Peter May - The Chessmen

Many of the mourners drove straight to the cemetery at Ardroil. Those who intended to make up the procession gathered outside the former Mackenzie home on the road above the beach, along with the media circus.

Fin was astonished to see Donald there, come out of his self-imposed exile in Ness to expose himself to public scrutiny for the first time since the shooting in Eriskay. And he was as much a source of interest and curiosity to the crowd as the presence of the celebrities of Amran. He was, it transpired, to be one of the primary coffin-bearers, at Mairead’s request, along with Fin, Strings, Skins, Rambo and Big Kenny. All of them together again for the first time since fifth year at the Nicolson.

But since it was a two-mile walk to Ardroil, there were another six men standing by to provide periodic relief in relays. The coffin itself weighed much more than the remains of the man inside it, solid oak resting heavily on the broad shoulders that raised it from the chairbacks on which it had been resting in the road. A helicopter hired by one of the news networks flew overhead.

It took the procession of well over fifty people more than an hour to reach the turn-off to the cemetery. There was a hand-painted sign with a white arrow pointing past a tubular agricultural gate, and a rough track wound up over the machair to the walls of the cemetery itself beyond the rise. Shoulders were aching, hands numb, by the time they got there.

The mountains where Roddy’s plane had come down all those years before loured over them, dominating the skyline to the south. The cemetery itself sloped down to the west, and the rain began as the procession made its way among the headstones to the small walled extension which had been built on to it at the bottom end. Its original planners, apparently, had not taken account of the relentless nature of death.

It was a fine rain, a smirr, little more than a mist. But it almost obliterated the view beyond the wall towards the beach, and made the last few yards treacherous underfoot. The lowering of the coffin on wet ropes by hands and arms which had all but seized up was made perilous by the rain, and it bumped and scraped the side of the grave on its way down. The grave itself had been excavated the day before, and the remains of the coffin they had placed there seventeen years earlier exhumed. Beneath the grass the soil was pure sand, without rocks or pebbles, and was already crumbling as the coffin settled at the bottom of the hole. The original headstone lay to one side, to be replaced once the grave had been refilled.

Although the tradition of men only at the graveside was still universally observed, nobody was surprised when Mairead ignored it. She stood among the men, pale and unflinching, a sombre figure dressed all in black, Roddy’s intermittent sweetheart and lover.

It was then that Fin glanced up and saw, with a shock, Whistler standing at the top end of the cemetery, detached from the mourners. Gone was the suit, to be replaced by his waterproof jacket and jeans, and his hair hung loose, tumbling to his shoulders. He had stopped shaving again and had penumbrous shadows beneath his eyes. His usually healthy outdoor complexion was muted by an underlying pallor.

For a moment Fin thought that Whistler was simply gazing into space, somewhere above and beyond the little clutch of mourners, before he realized that his eyes were fixed on Mairead. Was it possible, after all these years, that he still loved her? And yet there was something in his expression that spoke more of hate than of love. Of contempt rather than affection. And Fin was startled by it.

His attention returned to the grave as Donald read a text from the Gaelic Bible. ‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ A handful of sand rattled across the lid of the coffin. And when Fin looked up again, Whistler was gone.

It was with no little surprise, then, that Fin caught a glimpse of his old friend at the wake organized by Amran at the Cabarfeidh Hotel in Stornoway. The bar was packed full of mourners who had heard that there would be free drink, and members of the press were mixing freely among the crowd in search of an angle, a personal slant, something different for the evening bulletins and the morning papers.

Fin was standing at the bar with Strings and Skins and Rambo, sharing beer and recollections, and not a little fond laughter at stories of Roddy and their adventures during the early years. The spectre that hovered among them, however, and which no one dared address, was the fact that Roddy had not just died. He had been murdered. It was a spectre without a voice.

Fin caught sight of Whistler pushing his way out through the door. He put his pint down on the bar. ‘I’ll catch you guys later.’ And he hurried after him.

By the time he reached the lobby there was no sign of Whistler. Fin hurried through to the lounge, but there was only a handful of people standing chatting in groups, or sitting around coffee tables. He returned to the lobby and was about to go back in to the bar when he heard the sound of raised voices from outside in the car park. A woman’s voice, and a man’s. Speaking Gaelic. Fin went out on to the step and saw Mairead and Whistler further down the drive. Whistler was trying to walk away. Mairead was grabbing at his arm to try to stop him. He turned suddenly and shouted at her, inches from her face. Fin was not close enough to make out what he said, but there was no concealing his anger. Mairead flinched. And then Whistler glanced beyond her and saw Fin watching. He said something and Mairead turned, too. By the time she turned back to him he was on his way, walking briskly out through the gate. This time she let him go, and Fin saw the slump of her shoulders.

He watched as she turned and walked back up the tarmac drive towards him, composing herself as she approached, concocting some lie, Fin had no doubt, about what it was that had transpired between her and Whistler. By the time she reached him her eyes were clear and smiling, and he remembered only too well her capacity for deception. She pre-empted his question with a sad smile. ‘You told me once you thought that Whistler had never stopped loving me. And that’s why he didn’t come to Glasgow.’ She paused for thought. ‘Removing himself from the pain. I think that’s how you put it.’

Fin nodded.

‘Well, I think I just brought the pain back with me.’

But Fin knew that it wasn’t love he had seen in Whistler’s eyes at the cemetery. And there had been only anger in his voice when he shouted at her. If there was pain, then something else was the cause of it. She must have seen the lack of conviction in Fin’s eyes, because she abruptly changed the subject.

‘Anyway, I’m glad I caught you. I brought a photo album up with me. Full of pics from the old days. You’re in a lot of them. I thought you’d like to see them.’

‘Maybe another time.’ Fin glanced at his watch. ‘I should really be going.’

But there was an insistence in her voice. ‘There might not be another time, Fin. I’ll be gone in a couple of days, and I can’t think of a single reason for ever coming back.’

Fin was surprised. ‘What happened to your folks?’

‘I took them down to Glasgow years ago. I’ve no family left on the island. And, to be honest, the reason we were here today has cast a shadow over all the good memories. It was hard enough dealing with Roddy’s death at the time. But losing someone twice? Well, that’s a killer, Fin. I would never have believed it, but it’s a whole hell of a lot harder second time around.’ She slipped an arm through his and turned him back through the door into the lobby. ‘Give me just a little of your time. I think you owe me that.’