‘Boss?’
Linklater did an eye-roll and pushed the door open. A tall, broad kid in uniform with square shoulders and a fat face looked nervous.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘There’s a disturbance at the front door,’ he said, apologetic.
‘What kind of disturbance?’
‘Involving one of the film crews and a few locals.’
‘So deal with it, that’s what you’re paid for.’
‘Someone has asked for you specifically.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask their name?’
The kid’s face went red. ‘No.’
‘Jesus.’ Linklater turned to Ingrid and threw a thumb in Finn’s direction. ‘OK, you can bring him in, but do exactly as you promised.’
‘I will,’ Ingrid said.
‘Don’t make me regret this,’ Linklater said, then disappeared into the gloom, following the young officer to the front door.
Ingrid, Finn and Janet slipped inside and Finn heard the door click behind him.
The women walked him along the south wall away from the front door, hugging the shadows as they passed the rows of seats to their left. Finn felt like he was being escorted out of a club by bouncers at closing time. He glanced at the folk sitting down, hoping to catch a glimpse of something meaningful, a tear-stained cheek being dabbed, a comforting arm around a shoulder.
They continued up the nave, past the transepts and into the chapel, effectively backstage. They walked past the remains of St Magnus then stopped at the corner amongst the memorials. Finn touched the reclining statue of Arctic explorer John Rae and stared at the wall plaques for famous literary men. George Mackay Brown, Edwin Muir and Eric Linklater. He wondered how Morna Linklater was related. He presumed she was, everyone here was, and the Linklaters were one of the big families. He looked down the kirk at the front doors, but couldn’t make out what was happening there.
Janet touched his shoulder and handed him a folded sheet of A5. The order of service. ‘Picked it up down there.’
Ingrid looked at them, then at the raised dais the organ sat on. She frowned. ‘We shouldn’t be here. This was a bad idea.’
Finn took the order of service and looked at it. Hymns and prayers, a poetry reading, something by Mackay Brown that he recognised the title of. He flipped the sheet over and there was the information he wanted.
John Tolbert
Mary Tolbert
Evan Reilly
Brian Dean
Graham Wallace
Stephen McDonald
Derek Drennan
John and Mary must be the Yorkshire couple. He wondered if they had kids, if they were here now, had flown up as soon as they could after a terrible phone call or maybe they saw it on the news first. Had it sunk in yet, as they sat in this old building on a windswept island, that they were never going to see their parents again?
Which one was the co-pilot, the one who restrained Sean? What about his family? Maybe a wife and two young kids with no dad any more. Of the other names, one was the pilot, the other three were Sean’s workmates. All returning home from work at the oil terminal, looking forward to Christmas, turkey and trimmings, nipping off to the pub if they could, making the most of their time before they had to slog northwards again to earn a wage.
The ripples spreading out were dreadful. Finn imagined an earthquake under his feet, shaking the cathedral’s foundations, the sandstone collapsing into nothing, great slabs cascading down on their heads, a shockwave spreading across the islands, wiping out buildings and people like a nuclear blast, ripping skin from bone, tearing at plants and animals, scorching the grass and bracken and heather until there was nothing but black, dead rock for hundreds of miles.
The order of service trembled in his hand. He stared at the names as Ingrid touched his back.
‘Are you all right?’
He felt as if his legs would buckle and put out a hand to steady himself. The stone wall was cold and he rubbed a finger up and down, watching as tiny grains of sand fell to the floor. He pictured a Stone Age family going about the business of staying alive down at the South Ronaldsay cliffs, starting a fire, cooking fish, mending clothing, huddled in the warmth of their homestead, happy to be thriving. Now just a row of skulls.
He thought about Maddie in the Lewis house, pulling her panties back on as she got out of bed, the smell of sex in the air. He thought of Kevin screwing Claire, Maddie walking in. He pictured Kevin with a look of surprise on his face, a knife hanging out of his gut, blood sprayed over his chest, the mess of it slithering around him as he lay there trying to breathe.
Finn felt pain in his chest and coughed. Something came into his mouth, metallic, and he knew it was blood. He swallowed it back down, felt it slide into his gut. He choked a little, coughed again, seemed unable to stop. He leaned against the wall, the order of service still in his hand, crumpled up against the stonework.
Eventually he got control of his lungs and straightened up.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘We should go.’
Just then the organ music swelled, sombre minor chord changes, tones bouncing around the chapel and back down the nave, sweeping over the mourners.
Finn breathed in, chest tight.
‘Come on,’ Janet said, guiding him. Ingrid flanked him on the other side. They stayed close to the wall, the light from the stained glass coming in over their heads. They passed a couple of headstones set into the wall, comical depictions of skeletons, skulls and crossbones, the grim reaper with a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other.
On the walk back to the exit they were facing the congregation. This time Finn kept his eyes to the wall, the piece of paper still clutched in his hand.
‘Hey.’ A woman’s voice from the seats.
‘Keep walking,’ Ingrid said under her breath.
‘Hey.’
The organ music blossomed then drained. It felt like a living thing, as if the cathedral was a giant lung and the music was the breath sweeping in and out of it.
Finn looked up. A woman in a black dress was excusing herself from her row, walking towards him.
He stopped.
‘Come on,’ Janet said, pulling him.
‘No.’ Finn straightened up to face the woman. This was what he was here for, this was what he deserved.
The woman was short and thin, raven hair in a high ponytail. She was in a black dress and heels, a tissue crumpled in one fist. Her mouth was turned down, her eyes red, and he could sense anger radiating off her.
‘You’re the guy from the plane,’ she said in a soft Glasgow accent.
Everyone in the place was watching. The organ music thrummed in Finn’s ears. Ingrid stepped close to him. He wanted to push her away. This wasn’t something he needed protection from, quite the opposite.
He nodded.
‘Because of you, my husband and his friends are dead.’
Finn wondered which one was her husband. One of the oil workers, but which? The guy with the spike through his back? He wanted to uncrumple the order of service, hold it out to her and ask.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
The woman was crying, shaking. ‘You bastard.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘You started a fight,’ she said. ‘The plane turned round.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Finn said. ‘There was fog.’
‘Shut up,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t speak to me. You don’t get to speak.’
He offered himself up to it, hands by his sides, leaving himself open. He waited for the hit and blinked heavily. She threw her weight into a punch, a jab to his chest that doubled him over. He stumbled forward and she lifted her foot and kicked her heel into his groin. He curled up and collapsed, felt her sharp toe as she jammed it into his back, his kidneys aching.
‘You bastard,’ she said, kicking and kicking.
He accepted it, embraced i
t. Each blow was deserved, pain sweeping over him like a blanket as he gave up control of himself.
But it didn’t last. He heard Ingrid and Janet intervene, then a male voice, older, calming, whispering to the woman as she sobbed and sniffed and made noises more like an animal than a person.
The music swirled around and through him, and he imagined that his curled-up body was a blood clot waiting to be expelled from this enormous lung, an infection ready to spread through the islands.
30
The Highland Park was a shot to his brain. He felt the burn rising from his gut. He put down the empty whisky glass and picked up the bottle of Dark Island, took several slugs, the gulps hurting his rib.
Ingrid and Janet sat across from him with nips of their own.
Finn took the crumpled order of service out of his pocket and laid it on the table. He carefully smoothed it out, bending the corners back over where they’d creased, until it was as flat as he could get it. He traced his fingers over the list of names as if he was blind and it was written in Braille. He stared at the names and listened to his own breathing then lifted his beer.
‘Here’s to them.’
‘Slainte,’ Janet said, then sipped.
Ingrid’s phone buzzed. ‘It’s Amy wondering where you are. You’re not answering your phone.’
Finn had put it on silent in the cathedral out of respect. As if it was that easy to show respect.
Ingrid began texting and Finn looked round. The Bothy Bar was brown and dingy, framed black-and-white fishing and farming pictures on the wall. A stuffed puffin in one corner, some flotsam from a wreck in another. Half a dozen locals lined the bar but the tables were empty apart from Finn and the women, everyone still at the memorial. It was only a hundred yards down the road, but the pub was hidden in a wee nook between roads, the side door of a hotel that never had any visitors.
Three of the regulars had roll-up fags tucked behind their ears, taking it in turns to nip out and smoke them. One guy with a braided grey beard was talking in a West Country accent about Genesis, how they compared before and after Peter Gabriel, as a tall barmaid with an overbite pretended to listen. All kinds of wreckage washed up in Orkney, attracted by the solitude and space. It was a place to drop out of the world.
Finn took another drink of his dark beer.
‘Are you happy now?’ Janet said.
Finn turned and saw kindness in her face. ‘What?’
‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ She nodded out the tiny window. ‘To be punished.’
Finn shook his head. ‘No.’
Ingrid put her phone away. ‘You could’ve fooled me.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Finn said, staring at the order of service.
Ingrid sat forward. ‘Oh, that’s right, you’re the only one suffering. You’re the only one going through hell. I’m glad that woman beat you up, you deserve it. You’re still alive, you’re here, her husband isn’t.’
‘Because of me.’
‘Neither of us is saying that,’ Janet said.
‘You don’t need to.’
Finn raised his head. Janet had taken Ingrid’s hand in hers and was squeezing it in reassurance. She didn’t take her hand away, kept it there but relaxed her grip. Now they looked like a couple in the first throes of love. They gave each other a glance. Finn raised his eyebrows at Ingrid. She sent him a defiant look and squeezed Janet’s hand.
Finn was about to speak when the barmaid came over and picked up his shot glass. She was wearing a Bench hoodie and white jeans. ‘You guys interested in food?’ she said with a Belfast accent.
Ingrid put a hand up. ‘No thanks, love.’
Finn watched as the barmaid went back behind the bar. She spoke under her breath to one of the guys at the gantry. She’d been on a recce mission to check if it was him, the guy off the plane, the one who started the fight. The two of them were pretending not to look over, along with Braided Beard, who’d stopped his monologue about the Duke album and was stroking his tobacco pouch on the bar.
The door opened and a young woman came in. With the light behind her, Finn couldn’t make out her features, but he recognised the body language straight away.
‘Oh, Finn,’ Amy said.
He got out of his seat, his back aching, those kicks in the kirk echoing in his muscles as he stiffened up.
‘Hey.’
He flinched as she hugged him, grimacing at the pain. She squeezed and held on, not letting go.
‘Baby,’ she said in his ear. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
Eventually she loosened her grip but still held his arms, rubbing her hands along his biceps. She made a show of checking him out, her eyes darting around his face, body, falling on his splinted hand. She lifted and stroked it.
She was thinner than Maddie, taut skin across pale cheeks, her short black hair in a chopped fringe. She wore her puffy North Face jacket that went to her knees, almost like a sleeping bag.
She put a hand to his face, touched his cheek. He was disgusted with himself. What a bastard. Amy had looked after him since his mum died and this was how he repaid her. He felt dizzy and his body swayed.
‘You seem a little out of it,’ Amy said.
He stared at her. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well I’m here to look after you,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you out of my sight.’
She took her jacket off, tight jeans and a loose jumper underneath.
‘Can I get anyone a drink?’
Ingrid introduced Janet to Amy, describing her as a friend. Finn thought about that as Amy walked to the bar and he went to the toilets.
As he pissed, a cough rose up in his chest and more stuff came into his mouth. He spat into the urinal, the pink and green of blood and phlegm washed away by his stream of piss. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. He remembered doing the same on the plane, his reflection blurry around the edges. Right now he seemed too well defined in the harsh light of the toilet. His eyes looked so tired. He wiped at them and his vision went fuzzy, floaters drifting across his eyeline.
The door opened and Ingrid and Amy bustled in.
‘The tabloids are here,’ Ingrid said.
Amy nodded. ‘Some guy from the Daily Mail came in asking questions. Janet is stalling him.’
‘What about the rest of the folk at the bar?’
‘He hasn’t got round to asking them yet, he came to us first,’ Ingrid said. ‘Janet began talking, I went to the bar pretending to help Amy with the drinks and we came in here.’
‘Maybe I should speak to him,’ Finn said.
‘Absolutely not,’ Ingrid said.
‘But we’re stuck in here,’ Finn said. ‘And the regulars or the barmaid will say something.’
‘Ingrid says we can get out another way,’ Amy said. ‘Turn right out the door and through the hotel.’
‘He’ll see us.’
Ingrid shook her head. ‘He’s facing the other way. Go.’
The three of them went out the door, Ingrid first, then Finn, Amy at the back. Janet was sitting close to the reporter, a balding man squeezed into a shiny suit. Janet didn’t look up, just kept talking into a device the reporter held across the table, as Finn and the others slipped along the adjoining corridor and out the Albert Hotel.
Ingrid was still parked at the police station round the corner and they climbed into the car and pulled away. They avoided the centre of town, turning up Junction Road then on to New Scapa Road, Finn’s heart pounding. So they were hiding from reporters again. He couldn’t run forever.
Ingrid took the main road south and they bumped along, nudging the speed limit.
‘Let’s just get you home,’ she said.
Finn felt Amy’s hand touching his neck from the back of the car.
‘Everything’s going to be all right, babe.’
31
As they came over the rise to Ingrid’s cottage, Finn saw a car waiting for them. He recognised it and dug his hand
into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out her card. The girl from the Orcadian.
‘Christ,’ Ingrid said.
‘What?’ Amy said.
‘That’s the local reporter. I’m going to give her shit for coming here again.’
Finn peered out the windscreen at the Ford. He could make out Freya’s gawky form and black hair. He looked behind them at the Lewis house and the visitor centre, wondered about Maddie inside.
‘It’s OK, Gran, I’ll talk to her.’
‘That’s not a good idea,’ Amy said.
‘I know what I’m doing.’
As they pulled up behind her car Freya bundled out, raising her eyebrows in self-deprecation as if to say sorry, me again.
Ingrid cut the engine and got out of the car, Amy and Finn likewise.
Amy was first up to the reporter, sticking her chin out. ‘Leave him alone.’
‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ Freya said, sticking her hand out. ‘My name is Freya Magnusson, reporter with the Orcadian. And you are?’
‘I’m Finn’s girlfriend and I’m telling you to piss off.’
Freya flipped open her notebook. ‘What’s your name?’
Finn put a hand on Amy’s arm. ‘Let me speak to her.’
The four of them stood there on the headland in the wind, scattered clouds in the sky, the sea below like hammered metal, blinding where the sun caught it. The knuckle of mainland Scotland was clear in this light, and Finn wondered if it was possible to swim that far. Maybe if you trained hard enough and tried it on a calm summer day, but it was suicide otherwise.
He turned to Ingrid. ‘You two go inside.’
Amy protested but Finn reassured her and she let Ingrid take her into the cottage.
Freya smiled. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Have the tabloids caught up with you yet?’
Finn just stood.
Freya nodded. ‘They will. Folk here don’t talk to strangers much, but they’ll find you sooner or later, and they’ll be on you like a dog on beetroot.’
‘I’ve asked you already, what do you want?’
She looked at the cottage then turned and stared at the Lewis house, the roof just visible beyond the rise in the road. She turned back to him almost absent-mindedly.
Crash Land Page 14