Fortifying? An uneasy mutter rises. What does that mean? Does it have anything to do with the shipments of cement over the past weeks? The sheets of metal, the spools of wire?
‘So,’ O’Farrell holds up his hands again, ‘to that end, we’ve decided to build barriers in the bay, between the islands. Four of them, made of rocks and cement, and strong enough to withstand the currents –’
Shouts ring out: ‘Barriers?’
‘Blocking off the sea?’
‘You must be mad!’
‘What’ll it do to the tides?’
‘The fishing?’
‘It’ll cause floods and all sorts.’
‘Enough!’ John O’Farrell bangs a fist on the table, and there is immediate quiet – he isn’t known for his temper, after all.
‘Enough,’ he repeats, more quietly. ‘The barriers must be built: it’s an order from Churchill himself.’
Stephen Alexander, with the windswept hair and the red-veined cheeks steps forward. ‘With due respect, it could be an order from God Almighty Himself, it still wouldn’t make it right.’
There is some muttering at this blasphemy, despite the nerves.
Stephen apologizes and agrees that he needs to keep away from the bottle, these days.
John O’Farrell clears his throat. ‘In order to facilitate the building of these barriers, a workforce will be needed. So I must tell you that, in two weeks’ time, a large number of foreign prisoners of war will be arriving on the islands.’
A stunned silence.
‘Foreign?’ someone says.
‘Aye, Italian men, currently being held in North Africa. A thousand of them.’
Uproar.
‘A thousand?’
‘You’re jesting,’ someone calls.
O’Farrell stands, his face impassive, but his hands brace against the desk in front of him. His fingers press down hard, whitening under the pressure.
‘The men will stay,’ he says, ‘on Selkie Holm.’
‘No!’ Two voices from the back of the room, speaking together.
Every head in the room turns towards them – those Reid twins, so rarely seen in Kirkwall, these days.
‘No, you can’t,’ one of them says. Her voice is shaking; the other girl’s breathing is loud, as if she’s been running.
‘I’m sorry,’ O’Farrell says, ‘but it’s already been decided.’
A collective held breath, as everyone waits for them to answer.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Stephen Alexander declares loudly. ‘Selkie Holm. That’s a bad omen.’
And in the silence that follows, no one scolds him for his blasphemy.
Everyone files out of the hall, whispering. You’ve heard what happens there: the disappearances, the odd lights and noises, aye. People driven mad by the sight of some creature in the waters there, as beautiful as it is repulsive.
Bad enough, people agree, that those girls are living on the cursed island, let alone a thousand prisoners. Who knows what horrors will be dredged up?
John O’Farrell has sat down at the desk, and doesn’t look up at the girls.
‘You can’t do this,’ Dorothy says.
‘I’m sorry.’ He piles the papers and begins stuffing them into his briefcase. ‘I argued against it.’
‘But . . . it’s our home.’
‘I know. But things are changing.’ He spreads his hands, gesturing to the piled papers.
‘So we should just bow down and do whatever the English say? Are messages from London to be our laws now?’
He looks away, tucks the remaining papers into the briefcase, locks it and stands. ‘I wish you’d come back to live in Kirkwall,’ he says. ‘It’s not right, the two of you being out alone on that island –’
‘Surrounded by a thousand men?’ Dorothy says, her face rigid. ‘And after everything that’s happened . . .’ She glances at Constance, who is holding a hand up to her neck, as if she’s struggling to breathe.
Dorothy drops her voice to a whisper. ‘You know she wanted to be away from men, after Angus.’
O’Farrell’s expression is pained. ‘I wish I could change it.’
‘You know she has nightmares?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ Dorothy says.
The girls turn and walk together from the hall, out into the cold night.
There is some talk, among those who’ve been eavesdropping, about following them, trying to talk some sense into them. Those girls have had enough bad luck already, and being on that island can only stir up more misfortune. It’s said that anyone living there will go mad. It’s said that misfortune will follow them. Enough people have died or vanished there, over the years. Surely the girls should be reminded of that.
But then it is agreed that there is only so much you can do. Some people are determined to go their own way, and all you can do is watch and hope.
Mid-January 1942Dorothy
It is raining when the Italian prisoners arrive.
Con and I had been watching for a ship all morning, peering through the net of mist and drizzle. The cold had wormed its way inside us, so that we shuddered on every breath, but still we didn’t walk back into the bothy.
‘There!’ Con had said, but she didn’t need to point it out: I’d spotted the grey shape at the same moment. There was something monstrous about the sight of that warship, so much bigger than any of the others in the bay.
On the hill, just out of sight of the bothy, was the camp that the prisoners would be living in – we’d watched it being built over the past weeks. A huge rectangle of land had been sectioned off with wire fencing, topped with toothed rolls of barbed wire. Within this yard were flimsy corrugated-iron huts that looked as though they’d be swept away in the next storm. There were bigger huts too: a large building with tables and benches for the men to eat at, and a slightly smaller structure with desks and chairs – we’d seen the English guards bringing them across. There was another hut, tiny, really, which, when the door blew open in a strong gust of wind, revealed a set of manacles chained to the wall.
Con and I had looked at each other in wonder: what sort of men were they expecting that they had prepared chains and manacles? We’d heard rumours in Kirkwall of the awful things that soldiers did elsewhere: Michael Dalton had parachuted from his burning plane over occupied France; it had taken him weeks to escape enemy territory,
