Read Online Lie of the Land by Michael F. Russell - Free Book Online Page B

away.
    Away from the road – he had no idea of distance – was a bare fist of mountain that burst through the thin covering of green. Somewhere in his mind, the outline of the dark shape rang a bell. He had seen this photo, he was sure of it. And now here he was, looking, open-mouthed, at the real thing. He stopped the car again and got out. After a while, he became aware of another sensation – absolute silence. Only the breeze in the grass registered in his ears, birds calling in the distance. By the side of the road, in the long grass of the verge, a bee, droning and moving from flower to flower sounded like a chainsaw. The pure air filled his lungs. There was nothing to do but look and listen, but he found himself unable to do either for very long.
    He drove on.
    â€¢
    At a derelict filling station he stopped again to check the map. Weeds were poking up here and there through the concreteforecourt and the station’s high metal roof was missing. There were no fuel pumps on the two concrete stands. Plastic electricity cables, sheared at the root, stuck out of the ragged holes in the concrete where the pumps had stood. The booth’s livery was fading under the scrub of Atlantic weathers, windows intact and covered in dust. Carl cleaned a spot with his fist and looked inside. Most of the shelves were still in place; the metal shell of a coffee machine; a chewing-gum display stand on the counter; empty plastic water bottles; a glass-fronted fridge, for sandwiches and soft drinks. He could murder a coffee. Not far now to Inverlair.
    â€¢
    A few miles on, the dark scarp of a sea-cliff appeared in the distance, and the road veered abruptly down, following the curve of the bay. A road sign said ‘Inverlair’. Carl pulled over to the roadside and reached into the glove compartment. Taking out a pair of binoculars he scanned the village, most of which lined the other side of an inlet – more a fjord – bordered on three sides by steep forested hills and a few dozen houses, about half of them clustered around a pier that was jutting out into the bay. Outlying houses were spread across the green and brown hillside, with fenced fields between them and the sea. A river split the rounded uplands at the head of the bay, a rocky summit rising to the north. Carl could see what he figured was some kind of boatyard, a large grey corrugated-iron building with a high doorway. Inside, he could see a shower of sparks. Probably welding gear. On the pier there were guys hauling plastic boxes, streaming seawater, up from a waiting boat. There was nothing out of place, no CivCon, and no cops that he could see. And no telecomms mast, though most houses had a satellite dish.
    In the centre of the village, halfway up the opposite headland, Carl could see ‘Inverlair Hotel’ above the doorway of a solid two-storey stone building. Smoke was billowing from one of thechimneys. There was a church at one end, a small shop and post office in the middle, and what Carl took to be a schoolhouse at the other end.
    He got back in the car and drove the last mile or so down and around the bay towards the hotel, followed the sign into the car park, parked, and made his way round to the front door. Inside, he waited in the reception lobby, all dark wood panelling and claret carpet. There was no one around. A button on the counter told him to ‘Ring For Attention’. He did, heard distant bleeps within. He waited, and was just about to press again, when a man in his sixties, wearing a navy-blue fleece with the RNLI logo in red, came through a fire door.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Hi. I’d like a room, please. A single, if you have one.’
    â€˜A room?’
    â€˜If you have one, yes. I should’ve phoned, but I assumed . . .’
    For a second the man, who spoke with the faint trace of an American accent, seemed unsure of what was taking place.
    â€˜Sure,’ he said at last, narrowing his eyes