The Blackhouse

‘And everybody made their s’s whistle, like his.’

‘And he would say, “Stop that whistling!”’ Fin said, making his s’s whistle just like Shed’s had done. And the two of them laughed like schoolboys at the absurdity of it.

‘And you remember that time,’ Artair said, ‘when he tried to separate us, and he grabbed my ear to drag me off to another desk?’

‘Aye, and you kept reaching to get your bag, and he thought you were trying to get away from him, and the two of you ended up wrestling in front of the class.’

Artair was almost helpless with laughter remembering it. ‘And you, you bastard, you just sat there laughing.’

‘Only because he kept whistling, “Stop that, sonny!”’

Which sent Artair off into a fresh paroxysm of laughter, tears streaming down ruddy cheeks, until he couldn’t breathe and had to resort to his puffer. The laughter somehow unlocked all the tension in Fin, releasing him from the stress of dealing with a friend who’d become a stranger. They were both just schoolboys again, laughing inanely at childish memories. No matter how much they had grown apart in the intervening years, their memories were something they would always have in common. A bond for life.

The laughter faded as they regained control, and they sat looking at each other, serious again. Adults once more. Until laughter exploded suddenly from Artair’s trembling lips and they started all over again. Several heads in the bar turned towards them, wondering what the joke was. But they would never get it.

When, finally, Artair regained his composure he looked at his watch. ‘Aw shit, gotta go.’

‘To Ness?’ Artair nodded. ‘How are you getting back?’

‘Car’s parked at the quay.’

‘You’re not driving?’

‘Well, the fucking thing doesn’t drive itself.’

‘You’re in no state to drive. You’ll kill yourself. Or somebody else.’

‘Oh,’ Artair wagged a finger at him. ‘Forgot. You’re a polis now. What’re you gonna do? Arrest me?’

‘Give me your keys and I’ll drive you.’

Artair’s smile faded. ‘Serious?’

‘Serious.’

Artair shrugged and fished the car keys from his pocket and dropped them on the table. ‘My lucky day, eh? Get a police escort all the way home.’

The sky was a dusky blue, the sun disappearing behind pewtery clouds bubbling up on the western horizon. From mid-August the nights start shortening very quickly, and yet it was still lighter than it would ever get in London, even at the height of summer. The tide had begun to recede, and the boats at the quayside stood lower in the water now. In an hour or two you would need ladders to get down to them.

Artair’s car was a badly resprayed Vauxhall Astra that smelled inside like old trainers which had been left out in the rain. An ancient air freshener in the shape of a pine tree swung ineffectively from the rearview mirror, having long since given up the unequal struggle of trying to sweeten rank air. The upholstery was tashed and torn, and the speedometer was about to reset itself for a second go round. It struck Fin as ironic how their fortunes had reversed themselves. Artair’s father had been the teacher, middle-class, good income, driving the shiny new Hillman Avenger, while Fin’s folks had struggled between unemployment and the croft and driven a battered old Ford Anglia. Now Artair worked in a Stornoway construction yard and drove a car that would probably fail its next MOT, and Fin was a ranking CID officer who drove a Mitsubishi Shogun. He made a mental note never to tell Artair what kind of vehicle he owned.

He slipped into the driver’s seat, snapped on the seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, spluttered and died.

‘Christ,’ Artair said. ‘It could do with my puffer. There’s a wee trick. Clutch and accelerator to the floor. Soon as she kicks in, feet off the pedals. She’ll run sweet as a nut. What are you driving these days, Fin?’

Fin concentrated on the wee trick, and as the engine exploded into life, he said casually, ‘Ford Escort. Not much call for a motor in the city.’ And telling the lie left a bad taste in his mouth.

He pulled out on to Cromwell Street, and there was virtually no traffic as he headed north on to Bayhead. The headlights made little impact in the twilight, and he almost failed to notice the hump in the road at the crossing to the children’s play-park. They bumped over it too quickly, and the car juddered.

‘Hey, take it easy,’ Artair said. ‘I’ve got to get a few more miles out of this old lady yet.’ Fin could smell the whisky on his breath as Artair exhaled deeply. ‘So, you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

‘You never asked.’

Artair turned his head and delivered a look that Fin assiduously avoided. ‘Well, I’m asking now.’

‘I’ve been attached to the inquiry into the death of Angel Macritchie.’ He felt Artair’s sudden interest, aware of him turning physically in the passenger seat to look at him.

‘No shit! I thought you were based in Glasgow.’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘So why’d they bring you in? Because you knew him?’

Fin shook his head. ‘I’ve been involved in a case in Edinburgh which was … well, very similar. Same MO. That’s modus-’

‘-operandi. Yeh, I know. I read fucking detective stories, too, you know.’ Artair chortled. ‘That’s funny, that. You ending up back here to investigate the murder of the guy who beat us all up when we were kids.’ He was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Did you see him? I mean, were you at the autopsy, or whatever they call it?’

‘Post-mortem. Yes.’

‘Well …?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Maybe I do. There was never any love lost between me and Angel Macritchie.’ He thought about it for a moment before issuing his considered opinion. ‘Bastard! Whoever did it deserves a fucking medal.’

As they crossed the moor road towards Barvas, the sky was still light in the west, streaks of dark purple-grey and fading pink. Clouds, like billowing black smoke, were gathering out at sea, The sky in the east was dark. By the time they passed the green-roofed shieling, it was barely visible, and Fin became aware of Artair snoring gently in the seat beside him. The streetlights were on in Barvas, Fin swung the car north and they headed towards Ness.

He had nearly twenty minutes to think, undisturbed by Artair’s drunken ramblings. Nearly twenty minutes to anticipate the moment when he would find himself face to face with Marsaili for the first time since his aunt’s funeral. Close to eighteen years. He had no idea what to expect. After all, Artair had changed so much. Would he even recognize the girl with the pigtails and the blue ribbons after all this time?

They drifted through deserted villages, yellow lights in cottage windows the only sign of habitation. A dog came barking out of nowhere and Fin had to swerve to avoid it. The smell of peat smoke seeped in through the car’s ventilation system, and Fin remembered those long weekly bus journeys he and Artair had shared to their respective school hostels in Stornoway. He glanced across and saw, in the flash of the streetlights, Artair’s jaw slack, hanging open, a tiny dribble of saliva running from one corner of his mouth. Dead to the world. A drink- induced escape. Fin’s escape from the island had been physical. Artair had found other means.

By the time they reached Cross, Fin realized that he had no idea where Artair lived. He reached over and shook him by the shoulder. Artair grunted and opened an eye and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was disorientated for several moments, staring unseeing through the windscreen, before pulling himself upright in the seat. ‘That was quick.’

‘I don’t know where you live.’

Artair turned to look at him, face distorted by disbelief. ‘You what? You can’t have forgotten where I live! I’ve lived there all my fucking life!.’

‘Oh.’ It had never occurred to Fin that Artair and Marsaili would have made their home in the Macinnes bungalow.

‘Yeh, I know, sad isn’t it? Still living in the same house I was fucking born in.’ The bitterness was back in his voice. ‘Unlike you, I had responsibilities.’