Con slips her hand into mine.
After the boats have moored in the bay, she and I walk across to the chapel to wait. I wonder where Cesare is, in the camp. I hope he doesn’t meet Angus when he is alone. My chest contracts in fear.
The chapel is cold and filled with a light the colour of old paper. While we are waiting, I offer up a quick prayer to whatever force for good there may be in this world. Then I stand, alongside Con, just inside the door. My legs feel weak and I’d like nothing more than to hide in the bothy. I know from her uneasy expression that Con feels the same, but it won’t do: we have to be seen by as many people as possible.
We hear them coming up the hill: their shouts and laughter. It is a feast day, after all, and for many of them, it’ll be the first time they’ve been to the island. They hesitate outside the chapel: we hear them marvelling at its beauty, its elegance, at how like a real stone building it is.
I feel a swell of pride and wish Cesare could hear them. Except that they probably wouldn’t say it to him.
John O’Farrell is the first into the chapel. His hair is greyer than I remember it, his face pouched, his skin pale. Bess told me the rumours about his son, James, and my heart aches for the boy I remember playing with, and for the man standing before me now – the man who was once my father’s best friend. He stares at the walls and ceiling in gape-mouthed wonder – he doesn’t notice me, or Con, standing just inside the door.
‘Hello, Mr O’Farrell.’ I feel suddenly shy, meeting this man from my old life, who helped teach me my times tables and how to hold a pen.
‘Oh, hello there!’ His eyes flick from me to Con, and then he looks at my skirt and her trousers and says, ‘Dot.’
I nod, wondering how much we’ve changed to other people. How is it possible to be entirely transformed on the inside and still look like the same person to the rest of the world? I thought the same after our parents disappeared when people would say, approvingly, You look well, as if they expected me to be constantly wailing or tearing out my hair. As if they expected sorrow to have bent me double, or aged me, or twisted my features. As if, because this hadn’t happened, I must be coping.
And I would think, What do you know about grief? About loss? About anything at all?
John O’Farrell shifts awkwardly and looks down at his feet. ‘I’m sorry if things have been . . . difficult here.’
I wonder how much news from the island has reached Kirkwall, how many made-up stories. And I think of the promise John made, to our fisherman father when our mother was so ill, that he would always protect us if he had to.
‘I think . . .’ I say, and I can see John bracing himself, I think war makes everything difficult, everywhere. One way or another.’
He smiles gratefully. ‘You’re a good girl, Dot.’
I return the smile. And I think, What do you know?
After John has moved to the front of the chapel to look at the paintings, other people file in: old Mr Cameron, coughing; Neil MacClenny and his family; Bess Croy’s mother, Marjorie, with all her young brood. The children gasp and gawk at the pictures. They run their fingers over the plasterboard and stroke the rood screen. Laughter echoes through the chapel. Every face is filled with wonder and delight.
Then Robert MacRae comes in, his face set in a sneer. And behind him walks Angus MacLeod. Nausea rinses through me, but I do exactly as we’d planned. I go to Con’s side, straight away, standing close enough for our arms to touch.
Angus stops in front of us.
‘Well, aren’t you a doubly fine sight on a terrible day?’ he says.
‘Hello, Angus.’ I force the words out. There are so many reasons that I must be friendly to him today, but the most important one, at the moment, is that he must be calm when Cesare arrives. Because I will not be here to keep the peace.
He looks me up and down, smiles, then leans in close. ‘I’m sorry about . . .’ He touches his throat briefly. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. Truly.’ His eyes are wide and earnest.
I want to shout, You held me against a wall by my neck. You forced your tongue into my mouth. You tried to tear off my underwear. How could you not hurt me?
I swallow. I nod. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. If I say anything, I will vomit or scream. I force myself to smile. My muscles feel rigid, wooden.
‘Con.’ Angus says, and I see the same stiff smile on her face.
‘Hello,’ she says, and her voice sounds high-pitched, as if fingers are pressing against her throat.
Angus looks us both up and down again, then moves on into the chapel. I hear him whisper something to Robert and both of them laugh, loudly.
My skin crawls.
I turn to Con. She is pale, her breath coming fast.
‘Right. We can go now. You’re ready?’
Wordlessly, she nods and we walk back towards the bothy. The wind is whipping more strongly now. Down in the camp, the prisoners are lining up, ready to march up to the chapel for the blessing. Cesare must be among them, but I can see only a mass of those brown uniforms with their red targets. My mouth is dry. We can’t afford to fail.
Inside, the bothy is warmer, with the last faint ashes of the peat fire still glowing in the grate. I hold my hands up to it – who knows when I will next be warm?
Then I take off my skirt and give it to
