by Karen Swan
She looked back out to sea. It was menacing still, the waves snarling and frothing, hurling themselves with furious violence against the jagged rocks that peppered the shoreline here, huge sprays of water jetting up to the bleak dawn sky. There was no—
‘What’s that?’ she demanded anxiously, pointing at something pale on the higher rocks, her brow deeply creased as she tried to see through the sleet and gauzy mist.
‘What?’ Amy asked, trying to follow her gaze.
‘It looks like there’s something up there. See? About twenty feet up . . . It’s a body!’
She felt sick. The man was lying on his back, his bright neck exposed and stretched long, one leg bent double, but outwards at the knee in a terrible angle.
‘Oh my God,’ Amy cried. ‘There’s another one! Here!’ she cried, gathering her skirts and running towards Donald McLachlan. ‘Donald!’
The ploughman looked up. ‘Is he alive?’
‘We don’t know! You must come!’
But Clarissa was already ahead of them, wading through the shallows, holding her coat up but her skirts sodden and weighted, making it difficult to move as the ebb flow tried to pull her off her feet.
‘Get out of the water!’
She heard their screams as she waded but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t go any deeper, she knew that, but if she got behind the rocks that protruded into the water, she could scramble back over them to the cliffs where the soldier was lying. Going in was the only way to get up to him.
It was harder than she’d thought – not that she had thought about it; her legs had carried her here without hesitation or conscious judgement – and the water was shocking in its iciness, the swell monstrously powerful. Her teeth were already chattering, her lower body soaked, but she managed to get a handhold on one of the sharp rocks and timing it carefully, she hauled herself up between the breaking waves. The effort it took was shocking and that was coming from a girl who now toiled sixteen-hour days in the fields, but she staggered onwards, grateful to be out of the water, her skirts clinging like animals to her legs, making it hard to walk.
Behind her, a heavy wave crashed on the guard rocks, sending up a dense spray that fell like bullets on her back and threw her sprawling forwards. The salt water immediately stung the fresh cuts, making her cry out. But there were other cries too, not her own, and glancing round briefly, she saw Donald McLachlan – and others – in the water now too, their arms held high as they shouted at her to get back.
She got to her feet again and kept climbing, her hands growing red raw and cut, numb from the cold. He was just a few feet above her now; she could only see the tips of his fingers splayed and peering over a rock like lookouts but as she moved round and up, she saw a single hobnailed field boot a few feet away, still tightly laced, and she felt a shiver of fear at the force that must have been required to rip it from him. Time and again she slipped on the wet rocks, the treacherous seaweed lobbying against her as still the waves kept coming, breaking behind her but throwing up great plumes of ice-cold seawater that were all the more shocking for the bitter wind that chilled her wet skin and clothes in the intervals.
‘I’m coming,’ she tried calling to him, astonished by the weakness of her own voice. ‘I’m almost there. Help’s coming,’ she panted.
With a final heave, she pulled herself up until she was level with his head. His eyes were closed, his body twisted at grotesque angles, his skin so pale he looked to be drained of blood.
‘Hello?’ she whispered, suddenly fearful. She’d never seen a dead body before, never touched one. Tentatively, she laid a hand on his cheek. It was so cold, the barest brush of stubble against her skin. He was wearing woollen undergarments only and they were completely wet through; far from providing him with any kind of protection, they would have lowered his body temperature further.
He looked to be not much older than her – twenty, twenty-one? The same age as Percy then, but younger than Phillip, who had barely turned twenty-two when his tank rolled over that land mine. But what did the specifics matter? His was still another young life, lost. She reached out and took his hand still splayed upon the rock and held it between both of hers. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
Donald McLachlan was only a few feet away now. ‘Get back here, lassie!’ he said angrily, reaching up for her. ‘What were you thinking? You could have been killed!’
She looked down at him, tears in her eyes. It had all been for nothing, her hope for redemption as dashed upon the rocks as this soldier’s broken body. ‘We’re too late,’ she said quietly, shaking her head.
Donald fell back, his fury switching in an instant to despair. His shoulders slumped.
But against her hand, a finger twitched.
Islay, early hours of Tuesday 12 December 2017
Alex turned over restlessly, her eyes shut but resolutely awake. Sleep wouldn’t come, frustration worrying at the edges of her mind. How could she work if the client wouldn’t talk to her? She had tried straightforward rapport, she had tried appeasement, she had tried provocation – and they had all barely kept her in the same room as him. The man was a slippery fish, refusing to be caught.
He couldn’t know that she wasn’t going to go anywhere until this was done, that his games and bullying tactics wouldn’t work on her: he could throw her out, shout her down, ignore her, belittle her . . . but she would win because she had absolutely no option not to. Failure wasn’t even a consideration. This commission would scale the summit of her career ambitions; it was everything she had spent the past fourteen years working towards and she wouldn’t be defeated by an arrogant, egotistical man who felt entitled by mere dint of birthright to put his own interests far above and beyond those of anyone else.
She rolled back over onto her right side with a sigh and stared into the darkness—
Only, it wasn’t dark.
Sitting bolt upright in bed, she gasped at the glow that had lit up the room like a lamp. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried, throwing back the covers and running to the window. The sky was red.
The glow was concentrated in one area just out of sight beyond the moors, but she knew exactly where it was coming from. She knew what it was.
The distillery was on fire.
Mr Peggie’s habit of leaving his overalls and boots ready to step into by the door meant they were out of the house in just a few minutes. He was a sprightly man and could move with surprising speed for one in his eighties. They were taking the tractor, in case anything needed lifting or hauling, and Mrs Peggie would be bringing up the rear in the Landy a few minutes behind them once she’d ‘got some clothes on’.
Alex sat ramrod straight as they drove as fast as they could in the darkness, down towards the port. In the headlights, she saw that the grasses were flattened and rippling, steady gusts blowing up from the shore. The gods were against them.
‘The fire brigade will probably already be there,’ she said hopefully, glancing over at Mr P.
His return glance was not encouraging. ‘There’s a retained unit at Bowmore, ten miles away, but Port Ellen’s is a voluntary service. It’ll be all hands to the deck till they get there.’
Alex felt her muscles stiffen, fear like concrete setting in her blood as they rolled along, the prongs of the haylift lifted skywards, the cab bouncing over every rut; but being so high up gave them the advantage of a clear view and when they rounded the last hillock before the final straight into town, she gave a horrified gasp. It was an apocalyptic scene: rushing silhouetted figures backlit by a raging sky, flames leaping like delighted devils as the heat billowed and roared, pushing everyone back.
. . . Crackle and snap. Coughing. The air thick . . .
‘It’s the barley loft,’ Mr P. said grimly, his grip tightening on the wheel as he made the sharp right turn off the main road onto the distillery track. People from the town – mainly men and teenagers – were running on foot alongside the path, women with young children hanging back on the bay’s shores, moth
ers’ arms grasped protectively over their shoulders, unable to look away from the devastation. Many were crying, hands clamped over open mouths, heads shaking as the sky grew brighter, the flames determined to be seen across the water, to be heard over the wind.
They pulled slowly into the courtyard. Floodlights were on but the sheer number of people gathered there meant they could get no further than just through the decorative wrought-iron gates whose intricate design was markedly at odds, Alex always thought, with the ascetic stone buildings. Mr P. hooted the horn several times, parting the distracted crowds, and they managed to inch through towards the bottling hall, clearing the way at least for the fire service when they arrived. For there was no sign of them yet.
They climbed down from the cab and instinctively took a moment to absorb the heat – even from this distance it was oppressive, sucking the oxygen from the sky . . . Scorching the hairs in her nose. Rasping her throat . . . Alex felt her heart rate accelerate, her breathing coming fast and shallow as her eyes darted, taking in the scene – trying to understand. To escape . . .
From the chaos of the fire and the wider crowd, there was order of a sort: a line had formed leading from the dunnage warehouse that was one of the original farm buildings and sat nearest to the source of the fire, to the unit where the maltings, mash house and still house were grouped: barrels were being rolled out on their sides, one by one, to the furthest side of the courtyard where others were repositioning them to their all-important final positions, with the seals on top.
‘I’m going to see if they want any of them moved on the pallets,’ Mr Peggie shouted.
Alex watched him disappear into the mass of bodies, feeling the cry not to leave her stop in her throat. She was alone . . . she was alone . . .
She scanned the crowd. She could see Hamish, the coppersmith and her taxi driver that first day here, amidst the men rolling the barrels, a vein bulging at his forehead, his complexion puce with the effort; he was no young man. Torquil was there too, his shirtsleeves rolled up, face blackened with soot, frantically issuing orders to the men as they passed each other on the runs.
‘Alex!’
She turned to find Skye running over to her.
‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ Alex asked, seeing how her eyes were red-rimmed, her skin blackened as if with coal dust.
‘Aye. We’ve been frantic, trying to move all the rare and historic bottles from the visitors’ centre and the sampling labs.’ She was breathless, the flames reflected in her glasses. Flickering, leaping, lunging, reaching for her . . .
‘What can I do to help?’ Alex asked.
‘It’s all done. We got them in the back of Dad’s car and he’s had one of the men drive it up to MacLennan’s farm on the other side of the bay, against the wind,’ she puffed, her hands on her hips as she took in the sight. Tears gathered in her eyes as she looked back at the burning malting house. ‘I just can’t believe it.’
Alex stared at it too, wanting to press her hands against her ears and drown out the sound of the fire as it bayed and bellowed, billowed and roared. People always talked about the colour of the fire, the heat, but for her it was the noise of it that terrified her most, like a creature from her childhood nightmares.
‘When did it start, do you know?’
‘An hour ago, they reckon. The alarm was raised by a nightwatchman at Lagavulin.’
‘An hour? But then why aren’t the fire brigade here?’ She looked around in panic . . . Terror rising. Despair . . . ‘I thought they were only ten miles away. That’s, what, fifteen minutes?’
‘The road’s blocked at Glenegedale. A logging lorry jackknifed on some black ice and has jammed across the road. There’s no through pass until it’s moved.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Alex exclaimed, her eyes wide with fury and sheer indignation that chance could have taken these opposing elements of fire and ice to wreak such havoc in the middle of the night on a tiny island. Chance, that was all it was. Sheer, rotten bad luck. No one’s fault.
‘Do you think they’ll be able to save the stock?’ Alex asked, struggling to remain calm. In control. She was shaking, she realized.
. . . Red haze blooming. Black smoke creeping. Under the doors. The slow groan of glass cracking . . .
‘I’m not sure. The heat could affect the ABV – the alcohol content; and the smoke will probably permeate the casks.’ Skye’s tone was grim. ‘We won’t know immediately. They may have got there in time.’ She bit her lip, looking doubtful. ‘Maybe.’ She chewed a fingernail anxiously, watching as the flames danced as though for an audience. ‘But it’s the still house they really need to contain; it’s the most hazardous environment because of the ethanol – we don’t even let the tour groups take photos in there because of the spark hazard . . .’
. . . Explosion. Glass shattering and splintering. Gases whirling in the heat. The air a fan, bigging up the flames . . .
‘But the stills themselves are our most vital asset; they’re what give Kentallen its unique flavour profile. If we lose them, it will affect our market supply ten, fifteen, even twenty years from now.’
. . . Sirens far off. Blue lights flashing . . .
A sudden noise made them both start. It was a noise that was unnatural for this scene. A noise that shouldn’t be anywhere near here. A bark.
Skye shrieked. ‘Rona!’
Alex turned to see the dog barking in the courtyard further up nearer the seat of the fire, outside Lochie’s office; she was jumping agitatedly at the flames as they swayed hypnotically through the windows of the maltings.
‘Rona! Rona! Come here, girl!’ Skye cried, running over and throwing her arms around the dog’s neck as it trembled against her, its tail between its legs. ‘My baby! What are you doing here? Where’s . . . ?’ Her voice trailed off and she stood up abruptly, a look of abject horror on her face. ‘Where’s Lochie?’
‘Lochie?’ Alex repeated, turning in circles, over and over like a child trying to make herself dizzy. Yes. Where was he? Everyone else was helping, mucking in. But he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Lochie!’ Skye shouted, panic in her voice, the whites of her eyes showing. She ran over to the nearest group of people, grabbing them by the arms. ‘Have you seen Lochie?’
One of the women pointed towards his office, behind them. Skye ran over to it, Alex following after; Rona stayed where she was on the cobbles, jumping on her front paws, growling and snarling, barking at the flames, her head and tail down low.
‘Lochie?’ Skye cried, flinging open his office door. But there was no one in there. She whirled round. The maltings was only four metres from here and the heat was ferocious, forcing them both to raise their hands protectively. Melting. Burning. Raging. Dying . . .
‘Where is he?’
Skye ran back into the courtyard, Alex close on her heels, just as a sudden shattering of glass made everyone gasp – one of the windows had blown out and Rona whined, running back to their feet and cowering on her belly as a gust spewed billowing black smoke in their direction. They were bent double from coughing. Choking. Suffocating . . .
Alex felt her arm grabbed, saw her feet moving as Skye dragged her and Rona back to the office. She slammed the door shut, blocking out some of the heat, the smoke, the noise. But none of the horror. It was in here, out there. They were part of this story. It was already part of them.
Alex fell to her knees, coughing. Lungs clogged shut. Soot and toxins like a dirty fog inside her, speckling her from the inside out. Eyes watering. Blind. Her hands on the floor. Carpet backing melting . . .
She heard water running and saw Skye at the basin, pouring a mug full of water, downing it in one go herself, before refilling it and bringing it over to her.
‘Here. Drink that,’ she said, putting the mug in Alex’s hands.
She looked out of the window as she drank – dropped the glass.
Her body wouldn’t move, even her heart had paused its tireless work, her eyes trained on that upper windo
w where she’d seen a flash of movement. She waited.
And saw it again.
Her mouth opened in a soundless cry . . . A scream. Falling past the window . . .
‘What?’ Skye asked, seeing her, watching her. And then understanding. Her eyes swung over to the flames. ‘No . . .’
Blue whirling lights spun on the white walls and Skye gave a shout . . . Savage. Desperate . . . She ran to the door and flung it open. ‘Over here!’ she screamed, waving her arms wildly. ‘Over here!’
A few people turned to look, the pitch of her screams marking out a new desperation.
‘Over here! He’s inside!’
Expressions changed, mouths falling open as the word spread, moving through the crowd so that the fire officers – jumping down from the red cabs – headed straight for her, outstretched arms in her direction pointing the way.
‘He’s in the malting house!’ Skye shouted as a masked fireman stopped in front of her, before nodding and giving the order for two others to follow him into the blazing building.
Bug eyes. Aliens . . .
Skye gave a cry as they were swallowed up by the smoke. ‘He can’t be in there. He can’t,’ she sobbed. Alex put out an arm to touch her shoulder but the gesture was mechanical. Robotic. She felt . . . far away. On the ceiling. Looking down . . .
Skye began to cry, huge heaving sobs wracking her shoulders, moans and wails escaping her as she struggled to get free every few moments, but Alex held on tight, her gaze never leaving the malting house. Everything was colour. Heat. Rage. Chaos. The flames growing bolder with every minute, the wind whipping them upwards as more firefighters ran over with high-pressure hoses and began training them on the building.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ Skye moaned, as the minutes ticked past. ‘Why aren’t they coming out? Where are they? Have they found him? Why can’t they find him?’
But Alex had no voice, the tension in her keyed as tight as a garrotting wire. Everything had gone silent, the world on mute as she saw an indistinguishable shape emerge in the fiery haze. A moment later, it stepped free from the building and she saw what it was – two firemen, each with one arm linked between Lochlan’s, his head dropped, his feet dragging behind him.