by Alys West
The article was a Hello! style colour spread with staged photographs of the couple and their sons in different rooms around the house. With the untrustworthy grin of an estate agent plastered across his fleshy face, Andrew wore an open-necked shirt and chinos and looked the epitome of the successful businessman relaxing at home. Felicity was a good-looking, immaculately presented woman in her mid-forties. The boys looked to be about eight and ten, smiling self-consciously at the camera.
The text said Andrew was fifty-six and the managing director of ‘successful property company Steambridge Developments, which has been responsible for over twenty prestigious developments in Scotland.’ It then went on to wax lyrical about the house, talking about the six bedrooms, four bathrooms and handcrafted designer kitchen.
Winston sipped his coffee. He’d been right about one thing, Andrew was a tosser. How could this smug git be Nina’s brother? No wonder Jenna didn’t want to visit. What on earth did she find to talk to Uncle Andrew and his Stepford wife about? She must feel as out of place there as he did among the antique furniture and polished wood floors of his mum and stepfather’s house.
Opening a new tab, he pulled up The Orcadian website and searched for the Nethertown development. A couple of articles published in the past month were at the top of the list. He scrolled past those to the ones from six years ago. The headlines told the story. ‘Protest meeting against proposed Stromness development,’ ‘Petition presented to Council’ and ‘Angry scenes at demonstration in Stromness’. The last one was from three weeks before Nina’s death. Winston clicked on it. Under the headline was a photograph of Nina marching at the front of a demonstration, holding a placard that read ‘SAY NO TO STEAMBRIDGE’. Another photograph showed Nina, a slight woman in her late thirties named as Pippa Lloyd and a heavy-set, bald man named as Councillor Philip Croy at the proposed site of the development next to Stromness cemetery. The photographer had cleverly framed the shot to get several headstones in the background.
Councillor Croy called the proposed development an ‘eyesore’ and stated his intention to vote against it at the meeting of the planning committee in early January. At the bottom of the article was a quote from Nina which said ‘To allow this development to go ahead would be a travesty. Today the people of Stromness have shown how vehemently they are opposed to it.’ The next line read ‘Ms Stewart refused to comment on how the protests have impacted on her relationship with her brother, Andrew Stewart, who is the managing director of Steambridge Developments.’
Nicely sidestepped but then the reporter at The Orcadian had no idea who he was dealing with. As a member of The Order she’d handled far more complex issues than a planning dispute but few that could have been as close to home. The anger appeared to centre on the proposed siting of the development next to the cemetery. Jenna’s words about seven generations in the kirkyard returned. Were Jenna’s grandparents buried there? Is that why Nina had fought so hard against it? It seemed unlikely. They were Andrew’s parents too. Would he want to build so close to their graves?
A short article published a month after Nina’s death reported that the planning committee had granted permission for six eco-lodges on the site. It included a statement from Andrew saying he’d scaled down the scheme out of respect for his dear sister, Nina. Remembering Jenna’s comment, Winston snorted. He was pretty sure the only thing Andrew had respect for was money.
Steambridge’s website had a list of ‘their successful and award-winning developments’. Winston clicked on the one in Skye. The screen filled with photographs of ugly-looking bungalows and a white concrete hotel lined up along the shore of a loch. How had anyone won an award for that? Further down the page was a picture of a smiling Andrew and a man in an ill-fitting suit who the caption named as ‘independent Councillor Ken Tarbutt who’s been a firm supporter of the scheme’ being handed a glass trophy by Dominic Porter. Winston’s eyebrows shot up. Dominic Porter was a total arsehole; a racist, homophobic git who’d gone from daytime TV presenter to MP in a remarkably short space of time. What did that say about Andrew? Would anyone, even a total tosser, include a photo of Dominic Porter on their company’s website if they found his views objectionable?
A new search brought up reports from eight years ago about protests in Skye against the development. The battle to prevent it had been hard fought and gone on for over a year. It looked like Councillor Ken had suffered a major change of heart. He’d been an early critic of the scheme, a key figure in the protests and at the bonfire when the effigy of Andrew had been burnt.
Flipping back to the photographs of the properties, Winston frowned. The bungalows and hotel wouldn’t have looked out of place in Benidorm but outside Portree they were a monstrosity. Perhaps he’d not been far off when he’d joked about money in brown envelopes. It was hard to think what else could have caused Councillor Ken to switch from committed opposition to firm supporter. But what happened on Skye eight years ago, even if it did involve shady deals, was hardly likely to have any relevance to Nina’s death.
Winston rolled his shoulders. He’d been right. Red herring but not a waste of time. It’d given him an insight into Nina’s character. Not many people would put principle over family as she had. Jenna certainly wouldn’t.
Knocking back the last of his coffee, he opened his paper for the conference. Just time to give it one last polish.
***
Rachel looked again at the pages she’d printed off. The elemental magic rituals were very similar to ones she’d done when Nina was teaching her. She’d used Nina’s instructions from The Spiral Path to call on the elements at Maeshowe. Only it had gone wrong, very badly wrong. She didn’t know what she’d disturbed but it’d felt very angry.
Sarah said it was best to work outside because it made it easier to feel the elemental forces. But that wasn’t a problem for her. Not when it came to air and water. Should she have told Sarah about that? Because what was she going to do if it went wrong again?
Biting at a loose piece of skin next to her fingernail, Rachel stared out of the window. Clouds were crowding around the mountains of Hoy. Rain was probably on the way. Arthur Sutherland, leaning heavily on his stick, was walking up the path next door. As she watched, he stopped and bent to dead head his geraniums.
Rachel glanced back at her laptop. Should she email Sarah and confess what happened last Saturday? Dare she risk it? She could handle a lecture, she deserved it, but she didn’t want to be thrown off the mentoring programme. She needed help. Wasn’t it worth keeping quiet to get the teaching she needed? And perhaps doing the visualisation exercises had strengthened her control. She’d really tried with them this time, done everything she’d been told to.
Not like when she’d been working with Nina and found them so boring and repetitive that she’d often exaggerated how much practice she’d done. Was it possible that doing them properly this time had improved her focus enough and she’d be able to do the rituals without any problems? There was only one way to find out.
Her eyes went back to the typed pages of instructions. The rituals for water and air were too risky. She had to start with something safer. She’d always struggled to call on earth and fire when she’d been working with Nina. She scanned the instructions for those rituals. The one for earth required a selection of herbs which she’d have to order from one of the specialist suppliers online. Fire only needed a candle and she had plenty of those.
***
The tempo of the reels changed, picking up speed and Hal just managed to keep up. These guys didn’t take any prisoners. Jenna had been too nice. He was going to need a lot more practice if he was going to play at sessions again. As the tunes drew to a close, he sagged back in his seat. A couple of respectful nods came from the other musicians which must mean he hadn’t completely screwed up.
It’d felt odd coming to The Fiddlers without her. They’d had a good time last week. Jenna had played almost all night, shifting from reel to strathspey to waltz effortlessly and, as alw
ays, music transformed her. The worried frown, which seemed habitual since she’d come home, lifted when she played.
Two of the older musicians began a tune he didn’t know and he sat back to listen. Too much had happened in the last week. Duncan remained in hospital but was improving although it was too soon to know if he’d make a full recovery. Kenny and Amy were in Aberdeen with Amy’s Mum, not in Rhodes for the honeymoon they’d planned. And Jenna’s left arm was injured and if that affected her ability to play her fiddle he’d never forgive himself.
He’d been kind of relieved when she’d finally decided to go to her dad’s. She needed someone to take care of her. He’d done as much as he could but, with all that’d happened, his family needed him too. His parents had flown home yesterday. He’d been sadder than he’d expected to see them go and promised to visit once he was settled in the job and could take some time off. His gran was more tired than she’d admit and he was trying to do as much as possible to help her while also looking for a place to live. He was viewing a house in Stromness tomorrow after work. It looked perfect; recently built, two bedrooms, tiny garden and all for half the rent he and Cassie had paid on their flat in Toronto.
His phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Cassie’s picture fill the screen. They’d spoken more since Saturday although, with the time difference, it was often very late at night. With an apologetic wave of his hand, he stood and made his way outside.
“Hey Cassie, what’s up?”
“Nothing’s up. Why does something have to be up for me to phone you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you usually ring because you need to know where to find a screwdriver or who to pay the gas bill to.”
“If you hadn’t hidden the screwdrivers I’d have been fine.”
“Putting them in the toolbox isn’t hiding them, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out without him thinking.
“It is as I didn’t know we had a toolbox, never mind where to find it. Well, it doesn’t matter. I found them and I fixed the drawer. It runs perfectly now. Aren’t you proud of me?”
She hadn’t noticed. Or if she had, she’d chosen not to pick him up on it. “Always.”
“Good.” There was a long moment of silence and then she sighed. “I miss you.”
He hesitated. They’d broken up. She’d been very clear about it. Only she’d said this a couple of times now. Was it significant or just Cassie being Cassie? He’d not enough experience of breakups to be sure. Jenna had never once said she’d missed him after they split. There was no harm in telling her the truth. “I miss you too.”
“Do you? You always sound like you’re having an awesome time. You love your new job, you love being back in Orkney, you love playing folk again.” The emphasis expressed all of her feelings about his favourite kind of music.
He laughed. “Which is exactly what I was doing when you rang. But I’d rather be talking to you.”
“Oh good, I hoped you’d say that. You see, I’ve been thinking and I’ve decided I’ve been a bit hasty.”
He daren’t hope. “Hasty?”
“I was so upset that you didn’t tell me—”
Hal leaned against the wall. They weren’t going through this again, were they? “I know and I’ve apologised. I was trying to do the right thing.”
“And I should have listened but I was real angry. But when you told me what happened at the wedding I was so worried about you and I knew then I’d made a mistake.”
Pushing himself upright, he pressed the phone closer to his ear in case he’d misheard. “A mistake?”
“Yes, and I want to come over. For a month, like you suggested. To see if I could live there.”
It felt like all the breath had gone out of his body. He managed two words. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I want to see you. And to see if I can love Orkney as much as you do.”
Emotion clogged his throat. “That’s awesome.”
“It would be if you sounded a bit happier about it.”
“I am happy. Just surprised. That’s all. When are you coming?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll need a few days to tidy everything up after the end of term so it’ll probably be the beginning of August.”
“That’s great! I should have found somewhere for us to live by then.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Cassie rang off. Hal stood staring at the blank screen of his phone. He could hardly believe it. She was coming over!
Only what if it was just prolonging the agony? If she stayed for a month then went back to Toronto, it’d be like breaking up all over again.
He shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. He had to hope it’d work. Hope the weather stayed good and he could take her to all of his favourite places and she started to love the islands.
The first week in August was only three weeks away. In that time, he had to find somewhere to live, decorate it, furnish it and make it ready for her arrival. Everything had to be perfect. She had high standards. If the house in Stromness he was viewing tomorrow wasn’t good enough, he’d even consider doing as Jenna had suggested and ringing Andrew Stewart.
He turned to go back inside. A woman was singing Caledonia, a single guitar accompanying her. He’d thought the song overly sentimental until he spent five years abroad. Then he’d understood its blatant longing for home. The woman’s voice wavered on the high notes. She didn’t sing it half as well as Jenna.
How was he going to tell her Cassie was coming? He glanced up at the bulk of the Cathedral, the stone dimmed to amber by the twilight. She’d looked amazing when she’d stepped through the door for the wedding. The sparkle which lit her when they’d been together had returned and then she got hurt and it’d been lost again.
He couldn’t tell her until her arm was healed. It wouldn’t be fair. He’d wait until she was better and then tell her. That was for the best.
***
Rachel took the path through the golf club and then turned to walk around the headland. It had been one of her dad’s favourite walks. Often of an evening, he’d wanted a stroll and she couldn’t remember how many times she’d turned him down, preferring to stay in to watch TV or to chat to Kenny on the phone. She regretted it now. She’d give anything for him to be able to walk here again.
The path was separated from the sea by a shelf of brown, seaweed-strewn rock. A bonxie hovered on a thermal, floating along, almost as if it was keeping her company. Across Scapa Flow, the lighthouse on the island of Graemsay winked on and off. Behind it, partly shrouded in cloud, were the mountains of Hoy with the glen between Ward Hill and the Knap of Trowieglen scooped out. In the quiet evening air, she heard the chatter and laughter of golfers. A cough came from her right and she scanned the sea expecting a swimmer. The sleek black head of a seal appeared and then ducked beneath the gentle swell. She waited for long minutes, hoping it’d resurface. She saw it once, further out and then it was gone.
Passing the kirkyard, the sun glinted off the aluminium roofs of the eco-lodges Andrew Stewart’s company had put up. If he got his way, the land from there to the cemetery would be filled with his new development. It was hard to believe the Council would let him ruin this beautiful stretch of coast but she couldn’t think about that now. She had to keep her mind clear.
Reaching a bench set back against the field wall, Rachel put her rucksack down and unpacked her supplies. It was nearly ten o’clock. She didn’t think there would be anyone along this way now. She sat cross-legged on the ground. The clouds had thickened as she walked and Hoy was almost completely obscured. The lighthouse on Graemsay was still visible, flashing its distinctive signal out over the water.
With a small paring knife, she carved her name into the side of the candle. It was a long way from an athame like spellworkers were supposed to use but it would have to do for now. Consulting the notes again, she saw she had to carve a symbol that would represent her intention for this spell. Sarah used a pentagram as
the heading of each new chapter. Earlier in the course she’d read that the upward point represented the spirit and the others each of the elements which was perfect for what she wanted to achieve with this spell.
Following the instructions, she held the candle to her heart and whispered her desire. Lighting it, she set it on the ground in front of her. Focusing on the flame she visualised what success as a spellworker would feel like; the spells she’d be able to perform; the healing she could give; the power she’d have. Cupping her hands around the flame, heat crept through her fingers and up her arms. A delicious warmth gently flowed through her. It was working. She stared into the flame, concentrating on its shape, the way it bowed and danced in the breeze.
In her stomach the warmth intensified. Was this supposed to happen? Heat swept out from her belly, scorching through her veins. It pulsed through her, running down her legs, along her arms, up into her head. And it hurt, it really hurt. This couldn’t be right. She must have done something wrong.
Sweat slid down her back, soaked her shirt, her hair. She pressed her fist hard against the knot of fire in her middle and doubled over as the pain got worse. It was unbearable. Her body was an inferno, like she was about to spontaneously combust. Oh God, what if she did? If she died, it’d be all her fault.
With sweat-slicked fingers, pain jarring every joint, she flipped awkwardly through the instructions. “Blow out the candle to end the ritual,” she read. Leaning forward, she blew. Nothing happened. The flame remained strong and steady. Heat licked up her spine, every nerve aflame as the burning fog in her head intensified. She shuddered. Leaning closer, she blew again harder. The flame wavered but didn’t go out.
The thick clouds parted. A trail of fire burst from the sun. A trail that ended at her candle. She grabbed it, hot wax scorching her fingers. It hurt to raise her arm but she threw the candle as hard as she could. It bounced once on the rock and then fell with a gentle plop into the sea.