and propelled me down the hill after her, arms windmilling for balance as I stumbled clumsily in my wellies across the squelching moor. I snagged my trousers on the barbed wire as I fell over the fence, sending sheep running off in a panic. I clopped along the road after her at a half-run. By the time I caught her up, I was breathing hard, but she didn’t turn her head, and I wondered if she knew I had been on the hill watching her the whole time. I fell in beside her and we walked some way without a word. When, finally, I had got my breath back, I said, ‘So, how did it go?’
‘The dancing?’
‘Yeh.’
‘It was a disaster. Artair panicked when he saw all the people, and he had to keep puffing on his inhaler and couldn’t go on stage. We had to go on without him. But it was hopeless, because we’d practised with six and it just didn’t work with five. I’m never going to do it again!’
I couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction that verged on elation. But I kept my tone sombre. ‘That’s a shame.’
She flicked me a quick look, perhaps suspecting sarcasm. But I looked suitably saddened by her news. ‘It’s not really. I didn’t like it, anyway. Dancing’s for daft girls and soft boys. I only joined because my mum said I should.’
We lapsed into silence again. I could see the lights of Mealanais farm ahead of us in the hollow. It would be pitch-black on the road home, but my mother always made me carry a small torch in my schoolbag because there was so little daylight in winter that you never knew when you would need it. We stopped at the white gate and stood for a moment.
Eventually she said, ‘Why have you stopped walking me up the road after school?’
I said, ‘I thought you preferred Artair’s company.’
She looked at me, blue eyes piercing the darkness, and I felt a sort of weakness in my legs. ‘Artair’s a pain in the neck. He follows me around everywhere. He even joined the dance class just because I was in it.’ I didn’t know what to say. Then she added, ‘He’s just a daft boy. It’s you I like, really, Fin.’ And she gave me a quick, soft kiss on the cheek, before turning and running down the track to the farmhouse.
I stood for a long time in the dark, feeling where her lips had touched my cheek. I could feel their softness and their warmth for a long time after she had gone, before putting my fingers up to touch my face and dispel the magic. I turned, then, and started running in the direction of the Cross-Skigersta road, happiness and pride swelling my chest with every breath. I was going to be in such trouble when I got home. But I couldn’t have cared less.
EIGHT
Marsaili turned from the sink as Artair came in the kitchen door. There was a simmering anger in her eyes, words of rebuke on her lips, before she saw that he had company. Fin had not come yet into the light off the top step, and so she had no idea who it was, just a shadow in Artair’s wake.
‘Sorry I’m late. Ran into an old friend in town. Gave me a lift back. Thought you might want to say hello.’
The shock on Marsaili’s face was clear for both men to see as Fin stepped into the harsh light of the kitchen. And beyond the shock was an immediate self-consciousness. She ran dishwater-red hands quickly down her apron, and one of them moved involuntarily to brush stray hairs away from her face. There was about her the sense of a young woman, not yet middle-aged, who had simply stopped caring about herself. Stopped caring, too, about what others might think. Until now.
‘Hello, Marsaili.’ Fin’s voice sounded very small.
‘Hello, Fin.’ Just hearing her speak the name she had given him all those years before filled him with sadness. At something precious lost and gone for ever. Marsaili’s self-consciousness was giving way to embarrassment. She leaned back against the sink and folded her arms across her chest, defensive. ‘What brings you to the island?’ There was none of Artair’s tone in a question that seemed prosaic in the circumstances.
Artair answered for him. ‘He’s investigating Angel Macritchie’s murder.’
Marsaili nodded a perfunctory acknowledgement, but showed no interest. ‘Are you here for long?’
‘Probably not. A day or two, maybe.’
‘Figure you’ll catch the killer that fast, eh?’ Artair said.
Fin shook his head. ‘As soon as they rule out a connection to the Edinburgh murder, they’ll probably send me back.’
‘And you don’t think there is one?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
Marsaili appeared to be listening, but still without curiosity. She kept her eyes on Fin. ‘You haven’t changed.’
‘Neither have you.’
She laughed then, genuine mirth in her eyes. ‘Same old bad liar.’ She paused. Fin was still standing in the open doorway and did not look as if he intended to stay. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’ll get a fish supper in Stornoway.’
‘Will you fuck,’ Artair grunted. ‘The chippys’ll all be shut by the time you get back.’
‘I’ve got quiche in the oven,’ Marsaili said. ‘It’ll only take fifteen minutes to heat up. I never know when Artair’ll be home.’
‘Aye, that’s right.’ Artair shut the door behind Fin. ‘Good old unreliable Artair. Will he be early, will he be late? Will he be drunk, will he be sober? Keeps life interesting, that right, Marsaili?’
‘It would be irredeemably dull otherwise.’ Marsaili’s tone was flat. Fin searched for some hint of irony but found none. ‘I’ll put the potatoes on.’ She turned away to the cooker.
‘Come and have a drink,’ Artair said, and he led Fin through to a small living room made smaller by a huge three-piece suite and a thirty-two-inch TV set. It was switched on, with the sound turned down. Some awful game show. Poor reception, and the colour up too high, made it almost unwatchable. The curtains were drawn, and a peat fire in the hearth made the room cosy and warm. ‘Sit down.’ Artair opened up a cupboard in the sideboard to reveal a collection of bottles. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘I won’t, thanks.’ Fin sat down and tried to see through to the kitchen.
‘Come on, you need something to whet the appetite.’
Fin sighed. There was going to be no escaping this. ‘A very small one, then.’
Artair poured two large whiskies and handed him one. ‘
‘
‘Say hello to your uncle Fin,’ Artair said. And Fin stood up to shake the boy’s hand. A good firm handshake, and direct contact from eyes that were too much like his mother’s for comfort.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘We called him Fionnlagh.’ It was Marsaili’s voice, and Fin looked round to see her standing in the kitchen doorway watching, an odd expression on her face, colour in her cheeks where there had been none before.
It was a shock for Fin to hear his own name. He looked at the boy again and wondered if they had named him after him. But why would they? It was a common enough name on the island. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Fionnlagh,’ Fin said.
‘Are you going to eat with us?’ Artair asked him.
‘He’s already eaten,’ Marsaili said.
‘Well, he can have a drink with us, then.’
‘I’m still trying to sort out the problem with the computer,’ Fionnlagh said.
