When she stops coughing, I move to the window, push the sailcloth to one side and peer out. The lights in the camp are bright still, and there are shadows of men moving around, but they will have to dim the lights soon for blackout. Then it will be another night of darkness, of counting the rattle of Con’s breaths, of holding her hand while she coughs, of smoothing her hair back from her forehead until she drifts off.
An hour later, there is a light tapping on the door – tentative, as if Cesare is worried he might wake us.
Thank God! I run to the door and fling it wide.
And there is Angus MacLeod.
‘Hello, Dot.’ He smiles and holds out a small brown bottle. ‘I hear Con isn’t well.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I step out into the cold, half closing the door behind me. ‘How did you . . .?’
‘I told you,’ he says, his smile unwavering, as if he hasn’t noticed my anger. ‘I’ve brought medicine for Con. Can I come in?’
‘No, you cannot,’ I snap, shutting the door further. The wind picks up and I hope it is loud enough to cover the sound of his voice.
‘Ach, that’s a shame. You’re not wanting the medicine, then?’ He drops the bottle back into the pocket of his guard’s uniform. A black baton hangs from his belt. And a gun, glinting in the dim lights from the camp.
‘I . . .’ My thoughts scrabble. ‘Con needs the medicine.’
He nods. ‘You’ll not object to me giving it to her?’ He moves to take a step past me, to go into the bothy.
I position myself in front of the door handle, praying that Con cannot hear us. ‘Ah, it’s . . . kind of you, Angus. But she’s sleeping, you see.’
He stares at me for a moment, then nods slowly. ‘Well. She must rest.’
I hold out my hand for the medicine. ‘Thank you, Angus.’
He pauses, then places the little brown bottle in my hand. ‘Sulfa tablets, the nurse said.’
I hesitate. Sulfonamide will cure Con’s infection – it’s what they’d give her in Kirkwall. But I sense these will come at a price.
I force a smile and nod again. ‘Thank you. How many should she take?’
‘There are four in there. One every six hours.’
‘But . . . won’t she need more than four?’ Sulfa tablets only work if they’re given over a number of days. I can see, from his raised eyebrows and expectant expression, that Angus knows this.
‘I’ll bring more tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Maybe I can see her then.’
My mouth is dry. I want to push the bottle back into his hand, to turn away, to slam the door and lock it.
‘And,’ he says, ‘I hear you’ve a hole in your roof that needs fixing. I can do that tomorrow.’
‘But . . . one of the prisoners is already repairing it.’
‘Him? Oh, no. He’s not the sort you want around. A troublemaker, you see. No, I’ve sent him back to the quarry to work.’ Angus smiles.
‘I thought . . . Wasn’t he working in the commander’s office?’
‘He was, but I spoke to Major Bates, told him I needed the man back in the quarry. I said it wasn’t a good idea to have a prisoner up here with two women, all alone.’
He looks genuinely concerned as he says this. That’s the problem with Angus: he’s always been convincing, even when you know everything he says is fiction. I truly think he believes his own lies.
‘Said I thought you’d feel vulnerable, the pair of you,’ Angus says, his face sincere.
I nod mechanically, thinking of the yellowing bruises on Cesare’s ribs and chest. Imagining Angus climbing onto the roof, staring down at Con while she sleeps.
‘So, I will come back in the morning, after the men have started in the quarry. I’ll repair your roof and I’ll bring more sulfa pills for Con. I’ll look after you, don’t worry,’ says Angus.
He is watching me, his face earnest. He takes my hand in his and curls my fingers around the bottle. ‘Thank you?’ he says, raising his eyebrows.
I draw a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
And then I go inside, and I shut the door and I lock it and I lean my back against it.
Con is dozing on the bed; she stirs and sits up.
‘What’s wrong?’ she croaks. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Nothing,’ I say, opening my hand and looking at the little bottle, tipping it so the four pills inside it rattle. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’ll get you some water.’
‘What happened?’ she rasps. ‘Did Cesare hurt you?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say again, brightly. ‘Everything will be fine.’
I smooth my hand over her hair while she swallows the water, watching the bulge in her throat, keeping my eyes averted from hers, hoping she won’t look at me, hoping she won’t see the lie – the first real lie I’ve ever told her – written on my face.
The night is long, the darkness silty. Con coughs and twists and turns next to me, her body giving off such a heat that I almost don’t mind the breeze from the open patch of sky in the corner of the room.
In the morning, she seems no better, but also no worse. I watch her swallow another pill and then I pull the sailcloth to one side and look out of the window.
The light is filtering thinly through low clouds, and the camp is still shrouded in gloom and silence – the whistle hasn’t yet blown.
Angus will take the men down to the quarry, he’d said, and then he will come back up here.
I’ll look after both of you.
And suddenly I can’t do it – I can’t watch while Angus talks to Con. Can’t watch his feigned concern and her terror. Can’t stand to one side while my sister shakes in fear and Angus jovially repairs our roof, making conversation as if he can’t see her trembling, as if he can’t sense my rage.
‘Can you walk as far as the camp?’ I ask.
Con
