by Louise Welsh
‘Stupid, wee bugger.’ Affection coloured Magnus’s voice. He knew he should turn Jock around and make for home before Shug discovered he had been about to interfere, but relief kept him there, watching the boy’s progress.
Uncertainty touched him. Something was wrong. There was something about the way the boy was moving – a dissonance. Magnus had known Shuggie since he was a small child. He had washed, fed and clothed him, had comforted the boy from the nightmares that plagued him. Magnus had done his best to treat his childhood illnesses, including a bout of fever that had caused him to pray to God in a way he never had before. It was Magnus who had taught him how to sail a boat, skin a rabbit, and ride a horse. He was no longer privy to the boy’s every thought and desire, but he knew how he moved, how he pedalled his bike. It was not Shug who was forcing his way up the hill, fighting against the gradient as if his life was at stake. Magnus dug his knees hard into Jock’s side. He forgot that the horse was old and it was raining and hastened him into a trot.
Young Connor was red-faced and breathless, but he did not stop pedalling until Magnus and Jock were in front of him.
‘Magnus, you’ve got to …’ Connor’s breath overtook him and he bent against his handlebars, gasping for air.
Magnus dismounted and clutched the boy by the shoulders.
‘Is it Shug?’
Connor nodded.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s … he’s …’
‘Deep breaths.’ Magnus resisted the urge to shake the boy. ‘Point.’
Connor jabbed a finger, back in the direction he had come from.
‘Shug’s on the road … half a mile down … he’s hurt … I think maybe he came off his bike.’
‘You’re a good lad, Connor.’ Magnus was already clutching Jock’s reins, pulling himself onto the horse’s broad back. ‘Catch your breath and then follow me down. I might need a hand.’
The road surface was fractured, the descent wet and winding. Magnus talked to Jock, urging him on, but the old Clydesdale was wise enough to know that he would lose his footing if he went too fast and he took the path at his own pace. The rain had faded to a drizzle, but man and horse were both wet to their bones.
Shug was lying at the side of the road, his white jacket sodden and dirty. Connor had put him in the recovery position. Magnus mentally blessed the lad and the first aid classes Stevie Flint had insisted on.
He slid from Jock’s back and knelt beside the boy. ‘Shug?’ The rain had washed some of the blood from his face, but Magnus could see bruises blooming, dark and livid on his pale skin. One eye was closing and the bridge of his nose was swollen. ‘Shuggie?’
Magnus took the sodden scarf from around his own neck and wiped the boy’s face with it. He had experienced enough beatings to know the injuries were not the result of a bike accident. ‘Can you hear me, son?’ Shug’s good eye fluttered. Magnus slipped a hand beneath the boy’s head and raised him into a sitting position, unsure if he was doing the right thing. He ran his hands gingerly around the back of the boy’s skull, relieved to find that the only wetness there came from rainwater.
‘Dad?’ Shug’s voice was slurred.
‘Aye, son, I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll take you home.’
‘Is Mirabelle with you?’
Mirabelle, a black collie only ever known as Mira, had died six months ago. She had developed a growth on her chest. Eventually, when the dog’s suffering had grown too bad to bear, Magnus had taken her into the yard, given her a last hug and then shot her. There were plenty of puppies on the island, but Shug had refused to replace her and Magnus had not had the heart to force the issue.
He stroked the boy’s forehead. ‘She’s waiting at the croft.’
Magnus heard the zip of Connor’s tyres on the tarmac behind him and turned to look at the lad.
‘Shuggie’s had a nasty fall. I think he’s concussed.’ Magnus did not stop to question why he was pretending to go along with Connor’s assumption that Shug’s injuries were due to an accident. ‘I need you to give me a hand to get him onto Jock’s back and then make sure he doesn’t fall off. Do you think you can do that?’
Connor looked doubtful, but he gave a brave nod.
The rain had died and the sun was coming out from behind the clouds; its warmth felt like an insult.
‘Jock can’t carry my weight as well as Shug’s, but I reckon that together you’re still light enough for him to manage.’
Connor said, ‘Bjarne and Candice’s place is closer than yours. I would have headed there, if I’d not heard Jock’s hooves.’
Magnus gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. ‘He needs his own bed.’
Connor glanced at Shug. ‘Are you sure? He looks …’
Magnus’s voice became his father’s, hard and certain. ‘I know what I’m doing, Con.’
Connor nodded and went to help him.
Shug was heavy and slippery with rain and mud, but the old Clydesdale horse was patient and they managed to get him onto its back. Magnus gave Connor a leg up. He wrapped his arms around the injured boy and held on to the reins. Magnus walked beside the horse, ready to catch Shug if he began to slide off. It was a poor arrangement, but it would have to do.
Shug started to mutter something as they set off. Magnus looked at Connor. ‘What’s he saying?’
Connor leant forward, putting his ear close to Shug’s lolling head. ‘I can’t make it out. Something about Willow.’
Magnus had not known of Willow’s existence before the Sweats and had no idea of who her birth parents might have been, but he had always felt a sense of kinship with her. Willow’s dark skin and black hair had declared her the child of incomers, but Magnus saw no contradiction in that. His own great-great-grandmother was reputed to have come from Newfoundland, spirited back to the islands by Magnus’s great-great-grandfather after a whaling expedition. He had liked Willow and even imagined she might be the glue that kept Shug on the islands. Now he felt a hot stab of bitterness towards the girl. She was the reason Shug was in this state.
Magnus said, ‘Willow would do well to keep away.’
‘No, Dad …’ Shug’s voice was slurred but he was back in the land of the living. ‘Willow needs to come and live with us. Promise you’ll go and get her.’
Magnus would have promised to fly to the moon on Sid the Shetland pony, if he thought it would help the boy.
‘Aye, son, I’ll get her.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise on my life.’
Shug put his face against Jock’s neck and closed his eyes.
Seven
The rain was clearing as Stevie and Alan Bold left the old shop, dark clouds gusting away on the breeze, to reveal blue skies. Stevie stretched her arms out, enjoying the feel of the wind on her skin.
‘Sailing weather.’ Alan Bold’s hangover seemed to have lifted with the storm. He set a straw hat at a jaunty angle on his tangled fuzz of hair, as if he were preparing to promenade along a pier in Brighton or Torquay. ‘You should take a turn on the water. Get that woman out of your system.’
For a moment Stevie thought he was talking about Belle, then she realised he meant Candice.
‘I promised to collect Willow. Who knows what state she’s in? I need to get her settled at my place and start thinking about where she can live long term.’
Crows were strutting across a patch of grass outside the shop, looking for worms drawn to the surface by that morning’s rain. Stevie hated the birds. They had pecked the eyes from corpses, grown fat on their flesh. She touched Pistol’s head lightly, ‘Go, boy.’ The dog tore across the road and onto the bit of green, scattering the carrion.
Alan Bold watched the dog’s progress. ‘If you go now Bjarne will guess Candice is behind it.’
The same thought had occurred to Stevie. It made her uneasy but she shrugged.
‘That’s Candice’s problem.’
The deputy took a pair of Ray-Bans from his shirt pocket and put the
m on.
‘Not if Bjarne beats Candice up, or worse. Then it becomes everyone’s problem.’
Pistol trotted back to Stevie’s side, wagging his tale sheepishly, as if embarrassed not to have caught any crows. She gave his head a reassuring pat. ‘I’m not sure it’s safe to leave Willow where she is.’
Alan Bold shrugged. ‘If I go, Bjarne can’t see it as some feminist conspiracy. I’ll tell him Poor Alice has had a fall and needs someone in the house with her, in case she takes another tumble. I’ll make it sound like a temporary thing. After a week or so it’ll become a fait accompli.’
Stevie looked up at the sky. The sea would mirror that same sharp blue, frosted with foam. With the breeze behind her she could be on Wyre in less than an hour.
‘I don’t know …’
Alan Bold took his Ray-Bans off. ‘Is it because of what I said?’
Stevie raised her eyebrows. There was salt in the air. Her boat was waiting in the harbour, its sails ready to be unfurled. ‘Am I supposed to know what you mean? You say a lot.’
Alan Bold’s voice was impatient. ‘What I said about Willow coming to an age when men will find her attractive. I might have let my cock lead me into trouble a few times, but I’m not a paedo.’
‘I know you’re not. It’s a good plan, it’s just …’ Stevie let the sentence tail away.
‘Just what? You don’t trust me?’
She turned to face the deputy. ‘Why are you so keen?’
The sun was shining in Alan Bold’s eyes, shrinking his pupils to pinholes, but he did not replace his sunglasses.
‘It was me who found Willow, remember?’
Stevie remembered. It had been Alan who had coaxed the small girl from her hiding place beneath her parents’ bed. Stevie would have closed the door to the room to stop Willow from escaping, shifted the bed and grabbed her, but Alan Bold had insisted it was important the child came to them, rather than be captured. He had lain on his stomach, his eyes level with Willow’s, ignoring the stink of the rotting corpses on the mattress above, and had spoken softly to her until eventually she emerged, dirty and bloody into his arms.
‘I may be a bit of a prick at times, but I do have some sense of responsibility.’
Stevie glanced at her watch. Some of the islanders had let time go, but she was scrupulous about winding her Timex each morning.
‘Meet me back here with Willow at three. I want to know what’s been going on in that house.’
Alan Bold said, ‘You know what’s been going on. Willow has the hots for Bjarne and it’s threatening his marriage.’
Stevie shook her head. ‘Every time I start to like you, you say something like that. I can guarantee you Willow does not have the hots for Bjarne and even if she did, she’s a child in his care. That makes her out of bounds.’
The deputy looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. He was handsome in spite of his wild hair and unkempt beard. The kind of man some women thought they could tame.
‘I don’t need to be reminded she’s out of bounds, but you’re wrong about the other thing. Candice is right. Willow has set her cap at Bjarne.’
‘Trust me, Alan, that girl is not in love with her foster father.’
‘Who said anything about love?’
Alan Bold was no longer looking at her. Stevie followed his gaze and saw Lorna Mills. The teacher had finished her classes for the day and was walking home. She was wearing a cropped red jacket, tight blue skirt and high heels that had been on the cutting edge of fashion when the Sweats hit. Stevie wondered if Lorna had cherished the shoes all this time, or if they had belonged to a fashionable Orcadian. Most of what they wore had belonged to the dead, but it seemed wrong to look so good in their clothes.
Stevie said, ‘Willow is not in love, or in lust with him.’ But Alan Bold was already halfway up the street, hailing Lorna like a comic-book lothario. He drew level with the teacher and said something that made her laugh. ‘Three o’clock,’ Stevie called after him.
Alan Bold waved a hand in acknowledgement, but his attention was on Lorna and it looked as if he was shooing Stevie away.
Pistol ran the length of the boat’s deck, sniffing the briny air, trying to keep pace with the waves. A seagull swooped towards the boat and the dog made a lunge for it, his jaws snapping. The bird wheeled beyond his reach, its cry tearing through the rush of salt and wind like manic laughter. In the old days people had believed gulls were the souls of dead sailors and it was true that there were more of them since the Sweats had killed the world.
Stevie pulled her cap low and brushed a stray hair from her eyes. She would dock at the ferry port, in easy view of anyone who cared to look. She was still not sure why she was heading to the island, but experience had taught her that sometimes it was good to follow your instincts. The strangers had been on the fringes of her mind since their unexpected arrival. Perhaps seeing them would put an end to the pulse of curiosity that was making it hard for her to concentrate.
Pistol was dancing on his hind legs, barking at the gulls. She called his name and he ran to her, mouth open in a doggy grin, tail wagging.
‘Sit.’
He sank his haunches obediently, but the seagulls were too big a temptation to be easily relinquished and his backside hovered a fraction above the deck.
Stevie lowered her voice. ‘Sit!’
This time the dog obeyed her.
Belle’s yacht was moored by the ferry dock. The ferry itself was some way off, tipped at an angle; one half of its keel below the water, the other black and barnacled, exposed to the sky. Stevie slid her boat to the quayside and heard the rush of her vessel’s wake boom inside the half-sunk ferry. She snared a mooring pin, drew her boat in, secured it and hopped onto the quay. Pistol followed her, so close his feet padded in the dark of her shadow.
Before the Sweats, Stevie’s priorities had been sales commission, sex, nightclubs and clothes. Now she could appreciate a drift of light, a foam of waves, a sequence of starlings, flocking and fracturing and flocking again. Sometimes she wondered if she would always have become who she was: hard and lean, a practical woman. It was one of the cruelties of the pandemic. It made survivors doubt who they were.
Pistol was ahead of her, nosing in the grass beyond the quay. Stevie tucked her jeans into her socks and made a mental note to check the dog for ticks when they got home. She shouldered the small rucksack of supplies she had packed as an alibi and began to make her way towards Cubbie Roo’s Castle. The grass was long and tufted with tussocks that added a spring to her progress, but which Stevie knew had the potential to unfoot her.
The island was two miles long. It felt like a raft of land set on the ocean, the sky and sea fused into one element. During the fires she had sometimes camped alone here, on the far side, facing away from the main island and its plumes of smoke. The sea and sky had been a comfort to her then, their soft blues and greys an antidote to the hard red of the flames.
The castle was on a high mound, a climb from the shore. Pistol knew the way and bounded ahead, marking interesting scents; occasionally doubling back to check that Stevie was still with him. It had been grazing land before the Sweats, fields hemmed by wire fences, designed to keep cattle contained. The cattle were gone, the fences slumped and rusting. Once, according to the information sign that still stood beside the remains of the castle, a square tower had dominated the hill, but over the centuries it had been attacked by the elements and dismantled by crofters, who had their own uses for the stones the ancients had gathered. Only fragments of King Cubbie Roo’s fortifications were left, a windbreak rather than a shelter. Stevie liked it there. Raised up above the small strip of land, surrounded by sea and sky, she felt like she was at the centre of the world, king of the derelict castle. The farmhouse lay below her. Stevie had meant to spy on it, but instead she wrapped herself in the travel rug she had taken from the boat, lay on her back in the lee of the ruins and looked up at the sky.
Way above the atmosphere, in the space s
tation orbiting the earth, a discreet drama must have played out. She wondered again if the astronauts had succumbed to the Sweats or if they had run out of supplies; cannibalising each other or starving. Were they aware of the devastation taking place on earth? Or had communication simply stopped? She imagined them shaking each other’s hands and then going one by one into the airlock and flushing themselves into starry blackness. Surviving the first onslaught of the Sweats had been hard, but it had engaged all of her wits. Living beyond the catastrophe required a different kind of stamina. Perhaps that was why the newcomers had snared her attention. She was secretly longing for some danger to make life seem important again.
Pistol sensed that she would stop on the hilltop for a while and disappeared on an expedition of his own, hunting for voles and stoats; chasing gulls across the island. Stevie closed her eyes. She would lie there, soaking up the healing blue and green of Wyre and then leave, dumping the pack of supplies at the farm gate, without spying on the newcomers. There would be time later to learn more about Belle and her boys. One thing the post-Sweats world guaranteed was time.
Eight
Magnus told Connor to help himself to the rhubarb pie in the kitchen cupboard and settled Shug on his bed. He stripped his son and soaped his body with water warmed on the stove. The bruising was bad, but as far as he could tell there were no broken bones. It was the boy’s head that worried him. Shuggie was half in the present, half in the past. His ramblings slipped between Willow and Mira the dog, both of them beloved, both in danger.
Magnus put a cold compress on Shug’s head and took The Home Doctor, which had been like a bible to him when the boy was younger, down from its shelf. The book told him to give Shug some paracetamol and if symptoms persisted, to take him to hospital. Magnus bolstered the boy’s body with pillows to stop him from rolling onto the floor and jogged downstairs to the kitchen where he kept a tin of medical supplies.
Connor was standing awkwardly in the hallway. The boy had pie crumbs on his jumper and a purple-red splash of rhubarb juice on his face.
