by Louise Welsh
‘Is Shuggie going to be okay?’
Magnus went into the kitchen and took the medicine tin from its place on top of a cabinet, where he had elected to keep it, back when Shug was waist-high.
‘I hope so.’ He opened the tin, found the paracetamols and pocketed them. ‘You did well today, Connor. Shuggie and I both owe you. You make sure you collect.’
Connor had followed him into the kitchen. He nodded uncertainly.
Magnus dipped a jug into the water butt by the door and took a clean glass from the draining board. ‘Anything you need, you come to me.’
‘I don’t need anything, Magnus.’
Magnus put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to collect straight away, but there’ll be a time when you need help. When that time comes, you call on me, okay?’
Connor’s eyes were wide. ‘How do you know?’
‘That’s the way life goes, everyone needs help sometimes.’ He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. ‘When your time comes around, come to me.’
‘Okay.’ The prospect seemed to alarm Connor. He took his windcheater from the back of a kitchen chair where he had hung it. ‘You’ll tell Shug I helped him?’
‘I’ll tell him.’ Magnus scanned the kitchen for something he could give the boy. The half-eaten rhubarb pie was still sitting on the table. He wrapped it in a dishtowel and handed it to the boy. ‘Do me a favour, Con.’
Connor stood by the door, one hand on the latch, the other holding the pie. ‘What?’
‘Don’t say anything to anyone about Shug’s accident.’
The boy gave a mute nod of his head and was gone.
Nine
It was Pistol who woke her, shoving his wet nose into her face while she slept. Stevie opened her eyes on his wide grin, his meaty breath. She made a noise of disgust and the dog’s head darted forward, welcoming her back to the world with a lick that narrowly missed her mouth.
‘Get off.’ She pushed him away. The springy grass that carpeted Cubbie Roo’s Castle had made a good mattress and she had slept more deeply than she had meant to. She looked at her watch. It was not yet two. She would easily make her meeting with Alan and Willow.
Pistol was not easily offended. He crouched down, a stray rock between his front paws, and barked for her to throw it.
‘You’re a pest, Pistol.’ Stevie was still wrapped in the tartan blanket, like some highlander of old, swathed in plaid. She disentangled herself, sat up and lifted the rock above her head, ready to send it over the remnants of the tower. That was when she saw Belle, sitting on one of the ruined walls, watching her.
Belle’s long hair hung loose, framing her face. It seemed blonder than it had before; the colour of corn-stubble left by the harvest. Their eyes met, their gazes held. Stevie froze, her throwing arm still aimed towards the woman. She saw Belle’s damaged pupil move beneath the cloudiness, like an imp trapped inside a bottle. It focused on Stevie and she realised there was still some sight in it.
Pistol barked and the spell was broken. Stevie corrected her aim. She threw the stone in the opposite direction and the dog bounded after it.
‘He’s not much of a guard dog.’ Stevie wondered how long Belle had been sitting there, watching her sleep.
Belle was wearing a pair of leather trousers and a black, slash-neck mohair sweater. She looked spare and strong, a rock-chick Valkyrie.
‘He checked me out and decided I was okay.’
‘I’m not sure that’s his call.’ Stevie got to her feet and brushed herself down. She had tucked the rucksack beneath her head, as a pillow. She lifted it and slung it in Belle’s direction. ‘I brought you a few supplies.’
‘Thanks.’ Belle’s smile made the clumsy gesture seem ungracious. ‘The boys will appreciate it.’
‘You’re all still healthy?’
Pistol bounded back and dropped the stone at Stevie’s feet. It was a game he never tired of.
Belle grinned, ‘Fit as your dog.’
Stevie lobbed the stone. ‘But brighter, I hope.’
Belle shrugged. ‘The three of us have done all right since we teamed up. Whether it’s due to luck or intelligence … who knows? How about you? How did you end up here?’
It was the way people got to know each other, telling the story of their survival. Some told it lightly, compulsively. Others were more guarded, though whether their reluctance was due to trauma or shame was not always clear. Stevie knew it could be difficult to trust people who kept silent about their escape from the Sweats and the chaos that had followed, but she preferred to forget her last days in London. It was not just that the memories were painful. During her flight she had discovered a talent for violence that she would rather remain buried. She started to fold her blanket.
‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘We’ll manage.’ This time Pistol dropped the rock at Belle’s feet. She threw it in an arc, out into the green scrubland, and turned her gaze back to Stevie. ‘Are you in a hurry?’
Stevie felt an unexpected urge to tell Belle about Willow and Candice, the hatred the woman held for the child she had once begged to take care of. She set the folded blanket down on the grass, and sat on the square of tartan.
Stevie glanced at her watch again. ‘Not really. I’d like to know how things are out there. The only news we get comes from the occasional newcomer, or people who venture out to trade. We’ve not heard much recently.’
Belle looked out to the sea beyond the islands. Stevie followed her gaze and saw white gulls floating on air pockets; an advance of white horses breaking against the shore.
Belle said, ‘I can see why you stay here. It’s beautiful.’
‘It’s not to everyone’s taste.’
‘I guess not, but an island is safer than the mainland. At least you have an idea of who’s around.’
‘We didn’t see you coming.’ Stevie wondered why everything she said to the woman sounded churlish.
‘We sailed into your harbour in full view.’
It was true. The trio had made no effort to conceal themselves. Stevie wondered again why she mistrusted them. She said, ‘What happened to your eye?’
Belle smiled, as if amused by the boldness of the question. ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’ For a moment it seemed that this was all she was going to say, but then she lifted her fingers to the scar on her face, as if touching it might help her tell its story. ‘I joined a group of travellers called the Kinfolk.’ She smiled. ‘I guess it sounds less sinister than The Family. We were sick to death of death and so we tried to have a good time.’ She shrugged. ‘Or maybe we were just trying to drown our misery by making a racket – drink, drugs, sex, the usual stuff. Sometimes we came across other groups. Usually it was an excuse for a powwow and a piss-up. But then …’ She faltered.
The sound of the gulls and the rhythm of the sea grew louder, carried on a gust of wind that bent the grass and raised goosebumps on the back of Stevie’s neck. A horsefly landed on her wrist. She slapped it away and prompted, ‘But then?’
‘But then we met some people who weren’t so friendly.’
Stevie had her own experiences of the post-Sweats world beyond the islands and so this time she did not ask what had happened. Instead she said, ‘How bad was it?’
Belle looked towards the sea again. Pistol was chasing something across the fields, snapping at the breeze. ‘Bad enough. They were organised.’ She met Stevie’s eyes. ‘Has Magnus told you about the place where we met?’
Stevie shook her head. ‘He’s never talked to me about it.’
‘Let’s just say, it was fucked up. But one good thing it did was to put me on my guard. The Kinfolk suited me. I smoked ganja, snorted the odd line, drank whatever was going and joined in the dancing and the singsongs round the campfire, but I was always armed and always prepared.’
‘Sounds dangerous.’
‘It was reckless, but I reckoned the only way to stay alive was to be prepared to die. We weren’t a bunch of peaceful
hippies. We’d faced-off people we didn’t like the look of before, but the group who joined us that night seemed okay. There were less than a dozen of them. Mainly guys, but there were a few women too.’ Belle tore some long strands of grass from the hillock and started to weave them together. ‘Looking back, that was what made it seem okay, there were women too. We partied around the campfire, drinking and swapping survival stories, like we usually did when there were newcomers. People drifted off to bed in the early hours. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I woke up to lights and shouting. I was in my boots and out of my campervan before I knew I was awake. It took me a moment to realise what was happening, then I saw that the group we had welcomed had been joined by other men, guys we would have pointed our guns at, if we’d seen them coming. They were rounding people up.’
A breeze caught Belle’s hair, lifting pale strands of it into the air. The same breeze caressed Stevie’s skin.
Belle said, ‘I had my gun in my hand, but all my shooting practice, all my boasts about fighting to the death, were useless. I stepped out of my van, some guy grabbed me from behind, snatched my gun and that was that.’ Belle’s fingers traced the white scar that puckered her lip and robbed her left eye of colour. ‘I got this the first time I tried to escape.’
Stevie knew agonies lurked in the gaps in Belle’s account, but some suffering was best left buried. She asked, ‘How long did they hold you?’
‘Too long.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Belle shrugged. ‘I used to spend hours talking about boys when I was a teenager, trying to decipher what a look meant, whether they liked me or not. But I never tried to make anyone like me as much as when we were captured. I wanted to belong to one man and one alone. I reckoned that way I had a chance of survival.’ She levelled her gaze. ‘I would do anything to survive.’
The statement sounded like a warning, but Stevie knew that whatever had happened to Belle could easily have been her own fate. ‘You survived.’
‘So far.’ Belle nodded, her expression serious. ‘So have you.’
Stevie got to her feet. ‘It’s an ongoing struggle.’ She put her fingers in her mouth and sent a high whistle across the fields, signalling to Pistol that it was time to go. ‘There’s a crisis with one of the younger members of our community. I should already have left.’
If Belle resented being the only one to tell her history she did not show it. She got up from her rocky seat, still keeping her distance from Stevie, and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.
‘I was rude to you last night, when you asked for news of the outside world.’
Pistol came haring over the wall. He dashed to Stevie’s side, tail flapping, delighted to be reunited. She clapped her thigh and he came to heel.
‘Impatient, not rude. We’ve heard tales of tribes forming, territories being claimed. I’d hoped some kind of order was reasserting itself.’
Belle’s expression was grave. ‘There is some kind of order, but not the kind I’m guessing you were hoping for.’
Stevie glanced at her watch. It was quarter past two. She had promised Alan that she would collect Willow from him at three, but she had a sense that this was the revelation Belle’s story had been building towards. ‘Tell me.’
Belle leaned against the remnants of one of Cubbie Roo’s walls. She looked past Stevie, southwards, where somewhere beyond the sea a new order was emerging.
‘The raiding party that took us wasn’t just in it for sex, or the thrill of the fight. The world is full of useful things that we might never be able to make again. The tribes are stripping and hoarding as many assets as they can. That’s what the raid was for. They wanted to make slaves of us.’ She met Stevie’s gaze. ‘You asked for news of how things are beyond your islands. They’re hellish and pretty soon that hell will be coming your way.’
Ten
Magnus woke into a grey-gloaming. He was slumped in a blanket, in an armchair he had dragged from its usual spot on the landing to the side of Shug’s bed. The chair was too big for the room and he was close enough to hear the boy’s breathing. Shug was awake, his eyes shining in the dying light of the day.
Magnus reached out and touched the boy’s forehead. It was cool with none of the clamminess that had worried him earlier. Shug flinched and Magnus took his hand away. He poured the boy a fresh glass of water and passed it to him.
‘Thanks.’ Shug raised his head from the pillows and drank.
It was the same room, the same bed that Magnus had slept in as a boy. The walls were still painted the same pale-blue his mother had chosen. Magnus had not wanted to change anything she had done. He took the glass from Shug and set it on the bedside table.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Crap.’ An undercurrent of belligerence was back in the boy’s voice.
‘Do you remember what happened?’
Shug pulled himself up, leaning his back against the headboard. His pyjama top was half unbuttoned, a juvenile scrub of hair bloomed on his chest.
‘I remember you helping me onto Jock. I thought Mira was there.’
Magnus was relieved that the dog had been returned to the land of the dead.
‘And before that?’
Shug looked at the wall.
‘I was worried about Willow. Candi and Bjarne are fighting all the time and Candi blames her. I thought maybe she could come and stay with us for a while.’ He wiped a hand across his eyes.
Magnus reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and then stalled. Shug would not want him to acknowledge his tears.
‘Did Bjarne do this to you?’
‘We’ve got a signal. If he’s home Willow half shuts her bedroom curtains. If he’s away she leaves them open.’
‘And the curtains were open?’
‘She mustn’t have had time to close them. I snuck in the back way, but Bjarne was waiting for me in the yard.’
‘I’ll kill him.’ Magnus’s words were low and resolute.
Shug’s voice was cracked, as if it had not just been his head that Bjarne had damaged, but his whole vessel. ‘Willow saved me.’
‘She got you into this, son. If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t be lying here now.’
His rifle was in its cabinet by the door. Magnus would take it with him when he went to see Bjarne, but it would be the Glock that he would point at the bully who had beaten his son. The gun he had found after his flight from Tanqueray House.
Shug was insistent. ‘If it wasn’t for Willow, Bjarne would have killed me. He jumped on me before I knew he was there. I’m fast, you know that.’
The boy was wiry but he was not fully grown and although they were not blood kin, he had inherited Magnus’s weakness as a fighter. He lacked what Big Magnus used to call ‘killer instinct’.
Magnus reached out a hand and laid it softly on top of the covers.
‘You dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’
Shug shook his head and frowned, as if the movement had pained him.
‘I stung like a midge, less than a midge, they leave a mark. He was killing me, but then Willow came out of the farmhouse and pointed a shotgun at him. Bjarne had me on the ground by then. He was too busy with his boots to notice her at first. Willow fired into the air and he paid attention. I begged her to come with me, but she told me to go.’
Magnus was not ready to concede any credit to the girl.
‘She should have stayed with you, made sure you were okay.’
‘You didn’t see Bjarne. If she’d moved that shotgun he would have been on me. I used my bike like a crutch. My head was swimming, but I just lent on the handlebars and put one foot in front of the other, like you used to tell me to when I was wee and didn’t want to walk any further.’ He looked up at Magnus, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Where did you find me?’
‘Halfway up the rise. I’d come looking for you, but it was young Connor who found you first.’ A feeling of foreboding had crept over Magnus as he listened to Shug�
��s account. He asked, ‘Did you hear another shot after you left the farmhouse?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The significance of the question did not seem to strike the boy. ‘Willow said she would hold him until I was clear.’
‘What about Candice?’
‘I don’t know where she was. She hates Willow.’ The hostility was gone from the boy’s voice. His eyes met Magnus’s. They were swimming with tears. ‘Dad, we have to get her away from that place.’
The word ‘Dad’ tugged at Magnus’s heart. He reached out and took the boy’s hand in his.
‘I’ll go first thing in the morning.’
He would get there at first light, use the element of surprise to humiliate Bjarne the way he had humiliated his boy.
‘Tomorrow’s too late.’ Shug pushed away the bedclothes and started to get out of bed. ‘I need to make sure she’s okay.’
Magnus grasped him gently by the shoulders. The boy tried to shove him away, but Magnus held him there, making the same soft, soothing noise he had used on poor Mira before he put her out of her misery.
‘I’ll go. On condition you stay in bed.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise, but you have to promise too, that you’ll stay where you are.’
‘I promise.’
Shug lay back on his pillows closing his eyes. It was as if he were a child again; secure in the faith that nothing could defeat his father. Magnus kissed the boy’s forehead and went downstairs to fetch his gun.
Eleven
The wind, which had rushed across the landscape like ghosts through a battlefield, died when Stevie was halfway to the main island, leaving her becalmed. Pistol ran a circuit of the boat, intrigued by their loss of progress. When he realised that they had not yet reached land he skittered his way down the steep steps to the cabin below, where he curled up on the bunk and went to sleep. Stevie knew she should take her cue from the dog and get some rest, but instead she took out her fishing rod, baited it and cast off into almost still waters. She sat watching the gently lapping waves, thinking about Willow and wondering if Belle’s story, about prisoners forced into scavenging gangs, was true.
The light was draining from the sky as she sailed into Stromness harbour. Candles flickered in the windows of the hotel bar and the sound of Brendan Banks’s banjo drifted across the quay. She felt premature nostalgia, an urge to hold on to that moment; the sinking sun, the music sparkling from golden windows. Stevie wondered if her time on the islands had been an interlude between episodes of violence. What was this urge to stay alive?
