The Visitors (33 page)

The article went on to say that James Nicol, a fisherman and wildlife guide, was wanted in connection with an
ongoing investigation. His wife had gone missing under suspicious circumstances. Soon after, Nicol had vanished, taking his baby daughter with him. Authorities were concerned for the health of the infant. There was a family snap at the bottom of the article, with the names of the husband and wife. The woman was Ailsa’s mother. And the baby perched on her knee was Ailsa. It was the same newsprint picture I’d seen at her house. But the man on the right was not James Nicol. Even after seventeen years, he was John Dobie, and my spine had turned to ice.

Everything I’d worried about – everything Izzy had suggested – it yammered at the truth. My pulse pounded with the noise of surf on pebbles.

I didn’t want it to be true.

‘Well?’ said Tom Duncan. ‘What now?’

‘This doesn’t prove anything,’ I said, but there was a crack in my voice. ‘How could he buy Dog Rock with a false name?’

Tom allowed himself a little smile. It repulsed me.

‘He didn’t buy Dog Rock. Nobody has. I checked the records this afternoon. It’s just an abandoned house that no one else wanted. So he moved in. They’re squatting. He didn’t even need a key.’

There was a knock on the door. Ronny crossed the lounge to answer. Four more policemen entered the house. I only knew one – Ivor MacDonald, the senior officer in Tanno. Duncan rose to speak with them. Mum shook her head at me, and went to fill the kettle.

My vision narrowed to the picture on the table. Even through the photocopy, Ailsa’s mother’s eyes were clear and light. I couldn’t see the green irises, the way I had in the colour photos, but I knew they were there. But then there was the infant Ailsa, and John himself, both with such inky-dark
eyes, barely a corner of white cornea to frame the peaty iris. Newsprint only emphasised the contrast.

An idea sounded in my mind as a single, clear chime, ringing in the centre of those dark eyes. There was something important. The way the Dobies had captured me so completely, the power they wielded over me. That I let myself be so drawn to them. The idea began to take form, but it was a pale ghost in a peat bath, and I strained to make it out. My name was spoken – the chain was broken.

‘Miss Cannan,’ said DC Duncan. He’d stepped back into the kitchen. Behind him, the other policemen stood uncomfortably in the little lounge, shedding rainwater onto rugs. He lowered his voice. ‘Flora,’ he said.

‘You played me, Tom Duncan.’

His eyes flickered to the floor, then back at me.

‘I’m looking for a murderer, and I believe I’ve found him. You were a small part of that process.’

‘What else do you want from me?’ I said, loud enough for the others to hear. ‘Still want to catch up some time?’

‘Go to your room,’ he said, ‘and stay there. I think it’d be for the best if you kept out of the way tonight.’

I glared at him.

‘I’ll keep the heat off you as best I can,’ he whispered. ‘But there’ll be more questions about this. For now, just keep out of the way. We’ll talk more in the morning. I know you’re angry, but I still hope—’

Wordlessly, I stood and brushed past him.

‘Flo,’ called Mum, but I couldn’t stand to see her. I felt the eyes of the policemen in the lounge, but they stood aside to let me pass. In my room, I closed the door and locked it firmly, forcing the heavy key.

As soon as I was safe, I scrabbled for my old phone. I turned it on, waiting for it to boot up, willing it to work faster.
Outside, the wind howled. I could hear it moaning in the chimney pots. Muted in the background, the burn at the bottom of the garden was beginning to roar as the rain swelled into spate.

Why would John Dobie run from the police? Why would he change his name? With all my heart, I believed in his sadness. I believed in Ailsa, weird as she was. Nothing else made sense. The cops were wrong. Izzy was wrong. I believed in my friend because I had to.

‘Come on,’ I muttered, waving it around the room, praying for a signal. In the corner above the window, a single bar flickered on the little amber screen. I scrolled to Ailsa’s number and pressed to call, praying that she had her phone with her. The dial tone rang and rang, measuring in Morse the dots and dashes of my pulse. Looking out the window, I could see a single light somewhere on Dog Rock, faint and shimmering through the sheets of rain. Another torrent burst against my window, rattling the glass in the frame.

The ring tone stopped. There was silence.

‘—lo?’ said a voice.

My adrenaline surged to hear Ailsa, her speech strangled by static.

‘Ailsa,’ I hissed, ‘listen! You need to get off the island. You need to get away. They’re coming for you and John!’

‘—lo?’ she said again, ‘—lora? Is tha— you?’

The phone died into a monotonous digital note, killing the signal. The screen registered nothing. She hadn’t heard a word I said.

As I watched, peering out the window into the gale, a dark shape obscured some of the distant light on the islet. It must be her. She was standing at the window, looking at me. We were only a few hundred metres apart, but still separated by a scrap of ocean. Almost near enough to shout, but cut off from
talking. Too dark for a stupid paper note. I had to tell her, to warn her. At that moment, I’d never in my life wanted to talk to someone so badly. The need to help her blossomed in me, swelling in my heart.

The newspaper story didn’t matter. I believed that with everything I had. They were innocent. And now they were being hunted. I had to tell her. Somehow, I had to let her know.

‘Get out,’ I whispered, willing the words across the thrashing bay, between the lancing rods of rain. ‘Get out, get away, get safe. They’re coming. They’re coming for you.’

As I spoke, my words fogged the glass and faded, leaving only trails of rain. My reflection looked back at me in monochrome, my face reduced to shades of grey on black, a ghost in murky water. In the window reflection, my eyes were sunk as dark as peat.

As dark as John’s eyes. As black as Ailsa’s.

The other day, I’d seen a seal. A seal that stared back at me. A seal with dark eyes. Eyes as black as peat.

I trembled. It was a ridiculous idea. But now I’d let it out, it wouldn’t go away, no matter how daft it seemed. I couldn’t shake the thought that the eyes had been the same. Standing at the window, staring out through the rain, the racing rain, I studied the small warm light on Dog Rock and let the idea run.

I turned, compelled, and looked at my desk. The selkie research notes still lay stacked to one side, the spine of the Mutch book peeping out just like that jumble sale, a hundred years ago. I didn’t need to open it to think of the madness that boiled inside.

There was absolutely no way it could be true.

In a rush, a string of ideas and memories flooded through my mind. How strange it was for a man and his daughter to move to the middle of nowhere. A man and a daughter
without a history. How he knew the ocean like his own blood. How he knew where to spot the seals, how he knew the sea. His wife had died, and it had crippled him. He’d changed his name.

Suppose they could change their names because they were never in the system? Suppose no one knew who they were?

I pictured Ailsa’s agility in the water. How cold her skin could be. No matter where she went, people knew she was different. Her strangeness, her sadness, oozing from her like a perfume.

The pieces came together like they’d never been apart.

Her swimming was poetry, simple as breathing … and she was her father’s daughter. The pair of them, living on my doorstop. I’d even seen her swimming, the night they moved in. A dark shape in black water, not quite real, and I’d mistaken it for ducks or otters.

They were nameless. They moved around because they had to. They lived apart so no one would ever know.

Islands are safe, she said.

And she’d tried to tell me. God, she’d tried to tell me.

Flora, she’d said. I want you to know. Despite everything, she’d said. I’ll always be your friend, she’d said.

Even if you change your mind about me.

Outside my bedroom door, police boots tramped through the house. There was no way I’d get out of the cottage through the hallway.

I unlocked the door and peered out. The wind howled around the house, and I made no noise as I crept across the hall. Pressed against the lounge door, I could hear the voices inside.

‘It must be him,’ urged Duncan, ‘it has to be.’

‘Not without proof,’ said MacDonald.

‘We’ll find it over there, sir. The girl claims John Dobie has every disappearance mapped out. He’s the one to make them disappear.’

‘It’s far-fetched, Tom.’

‘Sir, we could be dealing with the worst serial killer in Scotland’s history. He’s vanished before. They could be gone tomorrow.’

There was a long pause. Rain rattled the window panes.

‘You need to be right about this, Duncan,’ said the senior policeman.

‘I am, sir. I’m right. It all fits. Dobie moves from island to island, never staying long. He has a boat. He dumps the bodies. If anyone asks, he’s grieving for his wife. Everyone feels bad for him, so they leave him alone. No one thinks to ask further, and he’s free to kill again. It’s too perfect. He’s our man.’

There was silence inside, only rain hammering on windows. Through a gap in the door, I could see Ivor MacDonald deep in thought. Then he made his decision.

‘Do it. Arrest him. Get over there now, in case he does a runner.’

‘Right,’ Duncan said, ‘let’s go. The dinghy’s outside.’

The men headed for the door. I darted into the dark of the coat rack and eased myself between jackets. Four policemen filed out of the living room, along the hall and out through the porch. They passed inches away from me. I held my breath as the last one left. Then I slipped back into my bedroom. I threw the window open, spatters of rain blasting into the room. I swept the books and trinkets off the sill, hoisted myself up, and hopped down into the garden. The rain soaked me in seconds. I crept low along the house, ducking underneath the windows.

I had to warn them. The police were coming, and that was my fault.

I sprinted down the road. The rain battered and stung, thrillingly cold as it lashed down in sheets. I broke right and dived into the beach grass. Fighting my way across the dune, the ground became uneven, and I stumbled, slipping and scrambling back to my feet. I didn’t bother looking for paths, but pushed directly through the fronds, blades of grass slicing thinly at my arms and face. I battled my way onto the headland, and here the force of the wind pushed ashore in walls, buffeting me to stand up straight. For a stupid, reeling second, swaying with the gusts, I thought of all the times I’d sat here before. Sunsets and kissing Richard, drinking with Ailsa, watching her take the boat away.

The storm blew rain in rods. On the far side of Still Bay, illuminated by the flickering headlights of their jeep, I could just make out the four policemen wrestling their dinghy from
the trailer. It was a powerful semi-rigid craft, and the wind was vicious, tearing it from their grasp as they wrenched the boat down towards the beach.

My face stung with grass cuts and rain. I crouched and hauled off my shoes. Hesitating, I peeled off my sodden jeans, too. They were no use where I was going. My jumper clung to me as I dragged it over my head. I left my clothes in a wringing heap on the grass. In knickers and vest, I turned to face the sea. The surf was up and heavy, churning white against the shore. I stood on the tip of the headland, judging my moment. The waves receded just long enough. I crouched, then sprung. There was a snapshot of time with no noise, no sound at all, everything frozen, hanging headlong and suspended above the water.

I dived into the sea.

For the dumbest second, it was warmer than on land. Then the cold crushed the blood inside my veins. My skin tingled, salt water peppering the hundred tiny grass cuts. And I swam, I swam, arms outstretched, reaching wide and scooping at the water, legs kicking frantic. I came up for air, gasping, breath rushing out and in. Still kicking and swimming, I flipped onto my back and craned for a glimpse of the beach. Behind me, the policemen had wrestled the dinghy into the raging shallows. Ahead, through a gap in the rain, I could just make out the dim light on Dog Rock. It seemed so far away. A wave lifted then dropped me into a trough, giving the shortest of shelters from the wind. The next wave threw me up again. I took a deep breath and dipped my head back below the water.

Beneath the surface, it was calmer. The waves still tugged and twisted at my body as I swam, but down below I could ride with them. The soaked weight of my vest was ballast, helping me sink, keeping me underwater. The world beneath was dark dark blue, inky with night, and the drumming rain
muted to a low, dull roar. I thought of Ailsa. Things brushed my legs as I swam, seaweed churned in fragments. I came up for air again. Glancing back, I was already a frightening distance from the headland, and I took heart from how far I’d come. But then, looking ahead, Dog Rock seemed impossibly remote. I was dismayed to realise that the riptide was sucking me out to sea, away from both the shore and the islet. I felt suddenly very frightened. This was madness. I dived beneath the surface once more, suddenly conscious that I was no longer swimming to warn Ailsa about the police. I was swimming for my life. The ocean pressed me on all sides, and a rush of terror washed through me. I took an accidental mouthful of sea water and my heart bucked. Fighting to the surface, I spluttered, coughing and choking as I trod water. The policemen were now in the dinghy, but the offshore wind seemed to blow them away from the islet, and their boat juddered in the gale. The wind lashed at my face and shoulders, but even as I tried to hold my position, the riptide tugged me further out to sea. I sobbed in frustration. Dog Rock was still so far, as though the ocean itself threw a wall around the Dobies. Weakness soaked through my arms and legs, and I was doused by a wave. It caught me in a gyre and spun me round, choking and spluttering for air. I couldn’t feel my toes. Looking over my shoulder, I couldn’t even see the headland for the waves. All I could do was press onwards. I shaped myself against the tide, and dived down.