The Pale Things Beyond the Loch

I am 36, and I work in an open-plan office in a converted warehouse in Glasgow, where the partitions are glass and the exposed ventilation ducts are painted white. The desks are arranged in clusters. There is no privacy. Everyone can hear everyone else's calls and lunch plans and the way Joanne Fletcher from accounts hums while she types.

In January, the whole place gets loud about winter. It happens every year. People start talking as if foul Highland weather is something to embrace, and as if everyone must secretly want to spend a weekend outdoors in it.

Rhys Mercer sits two desks over. He has sandy blond hair and the kind of voice that carries whether he wants it to or not. He probably does want it to. That is just how he is.

On the afternoon of Thursday, 15 January 2026, he pulled up some pike-fishing photographs on his monitor and swivelled the screen so half the office could see.

"Have a look at this," he said. "Twenty-four-pound pike. Took it during a bitter session on a loch near Fort William."

A couple of people got up to look. I did not.

I could see it perfectly well from where I was sitting. The fish was enormous, dark-backed and stiff-looking, and Rhys held it in both hands while grinning beneath a woollen hat. He was wrapped in a thick padded coat. Behind him, the winter loch lay grey beneath a line of black trees.

"Where exactly was that?" someone asked.

"Little loch outside Fort William. A mate of mine knows a good bank."

"Are you taking the bivvy this time?"

"Yeah. I've got one of those insulated jobs. Four-person. Keeps most of the wind off."

I kept my head down and worked on a spreadsheet. It was a budget reconciliation for a client in Harrogate. Not complicated, only tedious.

I was fine with tedious.

Rhys started talking about bite alarms and rod pods. Someone else joined in about gas heaters, the sort you must keep safely vented in a bivvy. They were arranging another trip for the weekend. Perhaps the same loch, perhaps a different one. I was not listening closely.

"Elliot, you fish?"

I looked up. Rhys was leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

"Not really," I said.

"You should come. We're doing a day session on Saturday. Head off early, probably back by dark."

"Maybe."

"Seriously, it's a good laugh. We sit about, have a couple of beers, see what takes the bait. Nothing strenuous."

I nodded. "I'll think about it."

"Good man. I'll send you the details."

He turned back to his screen and began typing. The conversation moved on. Someone mentioned a new tackle shop off Great Western Road. Someone else said the margins of the loch might be frozen and they would need to choose their bank carefully.

I went back to my spreadsheet.

I was not going. I knew that immediately, but I also knew I would not say it aloud because then Rhys would ask why, and I did not have an answer that made sense. Not one I wanted to explain, anyway.

The thing is, I do not take cold-weather trips. I do not camp. I do not fish. I do not much like being outside in winter if I can avoid it. People at work know this about me, more or less, but they forget. Or perhaps they think I am being modest.

There is an assumption in offices like ours that everybody enjoys a weekend away if it involves enough equipment and bad weather. If you say you do not, people think you are joking or that you have simply never tried it properly.

I finished the reconciliation at about 3.00 pm, sent it off and checked my email. Nothing was urgent. My neck felt tight and my eyes were beginning to ache from the screen.

I looked at the clock in the corner of my monitor. It was 3.15 pm. I had no meetings left. I could stay until five or I could leave.

Technically, I had the hours banked. Technically, nobody would care.

I shut down my computer and picked up my coat. Rhys glanced across.

"Heading off?"

"Yeah."

"Nice. See you tomorrow."

"See you."

I walked between the rows of desks, past the kitchen area with its coffee machine that always smelt burnt, and past the glass-walled meeting rooms where a few people were still on calls. The lift took forever. When it finally arrived, I rode down alone and walked into the car park.

The air was cold and still. There was no wind, only a heavy dampness. My car was on the third level, a blue Vauxhall Astra with bubbling rust around one rear wheel arch. I got in, started it and waited for the heater to make a difference. It did not, not at first.

The drive home took twenty minutes. Traffic was light. The roads were wet with grey slush that sprayed up whenever anyone changed lanes. I took Great Western Road, cut down towards Byres Road and carried on to my rented flat in Partick.

It is a small one-bedroom place on the first floor of an old tenement, with elderly radiators and sash windows that rattle when the wind rises. I parked in the street and went inside. My hands were cold. I should have worn gloves.

I never remember gloves.

Inside, I dropped my coat over the back of the sofa and stood still for a moment. The flat was quiet. I could hear a radiator ticking and the fridge humming.

That was all.

I should have felt better. I was home. I did not have to talk to anyone or pretend that I might go pike fishing.

But the tightness in my chest had not gone. If anything, it was worse.

I went into the kitchen, filled a glass from the tap, drank half and left it on the worktop. Then I pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down.

The table is small, plain wood, with only two chairs. I rarely eat there. Most evenings I eat on the sofa. Sometimes, though, I sit at the table when I need to think, or when I am trying not to think and my mind goes ahead without me.

I looked at the wall.

A calendar hung there, one of the free ones sent out by a building society. It was open at January. The photograph showed a frost-covered stone cottage.

I had written nothing on it.

The tightness would not go away. I knew what it was. I had known since Rhys mentioned Fort William.

Fort William is close to the country around Loch Arkaig, and to the forests and uplands stretching towards Knoydart. It is close to where I went when I was 16, during the summer between S4 and S5.

Mum had pushed me into going. My uncle Martin had planned everything. He worked for NatureScot and spent much of his time conducting ecological fieldwork and resource surveys. He wanted to take me and several others on a canoe expedition through a chain of remote lochs and forest around Loch Arkaig. Five days, perhaps six.

He said it would be good for me.

I did not want to go. I told Mum that, but Helen Shaw had a way of repeating that something would be good for me which made it clear she was not asking. So I went, and I brought my friend Callum because I thought that if I had to be out there, at least I would have somebody to talk to.

Callum was good at that. He made jokes and kept things lighter. We had been friends since the beginning of secondary school. He did not seem nervous about the trip at all.

I sat at the kitchen table in Partick, staring at the calendar and trying to put the memories in order. They were all there, but they did not fit together properly. Some parts were clear. I could remember the smell of the loch, the sound of paddles entering the water and the weight of the rucksack against my shoulders.

Other parts were blurred or missing, or simply wrong in a way I could not explain.

I remembered Mum at the kitchen table in our old family home in Bearsden, telling me that Martin had made trips like this dozens of times, that I would be safe and that it would be an adventure. I remembered nodding instead of arguing because there was no point.

I remembered Martin reviewing the route with Callum and me and the other two members of the party. Priya Nair was a postgraduate researcher who worked with him. Euan MacLeod was a local guide and canoe-hire operator who knew the area.

Martin had spread a map across a table at Euan's yard and traced the lochs, connecting waters and deliberate overland carries with one finger. The launch. The first water section. The carries around unnavigable channels. The stopping places marked A4, B7 and C3 on Euan's route notes.

He made it sound simple.

I remembered thinking that it probably would be simple. Boring, even. I was not excited, but I was not frightened either. It was merely something I had to do.

Callum had grinned at me while Martin talked. He wore a hooded sweatshirt that was too large for him, and his rucksack looked capable of tipping him over backwards. He did not care. He was keen.

I thought having him there would make things easier.

I sat in my darkening flat while the January sun went down. I did not switch on the lights. The tightness in my chest spread into my throat and down into my stomach.

I kept thinking about the trip, about Martin and Callum and Priya and Euan, about the forest and the lochs and the way everything had seemed fine until it was not.

I did not want to think about it. But Rhys had mentioned Fort William, and now I could not stop.

Mum made the decision in April 2006.

I was 16, halfway through S4, spending most afternoons in my room with the door shut and playing whatever game I had downloaded that week. She did not ask. One evening over dinner, she simply told me I would be travelling north with Uncle Martin for several days that summer.

"It'll be good for you," she said.

She was cutting chicken into small pieces, although I was long past needing her to do that.

"Fresh air, exercise, time with your uncle."

I did not argue. Arguing with Mum about something she had already decided was pointless. She had a way of setting her jaw that meant the conversation had ended before it began.

Uncle Martin Shaw was her older brother by six years. He worked for NatureScot on wildlife surveys and habitat management, which meant that he spent much of the year driving between field sites in a mud-streaked Land Rover Defender bearing removable NatureScot markings. It smelt of pine needles and petrol-station coffee. During the summer he practically lived out of a holdall, sleeping in field accommodation or cheap hotels near whichever forest or upland habitat he was studying.

Mum admired that about him. She called him dedicated. I think she hoped some of it would rub off on me if I spent enough time in his company.

Martin rang the house a week later to explain the plan. Mum handed me the phone and remained in the kitchen, wiping worktops that were already clean.

"Your mum says you're coming north," Martin said.

His voice always sounded as if he were outside, even when he was not.

"I'm putting together a canoe expedition. Five days, perhaps six. We'll launch on Loch Arkaig and follow an agreed route through adjoining water and forest. Good country up there."

"Right," I said.

"Ever paddled a canoe?"

"Not really."

"That's fine. It isn't complicated."

He paused. I heard papers rustling.

"Bring layers. It gets cold at night, even in summer. I'll send your mum a list."

"All right."

"It'll be good for you," he added.

The same words Mum had used. Perhaps they had discussed it. They probably had.

I did not want to go. I also did not know how to say so without sounding like a child who wanted to stay indoors all summer, which I suppose I was. I said all right again and handed the phone back to Mum. She looked satisfied.

That was it.

The list Martin sent included things I did not own: waterproof bags, a head torch, walking boots that could get wet. Mum took me to an outdoor shop in central Glasgow, where everything smelt of rubber and canvas. A bearded assistant asked what sort of trip we were preparing for and nodded solemnly when Mum explained.

He recommended walking boots with ankle support and merino socks costing GBP 12 a pair. Mum bought three pairs.

I tried the boots on in my bedroom that night. They felt stiff and heavy. I assumed they would give me blisters.

Two weeks before the expedition, I asked Callum whether he wanted to come. We were walking home from school, taking the longer way past a petrol station where he liked to buy energy drinks without his parents knowing. It was hot. Late May had brought the kind of close, humid weather that made everything feel slower.

"My uncle's doing this canoe thing," I said. "Up north. Mum's making me go."

Callum opened a blue can with a hiss.

"When?"

"June. The week after school finishes."

"How long?"

"Five days. Maybe six."

He drank and considered it.

"Is it only you and your uncle?"

"No. He's bringing some other people. A research colleague, I think, and a guide."

"A guide," Callum repeated. He grinned. "Like we're going on safari."

"It's Lochaber."

"Still."

He shrugged.

"Yeah, all right. Sounds better than sitting around here."

I was relieved. Callum had a way of making things lighter merely by being present. He joked about everything. He did not take much seriously. If I had to spend nearly a week following my uncle through woodland and across lochs, at least Callum would be there too.

Mum seemed pleased when I told her. She rang Martin to confirm, then returned smiling.

"That's great," she said. "Callum's a good lad."

I did not tell her that I had invited him only because I did not want to be trapped with adults for the whole trip.

The party was finalised the week before we left. Martin emailed me a brief message giving everybody's name and role, as though he were assembling a work team.

Priya Nair, postgraduate researcher and ecological fieldwork colleague. She was studying pine marten populations through DNA analysis of droppings.

Euan MacLeod, family acquaintance, local guide and canoe-hire operator.

Callum Price, friend.

And me. Elliot Shaw. Apparently I needed no role beyond that.

I did not meet Priya or Euan until the morning we started.

We drove north on Thursday, 29 June 2006. Mum had offered to take Callum and me, but Martin said he would collect us both on his way through Greater Glasgow.

He arrived at 7.00 am in his NatureScot Land Rover, its lower panels streaked with dried mud. Callum was already inside with his enormous rucksack jammed at his feet. The bag was forest green, with perhaps a dozen loose straps hanging from it, and looked as though it might pull him over backwards if he stood too quickly.

"Morning," Martin said when I climbed in.

He handed me a flask mug of coffee.

"Your mum says you drink this now."

I did, more or less. I took it.

Martin looked the same as always: tall and lean, with short greying hair and permanent creases around his eyes from squinting outdoors. He wore a faded green polo shirt and cargo trousers with mud around the cuffs. He smelt of insect repellent and the sort of soap supplied in motorway services.

The journey took roughly three hours via the A82, allowing for a stop near Fort William. Martin drove steadily through Glencoe. There was no music, only the engine and the rush of air through a partly open window.

Callum fell asleep twenty minutes after we set off, his head tilted against the seat. I watched Greater Glasgow give way to open country, the land rising around us as the road ran north. There were more trees, fewer retail parks and signs for places I barely knew.

Martin asked a few questions. How was school? What subjects was I taking in S5? Had I thought about university or an apprenticeship?

I gave short answers and he did not press me. I had the impression that he did not know what to talk to me about either, which was fine.

We stopped at a petrol station on the outskirts of Fort William. Martin filled the Land Rover while Callum and I went inside to use the toilet and buy snacks we did not need. One wall was covered with fishing tackle, and a noticeboard displayed photographs of people holding salmon, trout and pike. Everyone in the photographs looked happy.

I bought a bottle of Lucozade Sport and a packet of ready salted crisps.

"Nervous?" Callum asked while we waited at the till.

"No."

"Me neither." He grinned. "I've never been in a canoe."

"Neither have I."

"We'll probably capsize it."

"Probably."

We did not capsize it, but that came later.

The canoe-hire yard and launching jetty were reached by a single-track forestry road near Loch Arkaig. The road wound through dense pine, birch and damp undergrowth before ending in a broad clearing with a timber building, several vehicles and a jetty extending over dark water.

The loch beyond was larger than I had expected. Its surface lay flat and smooth beneath the reflected clouds.

Euan was waiting beside the building, leaning against the back of a vehicle and drinking from a flask. He was tall, perhaps 188 centimetres, with shaggy dark blond hair beneath a canvas cap. His face was weathered in the way of somebody who spent most of his life outdoors. He wore a faded jacket and boots scuffed pale at the toes.

"Martin," he said, straightening. He shook my uncle's hand. "Good timing."

"Euan, this is Elliot, and this is Callum."

Euan nodded to us.

"You two done much canoeing?"

"Not really," I said.

"You'll pick it up. Priya's already down by the water, sorting the kit."

We followed him along a dirt path to the jetty.

Priya was crouched beside three canoes, checking the straps on a blue barrel. Two were long green tandem craft. The third was a smaller solo canoe. She looked up as we approached.

She was short, perhaps 163 centimetres, with straight black hair tied in a low ponytail and sharp dark eyes that seemed to catalogue everything at once. She wore a grey fleece and cargo trousers tucked into her boots.

"Priya, this is Elliot and Callum," Martin said.

"Hello," Priya said.

She stood and wiped her hands on her trousers. She did not exactly smile, but she did not seem unfriendly. Only focused.

"Have either of you packed a food barrel before?"

"No," I said.

"I'll show you. It isn't difficult."

She did. We spent the next twenty minutes loading the equipment under her direction.

Food went into heavy plastic barrels with screw-top lids, sealed against pine martens, foxes and rodents. Clothes and sleeping bags went into waterproof sacks. There were tents, tarps, cooking equipment, a water filter, a first-aid kit and coils of cord. Everything had its place.

Priya moved efficiently, checking every strap and adjusting the distribution of weight. She had a separate hard plastic case about the size of a fishing tackle box.

I asked what was inside.

"Dropping samples," she said. "Mostly pine marten. I'm using DNA analysis to study the population for my research."

"Oh."

Callum looked at me. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

Euan dealt with the maps. He had two laminated sheets covered in route markings, blue water and blocks of forestry. His own notes identified informal stopping places as A4, B7 and C3. He spread one map across the bonnet of his vehicle and traced the route while Martin watched.

"We'll put in here on Loch Arkaig," Euan said, tapping the launching jetty. "We'll paddle along this section, then make the first planned carry around the unnavigable channel. About three hours to A4, depending on the wind. Tomorrow we'll continue west through the connected water sections, with two or three short carries, then loop back south. Five days. Six if we take it slowly."

"Weather?" Martin asked.

"Clear through Saturday. Rain may come in on Sunday, but nothing serious at the moment."

Martin nodded. "Sounds good."

I studied the map from a few paces away. The lochs and smaller waters looked like pieces of a puzzle, joined in places by narrow channels and in others by marked overland carries included in Euan's expedition plan. There seemed to be a lot of them. I tried to count them and lost track.

Euan noticed me looking.

"Don't worry," he said. "I know the route by feel. I've done these sections more times than I can count."

That should have been reassuring. To some extent, it was.

We loaded all three craft. Martin and Priya would paddle one tandem canoe. Callum and I would take the second, with me in the stern and Callum in the bow. Euan would lead in the smaller solo canoe.

Before we launched, Euan showed Callum and me how to hold the paddles, how to brace without overcorrecting and how I could steer from the stern with a J-stroke. We practised the movements beside the jetty until he was satisfied that we were unlikely to put ourselves straight into the water.

"Buoyancy aids," Priya said, throwing two orange ones from a pile beside the jetty.

I put mine on. It smelt of mildew and old loch water, and the buckles were stiff. Callum's was too large and hung loosely even after he tightened the straps. Euan took one look, found a smaller one and made him change it.

"Right," Euan said, pushing our canoe halfway into the water. "Let's get moving."

Callum climbed into the bow first, wobbling and gripping both gunwales. I followed Euan's instructions, stepping along the centre line and keeping my weight low as I took the stern seat. The canoe rocked but did not overturn.

Euan steadied us, pushed us away and then launched his solo craft with an easy movement that made the whole process look simple.

Martin and Priya followed. Priya paddled in the bow with steady, precise strokes. Martin matched her rhythm from the stern.

We moved away from the jetty.

The water was almost glass-smooth, and the only sound was the gentle dip and pull of the paddles. The yard and timber building diminished behind us. Trees rose along the shore, dense and dark green.

Callum was quiet for once. Ahead of us, Euan paddled with long, unhurried strokes that barely seemed to disturb the water.

The woods felt too quiet. Not silent. I could hear birds somewhere above the canopy and the faint stirring of leaves whenever the breeze returned. It was the sort of quiet that made me conscious of every smaller noise: the creak of the canoe, my breathing, the brush of my waterproof jacket when I shifted.

I told myself it was only a trip. Several days of paddling and camping. Nothing complicated. Nothing to worry about.

Martin had done field trips like this for years. Euan knew the route. Priya had her samples and her unwavering concentration. Callum was with me, so I would not spend the entire expedition trailing behind adults.

It was fine, except that the quiet kept pressing in.

The trees along the shore stood tall and thick, hiding everything beyond them. The water was too dark for me to see the bottom.

We paddled onwards, and the jetty vanished behind a curve. Suddenly there was nothing except water, forest and sky.

I watched Euan's paddle enter the loch. I watched the ripples spread and disappear. I watched the distant shore, which did not appear to come any closer.

Every stroke sounded too loud. Every breath seemed to echo.

Callum glanced back at me. He said nothing, but I could tell that he felt it too.

I kept my hands around the paddle and tried to look confident, as though this were ordinary and I had done it before. The canoe glided onwards, smooth and nearly silent, while the woods pressed close around the water.

The second day was all carries. That is how I remember it.

There were three of them, deliberate overland sections between waters or around channels that could not be navigated. By the time we set up camp that evening, my shoulders felt as though somebody had been grinding them with a brick.

Callum dropped his end of our canoe twice during the final carry. Euan said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Priya kept moving without complaint. Martin maintained the same measured pace he had set since the beginning, which irritated me because I felt close to collapse and he looked perfectly comfortable.

We camped at B7, an informal stopping place marked on Euan's notes. It was a flat clearing beside the water, with an old metal fire grate and an unobstructed view across the loch to the far shore, perhaps eight hundred metres away. The water was motionless. There was no wind at all.

Priya and I put up the tents while Callum helped Euan secure the food barrels. Martin gathered the scented rubbish, sealed it in a bag and suspended it from a sturdy branch well away from the tents, beyond the reach of foxes and pine martens.

Dinner was dehydrated beef stew. It tasted mostly of salt and powder, but I ate all of it because I was starving.

We did not talk much. Callum made one joke about his blisters having blisters of their own. Nobody laughed, so he stopped.

I was sitting on a log near the fire grate with my boots off, allowing my feet to air, when I heard it.

A crack.

It was loud and sharp, like a shotgun being fired, and heavy enough for me to feel it in my chest. It came from somewhere among the trees on the opposite shore and travelled across the water in a way that did not sound right. Too clear, perhaps. Too flat.

I cannot explain it better than that. It simply felt wrong.

I looked up.

Callum was halfway through pulling off a sock. He had frozen with it bunched around his ankle. Priya had been repacking her sample case, and her hands had stopped moving.

Euan reacted first. He rose from beside the pile of equipment and stared across the loch, shading his eyes with one hand although the sun had already dropped behind the trees.

"What was that?" Callum asked.

Euan shrugged.

"Could be somebody shooting. There are isolated properties well beyond the forestry land in some directions. Or it might have been a tree."

"A tree?" I said.

"They crack when they split. Rot, internal pressure, storm damage. It can sound like a gunshot if you're close enough."

I looked at Martin.

He stood beside the suspended rubbish with the cord still in his hands, staring across the loch. He said nothing.

"There hasn't been enough wind," Priya said.

Euan turned towards her. "Doesn't always need wind. Decay can do it. There are plenty of reasons for a trunk to split."

"All right," Priya said.

She did not sound convinced, but she returned to her case.

Martin still had not moved. I watched him for several seconds and then looked back at the far shore. There were only trees, dark green fading into black where the shadows gathered. I could see nothing moving.

"Could still be somebody shooting," Euan said, as if he wanted to ensure that we had heard him. "People sometimes go well off the access tracks to do it. They shouldn't, especially here, but it happens."

"So it isn't supposed to happen?" I asked.

Martin finally moved. He tied off the rubbish line and tested it with a hard pull. Then he walked to the barrels stacked near the fire grate.

"Let's make sure everything is secured," he said. "Food, rubbish, anything with a scent."

Euan frowned. "We've already done that."

"Let's do it again."

There was a pause. Euan's mouth twitched, but he did not argue. He nodded and checked the barrels.

Martin crouched beside the one nearest the tents and tightened its lid. Then he stood and looked towards the canoes. We had pulled all three well onto the bank earlier, leaving them above the waterline. Martin went to the nearest tandem canoe and took hold of its bow.

"Give me a hand, Elliot."

I got up and joined him. My feet hurt, but I said nothing.

Together, we dragged both tandem canoes another three metres up the slope. Euan brought his solo canoe alongside them. We turned all three hull-up on the grass.

Martin crouched and inspected the underside of our canoe, running one hand along the seam. Then he stood and brushed his palms against his trousers.

"That's better," he said.

"Do you think something's coming?" Callum asked.

He had removed his sock and was holding it in one hand while staring at Martin.

"No," Martin said. "I'm only being careful."

But the way he said it made it sound as though he did think something might be coming, or at least that he was not certain it would not.

I wanted to ask what he thought had caused the crack. I did not, because I assumed that if he knew, he would have told us.

We finished securing the camp and sat together while the light faded. Euan lit a small fire in the grate, only enough to take the edge off the chill creeping from the water.

Nobody spoke much. I kept looking across the loch, but the sound did not come again.

I woke needing the toilet.

I do not know what time it was. Late. The tent was dark, and beside me I could hear Callum breathing slowly and evenly inside his sleeping bag.

For a minute I remained still, hoping the need would pass. It did not. I unzipped my sleeping bag and felt around for my boots. I did not lace them properly. I simply pushed my feet inside and stepped out.

The air was cold and damp and smelt of wet pine. The fire had gone out. I could make out the faint shape of the grate and the logs where we had sat.

Beyond them, the loch was a flat black sheet touched by a little moonlight.

I walked several paces from the tents towards the tree line and relieved myself.

That was when I saw it.

A pale, low light moving among the trees on the opposite shore.

I stopped and stared.

It resembled a head torch or an ordinary torch, but it was too distant for me to be certain. It travelled from right to left, slowly and unevenly, disappearing behind one trunk and reappearing beyond the next.

I tried to focus on it, but whenever I thought I had fixed its position, it shifted or turned away, as if whoever carried it kept directing it elsewhere.

I finished and fastened my trousers without taking my eyes from the far shore.

The light continued to move. I guessed that it was perhaps two metres above the ground, although distance over dark water is difficult to judge.

It could have been somebody walking. That explanation made sense. Another camper on the far side, outside for the same reason I was.

Except it was the middle of the night, and the nearest stopping place on that shore was more than a kilometre from where the light appeared. Euan had shown us its position on the map.

I watched for perhaps two minutes.

The light drifted farther left, then stopped. For several seconds it remained perfectly steady and pale.

Then it went out.

I waited for it to return. It did not.

I considered waking Martin. I even turned towards his tent, which stood about three metres from ours with its entrance zipped closed.

Then I imagined how it would sound.

I had seen a light across the loch. He would ask what kind of light, and I would say that I did not know. Only a light. Then all of us would stand outside staring at nothing because it had already vanished.

It was another camper. That was all. Somebody following a different route. Perhaps they could not sleep. Perhaps they were checking their kit or searching for something they had dropped.

People did strange things while camping.

I returned to the tent and crawled into my sleeping bag. Callum's breathing remained steady.

I closed my eyes and tried to settle, but the image stayed with me: that pale light travelling low between the trees and seeming to turn away whenever I tried to look at it properly.

I did not fall asleep for a long time.

Priya found the tracks in the morning.

I was rolling my sleeping bag when I heard her call. She did not shout, only raised her voice enough to attract attention.

"Martin, come and look at this."

I pushed the sleeping bag into its sack and climbed from the tent. The sun was up, but it was still early, perhaps 7.00 am. The air was cool, and everything smelt of dew and the smoke left by the previous night's fire.

Martin was already walking towards the shore, where Priya crouched near the waterline. Euan stood by the fire grate pouring instant coffee into a metal cup. He looked up but did not move. Callum was still inside our tent.

I followed Martin down to the water.

Priya knelt beside a patch of soft mud a little way from where the loch lapped against the stones. Her sample case lay open beside her. She was studying something in the mud.

"What is it?" Martin asked.

Priya pointed. "Prints."

I stepped closer.

There were shallow, uneven impressions, three or four of them forming a short line. They did not look like much to me. Only blunt depressions in the mud.

"What sort?" Martin asked.

"I don't know."

Priya took a small notebook from her case and opened it to pages covered in sketches and measurements.

"Not red deer. The shape is wrong, and the pattern doesn't match a hoof. Not fox either. The pads are too narrow."

"A large dog?" I suggested.

Priya shook her head. "Possibly, but the spacing is strange, and there are no clear claw marks."

Martin crouched beside her and studied the prints. He did not touch them.

"Could be a feral dog," Euan said from behind us.

I turned. He had approached with his coffee and was looking over Priya's shoulder.

"Or a large domestic dog. People bring them into the forestry land."

"Perhaps," Priya said.

She did not sound as though she believed it.

I stared at the marks. They still looked insignificant. Vague shapes left by some animal that had come to drink during the night.

I wondered whether it was a prank. Perhaps another camper was interfering with us, or Euan had made false prints to lend the expedition some excitement. Guides told ghost stories, did they not? They frightened inexperienced people for amusement.

Martin stood. He removed the satellite communicator from his belt and checked the display, tilting it away from the glare.

"Clear connection?" Euan asked.

"Yes."

Martin clipped it back onto his belt and looked across the loch.

I followed his gaze. There was nothing there. Only water, trees and a veil of morning mist beginning to lift.

"Are we moving today?" Callum called.

He stood beside the tents with his hair sticking up on one side and his boots in one hand.

Martin looked at Euan.

Euan shrugged. "The route hasn't changed. We carry on west. If we don't drag our feet, we should reach the next stopping place by the afternoon. We can also angle towards the old forestry extraction route leading to the Glen Mallie access track before the weather comes in. That keeps our options open."

"All right," Martin said. "Let's pack."

Priya photographed the prints with a small digital camera from her case. Then she closed the case and stood.

We returned to camp and began taking everything down. I stuffed our tent into its bag and helped Callum with the poles. We loaded the barrels and waterproof sacks while Martin made certain the fire was completely out and left the grate cold and clean.

The whole time, I thought about the light I had seen, the strange prints in the mud and the shotgun-like crack from the previous evening. None of it joined into anything that made sense.

Probably because it meant nothing. It was only a collection of unrelated things that happened when people went into remote country.

Euan and Martin were standing beside the canoes, speaking quietly, when I approached with the final dry bag. Martin kept looking towards the opposite shore. Euan was shaking his head.

"We're fine," Euan said. "Nothing is wrong."

Martin did not answer.

We loaded the last equipment and carried the three canoes to the water. Callum settled into the bow of ours, and I took the stern. Martin and Priya launched in the second tandem canoe. Euan stepped into his smaller solo craft.

We pushed away from B7 and began paddling west along the route Euan had marked.

I did not look back at the campsite. I kept my eyes ahead and paddled. Euan's suggestion that we work towards the old forestry extraction route and the Glen Mallie access track before the weather arrived gave me something solid to hold on to.

That is what I remember most clearly. Not the comfort of it, but the structure. Euan laid it out while we paddled west, his voice carrying over the water without him turning round.

He said we could make decent time if we kept the stop short and completed one more deliberate carry before setting up for the night. The next stopping place had better tree cover and fewer exposed crossings. It made sense. It was practical. I wanted it to make sense.

Uncle Martin did not argue. He paddled steadily in the canoe ahead of us with Priya, and I watched his shoulders move in the efficient rhythm he had. Callum was in the bow of our canoe, doing his best to keep pace, which meant his paddle struck the water a little too hard every third stroke and threw up more spray than necessary. I did not say anything.

My own technique probably was not much better. I was in the stern, responsible for keeping us straight, and I had to correct our course more often than I wanted Euan to notice.

The sky had turned a flat grey, with no breaks in it. It was not dark enough to worry about yet, but it had that thin, pale colour that meant weather was coming, and you could never tell when.

The earlier crack, the one from across the water at the last stopping place, was already beginning to feel like a story. Something we could control by deciding what it had been.

A tree, perhaps. Maybe a hunter somewhere beyond the loch. Euan had offered us possibilities, and we had chosen one without saying so aloud. That was what I told myself, anyway.

Paddle, carry, repeat. A checklist. I could manage a checklist.

We reached the marker roughly forty minutes later. It was only a small wooden post with faded paint, easy to miss if you were not looking for it. Euan brought his solo canoe in first and stepped into the shallows without hesitation, dragging it halfway on to the mud. Martin and Priya followed.

Callum and I arrived last. I felt the hull scrape against stones beneath the water before we got the canoe ashore.

The carry began beyond a stand of birch, along a narrow, root-bound path. I could see it cutting back into the trees, the earth packed down by years of occasional use but still uneven. Euan was already lifting his smaller canoe on to his shoulders, settling it with a grunt.

Martin did the same with his and Priya's canoe. Priya took the blue barrel containing most of the food. Callum picked up his rucksack, and I took mine along with the smaller grey bag holding the cooking equipment. We started walking.

The route was not long. Euan had said about four hundred metres. But it climbed, and my walking boots found roots every few steps. I had to watch carefully where I put my weight.

Callum was ahead of me, his rucksack bouncing against his back. His hoodie was still half visible beneath his windproof jacket, which seemed a poor choice of layers, but I was not about to mention it.

We were perhaps halfway across when his foot caught. I saw his boot hook beneath a root twisting over the path, thick and dark with rot. He pitched forwards, arms flailing, and his rucksack slid from one shoulder and struck the ground hard.

Metal clinked inside it, sharp and clear. It was the sort of sound that did not belong in a soft rucksack filled with clothes and a sleeping bag.

Callum caught himself against a tree trunk and stood breathing hard.

"Sorry. I'm fine."

Martin stopped farther up the path, the canoe still balanced across his shoulders. He turned his head just far enough to look back.

"What was that?"

"Dropped my rucksack," Callum said.

"The sound."

Callum hesitated. Then he crouched, unzipped the main compartment and pulled the flap open.

I stepped closer. Inside I could see his spare shirt, the stuff sack containing his sleeping bag and a water bottle. Callum reached farther down and pulled out a small cardboard box that rattled. Beside it lay a compact orange plastic object, roughly the size of a paperback.

Martin lowered the canoe to the ground. He walked back and took the orange object from Callum without asking.

It was a marine flare pistol. It looked cheap. I could tell from the moulded seams and the way the plastic caught the light, although I had never handled one before.

Martin turned it over and checked the breech. It was empty. The cardboard box in Callum's hand contained three flare cartridges, visible through a clear plastic window.

"Euan," Martin said.

He did not raise his voice. His tone was simply flat.

Euan had stopped ahead with Priya. He walked back, leaving his canoe propped against a tree. When he saw what Martin was holding, he shrugged.

"Standard emergency equipment. I put it in Callum's rucksack this morning before we loaded."

"You didn't mention it."

"I didn't think I had to."

Euan's tone remained easy, but his jaw was tight.

"It's a flare pistol, Martin. Not a hand grenade."

Martin's fingers moved over the pistol, testing the trigger guard and hinge. His gestures were controlled, but I could see the irritation in them, in the way he kept every movement small and precise.

He looked at Callum.

"Did you know this was in there?"

Callum shook his head quickly. "No. I mean, I didn't pack it. Euan must have..."

"Right."

Martin looked at Euan for a moment. I thought he might hand the pistol back or even throw it into the undergrowth. Instead, he put it in the mesh side pocket of his own rucksack and took the box of three cartridges from Callum.

"I'll carry it."

"Fine," Euan said.

He did not argue. Martin lifted the canoe again and continued along the path. Priya followed without a word. Callum zipped his rucksack, put it back on and started walking.

I said nothing either. What was there to say? It was emergency equipment. Euan was probably right that carrying it was standard practice.

But Martin's reaction stayed with me. He had not wanted to waste time arguing, yet he had not wanted to leave the pistol behind.

We reached the next water section about ten minutes later. The path opened and the ground levelled into a narrow put-in consisting of mud, stones and grey water beneath the grey sky.

The wind had risen. I felt it as soon as we left the shelter of the trees, cold and steady against my jacket.

Euan and Martin put the canoes down and we loaded them again. My hands were stiff from carrying the cooking bag, and I had to flex my fingers several times before I could grip the paddle properly. Callum climbed into the bow, I took the stern, and we pushed away.

The water was choppier than before. It was not rough, but the canoe rocked beneath each stroke. Euan led in his solo canoe, angling north-west according to the map. Martin and Priya kept close behind him, and Callum and I brought up the rear.

We had been paddling for perhaps fifteen minutes when the second crack came.

It was closer this time, not across the water but somewhere among the trees to our left, perhaps ninety metres back. It had the same sharp, shotgun-like quality, only louder.

Then it stretched.

That is the only way I can describe it. The crack did not stop cleanly. It dragged itself into something else, something that began like the wavering call of a red-throated diver and then continued too long and became mechanical. A low, uneven groan, like metal bending or a recording being played at the wrong speed.

Callum's paddle stopped halfway through a stroke.

"What the hell was that?"

I did not answer. I was watching Martin and Priya.

Their canoe had slowed. Martin had turned towards the tree line, his paddle lying across his lap. Priya was looking in the same direction, one hand on the gunwale.

Ahead of them, Euan had stopped completely and turned to face us, his paddle held horizontally.

The sound cut off. It did not fade and there was no echo. One moment it was present and the next it was gone.

"Keep moving," Euan called back, his voice tight. "We're too exposed out here."

Martin began paddling again. So did we.

Nobody spoke for a while. My arms worked almost by themselves, pulling the paddle through the water, while I watched the tree line even though I could see nothing but Scots pine, birch and shadow.

"That wasn't a tree," Callum said quietly.

"I don't know what it was."

"It sounded like..."

"I don't know."

He fell silent after that.

The adults had exchanged a look before we moved on. I had seen it. A quick glance between Martin and Euan, then between Euan and Priya. It was the kind of look that said they had all noticed the same wrongness but did not want to give it to us. They did not want to admit it aloud.

We paddled for another hour, perhaps longer. The wind continued to push at us and my shoulders began to burn. The sky remained grey, the water remained choppy, and nobody spoke except Euan, who called directions twice when we needed to alter course.

He led us towards the next stopping place earlier than planned. He said the exposed crossings were becoming risky in the wind and that we would be better off making camp with daylight to spare. Martin agreed without argument.

The place was identified as C3 on Euan's route notes. We saw the landing shortly before 4.00 pm, a small cleared patch with an old fire grate visible from the water.

Euan brought his canoe in first. I watched him step out and pull it on to the shore. Then he stopped and stared at the ground.

Martin beached beside him.

"What is it?"

Euan pointed.

I could not see from the water, but when Callum and I brought our canoe in and I stepped on to the mud, I saw them.

Bootprints. Fresh ones. Their edges were still sharp, not softened by rain or wind. They began near the fire grate and wandered towards the tree line, perhaps six or seven prints altogether. They looked like the marks of a man's walking boots, and the tread was clear in the soft earth near the grate.

About three metres to the left, caught in the undergrowth and fluttering in the wind, was a torn corner of blue tarpaulin.

Martin crouched beside the prints. He did not touch them, only studied them. Priya came to his side and took out the small digital camera she had used to photograph the strange tracks at the earlier stopping place.

"Someone was here," Callum said.

It was obvious, but nobody corrected him.

Euan walked over to the tarpaulin and pulled it free of the branch. It was perhaps fifteen centimetres across, with one roughly torn edge. He held it up and turned it over.

"Could belong to anyone. People leave things behind."

"Recently," Martin said. He remained crouched. "These are fresh."

"We haven't seen another party since we launched," Priya said.

Euan did not answer. He folded the scrap of tarpaulin and put it in his jacket pocket.

I looked at the fire grate. There was no ash inside it and no sign that anyone had actually camped there. Only the bootprints and the torn tarpaulin. Mundane evidence that someone had passed through recently and then left.

We made camp without much conversation. There was only the snapping of tent poles being fitted together and the sound of wind moving through the trees behind us.

Martin and Euan hauled the canoes farther up the bank while Priya and I unpacked the tents. Callum stood near the fire grate holding a stuff sack and staring at the bootprints as if they might move.

The wind had worsened. It was not dangerous yet, but it was steady enough that I had to hold the tent down with one knee while threading the second pole. Priya worked on the other tent about three metres away, moving quickly and methodically as she always did. She seldom looked up.

I kept telling myself it was fine. This was accessible land, and other people used the route. Someone had probably stopped there two days earlier, lost a piece of tarpaulin and carried on.

That was what happened in places like this. You found signs of other groups. It was normal.

I repeated that in my head while securing the flysheet.

People pass through. It is normal.

It did not settle me as I had wanted it to.

Martin finished with the canoes and returned to help Euan sort the barrels. He moved as though he was following a strict timetable now, without a wasted step. Euan took out the cooking equipment and water filter without being asked. Neither of them mentioned the prints again.

Callum finally put down the stuff sack and came to help me peg the corners of the tent. His hands were trembling slightly. It might have been the cold. It probably was not.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Yeah."

He was not.

I drove in the last peg and stood. My shoulders hurt from paddling and my lower back had tightened. I rolled my neck and heard it click.

The sky had darkened, still that flat grey that said weather was coming without telling you when. It might have been an hour away or ten minutes.

Martin told me to take the filter and collect water while there was still enough light. I took the blue water bag and pump filter from the barrel and walked down to the shore.

The water looked black at close range, rippling under the wind. I crouched on a flat rock by the edge, submerged the intake hose and began pumping.

It was a dull, repetitive job. You sat there working the handle and watched the bag fill slowly. It gave you too much time to think.

I was perhaps halfway through when Priya made a sound behind me. It was not loud, only a quick intake of breath, the sound someone makes on seeing something unexpected.

I turned. She was standing about five metres away near the tree line, one hand raised and pointing.

I followed her arm.

Something pale was moving between the trunks, perhaps twenty metres into the trees. It travelled from right to left in a jerky, uneven fashion. It was too tall to be a red deer, taller than a person, or at least it appeared so from where I crouched.

It did not move smoothly. It lurched, stopped and then continued.

I stood. The filter handle fell and struck the rock.

The pale shape kept moving. I could not make out details, only its off-white or grey colour and its height. It passed behind a thick birch and I waited for it to emerge on the other side.

It did not.

Instead, it dropped with shocking speed, as though it had collapsed, crouched or folded in upon itself. One moment it was there at head height. The next it had vanished.

I stared at the place where it had been and waited. Nothing moved.

Priya lowered her hand. She did not speak, but her jaw was clenched.

Then the crack came again.

It was loud and close, right there in the air around us. It did not seem to come from the trees or from across the water. It was everywhere at once.

It did not echo or rebound from the loch. It simply existed in the space where we stood, sharp and wrong, before twisting into the same grinding groan we had heard on the water.

Mechanical and wet. Something bending that should not bend.

It lasted perhaps three seconds. Then it stopped.

I did not move. Neither did Priya. My heart was beating hard enough for me to feel it in my throat.

Martin came quickly down from the camp, his boots striking the stones. Euan was directly behind him. Callum remained near the tents.

"We're leaving," Martin said.

It was not a question or a suggestion.

Euan looked at the sky and then at the water.

"The wind's bad."

"We're leaving," Martin repeated.

Priya nodded once and turned towards the tents. I picked up the half-full water bag and followed her up the slope. My legs felt unsteady. I did not look back at the tree line.

We packed more quickly than we had unpacked. The tents were shoved into stuff sacks without being folded properly. Sleeping bags were crammed away. Loose equipment was thrown into the barrels.

There was no time to suspend scented rubbish from a branch. Martin and Euan put everything straight into the sealed barrels and loaded them into the canoes. Callum's hands were still shaking when he tried to fasten his rucksack. I did it for him.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Was it a person?"

"I don't know."

He did not ask again.

We dragged the canoes down to the water. The wind struck harder as soon as we left the trees. Gusts came quickly from the side, chopping the surface into short, jagged peaks.

Martin and Priya launched first, followed by Euan in the smaller solo canoe. Callum and I pushed off last. The canoe rocked sharply the moment we were afloat.

Callum paddled from the bow and I from the stern. We were out of rhythm, and the wind kept driving us towards the shore. I dug my paddle in harder and felt the burning return to my shoulders.

A gust struck us broadside. Callum cried out as the bow swung right, and I had to make two hard J-strokes to straighten us.

Ahead, Martin and Priya were cutting steadily through the chop, keeping low. Euan was to one side, angling south.

We followed him.

Another gust hit. This time I felt the canoe lift slightly, just enough to make my stomach drop. Callum was breathing loudly in front of me.

"Keep paddling," I said.

He did.

We had covered perhaps fifty metres when Callum's side of the canoe clipped a submerged rock. The impact was not hard, but it was enough. The canoe lurched and several litres of water sloshed over the right gunwale, pooling around our feet.

"Shit," Callum said. His voice was high.

"It's fine. Just paddle."

He changed sides and overcorrected. More water came over the gunwale. It was not much, but it was enough to matter.

I leaned left to balance us and kept paddling. My arms had begun to cramp. The wind was constant now, with no real pause between gusts, and the sky seemed lower than it had five minutes earlier.

That was when the satellite communicator chirped.

It was clipped to Martin's belt in the canoe ahead, and I heard it even over the wind: a short double note, followed by silence.

Martin stopped paddling and removed it from his belt. He held it up, tilted it and turned it slowly, trying to recover a satellite fix. Priya stopped too, leaving their canoe to drift.

I watched Martin move the communicator left, right and overhead. His expression did not alter, but his shoulders tightened.

He clipped it back to his belt.

"No fix."

Euan paddled closer, near enough to speak without shouting.

"Going back towards Fort William means retracing the whole route. We'd be on the water until dark, perhaps longer."

Martin did not answer immediately. He was looking south, towards the shore where the woodland thickened.

"We go south," he said. "There's an old forestry extraction route. We carry out and follow it to the Glen Mallie access track. It will get us to the road faster."

Euan frowned. "It isn't maintained. There'll be a lot of fallen timber."

"It's faster."

Euan looked at Priya. She nodded.

"All right," he said.

We followed Euan south. The wind fought us all the way, and my arms felt close to useless by the time we reached the marker. It was smaller than the others, half concealed by undergrowth, with almost all its paint worn away.

We landed hard. Callum and I dragged our canoe on to the mud, and I stood still for a moment, breathing. My shirt was soaked with sweat beneath my jacket and my hands had cramped around the paddle.

Martin was already lifting his and Priya's canoe on to his shoulders. Euan took his solo canoe. Priya picked up the blue barrel and Callum put on his rucksack. I carried mine and the grey bag containing the cooking equipment.

The old route began three metres into the trees, narrow and overgrown. Roots covered the ground, and fallen branches blocked the way every few metres. Some were thick enough that we had to climb over them or go round.

Martin led. He did not slow, merely adjusted the canoe when branches scraped the hull.

I followed Callum and watched him stumble twice over roots he had not seen. My rucksack straps bit into my shoulders, and the cooking equipment struck my hip at every step.

The route became worse. Narrow became barely visible. Fallen branches became whole trees across our path, old trunks with rotting bark and exposed root plates taller than my chest.

We had to detour through undergrowth and uneven ground before finding the route again on the far side. Soon it no longer felt like a route at all. It felt as though we were simply walking through the forest in a direction Euan claimed was correct.

I could feel the expedition becoming something else, something that had never been meant to happen.

We were supposed to paddle, camp, paddle, camp, complete the route and go home. That was all.

This was not that.

Callum looked back once. His face was pale and his eyes were too wide. I said nothing and kept walking.

His boots were soaked. They had been since the earlier carry, when he had stepped badly while leaving the canoe and sunk ankle-deep into cold mud. He had not complained, but I heard the squelch each time he put a foot down.

After twenty minutes, his pace began to falter. Martin and Euan continued ahead with the canoes on their shoulders, concentrating on the obstructed route. Priya walked steadily behind them with the blue barrel held against her chest. Callum and I were at the rear with our rucksacks and the grey cooking bag, and I watched him drop farther back with every step.

His face was red, less from exertion than from the effort of keeping up while his feet slid inside wet boots and socks.

I caught him where the route widened around a split boulder.

"Give me something," I said.

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

He looked at me. His eyes were tired and slightly glassy.

"I can carry my own things."

"I know. Give me something anyway."

He did not argue again. He took off his rucksack, pulled out the stuff sack containing his sleeping bag and handed it to me. I fastened it to the loops on the outside of my own rucksack.

It did not help much. Callum still looked exhausted.

Priya glanced back, saw that we had stopped and returned to us. Without a word, she held out her hard plastic sample case. It was cream-coloured with metal clasps and about the size of a small toolbox.

I took it. She nodded once and went back towards Martin and Euan.

The case was not especially heavy, perhaps two and a half kilograms, but it was awkward. I carried it by the handle at my side, where it clicked against my thigh every few steps.

The sound was small and sharp. It carried.

The forest had become too still. That was what I noticed. There were no birds and no wind moving through the higher branches. There were only our boots on earth and roots, our breathing and the click, click, click of Priya's case against my leg, as if I were announcing our position to everything around us.

We kept walking.

The ground began to slope down into a shallow valley. I could hear running water ahead, probably a burn. The sound grew louder as we descended. It seemed too loud for a small watercourse, but by the time we reached the bottom it was enough to mask our footsteps.

Martin and Euan stopped near the bank. They lowered the canoes, and Martin rolled his shoulders while Euan took out his map.

The burn was about two and a half metres wide, running quickly over smooth stones. Its water looked dark and tea-coloured with tannins, although it was difficult to be certain in the flat grey light.

I put Priya's case on a rock and flexed my wrist. Callum sat on a fallen trunk without taking off his rucksack. He stared down at his wet boots.

Priya crouched beside the burn and dipped her hand into the water, then snatched it back.

"Cold," she said.

Euan was tracing a line on the map with one finger. Martin stood beside him, but he was not looking at it. He was scanning the opposite bank.

That was when I saw the movement.

About twenty metres away, just within the tree line beyond the burn, a shape stood upright.

Its surface was pale grey-green, like birch bark smeared with algae or lichen. It was tall, perhaps a little over two metres, although distance was difficult to judge among the trees.

Its proportions were wrong. Its arms were so long that its hands touched the ground even while it stood straight.

Its head was not a head. Thin, uneven tendrils rose and hung from it, twitching like insect antennae but thicker and longer. They moved independently, bending and curling. Every few seconds they became still, then snapped together into new positions.

It did not move like an animal. It angled its body and shifted its weight from one side to the other in deliberate jerks, as though testing the earth or adjusting its stance for some purpose.

Then it began to approach.

It did not hurry. It moved steadily through the trees, angling towards us.

I felt a pressure behind my eyes, a pulling sensation, as though something were trying to turn my head and drag my attention towards one particular point.

The burn.

It wanted me to look at the water.

I stepped forwards.

"Elliot."

Martin's voice was sharp beside me. His hand struck my chest and shoved me back. I stumbled, and Priya caught my arm before I fell.

Martin was already crouching, one hand reaching for the mesh pocket of his rucksack. He pulled out the orange flare pistol and the box of cartridges.

Callum rose from the fallen trunk.

"What?"

"Quiet," Martin said, barely above a whisper.

Callum stopped at once.

Euan was staring across the burn now, his face taut. He did not ask what we had seen. He simply moved.

"This way," he said, starting towards a break in the undergrowth to our left.

Martin opened the flare pistol's breech, inserted the first cartridge and snapped it shut. Then he motioned us forwards.

Priya went first, followed by Callum and then me. Martin stayed behind with the loaded pistol raised, tracking something I could no longer see as I pushed through the branches.

The undergrowth was thick with birch saplings and low shrubs whose thin branches scratched at us. Euan led at a pace that was not quite a run but was close to it.

The ground was uneven, with roots and rocks hidden beneath wet leaves. I had to watch each step to avoid turning an ankle.

Behind me I heard Martin moving. His boots crunched briefly on gravel, then became quiet on softer ground.

The undergrowth funnelled us into a narrow opening between two boulders. Euan passed through first, turning sideways to fit with his rucksack. Priya followed. Callum hesitated, then forced himself through, scraping his rucksack against both sides.

I went after him. As I turned sideways, I looked back at the route.

There was another shape there, the same pale grey-green. It was no longer beyond the burn. It stood on our side, perhaps twelve metres behind us.

It was not sprinting or charging. It was simply there, close enough to keep us moving.

I squeezed through the gap and continued.

The trees opened on to a small clearing. An old orange forestry marker had been fixed to a tree on the far side, its paint faded and peeling.

Euan stopped in the centre and turned slowly, trying to orient himself.

Then the sound struck.

The crack was loud and without direction, present in the air and in my chest, everywhere at once. It twisted into that mechanical, wet groan.

Callum dropped straight to his knees. He clamped his hands over his ears, his mouth open without any sound coming out.

I turned.

There were two pale shapes. One stood at the left edge of the clearing. The other was behind us near the gap between the boulders.

They did not move. They only stood angled towards us.

They were herding us. That was what it felt like. They were pushing us in a particular direction.

Martin raised the flare pistol and fired the first cartridge.

The report was louder than I expected, a sharp pop followed by a hiss as the flare arced towards the nearest shape.

The thing tracked it. Every tendril on its head snapped towards the red light at once and followed the flare's arc.

The pressure behind my eyes became a stabbing pain, pulling and dragging, trying to turn me towards the water.

Martin caught my shoulder and hauled me back. I stumbled against him.

He broke open the flare pistol. The spent casing dropped away, leaving the weapon unloaded. He pushed it and the box containing the remaining two cartridges into my hands.

The plastic was still warm. He looked directly at me, his expression steady.

"If I can't," he said.

That was all. Those three words.

I nodded. My hands were shaking, but I held on to the unloaded pistol and the cartridges.

"Move," Euan said.

We moved.

The ground descended into a muddy hollow where water had collected in old tyre ruts and footprints. My boots sank several centimetres with every step, and the suction made them difficult to pull free.

Callum was ahead of me, moving too fast for the ground. His foot caught and he fell hard on to his hands and knees in the mud.

One of the shapes rushed forwards.

It dropped low and moved on all fours, its long arms hauling it across the ground in a lurching, insect-like sprint. Its speed bore no relation to the jerking walk I had seen before.

I snapped open the pistol, fumbled one cartridge from the box into the breech and closed it. I raised it and fired without aiming.

The second flare struck the shape and lodged in it.

The creature stopped. Red light washed across its pale grey-green surface as the outer layer split. It did not part like flesh. It peeled like wet paper, coming away in thin strips.

Beneath it was bright green fibrous material, stringy and densely packed.

It did not bleed.

The thing produced a sharp, shotgun-like crack.

Callum screamed.

"I've been shot. I'm shot."

He had not been shot. There was no gunshot wound, but he was clawing frantically at his jacket, searching for an injury that was not there.

Martin passed me and seized Callum by the arm, dragging him upright.

"You're fine. Move."

A second shape came from the right. I saw the tendril before I saw the rest of it, a thin, whip-like appendage punching forwards.

It passed straight through Martin's forearm, just below the elbow.

The tendril withdrew. Martin's hand went limp.

Blood ran from the puncture wound, dark and fast, pattering into the muddy water around his boots. He made no sound. He only stared at his arm. His fingers would not close.

I froze.

The pressure returned more strongly, pulling my head towards the left, back towards the burn and something that seemed to be waiting there. I felt my body begin to turn.

I forced the pistol open, loaded the third and final cartridge, closed the breech and fired upwards.

The flare climbed over us. Its red light spread across the hollow, the mud and the shapes at the edge of the trees.

There were more of them.

Four, perhaps five, pale and motionless just beyond the brightest reach of the red light.

The pistol was empty now.

Priya seized my arm.

"Come on."

I moved.

Priya and I half-carried Martin between us, she on his injured side so she could clamp both hands over the wound while I supported him from his good side. Callum stumbled beside us, still feeling at his clothes for gunshot wounds. Euan stayed with us, forcing a way through the undergrowth and repeatedly looking back.

Gravel appeared beneath my boots. Then we reached cracked tarmac.

It was the small Forestry and Land Scotland car park at the end of the Glen Mallie access track.

A vehicle stood there. It was a utility vehicle marked with Forestry and Land Scotland logos. A woman in a dark green waterproof uniform stepped out. Her auburn hair was secured in a tight bun.

She looked at the five of us, at Martin's blood, the mud covering our clothes and the empty orange flare pistol in my hand.

"What happened?" she asked.

Martin tried to explain. His voice was quiet but steady, and he kept glancing back towards the trees.

"There were things in the woods. More than one. They came at us."

The ranger took out her radio.

"Control, this is Isla Kerr. I have five people at the Glen Mallie car park, one injured. Request Scottish Ambulance Service assistance and Police Scotland attendance."

Static answered, followed by a voice.

"Received, Isla. Nature of injury?"

"Puncture wound to the forearm, below the elbow. Heavy bleeding."

"Received. Any shots fired?"

Isla looked at the flare pistol in my hand.

"Uncertain. Stand by. Can you confirm any reports of gunfire in the Loch Arkaig area?"

There was a pause.

"Negative. Police have received enquiries about reported gunfire farther west, but no confirmed source."

"Received. I heard nothing before contact with the casualties."

I looked back at the tree line.

The flare had died. The woods looked empty, still and ordinary.

Isla put away the radio, opened a field first-aid kit in the vehicle and removed a clean dressing. Priya maintained pressure while Isla secured it tightly around Martin's forearm.

Then Isla opened the doors.

"All of you, get in. I'm driving you out."

Martin sat in the front passenger seat, holding his injured arm against his chest. Priya, Callum and I climbed into the back. Euan squeezed in with us and pulled the door shut.

I still held the empty flare pistol. It cooled in my lap, its plastic slick with mud and my sweat.

Isla drove. The little car park disappeared behind us. The access track was rough gravel at first, then joined a better forestry road and eventually tarmac.

Nobody spoke.

Callum stared through the window. Priya kept one hand over Martin's field dressing, although Isla had fastened it securely. Euan sat pressed against the door, looking straight ahead.

I looked down at my hands. They were covered in mud. Some of it was mixed with Martin's blood, but I could not tell which parts.

I tried to make the story sound real inside my head. I went through the sequence: the shape beyond the burn, the pressure behind my eyes, the moving tendrils, the flares and the thing that pierced Martin's arm.

It did not sound real, even to me.

Martin needed surgery. They saved his arm, but he permanently lost strength in that hand. His fine grip never properly returned, and he could no longer manage the same ecological fieldwork for NatureScot.

Euan stopped responding to messages. I tried ringing him twice and left a voicemail the second time. He never called back. I do not know what became of him.

Priya abandoned her postgraduate research. She simply walked away from the programme, leaving behind her pine marten data and all the samples she had collected.

Callum changed schools. His parents took him out of our school in East Kilbride and sent him elsewhere. We barely spoke after that.

The friendship ended without anger or blame. Neither of us could explain what had happened, and every time we tried, it felt worse.

Years later, I sat at the kitchen table in my first-floor tenement flat in Partick, the sash windows rattling and the old radiators ticking. On the wall was a free calendar from a building society, showing a frost-covered stone cottage.

I reduced all of it to one simple conclusion.

I still flinch at sharp cracks. I cannot bear the wavering call of a red-throated diver if it carries too long across water, or anything that resembles that grinding groan.

And while Rhys Mercer and the others in the Glasgow office plan their winter weekend near Fort William, I stay in the city.

I do not go back to the Highlands.