see was his own dim reflection on the glass and the occasional lonely house lit up on the moors outside. Islay looked like anywhere else in the world, just another rural backwater trying to survive.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Eric.
He reached behind Adam’s seat, produced a carrier bag and plonked it on Adam’s lap. Adam opened it tentatively and saw his clothes inside, the ones he’d left at the farmhouse. They were neatly folded. He touched the jacket on the top. It was dry and still faintly warm. He felt a rush of raw emotion and his eyes began to sting. He fought back tears, then turned to Eric.
‘You seem to have everything covered.’
‘Not quite.’ Eric slowed the car as they descended towards Port Askaig. ‘Ritchie will be in touch with you back in Edinburgh. We can’t do anything about that. No matter what he says, just stick to your story.’
‘Of course.’
‘One other thing,’ said Eric as they snaked down the road cut in the cliff face, the lights of the Port Askaig Hotel shimmering below. ‘If the coastguard find your friend’s body and it’s not too sea-damaged, will it tie you to Joe and Grant?’
Adam felt a shiver as he glugged more malt. He looked at the bottle. It was half empty already. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good,’ said Eric as they pulled up behind a parked police car. ‘Now let’s get you the hell off Islay.’
44
The rain had stopped and it was dark now. Adam got out and felt a wet wind on his face, blowing in from the Sound of Islay, carrying a decaying fishy smell mixed with diesel and seaweed. It reminded him of a ropy eight- year-old Caol Ila he’d had once in a pub in Leith. Caol Ila was about two miles up the coast. It had been on his itinerary for a visit this weekend, something that made him grimace and laugh sadly to himself. If only they’d stuck to visiting distilleries instead of his idiotic plan to open one, maybe there would be four of them about to get on the ferry out of here instead of just two.
The back door of the other police car opened and Adam could hear Roddy swearing at the driver, who didn’t speak or move. Roddy struggled to get out of the car, moaning in pain and muttering under his breath.
‘Don’t just fucking stand there,’ he said when he spotted Adam. ‘Help me the fuck out of this car, will you?’
Adam offered an arm of support as Roddy eased onto his feet. In the jaundiced glow of the streetlights he looked like an evil ghost, ashen-faced, large bags under his eyes, sweat prickling his brow even in the cold wind. Adam wondered how he looked to Roddy.
‘Some fucking chauffeur service, eh?’ said Roddy, glancing at the policeman in the car. ‘Can’t even help a seriously injured and completely innocent man out of his car.’
‘Give it a rest,’ said Adam.
Roddy grinned and slapped Adam on the back. ‘Well, it looks like we’re getting off this God-forsaken dump of an island after all, doesn’t it? Any idea what the hell is going on? I couldn’t get anything out of Igor here.’ Roddy pointed a thumb at his driver, still sitting implacable.
‘Yeah, I have a fair idea,’ said Adam, watching Eric get out of his squad car and come round to join them. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Roddy turned to Eric. ‘I was having a great time in that hospital, you know. Morphine on tap; a couple of cute nurses to flirt with. Then your mate here comes along and forces me out of bed, just when I was getting comfy. Any chance of an explanation?’
Eric looked at Adam then Roddy, shook his head. ‘Your friend has just said he’ll fill you in later. Meantime, you boys have a ferry to catch.’
He looked beyond them, making Adam and Roddy turn. The large ship was lit up, sparkling its way in to dock at the jetty, churning up wake as its engines chugged loudly into reverse to slow its progress, swinging round expertly till its prow was perfectly aligned with the apron ramp.
The sight of it dominating the tiny port held them mesmerised for a moment, watching its elegant manoeuvres, a strange mix of swan-like grace and brutal engineering.
The bow door descended and they heard car and lorry engines coughing into life, then a steady stream of vehicles slid out and up the steep slope away from Port Askaig, headlights sweeping round the rocks and trees then away, plunging the surrounding land back into darkness.
A handful of punters came out of the adjacent hotel and got into their cars, starting engines in the queue then slowly crawling into the ferry’s open mouth. Adam tried to think of their journey over here on the same boat only two and a half days ago, but it seemed so faint in his mind, like a dream, a vision of a simpler, quieter life before everything had become broken.
He turned to see Eric dump their bags on the pavement next to him. Four bags, two passengers. Adam gazed at Ethan and Luke’s bags, then at the Laphroaig bottle in his hand. He uncorked it and took several gulps.
‘Hey, don’t hog that,’ said Roddy. ‘I could use a wee dram right now.’
Adam passed the bottle over and looked at Eric.
‘A word of advice,’ said Eric, looking at them both. ‘Never, ever set foot on Islay again, all right?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Roddy. ‘After this weekend, it’s right at the bottom of my holiday destination list.’
‘I mean it,’ Eric said to Adam. ‘I don’t expect a sensible reply from this idiot…’
‘Hey,’ said Roddy.
‘… but you seem a decent sort. So please, just do as I say and never come back. It’s best for everyone if you stay away.’
Adam nodded as he took the bottle back from Roddy and drank.
‘We will.’
Eric looked at the bottle. Adam was holding it lazily by the neck, only a quarter full now. In his other hand, the carrier bag full of his clothes hung limply.
‘And maybe you should lay off the malt for a while,’ said Eric kindly.
Adam gave a little snort of laughter and put the cork back in the bottle. He slung it and the carrier bag into his holdall then picked it up, along with Ethan’s case and Luke’s bag. Eric handed the fourth bag to Roddy.
‘Goodbye, lads,’ he said. ‘Safe home now.’
Adam and Roddy turned and headed towards the ferry. Adam tried to let the engine roar and diesel stench fill his mind, blank out the images of Luke and Ethan.
45
Adam stared at the retreating lights of the Port Askaig Hotel, the fiercely bitter wind dragging tears from his eyes. Soon they rounded a bend in the Sound of Islay and the island lights were lost, just the huge, hulking mass of moors and cliffs and peat bogs alongside, shadowy and looming in the dark.
His hands were freezing, clutching Ethan’s quarter-cask bottle to his chest. He fumbled to uncork it then took two large hits, only just feeling the burn in his chest through the numbness of his mind and body. He looked at the bottle as he shoved the cork back in. It was almost finished.
He was on his own. Roddy had nipped inside to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, which were drawing attention and comment from other passengers. How had they ever become friends? How had they stayed friends over the years, with nothing whatsoever in common? He tried to think back to moments before the crash, Roddy driving like a maniac, drinking and snorting, angry at being dragged out to Stremnishmore and asked for money. Adam saw his own arm swinging through the air towards Roddy’s head, catching him on the ear, Roddy turning in anger. Then there was just darkness, so much evil in the darkness, so much to be scared of, so much to run away from.
And here he was running again. Running away from Islay and Molly, leaving her to cope on her own. Not that
