Bruar's Rest

Balnakiel had destined her to be a victim of this hellish demon, and not, as she had once firmly believed, to find Bruar and live happily ever after. Was this the reason for her search—to allow her to be chased by a cursed beast? Was it the curse of Rory now laid on her shoulders? This man could not be snared because he wasn’t human!
    ‘What did he want here?’ Terry asked. She waited for Michael’s answer.
    ‘Looking for a job, he said. I told him I didn’t need anybody, but he insisted on coming back tomorrow anyway.’
    ‘He will, but not for a job—he’ll be coming for me!’
    ‘Then he’s in for a big surprise,’ said Paddy rising to his feet. The others nodded in agreement. Johnno seemed disturbed by the stalker, and said he’d a power of stealth if he managed to find Megan here. ‘Better get some help, Michael?’ he said uneasily.
    ‘Aye, best we do. Come on, Megan, it’s time I let you meet some friends.’ Michael held her close, and she felt his strength.
    In a soldier-like fashion, Johnno and Terry brought the big saloon car from its garage. How often had she heard its whirring engine gliding out to take the men on some secret mission or other, and now she too was part of that company.
    Behind her on the bog-ground a stray dog howled, ‘The auld Pooka is heralding some man’s doom.’ Terry stretched his neck, sniffed the wet air and added, ‘He’ll linger around the place until the Banshee shakes the victim’s shroud.’
    Megan’s background told her what was out there: it was a demon dog come looking for a newly dead soul. Her flesh crawled with images of deep-seated superstitions.
    Rain fell from the heavens in thick sheets. It was all the wipers could do to keep the windscreen clear. Terry, Paddy and Johnno sat silently in the back.
    After about an hour the vehicle crunched to a halt. Michael laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he took a black and green handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round her eyes. ‘This is for your protection; I’ll take it off when we’re inside.’
    Beneath the blindfold she could just make out a fringe of dandelions bunched intermittently along the bottom of a whitewashed wall. It reminded her of Helen’s low-roofed white cottage in Durness. Rain puddles were scattered everywhere; she squelched through one, soaking her shoes. A creaking door opened and she was led inside.
    ‘Hello, Nick, we have a problem,’ said Michael, sitting Megan down on a creaking chair. He went on, ‘This is the colleen I told you about. She has a problem needs fixing. We think you can fix it.’
    Nick shuffled to his feet, and she heard him lighting a cigarette. He cleared his throat, then to everyone’s surprise insisted the blindfold be removed.
    ‘Are ye sure now, sir? Begging your pardon, but she’s not one o’ us.’ Terry was adamant.
    Johnno joined him. ‘Aye, Terry, she’s not given Michael an answer, and for all we knows she might be a spy. Na, I’d keep her eyes shut, that’s my opinion.’
    Nick quietened them both, ‘Boys, boys, let’s ask her.’
    She’d heard that voice before! That same low growl when he cleared his throat... but surely it couldn’t be?
    He leaned closer to her, and she could feel his breath on her face. Her heart thumped so hard against her ribs she felt that any minute it would leave her body and roll onto the floor. His fingers felt clumsy, yet with a gentleness to them as he unfastened the blindfold. As it fell from her eyes, there in the dim light of a candle, standing smiling with an unsightly gash running down his face, was Nicholas O’Connor! The useless Irishman she couldn’t wait to see the back of in the Angus Glen.
    ‘It’s a small world now, is it not?’ He held out a hand, changed his mind and hugged her instead. She was speechless, as were the others. Putting his strong arm around her shoulder, he lowered her into a more comfortable chair. ‘I knew when Michael described you to me wit that black curly hair an’ devil o’ a temper, and said you were a Scottish tinker, it had to be the same lassie who shared me campsite back in those bitter cold glens. But tell me, why wid ye be in England?’
    Michael was prancing up and down. ‘What manner of madness is this? Why did you not say you thought my Megan and yours were the same? I’m speechless.’
    ‘Coincidence is a strange thing to be sure,’ O’Connor said, patting Michael on the back. Megan was no stranger to life’s twists and turns,