The Visitors (24 page)

‘My father doesn’t work for you. You’ve nothing on me. Prrrrick.’

He swung his arm to point the finger at her. It looked manicured. The nail gleamed in the bar lights.

‘Correction. I’ve nothing, yet.’

‘Keep pointing that at me,’ she said, ‘and I’ll snap it off.’

She beamed at him, but her voiced dripped menace. I believed her, and Lachie must have too, because he dropped his hand back to the table.

‘Cool your beans, sweetheart. I’m only messing.’

‘We don’t want you,’ I said. ‘We’re not interested, either of us. We can’t make it plainer. Leave. Us. Alone.’

Lachlan shook his head with amused disbelief.

‘Nobody tells me what to do. Nobody. Your father’s gonna know about this on Monday,’ he said.

‘Ronny can take care of himself,’ I snapped.

‘Just imagine the rumours,’ murmured Ailsa, suddenly, ‘that all-powerful ladies’ man Lachlan Crane fired his best supervisor, and all because a pair of schoolgirls knocked him back.’

Lachie blinked.

‘Doesn’t sound good, does it?’

‘Not at all,’ I confirmed. ‘People get very sensitive where children are concerned, don’t they?’

‘And these things spread like wildfire,’ she lamented, voice laden with mock concern.

‘Quicker, round here.’

‘I imagine that sooner or later the police would hear about it, too.’

Lachlan visibly flinched.

‘And with something like that, I doubt those Christmas crates of whisky would count for much,’ I said. ‘They’d need to take a close look at your affairs. A really close look at all your movements.’

He squirmed in anger.

‘Of course,’ said Ailsa, sweetly, ‘I’m sure there’s no need for things to go that far, is there?’

Lachie’s face was pulled into a rictus grin.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no.’

His fist was taut against the glass, the tendons straining in his wrist. The tumbler rattled on the table, and the noise took him by surprise. He looked down, saw the trembling glass, and let go his hand with a jolt. We all three watched the glass rumble to a stop. Then Lachie stood up. When he moved, I could scent the wildness on him. He drew out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth.

‘I’m going for a breath of fresh air. When you change your mind,’ he said, ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

He turned around, and walked away from the booth.

I watched him all the way to the door, marching with his head down, feet straight, fists flexing and unclenching at his sides. Relief washed over me. I hadn’t realised how scared he made me. For a moment, the atmosphere brightened throughout the pub. But not for long. As he stormed outside, Lachie barged into another man in the doorway. The man recovered his balance with ease and stepped into the lounge. I froze. It was John Dobie. He stood at the threshold, peering uncertainly into the gloom.

‘Oh shit,’ I said quietly.

‘What’s up? Is he coming back for seconds?’

‘It’s your dad.’

The blood drained from Ailsa’s face. She was sitting with her back to the door, and she visibly tensed, as though willing herself smaller, wishing herself invisible. From the doorway, John’s dark eyes met mine, and the world stilled a little. The buzz faded as he walked across the room and to the table. Even when he was standing right beside her, Ailsa didn’t look up, but stared at the table.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go home.’

She didn’t move.

‘Ailsa,’ he said, louder, ‘we’re leaving.’

She chose her words with care.

‘I’d prefer to stay, Dad.’

‘I’m sure you would. But that is not an option.’

‘I want to stay.’

‘Get up. Come home. Now.’

What happened next made me spill my drink with fright. Ailsa jumped to her feet and howled in her father’s face, screaming at the top of her voice.

‘It’s not home! It’s never home!’

Every conversation died. Every person in the bar was staring. Father and daughter glared at one another, some unspoken communication rattling between them. Then Ailsa reached down, drained her glass to the last drop and replaced it on the table.

‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’

‘We’ll walk together,’ he corrected.

Ailsa grabbed her coat.

‘Sorry, Flo,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out, picking her way with care between the tables. The door slammed
shut behind her. John stood beside the booth, rocking on his heels.

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I said she needed keeping safe.’

‘And I told you,’ I replied, ‘that we’re old enough to make our own decisions.’

I couldn’t keep the tremble from my voice.

John turned without another word and followed his daughter outside. Every person in the room watched the door close behind him, and then, as one, turned to look at me. The hotel bar recovered from silence with a spontaneous burr of conversation. All eyes were on me and my empty table.

Tony wandered over even as I was putting on my cardigan.

‘I don’t think,’ he apologised, gathering the glasses, ‘that it’s a good idea for you to come here any more.’

‘No. Perhaps not.’

‘Until you’re, well. Old enough, anyway.’

‘Don’t worry, Tony. We won’t darken your tills with our money again.’

I pushed past him and stormed out of the bar, the eyes of every man in there burning in my back. The cool night was an immediate tonic, and the rush began to clear.

I’d been so stupid. I should have known we wouldn’t get away with it. I should’ve known to stay near home. And now I was facing a half-drunk walk back to Grogport. It was going to be a long few miles in bare feet. I kneeled down to undo the straps of my shoes. I could smell lemons. I could smell antiseptic. I looked up.

‘I knew you’d change your mind,’ said a voice from the dark. Beaming, Lachlan stepped from the shadow of the hotel.

‘Oh, Jesus. Just piss off, Lachie,’ I said, and unhooked my other shoe. I gathered both and stood in bare feet, feeling the chill of tarmac. That would burn off quick enough when I started walking. I looked down the road, but couldn’t see either of the Dobies. They’d only had a few minutes’ head start, but they were already lost in the night. I could probably catch them if I ran, but John wouldn’t be too pleased to see me. I turned away from the hotel and set off. Lachie caught up with me in a half-jog, and walked beside me.

‘Very cold.’

I ignored him.

‘Aye, right chillsome. And it’s a cold night, too.’

I stopped. He stopped.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t like you. I don’t want anything to do with you. And neither does Ailsa. What’ll it take to sink in?’

‘So you two have been talking about me?’ he grinned. ‘That’s a good sign. That’s a start. You’ll warm to me eventually, Flo. They always do. Given enough time, they—’

He was halfway through his spiel when I rolled my eyes and turned back to the road. I’d walked a few steps when he grabbed me. My arm wrenched hot with friction where he gripped it. For a dumb moment, we both looked at his hand on my arm.

Surprised at himself, he released his hand.

‘Sorry there, Flora,’ he said. ‘It’s just with that fuss you made in the hotel, and now the cold shoulder, well. A man gets wound up. I don’t mean to hassle you. I just want to … wind down. You know?’

I stared at him. His eyes speckled white.

‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

‘Most ladies love my tenacity.’

His smile stretched wider still, and he reached for me again. I slapped his hand down.

‘Hey,’ said a thick voice, and we both started. It came from the beach side of the road. A man stepped out of the darkness into the slight light cast from the hotel. It was one of the Polish workers from the fish farm. He’d been smoking a cigarette. He dropped the butt at his feet, still half a dozen paces clear of us, and stared at Lachie.

‘Lady said you go now. So you go.’

‘Why,’ smiled Lachie, gesturing with his thumb, ‘don’t you fuck. Off.’

The Pole looked at him, unblinking. Lachlan bristled.

‘D’you not speak English, you prick? I said, jog on.’

‘No,’ said the Pole, ‘you fucks off, motherfucker.’

Lachie detached himself from me and wandered halfway to the Pole. He stood there, waiting. A cloud of his aftershave stayed with me.

What made it worse was that the Pole got in the first blow. It mightn’t have been so bad if Lachie had got in a swing or two, made his point, and gone on his way. But the Pole was quick. He pretended to be slow, and threw an inept punch, which Lachie simply stepped away from. He even had enough time to laugh at how clumsy it was. Then the Pole’s other hand flew out in a tight blur and connected with Lachie’s chin. He fell, more in surprise than anything else, and landed on his backside on the road. He sat there, blinking in astonishment.

Again, it mightn’t have been so bad if the Pole had stepped in and hit him again, made sure of things with a follow-up blow. But he didn’t. He stepped back, wary, rolling his shoulders, and waited for Lachie to stand up. That was the biggest mistake. He gave Lachie time to stand, to rub his jaw and grimace. He even found that dreadful smile of his, and brushed the dirt from his expensive trousers. He quietly removed his jacket and folded it neatly on the ground. As he stooped, he picked a handful of gravel from the road. That’s when I realised how bad this was going to be.

‘Lachie—’ I said, urgently.

‘Be quiet,’ he replied, not taking his eyes off the Pole, barely even blinking.

‘Run,’ I said. ‘Run away. Please run.’

The Pole didn’t even look at me. The two circled towards each other, closing in. Lachie threw some punches, lashing out, but the Pole was very quick, and simply cuffed his hands away. He managed to catch Lachie with another blow or two, and then Lachie moved up a gear. The two of them circled, coming close, and Lachie paused, feinted and unleashed the handful of gravel. The Pole flinched against the peppering stones and brought a hand to his face. In that flailing second, Lachie kicked out hard, and caught the side of the Pole’s leg. He buckled and yelped, falling on his injured knee. Lachlan went to kick him again, and the Pole tried to palm his leg away, but that allowed Lachlan to land a vicious blow directly on his eye. He reeled, and Lachlan made no mistake with a follow-up. He took his time, squared up, and hit the Pole in the same place, right on the side of the eye. The Pole slumped to one side, holding his head in his hands. There was blood between his fingers. I thought of poor Izzy and his ear.

Lachie stood back, breathing hard, and felt at his lip.

‘Lachie,’ I said, desperate to get him away.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed, not even looking round, watching the prone man struggle to all fours.

‘Lachie, come on. Leave him. You’ve beaten him.’

He ignored me and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a little knife, and slipped the blade open. He started moving towards the Pole. Desperate, I said the only thing I could to make this stop.

‘Wait. This isn’t what I want.’

At this, he glanced round.

‘What’s this?’

‘We could be somewhere else. Let’s go. The two of us. Just leave him, aye?’

His grin broadened and his entire body visibly loosened up. With great care, he folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

‘You’re right, lass. He’s not worth the fucking bother.’

I sighed with relief. I’d have to deal with the aftermath, but I’d averted murder. Then Lachlan turned around, still smiling wide and bright, took three steady strides towards the crawling Pole, and kicked him in the face. It happened in a heartbeat, and it happened in for ever. One, two, three, confident, measured steps, his right leg drawn back, his entire body swung into the kick. The noise when his shoe connected with the man’s head. Scrunching, wet, raw. The man’s head flicked to one side and teeth and blood and snot sprayed out the other side, sprayed into the dark. The Pole dropped like a puppet and slumped face-first on the road. Lachie started cleaning his shoe on the man’s jacket, rubbing his toe against it, cleaning the blood from his shoe. He walked over to me and took my arm, and this was the point I realised I was moaning. Misery, terror, dismay.

‘Come on then, hen,’ he said, calm and cool as anything. ‘Let’s go.’

I tried to shrug him off, but his fist was locked around my arm. He steered me away from the stricken Pole and further down the road.

Meekly, I followed. He marched a few dozen paces along the darkness of the island road. My shoes clicked in my hand. Lachie pulled me to the right and off the road. Another few paces and we were on the old building site by the hotel. Rooted in the outside world, a single streetlamp glowed in the far corner. Half the site was lit a glaring orange, and half was shrouded black. The abandoned materials cast leering, crouching shadows.

Lachlan steered me into the far corner. There, beneath the streetlamp, lay the stacks of precast concrete pipes. They were easily five or six foot tall, and maybe twenty long. Lachie checked over his shoulder and drew me into the middle pipe. I tried to pull away, but his grip was stone. He led me into the pipe.

Inside, the streetlight slipped, casting a weird slice of orange light. It was cold, colder than outside. The curve of the concrete was disorientating, the perspective twisted, speckles of light at the far end. The arc was vertiginous, and my stomach lurched.

‘It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll do. Any port in a storm, eh, honey?’

Lachie was disembodied by the darkness.

‘I wanted to take you somewhere nice, Flora.’

His voice floated and rebounded, echoing in the dark.

‘Lachie,’ I said.

‘Treat you right. Spoil you some. I show all my girls a good time.’

‘Lachlan.’

‘I gave you the chance. Could have taken you to Edinburgh. Edinburgh, eh? That would’ve been nice. But this will have to do.’

Echoes on the concrete: will have to do … have to do … have to …

And then I said it.

‘No,’ I whispered.

There was a silence, and a scrape of shoe on concrete. Then a nasty, throaty sound. Laughter. He was laughing. ‘No you don’t,’ he said. ‘You wee tramp. No you don’t. Nobody gives Lachlan Crane the runaround.’