by Clare Carson
She pulled her backpack closer to her chest, felt the hard outline of the Browning.
‘Aye,’ he continued. ‘There’s hardly anybody living in Rackwick these days, apart from a couple of old fishermen.’
‘Oh, I thought there was a writer there, I can’t remember his name. Somebody mentioned him once.’
‘Steven Hill?’
‘Maybe.’
‘He’s not there all the year. He leaves in the winter months.’
‘Really?’ Pierce, the lying toad. ‘Where does he go then?’
‘Somewhere hot, Thailand I think.’
The photo. Pierce with an arm around a young Thai girl. Loathsome.
The ferryman peered at the sky. ‘At least it’s not raining. Not yet anyway.’
*
SHE RODE SLOWLY, the Honda wobbling in the wind, worried that one strong blast could carry away her like Dorothy. She reached Pegal Bay; the burn no longer an enticing trickle but a wild torrent gushing to the sea. Up on the moor, only a thin band of light visible between the charcoal of the hills and the steel of the clouds. Ahead, Betty Corrigall’s headstone, alone in the endless heather. She gripped the throttle; the Honda leaped and shuddered. She had to stay calm. She couldn’t afford to lose it now, too much at stake. Including her own life.
Through the valley of death, the cracks and paths sharply etched in the grey winter mountains. Past the Dwarfie Stane, across the burn. The bike skittered in the headwinds blowing in from Rackwick Bay. She dismounted, wheeled the bike along the road, edged around the deserted crofts and left it lying on the mat of dead rosebay willow herb in the bothy ruin. A raven alighted in the sheep fold, struggling to maintain its balance, cawed and took flight again, carried inland by the gusts. She glanced at Pierce’s croft. The windows had the blankness of an empty house. Had he dragged her all the way here for nothing? Flown off to Thailand already? Was he just messing around, calling her to his hideaway because he wanted to demonstrate he could still pull her strings? Bastard. The Volvo was parked by the side of the croft, so maybe he was at home. He’d better be there. She delved into her backpack, clasped the Browning, swung the cylinder out, checked the loaded rounds. Five. Pushed the cylinder back, cocked her finger through the trigger, tweaked, felt the resistance, jammed it in the inside pocket of her overcoat. Maybe she wouldn’t have to use it, but it was there if she needed it. And if she needed it she would use it.
*
THE WIND WHIPPED her breath away as she climbed the path, its iciness stung her face. She fixed her sight on the croft, eyes watering. Still no sign of Pierce. She reached the door – a replacement for the one Reznik had kicked in – knocked and waited. No answer. She knocked again, called his name. Nothing except the howl of the wind. She pressed the door latch, felt it give, pushed and the door swung open. She crossed the threshold. Pierce wasn’t at home. His gloomy room was much as it was the last time she met him here in early October, shelves neat, saucepans stacked, floor clear and swept. A book was lying open on his desk. She edged over. The Collected Poems of T. S. Eliot. Page 75. Section IV of The Waste Land. ‘Death by Water’. A handwritten note lay on top of the verse.
Dear Sam,
I’ve gone for a stroll. I’m at the Raven’s Nest. I’m waiting for you.
Yours faithfully, Pierce.
She stared at his words. I’ve gone for a stroll. A stroll. What was he playing at, luring her up on to the cliffs in this wind? Her gut dropped, palms sweaty. Fear death by water. She should have known this wouldn’t be straightforward. She thought she’d cornered him, but Pierce was a master of manipulation. She could hear his voice, always the edge of irony, the mocking banter of the upper classes. Yours faithfully. The only person he was faithful to was himself. She should turn around, walk back down the path, and drive away. He was playing games and she shouldn’t be drawn. She put her hand against her coat, pressed the Browning against her rib. Still, she had her self-defence. She wondered whether she could manage the wind.
There were two paths to the Raven’s Nest. That summer afternoon in ’76 she had walked up one, and run down the other. The coastal path went along the cliff-edge. The other path curved inland before cutting back to the top of the hill and down to the Raven’s Nest from above. The view from the Raven’s Nest was over the sea and the bay. Pierce’s croft and the bottom of the cliff path were hidden by the spur of the hill. He must have thought he didn’t need to watch her climb – he would know what time the ferry arrived, how long it would take her to ride from Lyness and climb the cliff path to the Raven’s Nest. I’m waiting for you... He wouldn’t expect her to take the inland path, he would assume she didn’t know it existed. So that was the path she had to choose.
She followed the track along the hillside contour, reached a V and then started the serious ascent in a diagonal back towards the sea. The cliff path and the Raven’s Nest followed a ridge below the brow. She would remain hidden until she reached the ridge, and then she would emerge above him. She glanced up and saw grey-fingered clouds like owls’ wings scudding above her head and a blast of wind hit her full force in the face, raced around her mind, possessed her. She paused, tried to catch her breath, collect herself. She had no plan. No script. All she had was the envelope and her Browning and the wind. That would have to do.
She kept her eye on the skyline for Pierce’s figure looming above. He did not appear. Perhaps he wasn’t waiting after all. She wasn’t about to take any chances. She dropped to the ground, wormed the last few feet of hillside, peered over the brow. Above, the bank of clouds smothering the sun. Below, ranks of breakers marching across the Pentland Firth. The top of Pierce’s head a few feet away, facing towards the bay, waiting to see her emerge around the final bend of the coast path. She dropped back below the brow, heart thumping. Could she do this? Could she pull it off? She felt for the Browning, removed it from her coat, gripped it in her right hand and stood, the gale yowling in her ears.
He turned around the moment she appeared above him, wavering on the brow. She aimed the barrel at his head and caught the split second of surprise, the sheer fury before he smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges. He tilted his head to one side, as if he were about to address somebody who was a tiny bit dim. God, he was a patronizing jerk, she could see that now.
‘Sam, there’s no need for...’
That. She could barely hear him in the wind, her mind completing his sentence. She edged along the ridge, keeping the revolver aimed at his head, watching his hands to make sure he didn’t reach for his own weapon. She was right above him now. It wouldn’t require quite so much effort to make herself heard.
‘Put it away, Sam, and then we can tal...’
She clicked the safety catch with her thumb. He heard it because he winced.
‘Put your hands in the air.’
He pulled a really, Sam, is that necessary grimace, facial expressions as effective as words in the gale. She gestured with the barrel. ‘Up.’
‘OK, Sam, if that’s how you want to play it.’ She could hear the bored weariness, the dismissal of the silly little girl with her gun. Or maybe she inferred the tone of his voice from his face. He raised his hands, stumbled, momentarily losing his balance, the wind wrong-footing him.
‘I’ve brought the envelope.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Where Jim dropped it. In the back garden of your safehouse. You sent him there to collect it. Correct?’
She was keeping her sentences short, to the point. She wanted him to hear all her words.
‘Yes, Sam. Correct.’ He rolled his eyes as he said it. Sam, the tedious daughter of a useless police spy.
‘Why did you ask Jim to look for it?’
He didn’t respond.
She answered for him. ‘Because you’re a coward.’
He pulled his mouth back some more, dropped his hands.
‘Don’t move,’ she shouted.
He lifted his hands again. ‘Calm down, Sam, there’s no ne
ed for this.’
‘Why was the envelope important?’
‘You know why, Sam. Because it had a picture of Anna in it. She would have been endangered if they found it.’
‘You don’t give a stuff about Anna.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You are a violent bully.’
‘Sam. That’s Anna making things up. She’s angry with me because I had to leave her. She likes to think she’s a victim. She tells stories.’
She kept her eyes on his face, assessed how far his feet were from the cliff-edge. Not quite his body’s length away, she reckoned.
‘You kicked Valerie when she was pregnant. She had a miscarriage because of you.’
‘That’s another exaggeration.’
‘You’re a wife-beater. You murdered her baby.’
‘Let’s not get hysterical.’
‘Why did you leave one of the tiles Anna gave you on Betty Corrigall’s grave?’
He pulled a puzzled frown. ‘Say that again, Sam, I didn’t quite catch it. The wind...’
She took a step forward. He inched back. She had to be careful, she was right on the edge of the ridge now, aiming the gun down at his face. She didn’t want to trip and blow it.
‘And what about Jim? Were you hanging around Earl’s Bu because you wanted to do penance for Jim? A life you ruined to save your own skin?’
He gave her his don’t be stupid look.
‘Or is it less about guilt and repentance, and more about fears that your crimes will come back to bite you? Do you give a fuck about anybody else? Can you stand anybody else if they don’t serve you? If you don’t control them?’
‘Sam, perhaps we should go back to the croft and talk about this, out of the wind.’
‘I’m fine out here, thanks.’
She glanced at the sky, the clouds thickening, the gale losing some of its strength. ‘The wind’s dropping anyway. Tell me why you lied about the torture.’
‘Torture?’
‘You made me believe you had been tortured, when it was Jim who was half drowned because of you.’
‘Oh, Sam. Is that what this is all about? Some misunderstanding about Jim?’
‘Misunderstanding?’
‘I didn’t say I was tortured. You read that...’
‘You wanted me to believe that my father had betrayed you.’
‘I can’t control what you think.’
‘You try. You spread false rumours.’
‘Sam, you believe what you...’
‘Why did you pick on him?’
‘He got in the way.’
‘He helped you.’
‘Sure.’
‘It haunted him. It fucked up his head. Fucked up my family.’
‘You and Anna have clearly been comparing notes,’ he said. ‘Two young women, looking for a story to justify their shared victimhood.’
‘A story? You’re the storyteller.’
He tipped his head to one side again. Jesus, he was loathsome. His smile hardened.
‘Sam, you have the envelope. Why don’t you give it to me and we can both get on with our lives.’
‘What do I get in exchange for the envelope?’
He snapped. ‘I’ve given you plenty of cash. I’ve got some more if that’s what you’re after.’
‘I don’t want cash. I want you to admit that you’re a bullying coward.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I agree to all that. Of course.’ He said it so dismissively. ‘Now please hand me the envelope.’
She stuck her left hand in her pocket, grasped the corner of the envelope. ‘OK then,’ she said. ‘Have your fucking envelope.’
She tossed it in the air above his head, he leaned back to grab it, reached and missed. A gust caught the paper. Pierce reached again, snatched, grabbed the envelope, regained his balance, five inches closer to the cliff-edge than he was before.
‘There. If your precious reputation means so much to you, take it. Now nobody need ever know your dirty secret. Apart from me. And Anna, who knows exactly what you’re like.’
He raised a supercilious eyebrow.
‘And Jim,’ she added.
‘Jim?’
‘Yeah, Jim. I’m sure he suspected in his gut that you were a total fucking coward who made up stories to cover his own arse.’
Pierce smiled again. ‘Well, we all make up stories, don’t we.’ He stared at her sternly, the headmaster ticking off the recalcitrant pupil. ‘And what Jim thinks doesn’t really matter now because he’s dead.’
‘No, he’s not.’
Pierce smirked. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘He’s here. He hasn’t gone.’
The wind whipped again.
‘I can hear his voice. He’s waiting for you.’
She frowned, straining to hear. Pierce caught her look, or perhaps he even heard Jim’s voice, because he frowned too and he turned to follow her gaze, just over his shoulder, behind him.
‘Jim.’ She waved her left hand.
He turned again, twisted his body, she called the wind in her mind and it blasted him, caught him off guard and he stepped back to right himself, but he stumbled, and the wind blew again and punched him in the gut. He thrust his arms out sideways to steady himself and gain his balance, but he couldn’t find his centre of gravity. He looked straight at her. He wasn’t smiling, face locked in panic, but she smiled at him and waved goodbye as the gust took him over the edge. The other side. She wondered whether she would hear a splash. Was that a scream? Or was it the wind? Perhaps it was Jim laughing. A skua fluttered past her feet along the cliff’s edge, watching the rocks below.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ she shouted. ‘Miranda said fuck off, Prospero. And Ariel says thank god she’s finally free.’
She replaced the Browning in her pocket. Self-defence only. All she’d done was tell a couple of stories. We all make up stories, don’t we. Yes, Pierce, we do all make up stories. And she was better at it than him. She glanced at her feet, checking her foothold, well back from the edge of the cliff. Her toes were resting against the smooth rock humped like the back of a whale. She lowered herself on to the grass, edged her hand along the crevice, inside the whale’s mouth, and searched the hidden hollow. Her fingertips touched a small object, smooth surfaces, sharp points. She eased it into the daylight. The raven’s skull, the tile still lodged in the eye socket, the red one Anna had given to her and she had left here in the summer of ’76. She removed the tile, squashed it in her palm, felt its warm corners pressing her skin, then dropped it in her pocket. The last of the Fisher King’s treasures. A raven fluttered overhead. Ravens were loyal birds; once they found a partner they stuck with them through life. And death too.
She reached into her pocket and removed the Bryant & May matchbox, pushed the drawer, removed the carcase of the beetle, the one she had found on a summer’s day when she was seven or eight. She had been rambling with Jim across a field and he had stopped, pointed in wonder at the emerald creature sparkling on the cowpat. She wanted to take it home. He said the beetle was part of the natural cycle, breaking down the cow shit, fertilizing the grass for the cows to eat, so maybe she should leave it. But she said Charles Darwin collected beetles and she wanted to be a naturalist like him and he had said that’s a good ambition. You know, he said, if you try hard enough at school you can be anything you want to be. He had found a matchbox in his pocket, emptied it and taken it home for her and she had kept it all these years. She placed the beetle in the eye socket of the raven’s skull, eased it back inside the crevice. That was how she wanted to remember him; Jim, her father. Rest in peace. Dust to dust.
CHAPTER 34
Orkney, 21 December 1989
‘HOW WAS MOANESS?’ the ferryman asked.
‘Windy,’ she said.
‘Aye.’ He walked away.
*
SHE HEADED WEST from Houton, followed the road to Stromness. She stopped at a telephone box. She called Anna’s number, stuck her coins in the slot
when Anna answered.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I’ve recovered the last of the tiles. I’ve dealt with it.’
There was a pause, Anna digesting her message. And then she asked, ‘What’s that noise?’
‘It’s the wind.’
‘Oh, OK.’ She laughed. Not maliciously. There was a joy to it. ‘Thank you.’ Another pause. ‘Blood sister,’ Anna said, and replaced the receiver.
Sam thought for a moment, then dialled the Vauxhall number.
‘Hello.’ Becky.
She jammed her last coin in. ‘It’s me, Sam.’
‘Where’ve you got to? You didn’t say you were going away.’
‘I know. I was just phoning in case you were worried. I’ll be back first thing the day after tomorrow.’
She would get the night train from Inverness.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Becky said.
‘What?’
‘I’ve bought a Christmas tree.’
‘Why?’
‘They were selling them cheap outside the petrol station. I fancied one. I’m an adult. I don’t have to be bound by my upbringing. If I want a Christmas tree, I’ll have one.’
‘You’re right,’ Sam said. ‘See you soon.’
*
THE WIND WAS dropping now, and she twisted the throttle as she headed north towards Stenness. She had time, she hoped. She reached Maeshowe. There were two cars parked by the mill.
‘I don’t think you’ll be in luck today,’ the woman said. ‘Too cloudy.’
‘I’ll have a ticket anyway. I’ll give it a go.’
‘There’s a couple of people in there already with the guide. The gate is unlocked, just push it open and join them. Here.’ She offered her a torch.
‘I’ve got my own.’
*
A CURLEW SANG its sad lament. She turned around, gazed back at Hoy and thought of Jim, that day in ’77 when he had fled the cairn, the dripping water and Helen’s House of Darkness chant too much for him, and they had found him out here, standing and staring at the mountains. Then the sky had been bright after a summer rainstorm, but now the silhouette of the dark isle was deep purple against the leaden sky. The woman in the mill was right, she reckoned, there wasn’t much chance of the sun appearing today. Never mind. She stooped as she reached the gate, shouted hello to announce her arrival, lit her torch to illuminate her way along the low entrance to the chambered cairn. She reached the centre, caught the damp layers of corbelled stone, the calm faces of the people waiting. The archaeologist was there, near one of the side chambers. Of course, he would be here. He wouldn’t miss this. She went and stood by him. Extinguished her torch.