Питер Мэй - I'll Keep You Safe

Ruairidh had contrived his own view, looking south along the line of the coast, each successive promontory edged in the white foam that traced every contour. Two large windows facing his loom, so that he could sit and watch the sea in all its sulks and piques, its dark green anger and rolling liquid silver.

He had wanted to recreate the sense of a real loom shed, leaving the roof space open and divided by wooden beams. Buoys and green fishing net and loops of yarn hung from nails driven into the wood. There was a well-worn workbench set against the wall behind him, strewn with all manner of needles and cutting tools. The older pattern codes pinned to the wall above it had faded in the sunlight.

The computer where he worked on new designs, exchanging ideas with his mother, sat on a work station in the corner. From here, too, he managed the twenty or more weavers they now had working for them. A battery backup kept it running even during power cuts. A screensaver that bled shots of the island one into the other was still animating his screen.

Sunshine angling in the windows from the south-west fell on his scarred old acoustic guitar hanging on the wall. She had not heard him play it for such a long time, but still remembered with nostalgia those early days when he would serenade her on the beach, sparks rising into the night from the dying embers of a driftwood fire.

She could hardly bear to be here, his presence powerful and compelling. And she thought it extraordinary how people left traces, both physical and spiritual, so long after they had gone. She half-expected him to come through the door at any moment, full of excitement about a new pattern, or wanting her to listen to the latest download of a favourite musician. Ed Sheeran. John Mayer. Eric Clapton.

She crossed the room, squeezing past the loom where an unfinished length of cloth stretched across hundreds of threads, only waiting for the weaver to return to his pedals and send the shuttle carrying weft threads back and forth to finish the job. She switched on his sound system. And the shed was suddenly filled with the strains of a song that brought instant tears to her eyes. Strings holding a long, single note, then the repeated haunting refrain of piano and harp, before the pure falsetto voice of the singer raised goosebumps on her back and arms.

It was a song by a band called Sleeping at Last that they had listened to again and again. She recalled the night, not that long ago, when they had sat in the dark through in the well of the sitting room, watching a lightning storm perform for them out over the Minch. ‘I’ll Keep You Safe’ played at full volume, an accompaniment to the storm, and he had put his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close and whispering, ‘Whatever happens, my lovely girl, I’ll always be there for you. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.’

Tears burned her cheeks. And she shouted at the empty loom seat, ‘You lied to me, Ruairidh. You lied! How can you keep me safe now?’ She switched it off, mid-refrain, and the silence that followed was almost startling.

She had no idea what to do. Now or ever. No idea how to survive in this world without him. She ran a finger across the strings on his guitar, but they sounded discordant, out of tune.

For the longest time she stood then, gazing from the window, before turning finally to sit down at his computer. She brushed the trackpad with her fingertips and banished the screensaver. His finder screen was a mess of icons. A reflection of the man. Somehow always able to contrive order from chaos. A red dot alerted her to the presence of fifty-six unread emails in his mailer. She opened it up to run an eye, almost unseeing, over a long list of emails from weavers and suppliers, a handful of spam circulars.

Then, from somewhere, came the memory of Ruairidh receiving an email on the RER as they travelled in a crowded coach from PV to Paris the day he died. Something in his face had made her ask him about it when finally they had reached their stop. He had dismissed it as ‘nothing’. And now she looked through his in-box. Mail was synchronized between his phone, iPad and computer. So it was bound to be here. She scrolled back to the previous Thursday. Was it really only three days? And there it was. An email received while they were still on the train. And her blood turned cold, as if someone had just injected ice into her veins. It was from well wisher , and titled simply, Goodbye . The message beneath it read, See you in hell .

She had left the door to the shed lying open, and was startled now to hear the crunch of tyres on gravel outside. She was still in shock over those words that someone had sent to Ruairidh just hours before he was killed. See you in hell . From well wisher . The same person who had warned Niamh that he was having an affair with Irina. The meaning, it seemed to her, was clear. Whoever had sent the mail knew he was going to die. Well wisher was his killer.

Her heart was pushing up into her throat, and she heard the blood pulsing in her ears like a speeded-up soundtrack of the sea.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

Niamh crossed quickly to the open door and saw a familiar red SUV parked next to the Jeep. Seonag had the door of the house open and was leaning in.

‘Niamh, are you there?’

‘Over here,’ Niamh called and Seonag turned, momentarily startled. Then she almost ran across the chippings to throw her arms around her oldest friend, face wet with tears before she even reached her. Niamh responded to the soft comfort and warmth of her friend’s embrace, dropping her head to Seonag’s shoulder to let her own tears flow. And they stood like that for a very long time, Seonag’s fingers spread across the back of Niamh’s head and neck, like a mother holding her child.

When finally they broke apart, Seonag’s face was shining wet. Forty years old and the years had been kind to her. She had never fully lost the weight put on during two pregnancies, and in a strange way it stood her in good stead now. Her face was full and soft and unlined, fresh and pretty as it had always been. Her hair was still as vibrantly red as in childhood, green eyes filled now with sadness and sympathy.

She shook her head. ‘There are no words, Niamh. I’m not even going to try. I just couldn’t bear the thought of you up here all on your own. I’ve brought wine and food. I’m going to cook for you, even if you don’t feel like eating. And we’re going to get a little drunk. And...’ She hesitated. ‘And if you can bear to talk, I’m here to listen.’

Niamh shut the door of Ruairidh’s shed behind her, and Seonag took her hand to lead her across the courtyard to the house. Inside, Seonag spotted the unopened bottle of wine on the breakfast bar. She forced a smile. ‘You must have known I was coming.’

Niamh said, ‘I thought I might get drunk on my own. But I’ve been avoiding that temptation. When I stop feeling the pain then I’ll know I’ve really lost him.’ She took out a corkscrew. ‘But feel free.’ She opened the bottle and poured a glass for Seonag, refilling her own with water. They slipped on to high stools at the breakfast bar and avoided a touching of glasses, which would have seemed inappropriate. And Niamh watched Seonag sip the wine that she and Ruairidh had always meant to share, realizing then that she could never have drunk it on her own anyway. ‘I suppose everyone knows what happened?’

Seonag nodded. ‘It’s been all over the papers, and the TV news. Folk have been talking about almost nothing else. You know how it is on the island.’

Niamh pressed her lips together in grim resignation.

‘When will you get the body back for burial?’

‘I brought him back with me.’ Niamh pushed her top teeth down on to her lower lip to stop from crying again. ‘What’s left of him. He’s in the back of the Jeep.’