Backwards Into Hell

Part One: The Lodge

Jake's Diary

Saturday 23rd October

The first thing that struck me about the island was the rain. It heaved from the sky in a sheet and splattered against the already-mucky windows of the coach.

There were ten of us in all: two men at the front (who I'd initially assumed were hired drivers, but instead turned out to be the owners of The Lodge), and eight guests squashed in the back with heavy bags and faces obscured by cheap pac-a-macs.

Excited chatter ran through the air as I traced my fingers against the inside window, unsurprised when they came off damp and slightly dusty. Regardless, my hands continued to shake, so I placed them between my legs and knitted my fingers together, searching for a distraction.

Fortunately, one soon came in the form of the rather loud, rather ostentatious woman in front of me. I tuned into the conversation, but it was more of a monologue as she told anyone who would listen about her daughter, her mother, and her local French group.

Next to her was her husband. He was a quiet, long-suffering man who seemed just as grey as the clouds above us. I watched his ears turn a light shade of red as his wife leaned over him and addressed her victim-a man with sticky-up brown hair, stubble dusting his chin, and eye-bags so deep he couldn't have slept in weeks. I was surprised he hadn't snapped at her yet, especially after listening to twenty minutes of utter, utter drivel.

'Anyway,' she continued, extending the word, 'that's enough about us, what about you? Where are you from?'

'Lancashire.' He smiled politely. I could just make out their faces through the gap between the chairs.

'Oh, Lancashire.' She placed a hand on her husband's arm. 'We've not been there yet, have we, Abe?'

'No.'

She was silent a moment and hope blossomed as she sat back, seeming to have run out of words. But the peace lasted seconds.

'Say, you don't happen to know the Meldrews, do you?'

Her victim shook his head.

'Ah, well, they won't live too far from you. Lovely couple. Just last week, in fact, we...'

I tuned out then, wishing desperately I could bash my head against the window when a particularly large dollop of rain leaked from the bottom of the frame. Outside, it didn't look much better-miles and miles of empty tundra stared back as I found my eyes closing and wondered why he chose this place: Barra, a serene, almost-empty island off the Scottish west coast.

In another life, maybe I could've lived somewhere this remote. But not without Rachel.

Never without Rachel.

Over the coming week, I would see more of Barra and begin to understand his choice. It was perfect for what I needed to do.

To get to The Island, there were just two options: plane or ferry. I chose to take the plane. Aside from being quicker, it meant there was no need to deal with the nauseating seasickness that came from skimming angry waters. Of course, the flight hadn't been plain sailing either.

Under normal circumstances, it would have been quite idyllic to land on a sandy island beach as the sun beat down and the clouds stretched across the sky, but that morning the plane had dropped from the air with as much grace as a steel bar, mulching through the wet sand till it came to a halting, thankful stop.

After that, the two drivers had located our group in the airport (which was little more than a metal hut with a coffee shop to shelter from the rain) and we were hauled onto the coach and driven twenty minutes to the other side of the island-Castlebay.

The holiday had been advertised as a tranquil stay in one of the 'finest' B&B's on Barra, and, being in such a small group, I was starting to feel the personal touch.

It was, of course, impossible not to be intrigued by my fellow passengers, but I reminded myself not to get involved and, especially, not to get attached. They were just strangers, after all, and I owed them nothing. My Rachel was more than that. Regardless, I swore I would take no pleasure in it.

It was just a job.

As the conversations droned on, I ran my hands over my knees and shivered. Next to me, separated by the aisle, was another woman-more a girl, actually-who seemed like just the type to come on these sorts of things: young and desperate to see the world with thick blond hair that fell over her shoulders and framed her face. She paid no attention to me, instead sketching in a little notepad with a cheap pen, lightly humming a calming tune as her eyes routinely flicked to study the tundra.

I clutched my hands together and focused on the landscape outside. Apart from the occasional bush and cottagey house, it was empty.

Empty and perfect.

I stretched my legs. Back then, on that first day, I really thought I would do it. I thought I could win. And despite the gruesomeness of my task, it felt so good to have a purpose again.

My friends had been telling me I would be fine. One day, it would all be okay again, and the burning darkness that followed me would weaken.

It'll get better. You'll find someone else.

But that was impossible.

So maybe you understand, dear reader. To me Rachel was worth all their lives.