‘Hmm,’ said Iris, her eyes hard. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ She stood up. ‘My round. Who wants another pint?’
17
Kirkwall, Orkney, January 2020
They lingered in the bar until at least closing time, and as the barmaid took away the last of their glasses, giving Jack a final smile goodbye, they found themselves outside, the wind ruffling Fiona’s hair until she quickly stuffed it inside her hood.
It was a clear night, the cold crisp and refreshing after the warm mugginess of the bar.
‘Where do we go next?’ asked Fiona, her cheeks flushed, hearing the slight slur in her voice.
‘Mince roll,’ said Jack.
‘Mmm, yes,’ said Iris.
‘A what? And didn’t we just eat a couple of hours ago?’ asked Fiona.
‘What can I tell you?’ shrugged Jack. ‘Digging is hungry work.’
‘You only dug half a day.’
‘But they don’t sell mince rolls in halves. What’s a man to do?’
Kirkwall was a mix of tall, gothic sandstone and concrete car parks, as if all the ages of Orkney had come together and then collapsed on the sides of the street. It was in the middle of one of these car parks, opposite the Lidl, that everybody came to a halt next to a small catering van.
‘So the dig is at a standstill?’ Fiona asked Jack as they queued up. In front of them, a quintet of young lads in jackets, wool hats and tattoos were ordering paper packets of chips – (‘More vinegar pal, aye? Cheers.’). ‘The Vikings are on hold. That must be frustrating for them.’
He looked down at her. With his blond hair and broad shoulders, he had the look of a Viking himself.
‘It’s … well, we’re keeping it a bit schtum at the moment, but we reckon we have something quite nice going on here.’
‘I can see that. A full boat burial.’
‘Yeah, and the rest.’ His eyes flicked away from her, to the lads at the front of the queue. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘This isn’t the best place to discuss this. Not really. Wait till we get back to the house.’
She followed his gaze, and at the back of the queue, her arms crossed over the chest of her thermal jacket and her gloved hands tucked in her armpits, Iris was giving Jack what could only be described as a hard stare.
As the lads moved away she found herself being guided to the front. A selection of offerings were on display – mostly meat being served in some kind of bread.
‘Can I help ye?’ The man at the front leaned forward towards her.
‘You want a mince roll,’ breathed Jack into her ear.
‘I did just eat a couple of hours ago …’
‘I know, I know. Ask for a mince roll. With chips.’
The mince roll was exactly what it sounded like – minced beef in gravy, ladled into one of the feathery, flaky Scottish bread rolls people had been serving her since she’d reached Inverness.
‘Go on, eat it.’ Jack was watching her, his own roll in hand. ‘It won’t bite.’
It was delicious, salty and meaty, but gone too quickly. She picked through the accompanying chips, now regretting she hadn’t asked for gravy with them. Gravy on her chips was one of the few things she missed from the village in Yorkshire she and Mads had grown up in.
She pushed down the pain this memory brought her.
They were all walking back into Kirkwall and towards their white van, frost sparkling on the pavement under the streetlights, and Iris was leading, engaged in some earnest discussion with Callum about the gender politics of Halloween, and behind them Becky stomped on her own, her arms crossed against the cold. She seemed to be angry again.
Perhaps, thought Fiona, because Jack had fallen in beside her.
Gulls cried out at the harbour, not put off by the darkness – and beneath all was the constant, ever-present murmur of the sea.
Jack strode at her side, silent, a blocky warm presence, before saying: ‘Penny for them.’
Fiona shook her head, smiled apologetically up at him. ‘Sorry. They’re not worth that much.’ She thrust her hands into the pockets of her inadequate coat, feeling cold and self-conscious. ‘I just wish I knew where she was.’
He seemed at a loss for a reply.
‘Anyway,’ and she tried to raise a smile, to dismiss her fears. ‘There’s something about this dig you haven’t told me, Dr Bergmann.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, but his voice had dropped, as though he didn’t want Iris to overhear him.
‘You found something, didn’t you?’
He smiled.
‘Something you’re keeping to yourself,’ she persisted.
He let out a snort of laughter. ‘Very well, Dr Grey. So, we’re still analysing, but it looks like a really sweet classic ship burial, with at least two people in there, and a sacrificed horse cut into eight pieces.’
‘Impressive.’
‘There’re some lovely grave goods too – a sword hilt, shield bosses, what we think is a spearhead, at least twelve arrowheads – and we’re still not finished.’
‘Nice.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, letting his head drop near hers, his voice growing low. ‘There was also, rather intriguingly, a leather bag of coins and jewellery – silver coins mostly, but still a very respectable little trove of treasure. We haven’t analysed or cleaned it yet, but it looks good.’ He shrugged again. ‘Some nice pieces.’
‘Wow!’ said Fiona. ‘A silver hoard! That’s very cool.’
He laughed then. ‘It’s not bad.’
‘It’s better than not bad.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I think you lot are all jaded after discovering national treasures all over the place. Jewelled boxes and that Jesmond Hill torc and I don’t know, whatever you find next, the Holy Grail or whatever.’
She’d been expecting him to laugh too, but he didn’t, and it seemed to her that his gaze grew distant, his smile dropped. ‘Jaded. Yeah, maybe.’
She was surprised, confused. She wondered if she’d offended him somehow.
But some similar process appeared to be at work in him. ‘Sorry. I’m just tired. You’re right, it is very cool. And there’s probably much more to find. The second person is lying behind the head of the first one, next to the horse, and we haven’t been properly able to excavate under that body yet. There’s the whole prow which we haven’t properly dug yet. Who knows what we’ll find?’
‘It’s pretty rich-sounding.’
‘It’s very rich. This is why we’re all risking life and limb to get to it before the sea and scavengers take most of it away.’
‘Mads said it was a great site.’
Jack nodded, but even though they had been speaking quietly, Iris’s head seemed to swing around, her gaze upon Jack narrow and beady.
Jack offered her a cocky wave, and she slowly turned around. At her side, Callum frowned between them, as though annoyed to be left out of some hidden communication.
‘Iris doesn’t want it discussed publicly.’
‘Even in the street?’
‘Especially in the street. Careless talk costs lives, you know.’
‘She’s worried about metal detectorists?’
‘She’s … she’s worried about a lot. And trying to keep on top of the information is difficult and stressful for us all.’
‘Right …’
‘Iris has to fly out with the coins to Edinburgh next week. She’s heading out anyway, she has some pickup filming she needs to do for Discovering the Past. If it helps, it explains why we were all a little guarded when you pitched up this morning. We only found the coins yesterday, last thing before packing up for the day … are you all right?’
Fiona had stopped walking.
‘What is it?’ Jack pulled up beside her.
She glanced sharply at him. Her mind was whirling.
‘Oh … oh, nothing.’
‘You sure?’
The others were slowing, having reached the van in its slot on Harbour Street, and were turning to look curiously at her.
She had to say something to them.
‘I was just thinking,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly, ‘it’s such a shame Mads missed it all.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I suppose.’ But he looked doubtful, his face suddenly shuttered, as though he suspected she was keeping a secret from him.
And she was.
The last text she had received before Madison had gone dark had said: Sorry – not ignoring u! Things r MAD here! BIG BIG FIND on site here at Helly Holm!!! Can’t talk now but SO MUCH catching up 2 do! See u in 30 mins! MXXX
And on Friday they’d found the coins – the coins they were not telling anybody about.
If Madison had gone missing on Wednesday and the archaeologists hadn’t seen her since then – how had she known about them?
However friendly some of them seemed, she realised she couldn’t trust them.
At least one of them was a liar.
18
Nordskaill, Stromness, Orkney, January 2020
The house the archaeologists lived in was set in two adjoining fields, both empty of everything except susurrating grass and a vast bowl of sky above, liberally dotted with stars. The lights and narrow grey streets of Stromness were visible from the front gate. The Hamnavoe, the ferry to the mainland, was now in dock, a white behemoth lit up in orange, nestling in the port like a metal swan at rest.
Inside, everything had the clean, cheerful air of a holiday home. Fiona followed Becky and Iris into the front room, while the men vanished into the kitchen in search of more beer.
Langmire, the isolated cottage, was pretty enough, but it occurred to Fiona that Madison would have been happier here, with the company of the others.
‘It’s nice here,’ she said, feeling her throat close with emotion, but needing to say something for the sake of conversation. She surveyed the walls and their collection of seascape prints and ornamental mirrors.
Becky didn’t reply, as though Fiona had not spoken, but Iris, who had collapsed ostentatiously into one of the armchairs, making the pieces of her big necklace clatter together, opened one eye sleepily.
‘It is nice, isn’t it? It’s much easier to find decent housing in the winter here.’ She pulled herself upright and stretched her slender back by gripping her arms behind her head and opening out her shoulders. ‘Not that I’ve seen much of it.’
‘Why’s that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m constantly travelling. They’re filming pickups for the new series of Discovering in London, and of course nobody is available when you need them to be, so I have to keep popping in and out. Which is not a big deal from my office at Imperial but is an absolute slog to do from here.’
‘Yeah,’ said Fiona. ‘But it could be worse, I guess. The site is amazing, from the sounds of things.’
‘To be fair, it was Callum that found it.’ Iris glanced fondly at him as he emerged from the kitchen. ‘Well, he didn’t “find” find it, you know, trip over the side of the boat while he was out walking or anything, but he pointed out that the emergency contract was available for digging, and its potential.’
‘I’m always on the lookout for good opportunities for Iris and the team,’ he said, sounding like a dog that has found a particularly juicy bone and presented it to his mistress, ‘since she’s so busy she never has a moment to herself.’
There was something so self-satisfied and yet obsequious about this little speech that Fiona felt herself flush in embarrassment on his behalf.
‘Oh, I see,’ was all she said.
Iris threw her a look that seemed to say, don’t laugh. Even if he deserves it.
‘So we’ve you to blame for us digging out here in January.’ Jack, following him out of the kitchen, fixed the back of his head with a mock glare and a raised fist that made Fiona suppress a giggle.
‘Anyway, the timing couldn’t have been more awkward,’ said Iris, ‘but I just couldn’t say no. I mean, look at it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Fiona. ‘It sounds a fantastic opportunity.’
But she was thinking that there was really no need for Iris to be here in person at all. Why hadn’t she made Jack the site director? Hired more help?
Obviously Iris hadn’t wanted to surrender control of the dig.
And there would be consequences to that, she realised. The rest of the diggers were working round the clock in horrendous weather and conditions, and they were a woman down a lot of the time. A woman who, as site director and senior archaeologist, would be claiming the lion’s share of the glory and prestige such a dig would attract.
They must all be very fed up. Well, she suspected Callum was more loved up than fed up, judging from the puppy dog eyes he made at Iris, but what about the others?
In those kinds of circumstances, who knew what stress and exhaustion might do to them all?
And as for Madison – Fiona knew that nothing about this would have sat well with her.
Iris’s shoulder was exposed again, and her tattoo on display, a roundel with stylized budding branches framing it, and within, a diagrammatic horse leaping out. It was at once beautiful and alien, a design constructed by ancient minds. It was so familiar, though – and this time, the answer came swiftly to Fiona – ‘That’s the Altai Ice Maiden tattoo, the one preserved on her skin through the permafrost.’
‘Correct!’ said Iris, beaming, clearly pleased to have it recognised. ‘What do you think?’ She flexed her shoulder cap outwards, the lamplight reflecting off its thick dark lines, her pale skin.
Fiona stood up, leaned in to examine it. ‘That’s very cool.’
‘Jack wasn’t so sure,’ Iris said, cutting her eyes towards him mischievously. ‘He has a problem with the cultural misappropriation of ancient body modifications.’
‘I do not,’ he said, twisting his own arm forward, with its inky sleeve of Celtic knotwork. Fiona watched the play of his smooth muscles, swallowed. Was it hot in here? ‘I merely observed that it’s not always wise to adopt a tattoo when you don’t know what it means.’ He raised his bottle to his lips.
‘Why did you pick that one?’ Fiona asked Iris, intrigued.
Iris regarded it for a long moment. ‘I picked this tattoo,’ she moved it again, peering down at it, as though enchanted, ‘because there was something about the burial that spoke to me. A single woman, buried in her own mound high in the Altai, in a part of the world called the Second Layer of Heaven by the locals. She’s a Scythian, and Scythian women were warrior women.’ She stroked the skin with a dreamy, meditative air. ‘I don’t know what else to say. It just spoke to me.’
Fiona fell silent. That phrase, warrior women, chimed in her head. And it seemed to her that she was suddenly plunged into the deep waters of ancient memory, back to a time Madison had said we must be the warrior women now to her, in another life when they were young and students, years and years ago.
‘Are you all right?’ Jack asked.
Iris was looking at her with concern, her expression soft in the low lamplight. Fiona was aware of herself with red, filling eyes.
‘Sorry, yes, I’m just very tired,’ she said apologetically. ‘It’s a beautiful tattoo.’ She cleared her throat, desperate to change the topic of conversation away from herself, to diffuse this upwelling of grief. ‘Do you consider yourself a warrior woman, then?’
‘Of course,’ said Iris, and for a second Fiona wondered if she had managed to offend her. ‘Aren’t we all?’
∗ ∗ ∗
Fiona emerged on to the steps of the house, sucking in the clear fresh air, so cold it hurt her throat.
The fields and their dusting of ice spread out before her.
She just needed a moment to get herself together. That memory of Madison – she should have drunk less, perhaps …
But what if she’s out there somewhere, alone?
‘Are you all right?’
She started, gasped, but it was only Iris, regarding her mildly from the doorframe.
‘I’m fine,’ said Fiona, offering her a weak
smile. ‘I just … I just needed some fresh air.’ She looked out across the icy fields.
‘Me too.’ Iris leaned back against the wall. ‘Though with the storm coming this week I think we’ll all be getting all the fresh air we can handle.’ She tutted. ‘I’m supposed to be flying out again this week as well.’
‘Again?’
Iris sighed. ‘I know. But it was arranged weeks ago. I’ve got an interview segment for Discovering lined up with this Texan palaeontologist and he’s only in the country for a few days.’ She shook her head.
‘That sounds …’
‘I know what it sounds like. It all sounds like madness.’ She shot Fiona a frank look. ‘I know what the others think,’ she said candidly. ‘Becky in particular has the subtlety of a JCB. But there was no other way to do it. I’m contracted to do the work for Discovering, and with the winter storms the dig here wouldn’t wait.’
Fiona rubbed her chin. ‘You must be busy.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Iris. She came forward, joined Fiona on the step. ‘I’m that all right. You spend most of your career wishing for the chance to excavate a site like Helly Holm, and I lobbied for it straight away. And I got it, too. Fair and square.’
There was something both rehearsed and steely about this short speech, and Fiona knew better than to say anything.
‘You know,’ said Iris, ‘I …’ She looked at Fiona then, seemed about to speak. ‘Never mind. Sorry. You have enough on your plate.’
‘No, go on.’
‘I … I wouldn’t be getting half of this shit if I was a man,’ said Iris with passion, her cheeks flushing delicately. ‘I’ve worked on many, many digs, and the site director frequently was off site and nobody questioned it, because they assumed, nine times out of ten, that he was off doing important work elsewhere. When I do it, I’m constantly having to explain myself and my whereabouts to this endless silently disapproving jury.’
Fiona, realising there was more, waited.
‘I think the filming thing doesn’t help either, you know.’ Iris raised her bottle to her lips, drank. ‘You’re there being pretty on television, to a lot of them. Nobody takes you seriously.’
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