I picture them together, passing through the barriers, out of sight of the island. The night will be closing around them, like a fist, hiding them – hiding everything.
The sea will be wild. The rocks are sharp. And if I am ready for Angus, if he doesn’t suspect anything, I will be able to surprise him.
I imagine the single hard push against his chest. I imagine him falling. I imagine the splash.
I am out of the yard now, out past the guard, out of sight of the camp. My fear is an animal thing, a writhing sickness that threatens to overwhelm me, but it mustn’t. I mustn’t stop now. I look back once more, to see that Angus is following.
And I begin to run.Dorothy
Twice, while waiting for Cesare, I nearly go back to Con. But then I remember the thud of Angus’s fists against Cesare’s skull. I remember the pressure of his fingers around my neck. And I stay by the boat, waiting. In my pocket is Con’s gold chain. I will find a place to fling it into the sea, once Cesare arrives.
I imagine him changing his mind. I picture him going into the mess hut with the other prisoners, staying with Gino and the rest. He is giving up everything for me. And I am giving up everything for him. But what if it’s not enough? What if everything we have to give and all the things we sacrifice are not enough?
I run my hand over the metal heart again and again, thinking of his hands making it, picturing the smooth, scarred skin on his palm.
The hill is blank and bleak. From here, I can’t see the chapel. I can’t see the camp or the bothy. The island looks deserted, as though it has been plucked out of time. As though no one is alive here any more, apart from me, standing on the beach, waiting, my heart in my hand.
And then I see him. He is running down the hill towards the beach. For a moment, I worry that someone is chasing him, but there is no one. He is here. He has come for me and all will be well.
He wraps his arms around me, lifting me briefly off my feet. His cheeks are cold.
‘I thought you were going to leave me here,’ I say.
‘I will not leave you ever.’ But he doesn’t meet my eyes, and though he sounds sure, and though he is here with me, I see how much it’s hurt him to abandon his countrymen. And I feel the same dull thud in my chest at leaving Con, at leaving part of myself on this island.
‘You are ready?’ he says, eyeing the greenish sea, the dark waves, the white-caps.
‘Yes.’
Together, we push the boat into the water, battling against the surging waves, and scramble in, soaked and shivering. The clutch of the cold sea gives me a moment of doubt, but I push it away. There can be no return now.
I pass him an oar and we begin to row together, heaving the boat away from the shore. He rows awkwardly at first, but he is strong, and soon we find a rhythm, although the wind and waves make it hard to keep time against the pitching boat and the rolling swell of the sea. Salt spray stings my eyes and fills my mouth; my skin is cold and rain-slicked but I pull on the oar with all my strength. A savage energy courses through me. Soon, we will be safe; soon, he will be free.
There are many small towns along the north coast of Scotland – Con and I visited them once with our parents, spending a week travelling from John o’Groats to Wick and down to Crowbie. Inland, I remember a wild landscape of rocks and heather and gorse – whole areas without a house in sight. And I remember old, deserted farmhouses and fishermen’s cottages with collapsed roofs. Con and I have lived in the bothy on Selkie Holm for almost a year: Cesare and I will be able to find somewhere to shelter, at least for a while – somewhere isolated, away from people, where his accent and dark hair and tanned skin won’t matter because no one will find us. And perhaps, if we stay in an area close to the shore, I will hear news of Con from people in one of the villages. And perhaps, after the war is over, I will be able to convince her to come with me to Italy.
Perhaps. Perhaps.
I know these are fairy stories, so I don’t say them out loud to Cesare. I pull on my oar, and every stroke makes my muscles burn and my heart ache.
‘Was Con safe when you left her?’ I ask.
‘Yes, bella.’ He is out of breath but pulls hard on his oar. The boat pitches with every wave. ‘She is safe with Gino.’
We are nearing the barriers now: the water crashes against the rocks and cement, and torrents through the last small gap. I heard Neil MacClenny saying in the chapel that the barriers have changed the current. Everything is dragged northwards now – to who knows where? For a moment, I allow myself to imagine our rowing boat being hauled towards the blank expanse of the North Sea. If we were lucky, we might reach the Shetland Islands, or Fair Isle, where my mother was born. More likely, we would die of thirst.
The boat rocks and pitches. Salt water burns my eyes.
I imagine Con, waiting for me to return. I imagine her alone.
I hear a shout on the wind. A voice that sounds like hers. A word that sounds like a cry of despair.
No!
At first, I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but then I hear the cry
