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Authors: Stuart Wakefield
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but was still too scared to turn it over. "What?"
"Pour me a drink. A bloody big one."
CHAPTER TEN
The Orcadian
The moment the man exploded through the doorway I wanted to run, and keep running, but fear anchored me to the spot.
After taking less than thirty seconds to read the letter it took me less than another five to accept its invitation. Now, two days later, I was here in the Orkneys and wondered if I should have taken longer to think about it.
Against the light flooding from the house the man was a black outline, a slab of threat, as tall and wide as the door itself. If he was anything like the wind in Orkney he wasn't going to bother to go around me and I, the immovable object, was already beaten into submission from the violent rain. One more step and I'd be trampled underfoot.
When he finally stopped in front of me my relief was palpable but it dissolved quickly when he grabbed me by my jacket and hauled me off my feet.
"Who ere ye?"
It took me a moment to process what he'd said. He had the thickest accent I'd heard during my journey here. My fellow passengers had tried to talk to me, once they'd finished staring, but I shrugged and pretended that I couldn't hear them over the whine of the transfer plane's engines. My mum's Orcadian accent had been extremely soft compared to the locals I'd met so far.
But it wasn't just their accents that confused me; I'd felt from the moment that I set foot on the island that the ocean tugged at my guts with an invisible force.
"Who ere ye?"
"You what?" I said immediately, an unconscious reaction as I translated what he'd said. It was a habit I'd grown into as a child, stalling for time when I'd done something wrong and needed to think up an excuse.
He lifted me higher until his face was level with mine. He remained silhouetted against the doorway so I couldn't make out his expression but his tone was unmistakeable. As if talking to an imbecile, he repeated slowly, "Who ere ye?"
I opened my mouth but doubted that I'd be able to speak, from equal measures of fear and shock. Could this monstrous man be Mackay, my real father, who had invited me here? If he was he looked much bigger than his photo suggested.
He shook me for an answer. "Ere ye the beuy?"
Back in London I would have come back with something smart about being a man, not a boy. In my early teens I'd hung out with the wrong crowd long enough to hold my own but now, cold, wet and lonely, suspended in this brute's grip, my confidence melted away.
Mute, I nodded, and tried uselessly to pull his hands off me. I tasted a sudden salty bitterness but couldn't tell if I'd started crying or if it was the ocean spray whipped up from the waves that crashed somewhere out in the darkness. Right now all I wanted was to be back in London. I wasn't ready for this.
He set me down roughly. "Mackay's expectan ye." Fear loosened its grip on my guts. This man wasn't my father but that didn't stop his unrelenting attention from unsettling me.
Fresh barbs of rain shredded the last tatters of my patience. I should be welcomed as a guest, not assaulted and questioned like an intruder.
I puffed out my chest and set my chin high. I didn't feel confident so hoped I could fake it. "If I'm 'the boy' then I guess you're 'the help'?" The words left my lips less boldly than I'd have liked but I managed to get them out, and heard, over the storm. This brute didn't look like any carer I'd ever seen but my father had written that his health was failing and someone looked after him.
The man drew himself up and I took an automatic step back, ready to flee if he lunged for me again, but he turned and opened the door, standing to the side so I'd have to squeeze pass him if I wanted to enter.
With his head turned towards me I detected one half of a sly smile on his face. "Hid's a bit blowy oot here. Ye'd better go in."
A bit blowy. At any moment I expected the house to be ripped from its foundations and he's calling it 'a bit blowy'?
I
"Pour me a drink. A bloody big one."
CHAPTER TEN
The Orcadian
The moment the man exploded through the doorway I wanted to run, and keep running, but fear anchored me to the spot.
After taking less than thirty seconds to read the letter it took me less than another five to accept its invitation. Now, two days later, I was here in the Orkneys and wondered if I should have taken longer to think about it.
Against the light flooding from the house the man was a black outline, a slab of threat, as tall and wide as the door itself. If he was anything like the wind in Orkney he wasn't going to bother to go around me and I, the immovable object, was already beaten into submission from the violent rain. One more step and I'd be trampled underfoot.
When he finally stopped in front of me my relief was palpable but it dissolved quickly when he grabbed me by my jacket and hauled me off my feet.
"Who ere ye?"
It took me a moment to process what he'd said. He had the thickest accent I'd heard during my journey here. My fellow passengers had tried to talk to me, once they'd finished staring, but I shrugged and pretended that I couldn't hear them over the whine of the transfer plane's engines. My mum's Orcadian accent had been extremely soft compared to the locals I'd met so far.
But it wasn't just their accents that confused me; I'd felt from the moment that I set foot on the island that the ocean tugged at my guts with an invisible force.
"Who ere ye?"
"You what?" I said immediately, an unconscious reaction as I translated what he'd said. It was a habit I'd grown into as a child, stalling for time when I'd done something wrong and needed to think up an excuse.
He lifted me higher until his face was level with mine. He remained silhouetted against the doorway so I couldn't make out his expression but his tone was unmistakeable. As if talking to an imbecile, he repeated slowly, "Who ere ye?"
I opened my mouth but doubted that I'd be able to speak, from equal measures of fear and shock. Could this monstrous man be Mackay, my real father, who had invited me here? If he was he looked much bigger than his photo suggested.
He shook me for an answer. "Ere ye the beuy?"
Back in London I would have come back with something smart about being a man, not a boy. In my early teens I'd hung out with the wrong crowd long enough to hold my own but now, cold, wet and lonely, suspended in this brute's grip, my confidence melted away.
Mute, I nodded, and tried uselessly to pull his hands off me. I tasted a sudden salty bitterness but couldn't tell if I'd started crying or if it was the ocean spray whipped up from the waves that crashed somewhere out in the darkness. Right now all I wanted was to be back in London. I wasn't ready for this.
He set me down roughly. "Mackay's expectan ye." Fear loosened its grip on my guts. This man wasn't my father but that didn't stop his unrelenting attention from unsettling me.
Fresh barbs of rain shredded the last tatters of my patience. I should be welcomed as a guest, not assaulted and questioned like an intruder.
I puffed out my chest and set my chin high. I didn't feel confident so hoped I could fake it. "If I'm 'the boy' then I guess you're 'the help'?" The words left my lips less boldly than I'd have liked but I managed to get them out, and heard, over the storm. This brute didn't look like any carer I'd ever seen but my father had written that his health was failing and someone looked after him.
The man drew himself up and I took an automatic step back, ready to flee if he lunged for me again, but he turned and opened the door, standing to the side so I'd have to squeeze pass him if I wanted to enter.
With his head turned towards me I detected one half of a sly smile on his face. "Hid's a bit blowy oot here. Ye'd better go in."
A bit blowy. At any moment I expected the house to be ripped from its foundations and he's calling it 'a bit blowy'?
I
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