The Castle and The Redhead (Pt. 3)

Harry Hogg
6 min readMar 18, 2024

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Setting: an island off the west coast of Scotland.

Here is: Part 1: Part 2

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With his arms stretched wide above his head, wearing just a t-shirt and his boxers, MacAlistair looked out the window on a bright morning, seeing no hint of yesterday's storm in the clear blue sky. Below the terrace, Gibbings is already at work in the courtyard gardens. MacAlistair turns away from the window when hearing a knock on his bedroom door, and before he can call out, the door opens.

“I’ve brought you some tea, Thomas. I didn’t think you’d be up yet,” Aline said cheerfully, wearing jogging pants and top.

MacAlistair is irritated. “I’m glad I’m not naked, Sis. You could at least give me a second to answer the knock on my bedroom door,” he said in all seriousness.

Aline, ignored his tone. “You seem to forget we slept in the same bed until you were ten years old. We were bathed together, remember,” she reminded him, putting his teacup by the bed.

“I’d forget if you didn’t keep reminding me,” and the tone was disagreeable.

“Oh, do excuse me, a trifle touchy this morning, aren’t we? What you’ve done with your life, Thomas, it’s amazing. But you’re still my scrawny brother, and you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen, lad.”

“I’d rather not think about that, Aline. How is our guest this morning?”

“We have several guests, staying, however, I’m sure you’re referring to Blair. She’s probably still sleeping, I imagine. It’s only ten after six. You liked her, didn’t you?” Aline suggested, knowing he’s never admitted such a thing or has ever. .

“Whatever you mean by that, I’m not sure. Perhaps let her know that I’m taking Broderick and Turney back to Inverness Airport, and if she would like, I can return her to the mainland. It would have to be soon after breakfast, Aline. I won’t be back until next weekend. I’ll be in London all week,” he told Aline, returning to the window, cup and saucer in hand. “How long has Gibbings been with us?” MacAlistair asked, looking down on the young man working in the courtyard.

“He was last to join us. I’d say about five months. Why?”

“Increase his wage, Aline.”

“Feeling generous this morning,” Aline said.

“Get out of here. Tell Mrs. Simms breakfast will be at eight-thirty. Have Blair join us.”

“Of course, but her clothes, they are dried, but…”

“Do you have something?”

“Of course. Okay, I’ll see you at breakfast,” Aline said and turned to leave.

“Yes, Aline, in answer to your question, yes, I did like her.” Aline said nothing, turned to face her brother, and gave a know-all smile. She left MacAlistair to get dressed.

It irked MacAlistair that his sister constantly reminded him of their childhood, losing their parents and being raised by grandparents in a home that wasn’t big enough to house both of them, let alone two children aged seven and nine years old. Over the years, many stories and interviews have been printed about his life, at forty-two, a self-made billionaire. MacAlistair had no time for it, but Aline thrived on his success. Not that MacAlistair minded that, they were close, and often, he would tell himself, too close. When their grandparents could no longer cope, they were fostered out, not to the same family. When they were old enough to leave their foster parents, both swore they wouldn’t be separated again. Aline had married and lived for twelve years in Glasgow. The guy owned three menswear stores. MacAlistair always believed the man was a cheat, and he did cheat. Once. Once was enough.

“There you are, Mrs. Simms. I just spoke to Thomas. He thought around eight thirty would be perfect for breakfast. Will that work for you?”

“Aye, indeed, it will, Miss Aline. Mr. MacAlistair gave me the list of your guests' preferences yesterday morning.”

“We’ll have another, our overnight surprise visitor, Mrs. Simms. So, another place at the table. Will you tell David, if you should see him. I believe he might be busy packing Thomas up for his stay in London.”

“Aye, that I will, Miss Aline.”

“Okay, good. I’ll go and check on our late arriving guest. Thank you, Mrs. Simms.” Aline whirled around and headed out of the kitchen to the stairs to check on Blair.

The tap on the door was gentle. From outside, Aline called through the door. “Good morning, Blair. May I come in?” There was no response. A harder knock of several knuckles and a louder call. To no avail. Aline assumed she was up and in the shower. Opening the door, Aline pushed her head around and called out.

“Good morning, Blair. It’s Aline,” she said, entering the bedroom. Aline saw her evening gown laid on the bed. “Blair are you there, sweetie?” she called, heading to the empty bathroom. Instinctively, Aline looked in the closet for Blair’s clothes. They were gone. She felt relieved. Blair must have risen and gone for a walk on the grounds. Quite obviously, she’d woken and looked out from the window. Such enticing scenery.

Aline left Blair’s bedroom and met David coming down the steps. “Good morning, David. Please prepare the breakfast table for an extra guest, will you, Blair Campbell will be joining us.”

“Yes, Miss, Aline. I’ll do it immediately,” the fine-looking man in his early sixties answered. Aline likened him to Anthony Hopkins. He had a trained air about him.

“By the way, you didn’t see our surprise guest anywhere, did you, David?”

“I did not, Miss Aline.”

“Okay, breakfast will be served at eight-thirty. Very relaxed, David, no need to dress up.”

“Very good, Miss. Thank you.”

Aline, intrigued, made her way to the courtyard. John was still in the gardens. “Good morning, John,” she said in passing and then stopped. “John, what time did you start work this morning?”

“It’s a fine morning, Miss, Aline. I started early. I like to get as much done as I can after the storm,” he said, shielding his face from the sun, which his peaked cloth cap failed to do.

“Mr. MacAlistair is impressed, John. You’ll receive a raise in this week’s pay-packet. Well done,” she said, already leaving him along the path.

“Most grateful, Miss Aline,” but Aline didn’t hear. She was hurrying to the terrace. There was no one there.

For some strange reason, she didn’t know what to call it, she went to the boat dock. The rowing boat was gone.

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Harry Hogg

Ex Greenpeace, writing since a teenager. Will be writing ‘Lori Tales’ exclusively for JK Talla Publishing in the Spring of 2025