Page 40 of Bonetide

It’s a small thing—welcome back—but it does something to me. Makes me feel like I’m slowly becoming a part of the land. Either that, or it’s becoming a part of me.

He brings me a plate of haddock and chips with the kind of mushy peas that come from a can, and a lemon wedge. The haddock is good, the same fish they use in the Cullen skink (I know, I was dismayed too when I learned skink was not a fish).

After I’ve had half my pint, and the lunch rush seems to slow, I work up the courage to blurt, “Mr. MacLeod.”

“Aye? You can call me John.”

“What if I meet another John? I’ll get confused.”

“You’re sooner to meet another MacLeod.”

“Okay, well, John…you know the castle across the bay from my cottage?”

“Ob Gorm Mor.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, thinking maybe he’s had a stroke.

“Ob Gorm Mor is the name of the bay between you. Means big blue-green bay.” He doesn’t look up from the glass he’s cleaning. “And the castle is Caisteal Eachainn.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“Is anyone living there?”

The glass goes onto the rack. He picks up another. He takes his time.

“Officially, no. The trust that owns it considers it uninhabited.”

“And unofficially…?”

He looks at me then and I can see him trying to decide how much info to give me.

“Unofficially,” he starts, “there’s been a man in that castle, off and on, longer than I’ve worked this bar. Quiet. Doesn’t trouble anyone. Comes in here once in a while for a drink. Pays in cash. Doesn’t stay long.”

Oh, thank god—Alasdair isn’t a ghost. He exists.

“Does he have a name?”

“He’s never given me one.”

“Has anyone?”

“Lass.” MacLeod sets the glass down. “If a man comes into my pub and pays for his pint and minds himself and makes no trouble, I don’t ask after his name. That’s how this pub stays a pub. You follow?”

“Sure do,” I agree, feeling slightly reprimanded.

“Aye.”

He goes back to the glasses. I work on the chips, squirting some brown sauce on them, then dipping them in tartar. I let a beat go, and another.

“My great-aunt…” I trail off.

“Yes?”

“Did she come here much?”

He almost smiles. “Effie Galloway sat where you’re sitting once a fortnight for forty years. Half-pint of bitter, a full if she was feeling fine, a packet of crisps and a stare at the door like she was waiting for someone to walk through it.”