Tormentor by William Meikle Page B

my hand as if she’d been burned.
    “You’ve left it too late,” she said, her eyes sad. “Much too late.”
    The man led her away.
    “Hey, wait,” I shouted, but they seemed to scuttle off, like fleeing sparrows, leaving me alone in the corner of the square.
    As I walked back towards the hotel entrance, it started to snow.
    * * *
    I woke the next morning—or more accurately, afternoon—to Alan banging about in his kitchen singing “White Christmas” at the top of his voice. I was vaguely aware that the party had gone on long into the night, and I remembered our footprints in fresh snow on the short walk from the hotel to Alan’s flat, but beyond that, most of the time after midnight was little more than a blur.
    I remembered the old woman’s words well enough though.
    “You’ve left it too late.”
    “Breakfast?” Alan shouted.
    “Just some toast and coffee—lots of coffee,” I replied, and groaned as I tried to get out of the sofa that had taken a death grip on my back and neck.
    “I could make a full fry-up?” he said, but the thought of all that oily food made my stomach roil. I stumbled to the bathroom, had a shower and felt almost human again.
    Three cups of coffee and some toast got the engine running, but it almost stalled when Alan suggested a hair of the dog.
    “The George will be open,” he said. “Fancy a pint or three?”
    Actually, I did, but I also knew that if I started, I wouldn’t get home that day, and the house had been calling me since I woke up.
    “Maybe at the New Year,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”
    Alan pointed out the window. I noticed, for the first time, that it was still snowing—not heavy, but persistent.
    “You might not make it—the council won’t be out today—it’s a holiday for them too—and the roads won’t have been gritted. It might be best to stay here a wee bit longer?”
    “Stay and get pissed again? I’m not sure my liver would stand it.”
    “Mum’s got a fridge full of leftovers too—we could take on plenty of ballast?”
    I laughed.
    “Don’t tempt me—but I need to get back. There’s some folks down south I need to talk to online—and I said I’d phone Beth’s parents.”
    That little lie made me uncomfortable—Beth’s parents and I hadn’t spoken since the funeral, and we both liked the situation just fine—but Alan didn’t know that. He relented, and let me off with the promise that we’d meet up at some point for the New Year festivities.
    I went out into a snow-covered landscape.
    * * *
    Portree was eerily quiet, considering it was already two o’ clock in the afternoon. An old man walked a wheezing dog, and said something to me as he passed, but his accent was so broad I didn’t catch it, and I just muttered something in reply, hoping I hadn’t been rude.
    As I got to the car park, I checked the far corner, half expecting the woman and her son to be standing there, watching me—but there was only a stretch of unbroken snow leading up the incline away from the town center.
    I had to brush snow from the windshield, and my hands felt like blocks of ice by the time I finally got in and started the car up. At least it started on cue, although the wheels spun rather alarmingly as I pulled out, and I almost didn’t make it up the incline that led to the Edinbane and Dunvegan road, sliding left and right and struggling for traction all the way.
    I was on the verge of turning back and throwing myself on Alan’s ample hospitality when I crested the hill and the snow thinned enough for the wheels to get a better grip. I was still doing little more than fifteen miles an hour, but at least I was making progress, so I pressed on.
    I quickly regretted that decision. The snow fell harder, testing the limits of my wipers, and I crawled forward, peering into a white emptiness. There was no other traffic on the road—the locals weren’t that stupid, and I was starting to have thoughts of being stranded out here for the day,