36

The wind howled around the Square, and even though it was only late afternoon it was darker than it should have been. Rebecca, Chaz and Alan sat in the bar. Rain rattled against the opaque windows and occasionally the lights flickered.

‘Do you think the power will go?’ Rebecca asked.

‘If it gets any worse,’ said Chaz.

‘Will it get worse?’

‘Very likely.’

Fiona was right. The ferries were confined to port. The storm blowing in from the west had enveloped the entire island and, even though the harbour was relatively calm, thanks to Portnaseil’s sheltered location, turned the Sound into a restless, undulating blanket of grey. It didn’t look that bad to Rebecca, far from a death trap for vessels, but what did she know?

They had each fallen silent again and Rebecca stared at her gin and tonic while Alan spun his almost empty glass of wine on its stem. Chaz, as always the designated driver, was on the sparkling water and his long glass was empty.

‘Well,’ said Alan, breaking the silence, ‘that’s been an eventful day.’

Deirdre Marsh was in custody, locked away in the small cell at the police station across the Square. She hadn’t said a word since she had been found by Fiona sitting in an armchair beside her husband’s dead body, the rifle with which she had blown a hole in his chest draped across her lap. She’d first been taken to the hospital, where Chaz’s father had treated her injuries. Bruises, contusions and lacerations. Carl had managed to inflict the maximum damage again, without breaking bones or damaging organs. It didn’t make it any less painful.

No one seemed to mourn the passing of Carl Marsh.

Bill Sawyer was not so lucky. His tumble from Marsh’s Land Rover had been a bad one and he’d dislocated his right shoulder and shattered his right shin bone, a shard thrusting through the flesh. He was in hospital but was in no danger.

Donnie Kerr had almost slipped away during a seizure, the doctor said. He should’ve been airlifted to the mainland but the storm had prevented the helicopter from taking off, let alone reaching the island. They would do what they could but thankfully he had stabilised and was strong and fit. Dr Wymark was hopeful he’d pull through.

There was little appetite for the funeral party in the town hall, so what mourners were left had drifted off. From the shelter of the hotel’s reception, Rebecca and Chaz had watched the black-clad locals get into their cars or walk home, their bodies bent against the growing wind and the driving rain. Ash said that his mother and brother had catered the affair and there was a lot of food going to waste. It was a shame.

In the lane that ran to the Sinclairs’ door, the moron squad stood, some smoking, all huddled into their jackets. None of them had hoods because they were manly men and a bit of weather was nothing to them, testosterone being a wonderful umbrella. There was a new face, though, a young man Rebecca hadn’t seen before, and he had a thick parka with the hood up. His testosterone level needed a bit of waterproofing, it seemed.

When Alan joined them and they moved into the deserted bar, they found that Ash’s family had spread out some of the food left over from the funeral. Pauline said it was free for whoever wanted it so they ate some of the sandwiches while Alan told them about his chat with Lord Henry and his belief that his days of gainful employment on Stoirm were coming to an end.

‘What will you do?’ Rebecca asked.

Alan looked at Chaz. ‘That depends, doesn’t it?’ Chaz looked slightly uncomfortable, so Alan explained. ‘I want us to leave, Rebecca, but the bold boy here isn’t ready to go.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Chaz, convincing no one. ‘I mean, where would we go?’

‘Anywhere. London, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Timbuktu. There’s a big, wide and wonderful world out there, my boy, and it’s waiting to be discovered. New lands to conquer—and I want us to do it together.’

Chaz stared at his empty glass. Rebecca understood. It was a big step. She remembered what it was like leaving home but at least she had been heading to a job in Inverness.

‘Chaz, baby,’ said Alan, pressing his point, ‘what’s the point in staying here? Do you like being the only gays in the village?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘But you’re frightened, right?’

Something flickered at the side of Chaz’s mouth and Alan knew he was right. He reached out and laid his hand on top of his lover’s. ‘There’s no need to be frightened, not as long as we’re together. You and me, kid, top of the world, ma.’

The flicker turned into a smile. ‘That world blew up at the end.’

Alan waved his words away. ‘A mere technicality.’

Then they fell silent again, but Alan kept his hand on Chaz’s. Rebecca saw Chaz turn his over and their fingers intertwine. She thought it was a sign that Chaz had made a decision. She hoped so. Everyone deserved to be happy, even though not everyone got what they deserved.

Later, as Rebecca headed to her room, she glanced through the hotel door and saw that darkness had fallen fully. Chaz and Alan would go home to change and then meet her later for dinner. She left them, the bar’s only customers, Alan still trying to convince Chaz that they could have a life together off the island.

Alone in the small lift, Rebecca turned over the day’s drama in her head. Alan was right—it had been eventful. But in the end she was still in the dark about everything. She had the Carl Marsh story—she could talk about him turning up at the funeral with the gun, but not about what he done to his wife. She had been charged with murder and, even though she wouldn’t appear in court until they could get her back to the mainland, details relating to her shooting her husband were sub judice and could not be reported beyond saying that it had occurred. There might be an argument that anything relating to Carl was equally off-limits, but that was an envelope she was willing to push. Barry might think differently, but that would be up to him. She’d write it up, send it and let him worry about the legalities. That’s what he got the big bucks for.

Her phone rang as she stepped out of the lift into the corridor. She glanced at the screen and sighed.

‘Hello, Simon,’ she said, rooting around in the pocket of her coat for the room key.

‘Is everything okay over there?’ he said, his voice concerned, and she felt a tingle of shock. Had the news got out? Had someone on the island called the nationals? ‘They say the ferries are off.’

Relief washed through her, even though she knew it wouldn’t be long till word did spread. She had to get something filed right away. ‘Yes, the weather has closed in here.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘It’s wet and blustery but it’s no Hurricane Bawbag,’ she said.

‘But the ferries . . .’

‘The ferries go off if a whale farts, I’m told. It’s nothing to worry about, Simon. I’m fine. The hotel isn’t going to collapse around me.’

Once again, her tone was sharper than she’d intended and, once again, she regretted it immediately. She turned the key in the lock, opened the door.

‘I thought you’d be back by now,’ he said.

‘Tomorrow maybe, more likely the day after.’

There was a slight pause. ‘I miss you,’ he said.

She knew he expected her to reciprocate, but she didn’t. ‘I’ve got things to do, Simon. I need to file some copy and then have dinner. I’m meeting a couple of people . . .’

‘Who?’

She leaned against the door frame, her foot wedging the door open. For some reason she didn’t want to continue this conversation in her room. What was that about? Was it too intimate a location to speak to a man she’d already been intimate with? ‘Just Chaz and his friend Alan.’

‘Chaz? The young photographer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And who’s this Alan?’

She thought she heard a note of jealousy in his voice. ‘They’re gay, Simon. Alan is Chaz’s boyfriend.’ Her tone became more pointed again. ‘Look, I have to go. I’ve got work to do. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. The island won’t blow away.’

‘I just thought . . .’

‘Simon . . . I’m going.’

She hung up before he could say anything further. She slumped in the doorway, guilt at being so terse robbing her of strength. She was aware of hurried footsteps behind her but before she could turn someone slammed against her and propelled her forward. She whirled round as the person followed her and closed the door. Deep shadows filled the room with only a little light creeping through the gauze curtains from the Square, but she was acquainted enough with the layout to step further away from her assailant without tripping over anything. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she could make out a motionless figure against the door, as if blocking any attempt to escape. Whoever it was, he was big and stocky and she could hear his harsh breathing.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked, pleased her voice was relatively steady despite her heart hammering at her chest.

‘You caused all this, cow,’ said a voice. Young. Local. Male. ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

‘Caused all what?’

‘You and that Roddie Drummond, coming here, stirring it up.’

She backed up a little bit further until she felt the edge of the bed press against her thigh. She slowly reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. The young man blinked back at her but didn’t move. She sensed that now he was here he didn’t really know what to do. He was a good-looking boy, maybe in his late teens, wearing a bulky parka, jeans and boots. She realised she’d seen him before, standing in the rain with the moron squad.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘What do you want?’

He swallowed, looked around the room, as if surprised to find himself there. ‘You need to be stopped,’ he said. ‘You’re hurting people, causing trouble. People don’t want you here, nosing around, stirring it all up. What happens on the island is the island’s business.’

His body language suggested he was now regretting this course of action, so she decided to keep him talking. ‘So what are you going to do? Beat me up?’

He couldn’t look her in the eye so she couldn’t tell if that had been his plan and he now thought better of it, or if she had put the idea into his head. She looked around for something to defend herself with, should he decide on the latter. The bedside lamp was the nearest object, but the fact it was plugged in wouldn’t help her. He didn’t seem to be making any moves towards her, so perhaps he really was beginning to think he’d made an error of judgement.

‘Even if you do, you think it’ll make a difference?’ she said. ‘I’ve already learned a great deal and shared it . . .’

He looked back at her then, as if she’d reminded him of something. ‘What do you know?’

‘A lot,’ she bluffed. She still knew very little and all she had sent over the water was a report on the public meeting, but she hoped her lie would make him realise how stupid he was being. She guessed he’d been fired up to do this by the moron squad, who would be furious over the death of their boss. Someone mourned Carl Marsh’s passing after all.

His wandering eyes lighted on her laptop bag propped up against the hefty dark wooden wardrobe in the corner and he darted towards it. She realised what he was doing just a little too late, for he already had it in his hands before she got to him. He pushed her hard on the chest and she stumbled back against the bed as he wrenched open the door. She threw herself after him, catching him in the doorway, trying to reach the strap of the bag to snatch it back, but he managed to shrug her off, then jerked his elbow into her chin, knocking her almost off her feet, before he took off down the hallway.

‘Give me that back!’ she shouted, ignoring the jarring pain, but he didn’t even look back. She hadn’t expected him to suddenly stop and meekly return the bag, but the words were out before she knew it. He was already most of the way down the stairs to the ground floor before she pushed her way through the door. She prayed she didn’t lose her footing as she took the steps two at a time, one hand momentarily grabbing the banister for support. As she shouldered her way through to the ground level, she saw Ash at the front door, looking out into the Square. He looked back at her as she darted across the reception area.

‘Miss Connolly, what’s going on? I just saw Gus McIntyre running out . . .’

‘He stole my laptop,’ she said.

He was surprised. ‘Gus? He’s a nice lad.’

‘Yes, a nice lad who stole my laptop.’

As she stepped outside, she heard Ash say something about calling the police. She knew she should wait for them but she needed that laptop back. And she didn’t like being a victim.

The Square was deserted. The wind whipped at her clothes and shrieked around the stone buildings like a squadron of harpies. The street lights swayed slightly and the rain washed across the pools of light like insects with a purpose. Where would he have gone? He wouldn’t head for the harbour, there was nowhere else to go after that, unless he had water wings and a death wish. She ran along the front of the hotel and the bar, the sound of her footsteps lost in the screech around her, until she reached the road that led to the Spine. The lights from the Square died here, leaving a thick, inky darkness filled with the groan of the elements. There was no point in going any further. The young man would be well away by now, she knew that.

A nice lad, Ash had said. Maybe he was, but Rebecca was angry. She was angry at Gus, angry at herself, angry at this whole bloody island. Her laptop was gone, all her notes. Everything she had stored. Yes, the boy would be arrested pretty quickly but he’d have plenty of time to destroy everything. She didn’t know how computer literate he was but all he’d need to do was throw it in the Sound, let the water and the salt do its worst.

Shit.

She stared into the darkness again, the wind tugging at her hair and her clothes, the rain hitting her like a cold shower. She suddenly felt stupid, standing there in the darkness being battered by the weather, so she turned to head back to the warm hotel.

Gus was standing a few feet away from her, her laptop bag dangling in one hand at his side. She froze, shocked by the sight of him. She hadn’t heard him approach so she reasoned that if he meant her any harm he would’ve done it by now. He said something, too quietly for her to hear over the howl. She took a few steps closer and he didn’t back away. ‘What did you say?’

He looked away. ‘You shouldn’t have come here. Why did you come?’

‘It’s my job.’

He thought about this and she fixed her eyes on the laptop bag. She was close enough to reach it now, but was she fast enough to get it from him before he took off again? He was a strong lad and she wasn’t sure she would be able to win it back.

He looked up again, saw the direction of her gaze and looked down, as if he’d forgotten it was there. He held it out. ‘I’m not a thief,’ he said.

She took the bag from him and slung it over her head so that the strap was safely wrapped diagonally across her body. He might change his mind, she thought, and that way there was little likelihood he would remove it. ‘You could’ve fooled me,’ she said.

He looked hurt. ‘I just need you to stop.’

‘I’m not going to, Gus.’

He flinched when she used his name. He hadn’t expected that. She thought she saw his eyes fill with liquid. She hadn’t expected that.

‘It’s just . . . Sonya,’ he said. ‘I wanted to do something for Sonya.’

‘She’s your girlfriend, right?’

He nodded, then shook his head. ‘I think so. I don’t know. We’re . . .’ He tried to think of the words. ‘I don’t know what we are. We . . . mess around. I like her. I want there to be more but she holds back.’

He was a good-looking boy, he could probably have his pick of the island girls. Rebecca wondered if Sonya was special to him.

‘You wanted to impress her?’

He shrugged. ‘Something like that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight, what with Donnie. All this today. It’s . . . big, you know? Hard to cope with.’

‘And the moron squad wound you up?’

He was puzzled. ‘The what?’

‘The guys I saw you with earlier. Carl Marsh’s lads.’

He understood and looked even more ashamed of himself. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to them. Alisdair’s okay, but when he gets with the rest of them . . .’ His words tailed off with a shrug. ‘They said you had to be punished for what happened to Carl. They blame you and Chaz Wymark. They said you all had to pay.’

A chill rippled down Rebecca’s spine. ‘Gus, where are they now, Alisdair and the rest of them?’

Another shrug. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

She didn’t answer. She was already rushing past him back towards the hotel.