‘Only one.’
Robin
It doesn’t take Robin long to walk from the cottage to the chapel.
Oscar looked very sorry for himself when she left him behind, his big white floppy ears seemed to droop even more than normal. Robin was in desperate need of some comfort and company when she first arrived in Blackwater, and Oscar seemed like a good name for the companion she found. Robin had always been rather fond of those solid bronze statues the film industry gave out once a year. Her only Oscar might be a rabbit, but she loves him.
She spotted the visitors at the viewpoint on top of the hill in the distance, and knew she had at least half an hour to do everything she needed to do. They couldn’t get back in time to stop her even if they tried. Unlike them, she has proper winter weather gear. Even if her borrowed boots are too big, they’re still better than trendy trainers for trekking across snow-covered hills and fields.
She stops outside the chapel briefly before going in, taking a moment to stare up at the stained-glass windows and the small white bell tower perched on top of the building. With the loch and mountains in the background, it’s like looking at a painting. She realises that she has been here too long in more ways than one; a person can become immune to beauty when exposed to it too often. As Robin lets herself inside, so does the wind, blowing a cloud of dust motes masquerading as snow into the air. It amuses her that the visitors think she is the housekeeper. That isn’t why she has a key.
Robin removes her boots in the boot room – the place might be filthy, but there is no need to make things worse – then she walks through to the kitchen. Her socks have more holes than a pair of fishnets, but waste not, want not. The chapel is even colder than usual, and already smells different than it did before they arrived. Traces of the dog, along with the woman’s overpowering perfume now permeate the stale air.
She hurries to the lounge, then pulls the glove off her right hand, and runs her fingers along the spines of the novels that line the shelves. She does this every time she comes here, the same way some people can’t resist touching tips of wheat in a field. She notices the faint smell of smoke, and sees that the visitors burned all the logs she left for them last night. Not that it matters now. At least, not to her. It might matter to them later.
When she grips the banister of the spiral staircase, a million unwanted memories flood her mind, drowning her courage and clouding her concentration.
Your focus determines your future.
Robin is rather fond of inspirational mottos like these. She repeats the words to herself until her thoughts feel steady again, then makes her way up the creaky stairs, ignoring the missing faces among the framed photos on the wall.
The bed where the visitors slept last night has not been made. It still feels strange to have let them sleep here. But it doesn’t take long for Robin to tuck in the sheets, straighten the duvet, and puff up the pillows. It’s the least she can do: if the visitors are still here tonight – and they will be – they will need their rest. Then she looks inside their bags, and studies their things, because she can and because she wants to.
She starts in the bathroom. Robin finds the woman’s shampoo, then smells it before tipping the contents down the plughole. Seeing their pink and blue toothbrushes side by side provokes another wave of irritation, so she grabs them both and uses them to clean the toilet bowl. She scrubs so hard that the bristles look flattened. Then she puts everything back how she found it.
The pots of face cream left on the windowsill look expensive, so Robin applies some to her own cheeks. It has been a while since her skin care routine consisted of anything more than a wet flannel once a day, and the moisturiser feels so good she decides to keep it, slipping the jar into her pocket. She returns to the bedroom then, and takes one last look around, noticing that the drawer to one of the bedside tables is slightly open. She takes a closer look, hoping something might have been left inside.
The way some people blindly trust others has always baffled Robin. At least one of the visitors believed they were coming here for a weekend away, and that Blackwater Chapel was some kind of holiday rental. It’s not and never will be. At least not while she’s alive.
When Robin thinks about the properties people pay vast amounts of money to stay in: hotels, Airbnbs, overpriced cottages by the sea, she can’t help thinking about all the other hundreds of strangers who have slept in the same bedsheets, drunk from the same cups, or shat in the same toilet before. All those people, using the same access codes every changeover day – different hands slipping the same keys into different pockets once a week. Locks are rarely changed, even when the keys to rental properties get lost, so who knows how many people might really have a copy. Anyone who has ever stayed there could come back at any time and let themselves in.