Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Did you tell Hector where Roddie was?’

  He was back looking at Mary’s photograph. Lost again.

  ‘Mr Drummond,’ she said, her voice sharp, and he phased back to her. ‘Did you tell Hector Sinclair where Roddie was?’

  His eyes filled with tears and the hand that held the framed snapshot began to tremble slightly. ‘There’s only one end for blood secrets.’

  45

  Roddie Drummond didn’t hear Hector Sinclair behind him. He’d been standing at the water’s edge, his eyes closed, feeling the wind finger his hair and the spray striking his cheeks like bitter tears. His ears were filled with the rhythms of the bay. The surf. The crash of wave against rock. The beat of the current in the caves.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected to find here. Some kind of closure, perhaps. Or forgiveness. Or perhaps the glimpse of a familiar face etched against the spray and the surging waves. A figure, waiting for release.

  Mhairi.

  He missed her so much. He missed her every day. If he could turn the clock back he would change everything. He wouldn’t have come with Henry to the bay, wouldn’t have been embroiled with the Russians, and none of it would have happened. He would still be with her, he knew that. They would’ve raised Sonya and had their own kids. They would have been happy.

  He took a deep breath, tasted the salt on his tongue, felt the clean, pure island air fill his lungs. He wished it was enough to purge his soul of the toxins created by his life, of the things he had done, of the people he had worked for. Of the feelings of loss and remorse.

  Guilt.

  When his mother died he knew he had to come back to the island. He owed her that much. But he knew returning would open up wounds that had barely scabbed over. The hurt was never far away. The hurt and the shame for what he had become. The Russians had looked after him. They had hidden him from Sawyer—a change of name, a paper trail so convoluted no average cop could follow it. In return he worked for them. Bringing goods into the country. Transporting goods. Selling goods. People, drugs, weapons, drink, cigarettes, pirate DVDs, pornography. Anything on which they could turn a profit. He did whatever they asked, whenever they asked, out of fear and in order to make a living. He didn’t care very much what he did. As far as he was concerned he had died that night fifteen years ago, along with Mhairi.

  Someone said his name and he opened his eyes. Turned. Saw Hector Sinclair and the shotgun at his shoulder. Roddie should have been terrified but he wasn’t. He should have felt the need to run, to hide, just as he had the day before, when Carl Marsh had threatened him. But he didn’t. Instead, inexplicably, he felt something like calm.

  ‘You killed my lass,’ said Hector.

  ‘No,’ was all Roddie said.

  ‘Don’t lie. The time for lying is over. You killed my Mhairi.’

  ‘No,’ Roddie said again.

  Hector obviously didn’t believe him. The shotgun didn’t waver as he took a step closer, then another. Roddie stared into the twin barrels, still feeling no fear. He was tired. Tired of running, of hiding, of lying. His life, since he left the island, had been one of daily dread and mistrust, but since he’d been back he’d felt something else begin to steal over him. Something he hadn’t felt for fifteen years.

  Peace.

  Maybe this was where it was all meant to end. Not on a desolate piece of waste ground or in some dingy back alley in Glasgow, but here, in Thunder Bay, on the island.

  Home.

  ‘Then who?’ Hector said, the shotgun aimed directly at Roddie’s face. ‘If not you, then who? Tell me what happened. Tell me what happened that night.’

  Roddie closed his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it, to relive it. But Hector was Mhairi’s father and he deserved to know the truth.

  46

  Roddie Drummond

  Fifteen years earlier

  Mhairi was screaming at me. Every word seemed to be stoking the fury in her eyes. I tried to calm her down, aware of another presence in the room, listening to every word, watching every move. Waiting. Mhairi’s eyes frequently darted towards him, standing in the doorframe, as she raged.

  I’d seen her face set tightly when she’d arrived home to find us waiting for her, but she’d said nothing until she’d put Sonya to bed. Then she came into the living room and her fury uncorked. She didn’t care who could hear her. Her words were for him, too.

  ‘How could you be involved in such a thing?’ Mhairi’s voice had changed. The anger still snarled, but something else had joined it. Disappointment. And that was harder to bear.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I told her, one hand reaching out to her, but she stepped out of reach.

  ‘You’re bloody right I don’t. I don’t understand any of this. Drugs and crooks and people-smuggling. Ray dying. Donnie as good as. You and Henry involved in this . . . business. No, I don’t understand,’ she ranted.

  ‘It’s just this once,’ I assured her, glancing at the figure in the doorway. ‘Henry agreed to help his friend, that’s all. And he asked me to give him a hand. The money’s good, Mhairi, and we can use it, you know that . . .’

  Her eyes flashed again. ‘The money? The money’s good? What about those women? What’s good for them?’

  I couldn’t answer that. I’d ignored the truth of what Henry and his friends were doing—only concentrated on the benefits for him. And Mhairi, of course.

  ‘You can’t tell anyone, Mhairi,’ I had to say. It was important she knew.

  ‘You expect me to keep quiet? You expect me to be part of it all?’

  I saw our guest’s head raise slightly at this. Could tell the atmosphere was changing.

  I didn’t know how much English Tamaz knew, but I suspected enough to understand what was being said. I had to make Mhairi understand.

  ‘You’re not part of this, I am,’ I said. ‘You just need to keep it to yourself. You can’t tell anyone.’

  Her laugh was brittle. ‘Secrets. More secrets.’

  ‘Mhairi, listen to me. You don’t understand how important it is that you say nothing about this.’

  She followed my glance to Tamaz, studying him as if he had just arrived, even though we had been waiting for her to return with the child. ‘And what happens if I don’t?’

  Tamaz stared back at her, his expression inscrutable.

  I dropped another log into the grate; it had been well-seasoned and the fire was hot, but I felt the need to do something. The bark began to smoulder immediately. I had set it earlier that evening and Tamaz had ordered me to put a match to it while we were waiting for Mhairi. The big man felt the cold. That surprised me.

  I turned and looked at Tamaz again, the reflection of the flames dancing in his pupils the only sign of life I could see. The big Russian could have been a statue, he was so still.

  ‘Mhairi, please,’ I begged. I was starting to feel a little frightened by now. She didn’t reply. The look she was giving Tamaz was one I had seen many times. It was a challenge, a dare.

  Tamaz still bore his blank expression but I knew he was the last person in the world she should be goading. Sonya made a noise in the bedroom. A little moan as she slept. Tamaz heard it.

  ‘Go see baby,’ he said, but when Mhairi moved to pass him he stepped in her way and pointed at me. ‘No. You go see baby.’

  I didn’t move. Sonya moaned again. It’s just a little moan, I wanted to say. She does it all the time. But I didn’t speak. Tamaz stared at Mhairi. He looked calm.

  ‘Roddie?’ I could sense confusion in Mhairi’s eyes.

  ‘She won’t say anything,’ I told Tamaz. I moved to stand between the big man and Mhairi.

  ‘Go see baby,’ Tamaz repeated in his monotone, as if he was bored.

  Sonya had fallen silent again. ‘She’s fine,’ I said, the words trembling. ‘Let’s just relax here, okay? All of us relax.’ I held my hands out, one in Mhairi’s direction, the other towards Tamaz. ‘Mhairi, tell him you won’t say anything about what you saw.’
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  For a moment I thought she was going to continue to defy him, but then I saw fear overcome her outrage. She looked to the floor.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ I smiled at Tamaz with a confidence he most certainly did not feel. ‘We’ll go back, tell them everything’s fine. No worries, okay?’

  Tamaz didn’t move. He looked at me, blinked, then switched to Mhairi. She raised her eyes again and I saw quiet defiance.

  Tamaz gave her a curt nod. ‘Go see baby.’

  ‘Tamaz, mate, the baby’s fine, she just . . .’

  Those flat, emotionless eyes slid back towards me. ‘Go see baby. Or I go see baby. You choose.’

  ‘Don’t you go anywhere near her,’ Mhairi screamed, launching herself at the big man, but he merely folded his huge arms around her and pinned her against him. She struggled but wasn’t strong enough to break free.

  Tamaz looked at me again. ‘Go see baby.’ His voice was even.

  My heart thudded in my chest. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Do it now,’ Tamaz shouted.

  I caught Mhairi’s eye. I wanted to tell her it would be all right. I wanted to tell Tamaz that I was staying right where I was. I wanted to be man enough to protect the woman I loved. I wanted to be the hero of my own story . . .

  I slid past the Russian and moved into the bedroom. It was dark and it was cool and Sonya was sleeping soundly.

  I should have gone back into the living room. I should have done the right thing. I should have been there.

  I closed the bedroom door, sat on a small stool beside Sonya’s cot, stroked her head and spoke softly, soothingly, fearful I would wake her up, but needing to make some kind of noise to block out the sounds from beyond that closed door . . .

  47

  The present day

  Hector Sinclair listened in silence to Roddie’s words, the shotgun still pressed hard against his shoulder, the barrels sure and steady. He spoke only when Roddie told him about leaving his daughter alone with that man.

  ‘You could have stopped it.’

  Roddie had told himself that for fifteen years. He should have stayed. He should have done something. The truth was, even if he had, there was nothing he could have done. Tamaz was a big man and he had killed before, Roddie was certain. He could have called for help but before anyone arrived it would all have been over. Roddie might also have been dead. And perhaps even Sonya. He did not think the big Russian would baulk at killing an innocent child.

  He didn’t say any of that to Hector. The silence between them was filled by the tide hissing on the shingle.

  ‘You could have told the police the truth,’ said Hector.

  That was not possible either. As Roddie had cradled Mhairi’s head on his lap Tamaz had made it very clear: speak and it would be bad for his family. His mother, his father, his sister. They would suffer.

  But Roddie didn’t say anything of that to Hector either. There was nothing he could say, not now.

  The waves crashed against the rocks.

  ‘You didn’t kill her then,’ said Hector, lowering the weapon.

  Roddie shook his head.

  ‘But you were there.’

  Roddie nodded.

  ‘And you did nothing to stop it.’

  Roddie couldn’t deny it. The barrels of the shotgun were aimed at the seaweed between them and Hector’s attention was focused beyond the rolling waves of the channel to the open ocean, as if he was searching for a boat to come and take them both away.

  The water boomed in the caves.

  ‘She was my lass,’ Hector said, something fluid catching at his voice. ‘She was my lass and I loved her. Through it all, I loved her. I distanced myself as she grew older because I thought she was . . .’ He stopped, swallowed. ‘I thought she was a whore. Too much time spent with you and the rest of the boys. You weren’t with her for nothing. You were boys, she was a girl. She must’ve been giving you all something. That’s what I thought, that’s what I believed. And then she had Sonya and I knew it was true.’ His eyes welled and he tried to shake the moisture free. ‘But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t, not really. She was my lass and I loved her, but I never told her that. Never.’

  Roddie watched the older man’s body curve slightly, as if he was bending against the wind. The fingers wrapped around the shotgun loosened and his eyes, still seaward, were unfocused now. Time between them had stopped. The sea still surged, the wind still blew, the boom still echoed round the bay, but for them there was nothing but the memory of a beautiful girl who neither of them had loved enough to save.

  Roddie had felt at peace here on the island. Now he felt strangely free. At last he had told someone the truth. The truth will set you free, they say. He felt the weight of the lies he told back then lift from him to be carried off into the wind. He raised his head, saw the clouds sailing towards the land and beyond them a glimpse of wispy blue. Something large and dark floated above him, its wide wings languidly catching the air currents.

  For a brief moment he thought the boom was just the water pounding into the caves but then something slammed into his chest with a searing white heat and he found himself flying backwards to land with a splash in the surf. He didn’t feel much pain, not after the initial blow. The cold water ebbed and flowed around him, his life draining from him to mix with the bay. He stared at the sky, searching for the sea eagle, finding it soaring high above, large and wild and free, and wondered what it felt like to be that free.

  Maybe he would find out.

  Then he saw her face, leaning over him. Her beautiful face, untouched by age, her black hair curling down towards him. He raised a hand to touch her, but she was just out of reach. As it always seemed to be: when they were children, when she was with Donnie, even their time together had been too short. Perhaps now they could be together.

  We will never be together.

  He heard her voice, even though her lips didn’t move. He looked beyond her to her father, who was weeping uncontrollably, the shotgun still at his shoulder. Roddie understood. He would never leave Thunder Bay now. His death would be a mystery, another secret. Never spoken of. He would take Mhairi’s place as she moved into the west. He was responsible for her death: he hadn’t wielded the weapon but he was to blame. She could rest now, and he would stay. It was as it should be.

  He died then, his body lying in the surf, the waves of the Atlantic rolling in and catching his head, wafting it back and forward, as if he was nodding his assent to something that only he could hear.

  The waves rushed in and retreated. His head drifted with them.

  Back and forward.

  Back and forward.

  Back . . .

  48

  Rebecca stood on the quayside waiting for the signal to board the ferry. A knot of foot passengers clustered around her. She thought about those women, all those years before, coming to this jetty in ones and twos, their minders keeping a close eye on them. Donnie had explained that they had been lodged in an empty cottage for a few days, then taken across to the mainland and on to the cities. What had been going through their minds, Rebecca wondered, as they stared across the Sound to the mainland? Did they think they were heading for a better life? Did they know what awaited them? And where were they now? Their arrival on the island marked the beginning of something and it may not have been pleasant. Rebecca felt the same way. Her suitcase leaned at a lopsided angle against her leg, its wheel finally having detached itself as she’d bumped across the Square. She couldn’t help but see it as a metaphor for her time on Stoirm. The wheel had come off her life too, in a way.

  She had visited Chaz that morning. Alan was there and they had chatted for a while. Chaz was weak, but he managed to smile and even laugh. Alan helped, with a constant barrage of bitchy comments. Chaz would be fine, she knew. They would both be fine.

  She bade goodbye to Donnie, and even Sawyer. No one mentioned Roddie Drummond and what had happened at Thunder Bay. His death would remain a mystery, at l
east to the police. Natural justice had been served. It was an island thing.

  As she left the hospital she spotted a familiar figure heading in from the car park.

  ‘Lord Henry,’ she said, bringing him to a halt in the entrance. She saw him trying to place her and coming up short, so she helped him out. ‘Rebecca Connolly.’

  As recognition seeped in, his eyes became guarded. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve nothing to say to the press. I’m here to visit an old friend.’

  ‘Not sure Donnie is all that interested in seeing you.’

  He tried to brush past her, but she wasn’t letting him off that easily.

  ‘After all, you’re responsible for putting him in here.’

  That pulled him up. ‘I had nothing to do with what happened.’

  ‘Not directly, but we both know it was your people who did it. Perhaps not on your explicit orders, but when you unleash a man like Carl Marsh, who knows what might happen?’

  That careful look came back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do. I think you told Marsh to stop Donnie from causing any further trouble over your development plans. I think you gave him free rein.’

  He dismissed her with a wave of a hand. ‘You can’t prove any of this.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ she conceded and let him turn away before she spoke again, her words coming out before she even knew it herself. ‘Just as I can’t prove anything about Thunder Bay fifteen years ago. The night Mhairi died.’ He faced her again and she saw a shard of fear piercing the earlier wariness. That pleased her. ‘Oh, don’t worry yourself. I can’t print anything. But I know why she said “Thunder Bay” before she died.’