So when Fraser managed to sleep, he dreamed of murder. And he waited for the right time.
Rachel
Rachel heads down towards the harbour at a quarter to four. By then the sun has come out and the wind has dropped, and the island is suddenly looking emerald-bright and sparklingly dramatic against the dark rainclouds heading further out to sea.
There is no sign of the boat. The quad is parked at the bottom of the slope, the way it was yesterday when she arrived, but Fraser is not with it. She goes across to the other side of the concrete jetty, to the tiny white sand beach, striped with black skeins of seaweed. At what must be the tide mark she comes across bits of rubbish and starts to pick them up, remembering vaguely that beach cleans are part of her job description and she might as well, while she’s waiting. One of the washed-up items is a blue plastic bucket with a huge crack running through it – she can use this to collect the other bits and pieces. A shred of carrier bag, one of the flimsy green and white striped ones that the corner shop used to provide; a toothbrush, tin cans, the lid from a tub, a broken bottle, a silver crisp packet; a single flipflop with the thong part of it flapping loose. She looks at it for a long time, wondering who wore it and how far it has travelled to get here, and where its partner is, then it goes in the bucket along with everything else.
Distantly she can hear an engine; she turns back to the jetty and sees Fraser standing there, rock-solid, arms crossed over his massive chest. He is facing out to sea. The boat is coming.
She climbs back up on to the concrete and puts the bucket down beside her. ‘Do we have somewhere to dispose of all the beach rubbish?’ she asks.
‘Aye, those metal bins,’ he says, pointing to the end of the jetty. Two tall metal containers that look more like grain silos. ‘I try to sort through what’s recyclable. Stick your wee bucket over there beside them. I’ll have a look after we’ve sorted this lot out.’
The boat is chugging towards them between the rocks. Rachel feels weirdly elated, seeing it again. A day has passed, her first day, and she’s survived it.
The boat’s engine is killed abruptly and the Island Princess drifts up to bump its fenders against the jetty. A man – Rachel guesses he’s one of the birders – throws the rope across to Fraser, who hauls the boat closer before tying it up. Robert is at the stern, throwing a second rope on to the jetty and then jumping off and making fast. On board, the men are gathering backpacks and camera bags and passing them to Fraser, who is creating a pile. Robert holds out a hand and helps them on to dry land. Rachel feels a sudden twist of nerves that she tries to swallow: this is her moment. Don’t fuck it up.
‘Hi! I’m Rachel,’ she says, shaking hands. ‘Welcome, hi. You got everything?’
She shakes hands with all of them and desperately tries to remember who fits with the names she memorised this morning. Steve, Daniel, Roger, Eugene, Hugh. Roger is tall and thin and looks like a solicitor. Eugene has a grey beard. Daniel looks like a student, the youngest by quite a way. Hugh is good-looking, late forties, looks as though he could be a TV presenter. Steve – she tries to think of something to link to him. Looks like he might be someone’s uncle. That doesn’t really help; they could all be someone’s uncle, apart from Daniel.
Robert stops her briefly and hands over a Morrisons carrier bag. She glances in it: a bottle of Febreze, and a box containing a vanilla reed diffuser. She wrinkles her nose at it – vanilla? – but then realises she probably looks really ungrateful. ‘Thanks, Robert! I appreciate it.’
‘Nae bother,’ he says. ‘See you Friday.’
Fraser has been helping the birdwatchers load the trailer; now he passes her on the jetty and goes to talk to Robert for a moment.
‘Have you guys all been here before?’ Rachel asks Steve.
‘Oh, aye, many times,’ he says.
Hugh the TV presenter – maybe something daytime, like an antiques show, or property – chimes in. ‘It’s going to be quite odd having you around,’ he says. English accent. ‘Not that we mind, of course, now that we’ve met you!’
‘I’ll keep out of your way as much as possible,’ she replies, trying for a warm smile.
‘Don’t worry on my account, hen,’ says Eugene, looking at her chest. ‘You keep us entertained all day, if you feel like it.’
‘Right,’ Rachel says, glancing back towards Fraser and suddenly glad that she’s not staying in the bird observatory with this lot.
Fraser hasn’t heard what Eugene said to her. He and Robert are deep in discussion, heads together. She tries to read Fraser’s expression. In that moment he looks up, across at her. She’s not being paranoid. They’re talking about her.
Fraser
‘Got something,’ Robert says to him, and Fraser recognises the tone of his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Been on the news again,’ Robert says. ‘And then there’s this.’
He hands over a newspaper, folded in half. It’s not the front page but a column somewhere inside: he has folded the paper so that it’s on top. One year on: search for missing man ‘still a priority’, say police.
‘Fuck,’ Fraser mutters.
Robert could say something pacifying – it doesn’t matter, don’t worry about it – but they are good friends now. Everything that has passed between them is cemented by this. They have a connection, one of just a few words spoken, twice a week. On his visits back to the mainland, Fraser will go for a drink with Robert and even then they will say very little; they will sit with their pints and watch whatever sport is showing on the TV above the bar. But sometimes connections run so deep there is no need for conversation.
Fraser folds the paper again and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, glancing up towards the quad bike, and Rachel. The birdwatchers have already started up the hill, leaving Rachel behind. She should be with them; what’s she waiting for?
‘How’s she doing? The lassie?’
‘Aye, not bad so far.’
‘Did you think she’d no’ last the day?’
‘I did wonder.’
‘And she’s still here, right enough.’
‘She’s got more spirit than you’d think.’ He looks back at Robert, who’s got a strange sort of smile playing about his lips. ‘What?’ he asks, feeling something rise.
‘Maybe she needs to watch out for you,’ Robert says, playfully.
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘She’s no’ worried about that, then?’ He nods towards the newspaper, tucked under Fraser’s jacket.
Fraser knows instantly what he means. He looks up the hill. Rachel has set off, following the birdwatchers. She has nearly caught up with them already.
‘I’ve not had a chance to tell her,’ he says.
‘How come?’
‘Just hasn’t been the right moment. Maybe tonight.’
‘You didn’t want to tell her in case she took a fit and left?’
‘Something like that.’
He shakes Robert by the hand again, and loosens the rope at the bow. Robert unhitches the stern and jumps aboard while Fraser holds the boat steady. The engine rattles into life, a dull roar penetrating the quiet of the harbour. He coils the rope and tosses it on to the deck as the boat eases back into the channel. Robert waves, and then looks behind him to guide the boat out into clear water.
He fires up the quad and overtakes the group on the way to the bird observatory, unloading the baggage while he’s waiting for them. There is nothing he can quite put his finger on, but the place looks different already. It’s spotlessly clean and tidy, and it smells of something spicy. Clearly she has deployed the slow cooker already. The birdwatchers are lucky bastards, he thinks; he hopes they appreciate the effort she’s gone to.
He thinks about waiting for them to catch up, to check that Rachel is all right, but the longer he stands by the quad, the more the newspaper in his pocket is pulling at his attention. He wants to be alone so he can read it properly, take in what it says. He doesn’t wan
t Rachel to ask.
This is the problem, living with someone. What if they ask you things, a direct question? You have to reply, don’t you? You have to tell them the truth. Even when you haven’t admitted the truth to yourself.
Not for the first time, he curses Marion and thinks the same thought all over again: he was better off alone.
Rachel
The kitchen is clean and tidy, everything washed and dried and put away. Her guests are sitting in the main room, thick-socked feet pointing at the woodburner or resting on the coffee table that she wiped this morning, and they are all talking about counting schedules and lists and who is going to do what tomorrow. She hears the names of birds she recognises but couldn’t pick out of a bird identity parade, so she’s kept quiet. They asked her a few questions, earlier, about whether the puffins have arrived (she hasn’t seen one yet, although apparently they have been seen on the water offshore) and something about razorbills that she was not able to answer.
She had some help from Steve in setting the table – in the end she left him to it – but other than that they have ignored her, talking animatedly while she brought out the chilli and the big pot of rice, and some garlic bread. They ate it quickly, all of it, leaving her wondering if the portion size had been too small, even though she had followed the recipe that was supposedly enough for six and had thought it looked like enough for eight people.
Steve had offered her a vote of thanks to which they’d all murmured some sort of assent, but that had been it. She had collected the plates and washed them up, as usual wondering whether the environmental impact of using the clean water to wash up the dishes was less than using the dishwasher. She was pretty certain washing up by hand was better. She would ask Fraser, later.
Once the kitchen is clean she asks Steve what time they’re planning to have breakfast. They have a little huddle to consider it and the answer comes back – eight. They’ll be going out first, before dawn. It’s easier to count birds in silhouette against the sky. She sets the breadmaker to finish at six, asks Steve to get the bread out then so that it will be cool enough to cut when they’re ready for breakfast. He shrugs, already engaged in a different conversation about a bird they saw here last year, which some of them are disputing. Rachel wonders if the bread will be left to go soggy in the breadmaker, starts to worry about it, then stops herself. It’s their lookout if there’s no bread for toast.
Now she heads outside, pulls up her hood because it’s raining, turning on the torch and keeping it trained on the rutted path ahead of her. It would not be good if she missed her footing and collapsed a puffin burrow – and in places she is not that far from the sheer cliff face. Two hundred feet down, to the surging white waves, the rocks below the surface.
She can hear the noise of the water crashing far below her, then the roar of the wind as it picks up and the rain gets heavier and drives against her face. She struggles to stay upright. It has got very dark very quickly, thick black clouds, and rain heavy enough to make it difficult to see. She has to hold the hood of her jacket over her head to stop it blowing off, and it takes all her concentration to stick to the path, worrying about being blown over the edge and down to the sea below.
It’s terrifying, and cold, and she is just thinking she can’t stand it any more when her feet slide out from under her and she slips down the hill on her bottom, while she screams into the wind and throws out her arms and tries to clutch at passing tufts of slippery grass, trying to slow her descent.
At the bottom of the hill she crashes into a soupy puddle, her knee twisted awkwardly underneath her. She lies there for a moment, gasping with shock, her fingers clawing into the grass, trying to assess how close she is to the cliff edge. She is crying now, howling because of fear and tiredness and the humiliation of sliding down the hill, even though nobody was there to see it. She can see her torch a few metres further on where it has rolled to a halt against a tussock of grass, and when she crawls over to retrieve it she realises that it’s a good thirty feet or more to the edge. Then her tears turn into a hysterical sort of laughter because she’s still alive, and the water and mud has soaked through to her skin.
She’s twisted her knee and it hurts, a bit, but otherwise she’s all right. Nothing broken. She’s in the little valley, the last one before the lighthouse; it’s more sheltered than on the top of the cliff, although it’s really dark now. To her left the path turns down towards the harbour. It’s just a few minutes’ walk up the next hill to the lighthouse.
In the hallway she peels off layers of wet jacket and boots. From the kitchen comes the rich scent of some sort of meat cooking.
‘What the fuck?’ Fraser says, from the kitchen door. ‘What happened to you?’
There is no mirror anywhere, and that’s probably just as well. Her jeans are covered in mud, her hair plastered across her face, dripping down on to her sweater. She pushes it away and her hand is gritty – she has just smeared mud all over her cheek. ‘I slipped.’ She sniffs.
‘You all right?’
‘Twisted my knee, but it’s not too bad. I’m fine.’ Her voice sounds high and quavery, the noise of the wind still ringing in her ears.
He’s looking at her with an odd expression on his face. She hasn’t forgotten the ominous threat that he wants to talk to her.
‘You want to go and get dry clothes on?’ he says. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’
Rachel goes up the stairs, trying not to limp. But by the time she reaches her room the shock of the fall has caught up with her, and her hands are shaking so much that she can’t unbutton her sodden jeans. She lets out a sudden, gasping sob, and then another, and eases herself to the floor because she doesn’t want to make the bed wet, and rests her face in her hands and cries, and cries.
In the end she manages to get her breathing under control. In for five, out for seven. It takes a while. Shuddering sobs keep catching her out.
She washes her face and has a go at putting on some makeup using the little bathroom mirror, but if anything it makes her look worse. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, her cheeks bright pink and scoured from the wind, and the rain, and the peaty mud she rubbed into herself. Finds some clean leggings and a hoodie.
Deep breath. Down the stairs, into the kitchen.
Fraser looks at her.
‘What?’
He doesn’t answer. Shakes his head, putting down two plates. Some spicy-sweet lamb casserole thing. Couscous. Salad.
‘How are your new guests doing?’ he asks.
‘They thought the bird observatory looked hilarious.’
‘Oh, aye?’
She was sure they hadn’t meant any harm, but there was something disconcerting about the way they’d hooted at the bed linen and the towels, at the little vase on the windowsill that she’d placed there to break up the lines of the room (planning to put flowers in it if she ever finds any big enough to justify picking). They hadn’t said anything about the chilli, good or bad. It was still a little too salty, she had thought, tasting a tiny bit just before she served it up to them, by which point it was far too late to do them jacket potatoes anyway.
‘I guess they’re used to it being more rough and ready.’
‘They’ve had it that way for years,’ he says.
‘And they still keep coming. Clearly they didn’t mind it how it was. I’ve no idea why I’m here, really,’ she says.
She’s chewing, and trying not to think about how much her knee is hurting, when Fraser’s massive hand deposits a glass tumbler containing a fingerful of amber liquid on the table in front of her.
She looks up, but he’s not looking at her. He sits down at the table with a second glass.
‘Thanks,’ she says. Her voice sounds horribly hoarse.
‘You don’t have to keep thanking me,’ he says. ‘I’ll just assume you’re grateful. Let me know if I piss you off, or if I say something that upsets you. Right?’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Sorry about … it wasn’t you. I’m j
ust tired.’
She finishes her plateful and takes a swig of the whisky. It burns her all the way down but it’s just right, rich and warm and with notes of toast and burnt caramel.
‘Is this the one I brought?’ she asks. She’d nearly said Is this my dad’s? but stopped herself just in time.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Nice stuff.’
‘It’s good,’ she says.
‘You like your whisky?’
‘My dad likes it. He makes us do a tasting thing every Christ mas.’
They both take another swig. For the first time, she meets his eyes.
‘Makes everything a bit less bleak, I find,’ he says.
‘I guess it does,’ she thinks.
She hasn’t had a drink in nearly a year. Or, no, a bit less than that. Because for a few weeks at the beginning she had drunk quite a lot. Lucy didn’t know about that, of course. Would have had an absolute fit if she had.
She takes a deep breath in. ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘What?’
‘Earlier. You said “we’ll talk later” or something.’
‘Oh. Right.’
She thinks he looks nervous. She has a bad feeling suddenly. He’s going to say that he can’t have her here after all. She’s going to have to be sent back.
‘So,’ he says, ‘there’s something I should have probably told you.’
And then there’s a noise behind her, and she looks around at the doorway and there’s a man standing there, and Rachel jumps out of her skin.
4
Lefty
Fraser
Lefty strolls into the kitchen and instantly Fraser wants to kill him. Talk about timing.
‘Is this her?’ he asks, pointing at Rachel.
You, Me & the Sea Page 8
