Sacrifice

by Sharon Bolton

  I took two ibuprofen, replaced Duncan’s bag on the shelf and went back to bed, steeling myself for a restless night. I think I fell asleep in minutes.

  Duncan didn’t come to bed. I’m not sure what I would have said to him if he had. Some time in the night I woke to find him standing over the bed, looking down at me. I didn’t move. He bent down, stroked the hair lying over my temple and went out again.

  Shortly before dawn, when the dull grey light outside the window was starting to gather colour, I woke and the first thought in my head was that I knew what Desogestrel was. Had I been myself, I think I’d have recognized it immediately. Desogestrel is a synthetic hormone, known to reduce levels of testosterone in the male body and thus prohibit the production of sperm. For several years it’s been used in clinical trials aimed at perfecting a male contraceptive pill. Combined with regular injections of testosterone to maintain balance in the male body, it’s proven reasonably effective. Although not yet available as a prescriptive medicine, it was only a matter of time.

  Duncan, it seemed, was ahead of the game. And I’d discovered the reason why, after two years of trying, I’d been unable to get pregnant.

  21

  ‘I’LL BE BACK by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest,’ said Duncan.

  ‘OK,’ I replied, without turning round. I’d pulled an armchair over to the window and was looking out across the moor behind the house. The first heather was just beginning to bloom, casting a rich, claret-coloured haze over the hilltops. The rain had stopped but there were heavy clouds overhead, and their long shadows clutched the moor like the claws of a miser grasping something precious.

  ‘We’ll be home for next weekend,’ he continued. ‘Maybe try and get the garden sorted out.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, watching an arrowhead of snow-white birds with grey wings fly past the window.

  Duncan knelt down beside me. I felt a tear roll down my cheek but if I carried on staring straight ahead, he wouldn’t be able to see it.

  ‘Tor, I can’t take you with me. Dad says you’re not fit to travel and I’ve back-to-back meetings for the next few days. I wouldn’t be able to look—’

  ‘I don’t want to come,’ I said.

  He took hold of my hand. I let him but didn’t return the pressure.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about everything you’re going through.’

  I’ll bet you are, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I couldn’t say the few bitter words that would bring everything out into the open. I wasn’t in denial, exactly; I just didn’t need to hear him say it.

  He hung around for another few minutes and then, kissing me on top of the head, he left. I heard the car engine start up and then fade away as he drove down the cliff road towards the ferry.

  I forced myself to get up, knowing I couldn’t stay in the house all day, obsessing about Duncan and my now very uncertain future. Official invalid or not, I was going out for a walk. I dressed and went downstairs. Luckily, only Elspeth was in the kitchen. Richard might have tried to stop me going out.

  For the first half-mile I followed the coast road south. When the road veered inland towards Uyeasound, I took a detour, round the hill of Burragarth towards St Olaf’s Kirk at Lundawick. Dating back to the twelfth century, this is one of the few remaining Norse churches on the island. It’s a popular spot with tourists, mainly for the views it offers over the Bluemull Sound towards Yell. That day, though, I was alone as I walked round the ruin and looked out across Lunda Wick. Although the winds had died down, the waves they’d left in their wake were still jumping angrily up and down. It would have made uncomfortable sailing conditions; not that I had any desire to get back in a boat.

  All around me, perched on stones, launching themselves from rocks, sliding and bouncing on the wind, were hundreds of the seabirds for which these islands are famous: kittiwakes, gannets, fulmars, terns and skuas raced round my head, screaming at each other and at me. As I watched, my head twisting this way and that, a frenetic excitement seemed to grow in their midst. Then, almost as one, they dived over my head and down, straight into the wick, and hurled themselves amongst a shoal of sand eels. There was a frantic whirl of feathers, a blizzard of sleek bodies as they fought and feasted, binged and bickered.

  I was wondering if I had the energy to walk into Uyeasound for a coffee when I noticed the standing stone, not ten yards from the road. It stands about twelve feet high, just askew of the perpendicular, covered by pale-grey lichen. I wandered over to it, more for the purpose of filling time than anything else. The stone was smooth – except for the shapes that had been carved into it. Not the same markings exactly, but similar enough for me to be pretty sure I’d find them amongst the runic alphabet in Dana’s library book. More runes. I wasn’t sure I really cared any more, but it was still much easier to think about runes than about Duncan.

  I set off down the road again. Ten minutes later, my mobile rang. It was Dana.

  ‘I heard about the accident. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, because that’s what you always say, isn’t it? ‘How could you possibly have heard . . .?’ The line started to crackle and I stood still. It cleared again.

  ‘. . . at the station saw the coastguard report and recognized the name. Look, can I do anything? Do you want me to come up?’

  I was touched. And for a second, I would have given anything to have her company, but knew it would have been ridiculously selfish. Dana had far too much to do to come and babysit me. I started walking again.

  ‘Thanks, but the outlaws are looking after me. Anything new?’

  ‘Sort of. I was planning to call you anyway. Can you talk right now?’

  I looked round, saw a rock, plonked myself down on it. ‘Sure, go ahead. Although I’m not sure how long the signal will last.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to Melissa Gair’s GP again. I wanted to check something he told me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said that, whilst the lump in Melissa’s breast was definitely worthy of checking out, it hadn’t unduly worried him at the time. At the worst, he’d thought it would be a malignant tumour in the very early stages. He’d been amazed, he said, to hear about her death so soon afterwards. He didn’t say it was impossible, but I couldn’t help feeling that’s what he was driving at.’

  The wind was getting up; I pulled my jacket up higher around my neck. ‘And you want to know what I think?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, none too patiently. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, it would certainly be very unusual,’ I replied. ‘But sometimes it happens that way. Maybe Melissa didn’t spot the lump straight away, so it could have been growing for quite some time before she even went to the GP. Maybe he didn’t realize quite how extensive it was.’

  ‘Not impossible, then?’

  I was getting cold so I moved on again. ‘No, not impossible.’

  She made me repeat myself. I lost her for a few seconds and then she was back again.

  ‘Did you find anything on Stephen Gair?’ I asked.

  ‘I went to see him at home yesterday. Nice place. Met his new wife and a child they say is hers from a previous relationship.’

  ‘Right,’ I encouraged, not really sure where she was going.

  ‘It’s a little boy. Not quite two years old. Name’s Connor Gair. Stephen’s officially adopted him.’

  ‘Nice. And . . .’

  ‘Looks a lot like his new stepdad. And they seem very close.’

  I couldn’t see how that was remotely relevant. I had no interest in Stephen Gair’s family life. I was a bit preoccupied thinking about my own – or lack of it.

  ‘He has carrot-coloured hair, gorgeous fair skin and very fine features. His mother, on the other hand, is quite dark.’

  I thought for a moment. Light dawned. ‘Blimey!’ I said.

  ‘Quite.’

  She started crackling again so I told her, without being sure she could hear me,
that I would phone her that evening. I carried on into Uyeasound, a scattering of buildings around a small, natural harbour.

  I found the coffee shop easily enough. A couple of hikers sat at one of the tables; a man in a business suit at another. That left three tables free. I chose one and sat down. An elderly woman poked her head out of a door at the back of the room, glanced round, didn’t appear to notice me and disappeared again. I pulled a biro out of my coat pocket and picked up one of the paper napkins on the table. I started to doodle. And think.

  Connor Gair; a fair-skinned, two-year-old boy. Given my own preoccupation with babies, it’s hardly surprising that since finding out that the murdered woman had given birth, I’d been wondering what had happened to her baby. Had the baby died too, I’d asked myself many times, or was it alive somewhere, oblivious to what had happened to its mother? Had Dana now found that baby?

  Well, if Stephen Gair was bringing up his own son by Melissa but passing him off as the child of his new wife, he had to have been involved in Melissa’s death. There was no getting round that one.

  ‘Ye writin to da Trowie folk?’

  I jumped. The waitress had returned and was looking down at the napkin. I’d drawn several of the runes I remembered from the standing stone.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘they’re runes. From the standing stone up at Lunda Wick.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye, da Trowie marks.’

  The Shetland dialect can be pretty strong and the locals aren’t above exaggerating it a bit to perplex their visitors.

  ‘Sorry, but what’s Trowie?’

  She grinned at me, showing bad teeth. Her once-fair skin had been burned red by the wind and her hair was like dead straw. She looked about sixty; she could have been anything from forty-five upwards. ‘Da Trows,’ she said. ‘Da grey folk.’

  It was a new one on me. ‘I thought they were runes. Viking runes.’

  She nodded and seemed to lose interest. ‘Aye. Dey say dey came fra the Norse lands. What’ll I get ye?’

  I ordered a sandwich and coffee and she disappeared back into her kitchen. Trow, Trowie? I wrote it down, guessing at the spelling. I’d never heard the word before but it might well be significant. What I’d assumed were Viking runes, she’d called Trowie marks. Who were the Trows? And why would they carve their marks on Melissa’s body?

  I waited for her to come back but the café was filling up. When she brought my order, she plonked it down and turned to another table. I could come back later, when the café was quieter, or I could find a library. Now, that was a thought. I had access to the best library on Unst, one that specialized in island folklore and legend. Always assuming I could successfully navigate the librarian. I ate quickly, got up and paid my bill.

  I was lucky; Richard was still out and Elspeth only too happy to be left alone all afternoon. By five o’clock, I knew more about the history of Shetland than I’d ever wanted to. I’d learned that Viking warriors had invaded in the eighth century, bringing with them the old pagan religions of Scandinavia. Christianity had arrived two hundred years later, but by that time the Norse pagan beliefs were deep rooted and had clung hard. As had the Nordic culture.

  Though geographically closer to the coast of Scotland, the Shetland Isles had been part of a Norse earldom until the late fifteenth century. Even after the islands passed under Scottish rule, the sea continued to insulate them, preserving a whole store of tradition. The dialect was still heavily interspersed with old Norse words, many of which had been adapted and localized. The word Trow being a case in point.

  Trow, I discovered, was an island corruption of the Scandinavian word troll. According to legend, when the Vikings had arrived for a spot of rape and pillage, they hadn’t come alone – they’d brought the Trows. Most of the early references I found described the Trows as quite endearing creatures, albeit stomachchurningly ugly: cheerful, happy people, who lived in splendid caverns in the ground, were fond of good food, drink and music, but hated churches and anything connected to religion. Humans took care not to offend them on account of their supernatural abilities.

  They had powers to charm and hypnotize, and liked to lure away humans, particularly children and pretty young women. They also had the gift of making themselves invisible, especially at night-time and at twilight. Strong sunlight, depending on which version of the stories you read, was either uncomfortable or fatal.

  I found stories of Trows stealing into homes at night-time, to sit around the fireside and help themselves to household produce, tools or – their favourite – items fashioned from silver; and of islanders leaving gifts of fresh water and bread out for their Trowie visitors, like children leaving mince pies out for Santa Claus. I learned that Trows were powerless when confronted with iron.

  It was all quite harmless, entertaining stuff. Until I got to the Unst versions of the stories. Then things took a decidedly darker turn.

  Gletna Kirk, for example, not far from Uyeasound, had never been completed, thanks to the Trows. Any building work done on one day would be found strewn down the next. One night, irritated by the lack of progress, the officiating priest had stayed at the site to watch. He’d been found dead the next morning. His murderer was never found, the building work was abandoned and Trows had copped the blame.

  I read that the numerous tiny hillocks around the islands were believed to be Trow graves, the creatures, it seemed, being particular about how they were buried. Trows believed that if their bodies didn’t lie in ‘sweet, dark earth’, their souls would wander and turn malicious. Many Trows were buried together, preferring company, even in death. Even today, it was claimed, an islander, discovering disturbed ground on his land, wouldn’t investigate, in case he uncovered a Trowie grave and set loose an evil spirit.

  I am not remotely a superstitious person, but as I read that something cold pressed itself against my spine.

  Other stories told of women seen out walking in the twilight, at the same time that they died peacefully in their beds at home. I read that whenever the Trows stole an object, they left in its place a perfect replica, known as a stock. When they stole a person, they left a semblance. I looked semblance up in a dictionary of folklore: ‘A wraith-like creature,’ it said, ‘little more than a ghost, but bearing a strong physical resemblance to a human.’ Richard’s study lay on the eastern side of the house and, this late in the day, no sunlight found its way through the large bay windows. I realized that I was shivering.

  In relation to Unst, I found no stories of mischievous, hobbit-like creatures. Instead, there were several brief references to the Kunal Trow, or King Trow: human in appearance but with great strength, unnatural long life and considerable supernatural powers, including that of hypnosis and the ability to make himself invisible.

  In one book I looked at the Kunal Trows were described as a race of males, unable to beget female children. To reproduce, the Kunal Trows stole human women, leaving behind semblances in their place. Babies born of these unions were always strong, healthy sons. And yet nine days after giving birth, the mothers died.

  I found several references to a book by a Scottish woman, who was generally considered to be the expert on the Unst Kunal Trow. I was sure Richard would have a copy of it but it wasn’t anywhere obvious.

  Well, it was all very interesting, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to interpreting my runes or Trowie marks.

  Earlier, I’d found a copy of the same book on runes that Dana had borrowed from Lerwick public library. I picked it up again and opened it at the preface.

  Runes are the language of life: they heal, they bless, they bring wisdom; they do no harm.

  I wondered what Melissa Gair might have said about that.

  Richard had told me that one could find different interpretations of the runes. Dana and I had made no sense of the meanings offered in this book, but maybe Richard had others. I stood up and scanned the room. I’d seen district public libraries in London with fewer books. It was the largest room in the house and each of its
walls was lined, floor to ceiling, with shelves fashioned of dark oak. The west wall contained his Shetland collection, including the works on myth and legend that I’d been skimming. The lower shelves were piled high with leather-covered box files, each one neatly labelled in Richard’s tiny handwriting. The first one I looked inside contained several thin paperbacks on the Shetland dialect. I was nervous about rummaging through many more. It was one thing to be found in here looking at books. To be found going through boxes of papers was another matter. Then I saw it: a box at the bottom of a pile labelled Runic Scripts and Alphabet. At that moment the door opened.

  I made myself turn round slowly and smile. Richard stood in the doorway. He only just made it into the room without ducking his head.

  ‘Can I help you find something?’ He’d been out walking and brought the smell of the moors with him. I noticed he was still wearing his outdoor boots and coat.

  ‘Maybe something light,’ I replied. ‘In case I have trouble sleeping.’

  ‘Mrs Gaskell is probably the closest thing to Mills and Boon I have,’ he said. ‘Or maybe Wilkie Collins; he’s usually good for a cheap thrill.’

  I stood up. ‘Why did you never mention you worked at the Franklin Stone?’

  He didn’t flinch. ‘Would you have been interested?’

  I stared at him, more than ready for a fight. ‘Did you get me my job? Did you put in a good word for me with your protégé?’

  I watched him closely. ‘No,’ he said simply. I was sure he was lying.

  ‘Why do Kenn Gifford and Duncan hate each other? What happened?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Kenn doesn’t hate Duncan. I doubt he gives him much thought at all.’ He shrugged, as if the matter was too trivial to be of interest. ‘Duncan can be childish sometimes.’