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Ailsa awoke from a deep sleep, rolling over on the sleeping bag she had placed on the hard stone floor. She rose to her knees, her long, straight blond hair haphazardly tumbling over her shoulders and on her small breasts. Stretching her arms over her head, she gently swayed from side to side, getting her circulation going. She gazed out of the bare window - it was not yet dawn; a light rain fell from the sky, the heather that covered the vast dunes surrounding Cruden Bay's falcate beach laid eerily still.

In the corner of the room she slept in sat a small travel bag and a worn guitar case, its frayed black fabric held together by duct tape. She stood, still stretching her tiny frame, and then walked over to her travel bag, zipped it open, and peeled an almost too-ripe banana. She nibbled it absently as her hazel-green eyes glanced about the mortared walls of the room.

Last night, she had played at the monthly cadliegh (pronounced KAY-lee) in Aberdeen, which was held under in a town green near Saint Machar's Cathedral, . Although the cadliegh was not a paying gig, she enjoyed that kind of musical setting, where she could learn some new songs from a group of eclectic young Scottish musicians, while getting people to listen to her own exquisite playing. Better still, she had learned from a penny-whistle player that there was a last-minute opportunity to gig at a pub in the tiny fishing village of Port Errol. A phone call made, a "handshake" agreement, and Ailsa loaded up her 1997 Vauxhall and ...

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