Newly married and blissfully happy, Gaby and Jack are looking forward to another summer of fun in the village of Lochalshie. But there are clouds on the horizon...
The Lochside Welcome pub and hotel is at the heart of the community-where the village...
Our new teammates were exceptional. Not only did they know everything about music, TV, films and books, they filled in all the gaps in our supposed knowledge of celebrities, history, geography and sport. Tindra came up with name of the winner of Love Island and knew who was lined up for the next series. Miles got the exact date for Culloden. Something Jack ought to have known since he took tourists to the battlefield on a weekly basis.
When we were announced the outright winners, there were only a few cat-calls of 'Cheats!', Mhari agreeing to a pat-down to prove she had put her phone in the bowl. (In previous weeks, we'd relied on her burner phone.)
As the grand prize was a voucher for food, Jack handed it over to Miles and Tindra. They'd won it fair and square. As they went up to collect their prize, there was a sudden clatter behind the bar and a shriek from Jolene.
"Ashley!"
She dropped down, vanishing from our sight. Jack leapt to his feet and hurried over as did Caroline, pushing her way through the crowds yelling, "Oot ma way! I'm a doctor!"
Mhari got up too. I yanked her sleeve. "Give the man some peace, Mhari!"
She scowled but sat down again. Someone turned the jukebox off, the quiet a weird contrast to the pub's usual nosiness. Most people muttered the same things I'd been thinking—hasnae looked well for a while, lost a wee bittie o' weight, sleepin' during the afternoon.
Jolene stood up slowly, grim-faced, and I turned cold, fear making me shake. Was it a heart attack? My Papa Cooper had died suddenly, leaving my nanna a widow aged only 42. One night they'd been leaving the cinema arguing about Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct and whether she was handy with an ice-pick or not (and Papa's admiration for that leg crossing scene). Next, pfft he was gone. Nanna never went to the cinema again.
Caroline straightened up, face pinched. I steeled myself for the worst. "Can someone phone an ambulance?"
Relief. Dead men didn't need ambulances. Jack came out from behind the bar and fished his phone out of the glass bowl. He stabbed in the numbers 999 and pressed it to his ear, a further hush descending. "Fifty minutes!" His mother shook her head. "But that's too long... oh? Aye, alright then."
He hung up. "An ambulance can't get here for another fifty minutes and then it's another hour to the nearest A&E. Someone'll need to take him there."
"I will!" "Me!" "I can dae it!"
"How much have you all had to drink?" Miles' home county tones cut through the clamour. "You're all over the limit."
He gestured to his right. "Tindra? I'll let you borrow my car. You can do it."
To her credit, the dismay that flashed across her face was momentary. She replaced it with a sturdy smile. "No, I haven't had anything to drink. I can drive him."
So could I, seeing as pregnancy stole all the fun bits out of life. But it also meant sixty minutes away from a toilet. My bladder wasn't up to the challenge and as I wouldn't get home for another few hours after that, I'd be in danger of falling asleep on the way back.
"I'll come too," Caroline said, telling Tindra she was the village's GP, qualified to get Ashley in and out of the car safely, and be on hand if anything went hideously wrong. Bless my mother-in-law but having lived through years of colds, twisted ankles and the odd case of piles and/or gastric flu, this year had proved terribly exciting so far. A pregnancy and whatever Ashley had. She was in her element. Orders sternly issued for how to lift him, Jack and Xavier took the now conscious Ashley under each arm and staggered outside while Tindra fetched Miles' car.
Miles owned a dark blue Toyota Supra, its lack of space and comfort compensated by speed. A crowd gathered outside the Lochside Welcome to watch as it left, the 30mph speed limit ignored. Jack wrapped an arm around me. I tipped my head to lean into him. "What happened?" I asked. "I thought it was a heart attack and that he mi-mi-might be..." I sniffed. Jack did too, hastily rubbing his free hand against his eye. He didn't have my hormones gone haywire excuse.
"Mum reckons type 2 diabetes," he said. "She's been nagging him to get tested for a while now—sudden weight loss, exhaustion, fearsome hunger and thirst, and needing to go to the loo all the time."
"What if he's the first medical miracle—a male pregnancy?" I said, remembering Jolene's comment from the other week.
"Weight loss," Mhari dug a not gentle enough elbow in my side. "Did ye miss that bit? No' developing a double chin."
"Thank you, Mhari. Yet again, you've scored a big fat zero in the Supportive Friends test."
"Saying too many nice things makes a person awfy big-heided."
"Too many?" I countered. "How about just one thing?"
A two-fingered response. Rude laughter followed our departure, but Jack and I were not in the mood for post-mortems in the pub. Especially when that post-mortem might have been literal. We walked home along the High Street, the wind picking up and making me shiver. I spotted Miles unlocking the door to the house next to Jamal's general store. "Weird," I said to Jack. "Do you think they've moved here?"
Jack shook his head. "That's one of Big Donnie's properties—an Airbnb place. Mhari's cousin's friend's wife does the cleaning for it. She should be able to be find out more. I don't buy that 'we're just visiting' line."
"Me neither! I think that they are—"
An earlier WhatsApp message I'd forgotten resurfaced. We'd reached our house, Mildred mewling at us behind the window in protest at a long evening of neglect.
"You," I said, prodding Jack's chest with a pointed finger, "were meant to tell me what Ashley wanted to talk to you about last week."
A flash of something passed across Jack's face. When I first met him, I found him impossible to read. Two plus years on, not so much, but always a bit of a challenge. I ran through various options before deciding the 'something' was shifty. A guy weighing up his options. How am I going to present Gaby with a fait accompli...?
He unlocked the door whistling Flower of Scotland—a tune he'd taught Mildred to associate with being fed. She wove her way around our legs, purring her head off before bolting in the direction of the kitchen, a loud miaow ticking us of for our tardiness.
Jack hastened after her.
"Hubby-dubby donuts!" I called after him. (Revolting phrase I know and one I'd never admit in public,but couples... right?) "You've got stuff to tell me! As soon as you've fed Mildred, I demand to know!"
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