‘It wasn’t planes,’ one of the men in the boat says. He speaks quietly, so that we have to lean closer, our faces millimetres from the man’s wild eyes. His breath smells of metal; when he coughs, a dark ribbon creeps down his chin and drips onto his white shirt. He groans and clutches his chest.
‘Not planes,’ he whispers again. ‘German submarine.’
We stare at each other. Surely not. These waters are safe – half the British fleet is moored here. The rocks around Scapa Flow make it impossible for an enemy ship to sneak through. And there is an entire barrier of sunken craft from the Great War.
‘How did it get through?’ Con asks.
The man shrugs and coughs again. Another plume of blood. He cries out in pain and the man next to him tries to say something, then pats him on the back. The other man’s hands are badly burned, the fingers blackened. He holds them up near to his face, examining them as though they don’t belong to him, as though they’re objects he’s found and he’s wondering where they’ve come from.
‘How . . .?’ he says. And it is difficult to give a reply because there are so many questions with no clear answers.
‘What shall we do with them?’ Con hisses. ‘We can’t take them back to the bothy – they need proper medical care.’
‘Kirkwall,’ I say, ignoring the way she flinches from the suggestion, ignoring the fear in her eyes.
We row towards the shore that is still busy with lights and shouting people, but then, at the last minute, Con pulls more strongly on her oar, giving three good strokes that redirect the boat to a small rocky cove.
‘It’s closer to the hospital,’ she says, without looking at me. There are no torches here, no moving shadows, no other boats.
The man in the white shirt wheezes. Darkness mushrooms on his shirt. I take one hand from my oar and place it on his shoulder. Con does the same. He shivers convulsively, his teeth chattering.
‘We’re nearly there,’ I murmur.
‘We’ll get you help,’ Con adds. ‘Not long now.’ We pull past the rocks and the boat crunches up onto the sand.
Behind us, the ship is disappearing beneath the waves. We turn to watch, along with the men. Then, at the last, one by one, we turn away. All except for the man with the hole in his chest, whose eyes are fixed and staring. For a moment, I think he must have gone already – must have died, right there, sitting up in our boat.
I lean in closer and can hear the rasp of his breath.
All the men are shivering now. I take off my shawl and wrap it around the two who have climbed down onto the sand. ‘We’ll take you to the hospital in a moment. Just . . .’ I nod towards the boat, towards their comrade. Con has laid him back so that his head is in her lap.
‘Not long,’ I say to the men.
They flinch, then collapse onto the wet sand. The man with the burned hands is sobbing quietly, still holding them in front of his face. Out on the water, the sounds of oars and the shouts of injured men, and rescued men, and drowning men, who will not last the night.
I climb in alongside the dying man and place my hand on his chest, near the gaping hole where some shard of metal has found a home. He coughs. Blood splatters our dresses.
‘Oh, God,’ he gasps. ‘Oh, God. Make it stop.’
I’ve never been religious. But, still, there is a Bible on our shelf, swollen with damp, crusted with salt, like everything on these islands. And I know the stories it contains: sacrifice, suffering, peace, eternal life. Sometimes death can be a gift that you offer to another. Sometimes death can be a thing that you take for yourself.
Con looks terrified as she leans close to the man. Is she thinking about our parents too? Is she wondering, as I am, how much they suffered? I feel sick.
‘Do you have a sweetheart?’ she asks.
The man draws a pained breath. ‘Fiona,’ he wheezes.
‘I’ll write to Fiona for you, and I’ll tell her you fought well.’
He closes his eyes and his mouth twitches into something that might be a smile.
The sea slaps the sides of the boat.
‘It hurts,’ he says. ‘Help me. Please help me.’
Such a flimsy door between life and death. Such a thin skin.
Con puts her mouth close to his ear.
‘You want it to stop?’ I hear her ask.
A pause. The man shivers, then gives the slightest of nods. ‘Make it stop. Please.’
Con takes off her coat. ‘Lie down.’ He hesitates. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘It’ll be quick.’
The man glances at his comrades on the beach, who are both frozen, gaping. All of us waiting.
I watch as he shifts his weight and lies down on the floor of the boat. He coughs and another streamer of blood spatters onto his shirt. I imagine the sour metal of it, like the taste of fear in my mouth. I swallow.
The man groans, then whispers, ‘Please.’
Con bunches up her coat and presses it over his face, cupping her hands over his nose and mouth, closing her eyes. The man doesn’t struggle at first, then he kicks his legs.
Behind us, the men yell and Con lifts the coat free of the man’s face. He draws in a breath and then coughs again, catches Con’s hands in his and presses the coat against his own face. Con’s face is rigid as she holds the coat against his nose and mouth. Her cheeks are wet.
‘Help me,’ she says. And I know what she means: the thought of a slow, lonely death is monstrous. The idea of leaving this man to die alone would torture us both. I imagine the nurses in the hospital, watching him labouring for breath. And I know that, if
