Doug Johnstone - Smokeheads

‘Pack your things,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘And all your friends’ stuff too. You’re getting the next ferry back to the mainland.’

Adam was confused. ‘But that Ritchie guy said I had to stay on the island until he got in touch again.’

‘Never mind what he said. I’m all the law you need to worry about on Islay at the moment, and I’m telling you to pack up. You’re leaving.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘I’ll explain in the car,’ said Eric. ‘We don’t have much time, the ferry will be getting into Port Askaig soon.’

Adam stood there, swaying a little.

Eric put a hand on his shoulder. ‘If you don’t want your belongings, you can leave without them. Either way, you’re getting on that boat.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Adam.

‘You don’t have to.’ Eric was starting to sound annoyed. ‘I said I would explain in the car.’

Eric gave him a gentle shove towards the B amp;B and Adam started walking, frowning over his shoulder.

Eric called after him. ‘And don’t worry about paying your bill, it’s been settled.’

Adam headed up the stairs and into his room, his nose filling with the antiseptic stench of spilled whisky, his feet grinding glass shards into the thin carpet. He quickly threw all his stuff into his bag, then chucked all Ethan’s neatly stacked clothes into his suitcase. He stopped to glug some quarter cask from the bottle, throwing it into his bag. He had a quick check round the room, then went through to Roddy and Luke’s room.

He couldn’t work out what this was all about. Could he trust this Eric guy? Molly had said he was a good sort, but what did that mean? She’d also decided not to tell him the truth, so maybe he couldn’t be trusted after all. Or maybe she had told him. He certainly seemed a better bet than that Ritchie character, but that wasn’t saying much. Fuck it, he was too exhausted and too wasted to work out what the hell was going on. It was easier just to go with the flow and take what came his way.

He threw Roddy and Luke’s stuff into their bags. He felt ill as he saw Luke’s belongings and thought about the gaping head wound, the bullet, the feel of raw flesh and bone against his fingers. He wondered where Luke was now, whether he’d already washed up somewhere along the coast, or if he was bobbing miles out to sea, maybe heading all the way over the ocean to another continent. He wondered about the fish and birds that would peck and nibble at him, the terrible storms that would blow him about, helpless and cold in that vast expanse. He ran to the toilet and puked up single malt all over the bowl and the floor. Didn’t matter, Eric said the bill was already paid. He rinsed his mouth from the tap then lugged the two bags out the door.

He went back into his room. He got his bag and Ethan’s case, then carried all four of them down the stairs, banging off the banister and struggling under the weight, his legs unsteady. The landlady was nowhere to be seen. Where was she?

Outside Eric took the bags from him and threw them in the back, then opened the passenger door. Adam looked at him.

‘Just get in,’ said Eric, looking at his watch.

Adam looked at his own watch, broken since the crash, and wondered what time it was, what he was doing, how this was all going to end.

He got into the police car then reached in the back, opened his bag and took out Ethan’s Laphroaig. He unplugged it and took a swig. He could hardly taste anything, his throat raw from vomiting, just a massive hit of peat overwhelming his senses, a taste so familiar yet now somehow completely alien, as if he’d never tasted single malt whisky before in his life.

He pulled his seat belt on as Eric got in.

‘That quarter cask?’ said Eric, eyeing the bottle.

Adam nodded.

‘Mind if I have a wee dram?’

Adam handed it over. ‘Help yourself.’

Eric uncorked it, wiped the rim and took a big swig, smacking his lips theatrically. He took another drink then recorked it and handed it back.

‘That’s a fine malt,’ he said, putting his seat belt on.

Adam felt numb. ‘Yeah.’

Eric started the engine and pulled away. They were heading for the ferry. As they climbed out of Port Ellen, Eric turned to Adam.

‘We know you were there,’ he said.

Adam looked at Eric driving. He had a kind face, weather-beaten but full of compassion, his thick grey hair swept back and his chunky hands firm on the steering wheel. He looked like he’d be a fantastic grandad to some little sprogs.

Adam turned to look out the window. They were driving back up the same stupid road he was sick of, stretches of ugly brown shrubs cowering in a sharp, squally wind that spattered the windscreen with dirty rain. The wipers scraped across with a nerve-shredding rhythm, struggling to keep the windscreen clean.

They were doing eighty easily, Adam feeling every bump and pothole judder through his bones thanks to the shit suspension. The heating was up full and he was suffocating, struggling to breathe. He glugged at the malt, but that only warmed him further, made his insides itchy.

‘What?’ he said finally.

‘I said we know you were there.’

Adam stared at him for a long time then looked out the window at the gloom. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Eric smiled. ‘Of course you do.’

‘I really don’t.’

Eric glanced at Adam. ‘Want me to spell it out?’

Adam shrugged. ‘Sounds like you’re dying to, so knock yourself out.’

‘Is that yes or no?’

Adam laughed despite himself. He looked at Eric. ‘That’s a yes.’

Eric kept his eyes on the road.

‘We know you were at the still last night…’

‘I already told Ritchie that’s bullshit.’

Eric held up a placating hand. ‘It doesn’t matter what you told DI Ritchie. I’m not Ritchie. Do you want to hear what I’ve got to say or not?’

Adam waved his hand in a vague gesture of acquiescence.

‘We know you were at the still last night. You met Joe and Grant there. We know that one of you got injured or killed, probably shot or stabbed. I presume that was your friend Luke, the one the coastguard are still looking for. We know there was some kind of chase up to Loch Kinnabus and someone went through the ice. Also, you broke into the farmhouse at Upper Killeyan where whoever went through the ice changed out of their freezing wet clothes.’ Eric eyed Adam’s baggy jumper and fleece. ‘Then you walked back along the cliffs to the barn. We know you had something to do with the fire, and that you then trekked back to the car. It seems you were pushing a barrel, presumably with Luke’s body inside. You must’ve thrown him in the sea at some point, I’m guessing because of the evidence of his wounds.’

Adam felt himself gulp heavily. He turned to face Eric.

‘That is one hell of an imagination you’ve got there.’

Eric laughed. ‘You think so? Actually, I’m pretty sure my imagination couldn’t come up with anything so outlandish.’

This was it, they were all going to jail for a long time. Adam felt strangely untouched by the thought, as if the whole matter concerned someone else.

‘So where are you getting all this shit from?’ he said.

Eric smiled again. ‘Your tracks were all over the place. When we got to the still this morning there were tracks in the snow leading off the path west to Loch Kinnabus, as well as east along the coast, back towards the Audi. There were markings from barrel staves and hoops in that direction as well. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to work out what had happened once we got the call from Mrs Leary about your car crash.’

Adam flinched at the phrase ‘brain surgeon’ and saw his hands in the mess of Luke’s head. He picked at his nails, then the skelf still lodged in his finger.