Who would sneak into the chapel at night? Is it the guard, come to check on me? Was I crying out in my sleep, perhaps? The nightmare returns to me: Dot and Cesare’s arms releasing me as she threw me into the water.
The figure moves closer and I open one eye. It is too slim to be John O’Farrell; it must be one of the guards – the boots squeak. I hold my breath.
Please go away. Please leave me alone.
A spill of silver moonlight casts his shadow onto the chapel floor. He looms over me, huge, then takes another step. He is standing right next to my bed. I can feel the heat from his body. I can hear the rasp of his breath.
Please. Please. I lie very still, hoping, waiting.
The figure leans over me. There is a moment of silence and then he grabs me, clamps his hand over my mouth, using his other arm to pin me down by my throat.
I open my eyes and try to scream, but the sound is muffled, as if I am underwater.
‘Wheesht!’
Angus MacLeod’s face is close to mine. There is blood on his forehead and his face is bruised and covered with dirt. I buck my body, squirming under him, struggling to breathe, struggling to scream, but I can’t gather enough air. There’s the smell of sweat and something darker – a feral, animal stench, as if he’s emerged from under the ground, as if he’s crawled here from some dark grave.
I swing my legs, trying to kick him, trying to fight free of his weight, but his whole body is on mine now. He presses down harder on the arm that is across my throat.
‘Lie still,’ he says. ‘Or you’ll be sorry.’
I do as he says. Dark spots cloud my vision; the blood hammers in my ears. I know that it would take only a little more pressure for him to crush my windpipe.
My vision blurs and I stare at him, begging with my eyes.
Air, I think. I need air.
‘If I let go,’ he says, ‘you won’t scream?’
I shake my head.
He releases me and I cough and cough, gasping deep lungfuls, my throat burning.
‘How . . .?’ I choke, my voice a strangled rasp. ‘You fell into the sea. I thought –’
‘Thought I’d drowned, did you? Or been carried out to sea? I washed up on the north of the island. Hit my head. It took me some time to get back. And I overheard some of the guards say they were keeping you here. So I thought I’d come to see you.’
‘Go back to Kirkwall,’ I say, coughing. ‘Your friends will be worried.’
‘I don’t care about them,’ he says. ‘I want to see you.’ He runs a finger down my cheek, down onto my neck.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, but I thought you might scream.’
‘You didn’t hurt me,’ I lie.
He strokes my neck. My skin crawls, but I don’t want to make him angry by flinching away, so I stay very still.
Leave, I think. Please leave.
‘Are you happy to see me?’ he asks.
I nod. The slightest inclination of my head.
He smiles. ‘Say it.’
‘I’m happy to see you.’ My voice cracks.
‘You hurt me on the barrier,’ he says. ‘I could have drowned.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I turn my head towards the door. Surely the guard will have heard our voices.
As if reading my mind, Angus says, ‘The guard? John O’Farrell took him back to Kirkwall. I watched him go. So we have some time.’ He smiles and strokes my cheek again. A chill runs through me.
‘Don’t look like that,’ he says. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
I try my best not to look frightened. My teeth are chattering. I clench my jaw.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘Smile.’ He strokes my face.
I force my mouth into a fixed rictus.
‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t that feel better?’
I nod. My throat aches. My head is pounding. I feel a tear running down my cheek and I try to stop crying, because he wants me to seem happy. And perhaps, if I do as he tells me, he will leave me alone.
‘There’s nothing to be scared of. We’re old friends, aren’t we?’
I nod.
He leans in and kisses my cheek. His stubble scratches my skin. I close my eyes and hold my breath, trying not to inhale the stale, mushroomy smell of damp and darkness.
‘Look at me,’ he says. I open my eyes and force myself to look at him.
There are tears in his eyes. ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘But you’ve hurt me so much. You kept hiding from me and pushing me away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
His hand is on my neck, caressing me. ‘I said I love you, Con. Did you hear me?’ The pressure on my neck increases slightly.
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘So, say it.’
My head aches and acid rises in my throat. My breathing is loud and fast.
Words, I tell myself. They’re just words. And perhaps, if I say them, he will let me go. Perhaps that will be enough for him and he will let me be.
Except I know he won’t. And I hate him. I hate his hopeful, tear-streaked face. But I can sense the pressure on my neck increasing again. And I remember the weight of his arm on my neck. I remember the way my vision narrowed, the way my chest burned. I remember that he hadn’t looked angry at all. The expression on his face had been calm, focused. Cold.
‘Say it,’ he says.
I hate you, I think.
‘I love you,’ I gasp.
‘Oh, Con,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be perfect. We’re going to be perfect. You’ll see.’
He crushes his mouth against mine and, as he forces my lips open
