by Karen Swan
‘No!’ Skye screamed, rushing forwards, and this time Alex couldn’t contain her, her grip as weak as ribbons . . . Dead. Lifeless. Broken . . .
Skye threw open the door of the office as the firemen ran him in, seeking refuge from the smoke and the heat, laying him out on the floor. A paramedic came through and immediately began making checks – for breathing, opening his mouth for obstructed airways, beginning CPR.
Useless. Helpless. Hopeless . . .
‘It’ll be all right,’ someone said as Skye sobbed.
‘You don’t know that!’ she cried. ‘You don’t know that. He’s not breathing!’
She stared at him from the corner of the ceiling, so far away from the dirty body stretched out on the floor, inert, unresponsive; watching as they breathed and blew and pumped. Airless Lifeless . . . The man who had done nothing but torment and sneer and humiliate her from the moment they’d met. The man she could say in all honesty she disliked more than anyone she had ever met. But that didn’t mean he could die.
‘Come on, Lochlan! Fight!’
The voice was a roar – savage. Hers. As though he’d revive – survive – simply to spite her.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Dead . . .
And then she saw a finger twitch.
Chapter Thirteen
Kilnaughton Bay, Islay, 8 February 1918
The procession moved through the town, the tread of boots on the cobbles the only sound below the mournful lament of the bagpipes. The survivors walked up front, those that could, their heavy coats and buzz-cut heads a distinction from the tweeds and caps, skirts and shawls of the villagers. Rifles were pressed against the shoulders of the local men as they marched, one British and one American flag flapping in the winds as they moved through the town to the small cemetery along the bay that the menfolk had been preparing ever since the terrible night of the tragedy.
The ground was firm underfoot, for in spite of ferocious winds and attempts at snow, it had not rained much in recent weeks and the vicar led them sedately to the newest graves that lay empty and waiting. Nearby, the freshly heaped soil of yesterday’s burials was slowly drying in the air, the heather posies that had been laid atop already loosened and scattered from their bunches by the wind.
The vicar’s words carried amongst them, telling them of ‘peace’ and ‘everlasting sleep’, ‘honour’ and ‘glory’, just as a skein of barnacle geese flew overhead in a V formation of – fittingly enough – almost military precision. And when it was time for the fallen to be released to the peaty soils of this windswept Scottish Isle, rifles were pointed to the air and a three-volley salute peppered the sky, that could be heard for miles around.
Islay, Thursday 14 December 2017
After the flames came the snow, transforming the bleak, bare, storm-battered landscape to a pristine and pillowy picture-postcard setting; the sheep huddled in flocks against the crumbling walls; deer tracks dotted the moors; and the sky, milky and opaque, offered no sightings of the sun or moon for two days.
Even with the snowfall, it had taken that long for the maltings to stop smoking, the blackened and charred roof struts like exposed ribs, some caving in on themselves. The Chief Fire Officer had confirmed the fire had started on the top floor in the barley loft (where the dry grain was stored), moving rapidly downwards through the building, aided by the chutes from the steeps down to the maltings floor below, and dancing quickly across towards the kilns. The flames had been licking at the kiln room walls when the first hoses had been turned on.
Within hours of the alarm being raised, journalists had begun lingering at the gates, trying to ‘get an angle’ and interview the staff as they came and went, but Torquil had issued a mandatory silence order as the investigation into the cause of the fire was still ongoing and ‘foul play’ hadn’t yet been ruled out. In his opinion though, they’d been ‘lucky’. The lost barley stores could be replenished easily enough by buying in from an external maltings; the old stone walls and slate roof of the malting house had done much to hinder the fire’s speed and they were hopeful that the stonework of the building at least would be salvageable; the maturing whisky stock had been rescued (although tests were still ongoing to ascertain whether it had been affected by the heat and smoke) with the dunnage warehouse now sitting all but empty. And critically, the stills were undamaged.
The distillery had taken a hit, but it wasn’t fatal and the most pressing concern for the management (besides how this had happened in the first place) was getting the maltings division back in operation – as stage one of the distillation process, nothing could proceed without it. With Lochlan still being held against his will in hospital, Torquil had stepped into the breach and Sholto was flying back from his annual pre-Christmas jaunt in Mauritius to survey the damage for himself; even Callum had stepped up, driving through the dark hours to get the first ferry over from the mainland.
The fire brigade had cordoned off the area around the malting house, but the staff had mobilized their own recovery system, washing down the walls and floors of the other units, trying to get rid of the ash and soot and smell, taking inventories and checking whether any of the operating or venting systems had been damaged.
Alex herself had sprung into action with an energy that surprised everyone but her. She had been here once before and she knew that shock was the enemy. Sitting around weeping and staring at walls – it helped no one and changed nothing, and if they wanted to be rid of the burning reek and the smoke stains on the walls and the carpet of ash on the floors then they had to sweep and mop, scrub and polish; so when the fire brigade had handed back the site yesterday – having put out the last of the embers and checked the surrounding properties for signs of structural damage – and the staff were allowed back in, she had been one of the first down there, swapping her Narciso Rodriguez dress and heels for a spare distillery uniform of black work trousers and a red polo shirt with the Kentallen crest on the chest, her towel-dried hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had seen the looks some of the staff had exchanged among themselves as she’d grabbed a mop and bucket and set to work with a Cinderella-esque zeal, but she didn’t care; she didn’t consider herself too grand to help with the clean-up, even if others did. She needed to be part of the recovery process for reasons they would never know. And anyway, what else was she supposed to do? With Lochlan in hospital suffering from smoke inhalation and with the distillery’s operations suspended, no one else was working to their job descriptions this week either. So she had helped brush the courtyard cobbles with Sheila, Liz and Flossie from accounts; she had joined Torquil in carrying wheelbarrow-loads of ruined draff and mash to the bonfire that was being built in the adjoining field; she had laughed with Callum as he’d helped her hose down the outside of the kiln house. And when the three-metre Christmas tree, which had been ordered a month previously, arrived that afternoon when the embers were still smoking, she had been part of the team hoisting it into position in the nearside corner of the courtyard, just inside the gates.
‘Isn’t it trivial – disrespectful – to erect something as frivolous as this in the immediate aftermath of what could have been an unspeakable tragedy?’ Torquil had asked her in his usual earnest voice.
‘People need hope and reassurance during the darkest hours, not the brightest,’ she’d replied.
And she’d been right. As the tree was being erected, the ladies in the canteen had brewed up some hot toddies and scones, someone put on a playlist of carols and, as the sun had set on their first day ‘back in’ and they had switched on the lights, a cheer had gone up, the tree suddenly totemic of the community’s resilience.
The only person missing – apart from Lochlan, of course – had been Skye; she had remained by his side ever since going in the ambulance with him to the Bowmore hospital, keeping up a vigil that, according to reports from some of the staff who’d paid him a visit, was wholly unnecessary: Lochlan was in his usual fettle, they said, and driving the nurses mad in his restlessness t
o get out. Apparently, he had been decoupling the dust collectors in the maltings to prevent the fire from propagating back through the entire plant system, thereby saving the whole distillery from the risk of an explosion. It was unthinkably brave. And stupid. He could have been killed. He didn’t know what the fuss was about.
Alex scrubbed his office windows a little harder – being so close to the maltings, it had absorbed the worst of the smoke and she’d been airing it with the windows open almost constantly for the past couple of days, keeping the little fire going in the hearth to keep out the damp and the cold as the snow continued to fall in sporadic showers. There were no soft furnishings in the room besides the hopsack wing chair she’d brought in from the farm – no curtains, no rugs – which made the job a little easier at least, but she must have mopped the stone floor five times by now and it still kept turning the water black. After the fourth time, she’d taken his spare suit, shoes and trainers back to Crolinnhe and left them airing there in the stone porch of the farmhouse.
She stepped back from the windows to assess her handiwork, the scrunched-up newspaper she’d been using with vinegar blackened in her hand.
‘Very impressive.’ The voice was wry. And hoarse. ‘We’re not looking for any business coaches right now but I believe there’s an opening for a cleaner if you’re interested.’
Alex spun on her heel to find Lochlan standing in the doorway. His eyes were still reddened and in spite of his heightened complexion and berry-coloured lips, she saw exhaustion in his features.
‘You’re out!’ she exclaimed, feeling an unexplained rush of relief to see him standing there, still testy, still sarcastic as hell.
‘I made a bid for freedom when the nurses were changing shifts.’
‘You didn’t.’ A question mark hovered in the statement – one could never be quite sure with him – and a hint of a smile curled his lips as he slowly made his way into the room, heading straight for the chair.
She watched him. His movements looked laboured. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Tickety-boo.’
‘You look tired.’
‘So would you if you’d just had forty-eight hours’ enforced rest.’ He sat down in the chair, coughing a little, and she went over to the sink to get him some fresh water.
‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him.
‘A nurse too, they could have done with you at Bowmore,’ he quipped, one eyebrow hitched as he sipped it. ‘Thanks for visiting, by the way. Much appreciated. I could have died, or so they keep telling me.’
‘My pleasure.’
It was a joke, or at least she had intended it as such, but as he stared at her with his usual expression, she saw not scorn but questioning and she found herself adding, ‘Given how you can’t stand the sight of me, I didn’t think your recovery would be hastened by having me sitting at the end of your hospital bed.’
‘On the contrary, you deprived me of the pleasure of having security throw you out; it would have cheered my spirits no end.’
His eyes glittered wickedly – he was in a rare good mood – and she found herself smiling back for once. ‘I’m sure it would.’
A small silence bloomed as she recalled the memory of him lying on this very floor and the deep panic it had rent from her: the urgency in her voice, the minuteness of his reply, and she felt . . . exposed somehow, as though the mask had dropped.
He blinked, his eyes travelling over her. ‘The uniform actually suits you. Maybe we really should find you a job.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha,’ she said, bracing herself for the next onslaught of sarcasm.
‘What? Clearly this place is getting under your skin.’
‘It wasn’t like there was much else I could do whilst you were resting in hospital.’
‘You could have gone home.’
‘You wish,’ she quipped, thinking how she sounded more like her twelve-year-old self than the thirty-one-year-old version with a flat in Mayfair and a private banker.
‘Hey.’
They both looked across to find Skye at the door.
‘Hi!’ Alex said brightly. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Skye grinned, taking in the sight of her in the uniform. ‘I almost didn’t recognize you.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’ve worn a ponytail since school.’
‘I can’t believe they’ve got you helping out.’
‘I offered. There was nothing else for me to do whilst Lochlan was off harassing nurses.’
Skye groaned. ‘Och, you heard about that? He’s a nightmare! I don’t think they’ve ever been so glad to see the back of someone.’
‘I know how they feel,’ Alex agreed.
‘I am sitting here,’ he protested, swinging the chair round to face the desk – and Skye. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘I’m just checking to see you’ve taken your meds?’
‘I was just about to.’
‘Remember, every four hours—’
‘Uh-huh,’ he nodded impatiently.
‘Even if you feel fine. It’s important to be consistent in the first week and stop any inflammation from getting out of control.’
‘Thank you, but I can deal with it.’
‘Yes, but will you, though? I know what you’re like—’
‘Skye, I said I’ll deal with it. I’m not a child and you are not my—’
He stopped short and Alex saw how Skye had held her breath. She was not his what? Fiancée?
‘You are not my mother,’ he said with forcible calm.
‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to help,’ she said in a quieter voice.
‘And you have. You’ve been very . . . supportive. But I am fine. I just want everyone to stop fussing.’
She nodded. ‘Okay.’ She glanced briefly at Alex and managed a tiny smile. ‘See you later.’
‘Yes, see you,’ Alex smiled back, feeling embarrassed on the one hand to have witnessed the spat. Intrigued on the other.
Skye slunk away and there was another silence, one which Alex didn’t dare to break as she watched Lochlan watch her go. His defensive body language – jutted jaw, hunched shoulders, dropped head, small angry movements – warned her against saying a word and she pretended to concentrate on balling up another sheet of newspaper for the next window; there was absolutely no point in trying to work with him today; even she wasn’t that bullish. It was clear he should still be resting and besides, Skye’s appearance had popped his good mood and sent him back into his usual taciturn self.
Behind her, she heard the metallic tear of pills being popped from a packet and the agitated tapping of his keyboard.
‘Jesus, mother of God,’ he said under his breath a few moments later.
‘What is it?’ she asked, turning to find him watching something intently on his screen.
His eyes flashed up at her coldly. ‘Nothing.’
The word was a rebuke and she turned back as he continued to mutter vicious expletives under his breath. After another minute, he angrily got up from the desk – but too quickly, prompting another coughing fit – and she stayed quiet as he gulped down the water. He hesitated before moving again and she could feel his resentment at his invalided state. And more besides.
‘If anyone needs me, I’m going to inspect one of the old stores,’ he said in a croaky voice.
‘Okay,’ she replied, thinking he should be sitting down; thinking he should put on a coat. But she carried on rubbing the glass panes as she watched him cross the snow-cleared cobbles and turn the corner out of sight, the hunch which had come to her before the fire beginning to grow into a potential plan now that she had seen first-hand his anger and frustration. Because for all that Skye had done for him, weeping in the ambulance and sitting by his bedside, at the end of the day she was still engaged to another man. And in just over a week’s time, she’d be that other man’s wife.
Lochlan Farquhar was running out of time and he knew it. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
&
nbsp; Sholto’s arrival was not inconspicuous, the helicopter’s jud-jud-jud-jud vibrating in her chest as it landed in the field between them and the chapel, all the staff stopping their chores to watch as the chairman leapt tentatively into the snow and ran in a crouch out of the downdraught. Alex heard several sarcastic mutterings – about his shiny shoes in the snow and his still-warm tan – before the crowd scattered, everyone running back to their posts and looking busy.
For a moment, she felt her own shot of panic at being seen by one of her clients dressed like this; but there was no way to avoid it. And these were exceptional circumstances, to say the least.
She was working on the final window when he popped his head in the door and she turned.
‘Don’t mind me, I’m just looking for Lochl—’ He stopped dead. ‘Alex?’
She smiled and walked over, shaking his hand. ‘Sholto, how are you? I heard you’d be coming.’
‘I barely recognized you!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, cometh the hour . . .’ she shrugged. ‘It’s been all hands to the pump the last couple of days.’
‘Indeed, indeed, but I’m sure that didn’t require you to get your hands dirty.’
‘I’ve found it’s best for morale if hierarchical divisions are blurred at times like these. And I must say, there’s been a great sense of camaraderie amongst your staff. Everyone’s really pulled together. You’ve got a very dynamic team here.’
‘Under Torquil’s strong leadership, I heard,’ Sholto said knowingly. ‘Apparently he was responsible for getting the stock moved from the dunnage warehouse in just a couple of hours?’
‘Yes, he’s been great. He’s a natural leader. If only he was my client.’ She rolled her eyes.
Sholto chuckled. ‘If he was, I wouldn’t need you!’ He frowned. ‘Where is Lochie, anyway? I heard he’d been released from hospital but I can’t track him down.’
‘He got back here about an hour ago. He’s just inspecting an old storage unit.’