by Lin Anderson
A young man came out of the boat shed, whistling. He didn’t see Rhona at first and stopped to gaze over the water to Knoydart. Rhona followed his gaze.
‘The view from Arainn Chalium Chille across to Knoydart has been described as the most stirring in the world,’ he said, acknowledging her presence. ‘That’s what they told me when I applied for the job at the college.’ His voice was low but definitely North Atlantic. ‘To be truthful, it was probably why I took it.’
Rhona did a quick calculation and came up with Cape Breton. The Gaelic College had strong links with a similar establishment in Cape Breton. Exchanges were commonplace.
‘I always thought the view from the cottage was even better than the view from the college.’
‘You know the cottage?’ He looked round at it affectionately.
‘I know it well. I lived here once.’
‘Then you’d better come inside and have a coffee.’
The last time Rhona had stepped through the doorway, she had been clearing the cottage of her father’s things. It had taken her a year after his death to do that. She had carted everything to Glasgow, given his clothes to a charity shop and stacked her shelves with his books.
Now the shelves in the living room were filled with books again. Rhona ran an eye over the Gaelic titles.
The young man brought her a mug of coffee from the kitchen and waved her to a seat beside the newly lit fire. He had made the room his own, but the old comfort was still there.
‘I’m Norman MacLeod,’ he told her, ‘from St Ann’s Bay, Cape Breton Island.’
‘Rhona MacLeod, sometime Skye, now Glasgow.’
They shook hands, laughing at the coincidence of their shared name.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since September.’
They talked about the Gaelic College and the resurgence in the language and culture of the Gaels. Her host was almost evangelical in his enthusiasm for the language
As she left, he recommended a new B&B five miles further on. Rhona had already made up her mind to head for Broadford, but let him go back to his desk to collect the leaflet anyway.
She turned back when she reached the car. Norman MacLeod had followed her progress and was giving her a last wave as she climbed in and drove off.
When she reached Broadford, Rhona drove straight through and headed on to catch the ferry at Sconser. She phoned the Raasay Post Office from the ferry terminal and asked if there was a room free. Mrs MacMurdo sounded surprised and delighted to get a visitor so early in the season.
The crossing took fifteen minutes. Rhona left her car and went up on deck to take in the view. Raasay House, Taigh Mor an teilean, ‘The Big House on the Island’, stood in the southwest corner, May sunshine washing its gracious facade with a golden light. On the slope of lush green grass that led to Raasay Sound, distant figures ran about as if in a game.
Andre had reminded her of its story. When the Raasay MacLeods chose to support the Jacobite cause, government troops burned down all homes on the island, including Raasay House, then set about raping the women and murdering the men.
‘It didn’t stop the local people smuggling Prince Charles Edward Stuart onto the island and off again in his search for a way back to France.’
‘Americans have a romantic view of Scottish history,’ she had retorted.
‘And you don’t?’
It was hard not to, once you were here.
Rhona waited in the car for her turn to drive up the ramp. She’d returned to the islands every time a major change happened in her life. Maybe that was part of the reason she was here now.
Instead of turning left for the village, she pulled into the ferry car park and fished out a card.
She texted Dr Lynne Franklin that, if the offer of a job still stood, she was open to discussion.
Chapter 17
They had been lucky to get this far unnoticed.
Spike looked up at the towering cliffs and tried to remember exactly where he had landed the dinghy the last time he had been here. He had escaped for a weekend’s fishing. Anything to get away from the rising tide of his father’s frustration and anger. Calum was ill again. While his mother walked the floor with his baby brother, his father cursed the genes that had given him such a sickly child.
The sun was sinking rapidly now and a snare of panic caught at Spike. He ignored it and pulled the rope towards him, curving the dinghy into the wind. The pebbled strip of shore hung under the cliffs. When he felt the bump as the rudder scraped bottom, he slipped over the side into the water thick with seaweed, so brutally cold he gasped.
Esther looked wan but she rallied as he began to pull ashore. She laid Duncan in the stern and plopped over the side to help him. The cliffs cut out the dying rays of the sun and Spike saw, despite her encouraging smile, that her lips were blue.
They pulled the dinghy as far under the cliffs as they could, then Esther lifted up the silent child and kissed his startled face. Spike hoisted the bags on his back, conscious of how far they still had to go before they could light a fire and get warm. His hands and arms were aching, a dull rheumatic pain that set his teeth on edge. He looked down at his hands, but they were mere shadows in the fading light.
Spike made Esther climb the steep path in front of him, worried she would slip and fall. She was bending to balance the weight of the baby, placing her feet carefully on the uneven surface. When they reached the top, they both fell into the heather and breathed in great gulps of air.
It took more than half-an-hour of walking through the twisted heather stems before they reached the corrie. Whoever wrote songs about marching through heather, thought Spike, had never tried to walk in the stuff.
Behind him Esther was humming a tune. It had worked like a lullaby, because Duncan was asleep, his face squashed sideways to her back.
They had been climbing since the cliff edge. Head down to negotiate the dull brown knots of heather, Esther had been unaware of what was unfolding around her. Spike waited for her to catch up so that he might watch her when she raised her eyes and took in where she was.
The first time he had found this spot, Spike had been almost blinded by anger and fear. He had left the house before he did something stupid. Before he smashed everything in that room. Before he hit the man he called father.
Then he reached this place.
The setting sun was throwing its last rays at the loch, staining the surface red. Spike watched Esther’s delight blossom, knowing how she felt.
A sudden lightness filled his heart, stirring him on.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come and see your new home.’
The blackhouse was surrounded by early grass, a green patch in a sea of brown heather. Once it had been a croft, with a family and animals and crops grown in the runrig system that still rippled the hill behind. Now only the lefthand section was wind and waterproof. Spike had made it that way on his various visits, and he’d brought food and bedding and fishing gear. At first it had been fun, like camping out. Then it became more serious.
He ignored the familiar fear that dogged his memory and went inside. The fire was set in the hearth, although the kindling looked damp. He substituted some windswept heather and drier sticks from the bunch in the corner.
When he lit it, the flames shot up in a wild crackle. He boxed the heather in with peats and went looking for Esther. She was sitting outside, watching the last light on the loch as if it would never return.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ she said and he knew she meant it.
Whatever happened now, he didn’t want it to happen anywhere else.
They stripped off and hung their wet clothes over a line strung between the beams near the fire. Spike pulled out dry clothes from the backpack, but Esther chose to wrap a blanket round herself instead. Duncan was already asleep on a bundle of heather, having gorged his startled face on two tins of baby food. Spike suddenly realised he hadn’t heard him whinge once since he’d giv
en him to Esther to look after. Having a mother was obviously a novelty he was enjoying.
Spike re-stacked the peats and told Esther he was going outside for more heather for the beds. She nodded, not taking her eyes from the glow of the fire.
The loch had descended into blackness, a dark crater under the navy sky. A curlew called to him across the water, a long cry that echoed around the walls of the natural amphitheatre. Spike stopped to listen, hearing his own cry in the bird’s lonely call.
He filled an old creel, killing time before he had to go back into the cottage. He sat down on a rock, glad he couldn’t see his hands in the darkness. The marks were getting more noticeable. Like Lady Macbeth, he couldn’t rub them off. He laughed suddenly and the echo threw itself back at him, a mocking hyena.
‘Spike.’
Esther was standing in the doorway, firelight shaping the blanket round her shoulders. He could see her clearly but she glanced about, seeing nothing in the sudden blackness.
‘Coming,’ he said, and lifted the creel.
She woke with a cry. Spike was still awake, but the haunting quality of the cry threw him into a panic. Esther’s mouth was moving quickly, babbling, answering some voice he couldn’t hear. Her eyes were blank, viewing another place.
‘Hey. It’s alright.’ He crawled towards her.
She turned, registering his presence.
‘They were there again,’ she said, her voice small like a child’s.
Spike put his arms about her, wishing he could squeeze the horror from her body. She shuddered and pressed her face against his chest.
‘Spike.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Never,’ he said, and meant it.
She breathed out against him, a deep sighing breath. When her face tipped up to look at him trustingly, Spike bent and placed his lips gently on hers.
When she fell asleep, he slipped his arm from under her head and stood up. In the faint light from the fire, Spike examined the body that had stupidly entered hers. His father had been right. He was an abomination. An abomination that should not be allowed to live and must never reproduce.
He crumpled to the floor in front of the dying fire. In the corner, the baby whimpered and a small fist waved in the air.
Spike buried his head in his hands and wept.
Chapter 18
Rhona spread the newspaper open on the bed. The article was front page news.
Police confirmed today that forensic tests on the human body parts caught in a fisherman’s nets in Raasay Sound and on two beaches on Skye, belong to a Polish fisherman reported missing from a factory ship. A spokesman for the MOD, who have a presence in the area, said this confirmed the truth of their denial that a British submarine had been involved in a fishing incident in Raasay Sound.
The photograph of Phillips next to the article showed him to be perfectly relaxed about the MOD’s version of the truth. For a brief moment Rhona contemplated the notion that Phillips might be speaking in good faith. After all, she had told no one officially about the ReAlba tattoo, not even Bill Wilson.
No. The reaction of Phillips to her announcement of the name MacAulay had been too strong a signal that the Ministry of Defence had another agenda. One she was not party to.
Mrs MacMurdo had already delivered tea and a morning paper, fresh from the ferry, and told her breakfast would be ready in fifteen minutes.
The plate was large and well stocked. No acres of empty white porcelain around a slither of bacon for Mrs MacMurdo’s guests. Rhona ignored the calorie and cholesterol count and tucked in. If she was planning walking detective work, she would need it. Besides, fresh highland air made you remember your appetite.
Mrs MacMurdo left her to demolish her traditional Scottish breakfast and reappeared with a fresh pot of tea directly Rhona placed her knife and fork side by side on her plate.
‘I’ll be busy now with the Post Office,’ she said, lifting the plate and encouraging Rhona to have more toast. ‘I never lock the door, so you can come and go as you please.’
Rhona thanked her and said something about a walk. Mrs MacMurdo nodded and asked her where on Skye she was from. Rhona wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t lived on Skye since she was five and her father only returned there after he retired, but the closer she got to home the more she suspected her voice echoed its origins. Once her parentage was examined and established, Mrs MacMurdo wished her a fine day and left.
Back in her room, Rhona mused over her life story as known by Mrs MacMurdo. Her father had been that nice man from Driesh Cottage, who died two years ago. He had only one daughter, she was in the Forensic Service in Glasgow.
‘Aye, your father was keen on the walking and fishing,’ Mrs MacMurdo had told her. ‘We’ve missed seeing him around here.’ She paused. ‘Still, it’s nice to finally meet that daughter he talked about so much.’
Rhona tried not to think about the number of times she had planned to come and stay with her father for some fishing and walking and had failed to do so, usually because of work.
You’ll be glad you weren’t here last week,’ Mrs MacMurdo went on. ‘The place was swarming with police from the mainland trying to find the rest of that poor soul’s body.’
She pointed at the newspaper on the chair beside Rhona. ‘Now they’re saying it was a Polish fisherman from one of those big factory ships.’ Mrs MacMurdo did not look convinced. ‘Of course, with all those tests you do, I’m sure you know more than the likes of me.’
Her landlady didn’t wait for a reply but hurried off to answer the bell from one of her Post Office customers.
Rhona was inclined to agree. Unless there was an active branch of ReAlba in Poland, the foot had not belonged to a Polish factory fisherman. It might suit the MOD to support such a story, but Rhona wasn’t in the business of making up identities for dead people. And neither, normally, was DI Wilson.
One thing was certain. If Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay had been part of the life of this island or one nearby, Mrs MacMurdo would be the woman to know about it.
Before she set off on her walk, Rhona checked her computer for emails. There was one from Chrissy, outlining what the official position was on the body parts and did Rhona want her to drop the tattoo bombshell?
An email from Sean had been sent from some downtown Cybercafé. Word on the street was that the jazz club, Sean, and by association, Rhona, had been set up. He asked if Rhona knew anything about a Joe Maley who was rumoured to be running a west coast drugs business.
Jesus. Joe Maley. Sentenced to five years … Rhona counted up … approximately three years ago. That was one prison release either Bill Wilson had missed or else had chosen not to tell her about.
And Maley certainly harboured a grudge big enough to set the heather on fire. It was she who had stood in court and provided the evidence that put him away. A forensic examiner finding particles of cocaine on the money his club was laundering didn’t help his case. No one believed his innocent plea. His expensive lawyer wasn’t expensive enough. Maley’s fancy eating place on Byres Road disappeared and he went on the prison payroll.
But how could Joe Maley know that by trying to stitch her up he was playing into the hands of the MOD?
The conspiracy theory was taking over, Rhona decided. She was like that girl on the Glasgow Underground, muttering away to herself, obsessed with being watched. Paranoia on legs.
Rhona switched off the computer and lifted her jacket. What she needed was a good dose of West Highland air to clear her brain.
Early sunshine was shifting the mist and across the water the black topped Cuillin rose like a mirage. Rhona felt unexpectedly happy to be out of the city and on the islands once again, despite the circumstances.
She left the house, shutting the door carefully behind her. Mrs MacMurdo waved out of the Post Office window and Rhona was left in no doubt that the current customer was learning who the latest Bed and Breakfast guest was.
Rhona left the vil
lage and followed the path that ran north through woods. After a while she passed an ancient broch with part of the walls and galleries still standing. Inside, there was nothing but time and the sky above. People had lived, loved and died on this island for centuries. Now there were only scattered desolate ruins as a reminder of their lives.
When she reached the southern slopes of Dun Caan, she sat beside a lochan and ate the sandwiches Mrs MacMurdo had given her. It seemed ridiculous to be eating again only two hours after a breakfast fit for two men.
Rhona didn’t care.
She lay back against a hillock and closed her eyes.
The sun was warm on her face but a cool wind skimmed the surface of the loch. Somewhere in the far distance a boat chugged through the water. Rhona sat up, thinking it must be the ferry ploughing between Raasay and Skye but it was east of her, moving up the Inner Sound towards the deserted shielings of Screapadal. She pulled out her binoculars and had a look. A woman lay on the deck taking in the sun and a man stood on the bow pointing his binoculars in her direction. Rhona waved in case he had spotted her, then watched the yacht mooch past, keeping close to the cliff as if looking for somewhere to anchor.
Beyond the boat, dark clouds were slowly creeping in from the east. Climbing Dun Caan, she decided, would have to wait for another day.
By the time she reached the tar road, the rain was sweeping in and the waterproof jacket was sending drips down her trouser legs and into her boots. When the jeep drew alongside, Rhona accepted the lift without pausing to gaze up from under her hood. Halfway in, she realised who her Prince Charming was. Norman MacLeod gave her a North Atlantic grin and turned the windscreen wipers to a higher speed.
‘The Post Office?’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. I’m headed for the ferry anyway. Were you climbing Dun Caan?’
‘Halfway.’
‘You didn’t say you were coming to Raasay.’ His voice had taken on a semi petulant tone that irritated Rhona slightly. What business was it of his?
