'What do you mean, she's not
here?'
The words came out with more
force than intended, attracting the attention of some of the bar's
regulars. They dragged their eyes up from the rim of their tankards to
stare for a moment at the stranger, before resuming their previous
activity of propping up the bar. It took more than an irate Native
American to upset the atmosphere of O'Sullivan's.
'Well now …' Michael eyed
the man standing before him. 'Which part of 'not here' didn'tcha
understand?'
Intrigued, the Irishman raised
the glass in his hand to his lips and drained the last of the amber
liquid that lurked inside. He didn't speak again, until the glass had
been washed and replaced on the shelf behind the counter. His movements
were slow, deliberate, forcing Chakotay to swallow his irritation.
'She was here, but she left…said
she needed to clear her head.' Michael glanced towards the timepiece
on the far wall as he spoke. 'An hour or two. She was upset,
distracted.'
'And you let her leave like
that?'
'Katie's a stubborn woman.
What was I to do, nail her feet to the floor?'
A frown marred Michael's
features as he stared out of the window. The wind had picked up,
bringing with it a chill that sent shivers down the Irishman's spine.
A distant rumble of thunder heralded the arrival of a storm. It wasn't
a day to go wandering in the hills alone.
'Did she say where she was
going?'
'Aye.'
Both men jumped as a shutter
broke loose in the wind, slamming back against the building with a
resounding crash.
'Wind's picking up.'
Looking round for the source of
the muttered comment, Chakotay found himself staring into the misty eyes
of an old man, balanced somewhat precariously on a nearby stool. While
not particularly fond of this program, Chakotay thought he knew most of
the characters. The old man was a new one on him. Who ever had done the
programming had excelled themselves, capturing everything from the dirt
embedded under his nails to a distinctive body odour that convinced you
to turn your attention, and your nose, elsewhere.
'You can almost hear the
stones singing.'
Chakotay had already turned
back towards Michael, dismissing the old man's words as the ramblings
of a drunk. The fact seemed to anger the man, as he slammed a fist on
the bar, upsetting his half-empty tankard of ale. Oblivious to the
sticky liquid soaking into the tattered remains of his overcoat, he
turned to glare at both men.
'Have you learnt nothing?
Must everything be spelt out for you? You shouldn't a let her go alone.'
He spat the words at them, then
seemed to withdraw into himself. Without warning, he pushed away from
the bar, wrapped his coat tightly around himself, and plunged into the
gathering gloom.
An uneasy silence filled the
room, transforming the sense of unease Chakotay had been struggling to
contain into full-blown fear.
'What stones? What the hell
is he talking about?'