Chapter 1

I'd got caught up in some work stuff, finishing off a report or something, so I only got to the Ferryboat just before closing. As usual, the place wasn't busy but even the lack of customers couldn't account for Gregor the landlord's downcast expression. Hell, he wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine most days, but even by his standards he was looking a bit depressed. So I asked him what was up as he was pulling me a pint.

"Funeral," he said, bluntly. I commiserated politely, wondering whether he was the bereaved party - or whether someone had just cancelled a post-internment bash in the pub. You never could tell with Greg.

"Ancient aunt," he explained, eventually, wiping a greasy cloth around a glass or two. "Hardly knew the old biddy, myself, but the family has decided that I will represent it at the ceremony." I muttered something non-committal ... even given mine host's general outlook on the world, this did not seem to be a huge imposition. I waited again.

"Problem is, the thing's in Norway, the far north thereof, take me near a fortnight to get there and back." he muttered. "And this place ... hardly a bloody gold mine, is it? And now I'm going to have to pay for cover for a couple of weeks." This was a surprise, I thought - he had a pretty much permanent bar manager in Fiona and while she might not be the sharpest knife in the block she could surely run the place for a fortnight. I said as much. Well, almost. Fi was at the till just behind him and even I can be discrete.

"Nah." he said, "The daft bessom never got her personal license. Don't suppose that even she'd be able to do that much damage, but legally its a non starter. So muggins here gets to pay for some chinless wonder to come in and scare off the few remaining customers. Or maybe I should just accept the inevitable and close the place for good. I mean, its losing money hand over fist even now..."

This last got La Fiona's attention ... and mine, too - however bad things got you never heard Greg talk about giving up. And, face it, she wasn't exactly going to walk into another job around here. So I decided that drastic action was required. I confessed that I, myself, did, in fact, possess the relevant documentation. Which, of course, neither of them believed, at first, but which was true: I'd worked for a while at the Atholl when things were really bad in the freelance world, had had to get official so I could cover for the lazy bastard landlord while he spent his days in the bookies next door.

For a second, Gregor almost smiled, Fiona seemed actually pleased. I wondered what the hell I'd just let myself in for.

A couple of days later, I thought I was a bit clearer on that point. Greg had buggered off to the aunt's introduction to daisy pushing and I was staying in his flat above the pub, which was a bit more convenient than my own place, given the ridiculously extended opening hours of the establishment. Not that I was actually doing all that many hours, myself - Fiona was doing most in the evenings and we had a couple of local girls come in and get bored during the afternoons, so I was mainly left to open up, close up and cash up - on the days we took enough money to bother, that is. I wondered how Gregor had managed to keep the place ticking over for so long, wondered why the other hostelries in town seemed to be doing so much better - well, aside from the fact that a couple did big screen sports, one had the occasional stripper - which went down well with the kirk, let me tell you - oh, and all of them felt a little less like a morgue. It wasn't my problem, of course, but I liked the place, liked Greg as far as anyone could, I guess, and, hell, I was used to drinking there. So I wanted to help, tried to think of ways of improving the situation. Then, in desperation, I decided to talk to Fiona, see if she had any ideas. I mean, she couldn't possibly be as thick as she looked, could she?

Well, maybe. Actually, she looked like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights when she realised someone was asking her opinion - or maybe that someone was talking to her about something else than another half of lager or a wee dram. So I didn't get anything really useful from her but asked her - no, told her to give it some thought.

And then, typically, thought no more of it myself. Bloody men, eh?

A couple of days later I was up early and in the bar, trying to scrape some of the nicotine off the walls in a probably futile effort to clean the place up a bit, when Fiona herself came in a good two hours before her shift. I was surprised to see her, for sure, but not half as surprised as she seemed to be to meet me. She looked startled, in fact, and embarrassed as she very obviously tried to hide a couple of bags she was carrying behind her frankly scrawny frame. I decided to ignore the last part - they probably contained home brew or some other illicit bar supplies, I thought, and just at that point I really didn't want to know about that sort of thing. So I ignored the pathetic attempt at a cover up, greeted her amicably enough - not commenting on the early arrival, either - and offered her a coffee. Which she accepted, coming upstairs with me where I kept a supply of halfway drinkable stuff rather than the rat poison Greg provided for the bar staff. Once in the flat she looked around in some confusion - she'd obviously never been up there before, despite having worked for Gregor for years - and eventually managed to sit in one of the arm chairs, none too subtly attempting to hide the aforementioned bags behind it before doing so.

Even after she was sitting and had taken a coffee from me, though, she didn't seem to relax at all. In fact, she sat right on the edge of her chair, continued to look like a frightened budgie - not a bad metaphor, to be honest, given the shape of her nose, the panicy fluttering of her eyes - and generally didn't seem to be getting on too well with the idea of a social chat with her (temporary) boss. So I tried to put her at her ease, which was a little difficult, given that I was hardly the world's greatest expert in genteel conversation at the best of times and she was giving these really strong 'I want to be anywhere else but here' signals. So eventually I just cut to the chase, asked her what was wrong, what brought her into work so early ... and what was in those bloody bags.

I thought she was going to run away, quite literally, at her shoulders hunched even more and she cast a longing glance at the door down to the bar. But then she got herself together and sat a little more calmly for a second, looking directly at the floor rather than at me.

In a very quiet sort of whisper, she said, "I've been thinking. About the pub, about how we might expand the trade a little..."

And then she tailed off, sat staring at the floor again. Well, I thought, this was a surprise - I mean, I'd got about as far as wondering whether demolishing the place and starting again from scratch might not be the best bet, but apparently Fi had come up with something more constructive. Or might have done, anyway - she sure as hell didn't seem to be in any hurry to share the idea. I could have got exasperated, OK, I did get exasperated, but I decided to play it for laughs for the moment.

"So," I said, "are you going to tell me what you've been thinking or do I have to beat it out of you?"

She looked startled, again, at that, giving me a very strange look and shaking her head suddenly, almost as if she was clearing something nasty from her mind. Then she made eye contact again, for a moment, then said, to the floor, again,

"Actually, I think it might be best if I just showed you ... the idea, I mean. Its probably easier than trying to explain, and its..."

Again, she trailed off, and I wondered what on earth was going on, what on earth she'd been thinking of ... and what on earth she had to show me. Looked like I was in for a bit of a wait, though, so I attempted to return to my earlier 'humour' and gave the side of my chair a gentle swat.

I swear she almost jumped through the ceiling, standing up as suddenly as she did, and then she was looking at me with an almost pleading look. I apologised, of course, which somehow disappointed her - as far as I could work out what was going on at all by this point - so I rallied again and suggested that if she had something to show me, maybe she should, you know, show me? I mean, time was passing and we did have a pub to open soon enough...

Instead of doing so, she picked up her bags - both simple plastic carrier bags from the local supermarket, I saw, so unlikely to be moonshine - and retreated into Gregor's pokey bathroom. Oh, great, I thought - now she's going to have a good cry and I still don't have a clue what this is all about. I wondered if she'd find it easier - and whether I would find it easier, to be honest - if I just went back down to the bar, got stuff together, pretended that none of this had ever happened. Instead, I went and stood at the window for a while, looking out over the loch and feeling oddly sad about life, the universe and everything.

I turned round when I heard the bathroom door open, mentally prepared to give a standard 'its OK, don't worry about it' sort of spiel, but the words never got anywhere near being pronounced. What came out of the closet, so to speak, was most definitely not what had gone in. The slightly frumpy, slightly crumpled Fiona who had retreated a minute or two before emerged looking ... well, slightly frumpy, slightly crumpled ... and dressed in a sheer leather minidress that only just covered her moderately sized boobs - which looked like they were receiving some heavy duty support from some sort of high tech bra - and standing a good deal taller, too, given that she was wearing about four inch high heels.

So, look: I know I'm a shit, OK? I know that I should regret the moment till my dying breath, probably deserve to be consigned to the fires of hell for ever and a day, but ... I laughed. No, I am sorry, but I just couldn't help myself. It was just so unexpected, so incongruous, so un-Fiona ... and so much of a risk for her, I realised, as she turned and fled back into the bathroom, wailing and screeching at volume, now...

Took me half an hour to coax her out of the bloody bog. Had to give her the day off, too - didn't really expect to see her the next day, either. Frankly, I wouldn't have been too surprised if the next thing I'd heard was of her being dredged out of the loch in a few days time. Instead, though, she was there on time next morning. I was polite, of course, even tried an apology until I saw that bringing up events would only lead to another heroic burst of lamentation and so decided to let things rest. I mean, Greg would be back in a week, we were adults, we could scrape along until he was. I did wonder where she got the fancy dress from, though, wondered if her boyfriend was into that sort of thing - I assumed she had a boyfriend, though I realised that I'd never heard her mention one. Anyway, it was, I was sure, something best left in a box in a corner, to be studiously ignored for all eternity.

Except that Fiona herself brought it up, a while after we'd removed all three drunks at closing time on the Saturday night. OK, it had been another quiet evening, not really enough to justify both of us working. I couldn't exactly lose her a shift, though, - god knows, Gregor hardly paid well - and it seemed a little uncharitable to bugger off upstairs and leave her to it, so we both, well, scraped along. Not a big bar, the Ferryboat, or at least there isn't a lot of space behind it - but its big enough for punters to always seem to be at the other end when they actually decide they want to be served, so we were forever colliding or tripping over each other. And I discovered that she was quite a tactile sort of person, Fiona, with a soft warmth that I had to admit that I found quite attractive. So I was quite happy when she agreed to stop for a swift drink at the end of the shift, and then another after that. And so on.

So maybe it was just the alcohol that made Fi look a bit more relaxed, a little less world weary. She was back in her standard working gear, of course, a round necked jumper over a high necked blouse, sensible skirt over heavy black tights, flat shoes designed to be stood in for hours at a time. She'd had her hair tied in a tight bun but it had come loose sometime while we were talking and now her hair - mainly auburn, a few premature streaks of gray - was hanging free over her shoulders. So, yeah, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the frankly gloomy lighting in the bar, but she looked a lot more attractive than she had before, was talking more freely - and more sensibly - than I'd ever seen her do before. She even laughed a few times, telling me stories of Gregor's long suffering wife and her eventual decision to up and off with a man who might not have owned a pub but did at least possess smile muscles. I asked her about herself, whether she was keeping a boyfriend up wondering where on earth she'd got to?

"Ach, no," she said, evenly, "I was never one for boyfriends. Had a few, of course, but losers to a man - or boy. Either drunk or idle or both, went on their various ways many years ago. Me, I stayed with my ma till she passed on, since then ... well, I keep myself to myself. How about yourself? Bright guy like you, own business, must have a few lassies on the go? How come we never see them in here?"

It was definitely the alcohol, I thought, even at the time, that caused my mind to wander, even as I was recounting my own sorry tale of loves unrequited or simply un-required. Specifically, I was wondering about the leather sheath thing she'd so briefly donned, where it had come from if not a gross out present from some gross out bloke? She surely couldn't have bought it specially for the pub, could she? I mean, where from? Not a lot of fetish shops hereabouts...

Well, anyway, I pulled myself together long enough to finish my tale of woe and sat there with her in a friendly silence, both of us finishing our drinks at about the same time. She moved to stand up, looking for her coat, I thought, started to say something about it being about time she made a move and - alcohol again - I surprised both of us by reaching out and pulling her back into her seat. Except that I half overbalanced and ended up being a lot rougher than I'd ever intended to be. I started to apologise, again, but she was sitting quite still on the barstool, licking her lips and looking at me with quite a feral expression. I stopped, looking at her intently and she leaned forward and kissed me.

"Oh, I do like a strong man", she muttered as she leant into me, arms looping around my shoulders, "not like the wasters around this place". I returned the kiss, of course - it would have been impolite not to - let my hand wander off her shoulder, down the swell of her breast. Laughing, she brushed it away.

"Oh, no," she said, "you'll be thinking I'm a bad wee girl and anyway you'll only regret it in the morning when the drink has gone and you realise what it is you've been carrying on with..."

Now, I could have protested innocence, that my hand had merely strayed by accident, but actually I was taken by a sudden fierce tide of ... well, of lust, basically. I said as much, honesty being, if not the best policy, then certainly the simplest. She laughed again, pulling away from me, looking sad.

"Well, maybe," she said, "but you didn't seem quite so appreciative when I tried to show you a little more of me the other day..."

I flinched, I think - and she laughed positively mournfully this time, presumably thinking I was flinching in revulsion rather than, as was the case, extreme embarrassment. I started trying to explain, realised that I was digging myself into a hole and changed tack instead, asking her where she'd come by a dress like that.

I thought for a moment that she was going to simply ignore the question, that the evening was well and truly over, but instead she said, speaking to the scratched veneer of the bar top, "I just like leather. Always have done. And you said we needed ways of getting more customers, our punters are invariably male and, well, sex sells. Only not when offered by me, obviously..."

And she was off crying, again, as I poured us both a dram and went and sat beside her, gently stroking her hair and making reassuring noises. Eventually, she stopped sobbing, took a tissue from me and dried her eyes. I took the opportunity to gently take her chin, turn her face towards me and spoke to her as calmly as I could.

"I was not revolted by your display, not disapproving, whatever you might think. OK, I'm not sure that its a perfect idea for this particular pub, but that's no way a reflection on you. I was just surprised, you know - I've been drinking around here for years, remember, and you've always been so quiet, so respectable, so ... Hell, you let everyone think you're clueless, dress like a spinster aunt and generally, well, blend into the background, you know? So it was a bit of a surprise - to say the least - when you suddenly appeared looking like every schoolboy's fantasy. And that's why I laughed ... not because I didn't like what I saw. And not because I wouldn't like to see it again."

I thought the last bit was maybe a bit of a risk - or maybe just the alcohol, again - but in fact she brightened a little and looked at me a little more hopefully.

"I don't know if I believe that," she said, "but its nice of you to say so, anyway..."

Actions speak louder than words, sometimes, so I decided not to wait for whatever she was going to say next and instead pulled her into me, again, as forcefully as before but deliberately this time. She pulled back in surprise, at first, then she went a bit wild, throwing herself at me, forcing us both off of our stools so that we ended up in a clinch on the floor.

Which, of course, meant that we were keeping close company with a load of fag butts and such like, so I managed to push her away for a second and then pulled us both upright. Of course, breaking the clinch caused all of Fi's anxieties to resurface so that I was trying to drag her gently towards the stairs and she was quite gently resisting, one hand playing with a silver chain around her throat. Well, no problem, I was within reach of the light switches by that time so I whacked them all off and, navigating by the even dimmer light from the display fridges, stepped in quite smoothly and swept her off her feet. Not completely successfully, of course, - I'm no action hero - but she sort of grabbed me instinctively, we didn't fall over and I ended up with her in a reasonably competent chair lift. Except that I'd somehow got my right arm under her skirt, so that the rest of it ended up ruffled up around her waist. Interestingly, it turned out that the tights I'd imagined were in fact stockings, supported by antique looking suspenders. Luckily, she didn't notice me checking this out, being a bit busy hanging on for dear life as I manoeuvred her towards the door to the stairs. Which, of course, opened outwards - it being preferable, in the event of trouble, for assistance to come down rather than problems to go up - and I didn't have a free hand. Or a free elbow, come to that, with Fi still showing a degree of nervousness about being swung around like this ... and my arms were already getting a bit tired. So, taking the bull by the horns, so to speak, I growled - yes, really growled - into her ear - a rather fetching ear, I noticed - an instruction.

"Open the fucking door!"

She shuddered slightly, looked up briefly at my carefully stern expression, then quickly unhooked an arm from around my neck, swung the door open and hurriedly grabbed my neck again. I just caught the closing door with my foot, kicked it open, again, and proceeded to carry her upstairs. Actually she half squirmed out of my arms in the process so it was more like dragging her upstairs ... but neither kicking or screaming were involved.

I plonked her down on a sofa rather than hitting the bed directly, partly because my arms were sore but mainly because I'm not that blatant. And then I stepped back, watching as she noticed the state of her dress - well, her skirt - and the fact that her slightly unusual underwear - leather panties, I noticed - was openly on display. I thought for a second that the old Fi would re-emerge but then she grinned and looked at me knowingly.

"Well, I seem to be revealing a lot of secrets this evening," she said, "I hope it won't make you think too badly of me."

Well, no, of course it didn't. I was tempted to ask her about the leather thing - I'm spectacularly fetish free, myself - but instead I concentrated on the view: Face it, she was never going to make the cover of a fashion magazine, probably a good 10 kilos under her ideal weight, a face lined and worn by years of ... what? Worrying? Scrimping and saving? I was ashamed to know so little about her, given the length of our casual acquaintance, me one side of the bar, her the other. Now, though, as she watched me watching her, there was a bright interest in her eyes I'd never seen before, even the nondescript clothing seemed more becoming, the swell of her breasts under the woolen jumper positively enticing. The fact that her skirt was round her waist and her legs splayed widely probably contributed to the re-evaluation, of course, but I was still left at a loss as to what to do next. I mean, I was about as out of practice as you could get at this sort of stuff and, I realised with a start, I really didn't want to hurt her ... or make this a one off. So I sat down beside her, squeezing onto the couch with my hip more or less by her waist, stroking her hair and continuing to look at her. I could almost sense her wanting something but I couldn't get a handle on quite what...