Sacrifice (25 page)

Duncan was shouting. I’d never heard raised voices in that house before. I opened my eyes again. The curtains were drawn and a soft lamp glowed in the corner of the room. I turned to look at the clock. It was a little past seven in the evening. I sat up and felt OK, so I climbed out of bed.

The door was slightly ajar. I could hear Richard now. He wasn’t shouting – I doubted him capable of doing so – but he was arguing. I moved out into the corridor and hovered uncertainly at the top of the stairs.

The door to Richard’s study was open and Duncan appeared in the doorway. He stopped and turned, looking back into the room.

‘I’ve had enough,’ he said firmly. ‘I want out. I’m getting out!’

Then he was gone: along the corridor, through the kitchen and out of the back door. I had the weirdest feeling that he was gone for good; that I was never going to see Duncan again.

I moved down the steps. Four steps down, I realized that Richard wasn’t alone in his study. Elspeth was with him. They were arguing too, but very quietly. Another step down and I realized she was pleading with him.

‘It’s unthinkable,’ said Richard.

‘He’s in love,’ said Elspeth.

‘He can’t do it. He can’t just walk away from everything he has here.’

I froze, one hand gripping the banister; then, forcing myself to move, I backed up on legs that were suddenly shaky again, one step . . . two . . . three. At the top I ran along the corridor, back into the guest room and climbed back into bed. The sheets had cooled in my absence and I started to shiver. I pulled the quilts up over my head and waited for the trembling to slow down.

Duncan was going to leave me? Of course, I knew things hadn’t exactly been great between us for some time; even before we moved to Shetland he’d changed: laughing less, talking less, being away more. I’d put it down to the stress of an impending move and our difficulties in starting a family. Now, it seemed it was so much more. What I’d seen as a bad patch, he’d recognized as the end.
He’d found a lifeline and was bailing.

Was there any other explanation for what I’d just heard? Try as I might, I couldn’t find one. Duncan was going to leave me. Duncan was in love with someone else. Someone he’d met on one of his trips away? Someone on the islands?

What the hell was I going to do? I had a job here. I couldn’t just up and leave after six months. I could wave goodbye to any future consultant’s post if I did that, even supposing I’d be allowed to leave the islands given everything that was going on. I’d only come to this godforsaken place to be with Duncan. How was I ever going to have a baby now?

My tears, when they came, were hot and stinging and I had to bite hard on my arm to keep from howling out loud. My headache was back with a vengeance. I couldn’t face going downstairs to find Richard so I got up to see what I could find in the bathroom. There was nothing in the cabinet, nor in the toilet bag that Duncan had packed for me. Duncan’s bag lay next to mine on the window ledge.

I started sobbing again at that point, but my headache was getting worse. I pulled down his bag and looked inside. A soggy blue flannel, razor, toothbrush, ibuprofen – thank God – and another packet of pills. I picked them up without really thinking about it and read the label: Desogestrel. Inside were three rows of small white pills, pressed into foil. Desogestrel. The name meant something but I couldn’t place it. I hadn’t been aware of Duncan having any condition that required a daily pill, but
then again, I was learning quite a lot about Duncan that evening.

I took two ibuprofen, replaced Duncan’s bag on the shelf and went back to bed, steeling myself for a restless night. I think I fell asleep in minutes.

Duncan didn’t come to bed. I’m not sure what I would have said to him if he had. Some time in the night I woke to find him standing over the bed, looking down at me. I didn’t move. He bent down, stroked the hair lying over my temple and went out again.

Shortly before dawn, when the dull grey light outside the window was starting to gather colour, I woke and the first thought in my head was that I knew what Desogestrel was. Had I been myself, I think I’d have recognized it immediately. Desogestrel is a synthetic hormone, known to reduce levels of testosterone in the male body and thus prohibit the production of sperm. For several years it’s been used in clinical trials aimed at perfecting a male contraceptive pill. Combined with regular injections of testosterone to maintain balance in the male body, it’s proven reasonably effective. Although not yet available as a prescriptive medicine, it was only a matter of time.

Duncan, it seemed, was ahead of the game. And I’d discovered the reason why, after two years of trying, I’d been unable to get pregnant.

21

‘
I’LL BE BACK
by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest,’ said Duncan.

‘OK,’ I replied, without turning round. I’d pulled an armchair over to the window and was looking out across the moor behind the house. The first heather was just beginning to bloom, casting a rich, claret-coloured haze over the hilltops. The rain had stopped but there were heavy clouds overhead, and their long shadows clutched the moor like the claws of a miser grasping something precious.

‘We’ll be home for next weekend,’ he continued. ‘Maybe try and get the garden sorted out.’

‘Whatever,’ I said, watching an arrowhead of snow-white birds with grey wings fly past the window.

Duncan knelt down beside me. I felt a tear roll down my cheek but if I carried on staring straight ahead, he wouldn’t be able to see it.

‘Tor, I can’t take you with me. Dad says you’re not fit to travel and I’ve back-to-back meetings for the next few days. I wouldn’t be able to look—’

‘I don’t want to come,’ I said.

He took hold of my hand. I let him but didn’t return the pressure.

‘I’m sorry, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about everything you’re going through.’

I’ll bet you are
, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I couldn’t say the few bitter words that would bring everything out into the open. I wasn’t in denial, exactly; I just didn’t need to hear him say it.

He hung around for another few minutes and then, kissing me on top of the head, he left. I heard the car engine start up and then fade away as he drove down the cliff road towards the ferry.

I forced myself to get up, knowing I couldn’t stay in the house all day, obsessing about Duncan and my now very uncertain future. Official invalid or not, I was going out for a walk. I dressed and went downstairs. Luckily, only Elspeth was in the kitchen. Richard might have tried to stop me going out.

For the first half-mile I followed the coast road south. When the road veered inland towards Uyeasound, I took a detour, round the hill of Burragarth towards St Olaf’s Kirk at Lundawick. Dating back to the twelfth century, this is one of the few remaining Norse churches on the island. It’s a popular spot with tourists, mainly for the views it offers over the Bluemull Sound towards Yell. That day, though, I was alone as I walked round the ruin and looked out across Lunda Wick. Although the winds had died down, the waves they’d left in their wake were still jumping angrily up and down. It
would have made uncomfortable sailing conditions; not that I had any desire to get back in a boat.

All around me, perched on stones, launching themselves from rocks, sliding and bouncing on the wind, were hundreds of the seabirds for which these islands are famous: kittiwakes, gannets, fulmars, terns and skuas raced round my head, screaming at each other and at me. As I watched, my head twisting this way and that, a frenetic excitement seemed to grow in their midst. Then, almost as one, they dived over my head and down, straight into the wick, and hurled themselves amongst a shoal of sand eels. There was a frantic whirl of feathers, a blizzard of sleek bodies as they fought and feasted, binged and bickered.

I was wondering if I had the energy to walk into Uyeasound for a coffee when I noticed the standing stone, not ten yards from the road. It stands about twelve feet high, just askew of the perpendicular, covered by pale-grey lichen. I wandered over to it, more for the purpose of filling time than anything else. The stone was smooth – except for the shapes that had been carved into it. Not the same markings exactly, but similar enough for me to be pretty sure I’d find them amongst the runic alphabet in Dana’s library book. More runes. I wasn’t sure I really cared any more, but it was still much easier to think about runes than about Duncan.

I set off down the road again. Ten minutes later, my mobile rang. It was Dana.

‘I heard about the accident. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, because that’s what you always say, isn’t it? ‘How could you possibly have heard . . .?’ The line started to crackle and I stood still. It cleared again.

‘. . . at the station saw the coastguard report and recognized the name. Look, can I do anything? Do you want me to come up?’

I was touched. And for a second, I would have given anything to have her company, but knew it would have been ridiculously selfish. Dana had far too much to do to come and babysit me. I started walking again.

‘Thanks, but the outlaws are looking after me. Anything new?’

‘Sort of. I was planning to call you anyway. Can you talk right now?’

I looked round, saw a rock, plonked myself down on it. ‘Sure, go ahead. Although I’m not sure how long the signal will last.’

‘I’ve been talking to Melissa Gair’s GP again. I wanted to check something he told me.’

‘Go on.’

‘He said that, whilst the lump in Melissa’s breast was definitely worthy of checking out, it hadn’t unduly worried him at the time. At the worst, he’d thought it would be a malignant tumour in the very early stages. He’d been amazed, he said, to hear about her death so soon afterwards. He didn’t say it was impossible, but I couldn’t help feeling that’s what he was driving at.’

The wind was getting up; I pulled my jacket up
higher around my neck. ‘And you want to know what I think?’

‘Yes,’ she said, none too patiently. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, it would certainly be very unusual,’ I replied. ‘But sometimes it happens that way. Maybe Melissa didn’t spot the lump straight away, so it could have been growing for quite some time before she even went to the GP. Maybe he didn’t realize quite how extensive it was.’

‘Not impossible, then?’

I was getting cold so I moved on again. ‘No, not impossible.’

She made me repeat myself. I lost her for a few seconds and then she was back again.

‘Did you find anything on Stephen Gair?’ I asked.

‘I went to see him at home yesterday. Nice place. Met his new wife and a child they say is hers from a previous relationship.’

‘Right,’ I encouraged, not really sure where she was going.

‘It’s a little boy. Not quite two years old. Name’s Connor Gair. Stephen’s officially adopted him.’

‘Nice. And . . .’

‘Looks a lot like his new stepdad. And they seem very close.’

I couldn’t see how that was remotely relevant. I had no interest in Stephen Gair’s family life. I was a bit preoccupied thinking about my own – or lack of it.

‘He has carrot-coloured hair, gorgeous fair skin
and very fine features. His mother, on the other hand, is quite dark.’

I thought for a moment. Light dawned. ‘Blimey!’ I said.

‘Quite.’

She started crackling again so I told her, without being sure she could hear me, that I would phone her that evening. I carried on into Uyeasound, a scattering of buildings around a small, natural harbour.

I found the coffee shop easily enough. A couple of hikers sat at one of the tables; a man in a business suit at another. That left three tables free. I chose one and sat down. An elderly woman poked her head out of a door at the back of the room, glanced round, didn’t appear to notice me and disappeared again. I pulled a biro out of my coat pocket and picked up one of the paper napkins on the table. I started to doodle. And think.

Connor Gair; a fair-skinned, two-year-old boy. Given my own preoccupation with babies, it’s hardly surprising that since finding out that the murdered woman had given birth, I’d been wondering what had happened to her baby. Had the baby died too, I’d asked myself many times, or was it alive somewhere, oblivious to what had happened to its mother? Had Dana now found that baby?

Well, if Stephen Gair was bringing up his own son by Melissa but passing him off as the child of his new wife, he had to have been involved in Melissa’s death. There was no getting round that one.

‘Ye writin to da Trowie folk?’

I jumped. The waitress had returned and was looking down at the napkin. I’d drawn several of the runes I remembered from the standing stone.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘they’re runes. From the standing stone up at Lunda Wick.’

She nodded. ‘Aye, da Trowie marks.’

The Shetland dialect can be pretty strong and the locals aren’t above exaggerating it a bit to perplex their visitors.

‘Sorry, but what’s Trowie?’

She grinned at me, showing bad teeth. Her once-fair skin had been burned red by the wind and her hair was like dead straw. She looked about sixty; she could have been anything from forty-five upwards. ‘Da Trows,’ she said. ‘Da grey folk.’

It was a new one on me. ‘I thought they were runes. Viking runes.’

She nodded and seemed to lose interest. ‘Aye. Dey say dey came fra the Norse lands. What’ll I get ye?’

I ordered a sandwich and coffee and she disappeared back into her kitchen. Trow, Trowie? I wrote it down, guessing at the spelling. I’d never heard the word before but it might well be significant. What I’d assumed were Viking runes, she’d called Trowie marks. Who were the Trows? And why would they carve their marks on Melissa’s body?

I waited for her to come back but the café was filling up. When she brought my order, she plonked it down and turned to another table. I could come back later, when the café was quieter, or I could find a library. Now, that was a thought. I had access to
the best library on Unst, one that specialized in island folklore and legend. Always assuming I could successfully navigate the librarian. I ate quickly, got up and paid my bill.