‘Don’t call, Olaf will hear, he’ll come –’
‘I’m calling Anders,’ I said. ‘He’ll help us. You know Anders.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Her white skin crimsoned. ‘No, don’t, don’t call him. I can’t face him. Please.’
I didn’t want to upset her more, but I needed Anders. I was skipper here, and this was my call. He would get the St John’s Ambulance person for me while I stayed with Kirsten. In this crowd, there’d be someone I knew who would go to him for me. I lowered my hand and led her into the flower hut. It was cool and scented like a hot-house, that mossy smell of damp green leaves mixed with the sweetness of rose and gardenia, and the sound of the indignant bull faded to a hush in the gentle hum of people admiring flowers. We threaded our way among them. On our right was a central isle of flower specimens, vases with three perfect blooms in each: roses, honeysuckle, marigolds. Along the side of the hut was a line of tables heavy with miniature gardens: a tiny crofthouse, a Japanese ravine with bonsai trees, a pebbled beach. Pansies smirked mascara’d eyes at us as we passed, and hanging cactus stretched out spider arms to catch our hair. The ten metres felt like so many cables against wind and tide, but we came at last to the the bottle-neck between the half-can shed and the square one joined to it. There luck came at last, in the form of one of my sailors, pointing out his volcano garden creation to his mates. It was Drew, with the bottle-blond Mohican, as mad as a south-sea mate, but I knew he’d do what I asked. I ushered Kirsten ahead of me through the doorway, and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned his face to mine, surprised. I made a ‘sssh’ mouth and spoke softly in his ear.
‘Drew, it’s an emergency. Anders is by the engines. Can you tell him to come to me, at the caravan?’
His eyes went round as pebbles. I glanced at Kirsten, and he followed my gaze, and understood. He nodded his head emphatically, and twisted off among the crowd.
Help was on its way. I came beside Kirsten again to pass the sheaves of green oats and jars of jam. A wooden wheelbarrow filled with one enormous kale plant, its roots still dark with earth, half-blocked our path. Beyond it, a man in black breeks and a blue and white Fair Isle gansey was sitting in an upright restin-shair, demonstrating how to weave straw to make a traditional kishie, the Shetland back-basket that was supported in place by a band around the forehead. He looked up, and I saw by his face that he knew Kirsten; he leaned forward and drew in his half-finished basket to let us pass. I was beginning to feel the space behind my back was filled with people watching, and wondering.
We reached the hut doorway at last, a double-door rectangle of bright sunlight. Kirsten flinched again as the light hit her, and raised her forearm against it.
‘Close your eyes if you like,’ I said. ‘I’ll lead you.’
It was a dozen steps to the admin caravan. I steered Kirsten towards it. ‘Open your eyes now,’ I said, ‘for the steps.’ I helped her up them and into the caravan. Sanctuary.
The girl behind the table was Kirsten’s age, a cheery, ruddy-cheeked crofter lass in a Voe Show T-shirt. She took one look at Kirsten, and brought round a chair for her. ‘Kirsten, lass, sit down. You shouldna be out today.’
Kirsten folded into the chair. She looked at the end of her strength.
‘Can you put out a tannoy for me?’ I asked. ‘We need Father Mikhail, if he’s here still.’
I’d have had that lass on my watch any day. She went straight to her intercom, without any questions or fussing, and sent the message out, clear as daylight. ‘Father Mikhail, if you’re on the showground, could you come to the caravan immediately, please. Father Mikhail, Father Mikhail, to the caravan, please.’ Then she went to fill the kettle.
I went to the door of the caravan, and stood there, scanning the people. Bless Drew, here he was, weaving his way through parents collecting their recorder-playing children with Anders in tow, pointing to the caravan. I scurried down the metal steps. Drew gave me a thumbs-up sign and squirmed back into the hut. Anders greeted me in rapid Norwegian: ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Kirsten’s here, doped up. I need the first-aid people, the green and white tent, over behind the engines.’
‘Here?’
I nodded, and he turned on his heel and began to run through the crowd. Again, I blessed the ship’s habit of obedience. The cavalry was coming. On his way he passed Father Mikhail, striding towards us. I went to meet him.
‘Father, thank goodness.’
‘Cass.’ Scotland was a missionary country now; Father Mikhail was Polish, and none of us tried to pronounce his second name, let alone try to write the complicated sequence of ys, cs, and zs. He was barely thirty, and not long ordained; we were only his second parish. He gave me a quick look-over, brown eyes crinkling in his square, tanned face. ‘What is up?’
I motioned him before me to the caravan. When I came in after him, Kirsten was already on her feet, both hands stretched out to him. ‘Father, you’ll hear my confession, quickly, before Olaf comes? He’ll not allow me –’
Father Mikhail flicked a look at me. ‘She needs a doctor.’
‘First aid is on the way.’
He kept his eyes on Kirsten, but pulled his car keys out of his pocket, and held them out to me. ‘You know my car? It is just the other side of the hall, a red Fiesta. My black case is in the boot. Bring it.’
I raced out, past the cattle pens, through the gate by the hall and to the parking area. Why did so many people have to have red cars? I ran up the boots of one row and down the bonnets of the other, found the right one at last and thrust the key into the lock. The little black case was there. I grabbed it, slammed the boot shut, and ran back to the caravan. Father Mikhail had Kirsten seated again; I gave him the case, and the crofter-lass and I came out, shutting the door behind us. We waited there in silence, guardians of their privacy, while the soft murmur of voices came from the tin wall behind us.
Then the door opened, and Father Mikhail came out to us.
‘I will drive her home. She should be in bed. Her friend Cerys was there this morning. I will phone her.’
The St John’s Ambulance woman arrived then, and Father Mikhail took her straight in, while Anders and I remained outside. ‘She is well?’ Anders asked softly.
‘She should be home,’ I said, ‘with someone looking after her.’
Father Mikhail came out again. ‘I will drive her home, and this lady will stay with her until her friends come. Cass, you will help her walk to my car.’
Kirsten’s eyes were closed now, her face at peace. Soon she’d be fathoms deep, but for now she responded to our urging and stood up, with the St John’s Ambulance woman on one side of her, and me on the other, arms around her waist, her weight heavy on our shoulders. As we eased her down the steps the show queen’s truck went past, with the girls waving from their thrones, and we moved into the space left by its passing.
Kirsten had taken only four faltering steps when Brian and Olaf strode around the end of the truck, and came straight towards us.
9
Mad folk is aye waur as mad kye.
(Old Shetland saying: Angry people are worse than angry cows.)
Chapter Twenty-four
Olaf looked as if he’d dressed by guess this morning, in an old pair of jeans and a grey jumper, rather bagged around the elbows and stomach. His face was tired, drawn, with lines running from nose to mouth-corners. His tanned cheeks were pale, and his Viking-red hair stood out around his head. He walked as if every step was an effort.
It was Father Mikhail that he saw first. His face closed down to wariness. Then he saw Kirsten, between the first-aid woman and I, and then Anders, walking at my side. His grey-green eyes narrowed. He looked from side to side, but there was a row of cars backed by a fence on his left, and the wall of the hall on his right. He took a step backwards, but retreat was blocked by the queen’s truck, which had stopped to let the queen and princesses clamber down for their tea and cakes in the hall. For a long moment he stood there, s
izing up his options, then he ran two steps towards us and darted into the alley between the cattle pens.
What he hadn’t realised was that it was a u-shape, with the alleyway blocked at the far end by the biggest pen. He bolted in, then swung around to confront us. Brian took a step towards him, and Anders came forward too. I saw Olaf realise that he was trapped. He looked at them, then behind him, put a hand on the pallets and vaulted over, countryman style, into the pen. A crofter in a navy boiler suit shouted a warning, and another came running from by the water hose. The cow in the pen lifted its head and shifted uneasily, and I saw that it wasn’t a cow but the bull who’d spent his day complaining, broad of face and chest, with long, lethal horns. Olaf wrenched at the metal latch and swung the gate open, towards us, then dodged behind the bull and slapped it on the rump. He was swinging himself into the main showfield as it turned towards him, catching the bottom of his jeans with one horn, and then it turned back to face us.
It seemed to move in slow motion at first, one cloven foot lifting and stamping. It gave a majestic sweep with its horns, then began lumbering towards us. The crofter flattened himself against the other pens, and it passed him by, mad red eyes fixed on us, this triple person of Kirsten, the First Aid woman, and me. Kirsten had no awareness of the danger, she was too slow, and it was going to be on us before we could drag her to safety. Around us people were shouting, and I heard running feet from behind us, then Anders shoved me aside, a swift push that had me stumbling towards the other side of its path. I fetched up against the pallets and clung there, and smelled the animal heat of it as it passed by me.
I looked around then. Anders had grabbed Kirsten by the waist and was spinning her towards the outside of the pens when it caught him in the back and tossed him. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt the jerk of pain as the horn went into his back, as his feet left the ground. It hurled him two metres through the air, tossing him as if he was an unwanted coat, and he rolled as he fell, with a cry of pain. I leaped away from the sheltering pallet and flung myself on my knees beside him.
I didn’t see how they managed to trap the bull. I heard the shouts behind me, but I was concentrating on Anders. Please, God, please, God – Already his white T-shirt was blotched with red blood pulsing out. I dragged my fleece over my head and bundled it up to clamp over the wound, leaning on it with both hands. Anders groaned, and tried to pull away from the pressure.
‘Lie still.’ I said it as if I was on deck, matter-of-fact, giving an order. ‘Stille, Anders, stille. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.’
There were people crowding around now. The blood was seeping through my fleece. I could feel the wet stickiness of it beneath my palm. The First Aid woman had a walkie-talkie; I could hear her talking to her colleagues, requesting assistance, an ambulance. ‘Urgent,’ she said. I pressed down on Anders’ back as he lay on the ground, face turned towards mine, eyes closed in pain, his colour draining away. The blood was oozing between my fingers now, and although I didn’t feel as if I was crying, tears were running down my cheeks and dropping on my hands. Then there were more running feet. Black polished shoes under dark-green trousers appeared on each side of me. Hands came in over mine, sure, experienced hands, lifting Anders from the rough ground and winding white bandage around and around the fleece. The first layer was scarlet instantly, and the second, but they kept winding, pulling tighter, and at last the layers remained white. They’d brought a stretcher, and they laid him on it, on his front. He opened his eyes then, and I bent over him. I took his hand, and his fingers clenched around mine. ‘Stille, Anders. Hjelpe komme.’
One of the first-aid men bent over me. ‘Does he speak English?’
I nodded. The scarlet was seeping through the bandages again, but faintly, a seaweed-rust smudge. Anders spoke with an effort. ‘I speak English.’ He managed a smile, and I felt my heart twist. ‘Better than Cass speaks Norwegian.’ His eyes returned to mine, and he murmured, in Norwegian, ‘Det gjør vondt, Cass.’ It hurts.
I nodded. ‘You saved Kirsten and me.’
‘Good.’
There was another burst of sound from the walkie-talkie, and a different voice replying. Around me, the feet were clearing backwards. There was an official voice over my head: ‘Stand back, please. Stand clear – thank you.’ Someone was putting screens around us, green canvas screens with splayed silver feet. Anders closed his eyes again, lips tightened to a thin line, his hand tight around mine. I couldn’t bear to think about how much pain he must be in.
I tried to remember what I’d seen. The horn had caught him high up, the point slicing upwards, and it had spun him around rather than piercing him through. There hadn’t been any blood on his front when they’d lifted him. The gash I had leant upon had been just below the shoulder-blade, and I’d not noticed foam in the blood on his T-shirt. Please God, it had been above the lung. It hadn’t touched his spinal cord, or he wouldn’t be able to move his hands, although the arm on that side was lying limp. That might be the pain, that he was instinctively keeping that side still, or the horn might have caught a key muscle. I bent my head to his. ‘Kan du bevege ditt armen?’
He gave that faint smile again. ‘Lege … Kapitain.’
He was right. The medics were the captains now. I had to leave them to do their job.
I raised my head to look around me. They’d caught the bull. Half a dozen crofters were man-handling it back into a trailer, still stamping those splayed feet, but held in check by a stick attached to the ring in its nose. On the other side of the pens, Olaf was being marched away by two policemen. The First Aid woman was still with Kirsten and Father Mikhail, and now Cerys had arrived as well. They were coaxing her towards the exit. A blonde police officer tried to stop them, but Father Mikhail said two sentences to her, authoritative, and she let them pass. The queen’s truck was being moved, in preparation for the ambulance coming.
‘Cass Lynch?’ It was a woman’s voice, a woman’s polished shoes at my knees. I lifted my head, and recognised her straight away: Sergeant Peterson, with her smooth, fair hair clipped back at the nape of her neck in a pony-tail, and her ice-green eyes detatched, like a mermaid’s eyes watching the follies of mankind. She looked down at Anders. ‘It’s Anders, isn’t it?’ She frowned, consulting the card-index of her memory. ‘Anders Johansen.’ I nodded. She flicked out her notebook. ‘Is his address still with you, aboard Khalida?’
I nodded again. ‘His home address is in Bildøy, just outside Bergen. He lives with his parents there, off the Døsjevegen, just by the marina.’
‘I’ll need a contact number, and a statement from you, about what’s happened.’
I fished out my mobile with my free hand and thrust it at her. My fingers were blood-stained. ‘It’s under contacts, Anders home.’
Inga came over then, bag flying. ‘Cass!’ She looked at my face and didn’t ask stupid questions, but rummaged in her bag, found a pack of baby wipes and pulled out a handful. ‘Here.’ I held my hand out, like Peerie Charlie, and she wiped it, then gave me two more. ‘There’s blood on your face too.’
I wiped obediently.
‘Cerys has gone off with Kirsten, so I’ll clear up the stall,’ Inga said. ‘You’ll likely do good business for this last hour. Everyone’ll want to know what happened and how Anders is.’
‘Sore,’ I said, ‘and lost a good deal of blood, but I don’t think it’s touched anything vital.’ He was drifting away from consciousness, I could feel it. ‘I hope an ambulance comes soon.’
‘The only ambulance,’ Inga said. ‘Cuts. If you’re lucky, it’s in Lerwick, waiting to go.’
Lerwick to Voe would be twenty minutes, with the blue lights flashing. I felt like I’d been kneeling on this gritty ground for a lifetime, but it would have been less than ten minutes. Ten more to wait.
If we were unlucky, the one ambulance could be delivering a mostly recovered old lady with a broken thigh back to Baltasound, two ferries away. Oscar Charlie could come, though, and land on the
showfield. Inga echoed my thoughts.
‘If it’s half-way to Out Skerries they’ll send the chopper. They’ll come soon.’ She turned to go, calling ‘Phone you later,’ over her shoulder.
Sergeant Peterson closed her notebook again, gave me back my mobile, looked at my face, and turned away to bother somebody else. Anders was becoming paler, as if he was cold; the shock of sudden injury, of losing so much blood. One of the first-aiders leant in to tuck a blanket around him. I curled it under his chin. His beard prickled the back of my hand.
The helicopter lived at Sumburgh. Sumburgh to Voe, even if they scrambled in less than two minutes, would still take half an hour. I sent up a prayer that we’d be lucky. I wanted Anders safe in the hospital, with new blood being pumped into him, and antibiotics being dripped into his system, and clean, starched sheets in place of this gritty, animal-trodden ground. While I listened for a distant siren, or the first hum of rotor blades, I willed my strength to flow into him through our joined hands. My thoughts fell into the rhythm of the rosary that had comforted me in my exile in France: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you –
Father Mikhail came back then. ‘Cerys has taken Kirsten home. She’ll stay with her.’ He looked at Anders. ‘Is there anything I can do here?’
I shook my head. ‘Pray.’
‘Of course. The young man is not from our church?’
‘He’s a Norwegian Lutheran.’
‘We are all one in the Christian faith,’ Father Mikhail said serenely, and took a step behind me. I could feel his willpower joining mine. Inga’s Vaila came running up with my jacket clutched to her. She stopped by the stretcher, staring solemnly, then remembered her errand and thrust the jacket at me. ‘Mam said you’d need this if you were going to Lerwick with him. Your purse is in the pocket. She said we’ll go and feed the kitten and Rat.’
The Trowie Mound Murders Page 23