Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  Sawyer’s smile became a tight little line. ‘Doing what? Sitting here saying hello to an old . . .’ He stopped himself, cocked his head slightly. ‘Was going to say old pal there, but we were never that, were we, son? Never pals. Acquaintances, maybe. That more accurate?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Och, that’s not very friendly, is it? We’ve not seen one another for fifteen years and I get the Greta Garbo! Where’s your Highland hospitality? You haven’t even asked after my health.’

  Drummond stared at him for second. ‘How’s your health?’

  ‘It’s fine, thanks for asking. Hale and hearty. I get to do a lot of walking, a wee bit of climbing if I feel like it. Plenty of time in the great outdoors, enjoying the fresh air out there in God’s country. I go back to Stoirm often. Love it there.’ He waved in the general direction of the window. ‘You should try it, son. You look as if you need a bit of exercise. Put on the beef since I saw you last, eh?’

  Roddie didn’t answer. It didn’t seem to worry Sawyer.

  ‘Anyway, all that communing with Mother Nature gives me stacks of time for reflection. D’you know what I reflect on, son? D’you want to take a guess?’

  Roddie’s lack of response suggested that he was not in the mood to guess.

  ‘Justice, son. And the lack thereof in this sorry world we live in. We’re surrounded by injustice, don’t you think?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Politicians fiddling their expenses then taking decisions on welfare. Big corporations dodging their tax. Self-regulation in industry leading to tragedy. It’s all meaty stuff. Gets the old grey cells exercised while I’m taking in the beauties of creation. Naturally, during all my walking and climbing and thinking about justice you come into my mind. So when I heard about your old mother, God rest her soul, and a wee birdie told me you were going home, I just felt I needed to come and catch up. Been a while, son.’ Sawyer studied Drummond. ‘So, where you been all this time? What you been doing?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘Seriously, I’m interested. After the trial it was like you were there one minute, gone the next. So, where were you?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Sawyer ignored him. ‘I tried to find you, did you know that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted to keep tabs on you. I’m sure you know why. I’ve got you now, though.’

  Drummond looked away, then got up suddenly, as if he’d heard enough. He didn’t move away, just stood motionless for a moment, then he said, ‘I was cleared. The jury cleared me.’

  ‘The jury found you Not Proven, which is far from a ringing endorsement of your innocence. You walked free, but it told the world the ladies and gentlemen just weren’t sure. But I’m sure, son. I’m sure.’

  Drummond looked down at him again. ‘I didn’t do it, Sergeant. I didn’t kill Mhairi. I loved her.’

  Sawyer’s face broke into a smile that was very nearly a sneer. ‘You always hurt the ones you love, son.’

  Roddie turned and left the café. Sawyer watched him go, the scornful look sliding away to leave his face blank. His eyes turned towards Rebecca and he winked, as if he knew she’d been listening to everything that had been said.

  7

  Rebecca found Roddie Drummond on the open-air deck, leaning against the railing with his eyes on the island as it loomed across the Sound. The ferry was not yet close enough to distinguish any real details, but the mountain was clear and the rolling hills around it. There was a legend that it was the head and shoulders of a giant, cursed by the Three Witches of Stoirm to forever watch over the island. If that was true, the giant had one hell of a pointed head. Beinn nan sìthichean, they called it, but most people pronounced it Ben Shee. Fairy mountain. The story was merely one of many legends on Stoirm, she had learned.

  She could just make out the little dots of houses around Portnaseil and the jetty at which they would dock in another thirty minutes. The wind caught at her hair as she moved to Drummond’s side and for some reason she wondered if he was cold in his thin jacket. He gave her a glance, then resumed studying his old home once more. Below them, the bow churned up white water and sent waves fleeing across the surface to die. She laid a hand on the rail, partly to steady herself, partly to grip something unwielding for support as she steeled herself to speak. The faint vibration of the engines travelled from the white-painted metal up her arm. She had decided that there was no time like the present to approach him. It had to be done, so why not now?

  ‘Mr Drummond,’ she said, her voice raised against the wind and the drone of the engines, ‘my name is Rebecca Connolly. I’m a reporter with the Highland Chronicle.’

  He gave her another look and something like weariness stole into his brown eyes. Then he sighed and turned away again. When he spoke, she almost missed his words as they were caught by the breeze and snatched away to sea. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Mr Drummond, I’m here to help you.’

  He gave her a mocking laugh, as he turned to face her, resting both elbows against the railings. ‘Really? How can you help me?’

  ‘I can tell your side of the story. It’s never been made public.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to tell my side of the story?’

  She took a half step towards him, aware that if she got any closer they’d have to put the banns up, but she didn’t want to have to shout above the rumble of the engine and the snatching wind. ‘I heard what Sawyer said to you. He still believes you’re guilty.’

  Drummond’s laugh was rueful this time. ‘Aye, him and the rest of the world.’

  ‘That’s why you need to talk to me, Mr Drummond. That’s why you need to get your side of it out there.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘And you’re doing this for my benefit, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I want the story.’

  Something like amusement crinkled his eyes. ‘It’ll help you in your career, is that it?’

  ‘That’s it. But I do also believe it will help you. Sawyer was right back there. Not Proven, Mr Drummond. To a lot of people that means guilty, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  If he was surprised she’d been listening in downstairs he didn’t show it. He turned away to fix his eyes on the island again. ‘Do you think I’m guilty?’

  She’d expected he would ask that at some point. ‘I don’t know. Only you know that. Are you?’

  She studied his profile as he considered her answer, his gaze still centred on his former home. The amusement she’d seen earlier had been replaced by very real sadness. He gave her a slight shake of the head, as if he’d grown tired of denying it, then scanned the surface of the water, his eyes coming to rest on a small blue fishing boat in the distance. Rebecca could see dolphins leaping out of the water on either side.

  ‘Go away, Miss Connolly. I don’t want to talk to you.’

  Rebecca hadn’t expected him to talk right away, but she was still disappointed. ‘I’m staying at the Portnaseil Hotel. If you change your mind, you can find me there.’ He didn’t acknowledge her in any way, his attention focused on the fishing boat, as if he were trying to see who was on board, but it was too far away to make out any particular individual. ‘Think about it, Mr Drummond. I think I can help you.’

  When it was evident he wasn’t going to say anything further she left him to his thoughts, whatever they were. She saw Sawyer watching them from the top of the steps that led back down to the café. He stepped aside to let her pass but didn’t say a word.

  8

  Sonya Kerr let the voice of the teacher drone on about the Corn Laws and allowed her attention to wander towards the large window on her left and across the Sound. It was a beautiful day and the blue water looked so inviting, although she knew it was as cold as a witch’s tit. She’d heard Gus McIntyre use that expression and she quite liked it. She’d never say it out loud, though. Gran would have a fit. Gran was an islander through and through: Christian certainly, but with a
healthy respect for the netherworld. Using the word tit would be bad enough, but to somehow disparage a witch would have her moving around the house muttering some bloody Gaelic incantation or other to ward off evil.

  Sonya looked away from the window, gave the teacher a token glance and tuned in briefly—no, still saying nothing of interest—then phased out again, as she scanned the classroom until she found Gus sitting in the back corner. He looked as bored as she felt. His eyes were glazed as he slumped in his chair, his left hand resting on his lap, his right casually twirling a pen. He was a good-looking guy and the problem was he knew it. She knew he had his eye on her, and why not? Sonya was well aware she wasn’t bad looking. He’d told her he wanted to meet her tonight at the old jetty on Loch an Eich-uisge. She knew what he wanted, of course, but there was no way he was getting it. She was only sixteen, but she was smart enough to know that once she gave in, once he got what he wanted, he’d lose interest. That was the way Gus worked. He was all puppy dog eagerness, professing love and devotion, until the girl let him in. He’d pursued Sylvia Lomond earlier in the year and Sonya knew for a fact she’d let him shag her after the prom dance. Soon after that Gus moved on—to focus on Sonya, as it turned out. Poor Sylvia was left hanging, but luckily not pregnant. There was no way Sonya was going to run the risk of that, not with Gus McIntyre, no matter how gorgeous he was.

  She hadn’t decided whether to meet him yet. He was fun and she enjoyed kissing and touching, but that’s as far as he would get. She knew he’d try to get her to try some blow—he always had access to the best stuff, or at least that’s what he boasted—but she wasn’t interested. She didn’t know where he got it, but it wouldn’t be that hard on the island. There wasn’t much else to do apart from drink, smoke and shag.

  Sonya knew that was how she had been conceived. Her granddad had told her because he believed she should know. Her mum had shagged her high school boyfriend, Donnie, when they were both out of their heads on blow. But Donnie was a waster, her granddad told her; he was no good at all. Her mum was left while he went off and tomcatted around—that’s how her granddad put it, tomcatted. He did worse things, too, her granddad said, but didn’t expand. She wondered what those worse things were because Donnie—she never thought of him as Dad—seemed okay. He had been attentive to Sonya for years, even though she didn’t live with him. When her mum died, her grandparents had taken her in; she didn’t know where Donnie was then. Her granddad just said he was tomcatting around. He was really fond of that expression.

  She could see his boat bobbing about on the Sound. She knew it was his boat, didn’t need to see the number or the name. His business was doing as well as could be expected—at least he always seemed to have money to spend on their occasional trips to the mainland. There was hope of growth, too, once the big house was running properly and the distillery was fully open. There would be more visitors to the island and Sonya was convinced that could only help Donnie’s business, even though whenever she mentioned anything along those lines his eyes grew hard and he dismissed the thought. Donnie didn’t like Lord Henry much, he’d made that clear.

  She was only a baby when her mum died. She knew what had happened, of course. Those who were island-born all knew what had happened to Mhairi Sinclair. For a time, when she was little, she was aware of people’s expressions softening whenever she came into a room. That stopped a few years ago, though, as memories dimmed and incomers took root. But the past couple of days, since old Mrs Drummond died, she’d felt there was something in the wind, and she suspected it was about her mother. She would come into a room and her gran and granddad would suddenly stop talking. They actually looked guilty and she sensed they’d been talking about her. She had done nothing wrong—that they knew about anyway. If they’d got wind of anything, they would’ve given her a lecture, whether it be about boys, or drugs, or sex, or generally all three. She’d helped out in the shop below their flat a couple of times and she’d seen some of the older folk give her that look. The pitying one.

  The bell rang and snatched her from her thoughts. She could feel the relief surge around the class that the torture was over. Chairs scraped on floor tiles, books were shoved into bags and young voices that had been grounded for nearly an hour of tedium were able to take flight again. Mrs Calder said something about reading, but Sonya paid her no heed. She hated history and any intention she might have had of spending further time reading about eighteenth-century laws that meant absolutely nothing to her fluttered from her mind as soon as she stepped into the corridor. It wasn’t a big school, so the din of pupils being let loose for lunch wasn’t that great, but it was loud enough that she didn’t hear Gus call her name. He caught her arm and said it again.

  ‘Sonya,’ he said, ‘hang on a minute.’

  ‘Gimme a break, Gus,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

  The entire school population, including the primary school, was around 250 pupils, most of whom were now converging on the cafeteria, so Sonya didn’t want to get trapped at the back of the queue.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but what about tonight?’

  Despite his six-foot frame and his rugby muscles, Gus looked like a wee boy as he stood there with his neat blond hair and expectation burning in his blue eyes. She knew it was an act, but she liked it all the same. She decided suddenly, just as she always did.

  ‘Aye, I’ll meet you. Any of the others coming?’

  She saw something in those eyes, a hesitation. He hadn’t planned on inviting any of their pals. ‘Maybe, I’ll ask around. Maybe Alisdair will drive us.’

  Alisdair McGovern was an older boy, a friend of Gus. He helped out on the estate and had his own pick-up truck.

  She smiled and turned away. ‘You do that. I’ll speak to the girls, too.’

  She left him alone then, her grin widening. She had no intention of telling anyone, but she loved tormenting him. Sylvia waited for her at the double doors leading to the cafeteria, her face hard as she glared at Gus. Get over it, it’s not the end of the world, Sonya thought, then instantly felt guilty. She didn’t know how she’d feel if a boy dumped her as soon as she let him in.

  As they shouldered their way through the doors, Sylvia asked, ‘So you going to meet him, then?’

  ‘Haven’t decided,’ Sonya lied.

  ‘He’s a bastard.’

  Sonya didn’t say anything. She picked up a tray and took her place at the end of the queue. Gus had held her back too long, it’d be ages before she reached the food. She pursed her lips in irritation and leaned against the wall, watching the other pupils edge along the line. Sylvia did the same.

  ‘So what do you think of the news?’ she asked.

  ‘What news?’

  Sylvia stepped away from the wall to stare at her friend. ‘You mean, you haven’t heard?’

  Sonya gave her a slight shake of the head. ‘Heard what?’

  Sylvia looked guilty, her hand darting to her mouth. ‘Shit, I thought you’d have heard.’

  ‘Sylvia, if you don’t bloody tell me what the hell you’re going on about you’ll be wearing this bloody tray.’

  ‘That guy . . .’ Sylvia began.

  ‘What guy?’

  Sylvia stooped a little and lowered her voice. ‘That guy. The one who . . . well, the one who was accused of, you know, your mother.’

  Sonya felt something cold take hold of her. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t believe they haven’t warned you. If I’d known I’d never have said nothing.’

  Sonya spoke very slowly. ‘Sylvia, what about him?’

  ‘He’s coming back. To the island. For his mother’s funeral.’

  All thoughts of food left Sonya’s mind, as a deep chill settled on her body.

  9

  Portnaseil stretched upwards and out from the harbour as if someone had carelessly thrown it at the land. The harbour itself was a stone finger curving into the Sound, as if beckoning the vessels to port. Private leisure vessels, a mixture of power
and sail, populated the harbour now, the masts of the latter bobbing at anchor like a floating copse of trees.

  The most concentrated part of the town was what the islanders called the Square, bounded by the Stoirm Hotel, the town hall, the old police station (now an arts and crafts centre), the general store and post office, and a bank which had shut its doors two years before—all built of grey granite imported in the late nineteenth century from the mainland. There were more modern buildings, one housing the much smaller police station, a health centre and the library, another a hair salon and a butcher. The road climbed uphill from the Square through the scattered houses, some brick, some stone, some wooden, towards the single main road that ran the length of the island from north to south. There was no pavement, and very little street lighting, apart from around the Square and at the harbour.

  Rebecca waited for the ferry staff to give her the all-clear to walk down the gangway. She felt a thrill of anticipation at finally setting foot on the island. There was something else, too, a voice breathing over her in the faint breeze. She liked to think it was saying Welcome home, Rebecca but it could just as easily have been saying Go home.

  She leaned on the guardrail, her suitcase at her feet, and scanned the scene before her. Portnaseil itself, the mountain that towered above the western coast, the hills that undulated towards it. She looked south, where the land flattened out into a patchwork of fields and bristles of woodland. The coastline was peppered with a succession of cliffs punctuated by tiny sandy coves, bays and inlets.

  Stoirm wasn’t one of the largest of the islands on Scotland’s west coast, but it certainly wasn’t the smallest. It covered an area of just over 400 square miles, narrowing in the middle like a waist before widening out again. As such, it was slightly larger than Islay to the south but not anywhere near as vast as Skye to the north. At the last census it had a population of around 3,000 people, but that was five per cent down on the previous findings. In the summer, visitor numbers helped swell the figures but not as much as the communal coffers would like. Rebecca knew there were plans to rectify that—the distillery producing the peaty whisky for which Stoirm was once famed, the sporting estate, the conversion of the big house into a hotel. These were the facts she had gleaned from her swift research the night before, but there was so much hidden, so much she didn’t know. She heard the voice on the breeze again, still could not tell if it was a welcome or a warning.