Now I’m almost at the opposite end of the loch from the Lodge: it glitters strange and magnificent on the other bank. There’s a gap in the trees that ring the loch here, leaving a bald-looking stretch with a lot of rocks and some dead-looking heather. There’s a building here, too, low-slung and timbered like the cabins. This must be the bunkhouse where the Icelanders are staying. All the windows are dark, no sign of life within. Perhaps they’re still asleep.
I carry on my way, picking up the pace for the second half of the lap as I always do when I run. As I plunge back into the trees again I hear a sound, high and keening, like an animal in pain. I think inevitably of the bones on the other bank. It’s difficult to tell exactly where the sound is coming from, but I peer in the vague direction of the noise into the dark thicket. And now I see them – I can’t believe I didn’t originally. Jesus. So much naked skin. The woman crouches on the mossy ground on her hands and knees, the man mounting her from behind, hips flexing powerfully, his hand tangled in her black hair. Her head is thrown back, or possibly pulled back by the force of his grip. Both of them are making a lot of noise, and the noises are bestial, uninhibited. There is something horrifyingly compelling about the sight. My feet are rooted to the spot, I’m unable to glance away.
And then the man turns his head and looks straight at me. With two fingers he makes a kind of beckoning motion with his hand. ‘Come,’ he calls, ‘join us.’ Then he laughs, a kind of cackle. He’s mocking me. The woman looks up, to see who he’s speaking to. She, too, grins at me: the half-drugged expression of someone in the throes of lust. Their exposed skin is very white in the stark light. Her knees are almost black with dirt.
And though I have always liked to think of myself as very open-minded, sexually liberated, once my limbs decide to work again I find myself stumbling backwards, then turning and running away as fast as my legs will carry me, branches snagging at my ankles and whipping my cheeks. I feel as though I can still hear his laughter ringing out, though worryingly I’m not absolutely sure that it isn’t in my head.
Back at the Lodge, I go to make myself a coffee from the Nespresso machine. My fingers don’t seem to work properly. They’re trembling. I’m sure it’s just the cold, but it would be a lie to say that scene in the woods didn’t rattle me. It was the animal nature of it, the violence of it, in the middle of all that wildness. I hear the door open behind me. I do not turn around. I’m already certain – from the lack of greeting – that it’s Mark. Oh, for God’s sake. I could really do without seeing him now.
Finally, I wrestle the little gold capsule into the slot and clunk the lever down. Press the button, and wait for something to happen. I hear the capsule fall into the cavity at the back. ‘Fuck!’ I seem to have become completely uncoordinated.
Suddenly Mark is next to me. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘you have to turn it on before you put the capsule in.’ He shows me, and a perfect stream of velvet brown pours into the cup.
‘Thanks,’ I say, without looking at him.
‘Miranda,’ he says. ‘Manda … I want to apologise for last night. I don’t know what came over me. I’d had too much to drink, and then those pills – what even were they?’
‘That’s no excuse,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says, quickly. ‘No excuse, I know that. I behaved unforgivably. Did I hurt you?’
I push up my sleeve to show him the bruise, which has turned a rather impressive purple.
He hangs his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that. Sometimes – I don’t know, I let my anger get the better of me. It’s like something takes over … again, it’s unforgivable. And it wasn’t even you I was angry at – of course it wasn’t. It was Julien. That’s one thing I won’t, can’t, take back. He doesn’t deserve you, Miranda. He never has. But especially recently—’
‘No,’ I put up a palm, ‘whatever you think you know about his “little secret”, or whatever you call it, I want you to keep it to yourself. For my sake, if you won’t do it for his. Do you understand?’
‘I think so, but …’ he looks dumbfounded. ‘I just— I’m thinking of you, Miranda. I feel like you have a right to know what he’s been up to. You’re sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say, nodding my head for emphasis. ‘Absolutely sure.’
I sip my coffee. It’s too hot, and scalds my tongue, but I won’t wince in front of him. ‘Oh, and Mark?’
‘Yes?’
‘Touch me again like that – either like you did on the Twister mat, or in the bathroom – and I’ll fucking kill you. Have you got that?’
KATIE
I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t think I’ve slept properly for months. It feels like years.
When I come in for breakfast, Emma is standing in the kitchen of the Lodge, making preparations for tonight’s supper. Her hair is scraped off her face, no make-up. I’m not sure when I’ve ever seen her without make-up, actually. It’s odd, sometimes, seeing someone bare-faced for the first time. Especially someone fair, like Emma, who is usually equipped with the punctuation of mascara, eyeliner; she looks almost featureless.
She has planned a big feast for this evening, she tells me. The fridge is packed with smoked salmon and the finest beef fillet, and she’s whipping up a batter for blinis. She makes her own blinis, for God’s sake. ‘The shop-bought ones taste like rubber,’ she says. ‘And it’s so easy to do them.’ She is in her element, humming away to herself. She has me cutting tiny triangles of salmon with much more care than I normally would. It’s actually nice to have something to focus on. Though try as I might, my thoughts keep wandering. I carry on until Emma cries out, ‘Katie, oh my God! You’re bleeding! Didn’t you notice?’ And in a slightly irritated tone, ‘Oh, you’ve got blood all over the salmon.’
‘Have I?’ I look down at my hand. ‘Oh.’ She’s right, I’ve cut quite far into the flesh of my forefinger. A bright red gash. The fish is slick with it, made suddenly gory.
Emma stares at me. ‘How did you not notice?’ She takes my hand, a little roughly. ‘Oh, you poor thing. That must have hurt. It’s quite deep.’
She is trying to sound sympathetic, but it doesn’t quite conceal a note of irritation.
All at once the pain arrives. Sharp, bringing tears to my eyes. But I find myself almost enjoying the sting of it. It feels right, like what I deserve.
Later, we eat brunch in the dining room at the Lodge, all of us around the big table in the centre, apart from Samira and Giles, who haven’t arrived yet. They’re awake though – when I passed their cabin I heard raised voices and a shriek of infant rage.
The atmosphere is subdued this morning – the conversation around the table stilted, everyone picking listlessly at their fry-ups. There are the hangovers from last night, of course, but maybe there’s something else, too. Something slightly strained … as though everyone’s somewhat exhausted their quota of niceness on yesterday’s reunion. Only Emma is all brightness and bustle, checking everyone has enough bacon, enough coffee.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Julien says, ‘sit down Emma! We’re all fine.’ I’m sure he was going for a light, teasing tone, but he doesn’t quite manage it.
Emma sits, a flush stealing up the side of her neck.
‘Katie,’ Miranda pulls out the seat next to her, ‘sit by me.’
I take the seat and reach for a cold piece of toast to butter. Miranda’s wearing a lot of perfume this morning, and, as I chew, it’s like the toast has taken on the heavy, fragrant flavour of it. My stomach churns. I take a swig of coffee, but this, too, tastes off.