Free Tormentor by William Meikle

thought that was sex?” I replied.
    “This is better for you,” he said, and took to his own breakfast with gusto. Once I started eating, I was surprised to find myself enjoying the meal, even despite the hangover.
    We polished the food off in short order.
    “So, Christmas?” he asked again. “Any plans?”
    “I’ve got a couple of invitations to go back down south…” I started before he waved me to quiet.
    “And miss your first island festivities? Oh no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You can come round to Mum and Dad’s place in the afternoon—she’ll do us all proud, we can eat and drink until we’re pished and stuffed, and fall asleep in front of a Bond movie. Then in the evening, there’s a dance in the George. It’s always a great do—if we’re lucky, we might even get a fight. Come on—you’ll love it.”
    In truth I really wasn’t keen on traveling the length of the country before and after the holiday season, and seeing old friends would only remind me of being with them when Beth was around. A new experience, with new friends, sounded like the perfect tonic.
    “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm.”
    “Excellent. I’ll go and kill a boar for roasting. Let the feasting begin.”
    We had another coffee after breakfast, sitting out on the quayside on the harbor before I declared myself sober enough to drive home.
    “Hold on, I nearly forgot,” Alan said, and dashed back indoors. He came out and handed me a small book. It looked to be a children’s issue, and of some age judging by the faded and torn cover. The title was clear enough— Folk Tales of the Isles .
    “I was telling Dad about your wee crosses and squiggles,” he said. “And when I mentioned my drummer pal, he remembered this. You want page fifty-four.”
    I flipped to the required page. The story was titled “The Dunvegan Drummer Boy.” Suddenly I’d have given anything to be back in London, with Beth and old pals, sinking a few glasses of wine and with nothing more to worry about than which restaurant to visit that evening.
    Alan must have seen something in my eyes.
    “Give it back,” he said. “It was a bad idea. Sorry.”
    I pulled the book away from him.
    “No, you’re okay. I’ll take it. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all—I thought I was finished with all that stuff.”
    “Until daft me brings it all up again. Look, it’s just a kids’ story—and Dad says it’s the only time he’s ever heard of it, so it’s not as if it’s common knowledge or anything. It means nothing.”
    “Then it’s okay if I read it, isn’t it” I replied, managing a smile.
    “Your superior logic defeats me again, Spock,” he said, and gave me a smile in return.
    “Remember, you’re booked for Christmas,” he said as I got into my car.
    It was a glorious drive back across the island—clear blue skies, white horses in the bays and a touch of frost on the hilltops. I saw little of it. The book lay on the passenger seat beside me, and it called out to be read all the way back to the cottage.

 
     
     
    2
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
The area around Dunvegan on Skye has long been known as one of the most haunted places in the islands, if not in the whole country.
    Thanks for telling me.
    That was the first line of the story, and it didn’t get much more reassuring after that. I was sitting out on the patio—I had two wooly jumpers on, and my thick socks, and still I felt cold, but I was more comfortable reading this particular tale out in the open.
There are so many stories to be told it is hard to pick just one, but perhaps the strangest of all is the tale of the Drummer Boy of the MacLeods.
Donald’s family were fisher folk, making a living off the bounty of Loch Dunvegan from a house of the eastern shore to the north of the castle, but Donald’s eye was always being drawn to the castle itself, to the soldiers, and to fortune and glory. In his head he was a drummer boy, and he beat out martial rhythms on