‘Heather Strawley! I’ll be loving you forever!’

‘Fuck off and stop talking shite, Cal!’

Heather was sexy.

Heather was slightly slutty.

She sat perched on a dizzily high stool in the Anchor, the twin extremities of her knees recklessly pointing towards whoever engaged her attention. Her feet pendulummed about an axis just in front of her three-inch block heels. They were saying, ‘Look at us!’ They were reminding her how little alcohol it took to loosen her carefully controlled shell of sophistication. She tongued her lips – she was not used to wearing lipstick, she did not want to tarnish it. Her tongue retreated to investigate the numb furriness of her upper teeth. Her audience seemed rapt.

The Anchor was the only place to be – it was the largest and coolest pub in Stornoway. The Anchor offered doubles for the price of singles. The Anchor was a place with a focus. Heather, Heddy, Hetty, Het loved the position power which it so easily threw upon her.

Heather lived on an island. The Isle of Lewis was not small – you could spend a pleasant hour or two driving between its two furthermost rocks. In the North, the Butt of Lewis formed the slender point of the slightly crooked parsnip-shaped island. The South was the Isle of Harris – not strictly an island as it shared a fifteen mile land border with Lewis. This apparent misnomer did however ensure that the complete landmass could boast a substantial rugged outline amongst the flotsam of other smaller Hebridean islands. Stornoway was the only town that could justifiably be called such.

Tonight, it was a night for revelry, as a large proportion of the island’s seventeen and eighteen year-olds had discovered the results of their Highers. There were about fifty ex-students enjoying a night of drinking at the end of a long and lazy summer. For Heather it was a double celebration as she had also just turned eighteen that day. She sat surrounded by admirers. Callum, sitting opposite, was being particularly persistent this evening. She knew he fancied her, and delighted in punishing him for his attentions. She was feeling confident enough to get anything she wanted. Before leaving she had dressed carefully – normally she would just shower and grab an outfit. Tonight, every item of clothing had been individually selected.

The knee high boots, rocking on their perch were on their first magnetic exercise, allowing Heather to show off their overly intricate lacing mechanism which made the leather cling to her calves in a way that felt peculiar and rather exotic. Beneath them, her hold-ups were sheer, their seven denier nylon slickly hugging the triangle of her protruding knees. Her top was a translucent black blouse, which in combination with a short, tight, shiny-black skirt was unashamedly sexy. Beneath the outfit, she wore a lacy bra that her sister had presented to her earlier that day. It was just too thrilling to be hidden.

She had achieved a complete set of A’s in her Highers – easily the best in her year, and had decided that this was ample justification for an excessive and now totally legal indulgence of alcohol. Without dislodging her heels, she swivelled around into a large hand that tumbled down her back. Everyone wanted her. The hand yo-yoed back up to her shoulder, skipping across the ridge of her bra strap. She let it tease. It was mastered by Ryan. Ryan was the dream. He had met her at the weekend. Rather he had greeted, entranced then left her, at the weekend. He was staying on Harris and had been in the islands for several months with a marine research group estimating the size and spread of local fish stocks. He was not originally from the islands – his enigmatic brown eyes gave away his foreign genes. Heather found their allure bewitching – far too easily he had locked her gaze. She knew she must be drunk – how long had she been staring up at him? And why was she letting him massage her back. Why? It excited her. It felt good that he must be noticing her femininity. It felt good that she was fitting so snugly into the character she had built for herself.

‘You’re looking hot tonight, Het! Babe! They say that you’re Stornoway’s star pupil.’ Ryan’s soft voice spoke reassuringly. It was a sound that tantalised Heather.

‘I’m eighteen today.’ Heather beamed.

‘Congratulations.’ Ryan’s lips darted forward to quickly peck her cheek. ‘So, is the birthday girl looking for a birthday treat?’ The hand was now on her knee, backing up the suggestive intonation of Ryan’s scrumptious Irish accent. She was intelligent. She knew the whole situation was a tacky cliché. She also had drunk a lot of gin, which somehow made it acceptable for her to enrol in his flirtatious games.

She replied, ‘Not possible – I’ve experienced all of the treats that this prison could offer me.’

His hand had returned to performing magically ingenious illusions with her vertebrae. Slowly it swam across her left shoulder blade, then lightly it danced into the small of her back. Or perhaps it was the alcohol. Whatever it was doing, it felt electrifying. She felt glamorous.

The bell for last orders rang.

‘Well?’ Heather’s lips blew the word out, freezing before settling themselves into a silent whistle. And then he was passing her another gin and tonic. Which disappeared somehow…. sometime, before they walked alone across the cobbles.

‘You’re a lucky girl living here, Heather. This harbour has so much romance.’

They were walking around the edge of the harbour, looking out towards the peninsula. Heather wished she could feel the romanticism. Instead she felt that she had drunk too much and very soon would make a fool of herself. She really wanted to kiss Ryan. Ryan was not even looking at her – his eyes, his darting black marbles, were looking upwards at the floodlit castle.

‘Can we go up to there?’ Ryan was pointing, ‘I’ve never seen the view at night.’

Heather was not certain she could make it up the path – the cobbles were a treacherous challenge for her wandering feet. A faint roll of thunder blew in from the sea.

‘Yes. Lets - I think it might rain.’

Ryan’s face formed a look of mystified compliance.

‘Isn’t this so cool!’ Ryan’s voice seemed slightly nervous. A tentative rumble folded in off the waves. Below the safe lights of Stornoway formed themselves into patterns – disapproving frowns, evil grins. A nodding tree helped a streetlight wink slyly. They were atop Gallows Hill beside the castle. Heather was leaning against the cairn, which further emphasised the summit. Ryan was pacing around, obviously finding the view ample reward for the steep climb they had just endured

‘It will be soon. Storms are ace! We’ll be right in it here.’

Ryan now looked slightly taken aback. He swung on their interlocked fingers, seeming more cautious.

‘Maybe we should go back now, then’, he suggested.

‘No! Let’s stay.’ Heather was not suggesting, she was commanding, mischievously. ‘We could have a lot of fun up here you know. We could have’, she turned to face him, ‘sex.’

‘Well…’ Ryan paused as if to control his voice, ‘Yes.’ He brushed the back of his hand lightly across her face. She leant forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. She drew back, making him pull her towards him. He kissed her back, urging her lips open as he eagerly indulged.

A crack of thunder tore the ether. Heather could feel the negative ions enhancing her arousal. This was true escapism. She felt so much in control of Ryan but fully thrown on the encompassing atmospheric power. She could see that her attitude was unnerving Ryan.

‘So?’ It was hardly even a question. ‘Getting wet walking down the hill, or getting wet fucking up here?’ The mix of chemical and physical influences bombarding her naïve body was giving her an unfamiliar and exotic kick.

Ryan sprung forward pulling Heather’s head towards him with one hand and thrusting forward her midriff by firmly burying his other hand in the cleft of her buttocks. Heather gasped theatrically – she was in a movie.

She pushed him backwards, using her body to counterbalance his fall. Together they floundered into the wet tufty grass that grew on the peaty hilltop. He was struggling to remove her bra; she had her hands on his belt buckle. Awkwardly, she helped him slide the bones of her underwear over the wet clammy swell of her breasts. He kissed frantically – his pace becoming more urgent as heavy, foreboding drops of rain started to fall. She slipped his trousers and boxers down forcefully, revelling in the momentary wince of pain as he swung free. She crouched over him, her knees sliding forward on the now cold and soggy hillock. He tensed as a terrifyingly close thunderous roar seared their eardrums. Heather slipped aside her pants. She was lost in enjoyment, allowing herself a scream of pleasure as he pulled closer into her. Even in her intensely aroused state it was several thrusts before she felt her body stretching to accommodate him.

Back and forth she rocked, her eyes closed to the flickers devastating the night sky. Again and again the thunder broke, each time seeming closer, as frenetically he knifed deeper into her. She felt him stiffen. The throbbing was too much. She threw her head back, her vocal chords tightening around her irrepressible cries. Her whole body pulsed. The tingle of the raindrops flooded her senses for seconds. Then it faded to leave her hot and burning inside.

* * *

Andrew knew he was smiling to himself. He wasn’t certain if this was something other people would notice, but he was definitely experiencing an inner chuckle. He was sitting in Marley’s Beach Restaurant - Cafe. No. Eatery was a better description of this large open-air meeting place serving spicy-hot yellow curry at reasonable prices. Well, that was how the guidebook described it - obviously written before the locals had caught onto the economics of tourism. Having just finished a very pleasant meal with a couple of bottles of Singha beer, Andrew was in a contemplative mood. When feeling relaxed Andrew loved to contemplate - even more so if it was not the regularity of his bowel movements that he was contemplating. He was staying in a beach hut in Haad Rin – a collection of bars, huts and restaurants on Ko Phang Ngan off the coast of Thailand. It was an island characterised by pure white beaches, calm seas the colour of tranquillity and full moon parties swimming with hedonism. It was a truly heavenly place to sit back and chill in the traveller lifestyle.

Andrew had been on the road now for three months. India had been marvellous in retrospect – it was much improved when your body was not fighting to retain your last meal. Kathmandu was a culinary oasis after almost a month of masquerading as a vegetarian in India - it was a real pleasure to tuck into a Yak steak. Now, Thailand was pure relaxation. Andrew sighed contentedly. Was this not the way to live, feeling relaxed, full of food, slightly drunk and thinking of nothing in particular?

Andrew paid the bill and left. He walked back along the sand to the beach hut where he was staying, hoping to find Freddy. Freddy was an amiable German who was living in the room adjacent to Andrew. Exactly how Freddy made a living was probably best not thought about in too much detail, he was the type who would claim to own a small import / export business, without ever being specific about the commodities which were being traded. Of course, Andrew was not the sort to judge or take a moral stance on other people’s activities, for that would be hypocritical.

Sitting upon the balcony which Andrew had a half share in, was a lean hairy man wearing a small pair of shorts. He was ‘deterring the malarial mosquitoes’, a nightly affair that Freddy enjoyably indulged in. Andrew smiled, he was in the mood for some laid-back conversation.

‘You’re just in time, Andy, I’ve rolled us a half hour of Morocco’s finest’, croaked Freddy from the balcony in his distinctive stage-whisper that made it sound as if he had a constant ball of phlegm bubbling in the back of his throat.

Andrew had never really taken to smoking whilst at school, having a genuine dislike for the smell of tobacco which he had been forced to choke on during many childhood summers staying with his uncle. Dope was different though. It was so much gentler and yet spicier too. It had a character that was far more developed than any tobacco he had ever experienced. Andrew thought that these seemed quite original and imaginative descriptions of the taste of dope. Next to Freddy, he was however, a complete amateur. His thoughts could never be voiced to Freddy for fear of complete ridicule. Freddy was of a breed of genuine connoisseurs. Fifteen years of smoking dope from the world’s finest farms had honed his tongue, throat and nasal passages into finely tuned sensors that could pick out a breadth of aromas that few would have the chance to enjoy. It was however a skill which Andrew could closely empathise with, as his sense of smell was finely tuned to coffee aromas. He imagined the appreciation of the smell and taste to give Freddy a similar level of enjoyment to that which Andrew achieved when grinding fine Costa Rican Tarrazu beans.

‘Andy. Tell me, you have been scheming tonight?’ said Freddy in only very slightly accented English, passing a massive trumpet shaped joint over to Andrew.

‘Scheming? My brain hardly got beyond controlling my basic functions. I was just reminiscing – mentally developing my photos.’

This directionless conversation carried on for an hour – or maybe two, making less and less sense as the dope slowly did its work.

At about 11pm the evening rediscovered Andrew and Freddy dancing to dated ABBA hits, in the Krazee House Disco-Bar. They had teamed up with two Australian girls who had a similarly thin grasp on reality, and between them they had managed to create a group-fantasy that they were in fact Bjorn, Benny, Agnetha and Frida from the Swedish pop band.

By midnight, Freddy was looking very much like a man who needed to spend more time keeping fit, and less eating ice cream. Through a sweaty haze, Andrew could see him making an intriguing set of hand signals, which he and the girls teased out of Freddy. It was obvious they were not going to succeed in this game of charades; Andrew led them outside after many lewd gestures and a lot of giggling. Relieved of the pounding bass of a recent techno hit, Freddy managed to explain that he owned a boat moored nearby. A couple of miles along the coast was an unspoilt beach only accessible by boat, where they could get a marvellous view of the sun rising in a few hour's time.

A masterful piece of orienteering, which Andrew would not have managed even with a totally clear head, brought the small boat up on to a deserted beach. The girls splashed out into the surf onto the shore leaving Andrew and Freddy to pull the boat up the sands. The beach was dark except for the moon – hundreds of miles from the pumping discos they had been in a couple of hours previously. That was how it seemed to Andrew, even though he knew the hustle of Haad Rin was in fact just around the headland.

Over the past few weeks Andrew had come to admire Freddy’s resourcefulness. Freddy was a unique type of man who always seemed to have the right thing to hand at the right time. The sort of man who after having skippered a small boat in darkness to a tiny dreamy bay would then be able to produce a portable CD player complete with some mellow and moody music.

Trudy, the slightly more feasible blonde turned away from a private and somewhat giggly conversation she had been covertly engaged in, saying ‘Alrighty, Sailborboy! I just love Pink Floyd.’

Cheri, the taller Australian girl had started to dance in the sand, swinging her hips in an eerie almost unnatural manner. Trudy danced too in a reciprocal way, her midriff an undulating caterpillar, her thighs liquid caramel. Andrew’s eyes switched focus from this scene, drawing back along his nose to alight on the joint he was trying to light. A puff of smoke and a red glow told Andrew he was successful. Looking around Andrew couldn’t pick out Freddy, his eyes curiously scanning the beach until he saw a dim figure in some trees about thirty feet away.

‘Well are you coming up?' A familiar hoarse whisper came from the trees. Freddy had truly excelled himself this time. In the midst of the trees, Andrew could just make out Freddy’s figure laid out horizontal on a large hammock tied between four palms that would not have been so conveniently placed had it been anyone but Freddy. The hammock was no ordinary farcical-Sunday-afternoon-snooze type hammock, but a huge rope platform that must have been about ten-foot square. Freddy was a man who truly deserved respect.

‘Hey! Y’know my Aunty Flora. She was once taken by aliens’, whispered Cheri in a heavily doped voice. The four of them were now heaped up on the hammock. They had tried lying next to each other, but had kept rolling into the middle; the position they now occupied had evolved over about an hour. Freddy lay on the bottom, making an off-centre cross with Andrew, his knees tucked under Freddy’s. Trudy was lying sideways-on with her head resting on Andrew’s bare stomach and Cheri was strewn across the three of them in a way which left no-one certain who owned the assorted mass of limbs.

‘Or, that’s what she said’, continued Cheri, ‘It was huge - one morning she came back to Billy’s place up near Tibooburra, and she just walked in, butt-naked. She’d been gone three weeks – we thought she’d got killed, like. And her skin was really gross, man. It was all burned and covered in spots. She said that she’d seen this huge bright light and then these things with fly-like eyes had taken her away. She couldn’t remember anything else. After that it kept happening. I think she’d just got the shits with Uncle Billy – he lost his balls when he smashed up the Ute the year before. She got kinda bored of farming after that.’

Andrew was smiling to himself for the second time that day. He had started these bizarre stories by pointing out various stars and then the progression had come easily from stars to distant planets, to aliens, alien abductions and now if he wasn’t wrong they were about to start on extra marital affairs or possibly, unusual ways to amputate your genitalia.

A hand slid up the inside of Andrew’s thigh, teasing him. He didn’t know whose it was - both Trudy and Cheri were wearing sly smiles - Freddy of course always sported a sly smile. A finger that made no secret of belonging to Trudy then crept up his neck, forcing itself to a resting place just inside his mouth. Trudy, smiled coquettishly, ‘Hey Andy. We’re not talking all night.’ Andrew winced, suddenly sucking hard on Trudy’s finger - the hand in his shorts had just become a lot more interested in their contents. Both girls giggled.

‘Perhaps, I think you are little behind, Andy.’ As he said this, Freddy dived out of the jumble of bodies to place his large hands on Andrew’s cheeks, pulling him close and giving him an overly forceful French kiss. This was greeted by cheerleader-style whoops from Trudy and Cheri who set to work slipping limbs out of the few remaining clothes being worn.