The Lewis Man

turn to him also the other.’

‘Actually, I think it was me who turned the other cheek.’

Donald threw him a dark look.

‘Anyway, whatever happened to an eye for an eye?’

Donald took a mouthful of chocolate and whisky. ‘As Gandhi said, an eye for an eye and we’d all be blind.’

‘You really believe all this stuff, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do. And the least you could do is respect that.’

‘I’ll never respect what you believe, Donald. Only your right to believe it. Just as you should respect mine not to.’

Donald turned a long, penetrating look upon him, the glow of the peats colouring one half of his pale face, the other in shadow. ‘You choose not to believe, Fin. Because of what happened to your parents. That’s different from not actually believing.’

‘I’ll tell you what I believe, Donald. I believe that the God of the Old Testament is not the same as the God of the New. How can you reconcile the cruelty and violence practised by one with the peace and love preached by the other? You pick and choose the bits you like, and ignore the bits you don’t. That’s how. It’s why there are so many Christian factions. There are, what, five different Protestant sects on this island alone?’

Donald shook his head vigorously. ‘It is the weakness of men that they will always disagree, and fight over their differences, Fin. Faith is the key.’

‘Faith is the crutch of the weak. You use it to paper over all the contradictions. And you fall back on it to provide easy answers to impossible questions.’ Fin leaned forward. ‘When you hit me tonight, that came from the heart, not from your faith. It was the real you, Donald. You were following your instinct. However misguided, it came from a genuine desire to protect your daughter. And your granddaughter.’

Donald’s laugh was heavily ironic. ‘A real role-reversal. The believer doing the striking, the non-believer turning the other cheek. You must love that.’ There was no disguising the bitterness in his voice. ‘It was wrong, Fin, and I shouldn’t have done it. It won’t happen again.’

‘Damn right it won’t. Because next time I’ll hit you back. And let me tell you, I play dirty.’

Donald couldn’t resist a smile. He drained his mug and stared into it for several long moments as if the answers to all the questions of the universe might somehow be found at the bottom of it. ‘You want some more?’

‘Chocolate or whisky?’

‘Whisky, of course. I have another bottle.’

Fin held out his mug. ‘You can put as much as you like in there.’

Donald divided the rest of the bottle between them, and Fin felt the smooth malt, coloured and softened by the sherry in whose casks it had aged, slip easily down to warm his insides. ‘Whatever happened to us, Donald? We used to be friends. Everyone looked up to you when we were kids. You were almost heroic, a role model for the rest of us.’

‘A pretty bloody awful role model, then.’

Fin shook his head. ‘No. You made mistakes, sure. Everyone does. But there was something different about you. You were a free spirit, Donald, raising two fingers to the world. God changed you. And not for the better.’

‘Don’t start!’

‘I keep hoping one day you’ll turn around with that big infectious grin of yours and shout, Only joking!’

Donald laughed. ‘God did change me, Fin. But it was for the better. He taught me to control my baser instincts, to be a better person than I was. To do unto others only that which I would have them do unto me.’

‘Then why are you treating Fin and Donna so badly? It’s wrong to keep them apart. I know you think you are protecting your daughter, but that baby is Fionnlagh’s daughter, too. How would you feel if you were Fionnlagh?’

‘I wouldn’t have got her pregnant in the first place.’

‘Oh, come on! I bet you can’t even remember how many girls you slept with at that age. You were just lucky that none of them got pregnant.’ He paused. ‘Until Catriona.’

Donald glowered up at him from beneath a gathering of brows. ‘Fuck you, Fin!’

And Fin burst out laughing. ‘Now, that’s the old Donald.’

Donald shook his head, trying to hold back a smile. ‘You always were a bad influence on me.’ He got up and crossed to the dresser, finding and opening the fresh bottle. He returned to top up both their mugs and slumped again into his chair. ‘So after everything, we share a grandchild you and me, Fin Macleod. Grandparents!’ He blew his disbelief through pursed lips. ‘When did you find out that Fionnlagh was your boy?’

‘Last year. During the investigation into the Angel Macritchie murder.’

Donald raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not generally known, is it?’

‘No.’

Donald fixed him with curious eyes. ‘What happened out on An Sgeir last August, Fin?’

But Fin just shook his head. ‘That’s between me and my maker.’

Donald nodded slowly. ‘And the reason for your visit to the church the other day … is that a secret, too?’

Fin thought about it, staring deep into the embers of the peats, and decided that there would be no harm in telling Donald the truth. ‘You probably heard about the body they found in the bog at Siader a couple of weeks ago.’

Donald inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘It was the body of a young man of seventeen or eighteen, murdered some time in the late 1950s.’

‘Murdered?’ The Reverend Murray was clearly shocked.

‘Yes. And it turns out he’s related in some way to Tormod Macdonald. Who turns out not to be Tormod Macdonald.’

Donald’s mug paused halfway to his mouth. ‘What?’

And Fin told him the story of his trip to Harris with DS Gunn, and what they had found there. Donald sipped thoughtfully on his whisky as he listened.

‘The problem is,’ Fin said, ‘we’ll probably never find out the truth. Tormod’s dementia is well advanced and getting worse. It’s hard to get any kind of sense out of him. Marsaili was there today and he was talking about using seaweed to fertilize crows.’

Donald shrugged. ‘Well, that’s not so daft.’

Fin blinked in surprise. ‘It’s not?’

‘Sure, feannagan means crows here on Lewis, or Harris. But in the southern isles it’s what they called the lazy beds.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Donald.’

Donald laughed. ‘You’ve probably never been to the Catholic south, Fin, have you? And I probably wouldn’t either if it hadn’t been for some ecumenical visits.’ He flashed him a look. ‘Maybe I’m not quite as narrow-minded as you would like to think?’

‘What are lazy beds?’

‘It’s what the islanders developed to grow vegetables, mainly potatoes, when the soil was thin or poor in quality. Like you’ll find in South Uist, or Eriskay. They use seaweed cut from the shore as fertilizer. They lay it in strips, about a foot wide, with another foot between them where they dig up the earth and turn it over on top of the seaweed. That creates drainage channels between the lines of soil and seaweed where they plant the tatties. Lazy beds, they call them. Or feannagan.’

Fin took a mouthful of whisky. ‘So it’s really not that daft to talk about fertilising the crows.’

‘Not at all.’ Donald leaned forward on his knees, cradling his mug between his hands and gazing into the dying fire. ‘Maybe Marsaili’s dad didn’t come from Harris at all, Fin. Maybe he came from the south. South Uist, Eriskay, Barra. Who knows?’ He paused to take another sip. ‘But here’s a thought …’ And he turned to look at Fin. ‘He’d never have got the marriage schedule from the registrar allowing my father to marry him if he hadn’t been able to produce a birth certificate. So how would he have got that?’