The Visitors (21 page)

‘I’m glad you did.’

We’d watched for twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour, when Ailsa looked behind us and tutted. Crouched low in the
boat and entranced by the playful seals, neither of us had noticed the clouds gathering darker, or the wind picking up. The weather was turning quickly. I thought of my grandfather’s story. The sky to seaward had condensed to deepest grey.

‘It’s getting a bit rough,’ she said, lifting her voice against the wind. ‘We should head back, grab a cup of tea.’

‘Aye, I suppose so,’ I said, reluctantly, drawing back to my seat in the bow of the boat.

As if by a mutual accord, the seals started to slink away, sinking and dropping with gentle splashes, leaving only slight eddies behind them, swirling briefly in the heaving sea. I glimpsed some of them swimming beneath us in those first moments underwater, but their camouflage was good, and their mottled fur hid them from my sight. In a moment, the entire rookery had gone, and there was nothing left but Ailsa and me and wave after wave after wave.

Ailsa fired the engine and turned the boat for home. As before, I sat in the bow, looking over her shoulder, hoping for last glimpses of the seals. Waves licked with shadows, and the sea blended grey into the racing sky. They could have been anywhere out there, and still invisible.

The disguise was perfect.

We left the pontoon and walked to the house. Ailsa led the way, and I followed close behind. As we rounded the corner, her father was working on the far side of the house, loosening the soil with an iron mattock as long as he was tall. With two hands, he lofted it high, then bent his whole body into the downward movement, whipping the spike deep into the hard ground. Then he planted his feet and wrestled the bar, pushing and heaving to lever loose the soil. Once the mattock had broken free, he moved along a half step, raised it and plunged it down again. There was a careful, automaton power in his actions, and he’d already carved a channel from the sea halfway to Dog Cottage. It was clearly hard work. He’d taken his top off, despite the coolness of the day. I let myself study his body. The muscles in his back were tight and defined without being bulky. He was hardened by age, so different to Richard. Again, though, there was that odd quality about him, a base sensuality that didn’t make much sense. Curiosity made me want to reach out. I had an urge to touch his back. I wanted to touch him, to lay my palm flat on his back, like a ghost, and for him to never know I’d done it. The thought made me shiver.

He didn’t notice until we’d stopped beside him. He was halfway through lifting the iron bar when he turned towards us. Muscles stood out on his body like ropes. Lowering the mattock, he grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head.

‘Hey, Dad,’ said Ailsa. ‘How’s it going?’

He looked back along the channel he’d carved out. ‘Aye, all right. Ground’s hard, but I’m getting through it.’

‘We went to see the rookery.’

John’s eyes flashed.

‘Did you, now.’

‘They were great,’ I said, ‘amazing. Great.’

I was gabbling, but he ignored me.

‘Shouldn’t have gone out that far, Ailsa.’

‘It was fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.’

‘It’s a father’s job to worry. I didn’t even know you were out there. What if you’d capsized?’

‘We didn’t, though.’

‘Or if you’d got lost?’

Ailsa rolled her eyes.

‘Flora’s just come to hang out for a bit. Is that OK?’

He grunted and turned his gaze to me. I crumbled, but forced myself to meet his stare. His dark eyes studied me, and once again I felt the strangeness, the déjà vu. His gaze exerted its own gravity, drawing me closer.

‘Can’t do much harm,’ he said.

Ailsa led me through the house into the kitchen. Through the window, I watched John at his labour. His motion, lean and muscled …

‘Just milk, wasn’t it, Flo?’

‘Please,’ I said, clearing my throat.

Ailsa busied herself with the cups and kettle. Again I glanced slyly through the window. The rhythm of his task was hypnotic. The spike lifted and plunged, lifted and plunged. He was a golem. I remembered the bathtub. The sensation of a hand stroking at my thigh. It had been loving. Not forceful. It didn’t fit with John, for all that those eyes watched me.

I jolted to feel Ailsa standing at my shoulder. I turned, too
quickly, and snatched the cup from her, slopping hot tea on both our fingers.

‘Shit, sorry.’

‘Nae bother.’

She crossed the kitchen and knocked on the window. She gestured to John’s mug, and laid it on the windowsill. He nodded, let the mattock fall flat with a thump, and moved towards the house. I raced Ailsa out of the kitchen, heading for the safety of her room before he came inside. I stood in her doorway, waiting, already calmer for having a flight of stairs between me and John. What a numpty.

‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, and pointed to a red skirt hanging on the cupboard door. ‘This doesn’t fit. Do you want it?’

I held the skirt against my hips. It looked good.

‘I dunno,’ I said, ‘you already gave me that jumper.’

‘And you gave me a top last week. Come on, it’s no good for me. If you don’t want it, I’m giving it to charity. Try it on.’

I hesitated.

‘Use my dad’s room,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

John’s room was cool and grey. The stacks of paper seemed less well defined than before. They’d collapsed and merged into each other, and in places the floor was thronged deep with reports and newspapers. I stepped out of my jeans and wriggled into the red skirt. I zipped it up and peered down to check the cut of the skirt. It fit me perfectly. It actually gave some shape to my hips. The colour looked great, too, though I didn’t know when I’d ever wear it. As I scanned the room for a mirror, my attention was drawn to John’s gigantic map. I studied it anew. It was remarkable how the steadily yellowing papers showed the age of the disappearance. His investigation was marked in time, as well as place, the more the clues deteriorated. The direction was unmistakable. Something caught my eye, and I puzzled at the name. Findhorn. Findhorn wasn’t
an island, but on the Moray coast, part of the Scottish mainland. Where had I seen it recently?

The answer lurched at me.

Marcus Mutch had lived in Findhorn.

He left Kirkwall in 1993. My head snapped to Orkney on the map. Some of the first disappearances happened near Stromness. Then Findhorn. Then Durness. Gairloch. Lewis. Skye. Barra. Mull. Tiree. Jura. Islay.

John’s map had far more locations than I’d found for Mutch, but the two traced the same route through the islands. The pattern was unmistakable.

‘Flora? You all right in there?’

I realised I was shaking. Ailsa knocked and stuck her head around the door.

‘Hey, that looks great.’

‘Stay here,’ I said, and grabbed my bag from her room. Wordlessly, I showed her my rough sketch of Mutch’s movements. She looked baffled. Then I handed her the selkie book. Her frown deepened as she leafed through, pausing to read tidbits.

‘Selkies aren’t supposed to be like this.’

‘Never mind that. Look,’ I said. ‘I found traces of the author here, and here, and all the way round. The pattern is identical. And some of the dates are the same, too.’

She puzzled, checking the map against my notes.

‘That’s crazy,’ she said.

‘Do you think it’s just coincidence?’

‘Don’t know. I suppose it could be.’

‘Should we tell your dad?’

She bit her lip.

‘Ailsa?’

‘I think … no. Not for now.’

‘Wouldn’t he want to know?’

‘He would,’ she grimaced. ‘It’s just …’

‘What?’

‘We’ve only just got here, Flo. I’ve half a chance at a normal life for a while. You don’t know what that means to me. If Dad gets a sniff at something like this,’ she said, tapping the book, ‘he’ll turn the island upside down.’

‘Isn’t that what he wants? It’s why he came here.’

She looked at me, then, caught between misery and anger.

‘It’s not why I’ve come here,’ she said, her voice fierce. ‘It’s not what I want.’

I softened my voice.

‘There’s something else, something new. We don’t know for certain, but my Uncle Anders might have gone missing, too.’

‘What? When?’

‘Last week some time. He was supposed to meet Ronny on Friday. We went to his place yesterday. It’d been ransacked, we think, and we can’t find him.’

‘Do the police know?’

‘Ronny called them, aye. He’s helping them search. It’s not been in the papers yet.’

I tapped the northern coast of Bancree. The road to Anders’ house was clear to see. There was the plantation, too, and the rocky coastline, and the ruined townsteads, and a string of lochans, too small for names of their own. It was a tiny area, really, but with endless places to be lost or hidden.

‘I just want this to be over,’ said Ailsa. ‘I just want him to stop.’

There was a muffled bleeping noise. We looked at each other.

‘That your phone?’

‘Crap, it is,’ I said, and ransacked my bag to find it. After a moment of juggling, I managed to answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Flo?’

‘Mum, is that you? What’s going on?’

‘I’ve been trying to call you for an hour, love,’ she said. ‘It’s really annoying, but we’re stuck in Tanno. The weather in the Sound has blown right up. Jow won’t run the ferry.’

‘Oh, no. What will you do?’

‘Me and Ronny will grab a B&B. I’m more worried about your brother.’

‘Jamie? Is he not still with Nana?’

‘Aye, he is, but she’s got enough on with Grandpa. You’ll have to look after him tonight, Flo.’

‘Of course, Mum. But how will I get him from Tighna?’

‘I’ve sorted that out. Nana’s bringing him on the bus. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you,’ she said. ‘They left half an hour ago. They’ll be in Grogport any minute. Please tell me you’re in the house.’

‘I’m not, Mum,’ I said, turning to look at Ailsa. ‘I’m on Dog Rock.’

‘You’ll have to get back to Bancree. Your Nana can’t be out in this weather with the baby.’

‘I’ll get back right now.’

‘Good girl. Call me if there’s any trouble.’

‘Call you? Funny one.’

‘Scram, go on. Love you.’

‘Bye, Mum,’ I said, but she’d already hung up.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Ailsa, concerned. ‘Can I help?’

‘The ferry’s down again. It must be worse up there. I’ve got to go home. Nana’s bringing Jamie down from Tighna.’

‘Come on, then,’ she said, draining her tea. I wriggled out of the skirt and pulled my jeans back on, then grabbed my rucksack and clattered down the stairs.

Outside, I understood with sudden dismay why the ferry had been cancelled. Still Bay was usually so sheltered, but the sea was up and churning white against the beach. Even as we stood by the open door, a wave ripped along the shore of Dog Rock, and a curtain of spray whipped on the wind, drifting far enough inland to coat us in a mist of salt.

Ailsa pulled a face. ‘I can’t take the dinghy out in this,’ she said. ‘It’s too strong for me. Hang on, though. Dad will do it.’

‘Bye, Flo,’ called Ailsa, and tossed the rope into the shaking dinghy.

I waved a hapless goodbye as we drifted from the jetty. John dipped the outboard into the sea. The prop bit fast, and we motored towards Bancree. I could see Ailsa standing at the end of the pontoon, watching us.

For a short while, the sea didn’t seem so rough after all, but then I realised the smoothness of the journey was down to how John handled his boat. Under his expert guidance, the rib zipped into the troughs of waves, mostly sheltered from the wind that thrashed above. He slowed the motor according to the rhythm of the sea, or accelerated to match the wave. He didn’t control the boat so much as match the movement of the water. Sometimes he was forced to cut across choppy waves, and here the dinghy bottomed out, banging and juddering, leaving my stomach lurching, a reminder of the violence so close to us. Then, halfway across the bay, he had to strike a wave almost head-on, and vibrations rocked the little boat. The force of the hit tumbled loose a bag from the jumble beneath my seat. It was the bulky canvas kit sack he’d carried on the road. I reached down to hold it safe, but when I touched it, John growled. He actually growled. Dark and fierce and low in his throat, the noise cut across the fizzing ocean. He leaned forward, knees bent, ready to spring.

‘Leave. That. Alone,’ he said.

His dark eyes had no life. His voice was flat and final. Bunched and ferocious, he stared at me, and I stowed the heavy duffel bag back beneath the seat. I was shaken. In the neck of the bag, right on the fringes of vision, almost too dark to make out, I thought I had seen hair. It had looked like human hair. In my paranoia over the disappearances, I could think of just one reason there might be human hair in a heavy bag.

A wave hit us hard. John cursed and with a zip of acceleration, steered us back into the shelter of a trough. As we approached the shore, he slowed the engine right down.

‘Get ready,’ he yelled, ‘and go quick.’

I turned and tensed, crouched and prepared to spring, aching to be off the dinghy. As we closed further, John caught a wave and surfed the rib in towards the beach. We gathered pace as the sea lifted, tilting the little boat. Behind me, he killed the engine and lifted the outboard high. The inflatable slid perfectly, rushing inland on a thick layer of thrashing, foaming surf.

‘Now!’ he shouted, and I jumped. As my weight pushed it down, the rib touched the sand, giving traction to my leap, and I landed on my feet on the beach. Even as I turned, the backwash was sucking the dinghy back into the deeper water. Not looking back, John dipped the engine and fired it full tilt into the next incoming wave. Climbing steeply up its face, he fired the boat straight over the crest in a burst of froth and spray. He landed on the other side with a resounding slap and raced again into the next wave.

He’d growled at me.

My hands were trembling. I was shaking with fright.

There was a beeping noise behind me. On the other side of the dune grass, parked between two Grogport houses,
waited the bus. I’d seldom been so pleased to see Nana. She waved at me, beckoning one-handed, holding Jamie in the other. Behind her, Bev leaned on the horn again, gesturing up the road and tapping on her watch. I jogged through the grass to collect my baby brother.