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One

‘So what will do now you’ve moved here Miss Henderson?’ Mrs McPherson probed. Her piercing eyes had not once left Rose’s face throughout the whole visit.

‘Well…’ Rose started. She was still alert for Simon, listening for signs that he had woken.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs McPherson, ‘Mr Henderson is the famous one, isn’t he? His wildlife films are so very good. I imagine he needs a housekeeper. Although you’re rather young for that sort of thing. Thirty-something I guess?’

‘I’m his P.A. as well as his sister. The housework is shared.’ Rose gritted her teeth.

Mrs McPherson’s eyes drifted round the room. ‘Miss Henderson…’

‘Do call me Rose.’

Mrs McPherson made no response. She appeared to be barely in her sixties and nowadays it was unusual for people to be so formal even someone twenty years older again. But Mrs McPherson didn’t seem to have received the memo. Perhaps it was different so far out into the Highlands.

A muffled thump sounded from along the hall and Rose jumped in her chair. She strained her ears. Nothing further. She tried to sit as if relaxed.

‘Will Mr Henderson be joining us?’ queried Mrs McPherson, briefly scanning the plate of supermarket biscuits on the coffee table. She appeared to be torn between peckishness, revulsion and disapproval. ‘You’re not very domestic then?’ she added as an aside.

‘No.’

Rose winced as Mrs McPherson’s gaze scrutinised the sitting room. She had made the mistake of sitting her visitor facing the patio doors through which a sudden unexpected ray of July sunlight appeared to show up the handprints of everyone who had ever been in the bungalow before she and Simon had moved in a week before. Cobwebs dangling from the ceiling spiralled and danced. Dust dulled every surface. She attempted to change the subject.

‘Simon would be out to say hello, even though he’s editing his latest book.’ There was another muffled thump, then silence. ‘But just now he’s suffering from a terrible migraine.’

‘It seems a shame that you expect a busy man to help around the home,’ said Mrs McPherson. ‘Once decent women felt proud to keep a house spotless.’ Her gaze settled on a wonky smily face smeared on the patio doors. ‘I suppose Mr Henderson can claim you against tax. For something.’

Rose gritted her teeth, her head half turned to the hall door, beyond which she visualised Simon’s locked room in the shadows on the left.

Mrs McPherson frowned at a wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. In it Rose was warding off a rain of confetti thrown by Simon, her other arm linked with David’s.

‘Divorced I assume,’ Mrs McPherson concluded. ‘Since you are registered here as Miss Henderson.’

‘Widowed,’ snapped Rose.

‘And eh, how did that occur?’ her guest prodded.

Really, thought Rose. What more could the old bat want to know? Why doesn’t she just ask for a life story? Her anger took over from caution. ‘He was shot.’

‘How tragic, dear. As you can imagine, shooting accidents happen a great deal around here – hunters, isolated homes…’ Mrs McPherson paused then continued. ‘So why the maiden name?’

Rose snapped. ‘I never gave it up, and it’s Ms not Miss.’

‘How very modern.’ Mrs McPherson picked up a rich tea biscuit and inspected it before taking a delicate nibble.

Silence returned. Rose felt she had lost some unspecified battle.

‘We have access to the internet you know.’ Mrs McPherson put her mug down. Statement, warning, threat? If that was true, why all the questions? ‘Of course, I am here primarily to invite you to join the Guild, Miss Henderson. You would find it interesting. You’ll be finding yourself lonely out here; and there are plenty of women your age. I am sure you might like to learn some crafts or eh,’ - her eyes dropped to the coffee table - ‘recipes. We also have visiting speakers. This is the secondary reason I came. Mr Henderson would be ideal to …’ she stopped and her eyes focussed through the patio doors. She blinked, slightly rising from her chair.

Rose whirled round. ‘What did you see?’

‘I thought I saw…’ Mrs McPherson. ‘Do you have a dog, Miss Henderson? I thought I saw a dog. Only perhaps you didn’t know about the resettlement project. It’s not been popular, and you’re very close to the forest here.’ She sat back. An increased and agitated thumping from the hallway made Rose stand up.

‘I need to check on Simon. What is the resettlement project? Are the dogs particularly vicious?’

‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs McPherson, as if she were the hostess and Rose the guest. ‘I’m sure it was just the sun catching some of the grime on the glass.’

The silence became unbearable. Rose could think of no way to send Mrs McPherson on her way. Her fingers itched.

Mrs McPherson had munched down the biscuits despite her disdain and her gaze had returned to the wedding photograph.

‘Of course,’ she said, crumbs on her bottom lip, ‘I remember now. Mr Henderson’s cameraman was his brother-in-law. Your husband presumably.’

‘Yes,’ Rose replied.

‘It was tragic wasn’t it?’ Mrs McPherson continued with relish, apparently forgetting she had feigned ignorance before. ‘Of course, I don’t suppose all the details were published at the time…’

She leaned forward, expectant.

My God, thought Rose. Is she a reporter? A whole year has passed. She decided to take control and stood up.

‘Well Mrs McPherson, it was lovely to meet you. I’ve got your details and Simon will be in touch when he’s better. You know what migraines are, he’ll be washed out tomorrow, but I’m sure he’ll be able to email you.’

Withdrawing slightly, Mrs McPherson also stood, her lips tightened slightly with the last few crumbs still clinging. Suddenly conscious of them, her pale pink tongue poking out briefly and viciously. She attempted to look coy.

‘Well, as you know, it’s a way from Kirkglen, and I wonder if it would be all right to use the eh, to powder my nose, well…’

Really, is anyone that prim anymore? thought Rose, as she made to escort her.

‘Och no, I’ll find my way,’ Mrs McPherson simpered. ‘These bungalows are all much of a muchness aren’t they?’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Rose. ‘I’d best show you so that you don’t disturb my brother by accident.’

They tussled for control down the hallway, Rose keeping to the other woman’s left to avoid her ‘accidentally’ opening Simon’s door. Even though the bathroom, directly ahead, was labelled ‘Bathroom’ with a twee picture of a pig showering, Mrs McPherson made to push open Rose’s bedroom door, which was ajar.

‘No, no - ahead of you.’ Rose hoped she sounded neutral.

‘Och yes of course!’ exclaimed Mrs McPherson with gritted teeth. ‘What a sweet picture on the door.’

Good grief, thought Rose. Does she really think so? She watched until Mrs McPherson had bolted herself in with the avocado suite. Then she gently tested Simon’s door - still locked - and then turned to her own. A slight draught was coming from it and the door was poised to bang. Yet hadn’t she shut it earlier? Hadn’t she shut the window too?

Keeping one foot in the hallway, she gently pushed open the door. The room was quite tidy and her cello was propped up in the corner. It was all as she’d expected, except for two things. The window had been forced from outside and there was a strange woman standing at the foot of her bed. Not only strange but also naked.

Two

The young woman was quite beautiful, lean, somewhere in her twenties. She had startling blue eyes. Her long thick black hair was mottled with grey, white and streaks of brown. It must have cost her a fortune at the hairdressers. On the other hand, right now, her skin was also starting to mottle and she was covered in goose-pimples.

Rose could hear water running in the bathroom.

‘I don’t know who you are, and what you’re doing, but can you at least put a something on,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve got enough problems today as it is without coping with a naked burglar. Either leave or put my dressing gown on.’

‘I’m Sky,’ said the woman. Her accent was odd, but had a hint of what might be Canadian. ‘What’s a dressing gown?’

Rose passed it over. ‘It’s this. Now bung it on, keep quiet, stay here and I’ll deal with you afterwards. Don’t touch anything.’

‘I’m Sky and I want to see Simon.’

‘What do—’ Rose couldn’t continue. She heard the bathroom door unlock and growled. At the moment, Mrs McPherson seemed more of a risk than Sky. She stepped out in the hall. Sky followed. She had struggled with the belt and was hugging the dressing gown round her.

Mrs McPherson’s eyebrows rose.

‘This is Sky,’ said Rose, trying to make the best of things. ‘She’s come to see Simon all the way from Canada and we’re putting her up. She’s getting over the jet lag.’

If it sounded ridiculous to her, what must it sound like to the other two? She risked a look at them. Mrs McPherson’s eyebrows had dropped to a slight frown. Within the fluffy red dressing gown, Sky was tense, her eyes narrowed.

‘I think I’ll leave you to it,’ said Mrs McPherson.

‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘We’re still a bit topsy-turvy….’

‘Uh-huh,’ Mrs McPherson replied making for the front door. ‘Perhaps later. Just remember, Kirkglen is a unique place. We like things as they should be.’

Rose closed the door and watched through the frosted glass until Mrs McPherson had driven away. She turned to address Sky, but Sky had gone back down the hall and was leaning against Simon’s door.

‘Listen,’ Rose said, pulling at her. ‘Come and tell me who you are and what’s going on.’

The woman turned. In her face was a pain like a disease, loss and feeling lost, her features at once old and childlike. For a few seconds, Rose felt she was looking into a mirror. Not one that reflected the mask she’d worn every day for a year: calm, sensible Rose coping like she always did; but a mirror of the raw grief and fear in her soul.

‘Come on,’ coaxed Rose more gently. ‘Simon’s asleep at the moment. Let’s get some clothes on you and you can tell me why you’ve broken my window and given an old witch something to gossip about.’

‘She’s not a witch. She’s worse,’ whispered Sky.

She allowed herself to be pulled back from the door and into the sitting room while Rose went to get some clothes.

Some days made less sense than others and this was one of them. Either Rose had a naked burglar intent on pneumonia, or Sky was someone else altogether. Within the last year, anything had seemed possible.

Rose rummaged around until she found some old things a size too small. It was pointless lending Sky one of her bras. It would have been like offering a couple of hammocks to a pair of dormice, and Sky seemed to struggle enough just putting a tee-shirt on.

‘Was I right about Canada?’ asked Rose, sitting on her hands to stop herself from dressing Sky as if she was a child. ‘I’m sorry if I was wrong.’

‘I don’t know, I guess,’ Sky answered from inside a sweat-top. ‘I just got here. All this time, all this terrible time, I thought I’d never see Simon again and now I’ve found him and you won’t let me see him. And I only have today.’

Something tugged at Rose’s memory. Last year, one of David’s video calls, during the last expedition to Canada. He’d mentioned a woman hanging round their camp who kept turning up wrapped in a blanket and had a crush on Simon. He’d never said her name.

‘Look,’ said Rose, ‘it’s not that simple. Simon’s ill today and …’

‘I know he is. I know why he is. I was there.’ She hunched her hands between her knees and looked round, catching sight of the wedding photo. She paused. ‘I was there.’ She reached out to touch Rose. ‘I was there when it happened. David was your man wasn’t he?’

‘You can’t see Simon,’ Rose insisted quietly. ‘You don’t understand. It wouldn’t be safe.’

Sky stood up. ‘It’s you that don’t understand. I know what he is. But today is the only day I can see him. He won’t hurt me. It would be impossible.’

She ran for Simon’s door, shoving against it with her shoulder. Rose sighed. What could be the harm? Every precaution had been taken. If Sky really did know, nothing could make it worse. If she didn’t, it would be another thing to deal with. Good old Rose.

‘Stop,’ she said. ‘I’ll unlock the door.’

Inside, black-out curtains were tightly shut. The metal frame around the bed looked skeletal in the gloom. Through its bars, in the small light from the hallway you could just see Simon’s back curled away from them. The bones on his spine jutted out through the long grey hair.

In his sleep he turned over to face them and snarled slightly, his lips drawing back from sharp incisors.

Rose had expected Sky to gasp or exclaim, but she made no sound. It still shocked Rose, all these months past. Twelve times she had drugged him before bolting his cage for twenty-four hours and yet she had not got used to it. Every time she saw her brother like this, she felt overwhelmed. She reached out to comfort Sky but the woman had stepped forward to push her slender hand through the bars.

‘Don’t…’ warned Rose, reaching out. ‘He might bite you!’

‘He won’t,’ said Sky. ‘And if he did, it wouldn’t hurt me.’ Stroking Simon’s head, she started to sing under her breath. Without being able to hear the words, the song made Rose think of wide skies, of forests, of plains but mostly of longing; an echo of the cold emptiness of David’s side of the bed.

Simon’s ruined eyes, such as they were at this moment, opened slightly. They were amber, flecked with red. He seemed to wake from his dream and to focus slightly on Sky, rolling his head under the caress. For a moment he wept, tears rolling down his muzzle. And then his eyes closed and Sky’s song got softer until it was a whisper and she stopped.

Three

If in doubt cook. Rose might not be domestic, but she could manage pasta sauce. Chopping the onions used up a bit of tension and balancing the seasoning occupied the mind.

‘Spicy or not spicy?’ she asked Sky.

‘I guess,’ said Sky, as if she was answering a different question. She sat at the kitchen table, her hands between her knees, peering round at the walls and door and up at the ceiling and up into the corners where a large cobweb wafted in the draught.

‘Spiders. Nice,’ she said. Rose stared at her looking for sarcasm but there didn’t appear to be any. She just seemed to like spiders.

Rose put the two bowls of pasta down on the table and passed Sky a fork which she turned over and balanced on her fingers.

‘Is this worms?’ Sky looked hopeful.

Trust Simon. He either attracted weird women or annoying ones.

‘No. It’s spaghetti with tomatoes and a bit of chilli.’

‘What’s the meat?’ asked Sky, poking clumsily at it with her fork.

‘I’m a vegetarian,’ Rose answered. ‘Sorry. I’ve got some meat for Simon, but that’s for tomorrow.’

Sky sighed. ‘I’m not really that hungry anyway.’

Rose wasn’t hungry either, but she needed the energy. Where to start with Sky? There were so many questions struggling for precedence. If Sky had been there when the incident happened - what had she seen? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned her or referred to her in the coroner’s report on David’s death? Rose still couldn’t process any of it. She coped only by acting as if David had died in a simple shooting accident, as if Simon suffered post traumatic shock resulting in migraine. No one at any point had asked Rose what she needed to know or how it affected her, and somehow she’d preferred to stay ignorant.

If Sky explained, would the reality overwhelming Rose and tip her off balance completely? How could she care for Simon if she didn’t force herself, every day, to put her feet out from under the covers, go and shower, make breakfast, go to the supermarket and so on and so on to the end of each wearying day, smiling, smiling, resisting at every step the urge to go back to bed and pull the covers back over forever?

She had to be practical. Sky had agreed to leave Simon sleeping his drugged sleep and eat dinner but now sat silent, offering nothing to work into a conversation.

‘So,’ Rose started. ‘Why are you naked? Where did you come from? If you want to stay until tomorrow, then you’re welcome.’

She didn’t really mean it. And she hadn’t meant it to come out in that order either.

Sky shook her head. She picked up the fork and poked at the pasta inexpertly and put a cold portion of spaghetti into her mouth, her face, as she chewed, a mixture of bafflement and (presumably encountering some chilli) shock.

It went down eventually, although Sky looked at the empty plate as if she couldn’t believe she’d eaten it and wished it really had been worms instead.

‘I’m sort of from over there,’ she indicated vaguely in the direction of the forest. ‘I had to leave my family …. It’s complicated. We’ve come from somewhere else, although somehow, that forest feels like it belongs to me. I can’t explain. Can I borrow these clothes? For when I go back in a moment?’