by Matt Hilton
Well, his basic human needs were now his own problem. It didn’t matter how many times that he’d come round begging for reconciliation, she simply could not get the vision of her husband and his whore out of her mind. He could plead all he wanted, or make his threats to ruin her if she didn’t take him back. Anger didn’t work on her either. Jonathon could go straight to hell on a one-way ticket. As could every other philandering pig like Harry Bishop.
Christ! Even Pete Johnston, her under graduate assistant, had turned out to be a two-timing creep. Pete was nine years her junior and at first his advances had been of the shy type befitting his tender years. Entrenched in rebound city, Janet had welcomed his flirtation. Only thing was, that was as far as they’d gone; the occasional light lingering touch of fingers when handing her a specific tool or paper, an embarrassed laugh shared whilst squeezing past each other, that sort of thing. He’d asked her out to dinner. She’d politely refused. Maybe another time, huh? Then he was off with Toni McNabb, and that was that. Things were too uncomfortable between them after that. Pete hadn’t returned to the dig after the weekend break a fortnight ago. Neither had Toni McNabb.
That was probably for the best. Professors forming relationships with students was the kind of thing best left to Harry. And age gaps were definitely Jonathon’s thing.
She kicked at a clod of soil, then walked stiffly over to the VW minibus. Thoughts of Jonathon’s betrayal often angered her. Time isn’t the healer some people profess. Only complete immersion in her work was. She opened the front driver’s door and climbed into the seat. On the passenger seat was her laptop computer. She cobbled up the cable attachment and inserted it into the now defunct cigarette lighter, and powered up the computer. Pressing keys, she brought up a detailed map of Connor’s Island. Unlike modern relief maps, this was a reproduction seventeenth century painting, showing the lay of the land as a series of less than expert brush strokes, the surrounding Norwegian Sea as a solid cerulean blue. Though less than perfect the map retained the distinctive hourglass formation of the island, and she touched her finger to the point where the western coast nipped in at the waist. Here was marked a nameless settlement, a single stone cairn surmounted with an anachronistic Celtic style cross. Before the island was renamed for Admiral Hubert Connor in 1787, following his routing of the pirate fleet working out of Skelvoe, the island had a different name. Then the wild island had been referred to as Trowhaem - quite literally Home of The Trow. The nameless settlement by default had now acquired that name in the mind of Janet, Bishop and the others at the site.
Trowhaem was the original and only major settlement on the island, built around the western inlet, where once over sleek-prowed dragon boats moored to replenish stocks of water and mutton for the onward journey to Iceland and further mystical journeys into the blue west. As a port it was an important destination for the rugged Norsemen, and it had grown to rival some of the better-known landfalls of the Shetland and Orkney islands. That was before some inexplicable turn of events had changed the fortunes of both the port and the island in general. Quite simply, the seafarers stopped coming. It wasn’t a slow process; it was almost as if the port had been abandoned overnight. Plague, some scholars argued. Had to be. Nothing else could explain why it should be abandoned so dramatically. Nor with such vehemence and hatred of its name. For more than two hundred years, all who remembered the name cursed Trowhaem. Inhabitants of neighbouring Yell and Unst avoided the island and the surrounding waters as though even to approach was to attract bad luck. Trowhaem quite literally became Home Of The Trow in both act and in deed.
Ordinarily abandoned settlements became the building blocks of new villages and towns. This was evidenced on the British mainland where many abbeys, monasteries, castles, even Hadrian’s Wall, had been looted for ready made building materials after fortune changed hands and others began to stamp their mark on the landscape. When people began to return to the island, people less superstitious than their forebears, they should have raided the ancient port for the dressed stone to construct their own buildings. It seemed though that the curse of Trowhaem persisted, even in these newer, more enlightened times. Not only did new materials have to be quarried, but also the arriving settlers located their new port of Skelvoe on the opposite side of the island. Scholars said that it made sense; on the eastern coast of the island, the new port was better protected from the open Atlantic weather, more accessible from the neighbouring islands. But it seemed like an awful lot of bother to Janet. For one, the town itself had to be constructed on the side of steep cliffs, and secondly, hundreds of tons of stone had to be manoeuvred out into the waters to form the promontories that formed the bay itself. Far too much effort than was necessary, in her opinion. It was as though the anathema that was Trowhaem persisted even after two centuries, and even, in some respects to the present day.
When the excavation of Trowhaem was first announced it was met with resistance. Islanders banded together in defiance, but in the end, all their mutterings of curses and bad omens held little sway in academic circles. Plus, the land making up the northern half of the island, and the swathe around the western inlet where Trowhaem was located, had been purchased wholesale in the early 1950’s by none other than the Ministry Of Defence. Ultimately it was down to the government to make the decision on whether permission to dig was granted. The military aren’t exactly known for their concerns for ancient curses and fairy tales. The dig began in the spring of 2012.
Ordinarily the island inhabitants would have been employed as contractors, but it seemed that old fear was more potent than the allure of wages. Off-islanders had to be drafted in for the initial work of clearing the landslide that had devastated much of Trowhaem in the late nineteenth century. Work progressed into the late autumn before the inclement weather kicked in and brought things to a grinding halt. A second phase excavation had began in May of 2013, the majority of work now carried out by field students drafted in from Edinburgh, Glasgow and Aberdeen. Trowhaem was beginning to take shape. Until this god awful weather that had plagued the island off and on these past few weeks. This latest deluge had set them back yet again. Maybe the curse of Trowhaem wasn’t a product of simpler folk, after all.
Janet gave a sad smile. Persons of her educated persuasion did not believe in curses. She was a scientist and in her viewpoint only specific and proven fact held sway. There was no room whatsoever for flights of superstitious fantasy.
Not then. Not as she sat in the VW clearing her mind of the very real betrayal by her husband. But ask her again twenty-four hours later, and she would have to admit that her ethos had changed. Dramatically.
SIXTEEN
Sailor’s Hold, Skelvoe
“Had I known you only intended staying the one night, I wouldn’t have been so forthcoming with the rental. Missed out on a four week stint from a marine biologist who arrived on the same ferry as you, I did.”
The proprietor of the Sailor’s Hold was a stunted fellow, whose head, disproportionate to the rest of him, appeared far too large and heavy to carry around for any length of time. The fact I’d rousted him - and his basketball-sized head - from his easy chair in order to check me out of the hotel was probably to blame for his grumpy attitude.
He hadn’t caught up with technology yet, so it was a leather bound ledger he pressed towards me for signing. I found my original signature listed second from the bottom of the page. With a name like Sigmund Van Murik being the final entry, I guessed that the marine biologist had indeed been given room and board and Mr Proprietor was telling fibs about lost revenue. Some marketing ploy, he had. I traced the column next to my name, tapping the figure scribbled to indicate the fee I’d already paid. I gave him the rheumy eye. “You can keep the difference in lieu of having lost a sale,” I told him. As his eye edged towards where I indicated, I intentionally let it slip below that of Van Murik’s payment. His gaze flickered away, caught in the lie.
I didn’t say anything further. Handed him the key and kipper-
sized fob, then hauled my backpack onto my shoulder.
“You didn’t say why you’re leaving so soon,” the proprietor said. “Were you dissatisfied with your accommodation?”
“The accommodation was suitable for my needs,” I said. There was no need to explain myself, but if I have a fault, it’s that I’m not very good at complaining. If I’m eating in a restaurant, for instance, and my food is cold, I eat it and keep my complaints to myself. Karen used to get mad at me for that. But complaining was something that I remained uneasy with. “I’m not leaving through any reason associated with your establishment. The room was fine. I didn’t get to eat whilst I was here, but I’m sure the food is fine, too. It’s just that I’ve made other arrangements with a friend on the island.”
“Would you mind endorsing our visitors’ book with that? It’s good for future business.”
Carter Bailey: non-complainer. My list of nom de plumes was growing. I stood and scratched a fictional entry into the visitors’ journal whilst Paul Broom stood shaking his head and tapping his toes on the linoleum.
As we walked out the hotel onto the harbour front, Broom said, “I hope you wrote that the place was a shit hole, and worth passing up for the more inviting accommodation available beneath the pier.”
“I should have,” I agreed. “But I’m way too polite for that.”
“Way too soft, you mean,” Broom said. “How you ever made it in business, I’ll never understand.”
“Politeness is not a weakness.”
“No? Not even when you’re being run over rough shod by the less-scrupulous?”
“Even then,” I said. “I could always sleep soundly at night, knowing that I wasn’t cheating those I dealt with.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Broom laughed. “I recall one of your advertising strategies read ‘Pay for the over-priced brand name, but get the T-shirt absolutely free’.”
I chuckled. “I couldn’t believe it when that approach actually worked. I think people purchased our range because they enjoyed the joke.”
Side-by-side we walked along the harbour, our pace determined by Broom’s dragging step. Broom ruminated. “I wonder if I could market my books along those same lines.”
“Here’s one for you,” I offered. “Health warning: Purchasing this book may cause side effects including recurring nightmares and feelings of intense dread.”
Broom didn’t buy that one.
I said, “Maybe you should write about me, after all. Then you could put ‘Warning! This book contains nuts’.”
That one got a laugh.
Broom steered us towards a café. The place shrieked nostalgia. None of your retro-chic that had invaded the mainland high streets, this café was real oldie-style with chequered vinyl tablecloths, slat back chairs, sauce bottles growing grapes of drying spillages around the neck. Your tea came in a mug, and if you asked for coffee you got the finest instant granules available. Latte and cappuccino and espresso were from a foreign language, by God! Everything came with a side plate of chips, and if you expected a salad you’d have to make do with a leaf of lettuce, slices of tomato and beetroot direct from the jar. The café was lorded over by a gaunt old man in an off-white coat who appeared to be wearing some other person’s dentures, and he stood poised at a gleaming metal dispenser, ready to pour forth hot or cold Vimto depending on your taste.
I absolutely loved the place.
We sat at a table near the entrance. Judging by the tinfoil ashtray, the smoking ban in public places didn’t extend to Connor’s Island. Or, if it did, the law held no sway here. Broom took out a slim cigar and lit up. Made me wish I smoked so I could join in the rebellion.
“Two of your finest bacon sandwiches and a mug of tea apiece, Stan?” Broom called to the owner.
The old man smiled around his dentures, showing gaps at the gums. He made a couple of false starts at the Vimto dispenser, before shuffling towards a side door and calling out our order to an unseen accomplice. He returned to his place at the counter, started rubbing at an imaginary ugly spot on the counter top.
“Business slow today, Stan?” Broom asked.
“That it is, that it is,” Stan the café man said. He had a strange syntax that made him sound like he was about to break into song.
“Reason for it?” Broom asked. “I thought with the rain stopping, there’d be plenty of people around this morning.”
Stan gave that vacant look of one who didn’t comprehend what was being said. “Aye, rain’s stopped.”
I looked at Broom and he shot me a wink. “Conversation isn’t Stan’s strongpoint, but you can’t bypass his bacon butties.”
Broom didn’t temper his volume, so Stan must have heard everything. Didn’t sway his enthusiasm. The comment about his bacon sandwiches outweighed the subtle insult behind Broom’s comment regarding his level of intelligence. Maybe his brain was addled with sixty plus years of hot Vimto fumes. Whatever, he continued smiling, rattling his false teeth, and rubbing at the counter top.
In a final attempt at drawing words from him, Broom asked, “Don’t you normally get the lunchtime rush, Stan?”
“That I do, that I do.”
Helping out, I asked, “You wouldn’t do me a glass of Vimto, would you, please?”
“That I would,” he responded happily, swooping on the shiny dispenser. “Hot or cold, sir?”
“Cold will do.”
His face drooped, but by avoiding the hot drink I hadn’t dented his self-worth. Surrounded by the gurgle and hiss of the machine, he said, “Everyone’s took a drive down Ura Taing way.”
“Ura Taing?” I raised my eyebrows at Broom.
“Village down the island a ways. There’s a fish packing plant, a used farm implement saleroom and about a dozen houses. Don’t know what’s exciting enough to get everyone down there. Unless there’re whales off Quillan’s point again. That sometimes draws a crowd.”
Stan wasn’t as deaf or uncomprehending as he liked to make out. “No, it’s down to some accident or other. They say some child lost his life and there’s another one gone missing.”
Stan’s words struck me with the force of a bob sleigh with faulty brakes; very hard and icy cold. I sat blinking at him, waiting for him to rectify his statement. Perhaps say something along the lines of, ‘No, I mixed that up. There are no dead or missing children.’ But all Stan did was blink back at me, adjusting his ill-fitting teeth as he added the fruit cordial to my drink.
I didn’t receive a retraction. I’d heard correctly. Without question a child was dead, a second child was missing. It didn’t take embellishment - or Broom’s knowing glance - to tell me that the ‘something wrong on the island’ had just made itself known.
Fireflies swarmed in my gut. A hot fluttering sensation that could have been the spurt of adrenalin but was wholly wrong and different to any endorphin boost I’d ever experienced in my life. The heat built within, radiating out from my core, extending into the ether like seeking tendrils. It was almost as if Broom’s Zero Point Field theory responded like a live and sentient being with the validation of Stan’s words. I sank into my chair, feeling as though the cause and effect of the building energy was thrusting me back like I was a pilot in a fighter jet.
Broom was watching me with a mix of wonder and mild trepidation. As I noted this, the feeling within me dissipated with the abruptness of a popping balloon. Released from this unusual effect, I jerked forward. I practically slapped the table to stop from rolling directly over it. Stan, in the act of delivering my drink, pulled back, gasping and splashing plum-coloured stains on his smock coat. He did a double take direct from the silent movie era as he looked first at me, then to Broom. It was as though he was begging the question why Broom had brought such an apparent loony into his fine establishment.
“Hey,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
Stan watched me with an ounce of distrust, but his indoctrination of servitude won out and he stepped forward to place the drink before
me.
“Sorry,” I said again. Then, to reassure him that I wasn’t the secret odd ball Broom had been keeping locked in the attic, I said, “It’s terrible, isn’t it? A child has been killed?”
After a quick readjustment of his dentures, he affirmed, “That it is. That it is.”
Broom asked, “Have you heard what happened, Stan?”
Stan shook his head. “It’s only a rumour at this time. Police have been arriving all through the morning. CID from Lerwick. Some of those Scenes of Crime people. They’ve got the road closed off just this side of the Stewart place. Do you ken Cathy Stewart, Mister Broom?”
Broom shook his head, but then pointed his cigar at Stan. “Isn’t that the woman whose husband was killed last year?”
“Aye, the very one. Lost her man, and now they say she’s lost her son. The wee girl is still missing, too.”
Quite a detailed rumour, I thought. Cagey, so not to further disillusion our host, I asked, “What else are people saying?”
In response I received a squint and a shake of the head. Stan turned his attention to Broom. “There’s been talk…as you know.”
Then Stan walked away. He returned to the steaming machine and began adjusting levers. I looked to Broom for some kind of explanation, but he remained as enigmatic as Stan. All he gave me was the smoke from his lungs and a nod of his large head.
“Talk? What talk?” I asked.
Broom glanced at Stan, then back to me, before leaning forward conspiratorially. “Tell you later.”
I was about to push him further, but the door to the kitchen squealed open and a more rotund version of Stan bustled out balancing bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea on a chipped tray.
“Food’s arrived,” Broom announced.
He didn’t appear fazed by what we’d just heard - or the demand in my eyes to know more - and tucked into his sandwich with the usual gusto he reserved for food. On the other hand, my appetite was gone.