The next day they were walking again. Walking. Climbing. Resting briefly. Walking. Walking. Climbing. Climbing. It was as if Serrailler had to compensate for the loss of his arm by making his legs and the rest of his body work several hundred per cent harder. He had to exhaust himself. Sam did not complain, even though a couple of times he would have been glad to stay later in bed, or even just take a longer rest now and then, but he instinctively understood what this was about – more than the pleasure of the views and the fresh air and the satisfaction of pushing as hard as one could and then some. They had come over to the deserted west side of the island. Nobody lived here. The cliffs were steeper than on all the other sides, and slabs of them occasionally broke away during storms, when the sea battered them until they gave in. Not even the little brown island sheep survived for long here, except during the mild weeks of July and August. There was no house, not even a derelict croft, and the ground was rough and stony, hard even on strong walking boots. The prevailing wind rushed at the rocks. No vegetation or tree could withstand the gales and salt spray.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, but I’m starving.’
‘OK, better turn back and head south – we won’t find anywhere comfortable to sit and eat lunch this side. Come on.’
Sam’s calf muscles were aching, and his face felt burnt by the combination of wind and sun, but he got ahead of Simon and strode on fast, wanting to test himself, as well as show off.
It was another hour before they reached the gentler, easier south side, an hour during which a sudden squall had soaked them, and the sun had then dried them out.
‘Here.’ There was a huddle of stones where a low wall had once divided the open sloping fields. Sheep were wandering about, their bleating carried on the soft wind. Simon unlaced his boots, got out the food and two bottles of water and they ate in silence, both ravenous now. High above them, the great birds circled lazily. The sea could just be heard but not seen from here.
‘I see where we are … that’s Sandy’s place, low down?’
‘Yes, we came at it from the other direction so it looks different. Stands out a bit more.’
‘That’s her jeep. Bloody thing – got no springs at all.’ Simon laughed. ‘I need to get back a mallet she borrowed from me. We’ll drop down after we’re done.’
‘Sure you’re not seeing her?’
Simon turned on him so angrily that Sam started back.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid and if I were what would it have to do with you? You keep your nose out.’
Sam got up and walked away quickly. He had never known his uncle snarl at him, had barely known him even to raise his voice. He had meant what he said as a joke, and he was both hurt and angry. He stood looking up the hill. Something was wrong and he was sane enough to know it had nothing to do with Sandy or his own feeble sense of humour that had caught Simon on the raw. Was it his arm? Pain? A sense of inadequacy? Or something else. He remembered Rachel. He had assumed, probably along with the rest of the family, that Simon would marry her – his mother had been cautious when he had mentioned it once. Sam could see her, standing in the kitchen with her back to the fridge, looking anxious. She had not asked him to keep their conversation to himself but he had known it anyway.
‘It isn’t Rachel – you know what she’s like – she’s a wonderful person, she’s beautiful, she’s fun, she’s intelligent – and she adores him. It’s him.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, Sammy – not really. He just finds relationships, other than short-term ones, very difficult.’
‘Maybe he’s gay?’
‘I’m one hundred and ten per cent sure he isn’t.’
‘Nothing wrong if he was.’
‘Of course not. Listen, he’s just … oh God, I don’t know.’ She had sighed and opened the fridge to get out the salmon she was about to cook. Sam had waited a few more minutes but it was clear nothing else was going to be said.
There was the sound of the wind rustling across the turf, a sound which grew louder or softer but never ceased altogether, and the bleating of the sheep and the monotony of the seabirds’ cries. Nothing else. Sam stood still. Simon had not moved.
There should be something. An apology. An explanation.
Something.
Several more minutes passed.
‘Oh, come on, for God’s sake, this is stupid. Let’s get whatever you need from Sandy and then we can get home.’
Sam started to move fast down the slope, at one point slipping and righting himself, a few yards further slithering on a loose stony section of the track, and almost crashing down. He did not glance behind him, but he knew that Si was not following. He reached the bottom, and walked on towards the house. He could see Sandy’s jeep parked to one side. He stopped. He could no longer hear the sheep and the sigh of the wind was muffled by the slope. The path was still muddy from the night of the storm.
And then there was a scrabble and a bump, as Simon came fast down the track and stopped beside him.
‘OK?’
Sam looked at him. There was no point in continuing their stand-off, though he was still annoyed at Simon’s overreaction. But he nodded.
They turned into the pathway. ‘No bell,’ Sam said.
‘They don’t go for doorbells much around here. Either it’s on the latch or you bang.’ Sam banged. A chicken wandered towards them across the turf, pecking about.
‘She’s probably round the back or else along the shore somewhere. She’s a great beachcomber.’
There was no garden at the back of the bungalow, just a strip of rough grass and the chicken house. Two more of them were scratching in the dirt.
‘Sandy? You out there?’
In the distance, the sheep’s bleating. Nothing else.
Simon tried the back door. It was locked. ‘Strange. I told you, nobody locks anything. Check the front again, Sambo.’
Sam went. There were no windows at the side of the house. He looked into the jeep again and then he noticed the keys, not in the ignition but in the footwell on the driver’s side. He reached for them. As well as the car key, there was a door key and another which looked as if it belonged to a shed. He could hear Simon’s voice, calling Sandy. The living-room curtains were drawn back and Sam cupped his hands to either side of his head and peered inside. A table. An armchair. An upright chair. A rug. A standard lamp. A fireplace, with the dead remains of a fire. Bookshelves in an alcove, a couple of them full, the rest completely empty. It was a tidy room, without anything to distinguish it from a hundred others. There seemed to be no pictures or photographs, no personal clutter. The place might have been a holiday cottage between visitors.
Simon came round the side, and Sam showed him the keys.
‘We’d better go in. Though my guess is that she’s off beachcombing somewhere.’
Simon opened the door, paused, as if he were smelling and sensing the atmosphere of the house, and then stepped carefully inside. ‘Stay back a second.’
Sam looked at the narrow stairs straight ahead, the closed doors to the living room and, he supposed, kitchen. The hall was barely that. It had a heavy red wool curtain tied back with a loop. A rubber floor mat. A narrow ledge to the right of the door with an empty pot, presumably for the keys, and an envelope, which looked like a circular.
There was the same feeling of anonymity that he had picked up when looking through the window.
Simon had gone up the stairs and Sam heard his footsteps first to the right, front, and then the back room. In the latter he paused.
‘Is she there?’ Sam called up.
‘No.’
Sam hesitated. He had been told to stay where he was, but almost before he knew that he was going to do so, he stepped to the kitchen door and opened it.
There were two mugs on the table, containing dregs of coffee. A washing-up cloth was draped over the taps. The chairs were pushed in. The range was out.
‘Perhaps she’s gone away,’ Sam said.
Simon was standing in the doorway looking carefully round. He shook his head. ‘The jeep wouldn’t be here.’
He looked over every flat surface, opened the food cupboard and the one under the sink. Everything was in its place. It was all very swept and clean.
‘Two mugs,’ he said. ‘Odd.’
‘Why? People never visit her then?’
Simon shrugged.
‘Nothing we can do,’ Sam said. ‘You’ll have to get your mallet another time.’
But Simon did not move, only went on looking at everything, and then went back to the hall, into the living room, upstairs again, left, right, landing. A cupboard opened and, closed. Another. Drawers slid to and, after a second, fro.
‘I’m going to take another look outside.’
He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Sam, who hovered in the doorway, gazing out. A sea fret was drifting up from below, gently covering the landscape, the house, the sheep behind. It left a fine veil of moisture on his shoulders and hair. The wind had died. It felt slightly warmer. The fast changes in weather, temperature, the look of the island, even its colours, delighted him. He thought he heard Simon shout to him but, if he had, his voice was muffled by the fret. After a moment, he emerged out of it, looming through the greyness.
‘Can’t see a bloody thing of course but there’s no one as far as the end of the track.
‘Could she have slipped and fallen?’
‘Possible but unlikely, I’d have thought. She wouldn’t have a reason to venture onto the cliff edge. She walked on the shore almost every day but she took the sloping path from the road. Anyway, there’s no point trying to get down there with this coming in. We’ll head for the village.’
Sam ran to catch up.
‘Stick to me,’ Simon said. ‘Easy to become disorientated in a fret.’
Sam did not reply, just trudged on, making sure he kept no more than a yard behind. It was miserable walking, heads down, no view, only a dogged pace and the eerie bleating of the sheep from somewhere beyond them, shrouded in the mist.
The fret became denser as they closed in on the harbour, and until they were almost upon it, they could not see the lights from the houses or the pub. There was a din of music and voices as they went in.
‘God, the ceilidh, I’d forgotten.’
Simon pushed his way up to the bar, shouldering a couple aside but they made room without comment. The doors of the back room were open and the band and the dancers were going full tilt.
‘You’ve a thirst on you then,’ Iain said, glancing up from pulling a pint of Guinness.
‘I need a word – has Sandy been in?’
Iain hesitated, then said, ‘Havenae seen her but that’s no surprising. Take a look through for yourself. I’ve been here since crack of dawn and I’ll be here till crack of the next one.’
He set the black foaming stout on the counter and took a glass down from the row above him in one smooth movement. ‘I’ll do yours when I’ve got through this lot and any minute now Lorna will be out with another tray of orders.’
Iain’s wife was not normally on hand although they lived on the premises. She was sparing with her assistance and her presence. Simon had barely met her.
‘I’ll check.’ He went in to the packed back room, where the music and dancing were hotting up, but after watching carefully, and checking out those sitting on the benches round the edge, he was sure Sandy was not there. He returned to the bar.
‘I need a minute without the music and the blether,’ Simon said. ‘Can you give me that, Iain?’
Iain paused. ‘What’s this all about? It’s a busy night in here as you well know.’
‘Sandy isn’t there.’
Iain looked at him, caught his tone of voice. He put a full pint on the counter, then reached up to the ship’s bell and rang it long and loud enough for there to be quiet in the bar. ‘Just give them the word through there, somebody.’
Within a few seconds, there was silence and a stillness as if they were attending a wake, not a ceilidh. Iain did not ring the bell like that without good reason.
Now he nodded to Simon who stood in the centre of a small space they cleared for him. He was known to them. His history was known. His past history. The job he did. For a short time, he had the floor.
‘Just a heads-up to everyone. My nephew Sam and I called on Sandy Murdoch earlier – I had to pick up something – and there was no sign of her or of any break-in or trouble. Her jeep was there. But I haven’t seen her for a day or two. Last time was when she gave Sam a lift back to my place two nights ago in the storm. Not unusual for Sandy to be out walking, especially down on the shore, but there wasn’t a sign of her when I looked. I’m just a bit bothered. You all know Sandy – if you’ve an idea that she’s maybe gone away to the mainland or whatever, shout out and I’ll stop fretting. But Iain here hasn’t seen her and she’s generally about in the stores or helping out with the unloading. This isn’t my patch of course but once a cop … Anyway, thanks, back to the music.’