Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Aye, that’s what the lairds said back then, too. When they moved the people out of their homes and found them suitable places on land that couldn’t be farmed, or on the coast . . .’

  ‘Where many of them turned to the sea. Your family, Donnie, among them, am I right? Your great-great-grandfather, wasn’t it? Cleared from lands on the mainland, and he came here? He became a fisherman, and his sons after him, and their sons.’

  ‘Aye, he was moved to make way for sheep. But now it’s deer being offered up for rich folk like your pal there who like to kill—’

  Johnny Newman had been half-listening to the exchange, but now he perked up. ‘Hang on a minute, mate, let’s not get personal here.’

  Ramage stepped in to smooth the troubled waters. ‘I’m sure Mr Kerr didn’t mean anything by that, did you, Mr Kerr?’

  Donnie Kerr’s laboured shrug signified he was far from apologetic. ‘My point is, never mind soft-soaping us about the plans. We know what you’re going to do. Why not simply cut to the chase and tell us what’s in it for us?’

  ‘Donnie, I think that’s obvious,’ said Lord Henry. ‘The distillery will be up and running shortly. The estate will need new staff. There will be new jobs, new opportunities . . .’

  ‘How many new jobs?’

  His lordship hesitated. It was slight, but there. ‘Well, that’s yet to be determined . . .’

  ‘I heard eight for the distillery.’

  ‘To begin with, yes. But I hope there will be more.’

  Donnie grinned and glanced at the people around him. ‘You hope?’

  ‘That’s all I can say at the moment. We’re speculating in a very crowded market. Do you know how many malt whiskies there are out there?’

  Another voice. ‘No, but I’ll bet your mum and dad did!’

  That brought laughter and Rebecca glanced at Chaz for an explanation. ‘The old Lord and Lady were fond of a dram,’ he whispered as he leaned closer. ‘She drank out of one of those baby cups—you know, the ones with a lid and a raised lip?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So she didn’t spill any if she dropped it. Which wasn’t often because she had it strung round her neck.’

  ‘Now, that’s enough.’ Ramage adopted her stern voice, one she had obviously learned from studying Margaret Thatcher news clips. ‘I think we should show some respect—for the living and the dead.’

  Some of the people who had laughed looked shame-faced. Donnie wasn’t finished, though.

  ‘So these jobs—minimum wage, right?’

  Ramage again. ‘I don’t think we should discuss financial matters here—’

  ‘Why not? That’s why we’re all here. We want to know what financial benefits there are for the island. We know there’ll be benefits for his lordship, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing it.’

  The MP’s voice hardened further. ‘I really don’t think—’

  ‘Mrs Ramage, with all due respect, you’re the constituency MP but you’re not an islander. You’re here because you’re Henry’s friend, and that’s fine. Mr Telly Star there is here to bring a wee celebrity sheen to the occasion. A distraction for those who are impressed by performing monkeys . . .’

  Newman was on his feet now. ‘Now wait a minute, mate . . .’

  Donnie Kerr ignored him. ‘But the people down here?’ He raised both arms and pivoted slightly, playing to the audience. ‘We want to know what’s in it for us.’

  Viola laid a hand on Newman’s arm to settle him. He sat back down, but only after giving Donnie Kerr a theatrical glare. Donnie was unimpressed.

  Lord Henry tried to smile but didn’t quite make it. ‘I’ve told you, fresh opportunities. We’ll be bringing new money to the island. Expanding the tourism base.’

  ‘Expanding the tourism base?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But they’ll lodge in the big house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And eat there?’

  ‘If they wish.’

  ‘So, none of them will have rooms in the hotel here in Portnaseil?’

  ‘Well, wonderful as the hotel is, it doesn’t have the facilities that we’ll offer in the new establishment.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, five-star accommodation. Wifi. Food prepared by a top-class chef.’

  ‘And the chance to slaughter innocent animals, of course.’

  Henry paused, as he looked down from the stage. ‘Donnie, I didn’t know you had joined the anti-blood sports league.’

  ‘I haven’t. But I still don’t see what benefit all this will be to the island. Your guests will arrive on the ferry—or by helicopter, because I see you’re preparing a landing pad up there. They’ll be met at the harbour and driven up to the big house, where they’ll bide for the rest of their stay, eating five-star food and swilling five-star booze and sleeping in five-star beds. And once they’ve had their fill of that, and blasted a few deer and pheasies and God knows what else, they’ll be driven back to the harbour and away again in the ferry. And what do we get? A few jobs at minimum wage running after them and doffing the cap.’ Donnie gave the audience another meaningful glance to emphasise his next words. ‘Even the workmen now are being housed in temporary accommodation on the estate. Sure, they come down to the pub and they spend money, but they’ll be gone in a few months.’

  ‘Some of them are local, Donnie, you know that.’

  Donnie dipped his head to concede the point. ‘Aye, some.’

  Those two words hung in the air like a bad smell, as Donnie and Henry stared at each other. It was Viola Ramage who broke the silence, her smile somewhat forced. ‘Mr Kerr, I assure you this will be good for the island.’

  There was a sadness in Donnie’s expression as he shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Ramage, there’s only one person this will be good for. Because, believe me, I know that Lord Henry Stuart doesn’t do anything for anyone but Lord Henry Stuart.’

  14

  After the meeting ended, Rebecca found Donnie Kerr outside, lighting a cigarette. It was dark now, but the Square was well-lit, the yellow lights illuminating the grey stone walls of the older buildings. She was surprised at how mild the air was; she had been expecting cooler temperatures on Stoirm at this time of year. But then, as Charles had said, Portnaseil was on the sheltered side of the island. Perhaps it was colder on the seaward side. She hesitated for a second, steeling herself to approach a complete stranger. She hated doing it, had still never grown used to it, but it was part of the job.

  ‘Mr Kerr,’ she said and he turned, plucking the cigarette from between his lips.

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  She moved closer, as some people shouldered through the doors behind her. ‘My name’s Rebecca Connolly. I’m with the Highland Chronicle.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ His eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘You doing a story on that in there?’ He jerked his chin towards the community hall.

  ‘No . . .’ she began, then thought better of it. ‘Well, maybe . . .’

  He smiled. He had a nice, easy smile. ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  Nerves teased the corner of her mouth and escaped in a small laugh. ‘The thing is, it’s not why I’m here, on Stoirm.’

  ‘Okay, so why are you here?’

  She paused. Swallowed. Wondered how he would react. ‘Roddie Drummond.’

  The smile died a little, along with the amusement in his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about him.’

  He said nothing as he looked at her.

  ‘Would that be possible?’

  He took a long draw from the cigarette, tilted his head back to stare at the black sky and exhaled the smoke in one long breath. She waited. He hadn’t told her to bugger off right away, which was always a plus. More people emerged from the hall and he lowered his head to look at them, then back to her.

  ‘Old wounds, Miss . . . Connolly, was it?’

  ‘You know he’s back on the island?’

  ‘Aye, I
know he’s back.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  He gave her a long, steady look. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Will you speak to him?’

  He didn’t answer, his attention taken up by the sound of raised voices from inside the entranceway to the town hall. He stepped past her as Campbell Drummond walked stiffly from the doors, followed by Carl Marsh, his face twisted in anger. Deirdre Marsh tugged at his arm, trying to pull him back. He shrugged her off and quickened his step to catch up with Campbell as he strode away.

  ‘Carl, please!’ she screamed.

  ‘You tell that son of yours, Drummond . . .’ Rebecca could hear Yorkshire roots in his accent. ‘Tell him that if I see him anywhere near my wife, I’ll have him.’

  Campbell Drummond didn’t respond or even look in Marsh’s direction. He remained silent even when Marsh caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him round, thrusting his face closer.

  ‘I should’ve done for him back then, or you should’ve taken him up into the hills at birth, done the world a favour.’

  Campbell Drummond was clearly not afraid of Marsh. He was a good twenty years older but he looked fit and well capable of looking after himself. But he didn’t respond. His face was like granite—the smaller man’s belligerence seemed to bounce off it. But there was a flinty quality in his eyes that was evident to anyone who looked.

  Donnie tossed his cigarette to one side and slid between the two men. ‘Okay, Carl, let’s ease off, eh?’

  Marsh allowed his attention to turn. ‘Keep out of this, Kerr. You’ve done enough for one night.’

  People had stopped in the Square to watch the scene. Chaz, Alan and Chaz’s mother, Terry, stood among a number of locals, while her husband Charles headed for the three men. Marsh’s moron squad were in the front, their grins malevolent now, their eyes glittering in anticipation of violence. Rebecca looked past them to the door of the police station. Surely someone was in there and would hear the raised voices. But no uniforms erupted from the door. She had no idea how many were on duty at that moment; perhaps they were all out on patrol.

  ‘I think that’s enough, Carl,’ said Chaz’s father, his voice calm but commanding. Marsh, though, merely gave him a sneer.

  ‘You can keep your nose to yourself, too. No one needs medical attention. Yet. This is between me and Drummond here. And his murdering bastard of a son, wherever he is.’ He faced Campbell Drummond again. ‘Where is he, eh? Back in the family home, warm and safe? Eh? That where he is? The murdering little shit. You protecting him? Like Mary did?’

  Campbell Drummond held Marsh’s gaze but remained silent, though Rebecca saw his fists clenching. Donnie tried to pull Marsh away but the man swore at him and swung his own fist. Donnie was ready. He blocked the blow with his left arm and splayed the fingers of his right against the gamekeeper’s chest to shove him hard against the stone wall of the hotel. Two of the moron squad stepped forward, the smoker one of them, but suddenly Sawyer was between them and Donnie. He didn’t say anything, just stood there and stared, but it was enough to force them back to their mates.

  ‘Go home, Mr Drummond,’ Donnie said, his attention focused on keeping Marsh still. Campbell Drummond didn’t move at first. He had fixed Carl Marsh with an intense glare, his fists still tightly clenched at his sides, as if he were struggling with his own violence. Then he nodded something like a thank you to Donnie, turned and walked away, his spine erect, his shoulders straight. He didn’t look back.

  Marsh seized the opportunity to lash out again, but the blow was wild and didn’t connect. Donnie danced away and Deirdre pushed between them. ‘Carl, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Shut up, you,’ said Marsh. ‘You’re the cause of all this.’

  He pushed himself from the wall, his eyes following Campbell Drummond as he walked briskly out of the Square towards the road. Then he straightened his jacket and strode off in the opposite direction. Deirdre watched him go, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear, sadness and rage, then she gave Donnie and Charles a fleeting smile in thanks and followed her husband.

  Donnie returned to Rebecca. ‘See what I mean? Old wounds.’ He gazed back at Marsh as he jerked open the door of a Land Rover, climbed in and waited for his wife to catch up. The vehicle then sped out of the Square.

  ‘Come on,’ Donnie said. ‘You can buy me a drink and we’ll talk.’

  15

  Lord Henry and his party left the hall by a side door and climbed into a waiting Range Rover. Johnny Newman was still seething over the comments directed at him and he complained loudly as the vehicle headed back to the estate. Henry and Viola said nothing, allowing the actor to give vent to his artistic temperament.

  ‘Who the hell was that bloke anyway?’ Johnny asked. ‘The mouthy bastard?’

  ‘Donnie Kerr,’ said Henry. ‘An old friend.’

  ‘Old friend? He didn’t seem too friendly to me. He was bang out of order, going for me that way. Bang out of order. You know what I should’ve done? I should’ve gone down there and given him a slap. He was bang out of order.’

  ‘People will come round,’ said Ramage, giving Henry’s hand a supportive squeeze. ‘They’ll see the benefits of the plan. They’ll see that bringing in real, sustainable money is good for the island.’

  Henry turned his hand round and threaded his fingers through hers. He gave her a smile, but it was really just for show. His mind was elsewhere, wondering how he would tell Jarji, who was staying overnight at Stoirm House, that the meeting had not gone as well as he’d hoped. He didn’t know how his old chum would react. He couldn’t tell Viola that, though. She knew he was doing business with the Nikoladze brothers with regard to the sporting estate. The brothers were financiers and investors—at least that’s what it said on their letterhead. There was always talk of their involvement in enterprises that were something less than legal, while the original source of their millions was shrouded in mystery and no small amount of accounting legerdemain. They had never been charged with anything, but, even so, Viola ensured she remained at considerably more than arm’s length from them. She was staying in a cottage on the estate while Jarji was there, which gave her some wiggle room if questions were asked. It was also easier for Henry to sneak out to the cottage than skulk around the corridors at night.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d invited the press to the meeting,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Henry replied.

  Newman’s face grew even more livid. ‘There was a reporter there?’

  ‘Local paper only,’ said Ramage. ‘I can’t remember her name but I saw her in the audience.’

  ‘Which paper?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Highland Chronicle.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Newman, ‘that means the bloody London papers could get it. You know what these bloody reporters are like, she’ll smell a story she can sell—‘TV star gets roasting at Highland meeting’. Or it’ll be bloody tweeted by the bloody paper and the whole bloody world will see it. Shit!’

  Viola ignored his self-centred rant and squeezed Henry’s hand again. ‘It’ll be fine, Henry. There’s nothing she can write now that’ll make any difference. All the permissions and permits are in place. Tonight wasn’t even a formality, it was a courtesy.’

  She was right, of course. The plans would go ahead, no matter what the likes of Donnie Kerr said. The people would accept it because they always did. And there would be benefits for all. The reporter could write what she liked . . .

  He’d get someone to pull a string or two, though. Just in case.

  * * *

  Carl Marsh said nothing as he steered his Land Rover through the darkness towards the cottage on the estate that came with the job. The only sound was the roar of the vehicle’s engine and the crunch of gears as he angrily manhandled the stick. Deirdre sat quietly, knowing better than to say anything, even though she wished he’d ease his foot off the accelerator. He knew every curve and dip in the Spine, certainly, but he was still going far t
oo fast.

  ‘I saw you looking for him,’ he said, breaking the silence.

  ‘You saw me looking for who?’

  His lips tightened into a thin line. ‘You know who.’

  She decided not to engage any further. Things between them had been bearable the past few years, not happy for her part but endurable, but she still recognised the old signs. Her father had been the same and she’d learned as a child to keep away from him when the dark moods descended. As a child that was relatively easy. Not so easy for her mother, though, who more often than not bore the brunt of her father’s rage. When the darkness overcame Ben Lomax, it meant pain for his wife or daughter.

  Carl wasn’t going to let it lie, though. ‘You not going to say anything? Not even going to deny it?’

  ‘Carl, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He spun the wheel onto the short track that led to their cottage. The headlights picked out the fence around the front garden and the gate, then the cottage itself, and prompted a cacophony of barking from the kennels at the rear, where Carl kept three dogs, two Labradors and a Spaniel. Deirdre would have let them in the house, but to Carl they were merely tools of his trade and not creatures to be pampered. He brought the vehicle to a sudden halt and threw open the door.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about,’ he muttered as he climbed out. Deirdre stepped down from the Land Rover and fished around for the house keys in the pocket of her woollen coat.

  ‘Shut up!’ Carl yelled at the barking dogs. They fell silent. They knew better than to defy him. They knew what would come if they did. Deirdre also knew what was coming if she didn’t tread a very fine line.

  She unlocked the front door, switched on the hall light, then took off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks set into the wall. She stepped into the kitchen, clicked on the strip light and walked to the sink to fill the kettle. When she turned she saw Carl standing in the kitchen doorway. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. His face was blank as he stared at her, but she knew that meant nothing.