clothes were discovered. Maybe there was plenty of time for him or Molly or someone else to go round and sort it. Or maybe the mainland forensic team had already searched the area and found it all. Did they have a reason to go that far from the still? He looked out again at the melted snow. Maybe their tracks had disappeared with the rising sun, then again maybe they hadn’t.
Jesus, he couldn’t stand to think about any of this bullshit any more. But he couldn’t stop either. He churned it all round in his mind, trying to gain some clarity, trying to make sense of the mess of the situation, the mess of their lives, but his brain was mush. Maybe he was in shock. The fact he even thought of that was probably an indication that he wasn’t in shock at all, just hopelessly confused and stressed.
They descended into Port Ellen then crept along the main crescent by the bay. Adam glanced at the Ardview as they passed, a couple of hardy smokers trying to shelter in the doorway from the wind. No sign of Ash.
The policeman dropped him at his B amp;B without a word, then did a U-turn and drove off. He watched the car disappear round the corner, then stood for a long time looking at the sea, ruffled in the wind, the occasional gull taking a dive-bombing chance into the surf, coming up with nothing. He looked at the B amp;B, same as every other house on the street. He noticed the nameplate, something in Gaelic that he’d never said out loud, didn’t know how to pronounce. He walked through the front door, dreading seeing the old woman who ran the place. He couldn’t think about having to explain everything to her. He knew she would probably already know, thanks to the island jungle drums, but that didn’t make it any easier. She might be listening out for him, anxious to get the gory details first-hand.
He crept up the stairs and opened the door to his room. He stopped. He’d been sharing the room with Ethan, Luke sleeping next door with Roddy. He looked at all Ethan’s stuff — the Samsonite case, his dress shoes, his jumper, T-shirts and underwear neatly folded on a shelf, a plain navy-blue shirt hanging in the wardrobe, his toilet bag on the small dresser. He walked over and lifted a sleeve of the shirt, sniffed it. Smelt of Ethan, whatever deodorant he used. Fucking hell. He walked over to the dresser and sat looking in the mirror at his saggy, hangdog face. This was terrible, the remains of a life, all neatly sitting here, waiting for Ethan to come back. But he would never come back.
A bottle of Laphroaig quarter cask that Ethan had bought from the distillery gift shop sat unopened in a bag. Adam thought back to that tour, Roddy winding him up about Molly’s lack of a wedding ring.
He fetched a glass from the en suite, broke the seal on the bottle and glugged the glass half full. He held it up and pointed it at the hanging shirt.
‘Here’s to you, Ethan.’
It felt empty, a completely hollow gesture. He was just drinking another man’s whisky, a dead man’s whisky, without permission, that was all. He tried to imbue each sip with something, some kind of feeling, but nothing came.
He calmly downed the remains of the dram, then stood up and hurled the glass at the wardrobe. He watched as it smashed, sending chunks and shards scattering across the room. He sat back down with his head in his hands for a long time. When he looked up he realised he couldn’t stand to be here a moment longer.
He crunched across broken glass then sneaked down the stairs and out the front door, feeling the blast of sea air on his face. He stood there wavering for a moment, then walked along the road to Molly’s house.
He stood looking at the doorbell. Nothing about the house had changed since the last time he was here. Why should it have? Everything in his life was different, everything had been turned on its head, but here were bricks and mortar, implacable and unaffected by it all.
He was about to ring the bell when the door opened and Ash came stumbling out, pulling her jacket on. She walked right into him and jumped.
‘Fuck, you gave me a fright,’ she said.
She looked the same — hungover and strung out, sad and lost, bags under her eyes bigger than ever.
‘Heard you had quite an adventure,’ she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
How much had Molly told her?
‘Yeah.’
‘I didn’t even realise Molly was missing,’ she said, a tinge of guilt in her voice.
‘Well, we weren’t gone that long.’
It seemed insane to be talking about what they’d been through in such a matter-of-fact way. Presumably Molly hadn’t told her anything about what really happened, sticking to the crash story.
Ash looked at her watch. ‘If I wasn’t already half an hour late for my shift, I’d kick your sorry arse for getting my sister mixed up in a stupid fucking car crash in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘So count yourself lucky.’
‘Believe me, I do.’
She had her jacket on now and was past him, talking over her shoulder. ‘She’s inside, on you go,’ she said. ‘But don’t get her into any more shit, OK?’
‘OK.’
She was halfway down the street, walking backwards and shouting. ‘I mean it. Or I’ll fucking kill you.’
41
Adam headed into the hall. He heard a television on and walked towards the living room. Molly was sitting on the sofa with a blanket over her, the same one Adam had found draped over himself when he woke on that sofa yesterday morning. She was staring glassy-eyed out the window, a huge tumbler of amber liquid in her hand. A black-and-white film was on television, a posh-looking couple running across moorland, just like the stuff outside.
Molly turned her head to look at the whisky bottle on the coffee table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, taking a large gulp from her tumbler. ‘Use Ash’s glass.’ She pointed at an empty glass, sticky residue lining the inside of it.
Adam walked over and picked up the bottle. It had a plain white label on it, Port Ellen. He’d never seen it before, it didn’t have the usual age or percentage information. He poured a large measure and nosed it out of habit, but he didn’t need an amazing whisky now, he needed an anaesthetic or a sleeping pill, something to erase the last thirty-six hours.
‘What is it?’ he said, lifting his glass.
Molly stared out the window. ‘Thirty-year-old, bottled in ’84. Completely unofficial. Never left the island, not for sale. Fell off the back of a lorry. It was part of my dad’s special stash.’
Adam had another big sip. He didn’t know what to say. Molly seemed in a trance. He stared at her. She looked exhausted and traumatised, but still pretty, her face still strong. An image of her bent over the barrel in the still with her jeans down flashed through his mind, the look on her face back then. He gripped his glass and screwed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He looked at the old film on the television. The couple were booking into an inn and looking suspicious.
Everything was ruined now, he realised.
‘I can’t sleep,’ said Molly, still looking out the window. ‘Isn’t that weird? Apart from crashing out for an hour at hospital, we’ve been awake for two days, walked and run for umpteen miles, been through hell, and still I can’t sleep.’
‘I’m the same,’ said Adam, feeling enormously tired all of a sudden, as if his legs would buckle. He eased himself down into a chair facing the sofa and stared at Molly. They couldn’t go back now, was all he kept thinking, they couldn’t ever go back. Why did it all have to happen to them?
‘How was your police interview?’ asked Molly.
‘A nightmare.’
She finally turned to look at him. ‘You stuck to the story though, yeah?’
‘Of course. But I think he knew we’d been there.’
‘Same with me. But they don’t know anything, not unless we tell them. They only suspect.’
They both drank, then Adam spoke.
‘They said forensics were on their way.’
