree pastime for young guys who had recently passed their driving test and who would take laps of Wentworth street and Somerled Square in their 1-litre cars looking for… Well. Fanny, as the name suggests. Crude maybe, but a part of Portree’s social history.

“I’ll meet you in like 15 minutes? Will that be about right, after your drop off?”

“Perfect. See you then. Or, wait”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll pick you up? After the school run? We might not both get parked in the village?”

“Ah okay sound, yeah, good shout, see you soon.”

“Okay bye”

“Cheers now”

“All the best”

“Take care bububye”

“Byeeee”.

Eilidh and Michael had been friends since school. She grew up along the street from him in Matheson Place, but her dad worked offshore in the boom years and built a big house next to the other big houses on Viewfield Road before she finished high school. They had a little chalet next to the big house now, that they rented out, which kept them going after her dad retired. Eilidh herself lived in one of the ‘new houses’, built next to the ‘big co-op’, which were both below and across from Matheson Place. The fact that they had now been there for more than ten years was no reason for local people to change their name. Even the bricks and mortar have to prove themselves worthy of acceptance on Skye. Michael could actually see the roof of Eilidh’s house from his kitchen window. She’d moved in there with her boyfriend, Thomas, not long after finishing school and she was pregnant before she was 19. They had a baby girl, Catherine, who was now 6, but Thomas had never met her having left Eilidh in murky circumstances to fend for herself before she’d even given birth. Nobody spoke about Thomas now.

Michael threw a red checked shirt over the white t-shirt he’d slept in and picked a pair of jeans off the floor and put them on. They were falling down on him but he couldn’t find his belt amongst the mess in his room so decided they’d be fine, since they’d be mostly sitting down. He was just tying his shoe laces when he heard Eilidh’s horn go outside the house. He ran down the stairs and looked out the front window but couldn’t see Eilidh’s car. Then he heard the gate. “Why’s she coming in?” He thought. Then a stern knock at the door.

“Fuck”, he said.

Eilidh wouldn’t knock. Michael hit the ground and pressed his back up against the heater underneath the window to avoid being seen. He could feel the heat pressing his back through his shirt.

Another knock.

“Fuck”, he thought again, but luckily didn’t say out loud.

He heard the letterbox open and then a serious, professional sounding man’s voice coming through it.

“Michael? … Michael? … Michael Morrison?”

He held his breath. He was sweating, partly from the stress but mainly due to the burning sensation on his back from the heater, which he was too scared to move away from. He heard a slip of paper hit the ground from the letterbox and then footsteps leaving the doorway. His body relaxed and he moved away from the heater slightly, much to the relief of his lower back which was beginning to develop burn marks where he’d been lying. He was about to crawl to somewhere cooler when the footsteps started again, this time with the crunch of stones underneath. He felt the man looking in the window and pressed against the heater again to avoid being seen. The pain was sufficient enough that tears were now streaming down his face as he tried not to make a sound.

“Michael? …” The visitor’s voice was slightly muffled by the window.

After a long pause, there were brisk steps across the stones, up the steps and the sound of a car door closing. Michael moved away from the heater but still stayed close to the window in case he needed to hide again. He began a stifled, almost silent cry as the sweat from his back stung his burn marks, which felt severe, though he couldn’t yet examine them. He fell asleep on the floor by the window.

___________________________

Eilidh opened the door and walked into Michael’s front porch. She spent much of her childhood in the house so felt at ease whenever she entered it. In fact, given that her own parents moved when she was in high school Michael’s house, which had been his parents before him, was probably the one place where she had a continuous link to her childhood. When she opened the porch door, the first thing she noticed was that it was unusually hot inside. The April weather was turning warmer and she hadn’t even had the heating on in her own house, let alone at full blast as Michael seemed to.

“Michael?” She shouted, “I’m just going for a pee then we can go. Sorry I’m late, Catherine wouldn’t let go of my leg today. But she was wearing the wellies you got her. So cute. Anyway, two minutes!”

She went into the bathroom. It still looked basically the same as when they were kids. Michael’s mum, Katie, had been the house’s decorator. She’d also been the cleaner, and Eilidh always felt awkward about using the toilet now as it was only “boy clean”, she’d say, “If you’ve not used bleach, it’s not clean. And I don’t want to have to look at your discarded pubes.”

She was wearing a long cardigan that she had to be careful to lift up properly so she didn’t pee on it, a lesson she’d learnt the hard way, but once she’d lifted the cardigan up and started to pee she realised there was no “fucking” toilet roll in the bathroom.

“Michael for fuck sake, how many times do I have to remind you about this? Can you bring me some toilet roll? Also, why’s it so hot in here, man? It’s like a sauna.”

After he didn’t answer she pulled up her leggings and washed her hands. There was a wee mirror above the sink. She remembered being too small to reach it when she was a kid, but as she looked at herself now she was reminded she wasn’t a kid anymore. She thought about Michael’s mum, Katie.

“I mean for flip sake, I’ve got a kid now, Katie. I don’t know how you did it all”, she said in her head.

Eilidh opened the bathroom door and shouted on Michael again but he didn’t answer, so she left.

___________________________

As promised, here’s a wee post about some inspirations I have in my mind as I go on this writing journey with you all. All aboard. Choo-choo. Etc.

I’m not sure how directly or indirectly any of the below will influence the ‘25 Plates’ book project, as I’m really trying to be led by the writing and not to have too predetermined a story outcome. But I think the books and music below were what sprung to mind when I was imagining the world and time the book is set in - which in real terms is Skye and now-ish, but in not-real terms is a Skye with a vaguely sinister, dystopian, timeless flavour coating everything we discover. Or maybe there’s no difference between the two. I’ve put links to some reviews of the books below, mostly from the Guardian but only as it’s not behind a paywall, not because I endorse or agree with the review in particular. And then a list of music artists below that are lingering around my mind for the project.

If I was better at visual art I could have put this all together in a mood board and it might have felt nice, but alas all I have is words - and even they don’t always make sense.

I’d really love some recommendations linked to, or following on from, or giving the opposite opinion of, the suggestions below. I’ve not listed radio or podcast that I enjoy but would welcome suggestions in that area, too.

Cheers

Daniel

Subscribe now

BOOKS

Ice by Anna Kavan

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/dec/21/ice-anna-kavan-winter-reads

I read this at the beginning of lockdown and found it really appropriate for that time as we were all trapped with our thoughts more than we might have otherwise been. I’m pretty sure it was described as one of the first sci-fi books, though not by the author. It’s essentially about a man chasing down a woman he loves (and hates) and is obsessed with - who may or may not be real - as a giant ice wall is closing in on the world. It was the first time I’d encountered an ‘unreliable narrator’ - the feverish quality of the protagonist makes it hard to know if what he’s telling you has actually happened or not - something that ‘25 Plates’ will feature to some degree.

10/10 recommend it. V trippy and made me think a lot about the things we can, and cannot, control. I also loved trying to work out exactly what was going on, the whole time.

Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman (Also 1984/Brave New World)

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2017/feb/02/amusing-ourselves-to-death-neil-postman-trump-orwell-huxley

I read this (non-fiction) book at the beginning of the year, having heard it recommended on the Ezra Klein podcast (a good way of keeping up with American politics, if you like feeling despondent) which always has its guests recommend three books.

Released in 1984, the year in which Orwell’s famous ‘1984’ book was set, Postman wonders whether we are closer to an Orwellian-style authoritarian police state or the world set out by Aldous Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ in which humans take a pill called Soma to make themselves happy and enjoy a pleasure-focussed life, with no need for a violence-based state to control them. It was a really interesting read in which Postman concludes that we are in fact ‘amusing ourselves to death’ in a world more like Huxley’s than Orwell’s. His concerns, which he’d voiced in the 1970s and 80s, that the worlds of politics and entertainment were merging are now, of course, beyond doubt.

1984 and Brave New World were both anchor books for me in my early 20s and I have re-read them a few times but I won’t speak much about them here as I’m sure folk will have their own views on them, but I would say that recently I had the realisation that for the Proles in 1984, life doesn’t really change much. So is that world only scary for the middle class? I’ll need to think more about that.

Overall, it was a really interesting non-fiction read that predicts the half century that followed its release scarily - although, if anything, things have accelerated faster than Postman suspected they might with the internet/social media and now AI melting our brains and dividing our species.

The Giver Quartet By Louis Lowri

https://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2014/sep/06/review-the-giver-lois-lowry

Continuing on the dystopian fiction trend like the teenage boy I still, in many ways, am - I’m choosing a teen-fiction book series. I only read these books last year and honestly, the final few chapters of The Giver (the first book) were some of the most exhilarating I’ve ever read. The Giver, which is the most well-read of the quartet, is part of the education syllabus in some parts of the USA and follows a young boy in a manufactured, clean, ‘perfect’ community - which it soon becomes clear is manufactured in the most horrible of ways. The quartet of books weave fantasy and dystopian sci-fi together in a really digestible way. They’re quick simple reads but the themes are huge - not dissimilar to 1984 in that respect (in my most humble of opinions).

The GIver might be the best short book I’ve ever read. Maybe it was just the right book at the right time for me, but it was really impactful and, to me, showed me why labels for artwork can be so silly. There is simply no reason for this to be a ‘teen fiction’ or ‘kids’ book when it has themes that are as universal and huge as they are.

Can’t recommend this enough to read - totally accessible and interesting. The three books that follow The Giver don’t directly follow the same characters - but there is overlap and they take place in the same ‘universe’ as Marvel would say. So yeah. A good book, and series of books, for anyone to read imo.

There There by Tommy Orange

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jul/15/there-there-tommy-orange-review

I was recommended this book earlier this year as I was looking for fiction that dealt with inherited trauma, something I’m generally interested in and that is also the focus of a new play I am writing (which is in early stages).

The book follows the lives of several different characters in America, all of whom come from native/indigenous backgrounds. We see how many of them, or their families, deal with addiction and adaptation to the places they live in and the clash of modern, brain-driven urban mindsets against ancient, soul-driven ways of being - but it does so in a totally non-nostalgic or wistful way through gritty, real, interesting characters.

As the story develops we start to find the links between the characters as the stories all begin to gravitate towards a large scale ‘powwow’ event.

I really enjoyed it - and made me want to read similar types of work set within the Gàidhealtachd.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingslover

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2022/oct/16/demon-copperhead-by-barbara-kingsolver-review-appalachian-saga-in-the-spirit-of-dickens

This was another one that came from the Ezra Klein show, after Barbara Kinglover herself was interviewed. She was describing her experience as someone from the Appalachian area of America (she’s from Kentucky, I believe) and explained how her accent and way of life were a novelty when she went to an urban university. She also spoke of the stereotyped ‘redneck’ character - Cletus from The Simpsons for example - with his shotgun, XXX home brew and various farm animals - arguing that everything he had been stereotyped for represented self-sustainability. The gun meant he could hunt, which along with livestock and vegetable farming meant he could feed himself and even the homebrew meant he didn’t need to buy alcohol from the store.

This caught my attention and made me think about the Gael’s relationship with Scotland and the UK, so I wanted to read her work. Demon Copperhead is a companion book (not quite a retelling but inspired by) Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. It follows a young man’s unlikely misadventures through early life with a mother who is an addict and then the foster care system, to eventual drug use, via the now well documented big pharma OxyContin scandal that rocked much of America, the world and the Appalachian region in particular.

Another good read, about a boy from a poor background and how he experienced the world, which gives real insight into how the odds were stacked against him and his people and a devastating, up close look at addiction.

Easy reading, big themes, my kind of book.

Soil and Soul by Alistair MacIntosh

https://www.culturematters.org.uk/the-source-of-alienation-jim-aitken-reviews-soil-and-soul-by-alistair-mcintosh/
I’m not sure there’s much I can say about this book other than that I loved it and it really impacted the way I look at the world. It was so refreshing to hear Alistair MacIntosh’s views on, basically, how to live a good life and what we should be striving for - alongside describing his own upbringing and activism work. The front cover of the edition I read had a quote from George Monbiot, who said: “Make no claim to know the world if you have not read this book”, which I think sums it up pretty well.



Real People in a Real Place, Iain Crichton Smith (Also, Consider the Lillies)

https://www.alastairmcintosh.com/general/resources/1982-Iain-Crichton-Smith-Real-People-Real-Place.pdf

A scathing, funny, brutal essay about how the urban mindset can, at times, patronise and dismiss the rural way of living. It feels like vital writing now as much as when it was written. The link above takes you to a free PDF of the essay on Alistair MacIntosh’s website (which has great stuff on it) and I’d recommend reading it. Every line feels quote-worthy.

I also re-read Consider the Lillies by Iain Crichton Smith which is great and also contains the quote below, which is one of my favourites.

“It’s just that because I’m playful people don’t think I’m serious. They think in the Highlands that only serious people are serious.” - Character ‘Donald MacLeod’ in Iain Crichton Smith’s ‘Consider the Lilies’.

The Time of Angels by Iris Murdoch

I’m currently reading this book, though I’ve taken a bit of a break in the last couple of weeks as I had lots on. I was looking for something fiction that was religion centred and found The Time of Angels. Enjoying it so far and will report back at the end.

MUSIC

I once worked with a theatre director who avoided using music in their productions, as they felt the feeling it conveyed was too prescriptive for an audience. I understood the point they were making but I think, overall, I disagree. Like all writers, I wish I was a musician, ideally a lead vocalist for some kind of cool band. But alas. Here we are. Below are a selection of artists who, at the moment, form the imagined soundtrack to the book in my mind. It’s a mix of brit pop, trad-electric and folk music, which I think set the background for the main character.

I no particular order, and with loads probably missing -

Oasis, Runrig, Van Morrison, Waterboys, Felice brothers, Vatersay boys, Pulp, Mylo, Niteworks, Martyn Bennet, Suede, Rural Alberta Advantage, Christie Moore, Saw Doctors, The Pouges, The Mary Wallopers, Big Thief, Joni Mitchell, Black Belt Eagle Scout, Angie McMahon, Young Jesus, The Cranberries, Lucinda Williams.

Subscribe now

Subscribe now

1. Hi Daniel, what are you doing?

Well now if you’ve gotten this far, you’ll maybe know a bit about my work already. This sub stack is for me to write a new book/novel/novella that I’ve been thinking about, but have been unable to justify spending the required length of time writing. Hopefully with support from a few subscribers, I (with your help) can get the project off the ground.

2. Yeah okay Dan-Dan but why now?

Good point. I’ve had an idea and some rough outline stuff kicking about the old noggin’ for quite some time and as we’re coming into winter, I thought it might be a good time to get started on it.

3. Right fine, what’s it about Danny boy?

The working title is ‘25 Plates’ and it’s about a boy from Portree, on the Isle of Skye, who gets himself into a wee bit of bother after a bloody altercation with a strange visitor to the island. The story follows the boy’s journey as he deals with the consequences of his meeting with the visitor and explores themes of identity, loss, violence, inherited trauma, land, class, language and more.

4. Just write it then? Why are you doing a sub stack, big D?

Can you stop being so aggressive in your questioning? It’s quite disturbing.

5. Aww sorry… You want to tell us what your plan is now Danilo?

…

My plan is to write a minimum of 4,000 rough-edited words towards the book every month, which I will share on sub stack in one go. I guess you could say they’ll be ‘chapters’, and though I won’t necessarily be posting them in order, the nature of the book should mean that you can ‘follow’ (or deliberately struggle to follow) what’s going on even if not linear.

In addition to the longer monthly post, I’ll be sharing things that I see or do, music, mood-boards and notes that I take along the way, all of which will contribute to ‘25 Plates’ as a book, story and project.

I will write for at least 12 months, when we’ll hit the 48,000 words mark - and potentially continue depending on how the story develops.

Subscribe now