Authors: Peter May
‘But why?’ I see doubt in her eyes. Suspicion. Though there is nothing I can say to allay that.
I very nearly shout at her, ‘I don’t know!’ And she takes a half-step back. Bran barks, wondering why I have raised my voice.
*
The rain has stopped as we walk back down the hill, but the wind has stiffened and blows directly in our faces. I suppose I must have seen it many times, but the view from here is quite magnificent. It feels like we are up among the clouds, looking down on the world. The cloud formations coming in off the Atlantic are torn and shredded by the wind, sunlight breaking through them in beams of pure gold against black, criss-crossing the incoming wash and the silver of the sand like spotlights on a stage. Nature’s own theatrical production, dazzling and majestic.
Sally and I have not spoken for nearly fifteen minutes. Whatever is going through her mind, she is keeping her own counsel, while I am nursing an unreasonable guilt. In the end I cannot bear it any longer. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, without looking at her.
‘What for?’ Her voice is cold.
‘Everything. Shouting at you. Not telling you about the bees.’ And my frustration fizzes once more to the surface. ‘Jesus! Why the hell would I be so secretive about keeping bees?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I wish I could.’
It is easier going down than it was coming up, but the silence between us is still difficult.
I glance at her. ‘You said I went out to the Flannan Isles on a regular basis.’
She flicks me a look. ‘Yes.’
‘Did someone take me, or do I have a boat?’
‘You have a boat.’
‘Where?’
‘You berth it in the harbour at Rodel.’
‘And where’s that?’
She looks at me again to see if I am serious, then she very nearly laughs. But the laughter dies quickly, and the smile with it. ‘It’s right at the southern tip of Harris. Beyond Leverburgh. It looks out across the Sound to North Uist.’
‘Would you take me there?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
It is a long time before she responds. ‘To be honest, Neal, I’m not sure why I should trust you any more. You’ve lied to me, concealed things from me.’
None of which I can deny. ‘But I must have had my reasons.’
‘Clearly.’
I suck in a deep breath. ‘In all those hours we spent together, you must have got some sense of the man I am. Trusted me, had feelings for me.’
‘Yes, I did. And still do.’ She stops, forcing me to stop too, and I turn to face her. ‘But I never really knew you, Neal. Like I told you last night. I just didn’t ask. And you weren’t telling.’
‘Then give me the benefit of the doubt, Sally. Please. I’m not sure I can deal with this on my own.’
She looks at me for a long time, before sighing in deep resignation. ‘Come here.’ And she opens her arms to wrap them around my waist and pull me to her. Holding me tightly, her head turned and pressed into my shoulder. I close my eyes and feel the wind whistling around us, yanking at our clothes and our hair. ‘Of course I’ll take you to Rodel.’
I’m not sure how long we have been standing like this, just holding each other, when I hear Bran barking somewhere on the track below us. We break apart and I see him a hundred or more yards away, barking at a man leaning against the gate at the foot of the hill. He has binoculars raised to his eyes, watching us. And, when he lowers them, I see, even from this distance, that it is the man who was watching me from the far shore yesterday. Buford, Jon had said his name was. A solitary traveller, with his caravan pegged down on the machair.
‘What the hell does he want?’ Sally says. ‘Do you think he was following us?’
‘I don’t know. Not up to the hives, anyway. Why don’t we ask him?’
But even as we look, he pushes his binoculars into the deep pockets of his waterproofs and turns to hurry away towards the road, long ropes of hair blowing out in the wind behind him.
‘Come on.’ I take Sally’s hand, and we increase the speed of our descent. But the surface is difficult, slippery with mud and awash with rainwater running off the hills, and by the time we get to the gate, Buford has reached the semicircle of tarmac, where his Land Rover is parked next to Sally’s Volvo. He backs up his vehicle and accelerates away down the track. When finally we get to the car, Buford has turned north on to the A859, and is picking up speed around the curve of the causeway.
CHAPTER FIVE
The single-track road from Leverburgh cuts through the hills above the southern coastline, before winding down into the tiny settlement at Rodel, where the sixteenth-century St Clement’s Church stands on a pinnacle above the harbour, facing out across the Sound. The church is clad in scaffolding, platforms erected on different levels to facilitate restoration work. We drive past its high stone wall, and gate, to turn down the narrow loop of road that drops steeply to the harbour below.
The harbour itself is tiny, built within encircling headlands that almost meet. Through the gap between them, the mountains of North Uist can be seen simmering darkly beyond clearing skies. The wind has dropped a little, and flashes of blue break the monotonous undulations of grey and silver that lie low across the sea.
There are eight or ten boats berthed here within the protective arms of stone and concrete that mirror the larger, encompassing arms that nature has provided. A couple of fishing boats and half a dozen powerboats of varying sizes. And three small sailing dinghies. At the innermost end, reflecting on still, deep water, stand the huddled grey buildings of the Rodel Hotel. And parked out front, a blue Ford Mondeo.
‘That’s your car,’ Sally says. She pulls the Volvo over on to the grass and we walk around to it. The door is unlocked, key in the ignition, two other keys hanging from the fob that I imagine must be my house keys. I reach in to take them, and the small disc of polished wood through which the keyring is looped feels oddly, comfortingly familiar. Otherwise the car is empty, apart from the stale smell of wet dog. I lean over to open the glove compartment, but find only a couple of road maps, one of the Hebrides, another of Scotland. I straighten up and walk around to open the boot. There is a set of oilskins and a pair of mud-caked wellington boots. I slam it shut and gaze out over the boats that bob and shift on the gentle swell.
‘Which is mine?’
Sally follows my eyes. She shrugs, puzzled. ‘It’s not here.’
And somehow I am not surprised. But still I ask, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I should be. I’ve been out in it with you often enough. You may have hidden your penchant for bees from me, but your passion for boats was no secret.’
A voice carried on the breeze and calling my name startles us, and we turn to see a man in jeans and wellies and a knitted Eriskay jumper climbing from one of the powerboats up on to the far quay. He pushes his hands into his pockets and walks around to greet us, a wide grin on a weathered face. Hair loss makes him seem older than he is, for as he reaches us I see that he has a young face. He thrusts out a large, calloused hand and we shake. ‘I was getting worried when you never brought
Dry White
back and your car was still sitting there.’ He glances at Sally and nods acknowledgement. ‘Mrs Harrison.’
She nods back, and the ‘Coinneach’ she responds with is clearly for my benefit. I recognise it immediately as the Gaelic for Kenneth, but beyond that there is nothing else familiar about him.
‘When did I take her out, Coinneach?’ And as soon as I ask I realise what a foolish question it is.
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
Sally says quickly, ‘He means what time. We were trying to work out how long it took him to get out to the Flannans.’
Coinneach sucks in air through thoughtful lips. ‘Couldn’t say exactly. Early afternoon. But it must have taken you a good while to get out there. The weather was already deteriorating. You must have made it before the storm, though.’
I nod quickly. ‘Yes.’
‘What did you do, spend the night out there?’
‘That’s right.’ I am almost grateful for his prompting my responses.
‘So where is she now?’
I am aware of returning a blank look and feel panic rising.
‘
Dry White
,’ he clarifies for me.
And Sally steps in again. ‘He took her up to Uig. We’re going to explore some of the caves up along the coastline there if the weather improves. I just brought him down to pick up his car.’
I glance at her, marvelling at how easily she can lie, while I become tongue-tied and completely unconvincing. Somehow, though, Coinneach seems less impressed, and he gives us an odd look, blue Celtic eyes flickering from one to the other.
*
We drive both cars back up to the road and park one behind the other outside the church gate, where a sign reads
Fàilte Gu, Tùr Chiliamainn
. Welcome to St Clement’s Church. Earlier, as we drove into Rodel, Sally told me we had made love once in the tower, while a party of tourists was being given a lecture on the history of the church in the nave below. ‘It was insane,’ she said, laughing. ‘But the risk of being caught made it . . . I don’t know, exciting.’ And I wonder now if perhaps revisiting the scene of our folly will stir memories.
Sun reflects on the wet stone path as we follow it up through the graveyard to the door. Inside, it is completely empty, ancient Lewisian gneiss green in places with the damp. Cruciform in design, there are tiny chapels in each of the transepts, and three walled tombs. We climb narrow stone steps leading to the chamber at the top of the tower, which stands at the west end of the nave, and squeeze into a tiny room lit only by a narrow slit from which archers might once have fired arrows to repel attackers.
I stoop and peer from its leaded window out across the Sound towards the Uists. The wind has dropped almost entirely now, and there seems no dividing line between sea and sky. ‘How could we possibly have made love in here?’ I say. ‘Apart from the lack of space, any noise we made would have echoed through the whole building.’
She laughs, and as I turn and straighten up, her face is very close to mine and I am aware of the heat of her body. ‘Actually, we were quite noisy. But they were noisier down there.’ I feel her breath on my lips before she kisses me. A soft kiss, full of tenderness. She draws back just a matter of inches, and I can barely keep her in focus. Her voice whispers around this stone chamber. ‘Anything coming back to you?’
I purse my lips thoughtfully. ‘Not yet. Maybe we should try a little harder.’
This time the tenderness in the kiss is replaced by something more feral, and I feel my whole body infused with desire. When we break again, her breathing is rapid. ‘This is so weird,’ she whispers. ‘Everything about you is familiar, and yet it’s like being with a stranger.’ She kisses me again, and I feel her hand move down to close around my arousal. I take a half-step back and she pushes me against the wall. The surface is hard and cold and rough. ‘Still nothing?’
‘No. Keep going.’
And we make love for the second time in my recollection. A strange, animal act, somehow beyond our control. Awkward and bruising in this confined space, each of us undressed only enough to make union possible. But extraordinarily intense, leaving us once more breathless and perspiring. I pepper her face and neck with tiny kisses, and she holds on to me as if she might never let go.
When finally she catches her breath she says, ‘And now?’
I shake my head again. ‘Nothing. But if at first . . .’
Her laughter reverberates around this tiny room, and something about the wanton quality of it provokes powerful feelings inside me. Until it dies away and her smile fades, and by the light of the window I see the intensity in her eyes. She runs her hand over my face, tracing all its contours, and I close my eyes. ‘Was I in love with you?’ I ask her.
When she doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to see her gazing at me, a quizzical look now in hers. ‘That’s a strange, past-tense way of asking me. As if you no longer are.’
‘I know how I feel now, Sally. But I’m not the me I was two days ago. I want to know how
he
felt.’
There is just the hint of sadness in her smile. ‘He told me he loved me, Neal. But, then, he told me lots of things, it seems, that aren’t true.’
Guilt washes over me. How could I have lied to her? About writing the book. About the bees, even if only by omission. ‘And what about you? Did you love me?’
I see her swallow back her emotion. ‘I did.’
‘And now?’
She smiles. ‘It seems that’s a process of discovery.’
CHAPTER SIX
For the third time in two days, something external wakens me. I am disorientated. It is dark, but not late. An old-fashioned clock with luminous hands on the bedside table tells me that it is ten past midnight. Then I remember lying down on the bed after Sally dropped me at the cottage sometime after lunch, and realise I must have slept all afternoon and through the evening.
We had eaten at The Anchorage restaurant on the pier at Leverburgh. Soup, then quiche and salad and a couple of glasses of white wine. Sally told me we had eaten there often, and we were greeted by hellos and friendly smiles from the staff. But I didn’t remember the place at all.
Now I am on full alert. Because Bran has jumped down off the bed, a dangerous, low growling in his throat. I am wide awake in seconds and wishing I had left lights on in the house. But it had been daylight when I drifted off to sleep. I reach for the bedside lamp and knock it over, cursing under my breath as I hear the bulb break.
Bran barks. He is still in the room, but standing in the open doorway now. Not that I can see him. The darkness is so dense it is almost physical. No moon or starlight, no streetlights, or any light from nearby houses seeping in through windows.
‘Sally?’ I call out, more in hope than expectation. Bran would not react like this if it were her. I am rewarded by silence, broken only by Bran’s continued growling, and I swing my legs out of the bed to stand and feel my way to the wall. To my dismay we remain in darkness, even after I have flicked the light switch down.
Now my alarm turns to fear. There is someone in the house that Bran does not recognise, and there is no power. I feel for the door frame and swing myself into the hall. I know that the door to the sitting room is open. I shoosh Bran and stand very still, straining to pick up any sound. But Bran can’t contain himself for long and barks again. I take advantage of the noise to slip into the sitting room. Outside, a break in the cloud lets unexpected moonlight wash silver across the beach, and in the reflected light I see a shadow detach itself suddenly from darkness, filling my vision, a flash momentarily illuminating the length of a blade that signals deadly intent. I instinctively turn side-on to make myself a smaller target, reaching for the knife arm to stop its downward arc, and I put my full weight behind my shoulder as I push it into the chest of my attacker.
He is smaller, lighter than me, and I feel his breath exploding in my face, sour from stale cigarette smoke, as he staggers backwards. I fumble desperately to hold on to his wrist as he struggles to free it, and then I push again, sending us both sprawling over the settee that backs on to the kitchen. I land on top, expelling all the air from his lungs, and we topple then on to the floor, his knife skidding away across the floorboards.
But as we roll over, my head strikes what must be the corner of the coffee table, and light and pain explode inside it. For several long moments I am quite disabled, all my strength dissipated, my limbs feeble and useless. I can hear Bran barking furiously in the dark, and am aware of my assailant scrambling across the floor to retrieve his knife. And there is not a thing I can do about it.
As I turn my head, I see his silhouette rising to its knees. The moon continues to sprinkle intermittent illumination across the beach beyond the French windows, and his face is mired in darkness. Not, it occurs to me in a moment of absurd lucidity, that I would recognise it even if I could see it. And along with this clarity comes the realisation that I am not going to be able to prevent him from plunging his knife into me as many times as he likes. It is one of those moments when your own mortality becomes, perhaps for the first time in your life, more than something to be locked away and dealt with in a distant future. It is here and now, and death is just a breath away.
I make one last attempt to roll over and get to my knees, and find myself knocked back down by a shape that seems comprised only of darkness. But it is a darkness both solid and human, and it flies at the man with the knife. Bran is barking incessantly and my confusion is crowded with the noise of his bark and the crashing of two men locked in physical struggle. Merged into a single entity as I try to make sense of what is happening.
My attacker, and his, fall together on to the coffee table, which shatters beneath them. I feel flying glass cut my cheek, and one of them is up on his feet and running. Through the kitchen and out into the boot room. The second man is slower to rise, winded, and I can hear him gasping for breath before he sets off in pursuit. Bran follows them, barking all the way to the door, and I lie for a moment, breathing heavily, letting my head clear before I try to stand up. I stagger into the kitchen, supporting myself on whatever I can reach, before stumbling into the boot room and out through the open door on to the steps.
The cold air is a physical assault, but it revives me sufficiently to enable me to step down on to the drive, from where I can see the shadow of a man sprinting away along the road in the direction of the cemetery. Just one, and I don’t know whether it is the first man or the second. I spin around, scanning the horizon, and then the beach, for any sign of the other. But as the clouds overhead blow across the moon in the stiffening breeze, the night settles again in a blanket of darkness that smothers the land.
A light comes on in the cottage opposite. The old lady with the yappy dog awakened from her sleep. I turn and shout at Bran to shut up, and he stops his barking. And beyond the wind, I can hear the distant yapping of the old lady’s dog, muffled by doors and windows.
I usher Bran back into the house and slam the door shut, turning the lock to secure it from the inside, and feel my way along the wall of the boot room to where I know the fuse box is set into a cavity above the boiler. Its plastic cover is down, and I fumble for the master switch. There is no light as I flick it up, but I hear the hum of the boiler as it springs back to life. Two steps to the door and I find the light switch, then stand blinking in the sudden painful glare of electric light.
I takes me some time, to come to terms with the fact that I am still alive, and that, apart from the mess in the other room and a gash in my head, nothing has changed. Except that it has. For someone has just tried to kill me. Some person, unknown, has come into my house in the dead of night and tried to put a knife between my ribs. Only by the grace of God, and the intervention of a second intruder, has my life been spared.
Nothing, absolutely nothing since I found myself washed up, semi-conscious, on the Tràigh Losgaintir, has made sense. My memory loss. My failure to find a single clue to my identity, beyond my name, even in my own home. My affair with Sally. The book on the Flannan Isles mystery that I am not writing. Beehives on the coffin road. My missing boat. Now someone trying to kill me. And someone else stepping in to save me. The weight of it all is very nearly crushing.
Bran is still excited and excitable, dancing around me, snuffling and snorting, still on the brink of barking. But I hold him in the boot room with my foot while I shut the door on him. He doesn’t understand, but there is shattered glass all over the floor of the sitting room and I know that I have to clear it up before I can let him back in. He barks his hurt through the door at me as I take a broom and shovel from the kitchen cupboard and start to sweep up. It takes me nearly fifteen minutes, searching out every reflecting speck of glass, and then vacuuming the floor just to be sure.
I right a small table that has been upended, replacing the lamp that stood on it, thankful that the bulb remains intact. Then move into the bedroom to pick up the pieces of broken bulb from the bedside lamp and run the vacuum cleaner over the carpet to suck up any shards I might have missed.
The very act of cleaning up after the attack has allowed me to calm down. My heart is beating almost normally again, and the focus on finding every skelf of glass has stopped me thinking too much about it. I don’t
want
to think about it. I don’t want to think about
anything
. I want to go back to the day before yesterday and be who I was then. With whatever secrets I might have had. At least I would have known what they were.
Finally I let Bran back through, and he runs around the house, sniffing in every corner. Strange, threatening scents. He is still on full alert, even if I have put it behind me. Well, not behind me, exactly. It’s more like I have slipped into denial.
Which is when I notice the blade of my attacker’s knife catching the light where it lies, almost obscured beneath the television cabinet. I drop to my knees and bend down to fish it out and hold it in my hand with a sense of awe. This is a hunting knife with a nine-inch blade, razor-sharp along its curved edge, serrated along the other. Its black haft has finger grips. My insides turn to water as I imagine how it would have felt to have this cold, deadly blade slice through my flesh and veins and organs. And I carry it with me through to the bedroom to slip below my pillow before climbing back into bed, Bran jumping up to stretch himself along my length for comfort. If anyone comes for me again, this time I will be ready.
*
Day two, AML. After memory loss. Morning greets me with dried blood on the pillow and a scab that has formed over my right temple where it struck the coffee table during last night’s struggle. I have a thumping headache, which might owe as much to oversleeping as to my injury. Of the last twenty-four hours, I count up that I have slept away as many as fifteen. I suppose I must have needed to, but it hasn’t improved either my physical or mental well-being.
It is just after six and Bran is already up, sitting patiently in the boot room, waiting for me to open the door and let him out. I oblige, and he scampers away across the dunes, watched by the Highland pony that grazes habitually among the beach grasses. I put out food and water for him and leave the door open for his return, then set the kettle to boil and spoon coffee into a mug.
As I wait, I go through to the sitting room. The only evidence of the life-or-death struggle that took place here at midnight last night is the buckled remains of the coffee table. I lift it up and carry it through to the spare room, and when I come back the sitting room seems bigger, empty somehow. I cross to the French windows and gaze out across the beach, watching sunlight chase shadows across turquoise and silver before they race each other over the purple-grey hills beyond. Buford’s caravan draws my attention, and I realise it is because his Land Rover is gone. And I wonder where he might be at this time of the morning. What does he do all day, every day? And what is his interest in me?
The kettle boils and I make my coffee, pouring in milk to cool it enough to drink, then sit at the table with the view of the beach spread out before me. I close my eyes as I let the warmth of the coffee slip back over my throat, and try to focus on what it is I need to do now. Where do I go from here? I can’t continue to live in this vacuum of ignorance. I have no purpose, no reason to get up in the morning without a past, or any future. Somehow I have to make sense of all this, figure out who I am and what I am doing here.
I incline my head to look at the map on the wall. If what I told Jon and Sally about an academic career in Edinburgh is true, why have I spent the last year and a half on the Isle of Harris pretending to write a book? My eyes come to rest on the cluster of dots on the map that are the Flannan Isles. I make regular visits to the islands, Sally says. But if I am not writing that book, then why? I must have had a reason. I cannot for the life of me think of anything that would connect the Seven Hunters with eighteen beehives hidden off the coffin road. But those islands seem like as good a place to start looking for answers as any.
I hear Bran returning, claws scraping on laminate floor, and his thirsty lapping of water before the rattle of food as he sticks his face in his bowl. I move around the table to sit in front of the laptop and open up my browser, searching for images of the Flannan Isles. There are plenty, it seems, on the internet, mostly amateur photographs taken by tourists, and not particularly useful. I spend nearly ten minutes searching through them before I stumble on the site of the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland, and a detailed map of the lighthouse island, Eilean Mòr.
Shaped a little like a turtle on its back, it reveals a ragged coastline, with cliffs rising all around it. Both landing stages are marked, east and west, on the south side of the island, along with the siting of the cranes which must have been used to lift heavy tackle and supplies ashore. Paths lead up from each to converge almost in the centre of the island, before heading on up to the lighthouse itself. A helicopter landing pad is marked to the right of the path, which leads me to assume that service engineers must be brought to and from the island by helicopter. I am surprised to see a ‘Chapel’ marked on the map, just below the lighthouse, and I wonder who must have lived here once, long enough to have built a place of worship.
Bran pads through to sit beside my chair and look up at me, then pushes my elbow with his snout, in search of my hand. I ruffle his head absently, and stroke behind his ears. My boat has gone, God knows where. And I wonder how I will get out there.