Chapter One
An inquisitive glance from a fellow passenger was enough to reassure Abigail. Now, at least, if things were to get out of hand, Abigail knew she wasn’t alone. Adjusting the rolled-up coat she’d wedged against the train’s rattling window, she attempted to drown out the escalating differences of opinion currently unravelling between her two unwanted seating companions.
For the last twenty or so miles, she’d had no option but to listen as the Impeccably Dressed Italian had become more animated during his heated conversation with the American Tourist. And as he stroppily rose from his seat, he bid his temporary neighbour a bad-tempered Arrivederci before disappearing into the other carriage. Abigail couldn’t help but replay the recent events in her head, all the while ensuring she turned another page in her novel.
She was hoping she’d given his American adversary, still seated beside her, the illusion that she’d been far too engrossed in the world of Agatha Christie to have noticed for one second what had just taken place at the cosy little table for four. A table they’d supposedly arrived at by chance.
But Abigail knew exactly why they’d chosen to sit beside her. Her tear-stained face, her red swollen eyes that ached from hours of sobbing, and the fact she still wore the stuffy tweed theatre costume she’d worn yesterday – the one that’d unfortunately come with a wig of tousled curls.
Dressed in an outfit more suited to someone fifty years her senior, and surrounded by an array of mismatched luggage, Abigail felt as though her life had been whipped from beneath her once again.
She barely recognised the person she’d become, or the tumultuous twist her life had taken in only a few short hours.
And for the second time in her twenty-nine short years, Abigail found herself mourning a life she’d once known. A life she’d fought so desperately hard to create after fleeing the Scottish island for the city lights only six years before.
Old cases, storage boxes, and shopping bags – all of which would’ve been out of date in her mother’s youth – gave the impression that Abigail was an innocent, naive non-traveller, who was more out of place on the train than her unwanted travelling companions. A sure bet for two dodgy characters with a shady deal to conclude. But, as they say, never judge a book by its cover.
As the antics of Agatha Christie’s characters began to blur, Abigail’s drooping eyelids meant she had no option but to abandon her novel, even if it did mean leaving herself open to unwanted conversation with the American Tourist.
And after attempting, but failing, to stretch life into her waning limbs by clasping her outstretched hands, Abigail’s stifled yawns broke into a spasmodic rapture, causing her eyes to water and her nose, not yet recovered from her hours of sobbing, to stream.
In a desperate attempt to compose herself and stay awake, Abigail turned her attention to the passing countryside.
Delivery vans and lorries – such constants as the train had hurried them north from London, through the English countryside and into the Scottish Borders – had become sparse as they’d meandered their way through the Highlands towards the west coast.
Villages had become scattered, and the distant flickers of light served only to remind Abigail of just how remote and sparsely populated the enchanting landscape was.
But there was no excitement at the thought of her journey coming to its end. Instead, she could only sit, trapped between a world she felt removed from and a fellow traveller who’d caused the hairs on the back of her neck to shiver the moment he’d entered the carriage.
And still struggling to process the events of the last forty-eight hours, Abigail’s hand skirted her cheek as she wiped at yet another silent tear.
She’d always known that turbulent emotions were bound to accompany her as she made the dreaded journey back to Lochside, to a life she could barely remember and a house she hated. But the train, zigzagging its way through the disinterested countryside, only served to emphasise her disconnection from the life she’d once known.
And, as if the universe had been listening in on her thoughts, screeching brakes reduced the train to a trundle. They were approaching her stop. Coincidentally, the end of the line.
Closing her eyes, Abigail took a deep breath, as though these actions alone would give her the courage to begin the final leg of her journey.
The brakes brought the train to a stop just as Abigail was opening her eyes. Twelve and a half hours after leaving a rain-soaked London, she’d arrived in the tiny village of Kyle of Lochalsh, on the west coast of Scotland.
Floating burnt oranges and golds danced above her. The late April sun ensuring it went down in style did little to lift Abigail’s spirits.
But from somewhere, in the depth of her being, she found the strength to force herself to her feet. Whatever was in store for her at Lochside was far less intimidating than her current seating companion.
She thanked the American Tourist as he stood, allowing her to escape her window seat and the mysterious microcosm that’d been her world for the final miles of her journey. Abigail began to gather her luggage, all the while sensing her seating companion was just as reluctant as she was to make eye contact.
What was it about this man that unnerved her so? What was it that caused her skin to shiver at the mere sight of him? And why had the sound of his voice caused her stomach to lurch and cramp like knots tightening in a vice?
She racked her brains. But like everything else, if it wasn’t a memory from the first decade of her life, or the previous six years, then it was trapped in a dark void she was incapable of unlocking.
While edging her way towards the door, Abigail noticed the American Tourist had retaken his seat, picked up a newspaper, and was resting his feet on the seat opposite.
The writer in her was ever curious: odd that his journey wasn’t over, given they’d reached the end of the line…
He was still occupying Abigail’s thoughts as she fought to unload her luggage. There had been no lids for the storage boxes, and the shopping bags were reluctant to stay upright. A man in his sixties, who disembarked alongside her, came to her aid with a trolley. His charcoal-grey walking trousers and pristine white T-shirt screamed tourist. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, before continuing to play Jenga with her belongings for what seemed an eternity.
By the time she’d secured her luggage, the travellers who’d exited the train with Abigail had long gone, leaving her alone. The quaint country platform that skirted the shoreline was eerily quiet, apart from a local dog walker who appeared to be admiring Loch Alsh, the sea inlet that was currently separating her from her destination.
Pausing a minute to catch her breath, Abigail allowed herself to take in her surroundings.
The Isle of Skye, her reluctant destination, lay tauntingly close. Though just across the water, it felt as if it was within touching distance when compared to the miles she’d travelled since leaving Kings Cross.
Memories of her early childhood surged to the fore. Reminding her, once again, of where she was and why she’d returned. And as she looked out over Loch Alsh, her gaze was transfixed on the familiar hills that reached beyond the small village of Kyleakin.
But the stark contrast to the city was nothing compared to the clean, crisp sea air that’d engulfed her nostrils the moment she’d stepped from the train.
Abigail’s grip on the trolley tightened. Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs with what her grandmother had called the purest air on the planet. Exhaling slowly, Abigail mustered the courage to begin the final leg of her journey.
With her trolley’s contents shaking precariously, Abigail guided her luggage towards the taxi rank. A flash of despondency surged at the realisation that all her worldly possessions could be heaped onto a railway station trolley. But she had become a pro at brushing aside her emotions and she quashed her despair, though just in the nick of time.
A sliver of reflective glass caught her eye, causing her hand to reach down and tug at the stuffy theatre costume.
Her skirt was so loose it’d worked its way around and was now sitting back-to-front. The matching padded jacket gave her a rotundness that was out of proportion with the rest of her body. And, as she continued to examine her caricature, she noticed how her slim legs appeared to awkwardly support her padded frame. Plus, as if to add insult to injury, her make-up which, as instructed, had been layered on thick, only served to emphasise her tear-stained face.
Far too exhausted to begin sorting herself out, Abigail turned her back on her reflection. She decided instead, given recent events, that her appearance was the least of her worries.
Instead, she focussed on hauling her unruly trolley towards the small taxi rank just in time to see the American Tourist standing first in line. She strained to listen as he gave his destination, but his words were drowned out when two locals greeted each other from either side of the street. The American Tourist’s destination remained a mystery.
Pondering the strange encounter between the American Tourist and the Italian businessman, Abigail steadied the trolley while a driver struggled to cram her luggage into his taxi.
She’d no idea what shady deal had just taken place between the two unlikely acquaintances, but the curious streak in her meant it was still preying on her mind. After all, why had the American Tourist been so eager to give the impression he would not be disembarking at her stop?
‘Excuse me, madam,’ her driver interrupted. ‘Your destination?’ His exasperated tone alluded to the fact that this wasn’t the first time he’d asked the all-important question.
Remembering her hideous ensemble, she discarded her offence at his use of the word madam and gave her destination. ‘Lochside, south of Dunvegan, please.’ But just as Abigail was about to step into the taxi, she returned her attention to the driver. ‘There’s a crooked sign at the roadside, near the old lodge. It’s white, I think.’
Astonished, Abigail took her seat. Where on earth had that snippet of information come from?
The inexplicable fear Abigail had felt at the sight of the American Tourist was now replaced by trepidation. Aware she was sitting bolt upright, she fought to relax and calm her breathing. The taxi made its way across the Skye road bridge, a feat of engineering more used to transporting excited tourists from the mainland to the peace and tranquillity of the picturesque Isle of Skye.
But Abigail was no tourist. She was grappling memories from her childhood. Memories that seemed determined to flood her thoughts with each passing mile.
Yet so much had changed. And as she watched the miles roll by, she combed the landscape for anything familiar.
But she’d lost a decade to dissociative amnesia. Were these new buildings? She remembered the landscape as barren, not sporadically dappled with these structures. Familiar farms and crofts had either been abandoned, converted into homes and holiday homes, or expanded with shiny new sheds and machinery.
As they travelled further north to Sligachan, then west towards Dunvegan, Abigail reflected on how many of the old country roads had been widened, no longer single tracks with passing places.
Abigail found herself feeling saddened by the changes but couldn’t quite understand why. After all, she loathed the place.
Eventually, they reached the old lodge. It looked abandoned and more dilapidated than Abigail remembered. And just as she’d predicted, her driver turned off to the left, onto one of the single-track roads Abigail had been reminiscing about earlier.
He followed it as it hugged the rugged landscape leading to the shore. They snaked through a contrasting mix of rogue birch, oak, and beech trees that’d somehow survived in their battle against the North Atlantic winds, the occasional sliver of plantation woodland, and the vast barren land that’d been given over to sheep long before Abigail’s late grandmother had claimed her little patch.
Abigail could only watch as she was whisked along the dirt track she’d cycled along so often as a child. Once again, her memories leaped to the fore. Memories she’d blotted out. Memories she wasn’t too keen to have brought to the surface.
It frustrated her that the only years she could remember were filled with loneliness and abandonment. But at the same time, she feared her lost years protected her from far worse.
‘It’s certainly remote out here.’
‘Yeah.’ Abigail groaned. ‘That was always the problem.’
The driver squinted at her in his mirror, but to Abigail’s relief, he continued their journey in silence. His focus was now on more pressing matters, such as dodging potholes and fallen branches that lay scattered before them in the fading light. It reminded Abigail of a children’s puzzle, finding their way through the maze to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
But there was no getting away from the fact that each dodged pothole and fallen branch was taking her closer to Lochside, and closer to the life she’d fled six years before.
An ache formed in the pit of her stomach. Nervous jitters spread through her limbs, causing her body to tremble. And she was suddenly aware of her breathing, almost feeling the need to remind herself when to inhale and when to exhale.
But it was the taxi coming to a halt and the driver announcing his fee that finally pulled Abigail from her thoughts.
‘What the f—’ Abigail screeched, cupping her face in her hands. She peered tentatively between her fingers, as though that would in some way reverse the mess that lay before her.
Her driver was having quite the opposite reaction. Unable to hide his amusement, he roared with laughter as he turned awkwardly to face Abigail, his outstretched hand ready to receive payment. ‘Wow, what a mess! I’m guessing no one’s lived here for a while.’
But as her chuckling driver set about retrieving her luggage, Abigail sat numb, looking out at the neglected house, now a shadow of what her grandmother had so lovingly called home.
‘Come on, then. You’re still on the clock.’ Her driver teased her, opening the door.
‘But-but, I-I don’t understand. Mr Mackay, he was supposed to be looking after the place,’ Abigail insisted, more for her comprehension than her driver’s.
They both stood for a moment, taking in the chaos of their surroundings. The barren landscape and its resident sheep had invaded the now overgrown driveway. The open porch that’d once elegantly mirrored the front of her grandmother’s house was lost in an array of grasses, ivy, birds’ nests, sheep droppings, and cobwebs. And Abigail didn’t want to think about the furry little critter that’d just scuttled off into the trees behind.
What had once been a stunning home with open views across the sea loch had been swallowed up by its surroundings and, more worryingly to Abigail, wildlife had encroached, appearing to have moved into the porch at least.
‘You, eh’—the taxi driver, who’d removed his cap to sort his thinning hair, was now looking more concerned than amused—‘you sure you wanna stay?’
All the while, the smell of the sea air assaulted her nostrils. As the sea birds’ chatter cluttered her thoughts, Abigail fought to stop her tears. ‘I-I’ve no option.’
‘Oh well, here’s my card. Number’s on the back if you change your mind.’
And with that, he was gone. Abigail had never felt so alone.
