Never Go Back

by Robert Goddard

‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘But that’s what your late National Service chum Mr Nixon said, of course. And the fellow who turned up a few months after his death … enquiring about the circumstances. He’d be about your age too. Name of—’

  ‘Lester Maynard.’ Pretence on the point seemed suddenly futile. ‘He’s dead as well. Natural causes, though.’

  ‘Aye, well, they claim us all in the end. Serve with him too, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In Aberdeen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course. In Aberdeen.’

  ‘Did you take Maynard to Haskurlay too?’

  ‘No. But some other skipper might have. It wouldn’a surprise me. Nor you, I suspect.’

  ‘None of us came here in 1955, Dougie.’

  ‘If you say so.’ McLeish drew on his pipe, the tobacco glowing amber-red in the bowl. ‘But it’s no me you have to convince, is it? It’s yourselves.’

  Chapter Forty-nine

  THE WEATHER CHANGED overnight. When Harry tugged back the curtains of their room next morning, he was met by a vista of blanketing grey. Low cloud had bonneted the hills and pulled in the horizon. The coast of Vatersay was barely distinguishable in the murk. The hummocked shapes of Vatersay’s other hills and the uninhabited islands beyond, which Harry had seen the previous evening, were just a memory.

  He washed and shaved, then made coffee, using the sachets and kettle provided. Chipchase stirred at the sound of the kettle boiling, but uttered no words until several gulps of black coffee had passed his lips.

  ‘Are migraines contagious? I think I might have caught young Marky’s.’

  ‘I expect you’ll find it’s just a standard hangover.’

  ‘Yeah, well, thanks for the sympathy. I didn’t sleep well, you know.’

  ‘That snoring was just for show, was it?’

  ‘I mean I had some disturbing dreams. In one of them you came back from a midnight stroll with Dougie McLeish and claimed he’d told you Nixon and Maynard had been ferreting around here twenty-odd years ago – and Nixon had gone drownabout after a day trip to Haskurlay.’

  ‘That’s what the man said.’

  ‘I don’t like the way this is shaping up, Harry old cock. You’d agree with me we’ve never been to the Outer bleeding Hebrides before, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t, certainly.’

  ‘Well, neither have I.’

  ‘I believe you. At any rate, I believe you believe it.’

  ‘Don’t start talking in riddles, Harry, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But it is a riddle, Barry, isn’t it? That’s the problem.’

  They knocked at Howlett’s door on their way down to breakfast, but got no reply. Nor was there any sign of him in the restaurant. They reckoned he must be taking a shower and assumed he would join them before they had finished munching their way through porridge, bacon and eggs and several slices of toast. But he did not.

  Harry gave his absence little thought, preoccupied as he was by what sort of a breakfast Donna would be having with Jackie in Swindon. As distracted a one as his, if not more so, seemed likely to be the answer. He longed to call her and set her mind at rest, but sensed that if he did she would start for Barra as soon as he put the phone down. Until he had spoken to Ailsa Redpath and knew what and who they were up against, it was safer to leave Donna in ignorance of his plans and whereabouts. But safe was not easy. Far from it.

  Chipchase popped out of the hotel for a cigarette after breakfast, leaving Harry to try Howlett’s room again. When he reached it, he found the door held half-open by a rubbish bag. He stepped in to be greeted by a cleaning lady, who was busy making the bed.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning. I, er … was looking for … Mr Howlett.’

  ‘An early riser, I’m glad to say. Maybe he’s looking round the town.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Thanks.’

  Chipchase was coming back into the hotel, frowning in puzzlement, as Harry reached the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Marky’s Fiasco doesn’t seem to be in the car park, Harry. What d’you make of that?’

  ‘He must have driven over to Vatersay.’

  ‘Without us?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘But … why?’

  ‘God knows. We’ll ask him – if we get the chance.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Follow him. What else?’

  Following was easier said than done. Taxis were not a Barra speciality and the landlady’s recommendation of the bus came with a caveat: the service to Vatersay was infrequent and the next one was not due until 10.35. Harry was reduced to looking at the framed Ordnance Survey map in the entrance hall and wondering if they could walk it. But he reckoned they would be overtaken en route by the bus even if they set off straight away. And that assumed Chipchase’s questionable stamina got him to the top of the first hill. Besides, there was no way to tell how much of a start Howlett had on them. In that sense, haste was pointless. The 10.35 bus would have to suffice.

  Harry’s eye drifted down the map beyond Vatersay’s southern coast to the uninhabited islands strung out like a giant’s stepping-stones across the broad blue expanse of the featureless ocean. There, among them, was Haskurlay, its contours and crenellations minutely represented. But no roads were marked, no place names, no settlements. The island had freed itself of man. It stood alone and apart. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

  Yet it seemed Harry meant something to Haskurlay. And it also seemed he was bound to find out what.

  The bus – more accurately, minibus – pulled away punctually from Castlebay post office at 10.35 on what the driver aptly described as ‘a dull, dreich morning’ and bore its two passengers – Harry and Barry – away towards Vatersay.

  ‘Sparky Marky was planning to cut us adrift all along, wasn’t he?’ said Chipchase as the bus climbed into the cloudbank west of the town. ‘Migraine my left buttock. He probably drove over to the Munro place last night, while we were in the bar pouring malt whisky down Dougie bloody McLeish.’

  ‘More likely he waited until we were tucked up in bed. But, yes, the migraine does seem to have been a ploy. What I don’t understand is—’

  ‘We could draw up a bloody long list of things you and I don’t understand about this, Harry, so I suggest you save your breath.’

  ‘All I’m saying is: why wouldn’t he want us with him when he confronted Ailsa Redpath?’

  ‘Because there was something he wasn’t telling us. That’s why.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Dunno. But I’ll bet Ailsa does. And Karen the comely archaeologist, who’s probably skulking over there with her. And the stay-at-home brother too. McLeish as well, I shouldn’t wonder. They all know. Everyone knows.’ Chipchase fixed Harry with a look of uncharacteristic seriousness. ‘Everyone except you and me.’

  Chapter Fifty

  THE ROAD TO the causeway was wide and well maintained. On the Vatersay side, however, it became narrow and winding, clinging to the shore for the most part as it looped round bleak hills of rock and scrub en route to the island’s main settlement.

  A still narrower side road served the houses whose lights they had seen from the Castlebay Bar the previous night, dotted along the spine of an exposed peninsula. The bus driver offered to take them down it, but Harry opted to be dropped at the junction, despite Chipchase’s muttered protests. He preferred to approach the Munro croft on foot, judging that in such a bare landscape they would then see the house before they were seen from it. It was hard to say exactly why he felt such a precaution necessary, but Howlett’s unannounced departure had worried him more than he was prepared to admit. Chipchase was right. Everyone, even the hapless Howlett, was a step ahead of them.

  The few habitations lining the road were widely separated – modern, pebble-dash, tile-roofed bungalows for the most part, usually with the ruin of an old stone cottage alongside. Castlebay, across the soun
d, looked positively metropolitan from this stark and empty vantage point. A flock of sheep scattered as the two of them rounded a bend by a deserted jetty. Otherwise, there was no sign of life.

  ‘Bloody hell, Harry, I don’t know about you, but this place gives me the creeps,’ Chipchase complained. ‘I never thought I was prone to agoraphobia, but I’m beginning to feel a bad bloody case of it coming on. Does anybody really live out here?’

  ‘Murdo Munro does for one.’

  ‘But there’s nothing here except … more nothing.’

  ‘Some people prefer a quiet life.’

  ‘There’s a difference between quiet … and silent as the bloody grave. It’s enough to give an urbanite like me the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Pull yourself together. We’re not here on holiday, you know.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. I’d be asking for my—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Harry cut Chipchase short with a raised hand and stopped. A house had come into view ahead as they crested a gentle rise. It was another modern bungalow. But the old stone habitation it had replaced was not a ruin. It stood next to the bungalow, roofed in green corrugated iron, with a garage door installed in the gable end facing the road. ‘That must be the Munro place.’

  ‘There’s no sign of Marky’s motor.’

  ‘It might be parked out of sight round the side.’

  ‘Or this might not be the Munros’ ancestral dwelling. McLeish could have sold us a dummy.’

  ‘Why would he have done that?’

  ‘Christ knows. But if you ask me, we were seen coming before we even got off the bloody ferry. Everything since … has smelt like a set-up to me.’

  ‘What do you want to do, then? Slink back to the main road and wait for the bus? It’ll be on its way back to Castlebay soon.’

  Chipchase gazed ahead, then around at their featureless surroundings. ‘Might not be such a bad move. The Castlebay Bar probably opens at eleven. It must be gone that now.’

  ‘Leaving here empty-handed isn’t an option, Barry. Unless you want to give Ferguson and Geddes a helping hand in fitting us up for triple murder.’

  Chipchase winced. ‘Ferguson and Geddes. Bloody hell. For a blissful moment, I’d forgotten those evil-minded bastards even existed.’

  ‘Well, try to bear them in mind. And step lively. We have a house call to pay.’

  Nothing stirred at the Munro residence as they approached. The windows were closed and net-curtained. The garage door was shut. And Howlett’s car was nowhere to be seen. If anyone was at home, they were lying low. And if they simply declined to answer the bell, there was little Harry or Barry could do about it. The absence of the Fiesta was particularly puzzling – and disturbing. If Howlett had not come here, where in God’s name had he gone? And why?

  ‘Didn’t McLeish say the house was called Haskurlay?’ Chipchase whispered as they neared the porched front door.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ve come to the wrong place.’ Chipchase pointed to a hand-painted sign attached to a post at the edge of the road. It bore the mysterious name THASGARLAIGH.

  ‘Probably Haskurlay in Gaelic.’

  ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?’

  ‘If I had, we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I suppose you think that’s—’

  ‘Shut up, Barry. Just shut up.’

  ‘Pardon me for bloody breathing. I only …’

  Harry strode decisively forward and rang the doorbell. And at that Chipchase did indeed shut up.

  A general, all-enveloping silence followed. No sound emanated from the house. Squinting through the lozenge of frosted glass set in the door, Harry could discern no movement within. He rang again, more lengthily. A current of air stirred a wind chime suspended from one of the porch struts into a passable representation of a Swiss cowbell, causing both of them to start violently. A distant sheep bleat reached their ears, faint and mocking. Then the silence reasserted itself. And they exchanged baffled, despairing looks.

  ‘Told you,’ whispered Chipchase. ‘No one at home.’

  ‘No one answering, at all events.’

  ‘Same bloody difference. Unless you’re planning on a spot of breaking and entering.’

  ‘Of course not. But we could take a look round the back. There might be a … window open.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, if there is, it’ll need to be a decent size and at a low level if either of us is going to climb through it. Cat burglars retire young if they’ve any sense.’

  ‘Just follow me.’

  Harry set off round the corner of the bungalow, peering in the windows as he went, to no avail thanks to the net curtains hung at each of them. He walked along between the house and the blank stone wall of the garage and stepped round to the rear.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase, looming at his shoulder. ‘That’s careless.’

  The back door of the house stood open, held on a stout, hooked stay. It was, in its way, as clear an invitation as could be imagined.

  * * *

  The door led to a cluttered kitchen. It was clean and tidy, though. Either Murdo Munro was a houseproud bachelor or his sister had been on hand recently to maintain standards.

  ‘Hello?’ Harry called. ‘Anyone at home?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Two mugs and a couple of plates on the drainer,’ said Chipchase, pointing to the sink. ‘Murdo’s obviously not alone.’

  ‘Where are they? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Fishing. Shopping in Castlebay. They could be anywhere.’

  ‘With the door left like that?’

  ‘Maybe it’s always like that. Vatersay’s hardly a crime hot spot, is it?’

  ‘Unlocked, maybe. But wide open? Come off it. Hello?’

  Harry pressed on into the short hall that led to the front door. There was a lounge to his right, simply but comfortably furnished, a bathroom and two bedrooms to his left. The doors all stood open. One bedroom was neater than the other, but both looked as if they were in use. After glancing into each of them, Harry went into the lounge.

  Murdo Munro’s domestic life was not over-burdened with possessions, to judge by the bareness of the room. Beyond the furniture and a surprisingly large television set, there was nothing in the way of books, ornaments or pictures. The walls were virgin expanses of magnolia paint. A clock of some age stood on the mantelpiece, however. Next to it was propped a letter in a buff window envelope.

  Harry walked over and picked up the letter to check the addressee’s name. Mr M. H. Munro. Not much doubt that they were in the right house, then. The letter was from the Inland Revenue. Maybe that was why Murdo had not opened it.

  Then Harry noticed the silver-framed photograph the letter had been propped against. It was a black-and-white snap of three children, wearing clothes dating from the post-war years, standing in a smiling group by a ruined stone wall, a grassy slope visible behind them. Two boys and a girl, the eldest boy in his early teens, the younger scarcely more than a toddler, the girl aged somewhere between. Andrew, Murdo and Ailsa Munro, circa 1950? It had to be. And was the wall all that remained of Hamish Munro’s birthplace on Haskurlay? Was that the double significance of the photograph – a lost brother and a lost home?

  ‘Harry,’ called Chipchase from another room, his voice intruding between Harry and the grainy images of distant childhood.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry shouted back.

  ‘Come here. I’ve found something.’

  Harry went back into the hall. Chipchase was standing in one of the bedrooms, beckoning to him.

  Behind the door, out of sight until Harry entered the room, was a desk, supporting a computer screen, keyboard and printer. Lying across the keyboard was a sheaf of printed pages, the topmost page bearing a single paragraph, its wording instantly familiar.

  Peter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I—

  Har
ry snatched the page aside and saw the next one beneath, filled with print. And then he saw the single capitalized word at its head.

  HASKURLAY.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  PETER: WHAT FOLLOWS went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I entrust it to you as I once entrusted my heart. You knew what to do then. You will know what to do now. Tread carefully. But do not tread too fearfully. My love goes with you. Les.

  HASKURLAY

  My recollections of the three months in 1955 that I spent at Kilveen Castle in Aberdeenshire as a participant in Operation Tabula Rasa (better known as Clean Sheet) became ever more confusing as the years passed. Recently, thanks to the dubious wonders of regressive hypnosis and a greater clarity of thought and memory that seems to be just about the only beneficial side-effect of my illness, I have been able to sift the real from the imagined and the forgotten from the superimposed. The truth that has become known to me is a disturbing one. But the researches and enquiries I have carried out leave me in no position to deny, even if I wished to, that it is the truth.

  I have not long to live. I am setting down the facts of this sombre matter so that an accurate record of what actually took place will survive me. The use others will make of it after my death is not for me to decide. The future is not something I need care about. That is one blessing of my condition. The past, however, I cannot escape. Nor do I wish to.

  The avowed purpose of Operation Clean Sheet, as devised by Professor Alexander McIntyre of Aberdeen University, was to test the receptiveness of fifteen recalcitrant National Servicemen to academic teaching methods under experimental conditions in an isolated setting, the RAF generously supplying Professor McIntyre with his suitably unpromising students. The circumstances that led to my selection – it was an irresistibly attractive alternative to serving 56 days’ detention for a second offence of falling asleep on guard duty – were typical. I think we all viewed our spell of intense tuition in the depths of Deeside as a soft option. And that, we believed, is precisely what it turned out to be. The time passed painlessly, with little in the way of learning imparted. Then we went our separate ways.