The Blackhouse (37 page)

He had very little recollection of the drive back to town. He drifted between confusion and uncertainty, an oppressive sky bearing down on him, reducing the mountains of Harris to a grey smear in the distance, rain blurring his windscreen. The wind drove it laterally across the Barvas moor, and he had to focus his attention on the road until he reached the summit, just beyond the tiny Loch Dubh, and saw the lights of Stornoway spread out below him in the gloomy early evening, the town crouching in the shelter of the hills, cradled in the protective arms of its harbour.

Rush hour over, Bayhead was all but deserted in the rain, but as he turned into the harbour car park he was surprised to see a large crowd caught in lurid technicolor by the lights raised on stands by the television crew come to video them. Mostly they were just curious spectators braving the rain in the hope of getting their faces on TV. At their core were a dozen or more banner-toting protesters in red and yellow waterproofs. Hand-scrawled banners with slogans like
Save the Guga
,
Murderers
,
Strangled and Beheaded
,
Bird Killers.
Ink running in the wet. All a little cheap and nasty, Fin thought, and not very original. He wondered who funded these people.

When he got out of the car he heard them chanting,
Kill-ers, Kill-ers, Kill-ers.
There were one or two familiar faces on the periphery of the crowd, reporters whom Fin recognized from national newspapers. A couple of grim-faced uniformed police officers stood watching from a discreet distance, rain falling like veils from the peaks of their chequered caps.

On the quayside was the lorry they had loaded that morning at Port of Ness. It was empty now, standing idling amongst the empty creels and heaps of fishing net. A bunch of men in oilskins and sou’westers stood looking down into the hold of the
Purple Isle
, the same trawler which had taken Fin out to An Sgeir all those years before. Thick coats of fresh paint had been applied to rusted rails and weathered planking. Her deck was blue, the wheelhouse a recently lacquered mahogany. She looked like an old whore trying hard to hide her age.

Fin put his head down and pushed through the crowd on to the quay. He caught a glimpse of Chris Adams leading the chants of the protesters, but he had no time for him right now. He spotted Fionnlagh beneath one of the sou’westers, and grabbed his arm. The boy turned. Fin said, ‘Fionnlagh, I need to talk to you.’

‘Hey, my man!’ It was Artair’s voice, full of good-natured bonhomie. He slapped Fin on the back. ‘You’re just in time to join us for a pint before we set sail. Are you game?’ Fin looked round to find Artair grinning at him from beneath another dripping sou’wester. ‘Jesus, man, have you not got a fucking coat? You’re soaked to the skin. Here …’ He jumped up into the cab of the lorry and pulled out a yellow oilskin jacket and threw it over Fin’s head. ‘Come on, we’ll get pissed together. I need some drink in me before we go. It’s going to be a rough ride out.’

McNeil’s was heaving, the air filled with steam, the smell of stale alcohol, and the sound of voices animated by drink. All the tables were full, and a crowd three or four deep was gathered around the bar. The windows were all steamed up, like most of the men who had been there for the past couple of hours. The twelve guga hunters and Fin forged a path to the bar, and those among the drinkers who recognized them raised their voices in loud toasts to the guga. The crew of the
Purple Isle
had stayed on board to prepare for their departure, and maintain their sobriety for what was likely to be a stormy passage.

Fin found a half-pint of heavy thrust into one hand, and a measure of whisky into the other. Artair grinned maniacally. ‘A half and a half. Just what you need to set you on your feet.’ It was the fastest way to get drunk. Artair turned away to the bar again. Fin closed his eyes and knocked the whisky back in a single pull, then chased it down with a long draught of beer. For once, he thought, maybe getting drunk was not such a bad idea. But in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of Fionnlagh making his way to the toilet, and he put both glasses on the bar and pushed his way through the crowd after him.

By the time he got there, Fionnlagh was washing his hands at the sink, and two men at the urinals were zipping up their flies. Fin waited for them to go. Fionnlagh was watching him warily in the mirror. It was obvious from his eyes that he knew something was wrong. As the door swung shut, Fin said, ‘Are you going to tell me about those bruises?’ He saw the colour wash itself out of the boy’s face.

‘I told you this afternoon.’

‘Why would you not tell me the truth about something like that?’ And the echo of his own words made Fionnlagh turn to face his accuser.

‘Because it’s none of your fucking business, that’s why.’ He tried to push past, but Fin caught him and swung him around, grabbing the sweater beneath his waterproof jacket and yanking it up to expose a chest covered in yellowing purple bruises.

‘Jesus!’ He pushed the teenager face-first up against the wall and pulled up the sweater to reveal his back. Ugly bruising marred the pale, ivory skin. ‘You’ve been in some fight, boy.’

With a determined effort, Fionnlagh pulled himself free, and swung around. ‘I told you, it’s none of your fucking business.’

Fin was breathing hard, fighting to control emotions that threatened to choke him. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘No, you won’t. We haven’t been any of your business for eighteen years. And all you’ve done is come here and upset my mum. And my dad. And me. Why don’t you just go away, back to where you came from?’

The door opened behind them, and Fionnlagh’s eyes flickered beyond Fin to see who it was. His face coloured slightly, and he pushed past Fin and out of the toilet. Fin turned to find Artair standing there, a bemused smile on his face. ‘What’s going on?’

Fin sighed and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

He made to follow Fionnlagh, but Artair thrust a big hand in his chest to stop him. ‘What have you been saying to the boy?’ There was real menace in his voice, and all the warmth had leached out of his eyes.

Fin found it hard to remember that this was the little boy who had held his hand all those years ago at his parents’ funeral. He met his old friend’s eye and held it. ‘Don’t worry, Artair, your secret’s safe with me.’ And he looked down at the hand still pressed into his chest. Slowly Artair removed it, and a smile crept back into his eyes. But it was a smile without humour.

‘That’s alright, then. I’d hate for your boy to come between us.’

Fin brushed past him and back out into the pub. He searched among the faces, looking for Fionnlagh. The guga hunters were still at the bar, and he saw Gigs watching him with dark, thoughtful eyes. But he couldn’t see Fionnlagh. A thump on his back almost took his breath away. ‘Well, if it isn’t the fucking orphan boy.’ Fin spun around. For one bizarre, surreal moment, he almost expected to see Angel Macritchie. Or his ghost. Instead he found himself confronted by the leering red face of his brother. Murdo Ruadh seemed just as big to Fin as he had that first day at school. Only now he was carrying a lot more weight, like his older brother, and his ginger hair was darker, oiled back across an enormous flat head. He wore a donkey jacket over a grubby white T-shirt, and baggy jeans with a crotch that dragged halfway down his thighs. Big callused hands looked as if they could crush a cricket ball. ‘What the fuck are you doing back here polluting the place?’

‘Trying to find your brother’s killer.’

‘Oh, aye, like you’d fucking care.’

Fin felt his hackles rise. ‘You know what, Murdo? Maybe I don’t fucking care. But it’s my job to put killers behind bars. Even if they’ve murdered scum like your brother. Okay?’

‘No, it’s not fucking okay!’ Murdo was shaking with anger, his jowls quivering. ‘You fucking smarmy little bastard!’ And he lunged at Fin, who stepped quickly aside and watched Murdo’s momentum carry him smashing into a table laden with glasses that went crashing across the floor. Angry, startled drinkers jumped to their feet cursing him, alcohol darkening crotches and thighs. Murdo ended up on his knees, as if in prayer, hands and face baptised by beer. He roared like some great angry bear and clambered to his feet, swivelling around, looking for Fin.

Fin stood, slightly breathless, surrounded by a circle of men screaming encouragement, baying for blood. He felt an iron grip on his arm and turned to see Gigs, his face set and intense. ‘Come on, Fin, let’s get you out of here.’ But Murdo was already charging, a fist like a Belfast ham swinging through the air. Gigs pulled Fin aside, and the fist connected with a big, bald bruiser of a man with a walrus moustache. His nose seemed to burst open like soft fruit. His knees folded under him and he dropped to the floor like a sack of coal.

There was uproar in the pub, and a single, high-pitched voice rose above all the others, shrill and commanding. A woman’s voice. ‘Out! Get out! The lot of you, before I call the police.’

‘They’re here already,’ some joker quipped, and those who knew Fin, laughed.

The manageress was a lady in her middle years, not unattractive, soft blond curls around an elfin face. But she had been in this game a few years and knew how to handle men with a drink in them. She rapped a stout wooden stick on top of the bar. ‘Out! Now!’ And no one was going to argue with her.

Several dozen men spilled out into The Narrows. The street was deserted. Rain lay in pools and puddles under streetlamps that barely cut the twilight gloom. Gigs still had Fin by the arm, and the guga hunters crowded around to hustle him away towards the quay. Murdo’s voice roared above the howl of the wind. ‘Ya yellow wee bastard! Running away with yer fucking pals. Just like you always fucking did!’

Fin stopped and yanked his arm free of Gigs’s grip. ‘Leave it,’ Gigs said.

But Fin turned to face the rage of the dead man’s brother, a large crowd gathering behind him in silent expectation.

‘So come on then, you wee shit. What are you waiting for?’

Fin stared at him with the hatred of thirty years burning inside, and knew that this was wrong. He let all the tension drain out of him. He sighed. ‘Why don’t we shake on it, Murdo? Fighting’s not going to solve anything. Never has, never will.’ He walked warily towards the big man with his hand outstretched, and Murdo looked at him in disbelief.

‘You’re not fucking serious?’

‘No,’ Fin said. ‘I’m not. I just wanted to get close enough to make sure I didn’t miss.’ And he swung his boot solidly into the sweet spot between Murdo’s legs, taking him completely by surprise. A look of sheer astonishment was replaced almost immediately by one of excruciating pain. As he doubled over, Fin brought a knee up squarely into his face, and saw blood spurting from his mouth and nose. Now Murdo staggered backwards into the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea to let him through. Fin followed him, balled fists like pistons hammering into his great soft midriff, one after the other, forcing grunts from between bloody lips. Each blow a payback. For that first day in the playground, banged up against the wall and saved only by the intervention of Donald Murray. For the night they stole the tractor tyre. For poor Calum condemned to life in a wheelchair. For all the brutality meted out by this gutless bully through all the years. Fin was losing count now of the number of times he had hit him. He had also lost all reason, overtaken by a mindless frenzy. And he just kept hitting and hitting. Murdo was on his knees, eyes rolling, blood bubbling between his lips, pouring from his nostrils. The roar of voices in the street was deafening.

Fin found strong hands catching his arms, pinning them to his sides and lifting him bodily away. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, you’re going to kill him!’ He turned his head to see the perplexed look on George Gunn’s face. ‘Let’s get you out of here before the cops come.’

‘You are the cops.’

‘The uniforms,’ Gunn said through clenched teeth. ‘If you’re still here when they arrive your career’s dead in the water.’

Fin went limp, then, and let Gunn pull him away through the jeering crowd. He caught the merest glimpse of Fionnlagh among all the faces. The boy seemed shocked. And he saw Artair laughing, delighted to see Murdo Ruadh finally get his comeuppance.

As they hurried away along The Narrows towards the Crown, they heard the wail of a police siren, a signal for the crowd to disperse. Two of his friends had pulled Murdo to his feet and were dragging him hurriedly away. It was all over.

Fin was still shaking as they sat at the bar. He placed his hands flat on the counter to stop them trembling. They were largely undamaged. He knew not to risk his hands on bone that could just as easily damage him. He had concentrated his punches in the soft, well-padded upper body, the stomach and ribs, bruising his opponent, eroding his stamina, hurting him without hurting himself. The real damage had been done by his boot and his knee in the first two strikes, all the pent-up rage and humiliation of thirty years fuelling his assault. He wondered why it hadn’t made him feel any better, why he felt sick and depressed and defeated.

The lounge bar of the Crown was deserted, except for a young couple deep in intimate conversation in the far corner. Gunn sat up on a stool beside Fin and slipped a fiver to the barmaid for their drinks. He said in a low, controlled voice, ‘What the hell were you doing, Mr Macleod?’

‘I don’t know, George. Making a complete bloody idiot of myself.’ He looked down and saw Murdo Ruadh’s blood on his jacket and trousers. ‘Literally.’

‘The DCI’s already pissed off because you never checked in after Uig. You could be in big trouble, sir. Big trouble.’

Fin nodded. ‘I know.’ He took a long drink from his pint glass until he felt the beer-buzz bite. He closed his eyes tightly. ‘I think I might know who murdered Macritchie.’

Gunn was silent for a long time. ‘Who?’

‘I’m not saying he did. Just that he’s got a damned good motive. And a bunch of bruises to go with it.’ Gunn waited for him to go on. Fin took another pull at his beer. ‘Donna Murray made up the story about Macritchie raping her.’