Thunder Bay

by Douglas Skelton

  There was a curious emphasis on the word friend, as if His High and Mightiness really wanted to say fuck buddy. Chaz was more to Alan than a roll about in bed, which they had done quite energetically the night before, thank you very much, and the word ‘friend’ was too anaemic for how he felt about him. As for who had tattled the tale of him being with Rebecca, that could only have been one of the moron squad. Perhaps the one outside talking to Marsh.

  ‘She didn’t ask anything about the estate,’ Alan said.

  Carl Marsh had completed his conversation and was striding across the courtyard, deep lines gouging his cheeks. Alan sensed that whatever the youth had told him, he didn’t like it.

  Henry continued to watch his estate manager as he said, ‘Then what did you talk about?’

  Alan saw no reason to lie. ‘Roddie Drummond. That’s why she’s on the island.’

  Henry digested this. ‘So, she’s not here about the development?’

  ‘She didn’t mention it.’

  Henry turned, this time meeting Alan’s eyes. As they stared at one another, Alan saw his employer was debating how trustworthy he was. Good luck, Alan thought. I’ve been lying with considerable fluency since I was a teenager. Try discovering you’re gay when your family is filled with red-blooded men who like to hunt, shoot, fish and play sports in which men touch each other frequently but in what they see as an acceptable fashion.

  ‘And what can you tell her about Roddie Drummond?’ his lordship said, still watching Alan closely.

  ‘Absolutely nothing. He was merely the subject of conversation at the table.’

  ‘Was I mentioned?’

  ‘In what regard?’

  Henry’s jaw clenched as he tried to retain his own temper. For himself, Alan had relaxed and was enjoying himself. He and his employer had never warmed to each other. Lord Henry was uncomfortable with Alan’s open homosexuality, and Alan didn’t like his lordship’s bare-faced avarice. Or his womanising. God knows Alan was no prude, but Lord Henry’s sexual adventures made Fifty Shades look like Enid Blyton.

  ‘In regard to Roddie Drummond, Alan,’ said his lordship, his voice tense.

  ‘Only that you were all friends as children.’ Alan didn’t mention the fact that he had bedded the dead woman too. Chances were Lord Henry wouldn’t remember. No one could remember that many names. ‘And that you gave Roddie an alibi for the night of the murder.’

  That got a reaction. Lord Henry was adept at hiding his true feelings but Alan saw a little tremor run across his brow. ‘Alibi?’

  ‘He was with you that night, digging ditches.’

  Henry paused to take this in, as if he couldn’t remember where he’d been that night. Then he said, ‘Yes, that’s right. And your, em, friend Chaz Wymark, he’s helping her in this investigation?’

  ‘He is.’

  Henry nodded, turned to the door. ‘Thank you,’ he said and left the room.

  Alan smiled as the door closed. Something told him his days were numbered on the estate. He couldn’t say he would be sorry to see it go.

  * * *

  Henry walked the corridors of the house, his mind turning over what little he’d learned. That little gay bastard wasn’t telling him everything, he was certain. But what was more annoying was that the bloody reporter was still on the island. He had been with Carl Marsh when she visited Thunder Bay and she’d shown far too much interest in that part of the island for his liking. The pressure on her newspaper hadn’t borne fruit. As Viola said, the press is unpredictable and fickle but he really thought appealing to their balance sheet would do the trick. Well, he’d show them he meant it. He’d cancel all advertising immediately and he’d suggest to friends in Inverness they do the same. That would bring the bastards to heel.

  But the alibi, that was the real problem. He had a vague memory of what he’d said back then, but would it hold water now?

  33

  Deirdre’s Marsh’s body jolted in shock when her husband all but kicked the front door of their cottage open. He had left only an hour before to begin his day but here he was back again, his face as dark as the clouds. She was in the hallway and he lunged at her as soon as he saw her. She tried to get away but he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the kitchen. It was always the kitchen, never any other room. Always the kitchen with its easily cleaned vinyl flooring.

  She yelped in pain as he gave her a ferocious tug and propelled her across the room to slam into one of the chairs circling the kitchen table. She tripped and fell to the floor. He loomed over her, his eyes hard and cold, his fists—those fists—clenched tightly at his sides.

  Deirdre held up a hand as if to ward off a blow that had not yet been swung. ‘Carl, what . . . ?’

  ‘You were seen, slut.’

  His words came in a harsh rasp, as if anger had scraped the surface off them, revealing something raw and ugly. At first she didn’t understand, just a brief moment that furrowed her brow. ‘Seen? Wh—’ Then the realisation sliced her words.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Don’t deny it because you know it won’t do any good. Cow. You dirty . . .’ He kicked her, his boot catching her on the thigh. ‘Adulterous . . .’ He kicked her again, his aim higher, and she whooped for air as she doubled over. ‘COW!’ The third kick landed squarely on her chest and drove what little breath was left out of her lungs. She gasped and sprawled on the floor, hands scraping for purchase, but her nails merely slipping on the smooth surface. Bile rose into her throat and she tried to cough it up but couldn’t.

  He stepped away and she thought—hoped—it was over, but he was only pausing to take off his wax jacket.

  This one was going to be bad, she knew it.

  * * *

  When Rebecca went down for breakfast, she learned from Ash that Donnie Kerr had been found in the roadway unconscious. It had all happened after Chaz and Alan had left and she’d gone up to her room. The way he’d heard it, some bloke had rushed into the bar just before closing, said there was a guy outside needed help, then rushed out again. The bar was empty and by the time the barmaid had understood what had been shouted the guy was gone—but Donnie was bleeding on the road.

  ‘He’d been given a right doing,’ said Ash, shaking his head. ‘Never heard anything like this, not here.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘The hospital. Doctor Wymark was called in. Seems he’s still out of it. He got a right going-over. Lucky he’s not dead, apparently.’ Ash shook his head. ‘This doesn’t happen here. There are fights, aye, punches thrown, but not like this. We had the local police in here. Terrible, terrible.’

  ‘Does his family know?’

  ‘Donnie has no one, apart from the Sinclairs and Sonya. I think they’ve been told.’

  Rebecca’s first thought was to head to the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell her anything, let alone let her see him. Ash left to fetch her breakfast and she looked up to see Chaz heading her way. He looked very smart in a black suit and tie. They would both attend Mary’s funeral, but she would keep a respectful distance from the actual mourners. Chaz had known the woman and he was entitled to be there, but she was an outsider.

  He dropped his wet umbrella beside the table and sat down. ‘You heard about Donnie?’

  ‘Ash told me. What does your dad say?’

  ‘He’s still up there and Donnie’s in a coma. Dad is worried there might be brain damage. Whoever did it beat him with a metal fence post and then took their boot to his head.’

  ‘Do they know who?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not a clue. Pauline didn’t know who the guy was that raised the alarm. Never seen him before, she said.’

  ‘Pauline?’

  ‘Behind the bar. She runs it.’

  It could be a visitor, but Rebecca’s first thought was Roddie Drummond. She didn’t know why. A gut feeling.

  * * *

  Sonya sat at her father’s bedside, the sounds of the small hospital seeming to converge on his tiny ro
om. The ping of the monitor measuring Donnie’s vital signs was loudest, but outside the door she could hear her gran and granddad talking in low voices to Dr Wymark. Beyond them was a TV playing some stupid daytime programme. She stared at Donnie’s face. They had cleaned him up and dressed his wounds but his skin was waxen. He had always looked so healthy, so full of life. Now he looked dead.

  He was breathing on his own and they said that was a good thing. He wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t alive, either. Not really. Not the way he should be.

  The hospital was small, Dr Wymark had said, facilities were limited. He’d have to be taken to the mainland, to Inverness, for specialist treatment and they’d need to call in a helicopter. They wouldn’t let her go with him, so she was spending what time they had now.

  She held his hand, wishing his fingers would tighten and squeeze, just like she’d seen in films, but they remained loose. They were warm but lifeless. Like sticks, sitting in the palm of her right hand. She wiped away tears with her free hand. She’d heard people say that even if you were in a coma you were still aware of what was going on around you. She’d asked Dr Wymark and he’d said he didn’t know. No one really knew.

  She leaned in closer to the bed and whispered in Donnie’s ear. ‘If you can hear me, let me know somehow.’

  She waited. The bleep of the EEG was like a clock ticking.

  ‘It’s me. Sonya. Your daughter. Your wee lass . . .’

  He’d call her that now and again, knowing it would get a rise out of her. It was okay when she was little but she was grown up now, she was a woman. She’d always called him Donnie; it seemed strange to call him Dad, even though she knew he was her father. He didn’t mind. He hadn’t been much of a father when she’d needed one, when she was younger, but he’d tried to make up for it. She knew that.

  Tears tumbled from her eyes and she let them fall. She wasn’t going to let go of him, not now. He’d come back to her, she was certain. He wouldn’t go, not like this, not like her mother.

  She glanced at the open door, saw her grandparents still outside with Dr Wymark, so she lowered her voice even further. Donnie would still hear her, if he could.

  ‘This is all that reporter’s fault. Her and Roddie Drummond. They caused this. Things were just fine and then they had to come and spoil it all.’ She swallowed. ‘But I’ll get her. I’ll get them both. I promise you, I’ll . . .’

  The EEG suddenly started to ping furiously and Donnie’s body began to tremble, then convulse with such violence that his hand snatched itself from between hers. She screamed and shot out of the plastic chair just as Dr Wymark rushed in, closely followed by a nurse. Sonya backed against the wall, watching them as they attempted to stabilise him. She heard them speak, their words calm but urgent, but she didn’t understand what was being said.

  Dr Wymark glanced at her and said to the nurse, ‘Please take her out of here.’

  Her gran moved quickly, wrapped her arms around her and tried to pull her from the room, but Sonya rooted herself to the spot, unable to look away as her father bucked and shook on the bed, his eyelids fluttering open and shut, open and shut, the whites of his eyes flashing each time.

  ‘Dad!’ she screamed, the word wrenched from her. ‘Dad! Dad! Dad!’

  * * *

  Deirdre curled up on the kitchen floor, feeling the blood trickling from her scalp onto the vinyl. She was numb. He had kicked and punched and kicked her again, each assault accompanied by a snarl filled with hatred. She had never seen him so bad. And this time he did not weep in the front room. He did not go away on his own to wallow in the guilt as it crept up on him.

  She carefully straightened one leg, then the other, and though she could feel the numbness thawing she felt the pain scream. She moved her arms, the agony screeching through her. Nothing was broken, she was sure, and although she had been groggy she hadn’t passed out, which she assumed to be a good thing. She was badly hurt, she knew that. Her fingers, hands, arms trembled as she tried to rise, but she didn’t have the strength to battle through the pain. She’d found such strength before but this time it evaded her, so she lay on the floor and let the ache take over her body, knowing it would pass. Even though it was bad this time, the worst she had ever experienced, it would pass. She was in agony and she was bleeding, but she was alive and it would pass.

  Carl had stamped out of the kitchen, muttering expletives. She had heard her name and Roddie’s. She had followed his footsteps along the hallway and into the small cupboard where he kept his shotguns locked away in a tall green locker. She heard the clang of the door as it was thrown back and then he stormed out of the cottage. He hadn’t taken his jacket with him, she noticed, and the rain was really coming down. She could hear it battering off the roof. He’d catch his death out there, she thought. Then, despite the pain and the anguish that kept her lying on the cold floor, she smiled. Catch his death. She should be so lucky.

  She decided to attempt to move again. She didn’t think she could stand, but she could try to crawl. She hauled her upper body onto her elbows and forearms, each tiny movement raising a cacophony of hurt, and she paused, Sphinx-like, for a few moments, gathering her strength and her resolve. She didn’t know how long she had before he came back. She knew he would come back; he always did. And if he returned with the intent of starting on round two, she planned to be ready for him.

  Taking a deep breath and almost crying from the shock, she started to drag herself towards the kitchen door.

  34

  Rebecca huddled under her umbrella against the rear wall of the church. The mourners who had defied the weather to say goodbye to Mary Drummond stood around the grave at the far corner of the graveyard. It was quite a turnout and indicative of how well regarded the woman was that even the glowering clouds and darting rain couldn’t keep people away. There was a forest of umbrellas, mostly black, like dark mushrooms sprouting in the dampness.

  Roddie, dressed in a long black coat, stood with his father and his sister Shona, who Rebecca recognised from the harbour the day she arrived. At her side was a man she assumed was her husband and a girl of about eight or nine years. The child was the spitting image of her mother, Rebecca noted. There was a slight gap around this family grouping, just as there had been around Campbell at the public meeting, but Rebecca couldn’t say whether it was through respect or the toxicity that seemed to cling to Roddie. Shona and her daughter sheltered under a single umbrella held by her husband, while Roddie had one to himself. Their father spurned any kind of shelter: Campbell was stiff and erect as he stared at the coffin that had been lowered into the grave, his hands clasped in front of his black woollen coat as if he was praying. Shona was crying and her brother had surreptitiously reached out with one hand and clasped hers to offer comfort.

  Fiona McRae had made it back to the island and was standing at the head of the grave, solemnly reading the poem by Henry Scott Holland, ‘Death Is Nothing At All’. The lines told them that Mary had only slipped away into the next room. The Reverend may have believed that but Rebecca didn’t. There was no next room. There was only this room, this world, and what people left behind.

  Rebecca now fully remembered seeing the minister at her father’s funeral, when she and her mother had been standing at the door of the crematorium while people walked by, shook their hands, mouthed condolences. It’s a curious form of torture for all concerned, the post-funeral line-up. Friends, relatives of her mother but none from her father’s side, police colleagues, neighbours, even a couple of crooks her father had arrested, had all walked that line, their faces solemn, their voices hushed as if they were fearful they would waken the dead. But the dead were beyond being disturbed. Their flesh was but ashes, their bones ground up, poured into an urn to be presented to the grieving. What had once been living and breathing was dust; what made them what they were was gone. There was no next room. There was no great beyond. There was only an eternity of nothing. Those who had gone lived only in memory and that was fleeting and faulty.r />
  Fiona McRae had been one of the people who solemnly walked the line to Rebecca and her mother. A shake of the hand, a sorry for your loss, then she was gone. Watching her now as she intoned the words of the poem, Rebecca promised herself she would talk to her that day. She had questions about her father and she had to have answers. There had been too many looks that were like half-finished sentences. She felt sure the minister would have the answers she needed.

  She saw Bill Sawyer and Lord Henry Stuart in the crowd, a few other faces that had become familiar during her stay, including the woman she’d met on this very spot. Was it only two days ago?

  Dr Wymark wasn’t there; he had duties at the hospital, where she’d heard Donnie had taken a turn for the worse. Terry Wymark was there, though, looking stunning in black, as she stood beside her son. No Alan, though. He’d told Rebecca that he detested funerals. She couldn’t blame him.

  The clang of the gate at the bottom of the steep path reached her ears. A latecomer, she thought, but whoever it was had missed it all. The funeral party was breaking up, the mourners drifting away from the grave. Even Roddie and his sister’s family were edging back. Only Campbell remained. He was drenched. Rebecca could see that even from this distance. He was in the same position, head bowed, hands clasped, a few feet and an eternity away from his wife. Did he buy the whole next room thing, she wondered?

  A cry of alarm made her look to her right. Carl Marsh was striding towards the mourners, his boots splashing in the rainwater gathering in the gravel, his thick woollen jumper and his bare head soaking wet, the shotgun in his hands held at waist height. His attention was fixed on Roddie Drummond. He marched across the grass and the paths and the graves, coming to a halt within six feet of his target and raising the weapon to shoulder level.

  ‘Drummond, you wife-stealing bastard!’ he screamed.

  Roddie saw him then, his face liquid with fear. His body steeled itself to flee but he had nowhere to run. To his credit he pushed Shona aside, just as her husband snatched the child out of the line of fire. Campbell snapped out of his reverie and looked up, his eyes at first dreamy but then solidifying into something more of this world when he saw Marsh and the weapon.