Winner 2nd prize: Valerie Bowes 

Name Reflected Darkly                                                   

by Valerie Bowes

The first time that PC Jeremy Richards noticed them, they were loping along the hillside above Loch Ness; a dozen or so kilted clansmen, led by a brawny chieftain with wild, streaming hair and the hilt of his claymore ready to his hand. The curve of the ground had swallowed them  almost immediately and, although he squinted after them in the rear view mirror, he did not spot them again.

He had confidently expected to come across a film crew clogging the next convenient lay-by, but there had been nothing. By the time he had driven back to the Police Station at Inverness to do his reports, he had forgotten the fleeting sight, and it was only later, when he was taking his tea in the canteen, that he remembered it.

"Here, Sarge," he called across to the next table, "are they making a film around here, do you know?"

"When are they not? If they're not sticking their lenses in the loch, to see will they get a snap of the beastie herself, they're doing documentaries about the daft buggers out there looking for her."

"No, I don't mean a film about Nessie," Jeremy persisted, "I mean a historical thing. You know, clan wars and all that? Highland heroes? Rob Roy, maybe?"

 "Och, away with you. Do they not teach you history in London schools? The MacGregor was never this far North."

"Wouldn't stop them making the film here, though, would it?"  Jeremy said, maintaining a hold on his temper. There were always those who lost no opportunity for sniping at the ignorance of this in-comer from the soft South, with the dark eyes that the lassies went mad for, and the prissy name.

"Aye, well," conceded the Sergeant, "they could be doing that, of course, but I've not been told of anything."

"Oh. Wonder who they were, then? There was a lad the size of Schwartzanegger in the lead, and all of them with offensive weapons."

Jeremy recounted what he had seen, but the Sergeant was unimpressed.

"On the slopes of Carn a Bhodaich, you reckon? Och, well, if we get any complaints we'll look into it, but it's my suspicion you were dreaming, laddie."

Jeremy's jaw tautened, but he let the matter drop. The sniggerers went back to their tea and the talk turned to the far more important subject of football.

As the area seemed to be, for once, innocent of film-makers, he came to the conclusion that it must be a group of locals who were into re-enactments, for he caught a glimpse of the 'Braveheart lot' (as he called them in his mind) several times in the following weeks. It was odd, though, that no-one seemed to know of any such group, or to have seen them capering about the hills. Come to think about it, he’d never seen the leader going about his daily life. You’d have thought a lad that size and with that hair would be easy enough to spot, with or without the kilt and the claymore.

It was tantalising that he saw them always in the distance. Still, one of these days he'd come across them close enough to talk, and then he'd ask them. Have to warn them about the legality of carrying bloody great swords around in public, he supposed, but as everyone else seemed blind and deaf to their presence, he could see no reason why he should spoil things for them by putting in an official report.

His patrol took him to Castle Urquhart late on a damp, bracken-scented Autumn afternoon. As he made his way back along the black snake of the tarmac, a ripple of movement on his left claimed his attention. He was already applying the brakes in automatic reaction when a massive boar charged down the hillside and across the road in front of him, before disappearing into the grey gloom.

The car came to an abrupt halt, and Jeremy sat open-mouthed in disbelief, gazing after the beast. He had not realised that pigs could be so large, or look so evil. Brief as his glimpse of it had been, he retained a vivid impression of the sheer size of the thing, its spine bristling and the wicked tusks gleaming in the light from his headlamps. He switched on the warning blues, and told himself firmly that he should go to investigate. As he stood shining his torch into the darkening day, unwilling to leave the safety of the vehicle, there came the sound of running feet.

It jolted him into action. If it was a jogger, they'd have to be warned of a dangerous animal on the loose; if it was the boar's owner, he wanted to know what the hell was going on. He aimed the beam in the direction of the oncomer, and shouted, "Oi! Police! Hold it!"

The footsteps slowed. Out of the mizzle stepped a man, and the safe and mundane world rocked and tilted crazily.  The stranger's feet were tough and bare, his plaid kilted up the easier to run. The flashing light sparked blue fire from torc and spearpoint and dagger blade, but the young face beneath the tangled mane of hair was Jeremy's own, just as he saw it every morning in the shaving-mirror. For a breathless moment, linked by the taut ribbon of the torchlight, they looked eye to astonished eye, and then the hunter was gone, plunging abruptly down the bank after the fleeing quarry.

It was several minutes before Jeremy could regain command over himself enough to radio the station for back-up and, even then, he told the incredulous station officer only about seeing the boar. When help arrived, they made a thorough search of the area, but not so much as a mark of the brute's feet in the mud could be found.

 Frowns began to be thrown in his direction, and, back at the station, Jeremy was roundly taken to task by his superiors. Such fake call-outs might be thought the height of hilarity by the Met; up here, they said coldly, folk had better things to do. Still too shaken to defend himself,  Jeremy let the reproof wash over his head but when, the next morning, he faced his reflection in the mirror, he was seized by a violent fit of trembling. The razor clattered into the basin as he gripped the edge and held on tightly. Enough was enough, he told the pale face in front of him. He’d put in for a posting right away. He couldn't think what had possessed him to apply for this one in the first place.

When he found Sergeant Findlay waiting to accompany him on his patrol, he knew he should resent the lack of trust that this implied, but he was too grateful for the company. Jeremy had been so keyed up that his head was pounding,  but the stint was thankfully uneventful, even a little boring. Now all he wanted to do was finish the shift, get out of his uniform into a hot bath, and relax.

'Fancy taking ten for a sandwich and some coffee?'

The Sergeant's casual suggestion brought home to Jeremy just how hungry he was. He had not been able to look breakfast in the face, and last evening's meal was a distant memory. Following Findlay's directions, they turned off the road and bumped a short way along a track to a secluded spot, where the loch licked softly against the sweep of a small bay and the silence bathed their ears with peace.  He stretched the ache out of his shoulders as Findlay produced a flask of coffee and a square package neatly done up in foil.

"Ham-and-pickle, or egg-and-tomato?"

"Ham, please. I can tolerate tomatoes when they're cooked, but I absolutely loathe 'em raw."

"Ah, yes, I mind you saying. It's as well I brought the ham, then. Help yourself."

 Jeremy ate the offering, then took his binoculars from the glove compartment and got out of the car, filling his lungs with cool, sweet air as intoxicating as wine. A curving spine of rocks made a convenient pathway through the shallows, and he stepped carefully along their length to a large flat slab at their head. After a moment, the Sergeant joined him, handing over the top of the Thermos full of rich, black coffee, from which curled a faintly whisky-scented steam.

The loch stretched out before them, deep water beneath their feet,  placid and innocent and shiny as a mirror. Inverted trees grew root-to-root with those that edged the shore, and the pale, rain-washed blue sky spanned hills of both rock and reflection. Jeremy raised his binoculars to survey the calm water for any signs of Nessie, then scanned idly around the hillside. And there he saw the clansmen again, sprawled at their ease around a small fire.

"Here, Sarge!" he said excitedly, keeping the glasses firmly on the distant group and making frantic beckoning motions with his other hand. "Look! There's those guys I told you about. See, I wasn't making it up - or going barmy."

The Sergeant took the glasses and Jeremy watched him train them on the spot, then scour the hillside with lengthening sweeps.

"There's no-one there, laddie," he said finally, handing the glasses back. Jeremy looked again. The small red flame still flowered on the brae, with the lounging figures beside it.

"Yes, there is," he said indignantly, proffering the binoculars once more, but Findlay pushed them aside.

 "Are you taking the piss?" Jeremy had had enough. "Open season on London coppers, right? Who are those guys? Why's everyone acted the innocent whenever I've asked about them? And why are you pretending you can't see them now?"

"Because they're not there," the Sergeant replied, watching him with a gentle smile. "I'm not having you on, I give you my word."

Jeremy's legs shook, and he sat down quickly. "Then why can I see them, and who are they?"

 "As to the first, I haven't an idea, but as to the second, I think I might. Have you ever heard of Fionn Mac Cumhaill?"

"Finn Mac Cool? No, never. Should I have? Who is he?"

"He was an Irish hero, who made Scotland his own in the far-off days. He and his men are said to sleep under the mound of Tom-na-Hurich, like King Arthur and his knights, to waken and save Scotland when she faces great peril."

"You mean like the SNP running the Scottish Parliament?"

 It was not a successful attempt to employ humour to lighten the oppression and fear that churned his guts for no good reason, and Jeremy had never felt less like laughing in his life.

"Don't try to be funny, Richards. You do not hold sacred the things you should."

Jeremy pressed his hands to his suddenly swimming head, and wondered why the Sergeant's voice sounded deeper and more passionate than he had ever heard him before.

"And, like Arthur and his Guinevere," the strangely deepened voice went on, "Fionn's wife betrayed him with his friend. Not Lancelot, but Diarmuid."

"Jermut?" repeated Jeremy, puzzled. It had sounded almost as if Findlay said 'Jeremy',  but twisted with the broadest of Scottish brogues. He knew nothing more of the Gaelic than that the saying of it bore small resemblance to its spelling, but he was prepared to bet that Jeremy was no name for a Celt from the dim and distant past. He must have misheard.

"Diarmuid," Findlay said again, looking straight at him, "and Fionn's wife was called Grainne."  

Jeremy thought guiltily of Mrs Findlay, of her blue-black hair and green eyes, and the unexplainable small shock of recognition he had felt when he first met her. It had been at old McKellan's retirement 'do' in the uninspiring surroundings of the Station canteen, and he had seized the opportunity to press his lips to her cheek as a mere social greeting. The touch had sparked off fireworks in his head to rival the clashing lights of the hired disco, and, from that evening on, they had not been able to keep their hands from each other's bodies.

 "Grainne? That's your wife's name, isn't it?" he said, as lightly as he could, his heart pounding with great sickening thumps. Christ! Suppose Findlay had found out about their stolen meetings?

He tried to stand up, but his legs had turned to water, and his eyelids felt as heavy as curtains. A mist seemed to be dimming the golden afternoon, and he could no longer see his companion clearly.

"As punishment, Fionn forced Diarmuid to hunt a boar and, when he had killed it, to measure its length with his feet. One of its bristles poisoned him. Do you not feel well, boy?"

"Sleepy," Jeremy managed to mutter, with a tongue like boiled leather.

"Och, you're too much given to fooling around,"  he heard the Sergeant say, "but this is not the place to try it. You might slip." 

Powerful hands clamped themselves around his waist and yanked him to his feet. For a heartbeat or so he swayed, tottering uncertainly. Then the hands clenched convulsively and he was hurled from the rock. Down, down he sank, unable to struggle, drawn into that other looking-glass world below and yearning back through water as clear as air at the great kilted figure on the shore, whose wild hair shivered sideways in the breeze, and who leant upon a tall sword.

Judge’s comment: A brilliantly imaginative story, elegantly constructed, in which a dark and ancient legend is suspensefully re-enacted in modern Scotland. The unexpected twist at the end, which blends both story worlds, is particularly ingenious. 

Valerie Bowes

‘Ex-veterinary nurse. Ex-truck driver. Stopped dealing with animals to camp out at trade counters and cart boiler sections and copper tube around London. Shot arrows for a decade, then took up running, which I still do, albeit at a rather slower pace. Remember doing composition at school? My favourite subject. So when my little red truck and I were no longer needed, I had time to indulge my love of writing.  Polly the English Bull Terrier would send greetings to Mycroft, if she could spare the time from snoozing on the sofa while I write.’

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