Peter May - The Lewis Man

From his dormer window, he looked down on the pier in the fading light as the CalMac ferry from Oban, with its red twin funnels, emerged from the rain to manoeuvre itself up to the ramp and lower the door of its car deck. Tiny figures in yellow oilskins braved the weather to wave the cars off. Fin wondered how it must have been for those poor bewildered kids, plucked from everything they had known and dumped here on the pier to face their fate. And he felt anger at the men whose religion and politics had dictated it.

Who had known about it then, apart from those involved? Why had it never been reported in the press, as it certainly would be today? How would people have reacted had they known what was going on? His own parents, he was sure, would have been outraged. Anger welled within him as he thought about it. The anger of a parent. And the hurt of an orphan. His ability to empathize with those wretched children was almost painful. He wanted to lash out and hit something, or someone, on their behalf.

And the rain ran down his window like tears spilled for all those poor lost souls.

He crossed his room to sit on the edge of the bed in the evening gloom, and as he turned on his bedside lamp felt depression descend on him like a shroud. From the address book on his mobile phone he tracked down George Gunn’s home number and hit the dial key. Gunn’s wife answered, and Fin recalled the invitations George had extended on more than one occasion to come and eat wild salmon with him and his wife. He had still never met her.

‘Hello, Mrs Gunn, it’s Fin Macleod here. Is George there?’

‘Oh, hello, Mr Macleod,’ she said, as if they were old friends. ‘One moment. I’ll go and get him.’

After a few moments he heard Gunn’s voice. ‘Where are you, Mr Macleod?’

‘Lochboisdale, George.’

He heard the surprise in his voice. ‘What on earth are you doing down there?’

‘I’m pretty certain that Marsaili’s dad came from Eriskay. And I think there might be a way of identifying who he was. Or is. But I have to play a wild card, George, and I need your help.’

There was a long silence. ‘In what way?’

‘Did you ever get those drawings done of the blanket pattern bleached into the lividity of the body?’

More surprise. ‘I did. The artist was in today, actually.’ He paused. ‘Are you going to let me in on this?’

‘I will, George, when I know for sure.’

There was a sigh at the other end of the line. ‘You’re stretching my patience, Mr Macleod.’ Fin waited. Then, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to fax the drawings to me here at the Lochboisdale Hotel.’

The damned dark again! It’s always dark. I was dreaming. Something very clear to me. Damned if I can remember what it was now. Woke me up, though, I’m certain of that.

What time is it? Oh. Mary must have taken the bedside clock. But it must be time for the milking. I hope the rain’s off by now. I pull back the curtain and see it running down the glass. Dammit!

It doesn’t take me long to get dressed. And there’s my good old cap sitting on the chair. Been with me for years that old hat. Kept me warm and dry in all weathers, and blown off a few times, too.

The light’s on in the hall, but there’s no sign of Mary. Maybe she’s in the kitchen preparing my breakfast. I’ll just sit at the table and wait. I can’t remember what we had for dinner last night, but I’m hungry now.

Oh God! Suddenly it comes back to me. That damn dream. I was on a beach somewhere, walking with a young man, and he gave me a little medallion, like a coin, on a chain. And I reached back with it clutched in my fist and threw it into the ocean. It was only as I saw it vanish that I realized what it was. The Saint Christopher. Ceit gave it to me. I remember that as clear as day. Only it was dark, and I was in a terrible state.

Peter was in the back of Donald Seamus’s van on the jetty at Ludagh, wrapped in an old knitted bedcover. Dead. A bloody mess. And I could barely control my emotions.

We had rowed him across the Sound from Haunn in the little rowing boat that Donald Seamus kept in the bay. It was a hellish night, too. I felt God’s anger in the wind, and my mother’s reproach in its voice. Thank heavens for the lights of the crofts on this side of the bay, or we’d never have made it. Pitch it was that night, and the boat got tossed about like a cork. There were times when I found it hard to dip the oars back in the water for the next pull.

The boat was tied up at the end of the jetty, rising and falling fiercely in the dark, and I knew that Ceit would have to take it back across on her own. I knew she didn’t want to, and I will never forget the look in her eyes. She reached up to grasp my collar in both her hands.

‘Don’t go, Johnny.’

‘I have to.’

‘You don’t! We can tell what happened.’

But I shook my head. ‘No we can’t.’ I took her by the shoulders, holding her too tightly. ‘You can’t tell anyone, Ceit. Ever. Promise me.’ When she said nothing, I shook her. ‘Promise me!’

Her eyes dipped away, and she turned her head towards the ground. ‘I promise.’ Her words were cast away in the wind almost before I heard them. And I wrapped my arms around her and held her so tight I was afraid I might break her.

‘There’s no way to explain this to anyone,’ I said. ‘And there’s things I have to do.’ I had let my mother down, and I knew that I couldn’t live with myself until I had put things right. If they ever could be.

She looked up at me, and I saw the fear in her face. ‘Let it go, Johnny. Just let it go.’

But I couldn’t. And she knew it, too. She wriggled free of my arms and reached around behind her neck to unclasp the chain of her Saint Christopher medal. She held it out towards me, and it turned and twisted in the wind. ‘I want you to have this.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t. You’ve had that ever since I’ve known you.’

‘Take it!’ It was a tone I knew there could be no arguing with. ‘It’ll keep you safe, Johnny. And every time you look at it I want you to think of me. To remember me.’

Reluctantly, I took it from her and clasped it tightly in my hand. The little bit of Ceit that I would have with me all of my life. She reached up then and touched my face, the way she had done that first time, and kissed me. Such a soft, sweet kiss, full of love and sorrow.

It was the last time I ever saw her. And though I married, and fathered two wonderful girls, I have never loved anyone else since.

Oh God! What possessed me to throw it in the sea? Did I dream that, or did I really do it? Why? Why would I do something like that? Poor Ceit. Lost for ever.

The light comes on, and I blink in the harshness of its glare. A lady is looking at me as if I had two heads. ‘What are you doing sitting here in the dark, Mr Macdonald? Fully dressed, too.’

‘It’s time for the milking,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just waiting for Mary to bring me my breakfast.’

‘It’s too early for breakfast, Mr Macdonald. Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.’

Crazy! I’m up now. And the cows won’t wait.

She has her hand under my arm helping me to my feet, and she is staring into my face. I can see that she’s concerned about something.

‘Oh, Mr Macdonald … You’ve been crying.’

Have I? I put my hand to my face and feel how wet it is.

The old priest’s house sat up on the hill overlooking Charlie’s beach, just before the curve of the road, where the single track led off to Parks and Acarsaid Mhor. He was a shrunken man, the priest, stooped and wizened by the years and the weather, though he had a fine head of white hair on him, and sharp blue eyes that betrayed a keen intelligence.