Morag

Morag was disgruntled. She had a hot date for this cold weekend, but the sub-editor had assigned her to a half-arsed wild goose chase in the Highlands.

“Think yerself lucky,” he had said. “Beautiful scenery, fresh air, and time and a half. What’s not to like? Two other cub reporters would have ripped my arm off for this gig. I knocked them back. Said it had your name written all over it.” He chuckled. “You owe me.”

Morag rolled her eyes. “Why me?”

Hamish said, “c’mon. Get a grip. Here’s three questions. Where am I sending you?”

“Loch Morar,” mumbled Morag.

“What do the locals call the monster they claim lives in the loch?”

“Morag.”

“Yeah, and what, in their wisdom, did your loving parents decide to name you?”

“Oh, fuck off Hamish. You’re takin’ the piss.”

*

That was yesterday.

Morag stood by the edge of the grey loch. She squinted through the gloom towards the path leading from the small cabin. Xander, the photographer, had gone to find the young woman they were going to interview. She buried herself deeper inside her all-weather clothing. Christ, it was cold. And the rain was driving horizontally. That didn’t happen in Glasgow. What a shit-hole!

They were coming. What had kept them? Xander had one arm around the girl, the other holding a billowing umbrella over her head. He was a chancer. A middle-aged divorcee who drank too much and made no attempt to rein in his wandering hands. He had tried to chat Morag up on the northbound train, swigging frequently from a bottle nestled in an inside coat pocket. She hoped she had left him in no doubt about his prospects. Their relationship could be nothing more than professional.

As the pair drew near, Morag appraised the young Highland woman who was about to have her fifteen minutes of fame, whether she liked it or not. Shona – yes, that was the name on Morag's notepad – was quite pretty, in an insouciant sort of way. Her wild flaming red hair was undoubtedly her crowning glory. She looked uncomfortable, ill at ease. Morag wondered if she was overwhelmed by being thrust unexpectedly into the spotlight or was unsure how to deal with Xander’s brash overfamiliarity. Perhaps a bit of both. She looked a young seventeen.

“This is Shona Hamilton,” announced Xander proprietorially. His camera was over his shoulder, allowing him to brandish his own notebook. Morag frowned. “What the…?”

“I’ve collected most of the background stuff. Should save you quite a bit of time,” continued the photographer. Morag threw him a piercing glance then turned to Shona, smiling. She put a welcoming arm around the young woman’s shoulders, deliberately steering her away from her colleague, facing towards the loch. Did she imagine it, or was Shona relieved to be detached from the photographer?

“Relax,” said Morag. “Just tell me what happened yesterday. Our readers are keen to know.”

The girl took a deep breath. “I come down to this very spot every morning after breakfast.” Her voice was light and lilting with a soft Lochaber accent. “I feel…drawn to it. It’s as if…something inside me, is being told to come here.”

Morag wondered if this simple girl might be mentally disturbed. “Do you hear voices?” she asked as gently as possible.

“No. Not really. It’s not like that. It’s…like, a sort of presence inside me, guiding my feet.”

Shona lowered her head, blushing. Fearing the girl would clam up, Morag asked, “so what did you see yesterday?”

“I was staring at a dark patch of water. Just there.” She pointed a few yards offshore. “It looked, unusual. As I watched, a…creature broke the surface.” She paused.

“A creature?” prompted Morag.

“It got bigger and bigger. It was huge, black and shiny. Like one of those fishy dinosaur things that you see pictures of in books.”

Morag was scribbling furiously. “What happened then?”

“It…looked straight at me.”

“Were you scared? How did you feel?”

“I felt so calm, all warm inside. It was beautiful. There was some sort of, connection. It was like how they describe falling in love in the magazines I read.” Shona flushed again, looked away. “I know that sounds silly.” Her voice faltered.

“Did you take a picture?” Xander’s rough tones interrupted. Morag glared at him.

“I left my smart ‘phone in the cabin,” apologised the girl.

“Jesus Christ, you stupid little…” The photographer grabbed Shona by the shoulders and started shaking her roughly. The reporter could smell whisky on his breath. “Stop, you’re hurting me,” wailed the girl.

Morag barrelled into Xander, freeing the girl from his grasp, but knocking him off balance. As he tried to regain his equilibrium the photographer slipped on a wet patch and flopped onto the muddy ground, his weight bearing him down the slope towards the water’s edge. A sudden turbulence, just offshore, transformed itself into the black sleek head of a large aquatic creature. Xander shrieked as powerful jaws locked onto his right leg. “For pity’s sake,” he pleaded. But clemency was not forthcoming. The creature’s head disappeared beneath the surface, dragging the photographer, screaming then spluttering, down into the body of the loch.

Morag, stunned, horrified was rooted to the spot. What just happened? Out of the corner of her eye she saw Shona, standing like a statue, an incongruous beatific smile on her face. Was she in some kind of a trance? Morag started towards the young woman but before she could bridge the gap between them Shona was striding robotically down to the brim of the loch. The water seethed and frothed once more as the creature resurfaced, reversing so that its back and tail formed a platform. Without hesitation Shona traversed the living walkway and dropped, straddling, onto the monster’s neck.

“Shona,” yelled the reporter. “No. Stop. Come back!” She could only look on in disbelief as her namesake – Morag the monster – swam powerfully towards the centre of the loch. As the symbiotic partnership receded into the distance the reporter found it increasingly difficult clearly to discern what transpired. Before they exited Morag’s range of vision she had the impression that the two creatures had coalesced and become one, either dematerialising or sinking into the deepest waters in Scotland. When questioned later she was unable to confirm any of those initial speculations.

Now operating on auto-pilot Morag tried to call 999 on her cellphone. Shit! No signal. Yeah. The middle of nowhere, encircled by brooding purple mountains. She would have to walk back to the cabin and convey to Shona’s family what she had just witnessed, then deal with their reaction. She would have to rely on them, whoever they might be, to inform the authorities and they would all have to await the official response. Feeling sick, shivery, Morag headed for the rustic dwelling. She was taunted by the thought that from being a non-participant news reporter of a Fortean event she had become the sole survivor of a surreal cataclysm which would anchor her at the centre of a storm of journalistic frenzy and Police investigation.

Hamish’s world-weary face swam into her consciousness. His sardonic drawl mocked her. Morag threw her head back and roared, “fuck you!” to the indifferent whistling wind.