Mo Hayder - Pig Island

'In my opinion,' I wrote, trying hard to remember the language of the referral letters I'd seen at the clinic, trying to combine it with the article in the journal, 'this anomaly will almost certainly prove to be associated with spina bifida and therefore of great interest to you. In order to decide what can be done for the patient it will be vital to assess how much «tethering» there is in the spinal cord. To that end I suggest we make an appointment to meet as soon as possible.'

I nibbled my cuticles, wondering if I should say anything about Cuagach, about what had happened out there. But in the end I decided 'high-profile' would be enough to pique his interest. I finished the email: 'I very much look forward to working with you on this, a case that can only cement your reputation as a surgeon of repute and integrity.' I clicked send and sat back, waiting for the out-of-office acknowledgement to pop up on the screen.

My head was tingling. I was going to be back at the clinic by the end of the year.

I dreamed about Pig Island. Cuagach Eilean. I dreamed of dark clouds trailing long fingers down to stroke the cliffs, I dreamed of helicopters flying over the gorge in the moonlight, of tree branches, like hands, reaching up to grab them. I saw a police launch bouncing across the waves, blue lights flashing, I heard the words 'improvised explosive device' over and over again, echoing from the mouths of women and men, a chorus of moving lips.

I woke with a jolt on the sofa — dry mouth, stiff neck and a whisky stain on the carpet where the glass had dropped in my sleep. The curtains were drawn, the TV was on, flickering across my face — replaying my dreams: Pig Island in daylight, pictured from above, a shoreline rising up from the sea, familiar grass-covered cliffs, white tents dotted around the village. The words 'improvised explosive device' again. The helicopter banked and dipped above it, then the shot switched to show a small ferry bobbing in the waves close to a shingle beach. An aluminium pontoon connected it to the land. Two soldiers were winching an army truck up it.

I pushed myself upright, blearily, my body creaking, shaking myself out of the dream. On screen Danso appeared seated at a trestle table, a directional mic on the table in front of him, another on his lapel. A blue thistle, the Strathclyde Police logo, was projected on to the backdrop behind him. 'Crinian is one area we're looking at closely and-' He lifted his chin to listen to an inaudible interruption from the press floor. 'That's right — from the car park of the Crinian Hotel…'

'Shit, shit, shit.' I pushed myself upright and staggered to the kitchen, hating the way it all had to come back — had to force itself back at me. I hung my face over the sink, waiting, wondering if I was going to puke. I thought of the senior identification manager, a short guy called George who'd spent two hours with me in Oban carefully filling in his yellow 'misper' forms, one for each missing PHM member, thirty in all. Yesterday I'd made a promise to him — a poxy promise when I thought about it: I'd promised I'd go out to Cuagach today to identify bodies. The thought of it made my head ache — like there was something hard and egg-shaped inside it.

I turned on the tap and stuck my face under it, letting the water splash in my hair, my face, my mouth, staying there for more than a minute, getting colder and colder. By the time the mobey rang in my back pocket my face was numb with cold. I straightened, fumbling for it.

'Yeah?' I lifted the hem of my T-shirt to rub my face. 'What?'

'You're alive, then?'

'Finn,' I said. 'Hi.'

'Thanks for calling to tell me you're still breathing.'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Why wouldn't you be?' He sighed. 'Switch on the TV, Oakes. That fucker Dove, he's all over the fucking headlines.'

'Yeah,' I said, scanning the miserable little kitchen for a kettle. I needed coffee. 'I know.'

There was a moment's silence. 'You know?'

'Yeah. I was there.'

'You were there? What? On the island?'

'Yeah. It was me called the police.'

'Shit, Oakesy — you serious?'

'As a heart-attack.'

'Holy fucking Christ.' There was a long silence while he took this in. I could picture him in his World's End office at his leather-topped desk. When we did the States together he'd been pure Seattle Sound: prison jeans, flannel shirt and Soundgarden T-shirt, one of the first people in the world to wear Converse sneakers. Now he was establishment: he was losing his hair and every day he went to work in a suit he hated. 'What're you going to do with it? The nationals are popping veins trying to figure out what was happening on the island-'

'That's easy.' I tucked the phone under my chin and carried the kettle to the sink, sticking it under the tap. 'He had a harassment order on them — I showed up, he put two and two together, figured they were trying to get him into the court of protection. Which they were, by the way.' I plugged the kettle in, went to the window and opened the curtains. It was a bright, blustery day, a cold sun glinted off the police-car windscreen and the broken windows in the house opposite. I looked to the right, out across the playing-fields, all blistered and brown-looking, a stiff cold wind blasting across it. A good day for viewing dead people. 'But,' I said, 'I can't sell it.'

'Why the fuck not?'

'No. Can't put my head above the parapet.'

'Why not?'

'Did you see them on TV say they've got him? They've found him?'

'No.'

'And who do you think he's got the horn for now? Me. They've got us in emergency accommodation. Strathclyde's answer to an Amish village.'

He was quiet again, thinking. 'Oakesy?' he said cautiously, like something was just coming to him. 'Listen… I think this is… I don't think it's bad. I think… I think it's good. Yes, you know what? It is. In fact it's…' He must have jumped up then and almost dropped the phone, because the line got muffled for a moment. When he came back on he was shouting. 'It is. In fact it's unreal — fucking unreal.' He took a few breaths and I knew he'd be standing now next to the arched window above the King's Road traffic, moving his arm up and down to calm himself. 'Right — cool thinking, cool thinking, Finn. Oakes, if you don't sell it to the papers, right, if you can keep the story down until it's all over, there's a book in it — OK? As long as you keep it from the papers.'

'You're my agent now?'

'Yes. Yes! Listen, Oakesy, listen… This is what we do. I'm going to have a natter with some interested parties and in the meantime I want a two-page synopsis and the first fifteen K words. It's so fucking easy. I'm telling you, you can write an article, you can write a book… You can do that — can't you?'

I opened the window and breathed in the cool air. I didn't blame him — you have to see the reality of death before you understand the chill weariness that comes over you. Thirty-six hours ago, the moment I saw a pig dragging Sovereign's foot into the trees, my work head had switched off, powered down. But I'd had a night's sleep and now Finn was making it twitch again. Old Gorgon Joe-journalist inside me was waking up, giving a sleepy kick, and lifting its ugly, sticky head. I was thinking about the story that was out there in the sunshine. I was remembering why I'd come to Cuagach in the first place.

'Can't you? Tell me you can.'

I dropped the curtain. 'Yeah,' I said. 'I can do it.'

'Dude. We're model We. Are. Made. Get it?'

While he talked I got myself ready. I went to the hallway, got my digital camera from my jacket pocket and put it on to charge. I made coffee in the kitchen, and listened to him plan-making. This was the project we were always meant to do together — we were going to celebrate with a slammer party; we were going to pay off our mortgages.