Bill Sawyer was the first to move, edging forward, his hand out. ‘Carl, put the gun down . . .’
‘You go to hell,’ said Marsh without looking at him.
Sawyer took another step and Marsh swung the barrels of the shotgun in his direction.
‘Take another step and I’ll send you to hell myself. I mean it.’
‘Carl!’ snapped Henry. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
Marsh’s eyes flicked towards his employer, then he jerked the weapon back in Roddie’s direction. ‘All due respect, your lordship, but this is none of your concern. This is between me and this murdering bastard. I should’ve done this years ago.’
A handful of mourners ran for the gate, their panicked voices floating among the raindrops. Suddenly, the downpour was thunderous, drilling at the ground and the people on it, but those who remained were oblivious. All eyes were fixed on the drama in front of them.
Henry took a step closer. ‘Carl, I don’t know what’s happened but—’
‘I’ll tell you.’ Marsh cut him off. ‘He’s not back a day and he’s had my wife, my Deirdre, in his bed. That’s what’s happened. She was seen, yesterday, at his cottage. Not even back a day. Not even a single bloody day!’
Sawyer and Henry both looked at Roddie, but all he could do was shake his head. It was left to Campbell to answer. ‘That’s not true, Carl . . .’
Marsh sneered. ‘You would say that, he’s your son. What is it they say on the island? Family is family and everything else is just everything else. That right? You all do it, all you bloody islanders. Stick together. Protect each other. Lie for each other.’
Roddie finally found his voice. ‘Deirdre came to see me, I won’t deny that. But nothing happened. We just talked, that’s all. Just talked.’
‘You expect me to believe that? After what happened before, between you and her? I started a job back then, when I battered lumps out of you . . .’ Marsh steadied the stock of the shotgun against his shoulder, lowered his eye along the barrel. ‘Today I’ll finish it.’
Campbell stepped in front of his son. ‘You’ll need to kill me first, Carl.’
‘Get out of the way!’
Campbell didn’t move.
‘For God’s sake, Carl,’ said Lord Henry. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’
Marsh kept the shotgun trained on the Drummonds. ‘I’ll take you, too, if that’s what you want.’
‘You’ll have to,’ said Campbell, his voice very calm.
‘And me.’
Shona’s voice, her face streaked with tears as she moved to stand in front of her father.
He pulled her aside, kept himself between his children and the shotgun.
Marsh, his cheek pressed against the wooden stock, smirked. ‘See what I mean? You all stick together, even when he’s a dirty, murdering wife-stealer. Family, it’s all family . . .’
Then Sawyer placed himself in the line of fire. ‘I’m not family, Carl. God knows I’ve got no great love for Roddie Drummond, but this . . .’ He held up both hands. ‘This isn’t right.’
‘It may not be right, but it’s fitting. He should’ve been put down before—it would’ve saved everyone a lot of grief. He should’ve been taken up into the hills, like the old days, at birth. Drowned up there. That lass would still be alive. My wife would still be my wife.’
Fiona McRae had moved closer to the line of fire and Carl finally noticed her. ‘This doesn’t concern you, love. This is to do with the flesh and the blood, not the soul. Once this is done he’ll be your business, but not before.’
‘My concern doesn’t begin and end with the afterlife, Carl,’ she said, still moving, not to the group in front of Roddie but towards Marsh. ‘And even if it did, you’re placing your own soul in jeopardy here.’
He laughed, a bitter, snarling sound. ‘Don’t preach to me, love. I’m not one of your flock. I’m not a believer. Save it for that hypocrite there.’
Fiona kept moving. ‘Carl, I know you’re not a believer, but Deirdre is. She never misses services, you know that. Do you think this is what she wants?’
‘I know what she wants. She wants that one’—he jerked the barrels and the sudden movement startled Fiona, but she kept moving slowly towards him—‘between her legs. She’s made that plain. But I’ve taught her a lesson about that. She won’t make that mistake again. But just in case . . .’
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of lesson, Carl?’
He didn’t answer her.
‘Carl, what kind of lesson did you teach your wife?’
‘That’s no concern of yours.’
Fiona edged closer. ‘Where did you get the blood on your hand, Carl?’
Marsh twisted the shotgun to the right so he could study his left hand, the one that gripped the weapon’s forearm. Rebecca leaned to her left to see for herself the smears of blood, wet from the rain.
Still moving, slowly and carefully, Fiona asked, ‘Whose blood is that, Carl?’
He didn’t answer, but the barrels of the gun dipped slightly. There had been a change in his body language. Whereas before he’d been tense and erect, now his back had curved, his shoulders had drooped. He had been angry and resolute when he arrived but now there was something else. Although she didn’t have a clear view of his face, Rebecca felt she knew what that something else was. Shame.
Fiona was directly in front of him now, the barrels level with her chest, but she ignored them. There was an edge to her voice now. ‘Where’s Deirdre, Carl?
The rain drummed in the silence that followed. Sawyer had eased to the side and was almost casually making his way closer to Marsh. Rebecca scanned the faces of the remaining mourners. Some were terrified. Some were blank, as if they didn’t fully understand what they were witnessing. Others were hard and knowing. They didn’t need to be told where Deirdre was or whose blood was slowly being erased by the torrent.
Fiona knew she wasn’t going to receive an answer. Her tone softened. ‘Put the shotgun down, Carl.’
Marsh didn’t move.
Sawyer sidled ever closer, picking his way through the gravestones.
Fiona poured some grit back into her voice again. ‘Carl, you’re not going to shoot anyone, certainly not the person you want to shoot. Look . . .’ She jerked her thumb behind her, to where Roddie was shielded by his father and sister. Marsh raised his head to gaze over her shoulder, seeing them as if for the first time. ‘This will not change anything, Carl. This will not change the past or fix the present. All it will do is ruin the future. Put the shotgun down, Carl. Let’s all get out of the rain.’
She raised her hand as if to take the weapon but Marsh took a step back, the barrels rising again. This time she didn’t flinch. ‘You don’t want to do this, Carl, not really. I know you don’t . . .’
His brittle laugh cut through the hiss of the rain. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, love. I really do.’
He stepped around her and steadied the weapon again, his finger on the trigger. It was a quick, fluid movement but Sawyer was close enough now to reach out for Carl, though he saw him and swung the shotgun in his direction. Fiona was also in motion. She ducked under the barrels to catch Carl in a rugby tackle, forcing his body backwards and the weapon upwards just as the trigger jerked. The blast shot harmlessly into the air. They slipped on the wet ground, Carl still holding the weapon but Fiona on top, forcing it hard against his chest. Sawyer reached them and wrested the gun from Carl’s hands.
Fiona stood up and wiped the mud from the front of her robe, then waved to the Drummonds to leave. Roddie bundled Shona away, but Campbell lingered, giving Carl, still lying on the ground, a long look. Then he followed his family from the graveyard. Those mourners who still hung around filtered towards the gate with them. Chaz and his mother seemed to be waiting for Rebecca to move, but she gestured for them to go on ahead. She wanted to stay for a while.
Sawyer checked the shotgun was safe but still left it cracked open as he crooked it over his arm. He stooped
to haul Carl up from the ground.
‘Stupid bastard,’ he said.
Lord Henry shook his head at his estate manager but said nothing as he, too, walked away.
Sawyer had a wry smile on his face. ‘I think that means you’re fired, pal.’
With no weapon in his hand and the object of his hatred now out of sight and heading down the pathway towards the gate, Carl Marsh seemed deflated. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes cast downwards. Rebecca could almost feel sorry for him.
If it wasn’t for the blood on his hands.
Fiona hadn’t forgotten about that either. Her voice was cold when she spoke. ‘What have you done to Deirdre, Carl?’
It looked at first as if he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said in a dull monotone, ‘She’s at home.’
Sawyer’s voice was harsh. ‘You weren’t asked where she was, you were asked what you did to her.’
Marsh seemed to think about this before he raised his eyes to Sawyer. ‘What any man would do. I taught her a lesson.’
Sawyer glanced at Fiona and gave her a little nod. Then he gripped Marsh firmly by the shoulder. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go see . . .’
It had looked as if the fight had gone out of the estate manager, but he had either been faking or it suddenly returned, for he moved very fast, twisting himself free and slamming the former police officer firmly with both hands on the chest. Sawyer lost his footing and tumbled back, landing hard on the gravel path that ran between two rows of graves. Fiona reached out but Marsh swiped her hand away and darted off, his feet slapping hard on the gravel. Sawyer swore once, and powerfully, but then he was on his feet, still holding the shotgun as he pursued Marsh out of the graveyard.
Fiona watched them go, her face concerned, then she saw Rebecca standing against the wall and her expression changed to one of surprise.
‘Rebecca?’
35
Carl Marsh pushed his way through the stragglers at the church gate, ignoring their protests. One of the men tried to grab him but Carl landed a punch and he fell back. Pain jarred along his arm from his knuckles but he ignored it. They already ached from the lesson he’d taught Deirdre so a little more made no difference.
He heard Sawyer call his name as he hurtled down the steep path behind him but he paid no heed. His Land Rover was parked at an oblique angle on the road, the door still lying open, so he threw himself into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. He slammed and locked the door just as Sawyer reached him and jerked at the handle.
‘Carl, for Christ’s sake!’
Marsh barely looked at him as he reversed at speed, then spun the wheel to the left and gunned the engine to surge forward again. The shotgun clattered to the ground as Sawyer held onto the passenger door handle and hauled himself onto the narrow footplate. Sawyer clung on as the Land Rover bulleted down the Spine, trying to open the door and slapping at the window glass with his free hand. Marsh ignored him. He drove directly at a crowd of mourners walking towards Portnaseil. They scattered and the damp air was filled with curses.
Someone would call the police, he knew, if they hadn’t already. He’d seen the look between Sawyer and the minister when they’d asked about Deirdre. He had to get home, but first he had to get rid of his unwanted passenger.
Marsh swung the wheel sharply to the right and then back to the left and Sawyer lost his already precarious grip, flew off and hit the tarmac hard. In the wing mirror, Marsh watched him roll over and over before he came to rest. He didn’t get up. Marsh smiled and scanned ahead of him, hoping to see Roddie Drummond and his family, vowing he’d take them all if he did, but he knew it was a long shot. He’d seen the car at the church gate when he arrived and knew they’d be at the community hall by now, where food and drink waited for the mourners. The police would think that’s where he was headed and would be waiting.
But he wasn’t going into Portnaseil. He had a job to finish.
* * *
Rebecca raised her umbrella to let the minister shelter from the rain, although it was too little, too late. Between standing at the graveside, then trying to talk down Carl Marsh and grappling with him on the ground, the woman was soaked through. Nevertheless, it seemed the thing to do.
‘Rebecca, what are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Roddie Drummond.’ It was all Rebecca had to say. Fiona opened her mouth in a silent ‘Ah’ and gave her a slight nod. ‘Also, I wanted to see you.’
‘Me? Why?’
Rebecca paused. ‘I need to know about my father.’
The minister didn’t ask what she wanted to know. Neither did she look surprised. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Nothing. That’s why I’m here. I have to know.’
Fiona looked out to where the grey sky merged with the grey sea and the wind whipped the crests of the waves white. There was no evasion in the look. It was as if she had been expecting Rebecca to turn up on her doorstep one day, but now that it was here she wasn’t quite ready.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Come to the house.’
‘I might not be here tomorrow,’ said Rebecca. ‘Once Roddie Drummond leaves the island I have no story, no reason to be here. And he only came back for the funeral.’
Fiona squinted at the clouds, growing darker every minute, looked around at the trees waving in the wind and then back out to the Sound again, where the swell rose and fell. ‘There’ll be no ferries till this blows over, believe me. And it’ll get worse before it gets better. No one is going anywhere. Tomorrow. Right now, I need to get to Deirdre Marsh.’
* * *
Carl Marsh spun into the short driveway outside his house and jumped from the driver’s seat, leaving the engine running. He bellowed Deirdre’s name as he charged through the open front doorway and into the hall, where blood speckled the faded rug. He glanced into the kitchen but his wife wasn’t there. He followed the trail to the rear of the cottage, glanced into the cupboard where he kept his gun locker, saw he’d left the door open. Careless, he thought. Not that it mattered now. He poked his head into the room he used as a small office but she wasn’t there either.
‘Deirdre!’
His voice boomed through the silence of the house. Where the hell was the unfaithful bitch! ‘Deirdre! Come here now!’
This time she answered, her voice faint and only one word. ‘No.’
The front room. The parlour. She’d moved herself in there. Well, he was damned if he was going to go to her. ‘Deirdre, you come out here, and I mean right now.’
‘No,’ she said again.
He moved back down the hallway. He didn’t rush—each step was unhurried, almost leisurely. Someone would be here soon, but he had a little time. He wanted to give her the chance to obey his command, even though his anger rose with each silent step. His knuckles brushed the wall between him and the front room, as if he could somehow feel her presence through the brickwork. ‘Deirdre, you’d better do as I say . . .’
‘No.’
Just that one word. No.
Thoughts spun through his mind. She thinks she’s being defiant. She thinks she’s being assertive. I’ll show her what she really is. Nothing. Less than nothing. ‘If I have to come in there and get you, it’ll only make things worse, you know that. I haven’t the time for this—get your arse out here!’
‘No.’
His jaw clenched. His fists tightened. If that’s the way she wants it, then fine. It will only be the worse for her and she knows that. I’ll show her, this time. Really show her.
He kicked the door open. She was standing against the far wall, her forehead pressed against the plaster as if it was holding her up.
‘Come over here,’ he ordered, but she didn’t move. ‘You fucking bitch, I said come over here.’
He strode across the floor, but before he reached her she turned and he saw the rifle in her hands and he remembered the open locker door. He stopped short, looked into her eyes, saw that she was quite calm.
‘No,’ she s
aid once more.
And then she pulled the trigger.
36
The wind howled around the Square, and even though it was only late afternoon it was darker than it should have been. Rebecca, Chaz and Alan sat in the bar. Rain rattled against the opaque windows and occasionally the lights flickered.
‘Do you think the power will go?’ Rebecca asked.
‘If it gets any worse,’ said Chaz.
‘Will it get worse?’
‘Very likely.’
Fiona was right. The ferries were confined to port. The storm blowing in from the west had enveloped the entire island and, even though the harbour was relatively calm, thanks to Portnaseil’s sheltered location, turned the Sound into a restless, undulating blanket of grey. It didn’t look that bad to Rebecca, far from a death trap for vessels, but what did she know?
They had each fallen silent again and Rebecca stared at her gin and tonic while Alan spun his almost empty glass of wine on its stem. Chaz, as always the designated driver, was on the sparkling water and his long glass was empty.
‘Well,’ said Alan, breaking the silence, ‘that’s been an eventful day.’
Deirdre Marsh was in custody, locked away in the small cell at the police station across the Square. She hadn’t said a word since she had been found by Fiona sitting in an armchair beside her husband’s dead body, the rifle with which she had blown a hole in his chest draped across her lap. She’d first been taken to the hospital, where Chaz’s father had treated her injuries. Bruises, contusions and lacerations. Carl had managed to inflict the maximum damage again, without breaking bones or damaging organs. It didn’t make it any less painful.
No one seemed to mourn the passing of Carl Marsh.
Bill Sawyer was not so lucky. His tumble from Marsh’s Land Rover had been a bad one and he’d dislocated his right shoulder and shattered his right shin bone, a shard thrusting through the flesh. He was in hospital but was in no danger.
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