Authors: Maya Hess
‘Who’s there?’
The cottage appeared as a patchwork of grey stone punctuated by small amber squares of delicious light and warmth. In the middle, I could see a larger rectangle of light – the open front door – and a tense silhouetted figure virtually filling the gap.
‘Who’s out there? Show yourself.’ It was a man.
I held my breath and watched him stare out into the bleak night. I prayed that no cars would pass and what he saw would be nothing more than a black fog, dotted perhaps with the odd star or lone, screeching owl. I was so cold that I thought he would hear my shivering. For a moment, that was an appealing thought. I could stride out of the hedge, hands up as if I was surrendering, and beg for a hot bath and some food. I pinched my arm as I imagined myself offering a read of my diary in return for his hospitality and a bed.
The man shook his head and finally turned, closing the door with a bang. I sighed heavily, realising that I hadn’t breathed for the last minute. I hauled myself out of the wet bushes and squinted through the darkness ahead. In the two cones of taxi headlights, I’d noticed a small sign indicating the narrow lane to Niarbyl. If I remembered correctly, there would be a bumpy private track a few yards further on leading down to the rocky beach – the very last leg of my journey home. I hoisted my pack further up my back, gripped the straps in my gloved hands and set off towards the rocky beach, praying that the cottage was derelict.
* * *
The pebbles ground together like oversized gravel announcing my arrival. For the last few hundred yards of my walk, I had been searching for lights reflecting on the shore – a certain indication that someone was living in my planned hideout. So far, there was only darkness but I dug my fingers into my woolly palms and gritted my teeth anyway, plodding on with the weight of my life on my back.
I had brought with me the most useful items I could muster in Spain. A torch, which I had turned off as I descended the difficult path to where the tide licked the black, mussel-encrusted rocks; three boxes of matches and a dozen candles wrapped in a plastic bag; half a litre of Miguel Torres brandy, drinkable only in the most dire and desperate of circumstances (none of my hardships so far had come close to warranting consumption); some warm clothing, which had been difficult to procure from a wardrobe that consisted mostly of cotton and silk; and an assortment of gadgets and useful implements such as a tin opener and a penknife. And of course my journal.
The ground rose and fell invisibly beneath my walking boots. I balanced as best I could, occasionally lurching forward to grab at a sharp rock for support. Thankfully, there was no light at all on the tiny half-moon beach coming from where I remembered the cottage was located. All I could see was the frilly edge of the now much calmer sea as it dragged up over the natural defence of the rocks jutting out into the water. The moon, half obscured by cloud, provided an annoying dimness by which I picked my way closer to the cottage. I could hear my heart pounding – or was it the rhythm of the waves? – as I placed my hand on the low stone wall that marked the front boundary of the tiny property. If that was still standing after all these years, then surely the house was too. I traced the line of the wall around to where I recalled the opening that led to the low front door, but stumbled and fell, catching my knee on a rock.
‘Ouch!’ I tried to stand up but, with my pack weighing me down, I couldn’t get my balance. I unhitched the straps and wriggled free, nursing my aching knee. ‘I don’t care if there’s anyone in there,’ I spat in a terse whisper. I clicked my torch back on and muzzled it with my gloved hand, allowing just enough light to pick my way to the front of the cottage. I stepped to the side of the door and furtively angled my face so that just my eyes were peeping over the window sill. There was nothing to be seen except blackness and the sugar-frosting of years of salt and cobwebs. I did the same with the other front window and then tentatively walked to the side of the cottage to peer into the tiny bedroom. There were no back windows or rear garden. The cottage was built jutting out from the cliff with its behind sunk firmly into the gritty slate and a well-eroded thatch perched on bowed rafters as if the whole structure was wearing a yellowed toupee with a raggedy fringe.
‘I think you’re empty, aren’t you?’ I reached up and brushed my hand fondly through the low straw roof. I was talking to a house. If anyone was inside, then I had my excuses planned. I was a lost walker searching for a non-existent bed and breakfast, a foreign tourist with an out-of-date guidebook. Applying a heavy accent, I would barely speak a word of English.
I reached for the latch on the door and pressed down. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled off my glove and ran my hand over the weathered wood, searching for a padlock or bolt or any reason why it wouldn’t open. When I was a child it was never locked, my father insisting that the local fishermen use the place freely. It was an island tradition. The Manx rarely bothered with security, partly from their desire for warm hospitality and partly because of a low crime rate. I tried the latch again, harder this time, and felt a little movement. Taking a deep breath, I lunged at the door with my shoulder and boot and on the third attempt it gave, causing me to crash inside with the stealth of an elephant.
I stood perfectly still, waiting to see if I had disturbed anyone. Nothing. Sighing and finally realising that the cottage was mine, at least for the night, I fetched my pack and balanced my torch on the small table in the centre of the room, allowing me to find the candles. I smiled, both with a big grin and internally. I had done it. I had got to the Creg-ny-Varn estate and secured my initial domain. It was the first victory in my personal battle to grasp what was rightfully mine.
With three candles lit and positioned strategically so that each area of the small room was illuminated, however dimly, I dropped into a dusty armchair – I remembered the faded floral coverings so well – and took a moment to survey the abandoned remains of the cottage. The internal walls were still whitewashed although smeared with grime and a trim of lacy cobwebs. The flagstone floor was covered with several threadbare rugs and the only furniture remaining (I’m sure there was more when I played there as a child) was a bleached pine table with a couple of ladder-back chairs pushed underneath and two armchairs surrounding a low table. Everything was arranged around the heart of the cottage, the black cast-iron cooking range, which looked as if it hadn’t been lit for years. Balls of soot and twigs and straw from birds’ nests littered the fire basket and I wondered whether trying it out would set the whole place ablaze.
To one side of the fireplace was a tall cupboard. I vaguely recall my father secreting various objects in there when we came to the cottage for his beloved weekend fishing trips. I opened the creaking door and was faced with an array of belongings that I would take time to sift through over the next few days. It amazed me that all this stuff had remained undisturbed for so many years. I felt a single tear prickle my eye but quickly swiped it away. I hadn’t come to the island to cry over what was lost.
Then I noticed a pair of binoculars.
‘Heavens above,’ I said out loud. I brushed off the dusty case and pulled out the glasses. ‘I adored staring out to sea with these.’ Pointlessly, in the dark, I aimed the binoculars out of the window. Aside from a runway of mottled moonlight dancing atop the breakers, there was nothing visible. I couldn’t wait until morning to gaze at passing ships. But just as I was turning away from the window, just as I was about to pack the binoculars away and unfurl my sleeping bag, I caught sight of a pinprick of light passing in front of my eyes. I swung the lenses back towards the cliff top, where I was sure I had seen a flash of amber light sweep past my view. Sure enough, once I had focused and adjusted my eyes to this close-up way of viewing the world, I had in my field of vision the most surprising, delightful scene anyone could ever hope to stumble across.
Reluctantly, I pulled the binoculars away from my eyes, simply to catch my breath and take stock of what I had seen. It appeared that I had aimed the binoculars at the cottage high up on the cliff top where the taxi had dropped me earlier. I hadn’t realised that it would be visible from the beach but the angle of the beach cottage and the curve of the coastline afforded an excellent opportunity for getting advance intelligence on my nearest neighbours, who could possibly be a future threat to my mission. At this point in time though, the only threat the cottage inhabitants posed was to remind me that it had been simply ages since I had indulged in sex. Even the quick flash of their two bodies had created a knot of desire in my knickers that I knew wouldn’t budge until something was done about it. I glanced around the empty cottage.
‘You’re looking hot tonight,’ I joked to myself in the dusty, cracked mirror that hung lopsidedly above the fireplace. Then, ‘Fancy a tumble?’ I swallowed hard before tentatively bringing the binoculars back to my eyes. My vision adjusted more easily this time, allowing an immediate close-up of a creamy pair of full breasts with angry turned-up nipples being alternately chewed upon by, judging by his body size and shape, the man who had called out from the cottage doorway earlier.
‘This is a bonus’, I crowed. I had resigned myself to virtual celibacy while I claimed my father’s estate. I wasn’t sure whether to rejoice, because now I would have more to add to my fantasy-filled journal, or to become insanely jealous that, yet again, I was missing out on heated passion and the joy of being with someone special.
Erratic glimpses of the couple finally caused my exhaustion and tension to wane as I relaxed into the unexpected role of voyeur. I shifted a dusty armchair to the window and settled down to watch the unsuspecting pair. It was a moment I couldn’t sacrifice to unpacking my bag and fetching firewood. To give a clearer view, I removed my hat and rubbed it over the grimy window, polishing the couple’s performance. I could see that the man was still dressed. The woman was naked from the waist up. It appeared that they had only just begun their antics.
‘Do they know I’m watching?’ I pondered out loud. ‘Did they suppose that someone was on their way to this cottage and they hoped they might get spotted?’ The thought that they were putting on a private show gave me a tingle in my nipples. I pushed one hand inside my many layers of clothing and located my breast, albeit through my sweatshirt. ‘Lucky pair,’ I whimpered as I realised just how in need of comfort I was. There I was, alone in a freezing, derelict cottage that could be washed away by a freak wave at any moment, with no warming fire, no bottle of red wine to share with a lover, no clean sheets to slip between when the flirting and innuendos had reached a critical level. I was tired, hungry, cold, dirty, scared and the loneliest I think I’d ever been.
‘I’ll feel better in the morning,’ I mumbled as I reached inside my pack for the emergency bottle of Spanish brandy. Briefly, I was reminded of home – my simple
cortijo
in the beautiful mountains, the ever-present sun, my friends, the tranquil existence of life in remote Spain. But I didn’t regret my mission, especially now as my first night’s company was assured, although it was passion by proxy.
I sipped from the flask and was instantly warmed from the inside. I would curl up by a roaring blaze later and write up my diary with the comfort of the brandy. Things were already looking up. I had Steph’s sexy tale to add to my journal and now this. I removed my weatherproof coat and three other layers of clothing until I was sitting in my silk camisole and unbuttoned jeans. I tried not to shiver.
‘On with the show,’ I said with a giggle. I focused the binoculars and was immediately filled with disappointment. The pair were nowhere to be seen. ‘Perhaps they thought I’d lost interest in them or maybe they’ve gone to finish things in another room.’ I slowly scanned each window of the cottage and, aside from the warm glow and open curtains, there was nothing to be seen. I wondered if signalling would encourage them to continue. Risky, I knew, revealing that someone was inside the usually deserted beach cottage, but I was so keen for something more than just my own fingers that I even considered running up to their front door and begging them to continue.
I blew out all the candles and held the torch up at my window. Flicking the switch on and off, slowly at first then gaining speed, I hoped to catch their attention. Living on the coast, I assumed the couple would take notice of flashing beacons, even if they did appear to come from land. I stared at the cottage while signalling frantically with the torch.
‘Yes!’ I cried out as the man reappeared. ‘Don’t disappoint me now,’ I implored. An expanse of naked flesh filled my view. They had undressed. The detail of the man’s almost still body was stunning. It was as if he was standing three feet in front of me, showing off his athletic physique before he lunged at me. Only in this case there would be no lunging. Not at me, anyway.
‘What are you doing?’ I whispered, taking another rationed sip of brandy without lowering the binoculars. The man’s head, with his sheet of back muscle facing the window, appeared to be dipping and bobbing although not in any particular rhythm. I ran my tongue over my finger and traced a circle around my left nipple. ‘Your tongue is like velvet,’ I said to him, imagining me lying beneath his naked body and his mouth toying with my breasts. ‘Take it all in your mouth.’ I cupped the small mound of my neat breast in my palm and squeezed it lovingly, as my man in the window would surely do if he could see me now. How I wished for a reciprocal viewing!
Suddenly, the woman came into view. The pair were standing sideways to the window and indulging in the most passionate, consuming kiss I had ever seen. I pressed my finger to my lips, imagining a mouth bearing down upon mine, lapping the taste of brandy from my tongue. So soft was the effect, so vivid the response of the woman’s body rippling in the window, that I imagined it was her mouth searching mine – all for the benefit of her lover, of course. I grinned at my wicked fantasy. It would go in my diary along with a lifetime of erotic encounters, fantasies and beautiful people. What anyone did with them when I was dead and buried, well, that was another of my erotic imaginings.