The Thin Place

By Matthew Cooper

Henry Newcombe is called unexpectedly by an old friend asking for help in investigating a suspicious death. He soon comes to suspect that there may be an ancient evil lurking just out of sight. Together with Detective Inspector Edward Westlake they set out to get to the bottom of several disappearances, a suicide, and other inexplicable coincidences. Set in the rugged wilderness of Scotland, a land of dark forests and snow-capped mountains, the book delves into the mythological past and the mysterious creatures known as Fairies said to inhabit the hills surrounding the village of Balquhidder. Thin Places are places where Heaven and Earth are said to come close to touching and at certain times of the year strange occurrences have been witnessed. Of course these stories are shrugged off in modern times as children's tales, but it may be that there are some truth to the old stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Cooper
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370112500

Matthew Cooper

Matthew Cooper is an author, editor, and publisher. He writes both gay and straight erotica and edits anthologies. He lives in Florida.

Book preview

The Thin Place

by

Matthew Cooper

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Cooper

All Rights Reserved

PART ONE

Henry Newcombe looked up from the dark, rippling current of the Balvaig towards the calmer glassy surface of Loch Voil. It had been many years since he had visited the glen, but there was something timeless about this place. Centuries old buildings, crofts and outhouses, crumbled into ruins and new homes were constructed; but they were all dwarfed by the primordial giants rising on either side. The last time he had visited had been twelve or more years ago - with Rachael. The young couple had stayed at a Bed and Breakfast nearby at Lochearnhead. His wife had been dead ten years now, and the deep wounds of that untimely parting had calloused; though seeing this place again brought back many memories, like an old scar beginning to itch. They had stood on this same bridge. It had been a warm summer's day, with fat, lethargic clouds crawling across an expanse of pale blue. Now, an oppressive grey pall was drawn across that vast sky, obscuring the peaks of the mountains, and each breath of wind brought a clammy caress to his face. Henry Newcombe pulled his thick coat a little tighter around himself as he walked back over the bridge.

He had parked outside the village tea-shop, a small building, half weather-washed stone, half wood with peeling blue paint and a hand-drawn sign that was starting to show signs of mould. On entering he found the interior was far better maintained than the exterior. It was furnished with pine chairs and tables, and there were various drinks and cakes chalked up on a large board behind the counter. Behind the door was a stand, on which Henry hung his scarf and coat, folding his flat cap into one of the pockets. The beads of moisture from the damp air outside clung to the coarse fibres like tiny pearls. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, with a thick woollen jersey over it, and beneath had on a pair of scratchy trousers. He had never followed fashion particularly closely, and as the years passed the rift between his appearance and popular trends only widened. He approached the young woman at the counter.

'Good morning, sir,' she said, with a practised cheerfulness that caught Henry off guard. She was tall and lithe, with blonde hair, and an enchanting smile.

'Oh, yes, good morning,' he said.

'Is it your first time in Balquhidder?' she asked.

'No, I have been here before. A long time ago,' he added, wondering how old she would have been the last time he visited.

'Are you staying in the village?'

'No, I have a room at the hotel in Strathyre,' he replied.

'I see. It's not very nice out there today. Can I get you anything?'

He ordered an Earl Grey tea after a few moments of tortured decision-making.

'Take a seat. I will bring it over to you,' she said.

Henry took a seat nearby the window. He could see through the small, segmented panes out over a green field with a low circle of standing stones in the middle. Bedraggled sheep were picking their way between large pools of standing water. The village of Balquhidder was known to flood badly, giving rise to the aptly named 'Loch Occasional' that would form whenever the River Balvaig burst its banks and the entire length of the glen became water-logged.

Behind him there was a bookshelf, with a number of well-worn books packed into it. He looked over the volumes with some interest. He had come to the area with the intention of writing an article for a local Stirling Folklore magazine on stone circles. He knew a little about the Braes O' Balquhidder, immortalised in song and several Victorian era romantic novels, but he was always keen to expand his knowledge of obscure Scottish history. He had brought several books on the area along with him to help with writing his article, including one he could see here: Robert Kirk's Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies.

Wedged between a tattered hardback copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's Catriona, and a slim book of poetry by a local author, was a brochure. He slid it out and examined it. Printed on coarse, recycled paper, the title of the booklet was Balquhidder: The Thin Place. Henry was familiar with the Celtic saying there is only 3 feet between heaven and earth. The ancients believed that there were certain places where this distance was reduced, almost to insignificance; where one might wander between the realms of heaven and earth, or the living and the dead, which gave rise to this appellation.

The leaflet folded out into a hand-drawn map of the area, with sites of interest named and illustrated: the kirk, the stone circle, the bridge, the two permanent lochs, Loch Voil and Loch Doine, Kirkton Glen, and Creag an Tuirc, or the Boar's Rock, ancient meeting place of Clan MacLaren.

Henry looked up as the girl approached with his drink. She had striking blue eyes that smiled when she did. Beneath her black apron she wore a sweater of colourful wool one size too big. On the apron was pinned a bronze name badge reading Sarah.

'One Earl Grey,' she said, setting the tray on the table. Henry watched as she poured the hot water through the loose leaves in the strainer, drawing out the flavour and collecting in a reddish pool beneath. He had been pleased to discover this traditional tea-shop was still here - Stirling was now full of fashionable coffee houses. Sarah left the hot water on the table, beside the cup and strainer, with the sodden leaves clinging to the silver mesh, and the small jug of milk set beside.

'Anything else?' she asked.

'That's all. Thank you,' Henry said.

'Are you interested in history?' she asked, pointing a slender finger at the map on the table. 'You should speak to Robert. He does tours of the area.' She turned to the counter and returned a few moments later with a business card for the local tour guide, with his name and a phone number on it. Beside the name and number was embossed a small thistle.

'Thank you,' said Henry taking the card. In truth, he had no mobile phone. Henry Newcombe was a man who preferred not to be disturbed. He looked again over the books on the shelf, taking out the worn copy of Robert Kirk's The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies. Written over a century ago by a former minister of Balquhidder and Aberfoyle, the book was Kirk's personal reflection on the peculiar creatures he believed inhabited the hills nearby. He had intended the book to be a proof of the existence of such beings as elves and fairies, in the hopes that this might encourage people to believe in angels and the devil; spurred on by his belief that 'modern' atheistic views were becoming disappointingly, perhaps even dangerously, predominant. The book was bound in a green cover, with author and title in gilt lettering. Beneath these there was a small, golden, image of a fairy (or what the publisher believed a fairy to look like). The book was in much better condition than the one Henry had brought with him, which was fraying along the binding, with the pages dirtied in places. He sat down and began to flick through it.

'Interesting?' said the girl, behind the counter. Henry realised that at this time of year, her solitary encampment at this teashop must be a stultifying affair. He had not seen another soul on his walk to the bridge or back, and the road outside was free of cars. It is often hard to notice the absence of fellow human beings until you are made aware of it by looking for them.

'It's quite dry. More of an academic curiosity,' he said. 'I used to lecture on the subject at Edinburgh. I have a copy myself, but this appears to be a very early edition of this work. They are quite hard to come by.'

'Ah,' she said. 'I see. Robert... Kirk,' she said, tilting her head over to read the author's name. 'I've never heard of him.'

'He used to be the minister of Balquhidder Kirk. He had a lifelong fascination with the supernatural. There is an interesting story regarding his death, if you would like to hear it?'

The young woman nodded, either genuinely intrigued, or dreading the silent alternative, Henry thought. Adopting his professorial voice, somewhat dusty with misuse, he continued:

'Kirk spent much of his later life studying fairies. One day while out walking, Kirk collapsed nearby a fairy hill. His body was discovered by a passer-by and he was buried at Aberfoyle; but following his death a friend said that he had seen Kirk and that the minister had told him that he was not in fact dead, but was in the realm of Fairy. Some say that there was no body in his coffin at the funeral.'

The girl's eyes widened, and then her brow furrowed. Henry knew that these macabre stories were the best way to pique interest in what could often be a dull subject.

'Do you think that the same could have happened to Emily McNeil?' she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

'Who?' asked Henry, racking his brain for any memory of the name. Sarah crouched beside a low rack, where he could see editions of the local paper filed chronologically. She flicked back through months worth of news before finding what she was looking for. Returning to the table she passed it over to Henry. The front page bore the striking headline Local Girl Missing. The paper was a May issue.

'She disappeared two years ago,' said Sarah, as Henry looked casually over the story.

'Oh. I think I remember now. The girl who died. They arrested a young man for her murder?' The front page bore a photograph of the young girl in a school uniform, with a broad smile on her face.

'Well...' said Sarah, evidently settling down to one of her favourite topics of conversation. 'They never found a body. The boy they arrested... well, he wasn't right, but there are plenty who think he didn't do it. He's at White Hart now.'

White Hart? Henry was all too familiar with that institution.

'All through last summer and this we get people coming in who want to go up there. A bit morbid if you ask me, but...'

'There?' said Henry.

'Up to Creag an Tuirc,' she said, waving vaguely in the direction of the kirk. 'There's not much to see, but a nice view. Maybe not today though,' she added, with a glance at the grey sky outside. 'Anyway, your tea will be getting cold. Just let me know if you want another. We're quiet today,' she said, whisking away with an easy smile. She was right; aside from himself the shop was blissfully free of customers, though there were several more tables set up.

He poured a little milk into the teacup, stirring it in with the small silver spoon, as he flicked through the book with his left hand. Kirk had been largely disbelieved when he had published his book - something Henry could relate to. He looked out at the sheep, keeping their distance from the standing stones. Henry thought over what Sarah had said. He had climbed up to the Boar's Rock before. It had been a summer's day long ago, when the sky had been marbled in blue and white. It was barely conceivable that somebody could have been murdered in that place, bright and untarnished in his memory.

Henry finished his drink. He closed the Kirk book and put it back on the shelf along with the leaflet, took his coat from the hook and wrapped the scarf around his neck. Before he left he dropped a few coins into the cup for tips, earning himself another smile from Sarah. He stepped outside, putting his cap on his head and took out his pocket watch, an ornate silver time-piece that had once been his father's. It was just past eleven o'clock. Plenty of time to explore. The sky was still pale grey from peak to peak. He took out a fold-away umbrella from his car before