The Metal Heart

by Caroline Lea

  He is breathless; he stares at me with tenderness, stroking my neck again, caressing my throat, running his finger gently along my collarbone. His hand cups my breasts and he presses his face against them, moaning.

  My eyes are squeezed shut.

  ‘Look at me,’ he demands.

  I open my eyes. His face is bright and eager, full of anticipation.

  ‘I’d like to make you happy,’ he says earnestly. ‘I know I can make you happy. You just need to give me the chance to show you. You’d like to be happy, wouldn’t you?’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ His voice is hard.

  I nod, once.

  His hand moves from my breasts to my thigh. He strokes me through the thin material of my trousers. I tremble, but I know I mustn’t recoil from him. If I recoil, I will make him angry.

  His hand moves to the waistband of my trousers. He pulls them down over my hips. He is gentle. He is smiling at me.

  ‘Tell me again,’ he says.

  ‘I love you,’ I whisper.

  ‘Smile,’ he says.

  I want him to die. I imagine a blood vessel bursting in his brain. I picture his heart stopping in his chest. I smile.

  His hands are on my hips, his breath warm against my cheek.

  He smells of rot and soil.

  Grave. I think. Grave, tomb, crypt.

  He moves his body over mine, kisses my neck, my mouth. I lie very still. I count to ten again and again. He pulls my trousers down further. I press my thighs together, but his fingers feel stronger and more forceful now.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I won’t hurt you. I promise.’

  I clamp my legs shut, at tight as I can. I grit my teeth and put everything I have into closing myself off. I shut my eyes as he prises my thighs apart.

  The metal heart digs into my back.

  ‘We’re going to be so happy,’ he says.

  Something inside me snaps and an animal panic surges though me.

  ‘No!’ I shout, and I try to push him off, kicking and clawing at his chest. I try to slap his face.

  He hits me, hard. My head rings with the sound. He hits me again. I try to turn my face away from him, but he grabs a handful of my hair and shakes my head back and forth. I feel him rip a handful of hair from my skull, and I cry out.

  ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ he snaps.

  My eyes are watering so I can barely see him. I blink, frozen, my head pulsing with pain.

  He waits, watching me. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ he says. ‘You’ve made me hurt you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

  ‘Don’t ever try to slap me,’ he says. His eyes are cold. ‘You can’t slap me and expect that nothing will happen. If you try to hurt me, I will hurt you. Do you understand?’ My hair is still wrapped around his fingers. My scalp throbs.

  I nod.

  ‘Do you understand? Answer me. Say it.’

  ‘I understand,’ I whisper.

  ‘Good.’ He puts his hand on my hips.

  I know what will happen. My body freezes now. My thoughts scramble and retreat into some dark corner of my mind. I’m numb. I don’t feel his hand moving. I don’t feel anything. I make my body go completely limp.

  ‘That’s better.’ He kisses me again, puts his hand between my legs.

  Again, that animal panic, but I know there is no sense in struggling.

  But I have to move.

  With my free hand, I try to reach under myself. He thinks I am moving for him and he presses himself against me, groaning. His flesh is hot against mine. I can’t hold him off any longer.

  I move my hand further up, to where the metal heart is still digging between my shoulder blades.

  I grasp it and pull it from under me.

  And then I bring my hand up high and smash it into his skull.

  I feel his body jolt, his lips go slack against mine and he collapses on top of me, a dead weight.

  I heave him off me and he slumps back onto the bed, unmoving.

  He’s dead, I think. I’ve killed him.

  But he’s breathing still.

  I scrabble off the mattress and search around for the jagged piece of metal that I’d found under the font earlier. The ragged strip of scrap that is no longer than my finger, but it will have to do.

  I retrieve it from under the mattress. I hold it, trembling, and I wait.

  Angus snorts and groans, as if waking from a deep sleep. His eyelids flicker.

  I kick his leg. ‘Get up.’ My voice is high-pitched.

  He groans again, and then his eyes focus on mine. The rage is instant, but then he sees the shard of metal in my hand. I wave it at him.

  ‘Get out,’ I say. My voice shakes.

  He blinks and frowns, but he doesn’t move. I can feel my heartbeat in every part of my body. My blood thrums in my ears.

  ‘Get out,’ I say again. I grasp the piece of metal harder, white-knuckled, and point it at his throat.

  He rolls to one side and heaves himself upright. For a moment, he stands, swaying, and I think he will collapse backwards. I think he will drop dead, on the mattress, and I will have to explain everything to John O’Farrell in the morning.

  He eyes the piece of metal and I brace myself, ready for him to lurch at me and try to snatch it from me, ready for him to try to hit me again, to hold me down again.

  ‘I will stab you in the throat,’ I say.

  He sways again, a baffled expression on his face, as if he can’t remember who I am or why he is here. And he begins to walk, unsteadily, towards the door.

  I yank my trousers up, covering myself. I’m shivering convulsively now, my legs quivering.

  Angus stumbles, clutching his head, then staggers from the chapel, leaving the door wide open.

  The night crowds in, black and starless.

  I shudder. And my heart pounds in my chest, in my throat, in my fingertips. And I can still feel Angus’s weight crushing me, the cold, dead-fish touch of his skin. The smell of him. I close my eyes, counting my breaths. I swallow the vomit that rises into my mouth.

  On the bed is the metal heart. There is a smear of blood where I hit his head.

  I curl around myself, wrapping my arms around my chest and stomach, tight. Tighter. But I still can’t hold myself together. I hunch in the corner, gripping the metal heart so tightly that my hand shakes. My whole body shakes. My teeth chatter.

  I have never been so aware of being alone in this world. No Dot to stand beside me. Not now and not ever.

  Never.

  I remember John O’Farrell’s words. The grief on his face.

  That body in the quarry. That wasn’t Angus

  And, seeing him again, my last hope is gone. Somehow, when I’d remembered dragging the body to the quarry, I’d pictured his face. I’d thought of him, broken and bloodied. I’d imagined him, lying dead. And even when John O’Farrell had told me that Angus’s body hadn’t been found, that he’d disappeared somewhere, I still, somehow, hoped that he was wrong.

  I’d refused to believe him when he told me that the body I’d dragged to the quarry had been my sister’s.

  Now Dot lies in the morgue beneath the hospital in Kirkwall.

  O’Farrell had wept as he had told me.

  I had shaken my head. Some sound had come from my mouth, but it wasn’t words. I’d collapsed to O’Farrell’s feet, slapping at his legs when he tried to pick me up, because no, no, no. No one could help me, apart from her. And how could she be gone? She couldn’t be gone, any more than my hand could be gone. Or my eyes or my own heart in my chest. Or my soul.

  But now I’d seen Angus, I believed it at last. Dot was alone, her body alone, lifeless. Cold.

  I remember again, her chilly skin, those icy lips. The blank eyes, unseeing.

  No.

  She had never liked being cold. I think of her laughter, the warmth of her hand in mine. At night, when we lay, back to back, I hadn’t known whose breath was whose.


  Now, if I close my eyes, I can still hear her voice calling to me. Like our mother’s, like our father’s. All their lost voices, whispering to me from the sea.

  I hunch further into the corner of the chapel, my body still quivering.

  I’ll never see her smile again.

  She used to like resting her head on my shoulder. I can almost feel the weight of it, feel the ripple of laughter that would travel from her body into mine.

  How is it possible for someone to stop existing? To step out of the world, as if they had never been, and for the world to go on turning, the sun to go on rising? How is it possible to go on breathing, now that she is gone?

  If I stay here, they will hang me. Angus will make sure of that. He will tell them that I tried to kill him. He will tell them that I killed my own sister, that I drowned her. He’ll pretend that he saw it all. And they’ll hang me.

  And there’s an appeal in that thought. A relief.

  I close my eyes, and some voice inside me, that might be hers, might be mine, whispers, No.

  I don’t want to live without her. But mine is the only life we have, now.

  I walk to the open door of the chapel, the thin slash of grainy light.

  Angus is limping along the barrier, clutching his head. The moon emerges from behind a scarf of cloud. He must be bleeding heavily. Even from here, I can see the gleam of his blood, which forms a trail away from the chapel.

  I step outside. A breeze shoves into me, gathering around me, pulling me from the building. For a moment, it is next to me, full of fury, urging me on.

  If I had her with me, we would leave the chapel now, and we would stalk Angus along the barrier. We would watch him trip and stumble along. He would turn and see us following him and would walk faster. I imagine the fear squirming inside him. I know, as all women do, how fear can turn your muscles to water, how terror can twist your gut, rise into your throat and choke the breath from you.

  Every woman understands that fear of the dark, fear of being followed, the white-eyed hysteria that makes your heart – your poor, startled-rabbit heart – leap uselessly in your chest. There is no point in running because you will always be too slow, and your heart knows that.

  We know the dry-mouthed chase in the darkness. We know how the story ends.

  But the fear will be fresh and unfamiliar to Angus. He is a man – rich, strong, young, handsome. Every day of his charmed life, the world has opened up to him, like the split in a ripe peach. He could smash it or devour it or leave it to rot. Whatever he wished.

  But not now. Not at this moment, as he trips and staggers, bleeding, across the barrier, with a nightmare creature chasing after him.

  I am not a woman to him now: I am some age-old monster. I am a selkie, risen from the deep to rip out his heart. I am the Nuckelavee, stepping from the water in my fleshless bones.

  I will run up behind him, my body strong, my hands bloody.

  I will push him, hard, and I will watch him fall from the barrier.

  I will hear his cry cut short as his head hits the rocks.

  I will stare at the blood seeping from his smashed-egg skull as the water laps at his body.

  And I will feel nothing at all.

  I will walk back up to the chapel, carrying handfuls of sand, which I will sprinkle and scrub over the bloodied ground.

  Later tonight, the wind will rise again, blowing the sand and blood away.

  I slam the chapel door behind me, shutting out the wind and the blood and the rage. I sit down on the floor, panting, and I close my eyes. I can still feel his hands on my skin, can still feel his weight on me, can hear his voice in my ear.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I say, aloud.

  And then I think, She’s gone.

  In the darkness, I wrap my arms around myself and I say goodbye to Dot.

  I imagine her saying, You did the right thing.

  I imagine her saying, I never blamed you.

  I imagine us holding each other, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Like the tide, like the twin chambers of the heart. Like the swelling of the light that always returns.

  Constance

  I barely sleep that night. In the morning, I’m awake enough to hear the footsteps before the door to the chapel opens. It is John O’Farrell, his face sombre.

  ‘How did the chapel door come to be unlocked?’

  I blink, my eyes gritty, and shrug. I can’t make myself look at him, but I can feel him examining my face.

  ‘No one came here last night?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You didn’t hear anything?’

  ‘No.’

  He kneels on the floor, next to my mattress.

  ‘There’s been another body found.’

  ‘Oh?’ It’s all I can say, my breath tight in my chest.

  ‘Angus MacLeod washed up in Kirkwall this morning.’

  ‘What happened?’ My voice is high-pitched. Do I sound shocked enough? My stomach twists and plummets. I keep my gaze fixed on the tiled floor.

  John sighs and settles himself next to my bed, at my feet. I can feel his eyes on my face, watching my reaction.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘it seems he fell into the sea. But . . . there were some things found with him. He had . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, Con, but he had a handful of Dot’s hair wrapped around his fingers. And there was . . . There was skin found under his nails.’

  I hunch my shoulders to hide the scratches on my neck.

  ‘What . . .?’ I clear my throat. ‘What do they think happened?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘there’s an opinion that, on the night of the storm, he must have taken Cesare out onto the boat and perhaps Dot too, by force. I know you can’t remember anything very much, but does that sound likely? That he meant to do them harm?’

  I swallow, nod. ‘He’s always been violent,’ I whisper.

  ‘Aye. A nasty piece of work, although I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Cesare’s body hasn’t been found yet, but can you remember seeing him after the boat tipped?’

  I shake my head. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my telltale tears.

  He sighs. ‘Some of Angus’s friends are trying to start rumours that Dot killed Angus on the night of the storm, or that . . . well, that you somehow managed to do it, given that the body’s fresher than might be expected.’ He pauses. I can feel his gaze on my face.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘to do that, you’d have had to leave the chapel . . . There are no witnesses because I had the guard with me – he hadn’t been well. What can you tell me of last night? You really didn’t see or hear anything?’

  I pause. My hands are shaking again. On the tips of my fingers, beneath my nails, are reddish-brown stains. We both watch as I hide my trembling hands by sitting on them.

  O’Farrell will have seen the unlocked chapel door. Perhaps he saw the blood along the barrier, leading up to the chapel, which I couldn’t have scrubbed away properly in the dark.

  ‘Darkness and cold,’ I say. ‘That’s all I remember.’

  ‘You can’t tell me anything that happened to him, then? You hadn’t seen him since the storm?’

  ‘No.’ I lean my head forward.

  It occurs to me that he will be able to see the bare patch of my scalp where Angus ripped out my hair. And perhaps he can see the livid scratches on my neck.

  He gives a sharp intake of breath. I wait for the accusation. I brace myself.

  He pauses for a moment, then leans forward and gently kisses my forehead. ‘Of course you couldn’t have left the chapel last night, Con. The door was locked when I arrived just now. I’ll tell everyone that.’

  I exhale, then look up at him. His eyes are warm and sad. He touches my cheek, very gently. ‘Do you need a doctor?’ he murmurs.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Did he –’

  ‘No.’

  John nods, kisses my head again, very softly. ‘I hope you will be warmer tonight in Kirkwall. You can come w
ith me now.’

  I blink at him.

  ‘Angus MacLeod’s body clears you of any guilt, Con. People might try to accuse you of being involved with Cesare’s disappearance, or what happened to Dot, but it’s clear where the blame lies.’

  His face blurs as he takes my hand.

  ‘Follow me,’ he says, and we walk out of the chapel into the bright sunlight.

  Constance

  We hold her funeral some days later. She is buried on Selkie Holm, near the bothy. Most of Mainland Orkney comes across, walking over the barrier to reach us – in the days after the prisoners left, the people from Kirkwall finished the barrier themselves, piling in the last loads of rock from the quarry, and layering cement on top.

  Now, they stand apart in a group and they look at me and they mutter.

  Above and around me, the blue sky – too bright and too blue for a funeral – arches like the lid of a bell jar; with all these eyes upon me, I feel pinioned, like a specimen on display, with everything and everyone inspecting me from outside the glass. I know they will be talking about Dot and about Angus; about the hair found around his fingers and the skin beneath his nails.

  I pull my scarf more firmly around my neck.

  I feel sick and guilty and lost. I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. I lower my gaze to the gorse growing at my feet. This plant must be years old. It has been wind-battered and frozen. It has been showered with salt water and pelted with hail, but still it grows, still it flowers. It hopes for light and fair weather.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. When I turn, Bess Croy is standing there, tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. And she pulls me into an embrace.

  After she has released me, her mother, Marjorie, puts her arms around me.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she says. She holds me away from her, at arm’s length and looks into my eyes. ‘We did you wrong.’

  She steps away and then Neil MacClenny is standing there, eyes bright.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. And he touches my shoulder briefly, then moves on to allow the rest of them to come, one by one, to apologize. Artair Flett, Finley Anderson, Moira Burns – even Robert MacRae, who was Angus’s best friend, and always sneered when he saw me.