He’d miss the island. He’d miss its funny little ways and the fact he could turn a corner and find a new bit of history or mythology. He’d miss the way the past still lived in the stone and breathed in the hills. But it was time to move on. Time for the next great adventure . . .
Headlights filled his rear-view. Some idiot had them on full beam and the reflection seared his eyes, so he twisted the mirror away slightly. Whoever it was behind him was really travelling and was right on his tail. It was another Land Rover, he could tell that. Then they turned on an array of spotlights on top of the cab and the interior of Chaz’s vehicle exploded with light. Even Alan, whose eyes had been closed, became aware and twisted round in his seat, one hand raised to block the harsh glare.
‘What the fu—’ he said.
And then they felt the first bump. It wasn’t much more than a nudge, but it was clear the vehicle behind had hit them. It pulled back then and Chaz gently depressed the brake, hoping they would pass by, but the big 4x4 barrelled towards them and bumped their rear once more. The Land Rover lurched forward and both he and Alan jerked backwards with the force of the blow. Chaz fought with the wheel, as it wiggled out of control.
The vehicle behind fell back again. The lights receded, so Chaz hit the accelerator and sped on, eyes darting to the rear-view. The vehicle had slowed and its lights vanished when he topped a rise in the road and dropped down the other side.
‘Who the hell was that idiot?’ Alan asked, his voice shaking.
Chaz didn’t answer. He had a suspicion. Only the moron squad would be reckless enough to do something like that. They’d probably been getting themselves all hopped up on something since the news of Carl Marsh’s death. They idolised that man, Chaz never understood why. On the other hand, birds of a feather . . .
And then he saw the lights again, first the glow growing stronger as their Land Rover neared the top of the hill and then the full eruption as it careered towards them once more.
‘Dear God,’ he said softly.
He thought they were going to really slam into them this time, but why? What the hell was this all about? He rammed his foot down and surged ahead. The wind was stronger on this stretch of road and he felt it try to snatch control from his grip. He turned the wheel against it, kept the nose steady, glanced in the rear-view, saw they were almost upon them and they were faster and they were heavier: he had felt that with the first bump. But there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could turn to avoid them: on the right was a ditch between the road and open moorland stretching to the hills, on the left was a narrow verge that dipped sharply to the rocky coastline.
‘Chaz,’ said Alan, just as the vehicle steamed directly behind them, its lights burning, its engine the roar of an angry beast.
‘I know,’ said Chaz.
Then, just as Chaz braced himself for a ferocious crunch, it veered to the right and overtook them, the driver pumping the horn. They saw a couple of blurred faces grinning at them and heard whooping and jeering as the long wheelbase Land Rover dodged ahead of them. It veered in their path then zoomed ahead, the horn still blaring, until it rounded a bend and was obscured by foliage at the side of the road.
The tension eased from Chaz’s body and his grip on the steering wheel relaxed. He realised then that his knuckles ached from squeezing so hard.
‘Bloody idiots,’ said Alan, his voice trembling from the tension.
‘That’s why we call them the moron squad,’ said Chaz, shooting Alan a look. There came a smile in return, and though a pale ghost of a thing, a smile all the same. Chaz flashed his own back.
But then the smile died. Alan sat bolt upright and screamed his name as his hands shot out in front of him to slam against the dashboard. Chaz looked back to the road—he’d only looked away for a second—and he saw the other Land Rover ahead of them. He jerked the wheel and veered into the other lane, but the vehicle began to move as he drew level with it and swiftly picked up speed to run alongside. He glanced past Alan and saw the grinning face of the driver. The boy actually waved, as if saying hello. Chaz rammed his foot down on the accelerator to try to pull ahead but the idiots maintained their speed. The road twisted and turned as they neared the section overlooking the Seven Sisters. The needle edged up to sixty, which was as fast as Chaz dared go, even on a road he knew well. The idiots, the absolute bloody idiots! Both engines screeched as they jockeyed for position.
Chaz took his foot off the gas to let them push ahead. It would allow him to tuck himself in behind them. But the driver was ready for that and he did the same. Chaz hit the pedal, hoping he could gather enough velocity to surge beyond, but they matched him again. And then, just as they swerved neck-and-neck around a bend, he saw a set of lights coming towards him.
For a brief moment he didn’t know what to do. The speeding vehicle beside him didn’t give an inch, the lights ahead were hurtling his way.
He heard Alan say his name, quietly, almost a whisper, perhaps even a prayer.
He hit the brakes too hard. The Land Rover skidded on the road, slick with rain, mounted the verge and took off into the air before it plunged towards the rocks, the noise of its engine now the shriek of a terrified creature. Alan screamed his name once more as the jagged edge of one of the Seven Sisters rose sharply in the headlights.
38
A young police officer was waiting at the hotel, having been alerted by Ash about the theft of the laptop. Rebecca hurriedly explained that she had it back, no harm done, and brushed away his questions.
‘We need to find my friends,’ she said.
‘Miss, we need to deal with this report of a theft.’
‘No, you need to listen to me.’ Her voice hard with urgency. ‘My friends may be in trouble. There are people out there who may do them harm.’
The police officer smirked. ‘Miss, are we not being a wee bit dramatic here? What kind of harm?’
That pissed her off. ‘No, I’m not being dramatic. My friends Chaz Wymark and Alan Fields are under threat from the mor—’ She stopped herself in time. ‘From the young men who work for Carl Marsh. You know who Carl Marsh is, don’t you?’
His face hardened at her tone. ‘Miss . . .’
‘You need to listen to me. And you need to stop calling me Miss. My name is Rebecca Connolly and you need to take me to find them.’
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes searching for something that would guide his next decision. Thankfully, he found the right thing. ‘I’ve a car behind the station. Which way would they go?’
She peered now at the road ahead, hoping for a glimpse of lights, but the darkness beyond the sweep of the headlights was unbroken. The constable was a decent driver but Rebecca could feel the tug of the wind as he concentrated on his steering.
It was the rear lights they saw first, just a glimpse as they hit the top of a hill, lying on the rugged shoreline to the left, then the police car’s beams picked out the dim outline of the Land Rover wedged against one of the Seven Sisters. Rebecca was out of the car before it had even come to a complete standstill. She ignored the cries of the police officer telling her to wait, she barely registered the woman standing beside a dark-coloured hatchback, her mobile phone in her hand, already calling for help. She slid down the steep drop and stumbled around the jagged boulders, her feet in turns scraping and slipping on the slimy rocks, the constable still calling to her to stay away, that it could be dangerous, but all she wanted to do, all she needed to do, was get to the Land Rover. Chaz’s Land Rover. Music blared from the radio, something operatic, something sad and tragic and moving. The engine turned and clicked while steam from the crushed bonnet floated into the falling rain. The 4x4 had slammed into the tall column of rock and sat at an oblique angle, its rear passenger wheel perched on a smaller clump of rock. The passenger door hung open and she climbed up onto a boulder to peer in, her footing precarious thanks to the rain, salt water and seaweed.
Alan was hanging in his seatbelt, but he was conscious. He didn
’t even look at Rebecca, as her head appeared over the edge of the Land Rover’s floor. He had Chaz’s hand clasped between both of his as he whispered to him.
Drip
Rebecca moved slightly, hanging onto the door for support, and saw Chaz was unconscious behind the wheel.
Drip
Alan kept whispering as he raised one hand to brush Chaz’s hair away from his forehead.
Drip
Liquid hit metal. Blood, draining from Chaz’s wounds. A steady, rhythmic drip, like the ticking of a clock, like the clicking of the engine. Rebecca stared at the young man, so motionless, so pale, the wheel against his chest, skewered by the shard of bodywork that pierced his side.
‘Chaz,’ she said, and then couldn’t think of anything else.
Alan didn’t look round. He kept saying something as he fixed Chaz’s hair. She couldn’t be certain but she thought he was telling the young man that he loved him.
She could hear the police officer on the radio, his voice urgent as he called for an ambulance.
‘Help’s coming, Alan,’ she said, feeling she had to say something. ‘Everything will be okay. Help’s coming . . .’
Alan didn’t acknowledge her. He ran the back of his hand gently down Chaz’s face and made a soft shooshing sound. When he spoke, he did so without turning, his voice gaping with pain. ‘Look what they’ve done, Rebecca. Look what they’ve done to my beautiful boy . . .’
She stared at him as the rain fell and the aria ended and the ticking in the engine slowed and died.
39
The clock ticked.
It sat on the tiled fireplace, an old-fashioned wooden clock, its rounded top sloping out to wings. Its face was plain, there was nothing ornate about it. Rebecca wondered if it had come with the manse or if it was some kind of family heirloom. But its tick was clear and strong and steady.
Very little sound reached her as she sat beside a warm log fire in this cosy little book-lined study in the rear of the house. Just the clock, rhythmically ticking time into oblivion, and the underlying crackle and hiss of the logs burning in the grate. She could hear the wind, of course; that had been a constant since the day before. It hadn’t seemed to have grown in intensity, though. It was now a backdrop to the island, shrieking and howling over land and water, surrounding the stone-built manse and probing for weakness in slate or render. But the building was a strong one: it had withstood such attacks before, and it would survive this one.
But inside the room, there was, above all, the clock.
Tick
Tick
Tick
The sound sent her mind flicking to the night before, perched on that slimy rock, the wind plucking at her clothes, the sea singing somewhere in the dark. The Land Rover’s engine winding down. The aria on the radio. Alan’s voice, talking softly to Chaz.
Tick
Tick
Tick
The blood dripping steadily onto the vehicle’s bodywork. The sound of car doors closing. Lights flashing. Voices calling out.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Time passing. A second, a minute, an hour, a day, a life. All in a moment. A single heartbeat becomes many, throbs for a time, then stills.
Tick
The clock’s heart wouldn’t still. Even if it did, someone could bring it back to life with a twist of a key.
Tick
You couldn’t do that with a human heart. Not her father’s heart. His heart was still and no one could wind him back. Carl Marsh. Mhairi Sinclair. Gone. Still. The child Rebecca had carried, that had been growing inside her. The clock ticks, once, twice, three times. No longer. Life goes on. The ticking continues. They were all lost in the silence between the ticks.
The door opened and Fiona McRae came in carrying a tray with a cafetière of coffee and cups. Cake, too. Chocolate. Life goes on. Coffee goes on. Chocolate is eternal. Rebecca thought of Maeve Gallagher and her tea ritual and her own clock, silent, dead. God, was that really only a few days ago? So much had happened since then. So many ticks of the clock. So many spaces in between. The dead space.
Fiona set the tray down on the little table between them and sat in the winged leather chair opposite. Under the tray, Fiona had been holding an old leather book, which she slid down beside her. She didn’t make any moves to pour as she stared at Rebecca, concern etched heavily on her kind face. She was pretty, Rebecca noted. She’d probably have been a very pretty young woman. She would’ve had to be to attract her father, for he was a handsome man. Except towards the end, when the disease ate at his once strong body and blunted his once sharp mind. One tick of the clock and he was gone before the next.
‘Have you heard how Chaz is?’
Fiona’s voice startled her, even though she was looking right at her. Her mind had been lost in the ambient sounds; the human voice seemed momentarily alien.
‘He’ll live, thankfully,’ she said. ‘The wheel had pressed against his chest but he was wearing a thick jacket, which helped. His ribs took some punishment. The bit of metal didn’t hit anything major. He’ll be off his feet for a while, may have to walk with a stick for a time.’
Fiona smiled. ‘That’s a relief. With all that’s happened in the past day or so we didn’t need another tragedy.’
Rebecca fell silent, the ticking of the clock filling her mind. She watched the second hand counting the day down. Chaz hadn’t fallen between the ticks. Chaz had beaten time. And she was thankful. Life went on.
‘Rebecca, are you sure you want to do this today?’
She focused on Fiona, saw her kind face was furrowed with concern.
Rebecca nodded. ‘I have to know,’ she said.
Fiona poured two cups of coffee from the cafetière. She cut two slices of cake, laid them on small plates. She placed one in front of Rebecca and set the cup beside it. She picked up her own cup and sat back, sipped, watched Rebecca closely. There was silence between them for a while. Except for the wind outside, moaning like a ghost. And the clock.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Rebecca waited, her mind still too numb to ask any questions. That young man, Gus, had said she had caused this. All this violence and death. Had she? She didn’t think so, couldn’t bring herself to think so. She didn’t make Roddie Drummond come back home. She hadn’t forced Carl Marsh to abuse his wife all these years. She had no hand in Donnie Kerr being beaten up.
But Chaz . . .
He was targeted because of her. If she hadn’t come to the island, he would never have been involved. He would not be lying in the hospital. His mother would not have been put through the shock of hearing about what had happened and the fear of losing her only child. Alan, although spared any lasting injury, would not have had to consider life without the man he loved, would not have had to consider the space between the ticks.
‘I’m leaving on the first ferry out of here,’ she said. ‘I never want to see Stoirm again, to be honest.’ She paused, looked directly at Fiona. ‘But I need to know.’
Fiona sipped her coffee, placed the cup carefully on the saucer in her hand and set them both down on the table. She sat back, crossed her legs, laid her forearms on the arms of the chair. The index finger and thumb of her right hand rubbed together, as if feeling the width of some invisible fabric.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Finally, she spoke. ‘That’s what your father said to me, the day he left. That he never wanted to see Stoirm again. He kept his word.’
‘So will I. But first I need to know. Why did he leave?’
Fiona was very still, just the finger and thumb swirling against each other.
‘Your father’s family came here from Ireland over a hundred and fifty years ago,’ she said. ‘The Connolly clan, they liked to call themselves, and they were part of a small religious group called the Blood of Christ. Three families came over originally, the Connollys, the Devlins, the Cloughertys, but they wer
e all known as the Connolly clan. A few more followed. Nowadays they’d be called fundamentalists but even that doesn’t cover how strict their views were. Basically, the word of God was the law and they adhered to it. Stoirm islanders always had one foot in Presbyterianism, the other in Paganism, and over the years they’ve tolerated New Agers and Wiccans but the Blood’s views were too strong even for them. Still, they were accepted as long as they kept to themselves up in their little clachan in the hills, which is what they did. I suppose you’d call them hillbillies in a lot of ways. There were stories, of course, of strange rituals, but frankly that was just stuff and nonsense. Fairy tales to scare the children over here on the east side of the island. Stoirm is fond of its stories. They were staunch Christians and they were a strong family unit, even compared to Stoirm families, whose bonds are all but unbreachable. Their views were extreme but there weren’t any sacrifices or blood rituals. That was all rumour.’
‘My father wasn’t religious,’ Rebecca said, her voice sounding hollow even to her.
‘No, he wasn’t. Their views tempered over the years. At first they married only one another—Connolly married Devlin, Devlin married Clougherty, Clougherty married Connolly and so on—but that couldn’t continue. Time passes.’
The clock ticks, Rebecca thought.
‘Things change. There was more contact with the outside world, or at least what outside world there was on Stoirm back then. Some people drifted away from the clachan, settled in other parts of the island, married outwith the clan. The Blood of Christ was watered down, you might say, with the blood of Stoirm, and frankly it was all the better for it. They abandoned the Blood’s tenets, adopted something more . . . flexible, shall we say? But your father’s family? They stayed true to their faith. Their numbers dwindled but there were still a few of them in the clachan. Even so, time took its toll and by the time your father came along, they still had their faith but they weren’t as deeply entrenched in it as their parents and grandparents.’
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