Peter May - Entry Island

The meal passed in relative silence, Crozes’s mood transmitting itself and affecting the others.

After they had eaten they adjourned to the bar. A bowling alley that linked the hotel to the restaurant was closed because of the weather. From the bar they could see through windows to the empty aisles simmering silently under half-lighting. There was a spooky quality to the abandoned alleys, an almost ghostly quiet in the absence of players. By contrast, the noise outside was frightening. The wind was hurling bins and traffic signs across the car park with lethal force, and traffic lights swung violently on their overhead stanchions.

Sime excused himself and walked alone along the length of a deserted corridor to his room next to reception. His eyes were heavy and stinging. His mouth was dry again, and his tongue felt huge in it. Every muscle seemed to ache, as if stretched to breaking point. All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes.

In his room, sliding glass doors opened on to the car park at the front of the auberge. The wind was bowing the glass. He pulled heavy curtains across them to shut out the night, but it barely reduced the noise. If he wasn’t so tired he might have been apprehensive.

He sat in the dark for the next half-hour with his laptop open on the dresser, searching the internet for information about Entry Island. There wasn’t a lot out there. A dwindling population of just over a hundred at the last count, a school in danger of running out of pupils. There were two stores, a restaurant, an Anglican church, a museum, the school and a post office. It was just two kilometres wide, and three long. The winter was prolonged and brutal, and when the bay froze over as it often did, the ferry couldn’t sail and the islanders were cut off, sometimes for long periods. He closed the laptop and wondered why Kirsty Cowell was so determined to stay there. The explanation she had given him seemed less than convincing.

He turned on the TV and lay on the bed in the dark. Although he was desperate to sleep he had no expectation of it, and didn’t bother to undress.

He listened to the rain hammering against the sliding doors. It almost drowned out the frenetic commentary on an otherwise dull ice hockey match. He wondered how it must be for Kirsty Cowell alone out there in that clifftop house, fully exposed to the fury of the storm. While just fifty yards away the home she had shared with her obsessive husband stood empty. Except for the cop who kept guard over the scene of his murder. Sime wondered how many unhappy memories of the couple’s ill-fated marriage had been subsumed by that house, become a part of its fabric, like the grain in wood.

He supposed that the house would be hers now. A house in which she couldn’t bring herself to stay alone when Cowell was gone. And it occurred to him that she stood to inherit not just the house, but all of his wealth. The fifteen million a year in lobster income. The processing plant here on Cap aux Meules. As powerful a motive for murder, perhaps, as betrayal. There must surely be a will. Something else to check out tomorrow.

His aching eyes searched the ceiling for the cracks and stains that might occupy his mind in the long sleepless hours to come. He had developed an ability to make endless pictures out of shapeless blemishes on walls and ceilings. Exercising his imagination to fill in the time. Even the flickering light sent around the room by the ever-changing images on the TV screen could conjure up its own shadow theatre.

But tonight his lids were just too heavy. They fell shut, and there, once more in the darkness, he found her. Watching him, holding him in her eyes. And for a moment he thought he saw her smile...

I hear voices. Strange accents. I am lost among a sea of faces that I can’t quite see. As if I am looking at the world through a veil of gauze. I see myself now. Younger. Seventeen perhaps, or eighteen. I can feel my confusion, and at the same time watch myself with a peculiar objectivity. Both spectator and player. I wear the oddest clothes. Breeches held up with braces, a stained white shirt without a collar, a three-quarter-length jacket, heavy leather boots that seem too big for my feet.

I feel cobbles underfoot, and blackened sandstone tenements rise around me. There is a river, and I see a paddle-steamer ploughing its way past the quay towards a low, arched stone bridge that spans the leaden flow. Somewhere beyond the tenements on the far bank I see a church steeple prick the sky, and clouds of smoke and steam rise into the blue from a railway station almost immediately opposite. I can hear the trains spitting and coughing as they idle against their buffers.

It feels like summer. The air is warm, and I am aware of the heat of the sun on my skin. The gauze dissolves now, bringing sharper focus, and my objectivity slips away. I become conscious of tall-masted sailing ships moored along the quayside. The sea of faces around me shifting and undulating as this current of humanity ebbs and flows, carrying me along like a piece of flotsam.

But I am not alone. I feel a hand in mine, small and soft and warm, and I look back to see Kirsty Cowell, apprehensive, unsettled by the lack of control we seem to have of our destiny in this crowd. She is younger, too. A teenager. I call to her above the voices that fill the air. ‘Don’t let go, Ciorstaidh, stay close to me.’ And from somewhere, far away, in my unconscious world, I realise I am calling her by her Gaelic name.

A space opens up around us, and I see a boy with a cloth cap and ragged shorts. A pile of newspapers is draped over one arm, a folded copy raised in his other hand. He is chanting some incomprehensible refrain. Over and over. Someone snatches a paper and slips coins into his hand. Kirsty takes one too, letting go of my hand to unfold it. I see its banner. The Glasgow Herald . And before she opens it up, the date: July 16th, 1847.

‘It’s Fair Friday,’ she says. ‘No wonder it’s so busy.’ But for some reason this means nothing to me. I am gripped, I realise, by a sense of urgency. Of time running out. Somewhere I can hear a clock chiming the hour.

‘We’re late. We can’t afford to miss the boat.’

She slips the newspaper under her arm and takes my hand again, our free hands occupied by the carrying of small cardboard suitcases containing God knows what. Her face is shining, excited. She wears a tunic buttoned up over a long dress that flares and falls to the cobbles, but her black hair tumbles free across her shoulders, swept back from her face by a soft breeze.

‘We’re looking for the Eliza , Simon. A three-master. We’ve time enough. They said she wouldn’t be leaving the Broomielaw till a quarter past the hour.’

I push up on to my tiptoes to see across the heads on the quayside. There are three boats tied up to giant iron capstans. And I see the name I am looking for painted in black and gold across the stern of the furthest. ELIZA . She seems huge to me, a confusion of masts and rigging and furled canvas sails.

‘I see her. Come on.’

And, pulling Kirsty behind me, I push off through the bodies of men, women and children scrambling anxiously to secure their places on these wind-driven time capsules, to be carried off to new lives in other places.

But then I hear voices raised in anger, lifting above the others. Cursing and blaspheming and brimming with violence. A large group is gathered around a stand of trolleys laden with bags. An argument has led to a fight, and I can see fists flying. Top hats skiting away across the cobbles. The crowd ahead of us surges back, like displaced water, and my grasp of Kirsty’s hand is broken.

‘Simon!’ I hear her scream, panic in her voice. I heave against the bodies that have separated us, only to see her carried away by a current stronger than both of us, fear in her eyes, a hand hopelessly grasping at the air above her head before she is lost from sight. ‘Get to the boat.’ Her call is barely discernible above the roar. ‘I’ll meet you there.’