The Visitors (17 page)

‘Flora,’ he said. ‘Lovely to see you. How’s school?’

‘It’s fine thanks, Tony. And, ah, how’s business here?’

Pointedly, I looked around the room. It was half-empty, the customers drinking in ones and twos. The only noise came from a couple of Poles from the fish farm, gathered round to swear at the fruit machine.

‘Business is extremely slow,’ conceded Tony. ‘Now, what will you be having?’

‘Two pints of Deuchars, please.’

‘Here’s the deal. You can have two pints of Deuchars shandy. You’ll sit in that corner booth, and you’ll drink them slowly, and we’ll see where we go from there. Fair enough?’

We made our way into the corner.

We drank and nattered. Ailsa told me about the places she’d lived, and everything she’d seen on her travels. As I told stories of island characters like Izzy and Uncle Anders, I realised that each of us had something the other wanted. Ailsa craved community. I needed change. Between us, we had both. Every now and then, I’d glimpse her father in her face – just a little in the nose, in the peatbog eyes – and flush to think of him.

We were onto our third pint of shandy when a small, noisy crowd of men entered the hotel. One stood apart from the others, leading the group to the bar with evident authority.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘there goes the neighbourhood.’

‘Who’s that?’ she said, looking behind her towards the door.

‘Lachlan Crane. I always knew he carried a knife.’

‘What’s he doing in here?’

‘To be fair, it’s his local. He’s in here a couple of times a week. With that boat of his, he considers Tighna part of a Tanno pub crawl. He might be back to pick on Izzy.’

‘What about that lot?’ she said, studying the group of men. There were four of them, joking and pushing each other, all beer bellies and designer shirts.

‘That’s his pack. They change every time I see them. Businessmen from all over the world, taking the Clachnabhan tour. Lachie’s job is to get them drunk and show them the sights. Some island hospitality before they sign contracts.’

Lachlan scanned the bar. I tried to keep Ailsa between me and him, but he managed to catch my eye. He grinned and sauntered towards us. His gang followed close behind, carrying pints and whiskies.

‘And if it isn’t Flora Cannan,’ he called out as he approached the table. ‘How you keeping, honeypie?’

‘All the worse for seeing you, Lachie. What are you doing over here? Back to bully the locals?’

‘Bully?’ smirked Lachie, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s not my style, poppet. I was born a charmer. No, me and the boys here, we thought we’d head over to the bright lights of Bancree for a night. Check out the local talent,’ he said, pronouncing the last word with a suggestive leer.

‘Well, sorry to disappoint you.’

He looked down over me, eyes lingering, then up Ailsa at just as slow a crawl. ‘Oh, I’m not disappointed at all.’

‘You will be,’ I said, then tried a wee lie. ‘We both have boyfriends.’

‘Really?’ he said, gesturing to the empty seats around the booth. ‘Still young Richard, is it? Funny, that. I heard he was off to university. Somewhere down south.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. It sounded hollow, even to me.

‘Long-distance relationships,’ he lamented. ‘Abominable success rate. Makes you wonder why some folk even bother.’

Abashed, I looked into my drink. Lachie turned his attention to Ailsa.

‘How about you, darlin’? Fancy showing us a good time?’

‘Piss off,’ she said, mildly.

‘Well, now. Listen to the potty mouth. Shame to hear it from such a pretty girl. I should wash your mouth out with soap, lassie.’

‘Wash your mind out first.’

‘Ah, come off it. Will you come and have a drink with us? You’re new around here, aren’t you? Come and get to know us.’

‘Just passing through. Hardly worth your trouble.’

‘We’re happy on our own, Lachlan,’ I said.

‘No man is an island, Flo,’ he said, sagely, ‘or woman, for that matter. Has Ronald taught you nothing? I’ll have words with him.’

‘Ronny taught me to stay away from strangers,’ I said, then lowered my voice, ‘especially strangers with knives. See you later, aye?’

Lachie flinched at the mention of knives, and looked quickly to see if anyone else had heard. He leaned in close. ‘Strangers?’ he said, coaxing. ‘Strangers, is it? Come on, now. We could always do something about that, couldn’t we, Flora?’

I leaned in close to match. His aftershave was tinged antiseptic, of lemons, but there was an animal smell on him, too. I thought of him taking a knife to Izzy. The gash on the old man’s ear.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We never, ever could.’

His face twitched just a little, flickering, but then he beamed and backed off, laughing out loud.

‘Come away, boys. These wee lassies aren’t the ones for us. A bleak night for us bold hunters.’

His cronies groaned and laughed along with him, and Lachie led them to a table on the far side of the bar. We watched them leave in silence.

‘Think that’s the last we’ll see of them?’

‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘There’s no one else here. They’ll be back in a bit with a few drinks inside them.’

‘In that case,’ said Ailsa, ‘I think I’ve had enough of this place.’

‘Aye, me and all.’

‘Should we go home?’

‘Let’s get some booze from Tony. Come on.’

We finished our drinks, the beer warm and sweet towards the bottom of the glass, then gathered our jackets and bags. Ailsa followed me to the bar.

‘My good fellow,’ I said, emboldened by the beer, ‘might I have a bottle of your finest low-budget wine? To take away, you understand.’

This time, he simply chuckled.

‘Not a hope, Flo. But say hi to your mother when you see her.’

‘It was worth a shot.’

‘No, lass,’ he grinned, ‘it wasn’t.’

We left without the drink, but it was a small relief to close the door on Lachlan and his pack. The autumn night air was fresh and cool and clean. I pulled my jacket closer around me.

‘Is that the night over, then?’ asked Ailsa, disappointed.

‘Not yet. Come on, let’s walk back. I’ve got an idea.’

We passed the abandoned building site, crossed the road, and walked through the playground, swingset squeaking in the breeze. When we reached the beach, I reached down and pulled off my heels. Ailsa did the same and, silently, we stepped barefoot onto the sand.

In the moonlight, the beach was dull silver, and the sea an inky dark. The wind washed waves onto the shore with a hush, and chased through the dune grass in low moans. The stars were pricks of hoarfrost.

‘This is pretty special,’ she said, after we’d walked for maybe half a mile.

Our feet pattered in the cold sand.

‘This is how I like the island best,’ I said. ‘This is when it’s perfect. When there’s no one else here, and it feels like the island’s alive, just me and Bancree.’

‘Um, you know I’m here, right?’

‘You’re my friend. That’s different. I mean everyone else.’

‘You like your own company, don’t you?’

I turned to look at her. ‘Don’t you?’

‘That depends,’ she said, ‘on what the choices are.’

She grinned and skipped ahead, moving like a dancer with hops and leaps, using her toes to trace shapes on the sand.

As we approached Izzy’s shack, woodsmoke resolved into sparks, then tongues of flame that made the smoke glow orange. Ailsa and I walked up the beach and found the path that wound through the scrub. The driftwood chimes clattered in discordant bursts. For the first time, I wondered if Izzy kept them for the company.

As ever, he sat beside his fire. When the flames licked up,
shadows behind him danced black and yellow on the walls of his shack.

‘Hey,’ I called out, ‘hello.’

Despite his bulk, Izzy snapped to his feet, spinning round with fists raised. When he saw it was us, he calmed at once, lowering his hands.

‘Hey, now. You OK, Izzy?’

‘Flo,’ he said, then looked past me, ‘and Ailsa.’ He did a wee double-take when he took in how we were dressed. ‘Big night out, I take it?’

‘This?’ I said, giving a mock catwalk twirl. ‘Why, this is something I just threw on.’

‘You won’t do my blood pressure any good, dressed like that.’

‘My mother was right. You’re a dirty old man.’

‘And you’re a harlot.’

‘Pervert.’

‘Damn right. What are you doing out here, girls?’

‘Actually, I was hoping you could help with something.’

‘I didn’t think you’d come for company. What do you want?’

‘Do you still have any of that cherry stuff?’

A sly grin spread across his face.

‘The schnapps? Aye, I do. And I still want shot of it, too.’

‘Same price?’

‘Ten pounds sterling and it’s yours, Flo.’

I handed him the money, and the old beachcomber ducked into his shack. There was knocking and clunking, then the sound of glass on glass. When Izzy emerged again, he held a shockingly pink bottle.

‘That’s never it,’ I said, taken aback.

‘No wonder you don’t want to be seen out with the stuff,’ said Ailsa.

‘Look, do you want it, or not?’ growled Izzy.

‘Go on, then,’ I said. The bottle was shaped like a gourd. Tilting it against the firelight, the liquid responded slowly, glopping in the bottle.

‘What have we done?’ I murmured.

Behind me, Ailsa came closer to the beachcomber.

‘Izzy,’ she said, ‘are you OK?’

‘About as much as usual. Why?’

‘Only you looked a bit startled to see us.’

‘What do you expect, springing at me from the darkness? I thought you were valkyries down from heaven. I thought my time had come. Then I realised it was only you two fishwives.’

‘Fuuunny.’

‘Ach, I’m kidding. Truth of it is, I’m a bit worried, aye.’

Izzy seemed suddenly crestfallen, all his cheeky swagger deflated. He was getting old.

‘What’s up?’

‘Same old. I keep thinking about Doug MacLeod. First Bill, then Dougie. There’s nothing to be done about it. It’s daft, but I can’t help thinking it’ll be me next. If I’m nervous, it’s not without reason.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ I said. ‘Don’t be daft.’

His sad eyes reflected firelight. ‘They were both old men. Both lived alone near the coast. No friends, no family. Sounds pretty much the same to me. Plus there’s what happened with Lachie.’

The fire crackled.

‘Ever occur to you,’ I murmured, ‘that Lachlan might be the sort of person to make folk disappear?’

Izzy gazed at me. I couldn’t read his face by firelight.

‘Keep it quiet, but aye. It might have occurred to me.’

‘What of it, then?’

‘I decided not. It’s not his style. He’s a loon, but he needs an audience. Every bully does.’

‘He likes to hurt folk.’

‘Aye, but here’s the thing, lass. He likes them to know about it, too. Lachlan’s all about power. Dominion. The lord of the manor. You can’t kill off your vassals and still have them scared of you.’

‘I think it’s him. If it’s anyone.’

‘Think what you like. I don’t even know for certain it’s a thing.’

Ailsa and I exchanged glances, thinking map, map, map.

‘But that doesn’t stop me getting anxious about folk sneaking in the dark.’

‘Sorry about that, Izzy,’ said Ailsa.

‘Don’t fret, lass. Beside, it’s probably worry over nothing. Wouldn’t be surprised if Bill and Dougie showed up hand in hand on a Rio carnival float.’

He grinned, then, but there was no heart in it.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I meant to ask you, Ailsa.’

‘Me?’

‘Who was that shennachie on Rum? Wondering if I know him.’

‘Uh, Cormac something. Can’t remember. Everyone called him Cormac.’

‘Cormac. Rings a bell. How long were you on Rum?’

‘A year or so. Not that long.’

‘You move about a fair bit, aye? Who’s your dad again? I might know him.’

She hesitated.

‘John,’ she said, her voice brittle. ‘Dad’s called John Dobie.’

‘John Dobie,’ he muttered, ransacking his memory. ‘No.
Maybe not, after all. Shame. Have to meet him soon, eh? Share some of his stories. Might have been to some of the same places.’

‘Aye. Maybe.’

‘Anyway. Did you lassies want another yarn?’

‘Is it about selkies?’ I said.

‘You not bored of selkies yet?’

‘I’m all ears. Bring it on.’

‘Then get comfy,’ he grinned. ‘This is a cracker.’

I grabbed a crate to sit on, hungry for another of the shennachie’s stories. Ailsa took the old rubber tyre, and perched alongside me, drawing up her legs and hugging her knees. I uncorked the schnapps, and wished at once I hadn’t.

On the other side of the circle, Izzy threw half a dozen logs onto his fire, sending sparks cascading into the sky. The wood settled as the heat took hold, blackening, blue, licking green where the fire found salt. He began to speak.

There was once an island woman. She was a fair and bonny lass, and she commanded the attention of all the island men. By the time she’d come of age, she could cook, and sew, and clean. She could manage a household. But more than anything else, she could dance. She loved to dance, and she brought every ceilidh to life with her passion and her grace.

Now, every man on the island wanted her for his own, and many came calling for her hand, from the squires to the swineherds. But our bonnie lassie knew the choice was hers, and when the time came, she chose a young shepherd. He wasn’t the richest man on the island, or the strongest. He wasn’t the fairest, or the brightest. But he was the quickest on his feet. Of all the men on the island, he was the only one who could match her in a reel. At the island ceilidhs the bonnie lassie and the shepherd danced every dance there was, and jigged every jig. They reeled till morning, when the band were dead on their feet and everyone else had long since departed. For a courtship, they danced together on the hills, nothing for music but the rhythm of their breath and the drumming of their feet upon the heather. They were very happy together. They decided to be wed.

On the day they were married, there was a ceilidh the likes of which was never seen again. Every person on the island was invited, from the lowest pauper to the richest laird,
and every one of them showed up. Musicians came from miles around, and they lined the walls of the hall two deep. The fiddlers lifted every heart, and the pounding of bodrums fairly raised the roof. The dancing was the loudest, the fastest that had ever been known. The stamping of feet brought dust from the rafters and made the floor shake like a honeymoon bedhead.