‘Sorry.’ I run a hand self-consciously back through my hair. ‘I fell asleep.’ My own voice sounds quite coarse by comparison. Scottish, but not island. Central belt perhaps.
She laughs. ‘Well, that’s nice. Invites us for drinks then buggers off for an early night.’ Her accent is similar to his, but broader. A soft voice, with a slight catch in it. Almost hoarse. Seductive. She is six inches shorter than him, but still quite tall. Five six, perhaps, or seven. Short, boyish, auburn hair frames an almost elfin face. Deep brown eyes enhanced by a reddish brown eyeshadow. Wide lips a slash of red. She is slim, a wellworn leather bomber jacket hanging on square shoulders over a white T-shirt and fashionably baggy jeans. ‘When we didn’t see the car out front, we thought maybe you weren’t here.’
So I have a car, but no idea where it is. And I am suddenly overcome by an urge to tell them everything. Which is almost nothing. Just that I was washed up on the beach and haven’t a clue who I am. These people know me. They could tell me so much. But I am scared to give shape or form to that black cloud of anxiety that hangs over me. Of events beyond memory. Things simply wiped from my mind that I fear I might never even wish to acknowledge. And all I say is, ‘I forgot.’
‘That’s just what Sally said. “Bet he’s forgotten.”’ And he does a very good imitation of her accent.
‘So where is the car?’ Sally says.
And I find myself panicking. ‘Pranged it.’
‘Aw, shit.’ She bends down to ruffle Bran’s head, and he pushes his face up into her hand. ‘What happened? Is that how you cut your head?’
My hand goes instinctively to my hairline, where the blood I had seen earlier has dried now to a scab. But I don’t want to go any further down this road. ‘Oh, it wasn’t anything very much. I’ll get the car back tomorrow.’
He says, ‘How did you get home?’
My mind is racing. You can’t just tell one lie, and I’m very quickly learning that I am not a good liar. ‘The garage gave me a lift back.’
Sally says, ‘All the way from Tarbert? Christ, that was good of them. You should have called. Jon would have come and got you.’
Jon unzips his hoodie and allows himself to fall back into the other settee, legs spread, an arm extended along the top of the cushions. ‘More to the point, where’s that drink you promised us?’ And I am seriously grateful for the change of subject.
Sally slips out of her jacket and throws it over the back of the settee, before dropping down beside Jon, who lets his arm slide around her shoulder. It is clear to me that not only are they regular visitors, at ease in my house, but they are a couple comfortable with each other. ‘Yeah, come on, Neal, we’re dying of thirst here.’
‘Sure,’ I say, happy to escape into the kitchen. ‘What would you like?’
‘Just the usual,’ she calls through.
I feel panic rising again. I should know what they drink. How can I explain that I don’t? I search the cupboards once more, this time looking for drink, but I can’t find so much as a can of beer. Then I open the fridge, and there is a bottle of vodka, two-thirds full, in the door. Somehow I just know that vodka is not my tipple. I scan the shelves for tonic. Nothing. ‘I think I’m out of tonic,’ I call back, hoping I’ve got this right.
I hear her sigh. ‘Men! Do I have to do everything myself?’
And she slips through the archway into the kitchen, eyes alight and full of mischief. She puts a conspiratorial finger to her lips and, before I can even react, she reaches arms up around my neck to pull me towards her, mouth open, finding mine and forcing her tongue past my lips and teeth. Something in the scent and touch of her is arousingly familiar, and beyond that first moment of shock I find myself reacting. Hands sliding down her back and pulling her towards me, pressing myself against her. And then we break apart and I am both breathless and startled. She says loudly, ‘Did you check the larder?’
I look around. I have not the least idea where the larder is. ‘No.’
She tuts, taking my hand and pulling me through to the boot room. ‘Let’s see.’ I glance guiltily over my shoulder to make sure that Jon can’t see us. Somehow I have been drawn into a conspiracy of deceit that must have been familiar to me only yesterday, and no doubt long before that. But now, in my ignorance of it, I find its sudden intimacy exciting, almost intoxicating.
To the left of the washing machine, she opens a floor-to ceiling cupboard to reveal shelves stacked with tins and packet food, bottles and condiments. She stoops to the bottom shelf and lifts a six-pack of tonic in its plastic wrap. ‘Honestly, Neal, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She grins and reaches up to kiss me lightly on the lips, then hurries back through to the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix these. You go through and pour yourself a whisky and keep Jon company.’
I go through to pick up my glass from where it has rolled under the coffee table and set it beside the bottle. I don’t really want another drink. I need to keep my head clear.
Jon smirks. ‘Been at it before we got here, I see. That why you were sleeping?’
I force a smile. ‘No. I just had the one. And it was a while ago.’ I stand up and walk to the French windows and nod towards the far shore. ‘The man in that caravan over there was watching me through binoculars.’
Jon breathes scorn through pursed lips. ‘Buford? He’s a weird one, that. Apparently residents at Seilebost have been at the council to try and get him evicted. But it’s common grazing or something, and he’s claiming travellers’ rights.’ Sally comes in and hands him a glass, and sits down beside him. ‘He must be mad parking his caravan there. He has it guyed and pegged all the way round to stop it blowing away. Must be like living in a bloody wind tunnel.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’
Sally chinks glasses with him and cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘Not joining us?’
Jon grins now. ‘Think he’s had enough already.’ Then, ‘I guess you didn’t make it out to the Flannans yesterday. It was a real stinker. Start of the equinoctials, the locals say.’
I cannot imagine why I might have wanted to go out to the Flannan Isles, but it seems safer to agree that I didn’t. ‘No, I never made it.’
‘Thought not.’
Sally takes a sip of her vodka tonic and I hear ice clinking in her glass and notice there is a slice of lemon in it. She really does know her way around my kitchen.
Jon says, ‘So how’s the book going?’
Every sentence uttered feels like a trap set to catch me out. ‘Book?’ I frown innocently, or at least hope I do.
Sally chides him. ‘You should know better than ask a writer a question like that.’
Jon laughs and says, ‘What, has inspiration vanished like those lighthouse keepers you’re writing about? Last time we spoke, you said you were almost finished.’
I try to avoid further traps. ‘I expect to wrap it up sometime this month.’ And suddenly I realise that I don’t even know what month it is. I glance around the room and see a Jolomo calendar hanging on the wall. A vividly coloured painting of cottages standing above an outcrop of rocks, and boats at anchor in a stormy bay. Below it, the month of September is laid out in thirty squares.