Linguini Loch

If walkers ever asked me where they should visit in the Highlands, I always recommend Linguini Loch. The loch sits in the basin of four large hills that are popular with hikers. From the ridges, you can see down into the water. All that dense seaweed, just below the surface. The wind causes the underwater plant life to pull into strange knots and patterns. They weave in and out of each other, like the loch is squirming. Saturated by green snakes - or as the name suggests, filled with dark, linguini pasta. People have reported seeing the faces of loved ones in the shapes created by the seaweed. Others are haunted by their enemies, or visions of how they will meet their fate. Locals pretend they can finally see their bus arriving on time.

The loch also boasts fantastic mussels, which is how Robert Melveille came to hear about the loch, and how we came to hear about Robert. Robert’s first passion was hill walking. His second passion was eating a lot of good food after it. The Lavern was the highest rated restaurant on the water’s edge. Robert phoned up and booked himself in three nights in a row to try specific meals researched ahead of time. Tuesday, the mussels. Wednesday the swordfish. Thursday, the famous Linguini Loch linguini.

From what I read in the papers and heard through rumour in the weeks following, Robert preferred the isolation of walking alone. He’d been widowed nine years earlier after his wife died from a long battle with cancer. With no children, Robert had carefully budgeted out the rest of his life and the likelihood of reaching a decent age. It didn’t leave a lot after the cost of living, but enough for a few great walking holidays in the warmer seasons. He’d look up sunrise daily, and be stepping out the door just as the light permitted it. The route Robert took on this day took him round the back of the basin and back down to the loch like a question mark. The early morning mist was hanging, but the visibility was still good. Robert made his way up the ridge, stopping to pour himself a filter coffee from his flask at the top and watch the mist clear around him, sliding down into the loch. He took his film camera out and snapped the moment. He tweaked the aperture and pulled the camera up to his eye again. This time, he noticed some movement on the ridge, on the furthest side of the loch. Robert zoomed in as much as he could, but could barely make out a figure. They just seemed to be moving strangely. He swapped the camera out for his binoculars and looked again. Indeed, an elderly and bearded man, who appeared panicked. It looked as if he carried a walking stick. No, a crutch. A greyhound darted around behind him, seemingly just as alert and worried about something. The man appeared to be looking over at Robert. He was trying to get his attention. Robert slowly raised one arm to acknowledge that he’d seen him. The man seemed to hop on the spot and began waving more frantically. He pointed down towards the water. Robert followed the arm down, and realised why the man was so agitated. A small rowing boat, obscured in the mist in the middle of the loch - had capsized.

The boat was rocking erratically. Water fizzed on the surface, as somebody with long hair matted over their face struggled to upright it. It looked like a young woman was trying to climb up onto it and pull it over, but the seaweed and moss wasn’t letting her get enough grip. Faint calls came from her between gulps of water. She was drowning.

Robert dropped the binoculars and sprinted down, half sliding on the shingle, leaving his backpack behind. By the time he’d reached the water’s edge, the waves around the woman were already visibly weaker. He knew there wasn’t time to call for an ambulance if she was going to live. He looked up to the ridge to signal the man to ring for help, but could no longer see through the surface mist. He ran round to what he felt was the nearest land point to the woman, yanked off his shoes, and began wading out.

Even up to his knees, Robert could feel himself being held back by seaweed. By the time it had reached his waist, he was forced to swim, trying to reach her as fast as possible whilst trying to glide across the surface. Strands would tug at his arms as he powered forwards, pulling on his ankles. The water wasn’t choppy, but it was incredibly cold, and he felt his energy draining quickly. He knew if he didn’t reach the woman soon, there was a real chance he could also find himself in trouble. He already knew it was difficult to be spotted in the mist. As he swam out, he could still see splashing ahead of him. Splashing is positive, he thought.

Approaching the woman, Robert began to shout. He wasn’t lifeguard trained, but knew that flailing around wasn’t going to help him get a handle on her to bring her back to shore. If she was panicking, he needed to calm her down. The splashing became worse as he got within just a few metres of her. For Robert, it meant he couldn’t see much of anything, and soon accepted he was likely going to be struck hard in getting a hold around her. He felt an arm slam down on his shoulder, and grabbed for it, but it pulled back before he could do so. Again square on the head. Robert tried to shout for her to stop, but the water instantly filled his mouth and choked him. Steadying himself, he let his head softly drop beneath the water and opened up his arms. As he felt another blow hit the water just above him, he swiftly brought his arms up and over, gripping hard around her right wrist. He tapped it hard to alert her that he was there, which thankfully worked, because she instantly stopped. Robert brought his head out of the water and took a breath. Getting to her had taken almost all of his energy, and Robert took a few seconds to build up the strength to start bringing her back to the shoreline. The woman was facing away. Robert reached out, but failed to get a hook under her armpit. He looked up to see that the woman was now beginning to turn towards him. Something wasn’t right.

Bobbing in the water, barely above water level, was a translucent, pale mass. Green capillaries wove through wet flesh. As the head rotated round, Robert began to call out for help.

The head seemed to only have basic human features; two completely black wet eyes stared wide and open in panic to the sky, a toothless mouth, depressed without lips fell down from its face deep into a form of throat, where the former wordless wailing was now just a meek, high release of air. The hand Robert was holding did not feel like skin. It was softer. When he squeezed it, it felt saturated with water, and he could feel the bones inside, pliable and weak. It was as if this woman had been in the water for weeks, not minutes.

Robert froze in fear. Peering down below the water, her neck did not meet a body. It reached downwards like the soft stem of a plant, beyond the light the loch would let in. A head attached to an organic line that plunged down under his feet. The hand was completely detached from the head. Its arm was long and boneless, and stretched down through the seaweed into the loch.

He gave a sharp tug to pull himself away. The bones inside the hand went stiff. Robert jerked his hand away, but it didn’t let go. Using both hands he desperately pulled at the fingers to free himself, his screams muted by the water that washed over his head. It would not let go. The other hand floated on the surface towards him, and tethered itself around his neck. It sharply tightened its grip. Robert was now in silent terror. He saw with widened, red eyes, its mouth sink below the surface. Water poured up and over, down into its throat, until the air choked and went quiet. Unblinking, the two dark eyes sank under, and without much fight, the pale tendrils retreated downwards, wrapped tightly around Robert’s writhing body.

We wouldn’t know his full name until the next day, but from up on the ridge, my greyhound and I sat and said a short prayer for Robert Melveille.