Читать книгу Laying a Ghost - Alexa Snow - Страница 6

He didn’t know if it was the jet lag, sheer exhaustion, or a combination of the two, but Nick slept the rest of the afternoon and through the night, not waking until the first rays of morning light came in through the window. Yawning, he blinked and rolled over onto his back, keeping his arms underneath the covers, gathering his thoughts.

Scotland. He was in Scotland. Where he owned a house.

As someone who’d grown up in apartments and hadn’t owned anything bigger than a car ever, the idea was more than a little bit alarming. Nick knew that his mother would have been disappointed in his decision to come to Traighshee and settle down, and that her attempts to hide her disappointment would have fallen short of the mark.

Eventually, hunger and the need for caffeine drove Nick out of bed. He changed into a pair of jeans and put on his socks and shoes, then rummaged around in his suitcase until he found his toothbrush. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth with the unfamiliar brand of toothpaste that was sitting on the back edge of the sink, and went downstairs.

The windows were closed; John must have done that before he left. Nick felt a surge of gratitude toward the man. Sighing, Nick turned. He’d hoped that there’d be enough of a spark left in the fireplace that he wouldn’t have to start from scratch, but there wasn’t, and it was just warm enough that he decided not to bother. Instead, he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went through the cupboards until he found a frying pan. There wasn’t a toaster, so he fried a couple of eggs and put them between two slices of bread as a sandwich, which he then ate in about four bites. Licking his fingers, he sat at the kitchen table and drank his coffee, looking out the window that faced the sea.

Because he didn’t know where to start, Nick chose the kitchen. He found that John had been right; the women who’d come in had made sure that there wasn’t anything left that might spoil or attract mice. The cupboards were close to bare, although there were a few cans of soup and beans on the shelves. He couldn’t make a decision about the canned goods, which had apparently been judged worthy of keeping, so he left them for the time being and focused on cleaning.

Two hours spent scrubbing down every flat surface in the kitchen went by quickly. When his hands were so wrinkled from being wet that it was kind of disturbing, Nick moved to the living room and sat down at the small desk, opening up the main drawer and after a moment, taking everything out of it. There was a small trash can just beside the desk, so he began to sort through papers and letters, scraps of newspaper, tossing anything that was obviously trash and making a crooked pile of the things he knew he’d want to read through later. It wasn’t until he found a letter in his mother’s handwriting that he got off track.

It was a short letter, direct and lacking any conventional opening or closure, and the words were familiar because they were the same she’d used when she’d told him that she was dying. He wondered how long she’d taken to reduce the news down to a bare few lines, or, for him, thirty seconds that brought every vague concern into sharply focused certainty. He wondered what emotions of regret or grief had stirred in Ian Kelley when he learned that his young sister was dying.

The letter had been inside an envelope, neatly slit open; the letter opener, a slender silver blade, tarnished now, lay on the desk before him. Nick studied the postmark and realized that by the time his uncle read the letter Fiona would already have been dead. She’d sent it from the hospital, and she’d only spent a few days in there, with the impersonal, inflexible routine doing more to drain her than the treatment she’d endured.

He folded the letter, replaced it inside the envelope, and slipped it back inside the drawer, feeling his mother’s desolation and despair strike at him, carried across an ocean by paper and ink.

Standing abruptly, he left the room and grabbed his jacket from the chair in the kitchen before heading outside. He’d had enough of dust and memories for one morning.

The rain that John had predicted must have arrived, although he’d slept too soundly to have heard it fall softly on the slate roof, and the ground was damp, small tendrils of mist curling up in the warm sunlight. He set off confidently down the driveway, but when he got to the road, such as it was, he hesitated. He wanted to go down to the sea, but although the glitter of blue water was directly ahead of him, about a quarter of a mile away, there was no discernable path, and the rough grass, dotted with rock outcroppings, was home to several dozen sheep, their dirty fleeces daubed with a blue splodge. Was it private land, then?

Deciding to stay on the road for the time being, Nick turned to the right. If his fatigue-blurred recollections of the night before were correct, this road led straight to the town, with no crossroads, so he couldn’t get lost, although he didn’t intend to walk quite that far.

He’d covered enough ground to have his legs aching pleasantly from the exercise and his head full of the thin, salt-clean air when the sound of an approaching car broke the peace.

He’d drifted to almost the center of the narrow road, and for a moment he froze, unsure which way to move, a bend in the road hiding the oncoming vehicle. Shaking off his momentary paralysis, he stepped to his left, onto the grassy verge, and waited for it to pass. Instead it slowed and stopped.

“Good morning to you,” John said through the open window of his car.

“Is it still? Morning, I mean?” Nick realized that he had no idea what time it was.

John turned his head, presumably to look at the dashboard clock. “If you’d walked a few more yards, I’d have had to say ‘good afternoon’ if I was wanting to be accurate,” which more or less answered Nick’s question. “Are you heading anywhere in particular?”

“Not really. I spent the morning cleaning and I thought I’d get some fresh air.” Nick looked at John thoughtfully and decided to take a chance; no matter how nervous it made him to think about all the things that might go wrong, the urge to get to know John better was strong enough to outweigh the nerves. “Are you busy? I could buy you lunch. You know, to say thank you for yesterday. If it wasn’t for you I probably would have ended up sleeping on the couch with my shoes on and half freezing to death during the night.”

“You’d have managed better than that. And there’s no need to thank me for doing no more than anyone would, seeing you were ready to drop where you stood with the tiredness.” John smiled. “No, I’m not busy. I was on my way to see you, and that’s all I had planned for today.” He squinted up at the sky where a few clouds were gathering, although they were too high and wispy to look threatening. “Might do some fishing later on ... d’you want to come out on the boat with me and catch yourself some supper?”

Nick frowned, not sure if that was John’s way of saying no to lunch without actually saying it. Maybe it felt a little too much like Nick was asking him out on a date, which was definitely something Nick could understand John wanting to avoid. But on the other hand, John wasn’t saying no to spending time with him ...

Confused, Nick answered as honestly as he could. “Fishing sounds good, if you don’t mind that my total sum of knowledge as far as that goes is that I can tell the difference between a fish and a fishing pole.”

John gave the soft chuckle that Nick was starting to like hearing. “You’ll soon pick it up with a head start like that. Now will you be getting in and letting me take us into town so you can buy me food and I can buy you a pint?”

“Okay.” Nick felt himself smiling despite the cold fear that woke and stirred in his belly at the thought of the car ride. He’d had dozens of therapy appointments since the accident and been driven back and forth to all of them, but it had always been in cabs and he’d been in the back seat.

Getting into the car, he noted that John gave him time to fasten his seatbelt before starting up. “Thanks.” Nick tried not to tense up too much as John put the car into gear. He found himself wanting to explain, at least a little bit. “I was in a car accident -- that’s how I broke my wrist.”

John nodded as if it wasn’t news to him, driving along the road until he got to a place where he could turn safely. “There’s some would say you were lucky it was no worse, but I’m thinking you wouldn’t agree?”

Nick didn’t know how to answer that. He couldn’t answer that. All he could manage was a quick nod when John glanced in his direction, his throat too closed up to say anything.

John tapped his fingers against the wheel, clearly wanting to say something, his gaze flicking between the road and Nick a few times before he sighed. “I’m sorry it was like that. You’re living on a place you could walk across in an afternoon and around in a day, so you’ll get by on foot easily enough until you mend.”

Nick didn’t think for a moment that John meant his wrist, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get behind the wheel of a car again. Just sitting beside John without showing his feelings now that he didn’t have the shield of fatigue was difficult enough.

“That was one of the points in its favor,” Nick managed. “The island, I mean. Knowing that I wouldn’t need a car.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Five miles is a long way to walk with your shopping in the winter, with the sleet and the wind scouring the skin off your face.” John shrugged. “But it won’t hurt you to walk in this weather, and if you get blisters or you’re in a hurry, just stick out your thumb; any islander will stop for you.” He smiled without taking his eyes off the road. “Or you can call a taxi.”

“I thought that’s what this was -- what you were. Oh God, I still owe you for yesterday’s ride, don’t I?” Nick flushed, momentarily distracted by the quiet hum of the car’s engine as he chastised himself for what would probably be viewed as typical self-centered American behavior.

John snorted. “You do not, then.” He sounded emphatic, “I was on my way home, anyway. If you decide you do want work doing to the house, we’ll come to an arrangement about that, but when I said you could call a taxi, I didn’t mean -- I --” He slowed down to allow some sheep to amble across the road, giving the horn an irritable thump with his fist when they turned and began to walk along the middle of the road, causing them to bleat and scramble off to the side. “Do you Americans not recognize a joke, then?” He sounded more put out than the occasion called for.

Nick swallowed, watching the sheep warily, waiting to see if any of them ran back out into the road in front of them. “I have a sense of humor.” It didn’t sound as much like a protest as he’d meant it to. He found himself looking at John’s hand on the wheel. “I might also be a little paranoid. About being an outsider. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”

“You’re half-Scottish.” John still sounded snappy. “Your family’s lived on this island for centuries. You’re not an outsider. You’ve just been away.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a reluctant smile and he relaxed. “For thirty years or so, but I’ll not hold that against you.”

“Thanks.” Nick grinned weakly, trying to find the sense of humor he’d just been insisting he had. “I always wanted to come here when I was a kid, but my mother wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t even talk about it.”

John shook his head. “That’s a shame, but I suppose I can see why she didn’t like to speak of it. She’ll have been missing it though, from time to time, do you suppose?”

“I think so. She didn’t talk about it a lot, but she kept all those pictures ...” Nick could remember the album they’d been in, the way the color in the photos had faded with time, the way his mother’s hands had turned the pages, carefully, almost reverently. He’d known even when he was only six or seven that the album wasn’t something to touch on his own. “I found a letter she wrote in my uncle’s desk,” he said, as John steered the car around a curve. “I didn’t know she’d written to him. I guess she thought she had to let him know that she was sick. Dying. It was weird, seeing her handwriting like that.”

“I can imagine.” John sounded sympathetic. He shook his head. “When my father died there was this wee note from him stuck on the fridge; a list of groceries we needed, you know? It stayed there for weeks because my mother couldn’t bear to destroy it, and every time I saw it, I got this shiver along the back of my neck ...” They’d reached the village now and John slowed down as he drove along the main street. “I took it down in the end, when I couldn’t bear the sight of it, and I thought for sure that she’d never forgive me, but she didn’t say a word.”

He pulled up in a car park at the side of a pub close to the sea front and switched off the engine. Nick reached down to free his seatbelt just as John did the same and felt the back of his hand brush against John’s, the contact too light and fleeting to warrant more than a murmured apology, if that.

Instead he jerked his hand back sharply, trying to make that his only visible reaction to the shock he’d felt as they’d touched.

John glanced down and then raised his eyes to meet Nick’s, a faintly puzzled look on his face. “Sorry,” he said briefly. “Well, and no offense to Stella, this is the place if you want a decent pint with your food, but if you want to go somewhere else, just say.”

“It’s fine,” Nick told him, meaning both the pub they were parked next to and what had just happened.

They got out of the car and went inside. The lighting was on the dim side, and the place seemed crowded considering it was only just after noon, but maybe that was the normal lunch hour here. It wasn’t like Nick would know the difference. There was a large chalkboard to one side of the bar with scrawled but readable specials written on it, and Nick could see that the bartender was taking someone’s order over the bar, leaning in a bit so he could hear him over the noise of people talking.

Nick read the makeshift menu, frowning. “Any suggestions?” He gestured at the board.

“I don’t know what you like,” John said, reasonably enough. “Or how hungry you are.” He stepped closer and scanned the board, “The beef stew is tasty.”

“That’s boeuf bourguignon.” The barman appeared at their end of the bar, scowling at John. “It’s got half a bottle of red wine in it, and you can’t tell me it’s stew after that.”

“I can call it what I want, seeing as it’s fifty pence dearer than it was last Tuesday,” John retorted. “Christ, Geordie, could you not wait until June to hike up your prices? We’ll take two, and a couple of pints of bitter to wash it down with.” His voice was rougher, with more of an accent, Nick noticed. The barman’s gaze traveled to him and Nick met it with a cautious smile.

“I’ll be introducing you to Nick Kelley, Ian’s nephew from the States, come here to live.” John turned to Nick, “This is the man who pulls the best pint on the island, but never let him know I said it.”

“Said what?” Nick relaxed, grinning at John as Geordie set one pint down on the bar and reached for another glass. “It’s nice to meet you,” he continued. “Now I know where I’ll be spending my time when I don’t want to drink alone.”

“Glad to hear Rossneath won’t be empty no more,” Geordie said. “House has been empty too long. It’s bad luck.”

Interested, Nick raised his eyebrows as he took his wallet out. “Bad luck?”

“Aye. Perfectly good space not being used ... goes against the laws of God and man.” Geordie set the second pint down beside the first and Nick offered him a note. “Thank ye kindly, young Mister Kelley. Have a wife, do ye? It’s a grand house for raising a family. Your grandmother had three children in that house.”

“Three?” Startled, Nick let the man put his change in his open hand as John picked up one of the pints.

“Did ye not know, then? The little boy that would have been your eldest uncle died when he was a baby. Terrible tragedy, terrible.” Geordie shook his head, sounding as if he wouldn’t mind answering more questions, but Nick thought he’d heard enough for now.

“You’re wanted, Geordie.” John nodded down the bar to where a group of lads in oil-stained overalls were leaning over the counter.

Geordie swelled up with indignation. “I’ve told them I’ll not have them in here with their clothes in that state.” He moved away to deal with the miscreants and, Nick noted, made sure they’d all bought pints before he banished them to the beer garden.

John handed Nick his pint. “I was supposed to be buying you this, but I suppose you’ll let me get the next round in?” He led the way to a table with a view over the bay and sat down. “Cheers.” He raised his glass. “Now you be saying it back to me properly. Slainte Mhath.”

Nick blinked and tried. “Slannshvah. God, that was terrible. Say it again?” John did, and Nick repeated it, doing a slightly better job than he had the first time, and then taking a sip of the beer. He could get used to a life that didn’t consist of much more than this, he thought.

“About what Geordie was asking --” Nick froze, really not wanting to discuss tragic deaths in the house he had to sleep in alone, miles from anyone, but John went on as if he hadn’t noticed, “Is there going to be anyone joining you here?”

John’s habit of asking what anyone else would’ve tactfully tiptoed around would take some getting used to, Nick reflected, but it certainly saved time, and it wasn’t like he was pushy, exactly. Just direct.

Taking another sip of beer to give himself time to think of how to word it, Nick raised his left hand up to illustrate his lack of a wedding ring. “No. No wife, no girlfriend. I haven’t ... it’s been a long time since I’ve dated.” There. True, and hopefully enough to forestall further questions. “What about you? You didn’t mention anyone before, so I guess you’re not married ...”

John’s mouth twisted in a smile. “You’d guess right.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “And if you were to catch Geordie with time to chat, he’d tell you why.”

“Really?” Nick knew he shouldn’t ask, because the more questions he asked the more he was opening himself up to more questions, but he couldn’t help it. “What would he say?”

John looked at him solemnly, but Nick could see the amusement in his eyes. “He’d tell you that I’m carrying a torch for the lassie who chose to marry my best friend; young Sheila Brown as was, now Mrs. Michael Stewart, mother of a fine pair of twin boys. Heartbreaking, no? Try not to sob into your beer though; it’ll not improve the taste of it.”

“But that’s not the case?” Nick smiled with only a little bit of uncertainty.

A single eyebrow arched up. “Well, no.” John turned his head to watch an approaching waitress, carrying a large tray laden with their food and a basket of rolls. “But it’s convenient.”

The interruption gave Nick a chance to mull that over, and by the time the waitress had set down their plates and the basket, he’d realized how hungry he was. He probably hadn’t eaten enough the day before. The smell of the beef was rich, the gravy thick and steaming, and he grabbed a roll from the basket and tore it in half, dipping it in the gravy and taking a bite. “Sorry.” He glanced up at John, who was watching him with a bemused expression. “This is really good.”

“Don’t mind me,” John murmured politely, stretching out a hand and taking a roll himself and copying Nick, although with a more moderate enjoyment showing on his face as he bit into the bread. “So.” John produced another of those gently remorseless questions Nick was having so much trouble dealing with. “What is it that you do for a living? Because I’ll be honest with you, there’s not much work here on the island, and somehow I don’t see you turning your hand to farming.”

Nick had known that this was the kind of question he’d need an answer to, but he’d never managed to come up with anything he thought he could pull off. “I’m retired,” he answered, closing his eyes at how rude that had sounded. Fuck. Why hadn’t he thought of something? Anything? “Sorry.” He wondered how many times he’d apologize before John wised up and steered clear of him. “I was ... I had this business partner.” And then what was he supposed to say? I drove our car into a tree and killed him. He could hardly bear to think it, let alone say the words out loud. He looked up at John, expecting to see confusion and possibly condemnation in the other man’s eyes.

“You can tell me to mind my own business, you know.” John’s eyes were kind. “And it’s me who owes you an apology. If I speak out of turn again, there’s no need to say more than that, and I won’t take offense.” He was so nice about it that Nick was relieved that he hadn’t lied.

“You didn’t; speak out of turn, I mean. It’s not like it was an unreasonable question; it’s just ... complicated.”

“Then tell me when it’s simple.” John sounded as if he didn’t mind waiting.

“It’s not anything, you know, illegal,” Nick added, because John’s easy acceptance made him want to explain; because he wanted John to like him. “I wouldn’t want you to think that.”

John had raised his glass to his lips as Nick was speaking and taken a mouthful of beer. Nick watched him make an effort and just about manage to swallow it without choking, but as soon as he had, John started to laugh helplessly. “I wasn’t,” he managed to say. “It never crossed my mind, honest. Fine. I’ll cross off bank robber and the like then, shall I?” He shook his head, still grinning in the way that made Nick want to smile back, and took another drink. “You’d do well to think of something to tell folk though.” He narrowed his eyes speculatively. “Tell them you’re a writer. We get them up here for the peace and quiet all the time.”

Chewing, Nick nodded, washing the bite down with a long sip of beer. “That’s a good idea. I’ve thought about it. Writing. I actually have written a couple of articles for magazines, but nothing big.” One historical magazine and three that catered to people who were interested in the unexplainable. If Nick was lucky, they weren’t the kind of magazines people on the island would have heard of, let alone read. “So, be honest ... what are my chances of being accepted here? I’ve always gotten the impression that small communities like this aren’t all that welcoming of newcomers, but then you sort of said that I don’t count because my family was from here.”

“Oh, people will be welcoming enough. As you say, you’re connected. And a new face in a place this small, well, it gives folk something to talk about. It’s not as if you’re the only one either; we get a lot of people coming up here when they retire. There’s a Canadian staying in the north of the island and a German couple living in the cottage beside my mother.” He raised his hand and scratched meditatively at his neck. “Nice enough people, too, but they will bring along their guitars and sing these folk songs at the gatherings, and people are too polite to tell them to stop.” He sighed. “They mean well. They just think we’re quaint, and Lord knows it’s a strange word to use for someone like Jock McGovern when he’s the best part of a bottle inside him and shooting rabbits at three in the morning.”

“I can promise not to play the guitar and sing folk songs.” Nick speared another chunk of beef with his fork and moved it around in the gravy. “Although I can’t say I’m crazy about the thought of people talking about me. Not that I don’t expect them to.”

“Well, they will.” John tore off another chunk of the soft, white roll. “There’s no way to stop them. Or if there is, I haven’t found it.”

There was something that struck Nick as odd about that sentence, and it took him a moment to realize that John sounded as if he was as much of an outsider as Nick felt, which was ridiculous, given the fact that he’d lived here all his life and seemed to know everyone.

“So it’s true what they say about small communities. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Nick ate another bite of stew and washed it down with the last of his beer. “How do your best friend and his wife feel about it? I take it they’d put a stop to people thinking that if it made them uncomfortable.”

John stirred what was left of his food with his fork, staring down at his plate. “It’s not like it’s talked of much; they’ve been married seven or eight years now after all. And none of us ever came out and said it was true, not really. People just have it in their heads that it’s why I’m not fixed up with someone -- not that there’s a lot of choice here -- and like I said, it’s ... convenient to let them think that.” He raised his eyes and stared at Nick. “Michael’s a good man and a better friend. There’s not a lot he wouldn’t do for me.” John glanced across the room and raised his hand in response to a nod from an older man who was playing darts. “Friend of my mother’s.” He sounded a little amused. “Don’t tell her I said so, but I think he’s got a notion of courting her.”

Nick watched the man throw his darts carefully but, judging from his pleased smile as he walked over and tugged them free of the pocked dartboard, with some accuracy. “You don’t mind?”

John shook his head slowly. “Carson’s a good man. He couldn’t replace my father, mind, but to give him credit, he isn’t trying to. She needs someone to fuss over and keep her company now we’ve all moved out, and he’s perfect for that, even if he’s not the fisherman Dad was.” There was an unconscious condescension in his voice, and Nick glanced down at the table to hide his smile, wondering if John’s tolerance was down to Carson’s failings rather than his good points.

John stood up and picked up their empty glasses. “Same again, is it?”

“Sure, that’d be great.” Nick told himself sternly that two glasses of beer was his limit. Otherwise, there was no telling what he might say, and he’d probably said too much already.

* * * * *

John tilted his head back and pointed up at the roof. “There, see? You’ve a few tiles missing.” He turned his head, calculating where they would have landed, and then walked over and scuffed his boot across the long, wiry grass, exposing fragments of dark slate. “Can’t have been here too long, but it probably explains that damp patch in the spare room. You’ll need to get that fixed.”

Nick nodded and jotted down another note, the way he had every time John had finished a sentence that way. There wasn’t much to do, not really; it was a good, solidly built house, but even before he’d gone off to the nursing home it’d been a while since Ian Kelley had done much to keep the place in shape. There were a dozen small jobs, and as many again that would take the two of them to tackle if Nick wanted to see out the winter in comfort.

“Right.” John nodded at the stack of peat in a small lean-to close to the back door. “Do you want me to show you the trick of a peat fire? You might as well use them up as they’re cut, although when they’re gone, coal’s probably easier. Unless you do get the central heating in before winter; then you can keep your hands clean altogether.”

“I guess you might as well show me.” Nick’s expression made it clear that he was somewhat less than thrilled with the prospect. “But I think I’m probably going to go with the central heating. Is there someone nearby who’d be able to put it in?”

John nodded again. “There is. Niall. He’s a cousin of mine, but he’s the only one on the island who’s qualified, so it’s not as if I’m playing favorites. I’ll speak to him if you like; send him over to give you an estimate.”

“Thanks.” Nick looked more grateful for that than for the fire-making offer.

“But if there’s a power cut in January, and you can’t build a fire, you’re going to be awfully cold,” John went on, eyeing him sternly. “So let me show you what to do, and then if you’re still wanting to, we can take out the boat and see what’s biting.” He grinned, “Gutting a fish will take the smell of smoke off your hands, I promise you.”

“Somehow I get the impression that you think that’s going to make me feel better.” Nick grinned back, tucking the small pad of paper and pencil into his pocket as he came over to help carry some of the peat into the house.

“There’s nothing wrong with the smell of fish,” John told him as they walked through the kitchen to the sitting room that ran the length of the house. “Not when it’s fresh anyway, or at least that’s what my dad always used to say when my mother complained.”

He’d said more than that, but John wasn’t ready to tell Nick how his father had endured his mother’s scolding for a while as he stood there, his hair damp from the sea, his eyes tired but content, before grinning at her and asking if the way he smelled meant she wasn’t going to kiss him again, because if so he’d throw every fish back in the sea because they weren’t worth it. She’d always relented and given him the kiss he’d asked for, always. No, he wasn’t going to tell Nick that.

He placed the peat on the hearthstone and knelt down, starting to clear away what was left of the fire he’d built the night before. “You stop noticing the smell after a while.” He turned his head to glance up at Nick, who was standing with his arms folded, looking down at him as if he was something on the Discovery channel. “Or are you trying to tell me I stink of it?” He raised the sleeve of his dark-green sweater to his nose and gave it a cautious sniff, smelling oil and smoke and yes, maybe a bit of a hint of fish.

Nick laughed and knelt down beside him, touching the peat again with the tips of his fingers. John remembered what it had felt like to hold Nick’s hand and looked back into the fireplace as Nick said, “No. More like smoke. But I probably do, too, after an hour in that pub.” He offered the sleeve of his own sweatshirt to John, who reluctantly obliged him by leaning over and sniffing it. Nick smelled of smoke, yes, but also of unfamiliar laundry detergent.

“Well, now that you’re down here, you can get some kindling from that box beside you.” John’s voice was a little gruff to his own ears. “Small bits, mind; the idea is to use them to get things going.”

When Nick turned and began to sort obediently through what was left in the box, John edged away a little, putting some space between them. He was damn sure he couldn’t have put it any plainer in the pub -- and God knows why he’d felt the need to do that with a man he’d known for no more than a day -- and Nick’s reaction -- or lack of one -- had left John feeling at a loss. He didn’t know what to think, but as it was obvious Nick wasn’t interested in him as anything but an information source and someone to keep him company until he found his feet, a bit of space between them was called for.

Not that is was going to be easy to do that. John had always thought that he could take a hint as well as the next man, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the connection he felt between them. Even if Nick had been more forthcoming, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Nick was going to be living on the island, surrounded by people who would be watching him, inquisitive and ready to judge. John knew what that was like and he knew what it made Nick. Off-limits.

Cursing himself for saying even as much as he had, John took a newspaper from the magazine rack by the fire and began to tear off small pieces, crumpling them loosely in his hand.

Nick turned back with a large handful of thin twigs balanced carefully in his left hand, fingers curled slightly around them. “Are these okay? I haven’t made a fire for ... well, since I was about seven or eight, probably, and it was always with logs, not peat. What were you saying about coal?”

John nodded at the fireplace. “They’re fine. Put them in and sort of criss-cross them, so that there’s space for the air to get through. A coal fire will burn longer than wood, but they’re both expensive up here. You’ll need a bag or two for emergencies, or if Niall doesn’t get your central heating in by the time the cold weather comes.” John rolled his eyes tolerantly, just thinking about Niall. “He’s an idle devil sometimes, for all that he’s family, but maybe with you not being a summer visitor, he’ll pull his finger out. Just don’t be paying him in advance, whatever you do.”

“I appreciate the advice.” Nick leaned in closer as he set the twigs into a pattern so close to the one John would have used that it was almost uncanny. Bugger knew more than he was letting on, John thought, although he didn’t think it was a deliberate facade. Just didn’t have enough confidence in himself.

“There.” Nick straightened up, his weight back on his heels again as he turned, gesturing toward the stack of peat that was on John’s other side. “Now, do we --” His voice broke off, and John, who’d also turned to look at the peat, turned back in time to see him swallow, face white as a sheet.

“Nick?” John’s gaze dropped to Nick’s wrist, wondering if the man had jarred it somehow and already blaming himself for letting Nick carry in the peat. “Are you all right?” He looked at Nick’s face again and saw Nick’s eyes widen, the green of them all but disappearing as his pupils dilated.

Nick’s jaw tightened and he swallowed, blinking. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He dragged his gaze over to John, making a valiant effort, even though it was clear that he was far from fine. “What ... what do we do with the peat?” His eyes flickered off to the side again, and then back.

Every instinct John had was telling him that there was something behind him, something bad. It wasn’t reasonable, and it couldn’t be true, but it was how he felt when he saw those sidelong, panicked glances of Nick’s. Telling himself that turning to look would be pure foolishness, he took a deep breath. “Set a small piece on top, and then we’ll light the kindling under it.” He straightened and stood up to get the box of matches off the mantelpiece, his gaze going to the room behind him despite his good intentions as his fingers closed around the familiar shape.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but his mind was busy conjuring up horrors, maybe even the ghost of old Ian, which was just plain ridiculous. For a moment his fear was instinctive and unreasoning, feeding on the panic pouring off Nick, painting a rising darkness in the corner, but when he blinked there was nothing but a wooden chair there, set squarely against the wall.

Nothing. Well, of course there was nothing. Feeling ridiculous for having even bothered to look, and hoping that Nick hadn’t noticed, John held out the box of matches. “There you go.”

Nick’s gaze was down on the hearthstone as if he were determined to keep it there, but when John spoke, he glanced up long enough to reach for the matches with a hand that trembled slightly. He set the box on his thigh and reached for a small piece of peat as John got down beside him again, unable to keep from seeing how Nick twitched at the movement. “Put the peat on top,” Nick repeated, not sounding like himself at all. “Put the peat on top and light the kindling.” He picked up the matches and opened the box with an uneven force that caused them to scatter all over the floor and hearth. “Fuck.”

John stretched out his hand and caught Nick’s wrist as he started to pick up the matches. Nick’s skin was cool and clammy . “Leave them. I’ll do it.” Nick’s head was bowed again, a wide strip of smooth, tanned skin exposed between his hairline and the collar of his sweatshirt. “You’re still tired,” John went on, keeping his voice steady. “There’s no rush to do everything all at once and I should’ve remembered that.” He let go of Nick’s wrist and began to brush the matches together into a small heap.

“Sorry.” Nick struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m just going to go upstairs for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t wait for John to reply, but turned and headed almost blindly for the stairs as John watched him. Nick bumped into the wall at the foot of the staircase, his shoulder hitting it, and John had to quell the impulse to get up and go after him, make sure he got up the stairs okay. It almost looked as if he were trying to walk with his eyes closed. The sound of his footsteps on the wooden stairs was uneven, too quick considering how unsteady he’d been on his feet. John breathed a sigh of relief when Nick reached the top and the bathroom door slammed shut.

He couldn’t help but listen as he gathered up the matches from the hearth, putting them back into the box. What the hell was wrong with the man? It was clear that he was recovering from some kind of trauma, but John was starting to doubt that it was as simple as a car accident and a broken wrist. He didn’t, he realized, know anything more about Nick than what the man had told him. For all he knew, Nick could be sick. Mentally ill.

He could hear the sound of footsteps back and forth on the bathroom floor, and what after a few moments began to sound like a muttered voice. It got louder and more anguished, though; Nick was talking to himself, begging for ... something.

John hesitated and then went over to the stairs. Growing up amongst people who were by nature reserved made him feel awkward, even embarrassed, about intruding, but he couldn’t leave Nick, not when he was in this state. It didn’t matter that the man was new into his life; he liked him, and when it came down to it, right now he was the only friend Nick had.

Hoping that a friendly ear was all that was needed, not a doctor, John climbed the stairs, hearing fragments of words mumbled too low to be intelligible, although when Nick’s voice rose on a frantic “Please!” it was clear enough.

He came to the closed door and raised his hand to knock softly on it. He caught his breath, his hand falling to his side as that disconcerting sense of wrongness crawled over him again, making him shudder convulsively, every hair on his body raising as his skin prickled into goose bumps.

“Nick,” he said urgently, his voice cracking. “Let me in, man. Let me help you.”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted himself in there, or Nick out here on the landing, but he was beginning to feel strongly that company would be welcome.

Nick was still pacing, from the sound of his footsteps, and still muttering, but now John was close enough to hear most of it clearly. “No,” Nick was saying. “No, no, no. No! Stop it. I can’t -- God, shut up! Just ... I can’t understand. No. Please.” The last word was half sob, half whimper, the sound of it going straight to John’s heart like he’d imagine the twist of a knife would. A grown man shouldn’t sound like that. It wasn’t right.

“Nick. Open the door.” He reached for the handle.

There was a violent thump inside the bathroom, as if Nick had slapped both hands full force against the wall. “No!”

John had no idea what else to say. Should he offer to go get help? Was the man mad? Having some sort of psychotic break?

“You’re wrong!” Nick’s voice was loud again. “I can’t. No. I don’t want you here.”

Setting his teeth against the sudden flare of hurt, and telling himself that Nick was too out of his head to know what he was saying, John reached out once more for the door handle. The door was locked, which came as no surprise, and although he thumped his fist against it, his temper rising because it was easier to feel angry and it pushed away the unease, it stayed that way.

He stepped back, breathing unevenly. One more time. The shadows in the hallway were gathering darkness into themselves, his palms were slippery with sweat, and he wanted nothing as much as to be out in the sunshine, breathing clean salt air, but he’d try one more time ...

“Will you open the door? Will you let me see that you’re all right?”

Nick’s voice was rising in a scream before he’d finished speaking, “Will you just fucking leave me alone?”

John didn’t remember starting to move, but he remembered the feel of the stair rail under his hand as he grabbed at it to halt his fall when his hurrying feet missed a step. Remembered the sound of his feet echoing in the emptiness as he left the house in a stumbling run, harsh breaths painful in a throat swollen with tears that got no further than that.

And then his hands closed around the steering wheel of his car, warm from the sun, and the anger took him, shaking the disjointed puzzle pieces of his flight from the house and organizing them neatly into something normal, something that didn’t mean he’d run because he was scared, or because he was aching with the loss of something he’d never had.

He brought his fist down hard against the dashboard, bruising it and loving the pain that followed because that he could understand, that made sense.

Nick didn’t.

“Fucking Yank,” he whispered savagely. “Fucking tourist --”

He drove away without looking back, heading for the beach where his boat lay waiting on the white sand, scoured clean by the wind and the sea.