Later tonight, the wind will rise again, blowing the sand and blood away.
I slam the chapel door behind me, shutting out the wind and the blood and the rage. I sit down on the floor, panting, and I close my eyes. I can still feel his hands on my skin, can still feel his weight on me, can hear his voice in my ear.
‘He’s gone,’ I say, aloud.
And then I think, She’s gone.
In the darkness, I wrap my arms around myself and I say goodbye to Dot.
I imagine her saying, You did the right thing.
I imagine her saying, I never blamed you.
I imagine us holding each other, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Like the tide, like the twin chambers of the heart. Like the swelling of the light that always returns.Constance
I barely sleep that night. In the morning, I’m awake enough to hear the footsteps before the door to the chapel opens. It is John O’Farrell, his face sombre.
‘How did the chapel door come to be unlocked?’
I blink, my eyes gritty, and shrug. I can’t make myself look at him, but I can feel him examining my face.
‘No one came here last night?’
I shake my head.
‘You didn’t hear anything?’
‘No.’
He kneels on the floor, next to my mattress.
‘There’s been another body found.’
‘Oh?’ It’s all I can say, my breath tight in my chest.
‘Angus MacLeod washed up in Kirkwall this morning.’
‘What happened?’ My voice is high-pitched. Do I sound shocked enough? My stomach twists and plummets. I keep my gaze fixed on the tiled floor.
John sighs and settles himself next to my bed, at my feet. I can feel his eyes on my face, watching my reaction.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘it seems he fell into the sea. But . . . there were some things found with him. He had . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, Con, but he had a handful of Dot’s hair wrapped around his fingers. And there was . . . There was skin found under his nails.’
I hunch my shoulders to hide the scratches on my neck.
‘What . . .?’ I clear my throat. ‘What do they think happened?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘there’s an opinion that, on the night of the storm, he must have taken Cesare out onto the boat and perhaps Dot too, by force. I know you can’t remember anything very much, but does that sound likely? That he meant to do them harm?’
I swallow, nod. ‘He’s always been violent,’ I whisper.
‘Aye. A nasty piece of work, although I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Cesare’s body hasn’t been found yet, but can you remember seeing him after the boat tipped?’
I shake my head. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my telltale tears.
He sighs. ‘Some of Angus’s friends are trying to start rumours that Dot killed Angus on the night of the storm, or that . . . well, that you somehow managed to do it, given that the body’s fresher than might be expected.’ He pauses. I can feel his gaze on my face.
‘Of course,’ he says, ‘to do that, you’d have had to leave the chapel . . . There are no witnesses because I had the guard with me – he hadn’t been well. What can you tell me of last night? You really didn’t see or hear anything?’
I pause. My hands are shaking again. On the tips of my fingers, beneath my nails, are reddish-brown stains. We both watch as I hide my trembling hands by sitting on them.
O’Farrell will have seen the unlocked chapel door. Perhaps he saw the blood along the barrier, leading up to the chapel, which I couldn’t have scrubbed away properly in the dark.
‘Darkness and cold,’ I say. ‘That’s all I remember.’
‘You can’t tell me anything that happened to him, then? You hadn’t seen him since the storm?’
‘No.’ I lean my head forward.
It occurs to me that he will be able to see the bare patch of my scalp where Angus ripped out my hair. And perhaps he can see the livid scratches on my neck.
He gives a sharp intake of breath. I wait for the accusation. I brace myself.
He pauses for a moment, then leans forward and gently kisses my forehead. ‘Of course you couldn’t have left the chapel last night, Con. The door was locked when I arrived just now. I’ll tell everyone that.’
I exhale, then look up at him. His eyes are warm and sad. He touches my cheek, very gently. ‘Do you need a doctor?’ he murmurs.
I shake my head.
‘Did he –’
‘No.’
John nods, kisses my head again, very softly. ‘I hope you will be warmer tonight in Kirkwall. You can come with me now.’
I blink at him.
‘Angus MacLeod’s body clears you of any guilt, Con. People might try to accuse you of being involved with Cesare’s disappearance, or what happened to Dot, but it’s clear where the blame lies.’
His face blurs as he takes my hand.
‘Follow me,’ he says, and we walk out of the chapel into the bright sunlight.Constance
We hold her funeral some days later. She is buried on Selkie Holm, near the bothy. Most of Mainland Orkney comes across, walking over the barrier to reach us – in the days after the prisoners left, the people from Kirkwall finished the barrier themselves, piling in the last loads of rock from the quarry, and layering cement on top.
Now, they stand apart in a group and they look at me and they mutter.
Above and around me, the blue sky – too bright and too blue for a funeral – arches like the lid of a bell jar; with all these eyes upon me, I feel pinioned, like a specimen on display, with everything and everyone inspecting me from outside the glass. I know they will be talking about Dot and about Angus; about the hair found around his fingers and the skin beneath his nails.
I pull my scarf more firmly around my neck.
I feel sick and guilty and lost. I try
