Page 107 of The Merman's Betrothal
‘Here’s to fucking off.’
Graham grinned and tucked the note away. He whistled a tune as he climbed the harbour steps, looking forward to another interesting day.
* * *
In the privacy of his inner chamber, Neacel sorted through his small, treasured collection of clothing. The sparkling silver dress was still his favourite but perhaps too ostentatious, he decided.He didn’t exactly want to draw attention to himself tonight. But he wanted to feel… to feel… delicate. Graceful. Himself.
Neacel selected a simple black cocktail dress instead. It had clean lines and would look smooth over his body. It was also the only dress for which he’d managed to obtain matching shoes. Little black sandals with a kitten heel.
He bundled them all into a net on his back and set off.
It wasn’t long before he spotted the shadow of a boat heading inland. Taking aim, Neacel hurled a hook and line into its hull. The hook stuck. Now all he had to do was hold on. A much more efficient way to travel rather than swimming all the way there.
Several hours later, Neacel stepped out of the cave hidden below Ullapool and into the crisp evening air. The dress had needed time to dry and he’d spent more than an hour trying to get his lipstick on right. He patted everything down, smoothed his hands over his hair for the fiftieth time.
It’s just an experiment,he reassured himself.I won’t be long. A few minutes at most.Just to see what it feels like.
The streets weren’t too busy. Neacel had purposely picked a Tuesday because he’d heard it wasThe Loch-Up’sslowest night. Even the regular bouncer, Simon, was off-duty.
Neacel sidled inside the club. His heelsclick-clackedstrangely—but satisfyingly—on the hard floor.
One drink,he promised, heart pounding.I’ll order one drink and then leave.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to catch the bartender’s eye. He stood awkwardly hugging himself at the bar. Nobody paid him much mind. Cautiously, Neacel began to relax.
‘Oy, oy,’ said a rough but not unfriendly voice behind him. ‘Do I know you?’
Instant panic. Neacel froze.
The voice belonged to a handsome, weatherworn face that slid into Neacel’s field of view. ‘Seen you in here before, haven’t I? With the guys with the kilts?’
The man’s eyes dropped to travel over Neacel’s body. Surely taking in the rumples he hadn’t quite smoothed out of the dress and the sand in his heels and more than anything the drainpipe frame that it all hung from. Neacel wished more than ever to shrink away.
But then the man smiled and Neacel’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Name’s Graham, beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?’
* * *
Hamish Douglas stewed silently in his chair in his empty house. The television was off; in his hand he clutched Rory’s letter.
This is goodbye, Dad. I’m going to stop trying to take responsibility for a problem that was never mine to fix. I hope you move on some day.
There was a lot more, but Hamish struggled to read the whole thing in one go. He was furious. And miserable. And his bastarding skin itched.
There was probably a pill for that if he cared to tell the doctor, which he didn’t. It was nobody’s business how his skin felt; that some days he felt like an alien living inside a husk that wanted to split open.
Rory had cared. Constantly tried to make him face his body’s aches and pains.
The final line of the letter caught his eye again.
I love you.
Rory
Rory had left the letter by Nancy’s photograph. Insult on top ofinsult.
God, Nancy. If only she were here. If only…
