Authors: Peter May
I am awakened from my self-appraisal by the sound of barking at the door. Bran back from his gallivant among the dunes. I pull on my bathrobe and go to let him in. He jumps around me with excitement, pushing himself against my legs and thrusting his snout into my hands, seeking their comfort and reassurance. And I realise he must be hungry. There is a tin bowl in the boot room that I fill with water, and as he laps at it thirstily, I search for dog food, finding it finally in the cupboard beneath the sink. A bagful of small ochre nuggets and another bowl. The familiar sound of the food rattling into the bowl brings Bran snuffling hungrily into the kitchen, and I stand back and watch as he devours it.
My dog, at least, knows me. My scent, the sound of my voice, the expressions on my face. But for how long? He seems like a young dog. Two years or less. So he hasn’t been with me for long. Even were he able to talk, how much could he tell me about myself, my history, my life before the time he entered it?
I look around me again. This is where I live. On the end wall of the kitchen there is a map of what I recognise to be the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. How I know that, I have no idea. Is that where I am? Somewhere on that storm-tossed archipelago on the extreme north-western fringe of Europe?
Among the mess of papers on the table, I pick up an envelope that has been torn open. I pull out a folded sheet. A utility bill. Electricity. I unfold it and see that it is addressed to Neal Maclean, Dune Cottage, Luskentyre, Isle of Harris. And at a stroke I know my whole name and where I live.
I sit down at the laptop and brush fingers over the trackpad to waken it from its slumber. The home screen is empty except for the hard-disk icon. From the dock, I open up the mailer. It is empty. Nothing even in its trash. The documents folder, too, reveals nothing but blinking emptiness, as does the trash can in the dock. If this really is my computer, it seems I have left no trace of me in it. And something about the hard, white light it shines in my eyes is almost painful. I close the lid and determine to look again later.
My attention is drawn by the books that line the shelves in the bookcase below the map. I stand stiffly and go to take a look. There are reference books. An Oxford English dictionary, a thesaurus, a large encyclopaedia. A dictionary of quotations. Then rows of cheap paperbacks, crime and romance, vegetarian cooking, recipes from northern China. Well-thumbed, yellowing pages. But some instinct tells me they are not mine. On top of the bookcase, a pile of hardback books seem newer. A history of the Hebrides. A photo book titled simply
Hebrides
. There are some tourist maps and leaflets, and a well-thumbed booklet with the intriguing title
The Flannan Isles Mystery
. I lift my eyes to the map on the wall and run them around the ragged coastline of the Outer Hebrides. It takes a moment to find them, but there they are. The Flannan Isles. Eighteen, maybe twenty miles to the west of Lewis and Harris, well north of St Kilda. A tiny group of islands in a vast ocean.
I drop my eyes again to the booklet in my hands and open it to find the introduction.
The Flannan Isles, sometimes known as The Seven Hunters, are a small group of islands approximately thirty-two kilometres west of the Isle of Lewis. Taking their name from the 7th-century Irish preacher St Flannan, they have been uninhabited since the automation of the lighthouse on Eilean Mòr, the largest of the islands, in 1971 – and are the setting for an enduring mystery that occurred in December 1900, when all three lighthouse keepers vanished without trace.
I look at the map once more. The islands seem tiny, so lost and lonely in that vast ocean, and I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like to live out there, spending weeks or months on end with only your fellow lighthouse keepers for company. I reach out to touch them with trembling fingertips, as if paper might communicate with skin. But there are no revelations. I let my hand drop again, and my eyes wander down the south-west coast of Harris to find Luskentyre, and the yellow of the beach they call Tràigh Losgaintir. Beyond it the Sound of Taransay, and the island of Taransay itself, whose mountains I had seen rising out of the ocean behind me when I first staggered to my feet on the beach.
How had I come to be washed up there? That I had been wearing a life jacket suggested I had been on a boat. Where had I been? What happened to the boat? Had I been alone? So many questions crowd my confusion that I turn away, pain filling my head.
Bran sits in the arch, watching me, and when I catch his eye he lifts a hopeful head. But I am distracted by the bottle of whisky that I see on the worktop, several inches of gold trapping light from the window to give it an inner glow. In the cabinet above, I find a glass and pour in three good fingers. Without thought or hesitation I splash in a little water from the tap. So this is how I like my
uisge beatha
. Quite unconsciously I am discovering little things about myself. Even that I know the Gaelic for whisky.
It tastes marvellous, warm and smoky with an underlying sweetness. I look at the label. Caol Ila. An island whisky. Pale and peaty. I carry my glass and the bottle through to the sitting room, set the bottle on the coffee table and cross to stand at the French window, staring out at the sands and the light that sweeps across them between the shadows of fast-moving clouds. A flash on the opposite shore catches my attention. A fleeting reflection of light on glass. I look around the room behind me. Somehow, earlier, I had registered the binoculars sitting on the mantel. I fetch them, set my glass beside the bottle, and raise the twin lenses to my eyes. It takes me a moment, but then there he is. The watcher on the far shore, whom I had seen from the beach. A man, my own binoculars reveal to me now. I can see him quite clearly. He has long hair blowing back in the wind, and a patchy, straggling beard on a thin, mean face. And he is watching me watching him.
I am still shaking a little, and so it is difficult to keep the glasses steady and the man in focus. But I see him lower his binoculars and turn to climb up into the caravan behind him. I can see a satellite dish fixed to the end of the vehicle and what looks like a small radio mast. And, panning left, I find a battered-looking Land Rover with a canvas roof. Both sit elevated and exposed on what I know is called the machair, that area of fertile grassland around the coastal fringes of the islands, where wild flowers bloom in spring abundance and the lambs feed to bring almost sweet, ready-salted meat to the plate.
I return my binoculars to their place above the stove, lift my glass and sink into the settee that faces the view to the beach. I wonder what time it is. Hard to tell whether it is morning or afternoon, and I realise for the first time that I am not wearing a watch. And yet from the band of pale skin around my left wrist, on an arm that has been tanned by sun or wind, it is clear that it is my habit to do so.
Sun streams now through the window and I feel the heat of it on my feet and my legs. I sip slowly on my glass as Bran clambers on to the settee beside me, settling himself to lay his head in my lap. I run absent fingers across his head, idly stroking his neck to bring comfort to us both, and I have no recollection of even finishing my whisky.
CHAPTER TWO
I have no idea how long I have slept. Consciousness returns from a dark, dreamless sleep, bringing with it the physical pain of a still traumatised body, and the recollection that I recall nothing. Of myself, or what happened to me in the hours before I was washed ashore on Tràigh Losgaintir.
But I am startled, too. Heart pounding, aware that the sun has slipped beyond the hills and sunk somewhere in the west, sprinkling pink dusk, like dust, on the dying day. Something has wakened me. A sound. Bran has raised his head from his slumbers, sniffing the air, but doesn’t seem alarmed.
A voice from the boot room calls out my name. ‘Neal?’ A woman’s voice. And she is not alone. I hear a man, too, as they shut the outside door behind them. I am on my feet in an instant, my empty whisky glass rolling away across the floor. Bran pulls himself up and looks at me quizzically.
Even before my visitors can open the door into the kitchen, I am out into the hall and turning towards the bedroom. ‘Neal, are you home?’ They are in the kitchen now, and I search through the clothes on the bedroom chair to find a pair of jeans, hopping from one leg to the other as I pull them on, falling back on the bed to drag the waistband over my thighs and button them shut.
‘Be right with you.’ I drag a T-shirt over my head. No time to find socks or shoes. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I hurry from the bedroom, face pale beneath my tan, hair a mess of curls.
They are standing in the sitting room when I come through. People, clearly, who know me. And yet I detect in myself not a flicker of familiarity in either of them.
They are both younger than me. Late twenties, perhaps early thirties. His blond hair is cut short at the sides, left longer on top and gelled back from a narrow forehead. He is good-looking, a man conscious of his image, a tightly trimmed beard that is longer than designer stubble dressing a lean face with almond-shaped green eyes. He wears what I am certain is a designer-labelled hoodie, and immaculate jeans above pristine white Adidas trainers that look as if they are just out of the box. With his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket, he has a certain slouch, but you can tell from his shoulders and narrow hips that he is well built. He grins at me, a wide, open, infectious grin, and nods through the hall towards the bedroom. ‘Christ, have you got a woman through there? Hope we didn’t disturb anything.’ His accent is very different from mine. North of England, but refined. Middle class. My guess would be public rather than grammar school.
‘Sorry.’ I run a hand self-consciously back through my hair. ‘I fell asleep.’ My own voice sounds quite coarse by comparison. Scottish, but not island. Central belt perhaps.
She laughs. ‘Well, that’s nice. Invites us for drinks then buggers off for an early night.’ Her accent is similar to his, but broader. A soft voice, with a slight catch in it. Almost hoarse. Seductive. She is six inches shorter than him, but still quite tall. Five six, perhaps, or seven. Short, boyish, auburn hair frames an almost elfin face. Deep brown eyes enhanced by a reddish brown eyeshadow. Wide lips a slash of red. She is slim, a well-worn leather bomber jacket hanging on square shoulders over a white T-shirt and fashionably baggy jeans. ‘When we didn’t see the car out front, we thought maybe you weren’t here.’
So I have a car, but no idea where it is. And I am suddenly overcome by an urge to tell them everything. Which is almost nothing. Just that I was washed up on the beach and haven’t a clue who I am. These people know me. They could tell me so much. But I am scared to give shape or form to that black cloud of anxiety that hangs over me. Of events beyond memory. Things simply wiped from my mind that I fear I might never even wish to acknowledge. And all I say is, ‘I forgot.’
‘That’s just what Sally said. “Bet he’s forgotten.”’ And he does a very good imitation of her accent.
‘So where is the car?’ Sally says.
And I find myself panicking. ‘Pranged it.’
‘Aw, shit.’ She bends down to ruffle Bran’s head, and he pushes his face up into her hand. ‘What happened? Is that how you cut your head?’
My hand goes instinctively to my hairline, where the blood I had seen earlier has dried now to a scab. But I don’t want to go any further down this road. ‘Oh, it wasn’t anything very much. I’ll get the car back tomorrow.’
He says, ‘How did you get home?’
My mind is racing. You can’t just tell one lie, and I’m very quickly learning that I am not a good liar. ‘The garage gave me a lift back.’
Sally says, ‘All the way from Tarbert? Christ, that was good of them. You should have called. Jon would have come and got you.’
Jon unzips his hoodie and allows himself to fall back into the other settee, legs spread, an arm extended along the top of the cushions. ‘More to the point, where’s that drink you promised us?’ And I am seriously grateful for the change of subject.
Sally slips out of her jacket and throws it over the back of the settee, before dropping down beside Jon, who lets his arm slide around her shoulder. It is clear to me that not only are they regular visitors, at ease in my house, but they are a couple comfortable with each other. ‘Yeah, come on, Neal, we’re dying of thirst here.’
‘Sure,’ I say, happy to escape into the kitchen. ‘What would you like?’
‘Just the usual,’ she calls through.
I feel panic rising again. I should know what they drink. How can I explain that I don’t? I search the cupboards once more, this time looking for drink, but I can’t find so much as a can of beer. Then I open the fridge, and there is a bottle of vodka, two-thirds full, in the door. Somehow I just know that vodka is not my tipple. I scan the shelves for tonic. Nothing. ‘I think I’m out of tonic,’ I call back, hoping I’ve got this right.
I hear her sigh. ‘Men! Do I have to do everything myself?’
And she slips through the archway into the kitchen, eyes alight and full of mischief. She puts a conspiratorial finger to her lips and, before I can even react, she reaches arms up around my neck to pull me towards her, mouth open, finding mine and forcing her tongue past my lips and teeth. Something in the scent and touch of her is arousingly familiar, and beyond that first moment of shock I find myself reacting. Hands sliding down her back and pulling her towards me, pressing myself against her. And then we break apart and I am both breathless and startled. She says loudly, ‘Did you check the larder?’
I look around. I have not the least idea where the larder is. ‘No.’
She tuts, taking my hand and pulling me through to the boot room. ‘Let’s see.’ I glance guiltily over my shoulder to make sure that Jon can’t see us. Somehow I have been drawn into a conspiracy of deceit that must have been familiar to me only yesterday, and no doubt long before that. But now, in my ignorance of it, I find its sudden intimacy exciting, almost intoxicating.
To the left of the washing machine, she opens a floor-to-ceiling cupboard to reveal shelves stacked with tins and packet food, bottles and condiments. She stoops to the bottom shelf and lifts a six-pack of tonic in its plastic wrap. ‘Honestly, Neal, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She grins and reaches up to kiss me lightly on the lips, then hurries back through to the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix these. You go through and pour yourself a whisky and keep Jon company.’
I go through to pick up my glass from where it has rolled under the coffee table and set it beside the bottle. I don’t really want another drink. I need to keep my head clear.
Jon smirks. ‘Been at it before we got here, I see. That why you were sleeping?’
I force a smile. ‘No. I just had the one. And it was a while ago.’ I stand up and walk to the French windows and nod towards the far shore. ‘The man in that caravan over there was watching me through binoculars.’
Jon breathes scorn through pursed lips. ‘Buford? He’s a weird one, that. Apparently residents at Seilebost have been at the council to try and get him evicted. But it’s common grazing or something, and he’s claiming travellers’ rights.’ Sally comes in and hands him a glass, and sits down beside him. ‘He must be mad parking his caravan there. He has it guyed and pegged all the way round to stop it blowing away. Must be like living in a bloody wind tunnel.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’
Sally chinks glasses with him and cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘Not joining us?’
Jon grins now. ‘Think he’s had enough already.’ Then, ‘I guess you didn’t make it out to the Flannans yesterday. It was a real stinker. Start of the equinoctials, the locals say.’
I cannot imagine why I might have wanted to go out to the Flannan Isles, but it seems safer to agree that I didn’t. ‘No, I never made it.’
‘Thought not.’
Sally takes a sip of her vodka tonic and I hear ice clinking in her glass and notice there is a slice of lemon in it. She really does know her way around my kitchen.
Jon says, ‘So how’s the book going?’
Every sentence uttered feels like a trap set to catch me out. ‘Book?’ I frown innocently, or at least hope I do.
Sally chides him. ‘You should know better than ask a writer a question like that.’
Jon laughs and says, ‘What, has inspiration vanished like those lighthouse keepers you’re writing about? Last time we spoke, you said you were almost finished.’
I try to avoid further traps. ‘I expect to wrap it up sometime this month.’ And suddenly I realise that I don’t even know what month it is. I glance around the room and see a Jolomo calendar hanging on the wall. A vividly coloured painting of cottages standing above an outcrop of rocks, and boats at anchor in a stormy bay. Below it, the month of September is laid out in thirty squares.
Sally won’t meet my eye. ‘I suppose that means you’ll be leaving soon.’
I nod, half-feigning regret. ‘I suppose it does.’
*
It feels like an eternity before they go. We sit and talk. Or, at least, Jon talks and I listen, trying hard not to get involved in a conversation that I can’t find my way out of. Concentration is difficult. In spite of sleeping earlier I am exhausted. My body feels battered. And I am aware of Sally watching me. Silent, appraising, as if she can read my mind, or the lack of it.
While he seems oblivious, Sally must sense my impatience to be rid of them, for it is she who stands, finally, and says they should go. ‘Neal’s tired,’ she tells him. ‘We can do this another time.’
Jon drains his glass and rises to his feet. ‘Maybe that bump in your car was a bit more than you’re letting on, eh?’
I just smile and follow them through the house to the door. ‘Sorry to be such bad company,’ I say, and from the doorstep I look around for their car. But there is no vehicle in sight.
Sally kisses me lightly on the cheek and Jon shakes my hand. ‘Get yourself a decent night’s sleep,’ he says. ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’ Evidently it has not gone unnoticed that I am not myself. I almost smile inwardly. How could I be, when I have no idea who I am?
I stand on the step, the wind tugging my hair, and watch as they walk up to the road and turn left. Above them on the far side of the single-track, a house stands overlooking mine, and the beach beyond. For the first time, I cast eyes over the exterior of my own place. A traditional design, but it can be no more than a year or two old. Well insulated, double glazed, warm and comfortable inside, offering the protection of modern engineering from the elements of this harsh environment. How did I end up here? Have I always lived on my own?
For a moment I am distracted by Bran racing among the dunes, barking and chasing rabbits, and when I look back I see Jon and Sally going up the drive of a house near the top of the hill. I realise they are neighbours. Sally turns and waves before they go inside. The house has a two-storey glass porch in the design of a gable end, built out from the front of it. I can only imagine how spectacular the views must be from the inside, though given that Jon and Sally are neighbours, and friends, I must have seen them often enough.
There is only a handful of houses strung out along the road as it curves up over the hill beneath a brooding sky and failing light. A rising horizon unbroken by a single tree, and delineated by drystone walls. Away to the west, beyond the beach and a sea that seems to glow with some inner light, the mountains of Taransay rise against the setting sun, the sky clearing beyond them in a freshening wind from the south-west.
I shout on Bran and he comes racing back.
Once inside, I hear him lapping water from his bowl in the boot room as I go into the kitchen and turn on the lights.
So I am writing a book.
I cross to the bookshelf and lift the booklet on the mystery of the Flannan Isles and sit down to flip it open. In it I read that the largest of the seven islands, Eilean Mòr, which is Gaelic for Big Island, rises 288 feet above sea level and was chosen at the end of the nineteenth century as the site for a lighthouse that would guide passing vessels safely around Cape Wrath and onward to the Pentland Firth. The island is less than 39 acres in size, and the lighthouse they built there is 74 feet high. Lit for the first time on 7 December 1899, it flashed twice in rapid succession every thirty seconds, and sent a 140,000-candlepower beam 24 nautical miles out to sea.
It was almost exactly a year later, on 15 December 1900, that the captain of the steamer
Archtor
, headed for Leith on the east coast of Scotland, reported by wireless that the light was out. But whoever took that message at the headquarters of Cosmopolitan Line Steamers failed to report it to the Northern Lighthouse Board, and it wasn’t until the 26th of the month that relief keepers, delayed by bad weather, were finally landed on the island to discover that keepers James Ducat, Thomas Marshall and Donald McArthur had vanished without trace.
As I read, I find myself being drawn into the mystery. Printed in full is a colourful poem written about the event twenty years after it, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. In it he imagines that the relief keepers, on landing, were watched by three huge birds that flew from the rock, startled by their arrival, to plunge into the sea. And when the men entered the lighthouse, the smell of limewash and tar that greeted them was as ‘familiar as our daily breath’, but reeked now of death. They found an untouched meal of meat and cheese and bread on the table, and an overturned chair on the floor. The men’s bunks had not been slept in, and there was no trace of them anywhere on the island.