The Last Human Getaway

By Lauren K Nixon

Annie wanted to get away from it all – and now she has!
.
Stranded in a remote mountain valley in the heart of the Ancient Caledonian Forest, Annie must uncover the secrets of the town before the door to the ravenous Otherworld can be opened. She is about to learn that the stories she grew up hearing all had a grain of truth to them – and that ancient things never truly sleep.
.
Will the Gate hold? Or will the Otherworld break through?
.
"The Last Human Getaway is a thrilling yet cosy adventure through the mystical ancient lands of Scotland – one that explores the magic and intrigue of the wilderness plus the sacred, ageless bonds that have bound small communities together for centuries." - Jessica Grace Coleman

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mysterium
• Release date: Nov 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005722753

Lauren K Nixon

An ex-archaeologist enjoying life in the slow-lane, Lauren K. Nixon is an indie author fascinated by everyday magic.She is the author of numerous short stories and the Chambers Magic series. She also curates the fabulous Short Story Superstars, a vibrant community of writers, whose anthology is now available!Having studied Archaeological Sciences at Bradford University - a truly global subject - Lauren went on to discover that what everyone always told her about there being no jobs in archaeology was quite true. Happily, there are many things to keep her occupied, and when she's not writing she can be found gardening, singing, reading, playing the fool and playing board games.

Book preview

Come on, come on! Don’t you do this to me!

For a fine, calm autumn afternoon, there was quite a comprehensive amount of swearing coming from the little yellow car that was struggling up the road. Or, more precisely, from the woman inside it.

No, don’t do this, she pleaded. Come on Oscar, just a little further – you can do it!

Slowly, the sound of the engine’s protests increasing in volume, the small car juddered unhappily forward a few more metres, sputtered, and then, with an air of finality, cut out entirely.

No, no, no, no, no! Hurriedly, she pulled up the handbrake, conscious that if the car began rolling backwards, there would be rather a lot of down involved, and peered ahead, to where the road widened marginally, creating what could be described as a passing point. She dropped her head on the steering wheel, defeated. Fuck.

It took some doing to push Oscar up the road and then safely off it. Breathing hard, she jammed the brake on again and paused to recover from her handiwork. The passing place was small, and hard by the edge of what turned out – on closer inspection – to be more or less a cliff. One hand holding onto a tree that was clinging to the edge, Annie craned over the abyss to get a proper look.

That really was an awful lot of down, she decided. Below her, a remnant of the ancient Caledonian Forest stretched off into the distance as far as she could see, like an ocean of fire-tipped leaves. The autumn light lent a slightly surreal air to it, like something out of a Scott Naismith painting.

Enchanted, and distracted for a moment from her predicament, she snapped a picture on her phone – and then noticed that she had less than 3% battery.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

3% wasn’t really enough to do anything – certainly not to get on the internet and find a local rescue and repair service, and probably not enough to call the emergency services. Not that this was an emergency, really.

But it will be, she thought, looking around. If I can’t get out of here before dark.

Her finger hovered over the call button; she was reluctant. What if her asking for help meant that someone else didn’t get it – someone who was really in trouble?

But then, lost somewhere in the mountains with no transport in October, when night’s coming on is being really in trouble.

Making up her mind, she dialled 999, but no sooner had she made the call than the phone went dead.

Cursing power-hungry smart phones, she hurried back over to Oscar and opened up the bonnet.

Annie peered into the engine of her usually trusty little car and swore.

Halfway up a mountain road in the wilds of Scotland was not her idea of a good place to break down. She looked around. The autumn light was fading fast already, and clouds were building on the edge of the horizon. She never should have left the hotel that morning without charging her phone up.

There was nothing for it, she decided. She would have to start walking and hope that either she found somewhere friendly where she could telephone for help, or that she came across a car who would pick her up. Knowing her luck, whoever it was would be a serial killer.

She closed the car bonnet with a snap.

You picked a fine time to conk out on me, she told the car sternly.

The car sat impassive and still, a faint trail of steam still escaping from the seal at the edges of the bonnet. Resigned to a long walk and an inconvenient and probably uncomfortable night, Annie grabbed her backpack from the boot, the map from the front seat and the torch from the glove box. She locked the car, patted it uncertainly on the roof and stuffed cold hands deep into her pockets.

After a little thought, she pulled a large fallen branch from the edge of the passing place and shoved it behind the back tyres in case the brakes failed, too. The image of her usually trusty little car plunging into the unforgiving depths of the forest was a little too much to take.

Can’t be helped, I’m afraid, she told it, feeling awkward. She and the car had gone through a lot together, and hopefully they would get through a lot more. You’ll have to stay here until I can get someone out to fix you. She paused. Don’t look at me like that!

She shook her head.

I’m talking to a car. She patted it again. Sorry, Old Thing.

Looking both ways along the mountain road, she briefly considered her options. Forward meant uphill, and uphill might mean phone signal – of course, it might also mean exposure. On the other hand, she hadn’t passed a farm or house for some time, so there was no point going back. The last town she had driven through must have been at least forty minutes away – and that was in a car.

Sighing, Annie set off at a brisk pace, checking the map for the nearest village. It looked like being miles away, but there really wasn’t any other option. The Scottish Highlands could be bitterly cold, even in Autumn, and she knew if she slept rough out here there was a distinct possibility that she might never wake up.

Serves you right, she grumbled to herself, trudging solidly up the road. You wanted to get away from it all – now you have.

Though she knew she had been lucky even to get a couple of soulless office jobs since university, they hadn’t been what she’d wanted. A history degree, it seemed, wasn’t really what the job market required, and heritage positions were particularly thin on the ground. Many of her fellow graduates had been unable to find work at all, except the work she had been doing; admin for telesales companies who knew they could treat their staff as badly as they wanted, knowing that there were hordes of others waiting, desperate for work.

The offices had always felt stifling to Annie, as if she was slowly being suffocated, buried alive.

One morning in April she had overslept and discovered that the buses were on strike. Walking to work had taken an hour and a half, and her manager had been none too happy when she’d got in, but seeing the late morning world in the spring sunshine had been glorious. Annie drank in every detail: the blossom, the budding leaves, the birds, the boats on the canal.

It felt like she’d woken from months of grey, empty sleep. She had gone home that night, looked around her tiny flat and decided that enough was enough. She quit her job without notice.

At the time, using the scant funds she had left in her savings account for a tour around Britain had seemed like a great idea, spending days at a stretch sketching, moving from one town to the next until work found her.

Right now, however…

She pulled her coat more tightly around her. The wind in the mountains was strong – and growing stronger. It buffeted around her, pushing her this way and that. It felt oddly like it was egging her on, further up the hill.

It was certainly a beautiful place, she thought, her eyes roving over the trees. Where before, the road had been sandwiched between a cliff on one side and a steep rise on the other, here the land was beginning to rise sharply on both sides, enclosing the road. It was oddly like looking into a tunnel that stretched on and up forever. It made Annie feel strange, though she couldn’t say why. She supposed she ought to find it foreboding, but she didn’t.

Within it, the road twisted away at an angle, away from the sight of her car. Briefly, she toyed with the idea of returning to the car and simply waiting for help, but the idea of a night on the edge of a cliff was not inviting.

With one last glance back at the car, she set her back to the eager wind and trudged on, into the chasm of trees.

Annie settled in to a steady pace.

Growing up, her dad’s favourite kind of holiday had been camping, so she was well accustomed to tramping about the countryside for hours at a time. The key, she had discovered, was not to push yourself too hard when you started out – which was difficult to reconcile with the need to find help. A need that was growing more urgent with every passing minute.

After about half an hour, the light was really beginning to fade; after an hour, it was barely a smudge of grey above the shadowy forms of the trees and Annie was moving almost exclusively by the light of her torch.

It had been a long time since she’d been alone in a forest at night – albeit a forest dissected by a road. While ordinarily she might enjoy the experience, this one was unfamiliar, and held the vague menace that if she stumbled off the road there might be a sudden, rather final drop hidden among the trees.

Somewhere off to her right, an animal gave a piercing cry. Startled, Annie spun, aiming her torchlight in its direction. She was rewarded, briefly, by the sight of two green, lamp-like eyes and a flash of something white below, surveying her with suspicion before whatever it was turned and fled into the depths of the wood. She heard it call again, higher up the mountain, the sound rendered unearthly by the darkness and her isolation.

Quashing the feeling of unease this brought, she set off again, her heart still beating a little over-fast. Enclosed in the tunnel made by the valley of trees, it was hard not to feel like she was being pursued, though logically she knew this was unlikely.

There had been no sign of anyone on the road for hours, even before Oscar had broken down, and whatever it was with the eyes had departed at some speed.

After another ten minutes, the wind dropped dramatically. Startled by the sudden hush, Annie paused. In the trees around her, the rustlings of night creatures going about their business all but stopped, contributing to the strange, dead silence.

She raised a hand to her cheek. Something cold and wet had splashed against it, stopping her in her tracks. The second drop hit her squarely in the back of her neck, and as she raised her eyes to the sky the gathering storm clouds, masked by the darkness, opened with enthusiasm.

Swearing, Annie pulled her hood up, but the onslaught was such that despite her raincoat she was soaked in minutes. She stumbled blindly on, her long red hair loosing itself from the messy bun it had been pulled into for driving and plastering itself unhelpfully across her face. There was little wind now, which was a bit of a mercy, but rendered the vertical wall of water into something barely penetrable.

It seemed like the road, which had been a steep incline when she’d started out, was becoming flatter here.

She couldn’t see much ahead, which made the going even slower; in an attempt not to stray from the road, she kept her torch trained at the ground immediately in front of her, keenly aware of how invisible she would be to anyone driving past.

It would be just my luck if the only person I see on the road tonight runs me over! she grumbled to herself.

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than a bright flare of headlights lit up the woods behind her and she belatedly heard the roar of an engine over the rain. She spun and jumped back into the ditch that lined the road as a huge, dark Land Rover loomed up out of the rain, not even attempting to slow down.

Annie got the fleeting impression of a pale woman’s face staring worriedly out at her from the passenger side of the car, and beyond her, the driver, watching her coldly as he drove past; then the wave of icy, bitter water, cast up by the speeding tyres, hit her squarely in the face. Since she’d been about to shout at the car and its inhabitants, quite a bit of it went in her mouth, leaving her coughing and spluttering, ineffectually trying to wipe the mud off her face.

The rest of it seemed to have found a direct route through her raincoat and into her clothes. She could feel it seeping in, leaving icy trails down her back and up her legs from her sodden jeans. The Land Rover disappeared beyond a bend in the road and off into the night, making no attempt to stop, despite both its occupants having clearly seen her.

Cold, miserable, and more than a little angry, it took her a couple of attempts to climb back onto the road – slipping more than once – and she stamped on for another twenty minutes, carried forward by sheer annoyance. She trudged onwards, cursing the driver under her breath and trying to avoid the fast running streams of water that were forming at either side of the road.

The further she got, though, the more the anger ebbed, and soon the idea of spending the night in her car, where at least she would be out of the elements, was starting to seem much more appealing than continuing, assuming the storm hadn’t sent Oscar rolling off the cliff. The wind, which seemed to have been surprised into inaction by the rain, was picking up again, whipping her sodden hair around so it slapped her in the face.

Half-blinded by the storm, Annie stumbled over a wet branch, fallen from the weight of water bearing down on it, and fell. She scrambled back up, feeling lucky she hadn’t turned her ankle.

That does it, she said to herself. I’ll injure myself out here.

On the very cusp of turning back, Annie froze. Just for a moment, she’d thought she’d seen a light in the distance. She stared hard into the dark forest for a full minute, until she was confident that she’d imagined it; she was just about to turn away when she saw it again. It was only there for a few seconds, just visible between the dripping branches, but it was enough to get her moving again.

Light meant people. Light meant shelter. If she was lucky, light meant a phone and hot drink.

With renewed energy, she followed the bend the Land Rover had sped around, craning her neck to keep the light in view. It seemed almost alive, like it was skipping in and out of her eyeline, playing with her. Beginning to feel hopeful, Annie chuckled to herself. It was obviously staying still, obscured and revealed as she moved past the trunks of the trees that separated her from it, but it was fun to pretend that it might have a consciousness. It made her feel less alone and took her mind off the wet and the cold.

Soon she came to a fork; the main road was starting to descend now, with increasing gradient, but the branch to the left was more gentle, heading along the side of the mountain. Distantly, the light glimmered again, somewhere along the mountainside.

That was all the invitation Annie needed.

Turning into the howling wind, she stumbled along the narrow lane, hoping that the light would turn out to be a house or a farm and not just a lonely, random streetlight illuminating a particularly bad turning, or an out-of-the-way public restroom.

As she got closer the light split and resolved itself into four – three warm squares of light and one, between the first and second, smaller and higher than the rest.

Windows, thought Annie. And the other?

She picked up the pace. Overhead, lightning blossomed and split the sky, briefly rendering the world into a bright monochrome. For a moment she saw the building she was making for cast into dramatic relief. Nestled between the pines, it looked like an old farmhouse, maybe, but with several cars out in front of it. A pub?

Oh, please let it be a pub…

The accompanying thunder rolled ponderously over the mountain, drowning out the sound of the heavy, relentless rain. With the next lightning flash, Annie was able to make out the smaller light swinging in the porch above the door, spilling a yellow, welcoming glow over the puddles. She began to run.

The wind howled around her, as if it was glad of the audience, hurrying her on. Reaching the porch with the next great crash of thunder, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.

Chapter 2 – Shelter in a Storm

Everyone was staring at her.

It wasn’t particularly surprising, given that her entrance had been heralded by a flash of lightning and a tremendous crash of thunder. Or that her hair was plastered to her freckled face, like something out of a Lovecraft novel. Hell, she was pretty sure she was dripping onto the pub’s welcome mat.

For a moment, Annie was seized by the frightening notion that this was going to be exactly like the place at the start of An American Werewolf in London, full of gruff, unfriendly locals willing to feed her to the regional variant of a sharp-toothed nasty. Fleeting visions of being chased through the forest by something unseen rose in her mind, and she remembered that pair of intense green eyes by the side of the main road.

Any fears were dispelled, however, by the sudden appearance of a young woman from behind a beam, who took one look at her and burst out, Bloody hell lass, this is not a good night to be out in the wilds!

No… said Annie, in quite a small voice.

The woman looked her up and down. Yves! Better come out!

Over the sound of the rain and the slight murmur of conversation that had begun to re-establish itself, there was the sound of a door shutting. Alright Catriona, keep your hair on! A man appeared out of the back room behind the bar – presumably the kitchen – carrying a large box of cheese and onion crisps. He put it down on the bar at the sight of Annie.

Yikes, he exclaimed. Weather catch you?

Somewhat, said Annie, cracking a smile. I’m afraid my car broke down and my phone battery died. Could I use yours?

Course. It’s at the far end of the bar, said the barman. Peel off your coat and hang it on the inglenook while you’re calling. I’ll make you a cup of tea. He disappeared back into the kitchen.

Gratefully, Annie did as he suggested.

Where did you say you broke down? the woman asked, interested.

A few miles back down the main road, Annie told her. About an hour’s walk before the turning for here.

The woman raised an eyebrow, giving a low, long whistle. No wonder you’re soaked!

I knew I hadn’t passed a village or a farm for a while, so I just started walking, Annie said, trying to get her hair back into some form of bun. She was rewarded with a trickle of frigid water that leaked down her back and neck, making her shiver.

The woman nodded. Aye, you wouldn’t’ve. We’re pretty far from civilisation up here.

And that’s how we like it, said a thick-accented old man who had been sitting by the fire. He deposited his empty glass on the bar and called through to the back. I’ll be off, Yves. Got a burial in the morning and the way the weather’s going I’d best tack up the hole or it’ll be a pond afore long. I’ll swing through the woods and check on Íomhar.

Good man. Bye Tavish! the barman called.

See you Tav, said the woman, cheerily.

The man turned a wonderfully gnarled, weatherworn face to Annie and nodded in acknowledgement. He said, Is fuar goath nan coimheach, which Annie didn’t understand at all. Then, Hope you get your car fixed, lass.

Thanks, she replied, puzzled, as he ducked out of the door to be swallowed by the driving rain.

Across the pub, people had begun to settle back into their drinks, except the woman – who, on closer inspection, appeared to be wearing the kind of fleece-and-waterproof-trouser combination Annie associated with rangers and the Forestry Commission. She was leaning on the bar, watching Annie with interest.

It ought to have made her feel uncomfortable, but the openness of it rendered it inoffensive.

Know any local mechanics? Annie asked, with a smile, and the woman laughed.

Not in this valley, she said. Not officially, at any rate. There’s one over in Sluggan, but that’s an hour’s drive away.

Oh, said Annie, her heart sinking.

Here’s his number, said the barman, reappearing. He put a large mug of tea on the bar beside the telephone, along with a rather battered card advertising ‘Jack’s Automotive Repair’. It had obviously been pinned up at some point, since there were several holes in it, and there was a thumbprint on one corner that was probably motor oil. On the house, he added, when Annie reached into her wet pocket to pay for the tea. Let me know if you need anything.

Glad to have found herself somewhere warm, dry and full of generous folk, Annie took a sip of the tea, which made the world seem instantly brighter, warming her from the inside. The mechanic answered on the third ring. Jack Munro.

Oh, hi, said Annie, quickly swallowing an ill-timed mouthful of tea. My car’s broken down.

Aye, right. What’s the matter with it?

I’m not altogether sure, she told him, and then described how Oscar had been playing up along the approach to the mountain, and then had finally given up, steaming unhappily. She didn’t, however, tell him that she called him Oscar.

Hmm, he said. It sounded to Annie like he’d been taking notes. And how long have you had the car?

Nine years.

And you’ve never had trouble like this before?

No, said Annie, truthfully. I like to keep him ticking over if I can.

That’s good, said Jack. Usually I get calls from people who–

Annie frowned; Munro seemed like a garrulous sort of person, and she thought it unlikely he’d intended to stop speaking halfway through a sentence like that.

Hello? she asked, and then stared stupidly at the phone base for a full minute before it dawned on her that the light that had been on before, that indicated the phone was connected, had ominously gone out. Er… She looked up the bar towards the barman, who was serving another pint to the woman. Sorry, but I think your phone just went dead.

Eh? he asked, and came over to investigate. Two fifty, Catriona, he said, over his shoulder. Let me see.

He examined the phone, then the base unit, pressing the buttons and then listening to the handset. No, you’re right, that’s gone. Power’s still on, though.

The woman called Catriona had come over to investigate. Phone line? she asked.

Could be, said the barman. Oy, Kestor, he called, to a rowdier table at the back of the pub. Check the router for me!

There was a short pause as the young man belonging to that name stood on his chair and reached to the back of the top shelf of the bookshelf behind him. Dead as a doornail, mate.

Damn, said the barman, genuinely annoyed. I hope that’s not the whole village down.

If it is, Da’ll have a fit, Kestor observed. No phone means no orders, and no orders means no work! All in all, Annie reflected, as he sat back down with his friends – a large, muscled man with long hair and a beard and a slight, shy-looking fellow with spectacles – he didn’t appear to be particularly upset about this.

I’m sorry, said the barman, and Annie realised he was addressing her. There’s not much mobile reception up here, either.

Tired, wet and stranded, Annie felt her heart begin to sink. There’s really no other way to get through? she asked.

Nope, barely any signal in these mountains, Catriona commiserated. Texts mostly get through. Even the radio’s patchy, and I’m still waiting for a replacement for the one in my truck, or I’d put a call in for you.

So I’m stuck here?

That’s pretty much the size of it, said the barman, wincing on her behalf. Sorry.

Annie looked from one mildly worried face to the other and sighed. I don’t think I can honestly blame anyone for my car breaking down, she said, with a tired smile. Is there anywhere to stay around here?

Catriona laughed, and the barman grinned. You may not feel like it right now, she said, but this is your lucky night.

Here you are, said the barman, unlocking the last door at the end of the corridor.

The pub, it turned out, was also an inn, catering to walkers and cyclists in the summer months. Now, though, as the weather turned colder and wetter, these were few and far between – or so the barman had told her. Annie followed her host into a reasonably sized bedroom, which was (to her delight) gloriously warm.

It was decorated in a light blue and white flowery print wallpaper, interspersed with birds, like something from a piece of posh crockery. The design had been chosen well, and instead of making the room seem old and dated, instead it made it fresh and inviting. Cosy, even. There was a large, comfortable bed against one wall, with a small bookcase next to it, stocked with well-thumbed paperbacks and nature encyclopaedias.

There was a small desk beneath the windows, where it would catch the light, and a vase of dried flowers in the windowsill. Opposite the bed was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a three-part dressing table mirror on top.

Bathroom, said the barman, indicating the door beside the old chest of drawers. He handed her the keys.

Thank you, she said, with feeling. You’ve been very kind.

The barman laughed. Don’t you worry, it’s miserable being wet through – particularly somewhere unfamiliar. I’ve not got too much in, my delivery man comes the day after tomorrow, but I can make you a sandwich when you come down if you want.

That sounds amazing, she said, and he laughed again.

I’m Yves, by the way, he said, and shook her hand. Yves Lister.

Annie Cauldwick, she said automatically, and then added, Which, of course, you know from me signing the thing.

That I do, he said, grinning, and then left her to it.

Nice job, she said to her reflection in the mirror when he’d gone. Not only do you look like something the cat dragged in, you’ve also managed to sound like a complete bloody fool. She sighed. And he’s quite cute. So much for coming off as a capable adult.

She grimaced and then shivered, frozen to the core. With deliberate care, knowing she would appreciate it when she’d warmed up, she opened her backpack and pulled out anything that might have been damaged by the rain. Her sketchbooks, thankfully, had been spared most of the deluge, packed as they were between fabric and plastic bags. Her pencils were another matter, though they’d be alright if she could get the damp out of them. She spread them out on the writing desk.

Next, she pulled out the two changes of clothes she had shoved in the bag for emergencies, and her pyjamas, all of them blotchy with water. There was a radiator with a towel rack in front of it where the fireplace had once been, so Annie emptied that of towels and hung her things to dry, hoping some of them would be dry enough to sleep in.

She tipped out the rest of her belongings: her toiletries, hairbrush, quite an unhappy book of crosswords, the plug and cable for her phone (mercifully dry, since it had been at the bottom of the bag), and a penknife, and hung the bag on the coat hook on the back of the door. There was more, back in the car – assuming it didn’t roll off the edge of the cliff during the night – but it would do until she had a chance to go back.

My coat… she said, and blinked tiredly around her for a couple of minutes before remembering it was hanging up by the fire downstairs. That’s it then.

With deep gratitude, she peeled off her wet things and went to investigate the shower, which was mercifully hot.

Some of her clothes were dryish by the time she emerged from the little bathroom, so she towelled as much of the wet out of her hair as she could and got dressed, studying the picture on the wall to the right of the old fireplace. It was a watercolour – and rather a good one – of a flower meadow, bordering a field of lavender. The use of colour was particularly fine, she thought, admiring the way the artist had captured the way the breeze caught the tips of the leaves and flowers, casting a lighter hue across the field in waves.

Charmed and feeling peaceful, she plaited her still-damp hair and rearranged the towel rack so her pyjamas had a better chance of drying.

The pub downstairs was livelier than before when she stepped back in, despite it being the kind of night that sensible folk ought to stay indoors, and there was a bit of a queue around the bar. Yves grinned when he saw her, though.

Give me ten minutes, he called, which had the unfortunate effect of causing several of his nearby customers to crane their necks to look at her.

She turned away, feeling out of place and a bit exposed, and looked instead at the opposite end of the bar, towards the stairs that led up to the rooms. There were a couple of newspapers there, and a dog-eared copy of the Yellow Pages.

The pub was old, that much was obvious – all white-washed walls and dark, almost crooked beams, rather eclectically decorated with black and white photographs, paintings, an assortment of pump clips for real ales and ciders, and a rather fine collection of carvings, sculptures and wind chimes, craftily placed to show them in the best position and light.

Must be a local artist, she thought, wondering how many tourists came through in the summer and picked one of them up as a souvenir.

She cast her eyes over the nearest, a pint-sized log that was obviously meant to be an owl. It was very competently done, Annie decided. The artist had managed to bestow upon it the spirit or aura of owlishness without it actually being owl-shaped. They had left the bark on the outside to simulate feathers, and chiselled two dish shaped craters for the eyes, which looked like they had been made out of river-worn black glass. The effect was quite striking. A cut here, a shadow there and it looked as though it might wake up, preen its feathers and fly out of the window.

Annie smiled, impressed.

In the flickering light from the fire, it almost looked like it had turned its head slightly to stare back. But that was impossible.

Right, Miss Cauldwick: sandwich. What do you fancy? Yves asked, interrupting her train of thought.

Oh, whatever is easiest, she replied, looking up with a smile.

Chicken?

Chicken sounds amazing.

Salad?

Lovely.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. You really don’t care, do you?

Annie chuckled, wearily rubbing her face. I really don’t, I’m afraid. I’m too tired.

Fair enough, said Yves, clearly amused. Chicken surprise sandwich it is. Drink?

Oh, er – I’ll have a whisky, please.

He cracked a smile at her. Woman after my own heart. Mellow or peaty?

Annie squinted up at the row of bottles above the bar. What’s your favourite?

Edradour Caledonia, just now.

I’ll have one of those, then, please.

Excellent! He grinned at her, a sparkle of mischief in his green eyes. Though I do feel a little like you may be putting too much stock in my preferences.

You should always trust the barman’s taste, shouldn’t you? Annie responded, with a quirk of her lips. I thought that was one of the rules of the universe.

Yves barked a laugh. Well, if it isn’t already, it should be! I’ll bring them over.

Annie chuckled as he disappeared into the back. She turned back to the pub, scanning the room for an empty seat. Most of the tables had been taken, except a window seat that – on closer inspection – had a radiator concealed beneath it. Reclaiming her coat (which was a bit drier now) from the inglenook, she slid into it, quickly discovering the reason this particular table had been avoided. Folding one of the more tattered beermats in two and shoving it in the joint between the legs and the top improved the situation greatly.

She looked out into the rain-swept car park, watching as long, twisting rivulets of water slid down the pane of glass separating her from the tempest, profoundly grateful to be inside, rather than out in it still. It was funny, she reflected, how different a storm could look, depending on where you were. Out there, you were in the belly of the beast, buffeted around like a lost ship out of port; but inside, with a drink and a sandwich, and somewhere to warm yourself, well. All the gods of old could be hurling their weight around outside, and you could be snug at your window, watching the show.

Poor Oscar, she thought. Stuck out there in the middle of all this. Still, at least he’s waterproof!

Pleased at her good fortune, she turned back to the pub. The locals had a collection of interesting, characterful faces that made Annie wish her arms didn’t ache too much to do a bit of sketching. Covertly, playing with the end of her sleeves, she studied the most striking of them.

The rowdy table of men at the back had been joined by Catriona and another woman with an untidy mass of pale pink hair, the tips of which were pastel green. Someone had hacked it into an asymmetrical bob – probably recently, given the way she kept pushing it away from her face. Her eyebrow and lip were pierced, giving her a permanent slight air of sarcasm. She was engaged in dealing a pack of worn playing cards to her companions, her pale hands flashing in and out of the long sleeves of her dark green plaid skate dress.

Kestor – the man who had checked the router – was next to her, sitting on his chair back to front. He was a short, stocky man who looked like he might be a member of the local boxing club; he had short-cropped sandy hair, a round face and dark, flashing eyes that seemed to dare rather than invite comment. Roaring with laughter, he slapped the slight, quiet-looking man next to him on the back, knocking his glasses clean off.

The man picked them up, a gentle smile on his face that suggested this was a regular occurrence. He adjusted the mossy green scarf he had about his neck – even in the warmth of the pub – and tolerated the large man on his other side tousling his already messy black hair. This third character was big and hairy, with a short beard and mass of chestnut brown hair. The flash of a high-vis jacket hung on the back of his chair, and Annie suspected he was probably a biker.

They all seemed roughly the same age – in their early thirties, Annie guessed – except the woman with the pink hair, who might have been a few years younger.

They probably all grew up together here, she decided.

There was an older man sitting alone at the bar, perhaps in his fifties. He was wearing an elderly Fair Isle jumper under a boiler suit, suggesting he had come straight in from some agricultural work, and a woolly hat pulled over his dark, greying hair. This one had a pinched, grumpy expression, though Annie thought he had probably been quite handsome in his youth. Years of outdoor labour and scowling had carved deep scores in his face, like the walls of a beachside cliff.

He was watching the game at the table with some interest – on the edge of the group, but not quite part of it.

Perhaps that’s why he’s grumpy, Annie speculated. He’s on the outside, like me – but he lives here.

She ran her eyes over the other drinkers, but few of them stood out the way those six did. There was something about them, an aura of… certainty, perhaps – of knowing exactly who they were and what they were supposed to be. The rest were, by comparison, bizarrely ordinary, as if their proximity to the others had shaped their seeming, somehow.

There was something, though Annie would be hard pressed to put her finger on it, very slightly odd about the drinkers at the back table. Like an off-key note in an otherwise familiar song. She was mulling this thought over, puzzled, when Yves the barman appeared, bearing a thick sandwich and a large whisky.

There you are, he said, then waved away her attempt to pay. Dinnae fash yersen, I’ll put it on your tab – you can settle when your car’s fixed.

I appreciate that, said Annie, who was aware she had limited funds – at least until the telephone lines were back up.

The hairy man from the back table raised his voice to be heard over the clamour of the pub. Oy, Yves – give ‘er that whisky on me! It’s medicinal! He winked at Annie, who had no way – given how far away he was – to refuse.

Oh – er, I couldn’t possibly –

Don’t worry, said Yves, on her slightly flustered expression. He’s a paramedic, so he really does mean ‘medicinal’.

Annie laughed, which made him laugh too.

We’re an odd lot, he said, apparently anxious about how he and the others might seem, but friendly, for all that. You’ll be safe and sound, here at The Gate. You have my word.

Chapter 3 – The Gate

Annie woke up feeling rested and refreshed.

She had gone to bed early, exhausted from her adventure on the road, and slept deeply. More deeply, she suspected, than she had in a long time – certainly more completely than she had since she’d been on the road. As much as she loved adventuring, the first night in a new bed was always hard to settle into. An instinct left over from early humanity, perhaps, when people never knew what might be lurking in the shadows of a new sleeping place.

Annie frowned at the ceiling, trying to dispel the mild sense of unease the thought had awoken.

Stretching,