The Metal Heart

by Caroline Lea

  Blood trickles from Cesare’s forehead into his eyes; his mouth tastes of copper. He spits, then looks at MacLeod’s prone body again.

  ‘What shall we do?’ he asks.

  Con says, ‘We could roll him off the cliff.’

  The women stand side by side. They look uncanny, otherworldly. He thinks again of the selkie myths. The stories of those mysterious women, who can drown sailors without remorse.

  Dorotea sighs. And Cesare doesn’t know what she would have said, doesn’t know if she’s capable of murder, because, at that moment, MacLeod stirs, swears, rubs the back of his head, sits up.

  He blinks at Con, at the baton in her hand.

  Then he looks at Cesare, at Dorotea, and back to Con, with the baton. He sits upright, licking his lips nervously.

  ‘Con, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to go near Dot. I thought . . . I thought she was you.’ His story doesn’t make sense, but he carries on, his face earnest. ‘She tried to kiss me and she told me she was you. And it’s you I love. You have to believe me.’

  Con doesn’t move. ‘Don’t touch my sister.’ Her voice shakes.

  ‘You stay away from them,’ Cesare says. And he’s aware of a threatening growl in his voice that makes it sound like someone else’s. He’s aware that it wouldn’t take much for him to kill this man. The thought feels calming and clear, like a drink of cool water when you’re parched with thirst.

  MacLeod stands, looks at Cesare. ‘What will you do if I don’t?’ MacLeod touches his head. His hand comes away bloody. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘if anything else happens to me, you should remember I’ve got friends in Kirkwall. And soon they’ll be able to walk across to this island. They’re not worried about stupid stories of a curse any more. And they can bring others with them to redecorate your chapel, to take down some of your flashy Catholic decoration. They might talk to your Eyetie friends, too – Gino, is it, and Marco? And that priest, Ossani? No one will object if prisoners get hurt in another riot.’

  Cesare feels sick. ‘You cannot –’

  ‘I can do what I like.’ MacLeod steps in close to him, until their faces are almost touching. ‘I belong here. I’ve got a uniform that says so. I’m part of this land. What are you? Some piece of dirt from a place that probably doesn’t exist any more. And these girls, they’re not yours. You’ve no right to touch them, do you hear?’

  Cesare imagines grabbing the baton from Con and bringing it down on this man’s face again and again.

  He imagines the Punishment Hut, the firing squad. It would almost be worth it, to keep Dorotea safe.

  ‘Please,’ he hears Dorotea whisper. ‘Please don’t touch him.’ And he doesn’t know if she’s talking to him or to MacLeod, but a heartbeat passes, and then another, and then another. Finally, MacLeod steps backwards, snatches the baton from Con and begins stumbling down the hill.

  As soon as he is out of sight, Dorotea turns to Cesare. ‘You have to leave.’

  His stomach lurches. ‘I can’t.’

  The bruises on her neck are darkening. He can almost make out the shape of MacLeod’s fingers. ‘You have to leave,’ she repeats, ‘or he will kill you.’

  Con nods. ‘She’s right.’

  He swallows. ‘How?’ he asks.

  ‘We have a boat,’ Dorotea says. ‘You can row out, before the barriers are finished. There’s still room between them for a small boat. It’s ten miles to Scotland. Or if you don’t go to Scotland, if you go to one of the other islands, south of Kirkwall . . .’ She draws a shuddering breath. ‘Anything is better than staying.’

  ‘I can’t leave you.’ His chest swells and his throat aches with everything he can’t say, everything he can’t put into words. That to leave her here would feel like leaving part of his soul. That to leave her in danger, with MacLeod, is unthinkable.

  ‘Come with me,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t.’ Dorotea’s eyes are full of tears as she takes Con’s hand.

  But Con steps away from her. ‘You should,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ Dorotea steps back, confused.

  Cesare doesn’t understand either. Why would Con tell her to go? It makes no sense.

  ‘You have to go,’ Con says, her voice steady.

  And Cesare can see the effort this costs her, can see the way she balls her still-shaking hands into fists behind her back, so that Dorotea won’t see.

  He can see how she is taking her terror and turning it into something better. He remembers crawling, dehydrated, across the desert in Egypt, dragging the injured Gino with him, knowing the strain might kill him in that heat, knowing a bullet might hit him at any moment. Knowing that none of it mattered, as long as Gino was safe.

  ‘You should go with him,’ Con says.

  Late August, Early September 1942

  Dorothy

  The days grow darker but no one sleeps. Cesare explains the cuts and bruises on his face to the other prisoners by saying he fell one night on the way to the chapel.

  ‘Do they believe you?’ I ask. His lips are cut and one of his eyes is half shut, blackened by Angus’s fists.

  ‘Gino does not,’ he says. ‘But I cannot be truthful about this.’

  He doesn’t need to tell me why. I imagine the prisoners turning on the guards in revenge. I imagine the retribution that would follow.

  I run my fingers over his scabbed lips, thinking of everything we have to hide.

  Each evening I stay in the chapel with Cesare for as long as I can. Often, we don’t speak at all, but he rests his hand on my cheek or my leg. I can feel him looking at the marks on my neck; they are fading, but the feel of fingers there never leaves me. Sometimes, as if sensing the bleakness of my thoughts, he wraps his arms around me. Each gesture is one of comfort, with no hint of demand in it. We haven’t been back to the cave.

  When my eyelids are starting to droop, Cesare walks me to the bothy, where he kisses my cheek gently, then goes back to the camp. Angus must have gone to Kirkwall hospital to have his injuries tended, because he is not in the infirmary. I dread to think what he must be planning in Kirkwall, with his friends who hate the prisoners and resent the chapel.

  I lie awake in the darkness of the bothy, my mind humming. When I close my eyes, I see Angus’s face pressed close to mine; I feel the crush of his lips, the heat of his breath. If ever I do sink into an uneasy doze, I startle awake with the sensation of his hands around my throat. Con strokes my hair when I gasp upright, or rubs her hand over my back if I weep. ‘It will get better,’ she whispers.

  She can’t sleep either, so much of our time is spent planning how we will get Cesare away from the island without anyone noticing. I still can’t decide what to do. If I go, I will be leaving Con alone. She tells me she will return to Kirkwall, that she will work in the hospital there. She tells me she has befriended Bess Croy, who also wants to work in the hospital after the prisoners have left.

  ‘What about him?’ I ask.

  Her jaw tightens, but her eyes are clear. ‘I will stay away from him,’ she says, even though we both know that in a place as small as Kirkwall, that won’t be possible.

  In the chapel, Cesare says to me, ‘I will escape alone. If you want to stay with your sister, I will go first. You can follow soon.’ His expression is pained as he says this, but I know he means it.

  And I think of how this war has shown everyone’s true nature.

  I imagine Cesare on the boat alone, sailing through the rough autumn waters, and then I think of our parents setting sail in the dark, never to return. And I know that my decision was made long ago, when I picked up a wind-whirled piece of card and gave it to a man I didn’t know.

  The question is, how we will get away without being noticed. We need a distraction.

  On the first day of September – five days after Angus held me up against the forge wall by my throat – Cesare knocks quietly on the bothy door in a quick pattern of five raps, which we’d all agreed on, so we would know it was him.

&n
bsp; I’m lying on the bed, but Con gets up to answer.

  Cesare’s cheeks are flushed from the walk up the hill, and there’s a tension around his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Major Bates says we are having a feast. For . . . Michaelmas?’

  ‘But Michaelmas isn’t until the end of September.’ Con frowns.

  ‘He says we will not be here then. The barriers will be finished and we will all be gone. But now there is much spare food to use and he wants to celebrate the chapel and barriers also. He will bring people from Kirkwall.’

  My mind whirls. People from Kirkwall . . . That will mean Angus. My stomach drops. But with all the disruption, people coming and going from the island . . .

  ‘This is our chance to escape,’ I say. ‘When is the feast?’

  Cesare hesitates. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says.

  I look at Con. She’s trying to smile but her eyes have filled with tears.

  ‘It’s good you don’t have many things,’ she says. ‘Packing will be quick.’

  I pull her in close. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  The next day dawns grey and bleak. September is the time of Gore Vellye, the autumn tumult, when the weather turns vicious and the sea batters the land. Tales tell us it is the time of the battle between the Sea Mither and the monster Teran. Every spring, the Sea Mither battles the vicious Teran and imprisons him at the bottom of the ocean. But each autumn he rises again and banishes her. Then he begins his six-month winter tyranny: he buffets and pounds the islands, and pauses only to listen to the gurgling cries of drowning sailors.

  It is a year to the day since our parents disappeared.

  I don’t mention it and neither does Con, but her face is anxious and, when she thinks I’m not looking, she wipes tears from her eyes. There is little time to grieve, though: we rise at dawn to stuff clothes and food into a bag. Con makes some dry oat biscuits and wraps them in greased paper – enough for Cesare as well as me: he won’t be able to take food with him from the camp without arousing suspicion.

  After we have fed the chickens, Con disappears behind the bothy and I hear the scraping sound of her digging. I remember all those months ago, when I’d heard a similar sound after the night of fog.

  I don’t look at her when she returns: I don’t want to pry. But she places a small material bag in my hand. It contains something cold, which jangles lightly, like far-off bells. I go to open it, but she places her hands on mine.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something I don’t need any more. I’d like you to throw it into the sea, somewhere far away from here.’

  I nod and tuck it into my pocket.

  As she turns away, I murmur, ‘I didn’t ever blame you.’

  And I don’t know whether I mean I didn’t blame her for our parents, or for Angus, or for the life we had to build here. I don’t know if it’s true. Perhaps I did blame her sometimes. Perhaps I thought her guilty or weak or frustrating. Perhaps I thought she’d brought all this upon herself and had dragged me into it too.

  But I don’t blame her now. Now, finally, I understand.

  People start arriving from Kirkwall just before midday. We watch them setting off from the far shore; some walk along the barriers as far as they can, then decide that the gap in the centre is still too big and they must take their boats. The sea is whipping up a fury and the route across is nearly impassable. As soon as the barriers are finished, that won’t matter. For thousands of years, this island has been cut off, private, cursed. Now those old tales are dying out.

  The faces of the Orcadians in the boat are eager, expectant. Some of their owners point across at the chapel on the hill, and the place where Con and I are standing. We have positioned ourselves here intentionally. So much of today’s success will depend upon us being seen.

  Angus MacLeod must be among the people in the boats – he wouldn’t miss this. Standing on the hill, letting him look at me, but unable to see him, I feel as if everything is being flayed from me. Clothes, skin, flesh. I stand, shuddering in my bones.

  Con slips her hand into mine.

  After the boats have moored in the bay, she and I walk across to the chapel to wait. I wonder where Cesare is, in the camp. I hope he doesn’t meet Angus when he is alone. My chest contracts in fear.

  The chapel is cold and filled with a light the colour of old paper. While we are waiting, I offer up a quick prayer to whatever force for good there may be in this world. Then I stand, alongside Con, just inside the door. My legs feel weak and I’d like nothing more than to hide in the bothy. I know from her uneasy expression that Con feels the same, but it won’t do: we have to be seen by as many people as possible.

  We hear them coming up the hill: their shouts and laughter. It is a feast day, after all, and for many of them, it’ll be the first time they’ve been to the island. They hesitate outside the chapel: we hear them marvelling at its beauty, its elegance, at how like a real stone building it is.

  I feel a swell of pride and wish Cesare could hear them. Except that they probably wouldn’t say it to him.

  John O’Farrell is the first into the chapel. His hair is greyer than I remember it, his face pouched, his skin pale. Bess told me the rumours about his son, James, and my heart aches for the boy I remember playing with, and for the man standing before me now – the man who was once my father’s best friend. He stares at the walls and ceiling in gape-mouthed wonder – he doesn’t notice me, or Con, standing just inside the door.

  ‘Hello, Mr O’Farrell.’ I feel suddenly shy, meeting this man from my old life, who helped teach me my times tables and how to hold a pen.

  ‘Oh, hello there!’ His eyes flick from me to Con, and then he looks at my skirt and her trousers and says, ‘Dot.’

  I nod, wondering how much we’ve changed to other people. How is it possible to be entirely transformed on the inside and still look like the same person to the rest of the world? I thought the same after our parents disappeared when people would say, approvingly, You look well, as if they expected me to be constantly wailing or tearing out my hair. As if they expected sorrow to have bent me double, or aged me, or twisted my features. As if, because this hadn’t happened, I must be coping.

  And I would think, What do you know about grief? About loss? About anything at all?

  John O’Farrell shifts awkwardly and looks down at his feet. ‘I’m sorry if things have been . . . difficult here.’

  I wonder how much news from the island has reached Kirkwall, how many made-up stories. And I think of the promise John made, to our fisherman father when our mother was so ill, that he would always protect us if he had to.

  ‘I think . . .’ I say, and I can see John bracing himself, I think war makes everything difficult, everywhere. One way or another.’

  He smiles gratefully. ‘You’re a good girl, Dot.’

  I return the smile. And I think, What do you know?

  After John has moved to the front of the chapel to look at the paintings, other people file in: old Mr Cameron, coughing; Neil MacClenny and his family; Bess Croy’s mother, Marjorie, with all her young brood. The children gasp and gawk at the pictures. They run their fingers over the plasterboard and stroke the rood screen. Laughter echoes through the chapel. Every face is filled with wonder and delight.

  Then Robert MacRae comes in, his face set in a sneer. And behind him walks Angus MacLeod. Nausea rinses through me, but I do exactly as we’d planned. I go to Con’s side, straight away, standing close enough for our arms to touch.

  Angus stops in front of us.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a doubly fine sight on a terrible day?’ he says.

  ‘Hello, Angus.’ I force the words out. There are so many reasons that I must be friendly to him today, but the most important one, at the moment, is that he must be calm when Cesare arrives. Because I will not be here to keep the peace.

  He looks me up and down, smiles, then leans in close. ‘I’m sorry abou
t . . .’ He touches his throat briefly. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. Truly.’ His eyes are wide and earnest.

  I want to shout, You held me against a wall by my neck. You forced your tongue into my mouth. You tried to tear off my underwear. How could you not hurt me?

  I swallow. I nod. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. If I say anything, I will vomit or scream. I force myself to smile. My muscles feel rigid, wooden.

  ‘Con.’ Angus says, and I see the same stiff smile on her face.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, and her voice sounds high-pitched, as if fingers are pressing against her throat.

  Angus looks us both up and down again, then moves on into the chapel. I hear him whisper something to Robert and both of them laugh, loudly.

  My skin crawls.

  I turn to Con. She is pale, her breath coming fast.

  ‘Right. We can go now. You’re ready?’

  Wordlessly, she nods and we walk back towards the bothy. The wind is whipping more strongly now. Down in the camp, the prisoners are lining up, ready to march up to the chapel for the blessing. Cesare must be among them, but I can see only a mass of those brown uniforms with their red targets. My mouth is dry. We can’t afford to fail.

  Inside, the bothy is warmer, with the last faint ashes of the peat fire still glowing in the grate. I hold my hands up to it – who knows when I will next be warm?

  Then I take off my skirt and give it to Con. She pulls off her trousers and passes them to me. They hold the heat from her skin still. I put them on, experiment with bending down in them, then try lifting my legs high, as if I’m climbing into a boat.

  ‘This is so much easier!’ I exclaim.

  ‘I know.’ Con pulls on my heavy woollen skirt with such distaste that I can’t help smiling, despite my fear, despite my dread. Despite the electric stretch in the air, like a thread ready to snap.

  I turn to take a last look at the bothy, imprinting it on my mind. Then I tuck the bag under my coat and Con and I walk out of our home into the gathering storm.

  Constance