15

Lord Henry and his party left the hall by a side door and climbed into a waiting Range Rover. Johnny Newman was still seething over the comments directed at him and he complained loudly as the vehicle headed back to the estate. Henry and Viola said nothing, allowing the actor to give vent to his artistic temperament.

‘Who the hell was that bloke anyway?’ Johnny asked. ‘The mouthy bastard?’

‘Donnie Kerr,’ said Henry. ‘An old friend.’

‘Old friend? He didn’t seem too friendly to me. He was bang out of order, going for me that way. Bang out of order. You know what I should’ve done? I should’ve gone down there and given him a slap. He was bang out of order.’

‘People will come round,’ said Ramage, giving Henry’s hand a supportive squeeze. ‘They’ll see the benefits of the plan. They’ll see that bringing in real, sustainable money is good for the island.’

Henry turned his hand round and threaded his fingers through hers. He gave her a smile, but it was really just for show. His mind was elsewhere, wondering how he would tell Jarji, who was staying overnight at Stoirm House, that the meeting had not gone as well as he’d hoped. He didn’t know how his old chum would react. He couldn’t tell Viola that, though. She knew he was doing business with the Nikoladze brothers with regard to the sporting estate. The brothers were financiers and investors—at least that’s what it said on their letterhead. There was always talk of their involvement in enterprises that were something less than legal, while the original source of their millions was shrouded in mystery and no small amount of accounting legerdemain. They had never been charged with anything, but, even so, Viola ensured she remained at considerably more than arm’s length from them. She was staying in a cottage on the estate while Jarji was there, which gave her some wiggle room if questions were asked. It was also easier for Henry to sneak out to the cottage than skulk around the corridors at night.

‘I didn’t know you’d invited the press to the meeting,’ she said.

‘I didn’t,’ Henry replied.

Newman’s face grew even more livid. ‘There was a reporter there?’

‘Local paper only,’ said Ramage. ‘I can’t remember her name but I saw her in the audience.’

‘Which paper?’ Henry asked.

‘Highland Chronicle.’

‘Christ,’ said Newman, ‘that means the bloody London papers could get it. You know what these bloody reporters are like, she’ll smell a story she can sell—‘TV star gets roasting at Highland meeting’. Or it’ll be bloody tweeted by the bloody paper and the whole bloody world will see it. Shit!’

Viola ignored his self-centred rant and squeezed Henry’s hand again. ‘It’ll be fine, Henry. There’s nothing she can write now that’ll make any difference. All the permissions and permits are in place. Tonight wasn’t even a formality, it was a courtesy.’

She was right, of course. The plans would go ahead, no matter what the likes of Donnie Kerr said. The people would accept it because they always did. And there would be benefits for all. The reporter could write what she liked . . .

He’d get someone to pull a string or two, though. Just in case.

* * *

Carl Marsh said nothing as he steered his Land Rover through the darkness towards the cottage on the estate that came with the job. The only sound was the roar of the vehicle’s engine and the crunch of gears as he angrily manhandled the stick. Deirdre sat quietly, knowing better than to say anything, even though she wished he’d ease his foot off the accelerator. He knew every curve and dip in the Spine, certainly, but he was still going far too fast.

‘I saw you looking for him,’ he said, breaking the silence.

‘You saw me looking for who?’

His lips tightened into a thin line. ‘You know who.’

She decided not to engage any further. Things between them had been bearable the past few years, not happy for her part but endurable, but she still recognised the old signs. Her father had been the same and she’d learned as a child to keep away from him when the dark moods descended. As a child that was relatively easy. Not so easy for her mother, though, who more often than not bore the brunt of her father’s rage. When the darkness overcame Ben Lomax, it meant pain for his wife or daughter.

Carl wasn’t going to let it lie, though. ‘You not going to say anything? Not even going to deny it?’

‘Carl, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He spun the wheel onto the short track that led to their cottage. The headlights picked out the fence around the front garden and the gate, then the cottage itself, and prompted a cacophony of barking from the kennels at the rear, where Carl kept three dogs, two Labradors and a Spaniel. Deirdre would have let them in the house, but to Carl they were merely tools of his trade and not creatures to be pampered. He brought the vehicle to a sudden halt and threw open the door.

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about,’ he muttered as he climbed out. Deirdre stepped down from the Land Rover and fished around for the house keys in the pocket of her woollen coat.

‘Shut up!’ Carl yelled at the barking dogs. They fell silent. They knew better than to defy him. They knew what would come if they did. Deirdre also knew what was coming if she didn’t tread a very fine line.

She unlocked the front door, switched on the hall light, then took off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks set into the wall. She stepped into the kitchen, clicked on the strip light and walked to the sink to fill the kettle. When she turned she saw Carl standing in the kitchen doorway. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. His face was blank as he stared at her, but she knew that meant nothing.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

‘As if you’d interest him now,’ he said, his voice heavy with disdain. ‘The way you are.’

I am what you made me, she thought, but tried not to react. She couldn’t react. That’s what he wanted. An excuse. Keep it normal, she told herself. She had to keep it normal. She needed to calm him down. She avoided looking him in the eye because she knew from experience that could be construed as a challenge. ‘Carl, do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ He mimicked her, his pitch higher and more nasal. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

She didn’t respond. No matter what she said it would enrage him, so she thought it prudent to remain silent. She took two mugs from a cupboard and set them beside the boiling kettle. She dropped a teabag in each, then fetched a spoon from the drawer under the sink.

He still hadn’t moved from the doorway. He still hadn’t taken off his coat. He watched her every move with that frozen expression.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘You got nothing to say?’

She didn’t look at him. She daren’t. ‘About what, Carl?’ A note of weariness crept into her voice; she couldn’t help it. She hoped he didn’t notice.

‘About what, Carl?’ Mimicking her again. ‘You know about what. Your behaviour tonight, is about what.’

The kettle clicked off and she poured the hot water into the cups. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You hoped he’d be there. You were looking for him. Your boyfriend.’

Deirdre knew who he was talking about. She couldn’t deny that. And she had hoped he’d be there. She couldn’t deny that either. She also couldn’t admit it. ‘Carl,’ she said, ‘please . . .’

‘Carl, please . . .’ He was mimicking her again, mocking her. ‘Carl, please what?’

She turned and found he had moved right up behind her. She hadn’t heard a sound as he’d crossed the floor. His head was cocked to one side as he studied her with a little half-smile on his lips. She knew that smile. She knew what was coming. She’d seen the signs. She’d seen them so many times before. But not for years.

‘Please don’t do this,’ she said.

‘Don’t do what, Deirdre?’ His voice had changed. Before it had been accusatory, scornful; now it was conversational. ‘We’re talking, is all we’re doing. Can’t a husband talk to his wife now, is that it?’

She had the mug of tea clenched in her hand. She could feel the heat seeping through the china. The liquid was still near boiling point. If she threw it in his face now, she could steal time to get away, before it happened. Before the anger and the bitterness that was welling up within him erupted.

‘Is that the way things are now?’ he said. ‘That a man can’t even discuss with his wife the way she was looking around a room full of our friends and neighbours for a glimpse of another man? A man she fucked before?’

‘I told you, Carl, nothing happened . . .’

But it had. She had fucked Roddie Drummond, many times. Back when she was still something a man wanted, even though Carl Marsh was already turning her into a wraith haunting her own life. She looked down at the mug, the surface of the tea shimmering in her shaking hand. It would be so easy to do it. Just a jerk of her arm and she could dodge past him and out of the cottage, into the dark, where she could hide. Escape. She had thought of it before, many times. Getting away from him, away from this island. Find Roddie, reunite with him. She had dreamed of making a new life with him on the mainland. Away from the secrets and lies of Stoirm, away from Carl and his moods and his fists. It was a dream that gave her comfort as she lay in bed beside this man she had once loved, but whom she had grown to hate, and to whom she was now totally indifferent. Part of her thought it was a fantasy, an escape, but now Roddie was back. Now was her chance. He could make her whole again, she knew it. They were both older, certainly, but if she could get away she could cast off Carl Marsh and his name to become Deirdre Lomax once again. She had been a prize before she married. Carl had, too. But that had changed.

She stared at the hot tea, willing herself to do it, to take a stand, to lash out.

‘Put the mug down, Deirdre,’ said Carl, softly, as if he had guessed what was going through her mind.

She found she couldn’t move at all.

‘Deirdre, put it down,’ he said, his voice beginning to harden.

She knew what would happen if she put it down. She could tell by the way he was balancing on the balls of his feet and the way his fist had clenched. The dead look in his eyes. She knew what he would do, unless she moved first. It would be so simple, throw it right in his face, then get out.

So simple. So easy.

She put the mug back down on the kitchen surface. And waited.