Rebecca knew that to be fanciful nonsense, but she paused to listen all the same. All she heard was the waves and the booming and the occasional screech of a gull. She followed Chaz towards the water’s edge, stepping carefully on the slimy seaweed until she was close enough to feel salt water on her cheeks as it sprayed off the nearest rocks. Chaz slid his backpack off and took out his camera.
‘Do you mind if I take some shots of you? I seldom get the chance to have someone to act as a focus here at the bay.’
She gave her permission with a wave of one hand and he began to snap as she studied the cliff faces in more detail, for the first time becoming aware of a myriad of nests resting on ledges and in fissures, some with birds sitting in them, their white feathers like tiny snowflakes against the grey of the rock. A few small but hardy bushes, and even an adventurous tree, bristled the face of the crags and near one she saw what looked like a large bed of heather, with no other nests nearby. She turned to Chaz and pointed. ‘Is that a nest?’
He moved to her side, reaching into his bag and pulling out a pair of binoculars. ‘That’s where William and Kate live.’
‘I’m assuming they’re birds and it’s not a Highland retreat for the royals.’
He focused the twin lenses on the nest. ‘White-tailed eagles,’ he said. ‘Sea eagles. The largest bird of prey in Britain. They were extinct from early last century but they were reintroduced in a limited way in the ’70s and ’80s. There are a few breeding pairs on the islands now, including William and Kate. Their names change regularly, with whoever is in vogue. I expect it’ll be Harry and Meghan soon.’ He lowered the binoculars and scanned the skies again. ‘I like to come out here regularly to check on them, make sure they’re okay. They’re protected, but people steal the eggs, sell them. There are people who pay good money for them, I don’t know why. Some of the crofters, in particular your pal Carl Marsh, don’t like them. They say they take lambs, but that’s never been proved.’
Rebecca squinted against the light. ‘Is there one in there now?’
‘No, you’d know it if there was, even without the bins. They’ve got a wingspan of about eight feet.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Yeah, that’s why they call them the flying barn doors.’ He scanned the skies around them again. ‘They must be out hunting. They eat fish and seabirds. Rabbits, too.’
‘And you keep an eye on them?’
‘Not just me. There are a lot of us on the island who protect them, take it in turns to keep watch. We’ve got a camera hidden away up there, trained on the nest, but we still like to come out and physically check. Most Stoirm islanders are proud of them.’
‘Was Mhairi one of the watchers?’
‘I have no idea. I mean, I assume there were watchers back then, but I’ve no clue whether she was one. Why? Is it important?’
She shrugged. ‘I was just wondering why her last words were of this place. What did it mean to her?’
‘Perhaps it was the old legend, about it being the gateway to the west for the spirits of the dead. They come here to wait for the boat to take them away. These stories were fed to the older islanders with mother’s milk and some of them come here after a funeral to say goodbye. They throw the wreaths into the water and if they float out then the spirits have gone. If they wash back in, then the deceased still has business here on earth. The islanders have a saying—only the wild creatures and the dead are at home in Thunder Bay.’
Rebecca thought about this, then dismissed it. ‘No, from what little I know of Mhairi she was too level-headed for that.’
Chaz snapped another frame. ‘You never know. She was near death. Views change when you’re about to shake hands with the devil.’
She smiled at him just as he clicked the shutter again. His speech patterns were a constant surprise. ‘Shake hands with the devil?’
He looked down at the back of the camera, clicking through the photographs he’d taken, a slight laugh rippling as he did so. ‘My grandfather used to say that. When you die you shake hands with the devil. Sometimes he lets go, sometimes he keeps hold and you never get free. The thing is, according to the legend, Mhairi’s spirit would come here but it wouldn’t leave.’
‘Why not?’
He reviewed the shots he’d taken. ‘She died violently and her death remains unavenged. She could be tied to the land until the person who killed her is dead.’
‘Did her people come here to throw flowers into the sea after the funeral?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ He looked up at her, proffering his camera for her to see. ‘That’s a nice shot of you. Your face changes when you smile.’
She didn’t really like looking at herself in photographs but she had to admit it was a good one. Then she realised what he’d said. ‘What do you mean, my face changes when I smile? Are you saying I’ve got a face like a bag of nails at other times?’
He gave her the bashful look she’d seen before. ‘No, not at all. It’s just you have a nice smile, that’s all.’
She gave him another one. ‘Thank you.’
He took the camera away and busied himself with the setting, his face reddening. She wondered if he was hitting on her. Sometimes she wasn’t sure about these things.
‘Funny thing about my grandfather,’ he said as he raised his camera and pointed it in the opposite direction—still too embarrassed to look at her, she thought. ‘He was born a Catholic but never went to mass, didn’t take communion, didn’t go to confession. For as long as I knew him he said he was an atheist. All a load of fairy tales, he’d say. But here’s the thing—when he was in hospital, in his final days, he asked for a priest.’
‘There are no atheists in foxholes,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but my point is, maybe Mhairi knew it was the end. And maybe all the stories about Thunder Bay came to her. And that’s why she said it.’
‘But she’d know she would be trapped here, maybe forever.’
He shrugged and started snapping again.
She looked at her surroundings with renewed interest. Rebecca recognised Chaz’s theory was a possibility as she looked around the bay, hearing the surf exploding against the rocks and the boom echoing in the caverns, as if someone was beating a big drum slowly. She felt spray hit her face and didn’t find it unpleasant, not with the sun shining. On a dark night with the storms raging in from the ocean and that same spray striking flesh like sharp, tiny pellets she might think otherwise. As Chaz concentrated on his photographs, she thought about the legend. She half closed her eyes, hoping for some form of supernatural vision: a dark-haired woman standing alone at the water’s edge, where the surf hissed on shingle, staring out to sea, waiting for a boat she could not board, to give her rest she could not have.
When the figure refused to manifest, she turned her back to the water and scanned the rockfaces around her, her hand raised to shade her eyes from the sunlight. She froze when she saw two people on the edge of the rim, looking down at them.
‘Chaz, can you give me the binoculars?’
‘Sure,’ he said, unhooking them from around his neck and handing them over. He followed her line of sight as she raised them, but the two figures stepped away out of sight before she could focus properly.
‘Did you see them? Two men?’ she asked.
‘Just as they disappeared. What’s the problem?’
‘They were watching us.’
‘So? Could be anyone. Visitors. A couple of crofters.’
She shook her head, still scanning the rim for another glimpse of them. ‘No, I’m certain one of them was Carl Marsh. I’m sure I saw that cap he was wearing.’
Chaz frowned, his own hand now cupped over his brow as he squinted against the sunlight. ‘Wouldn’t put it past him, right enough, to spy on us.’
Rebecca lowered the binoculars. ‘I thought there was someone in his Land Rover when he spoke to us earlier but couldn’t be sure. Now I am.’
‘Carl isn’t in the habit of buddying
up with people. And he has no real friends that I know of. Which is a surprise, given he’s such a delight.’
Sawyer, thought Rebecca. Keeping tabs on her. Had to be. She’d seen him talking to Marsh the day before. They knew each other. She wondered what the former detective feared she would find out.
A gust of wind sent a sound echoing from the rocks and then carried it away. It sounded like a scream, like someone dying in agony. Then Rebecca heard another and she saw a gull hovering above them, studying them to see if they were carrying food. She smiled to herself.
The island was getting to her.
21
Deirdre Marsh stood naked before the full-length mirror in the bedroom staring at the dark shadows on her flesh. Her body was a patchwork of bruises, her arms and ribs taking the brunt of it, and yet last night’s session had not been the worst she’d ever had. Her face, though, was clear. Carl never hit her face. A tremor of pain radiated through her when she gently touched the largest discolouration, on her upper arm. That’s where he had kicked her, once she was down. The first blow, immediately after she had set the mug on the worktop, had been to the stomach. When she doubled over, he swept the legs from under her and pushed her to the floor, where he kicked her once, twice, three times. She lost count after that. He was clever, though, he was oh-so-clever. The kicks were pulled, enough to hurt, enough to bruise, but not enough to do any lasting damage.
Each punch and kick had been accompanied by snarls and insults.
Look at you, look at the state of you.
Punch.
Thinking a younger man would be interested.
Punch.
It’s pathetic, you’re pathetic!
Punch.
You’re mine.
Kick.
Always mine.
Kick.
I’ll kill you before I let you go.
Kick.
Kill you.
Finally he left her on the vinyl flooring her tears failing to wash away the agony that surged through her body. He picked up his mug of tea, the tea she had made him, and left her there while he sat in the living room. The parlour, he called it sometimes. An old-fashioned word that harked back to a more delicate time. If ever there was a more delicate time. She heard the TV coming on and she visualised him sitting in his armchair, calmly sipping his tea as he watched the news. Eventually, she hauled herself onto all fours and then finally, carefully, onto her feet, hands reaching out to the sink to steady herself. She stood there for some time, her breathing harsh and stuttering, as she forced herself to take command of the pain and the rage and the shame. She could do it. She’d done it before.
And then, under the voice of the newsreader, she heard another noise.
Carl.
Weeping.
Alone, in the living room, the TV murmuring world events, the tea she had made still warm in the mug, his wife wracked with agony in the kitchen from his blows, his kicks, his insults. And he was crying softly to himself.
There was a time when she would’ve gone to him. She would’ve gone to him and he would’ve apologised and promised to never do it again. That had been early on in their marriage and she had believed him. Things would be fine between them for a while, until the next disappointment in his life, until the next time he was drunk and lost an argument in the pub, until the next time he suspected she was looking at another man. Then he would lash out, sometimes a single blow, sometimes more than one. And always he would go into a room alone and sob. In that respect he differed from her father. Ben Lomax had never regretted his violence towards his wife and daughter. To him it was natural. It was his right. Moving from her family home to be with her husband, Deirdre had believed it was the natural order things. The way it was.
Until Roddie.
She moved gingerly into their bedroom. She didn’t take off her clothes, she didn’t have the strength and couldn’t face the fresh pain the act would cause. She lay on top of the duvet, not under, because he would come through eventually and she didn’t want to be that intimate. Her dressing gown hung on the corner post of their brass bed, so she reached up to unhook it, wincing as the pain radiated from her ribs and arms, and draped it across her body. She lay on her back, dull agony a restless bedfellow who kept her from sleep. Occasionally the beams of a car’s headlights crested the slight hill a little down the road and caught the window, sending the crossbars of the frame swinging across the ceiling like a flying crucifix.
She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, eyes staring, her mind willing itself to vanquish the pain, to thrust it down, deep down within her, where the rest of it lived. Carl came into the room eventually, undressed silently and climbed into bed beside her. She edged a little away from him, the idea of physical contact, even through the thick duvet and her protective dressing gown, disgusting her. He didn’t try to touch her, though. He kept his distance. He rolled over on his side, his back to her.
‘You know I love you,’ she heard him say.
She didn’t reply.
‘Why do you make me do it?’
Now, as she stared at herself in the mirror, she thought about his words. Did she make him do it? Did she somehow goad him into erupting? She had been looking for Roddie at the meeting the night before, she had to admit that, if only to herself. She had been with him, on this very bed, fifteen years before. Carl didn’t know that. He might suspect it but he didn’t know for certain. Other times they had taken a room in a boarding house down on the southern end of the island. Deirdre would drive down there, they would spend the afternoon together locked away in the safety of that anonymous little room, and then she came back in time to make Carl’s dinner. She thought she had been so clever about it all, but Carl heard a whisper, that was all it took, a snigger behind someone’s hand, a knowing look when Roddie’s name was mentioned, and that was it. He never had any real proof, but he didn’t need it.
She and Roddie had talked about leaving the island together, starting a new life. Sure, there was a difference in their age—she was twelve years his senior—but that didn’t matter to them. She loved him and he loved her. But then along came Mhairi Sinclair. As she stared at herself in the mirror, her anger rose. All that cow had to do was bat her eyelids at Roddie and he was off with her like a panting puppy. She’d discarded Donnie Kerr; now she was onto Roddie, and the next thing he was shacked up with that bitch. Didn’t he know she was a little slut? That she’d screwed her way through all the eligible men in Portnaseil? But Roddie had loved her since they were kids, he told her. He was sorry but it had always been Mhairi.
Mhairi, Mhairi, Mhairi. Beautiful little Mhairi, poor little Mhairi, with the brother dead from drugs and the father of her child looking then as if he was going the same way. She simply tossed that thick dark hair of hers and got everything—everyone—she wanted. She would’ve dumped Roddie, too, sooner or later. If someone hadn’t killed her.
Deirdre carefully pulled on a blouse and jeans. She applied her make-up. She fixed her hair as best she could. She hadn’t been to a hairdresser for too long, should’ve made an appointment in Portnaseil but couldn’t. That would set Carl off again. He’d think she was doing it for another man. Especially with Roddie back home. No, she’d have to make do. She took her time because she had to look as good as she could. She knew she was trying to turn back time, but she had to do her best to recapture the woman she’d once been. When Roddie had wanted her. Before a further fifteen years of Carl Marsh had drained the life from her.
Roddie was back and she promised herself that she had taken her last beating.
She promised herself that a new life awaited her.
All she needed to do was see him.
* * *
The climb back to the clifftop was arduous and Rebecca’s calves, still suffering from the day before, protested at the abuse. By the time they reached the Land Rover she was breathless and, just as she had done after her walk to the kirkyard the previous day, she vowed to attend more assiduously to her fi
tness levels. Only this time with added sincerity. Chaz hadn’t even broken a sweat. As she sat on the baseboard of the Land Rover to catch her breath, the chill in the breeze now a blessing, Chaz handed her a bottle of water he’d fished out of his backpack. He even broke the seal for her, which was either him being polite or some kind of man thing, she couldn’t tell which. She was grateful, however, because she didn’t think she had the strength to twist it, let alone form words of thanks, so she took it with a nod.
Chaz placed his backpack carefully in the rear of the Land Rover, then asked, ‘So, where do you want to go next?’
Rebecca took a long drink and gently wiped her bottom lip before she answered. ‘Mhairi’s parents.’
Chaz’s eyebrows raised and he blew out his cheeks. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
He was uncomfortable with the idea. It wouldn’t be easy for him. It wouldn’t be a picnic for her, come to that, because of all the people to whom she needed to speak for this story, Mhairi’s parents would be the most difficult to approach. She had only been in journalism for a couple of years but one thing she had learned was that it was best to make such interview requests as early as possible.
She would leave the island behind when this was all over; Chaz, however, had to stay and face these people. Stoirm wasn’t that big that he could avoid them, she knew. ‘I’d be better doing this on my own,’ she said.
‘No, it’s okay, it’s got to be done.’ But she could sense he was squeezing the words out. He didn’t really mean them.
‘I think if two of us knock on that door it’ll really put them off.’
‘But they know me, won’t that help?’ Chaz quizzed.
‘It might, it might not. The fact is, you being there might put me off. Door-stepping is not an easy thing to do, believe me. You’ve never done it, I have, and I’m better on my own.’ She took another mouthful of water. ‘Believe me, Chaz, this is not something you want to do on your home turf.’
Thunder Bay Page 14
