‘Here we are,’ she said, opening the door to an attic room at the end of the hall, sloping ceilings, damp- stained wallpaper, condensation on rusted windows. ‘This is your room.’ There was a single bed pushed against one wall, draped with a pink candlewick bedspread. A wartime utility wardrobe stood with its doors open, empty hangers and bare shelves awaiting the contents of my case. She hefted the suitcase on to the bed. ‘There you are.’ She threw open the lid. ‘I’ll leave you to put away your things in the wardrobe the way you like. It’ll just be kippers for tea, I’m afraid.’
She was almost out the door when I said, ‘When will I be going home again?’
She stopped and looked at me. And although there was pity in her eyes, I’m sure there was a degree of impatience there, too. ‘This is your home now, Fin. I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’
She closed the door behind her, and I stood in the cold, cheerless room that was now mine. My sense of desolation was very nearly overwhelming. I found my panda in the bag of toys and sat on the edge of the bed, clutching him to my chest, feeling the damp of the mattress coming through my trousers. And I realized for the first time that day, that my life had changed inexorably and for ever.
SIXTEEN
I
The car rumbled over the cattle grid and into the car park. Fin parked it at the foot of the steps to the manse. All light had been squeezed out of the late afternoon sky by those ominous clouds which had been gathering earlier over the ocean. Now they were rolling in from the north-west, contused and threatening, and casting a deep gloom over the north end of the island. There were lights on in the front room of the minister’s house, and as he climbed the steps, Fin felt the first spits of rain.
He rang the bell and stood on the doorstep, wind tugging at his jacket and trousers. The door was opened by a young woman in her mid-thirties. She was a head shorter than Fin, with cropped dark hair, a white T-shirt tucked loosely into khaki cargo pants and white trainers. Somehow she was not what he had expected of Donald Murray’s wife. And she was oddly familiar. He looked at her blankly, and she tilted her head.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ There was no warmth in her question.
‘Should I?’
‘We were at secondary school together. But I was a couple of years behind you, so you probably didn’t notice me. Of course, we all had a crush on you.’
Fin felt himself blushing. So she was thirty-three, maybe thirty-four, which meant she was perhaps only seventeen when she’d had Donna.
‘I can almost hear the wheels turning.’ There was a seam of sarcasm in her voice. ‘Don’t you remember? Donald and I went out for a while at the Nicholson. Then we met up again in Glasgow after I left school. I went to London with him. He still hadn’t found God in those days, so marriage was something of an afterthought. After I got pregnant, that is.’
‘Catriona,’ Fin said suddenly.
She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Well done.’
‘Macfarlane.’
‘You do have a good memory. Is it Donald you want to see?’
‘Actually it’s Donna.’
An invisible shutter came down. ‘No, it’s Donald.’ She was emphatic. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
As he waited, the rain started to fall, and by the time Donald Murray came to the door Fin was already drenched. The minister looked at him impassively. ‘I didn’t know we had anything more to say to each other, Fin.’
‘We don’t. It’s your daughter I want to talk to.’
‘She doesn’t want to speak to you.’
Fin glanced up at the sky, screwing up his face against the rain. ‘Look, can I come in? I’m getting soaked out here.’
‘No. If you want to talk to Donna, Fin, you’re going to have to make it official. Arrest her, or whatever it is you people do when you want to question folk. Otherwise just leave us alone, please.’ And he closed the door.
Fin stood for a while on the step, choking back his anger, before pulling up his collar and making a dash for the car. He started the engine and set the blower going, and struggled out of his wet jacket, throwing it onto the back seat. He slipped into first gear and was lifting the clutch when the passenger door opened. Catriona Macfarlane got in, slamming the door shut behind her. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head. Her T-shirt had become almost see-through, a lacy black bra clearly visible beneath it. Fin couldn’t help noticing, and reflecting on how little God seemed to have changed Donald’s predilections over the years.
She sat staring straight ahead, her hands clasped in her lap, fingers interlocked. And she said nothing.
Fin broke the silence. ‘So did you find him, too?’
She turned to look at him, frowning. ‘Find who?’
‘God. Or was that just Donald’s idea?’
‘You’ve never seen him like we have. When he’s angry. With God on his side. Full of sound and fury and righteous indignation.’
‘Are you scared of him?’
‘I’m scared of what he’ll do when he finds out the truth.’
‘And what is the truth?’
Her hesitation was momentary. She rubbed a clear patch in the condensation on the passenger window and peered up at the manse. ‘Donna lied about being raped by Macritchie.’
Fin grunted. ‘I’d already worked that one out. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Donald has, too.’
‘Maybe he has.’ Another glance up at the manse. ‘But he doesn’t know why.’
Fin waited, but Catriona said nothing. ‘Well, are you going to tell me or not?’
She was wringing her hands now. ‘I wouldn’t have known myself if I hadn’t found the open pack in her room and confronted her with it.’ She glanced at him self-consciously. ‘A pregnancy-testing kit.’
‘How far gone?’
‘Then, just a matter of weeks. But she’s three months now and starting to show. She was terrified of what Donald would do if he found out.’
‘And that’s why she made up the story about Macritchie?’ Fin was incredulous. Catriona nodded. ‘Jesus Christ. Didn’t she know that paternity could be established by a simple DNA test?’
‘I know, I know. It was stupid. She was panicking. And she’d had too much to drink that night. It was a really bad idea.’
‘You’re right.’ Fin watched her closely for several moments. ‘Why are you telling me this, Catriona?’
‘So you’ll leave us alone. It doesn’t matter about the rape claim any more. The poor man’s dead. I want you to stop bothering us so we can work this out for ourselves.’ She turned to meet his gaze. ‘Just leave us in peace, Fin.’
‘I can’t make any promises.’
She glared her hatred and fear at him, and then turned to open the car door.
As she stepped out into the rain, Fin said, ‘So who’s the father?’
She stooped to look back at him, the rain pouring down her face, dripping from her nose and chin. ‘Your pal’s son.’ She nearly spat it out. ‘Fionnlagh Macinnes.’
II
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
