The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(9)
Chapter Three
The coastline of Arisaig, even in November—perhaps especially in November—was stunning. Snow-covered mountain peaks poked into heavy leaden clouds, while the stony shoreline melted into the icy waters of Loch nan Ceall. The purple islands of Rhum, Eigg, and Muck peeked through the mist in the distance, as well as a few smaller, unnamed islands, home to gray seals and a few bare, forlorn trees. A golden eagle circled above; Maggie could make out the faint warning clucks of chickens from the nearby henhouse.
She ran at a brisk pace from the main house to the shore, her feet crunching on paths of frosted leaves and grass. The trails were lined with garish green moss on stones and tree trunks, and as she ran, she could hear the sound of rushing streams, and smell salt water and wood smoke. Overhead, the sky was gray, and swollen clouds threatened rain.
The trainees were on a different part of the shore, still hidden from Maggie’s view. Exhausted by her driving pace, she leaned against a lichen-covered rock, taking a moment to gulp in burning breaths. The cold, damp air tasted of seaweed.
Since she’d arrived in Arisaig, she’d often found herself on the jagged shore in her free hours, sitting on one of the larger rocks, watching the water as the tide rushed in or out. It was a still-peaceful part of the world, if you could ignore the occasional loud bang from SOE training groups learning to use explosives on various parts of the grounds, and the pops of gunfire. The neighboring sheep had become accustomed to the noise, grazing placidly despite the explosions, but the racket still startled the birds, who would twitter in alarm from the branches of ancient oaks.
Looking out over the gray-green water, Maggie remembered one of the American literature classes she’d taken at college. They’d read Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening. In the end, the heroine, Edna Pontellier, walked straight into the Gulf of Mexico.
She’d written a paper for that class on the ending, years ago—did Edna really commit suicide? Or did she swim back to shore? Most people assumed Edna actually killed herself, despite the fact Miss Chopin had left her ending vague.
Maggie remembered how, in her paper, she’d argued for Edna’s metaphoric, not literal, death—the clues the author left were the allusions to Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The ocean, a background chorus in Whitman’s poem, was like the wise mother who reveals the word that awakened Whitman’s own songs: “And the word was ‘death, death, death, death’… Creeping steadily up to my ears and laving me softly over.”
Death, but then rebirth. Edna had confronted death and walked out of the Gulf of Mexico a different woman, at least in Maggie’s paper. Now that she herself contemplated the Loch nan Ceall, however, she wasn’t so certain.
Looking out over the cold water, Maggie thought about death. How easy it would be to load up her pockets with stones—like Virginia Woolf—and walk into those icy waves never to come back, putting an end to the pain. No more heartache, no more guilt, no more sleepless nights … No more Black Dog. If she died, he would die along with her. And, she had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in that.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a young man, in his midtwenties, who’d arrived at Arisaig only a few days earlier. He was leaning against a lichen-stained boulder. What’s Three doing here? And why isn’t he running?
She rose and strode over, her eyes narrowing as she approached the young man, who was trying to light a cigarette in the wind. Damn trainees, Maggie thought. They’re everywhere. I can’t even contemplate my own suicide in peace.
“You’re supposed to be running.”
Seagulls screeched in the distance. “I’m a fast runner, so I have time for a smoke.” His eyes twinkled. “And to look for mermaids. Although we’re more likely to see seals. That’s what the sailors of yore mistook for mermaids, you know.”
His accent was posh, she noted. He was handsome. She looked at his hands: They were white and soft. A gentleman, she thought. Let’s see if he makes it through to the end.
“Yes, seals, most likely.” Maggie had no energy left to admonish him; keeping the Black Dog at bay was using it all. She watched the waves crest and break over the rocky shore. An explosion sounded in the distance.
He kicked at a thick rotting rope left behind by the family when the beach had been used as a launch, the wind ruffling his golden hair. “They’re blowing up bridges today.”
“So I’ve heard.” Then, when he gave up and dropped the cigarettes and lighter back into his pocket: “It’s not good to run and smoke.”