—
When Ian Mackintosh’s pipes finally stopped, the gathering downstairs exploded with applause; they cheered, whooped, and stamped their feet until the whole building shook.
Within minutes, the younger crowd had gathered in the street and gone on to the Public Hall, but even after they left, the men who remained at the bar—the older men, the locals—spoke and laughed in raised voices, excited by their participation in the impromptu cèilidh.
I made my way to the window, still in the dark, pulled out the Blackout frame, and opened the sash.
I heard accordion and fiddle music coming from the Public Hall, along with laughing, singing, and animated conversations, including a few that sounded like arguments. Despite the icy air, I knelt by the window and rested my head on the sill, listening.
I felt a terrible pang of longing. Less than half a mile away, young people—people my age, people in love—were planning futures together, futures that would include all the perks of truly loving each other: intimacy, passion, children, companionship, even though there were sure to be trials along the way. Some of the couples might even end up mismatched and miserable, but at that particular moment they were as happy and joyful as the rest, and no matter how mismatched or miserable they turned out to be, I could almost guarantee that none of them would end up with a marriage like mine.
Footsteps came up the road, and I heard a man and a woman talking. They stopped at the house opposite the inn, and went silent for what I could only assume was a good-night kiss. He whispered something, and she went inside, giggling. He waited a few seconds after the door closed, and then whistled as he headed back down the road.
Eventually, I replaced the Blackout frame, and went to bed.
—
“You liar! You whore!”
A man’s angry shouting jolted me awake, and I initially thought Ellis was back. Then I heard Meg crying and realized the man was Rory. They were in the hallway.
I jumped out of bed and lit the candle on my dresser. Then I stood with my ear to the door.
“I swear by everything that’s holy, I’m telling you the truth—”
There was a smack, followed by Meg’s sharp cry.
I grabbed the fire iron, which was still leaning by the door.
“You worthless, lying slut! Tell me who he is! Tell me!”
“There is no one else,” she pleaded.
“Then why can’t you tell me where you got the stockings?”
“I did tell you, Rory—”
“You want me to believe they ‘just magically appeared’? What kind of a fool”—another smack, another cry—“do you take me for? What else has he given you, or did you earn them? Is that it? Have you turned professional? What’s your price, then? What does a pair of stockings buy a man?”
“Rory, for the love of God—”
“Is it that flat-footed bastard? I’ve seen how he looks at you. What room is he in? Tell me! Tell me!”
When Meg screamed, I yanked my door open and rushed out. The only light was coming from the candle behind me, but it was enough for me to see him haul back and punch her in the side of the face. She dropped to her knees, clutching her cheek, sobbing. She was completely naked. He was in an open shirt and underpants.
“Stop!” I cried. “She’s telling the truth!”
He glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes locked. He turned deliberately back to Meg, grabbed a handful of her hair, and kicked her full force in the ribs. The sound of the blow was a terrible muted thud. She made an oof noise as the air was forced out of her.
“I gave them to her!” I shrieked.
He kicked her again, still holding her by the hair, then tossed her aside. She collapsed and made no effort to move, like an unclothed porcelain doll dropped in a nursery. As he pulled his leg back to deliver another kick, I raised the poker and tore down the hallway.
Before I could get there, Angus charged out of the stairwell and in a single motion had Rory pinned against the wall by his throat, dangling him so his feet were above the ground. Rory’s hands swatted at and finally grabbed the hand around his throat, but he didn’t make a sound. Angus’s other arm remained at his side, his fingers splayed.
“What the fuck is going on?” said Hank, peeking out of his room with a candle. When he saw, he ducked back in.
I dropped the poker and rushed to Meg. She was conscious, but barely. I dragged her toward her room and crouched beside her, wrapping my arms around her, shielding her nakedness. She whimpered and covered her head with her arms.
There was a rhythmic thumping across the hall. I looked up, expecting to see Angus throwing punches. Instead, he continued to dangle Rory with one hand. The thumping was Rory slapping the wall behind him with open palms. His eyes bulged and his tongue protruded, and while the light was faint, his face was clearly not the right color, and getting darker quickly. The slapping got slower, and finally ceased. A wet patch appeared on the front of his underpants, and urine trickled down his leg, over his foot, and onto the floor.
It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds later that Angus dropped him. He crumpled to the floor and remained utterly still. I was sure he was dead, but after a few seconds he jerked violently and clutched his throat, gasping for air. It was a terrible sound, grating and rasping.
Angus stood beside Rory, hands on hips. He was in blue striped pajama bottoms, but no shirt. Not a one of us was properly covered, least of all Meg, and it made the horror of the moment somehow more real.
Angus poked Rory with his foot. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you what will happen if I ever find you darkening my door again,” he said.
Rory writhed on the floor, drawing ragged, scratchy breaths, and still grasping his throat.
“I’ll take that as a no,” said Angus, leaning over and lifting Rory by the armpits. He turned and threw him into the stairwell.
I held my breath during the series of bangs and thuds as Rory fell down the stairs. I was sure I’d just witnessed a murder, but moments later I heard the front door open and then click quietly shut.