Smokeheads (17 page)

Adam drifted in and out of a fitful sleep in the back of the police car, harrowing images gnawing at his mind. He jerked awake as they bumped over a pothole, his eyes focusing on the officer at the wheel. It was the kid who’d been called out by the old woman to the crash site earlier today. Adam could see nasty boils lining the back of his neck at his collar line, and felt the urge to reach forward and squeeze.

He looked out the window. The same flat expanse of heather, bracken and moor stretching for miles, yet somehow it all seemed so different from the first time they’d driven along here, stopped by Joe for speeding. Back then it had been a land waiting to be discovered, an adventure waiting to happen. Now it was just the backdrop for a nightmare that would forever be playing in his head.

The snow from yesterday had all but melted, tiny pockets of ice and slush lurking in the shadowed crevices of the land. He was suddenly sick of this place, sick to death of the wide open spaces and the never-ending skies and the stench of peat everywhere.

They drove past the airport then past thousands of geese hunkered against a driving wind. He remembered last night and the geese on the frozen loch, everything drenched in eerie purple light from Joe’s flare, a cacophony of noise as the birds filled the black sky.

He wondered about forensic evidence, about tracks in the snow, discarded flares, the hole in the ice, the farmhouse they’d broken into. Shit, he was still wearing someone else’s clothes, for Christ’s sake. His heart tripped over itself as it dawned on him. Fuck, his clothes. His clothes were still sitting in a wet pile in the hallway of that farmhouse. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it before? All that worry about forensic evidence at the still and the car crash, what about the farmhouse?

He tried to get his fatigue-drenched mind to work. There was nothing to identify him amongst that stuff, nothing obvious like a wallet or phone, but it was surely covered in his DNA. What if the break-in had already been reported, his clothes already handed in to the police, the farmhouse added to the list of places to be forensically examined?

He tried to calm down. The house didn’t seem to be occupied for the winter, it might be months before his clothes were discovered. Maybe there was plenty of time for him or Molly or someone else to go round and sort it. Or maybe the mainland forensic team had already searched the area and found it all. Did they have a reason to go that far from the still? He looked out again at the melted snow. Maybe their tracks had disappeared with the rising sun, then again maybe they hadn’t.

Jesus, he couldn’t stand to think about any of this bullshit any more. But he couldn’t stop either. He churned it all round in his mind, trying to gain some clarity, trying to make sense of the mess of the situation, the mess of their lives, but his brain was mush. Maybe he was in shock. The fact he even thought of that was probably an indication that he wasn’t in shock at all, just hopelessly confused and stressed.

They descended into Port Ellen then crept along the main crescent by the bay. Adam glanced at the Ardview as they passed, a couple of hardy smokers trying to shelter in the doorway from the wind. No sign of Ash.

The policeman dropped him at his B&B without a word, then did a U-turn and drove off. He watched the car disappear round the corner, then stood for a long time looking at the sea, ruffled in the wind, the occasional gull taking a dive-bombing chance into the surf, coming up with nothing. He looked at the B&B, same as every other house on the street. He noticed the nameplate, something in Gaelic that he’d never said out loud, didn’t know how to pronounce. He walked through the front door, dreading seeing the old woman who ran the place. He couldn’t think about having to explain everything to her. He knew she would probably already know, thanks to the island jungle drums, but that didn’t make it any easier. She might be listening out for him, anxious to get the gory details first-hand.

He crept up the stairs and opened the door to his room. He stopped. He’d been sharing the room with Ethan, Luke sleeping next door with Roddy. He looked at all Ethan’s stuff – the Samsonite case, his dress shoes, his jumper, T-shirts and underwear neatly folded on a shelf, a plain navy-blue shirt hanging in the wardrobe, his toilet bag on the small dresser. He walked over and lifted a sleeve of the shirt, sniffed it. Smelt of Ethan, whatever deodorant he used. Fucking hell. He walked over to the dresser and sat looking in the mirror at his saggy, hangdog face. This was terrible, the remains of a life, all neatly sitting here, waiting for Ethan to come back. But he would never come back.

A bottle of Laphroaig quarter cask that Ethan had bought from the distillery gift shop sat unopened in a bag. Adam thought back to that tour, Roddy winding him up about Molly’s lack of a wedding ring.

He fetched a glass from the en suite, broke the seal on the bottle and glugged the glass half full. He held it up and pointed it at the hanging shirt.

‘Here’s to you, Ethan.’

It felt empty, a completely hollow gesture. He was just drinking another man’s whisky, a dead man’s whisky, without permission, that was all. He tried to imbue each sip with something, some kind of feeling, but nothing came.

He calmly downed the remains of the dram, then stood up and hurled the glass at the wardrobe. He watched as it smashed, sending chunks and shards scattering across the room. He sat back down with his head in his hands for a long time. When he looked up he realised he couldn’t stand to be here a moment longer.

He crunched across broken glass then sneaked down the stairs and out the front door, feeling the blast of sea air on his face. He stood there wavering for a moment, then walked along the road to Molly’s house.

He stood looking at the doorbell. Nothing about the house had changed since the last time he was here. Why should it have? Everything in his life was different, everything had been turned on its head, but here were bricks and mortar, implacable and unaffected by it all.

He was about to ring the bell when the door opened and Ash came stumbling out, pulling her jacket on. She walked right into him and jumped.

‘Fuck, you gave me a fright,’ she said.

She looked the same – hungover and strung out, sad and lost, bags under her eyes bigger than ever.

‘Heard you had quite an adventure,’ she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

How much had Molly told her?

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t even realise Molly was missing,’ she said, a tinge of guilt in her voice.

‘Well, we weren’t gone that long.’

It seemed insane to be talking about what they’d been through in such a matter-of-fact way. Presumably Molly hadn’t told her anything about what really happened, sticking to the crash story.

Ash looked at her watch. ‘If I wasn’t already half an hour late for my shift, I’d kick your sorry arse for getting my sister mixed up in a stupid fucking car crash in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘So count yourself lucky.’

‘Believe me, I do.’

She had her jacket on now and was past him, talking over her shoulder. ‘She’s inside, on you go,’ she said. ‘But don’t get her into any more shit, OK?’

‘OK.’

She was halfway down the street, walking backwards and shouting. ‘I mean it. Or I’ll fucking kill you.’

Adam headed into the hall. He heard a television on and walked towards the living room. Molly was sitting on the sofa with a blanket over her, the same one Adam had found draped over himself when he woke on that sofa yesterday morning. She was staring glassy-eyed out the window, a huge tumbler of amber liquid in her hand. A black-and-white film was on television, a posh-looking couple running across moorland, just like the stuff outside.

Molly turned her head to look at the whisky bottle on the coffee table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, taking a large gulp from her tumbler. ‘Use Ash’s glass.’ She pointed at an empty glass, sticky residue lining the inside of it.

Adam walked over and picked up the bottle. It had a plain white label on it,
Port Ellen
. He’d never seen it before, it didn’t have the usual age or percentage information. He poured a large measure and nosed it out of habit, but he didn’t need an amazing whisky now, he needed an anaesthetic or a sleeping pill, something to erase the last thirty-six hours.

‘What is it?’ he said, lifting his glass.

Molly stared out the window. ‘Thirty-year-old, bottled in ’84. Completely unofficial. Never left the island, not for sale. Fell off the back of a lorry. It was part of my dad’s special stash.’

Adam had another big sip. He didn’t know what to say. Molly seemed in a trance. He stared at her. She looked exhausted and traumatised, but still pretty, her face still strong. An image of her bent over the barrel in the still with her jeans down flashed through his mind, the look on her face back then. He gripped his glass and screwed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He looked at the old film on the television. The couple were booking into an inn and looking suspicious.

Everything was ruined now, he realised.

‘I can’t sleep,’ said Molly, still looking out the window. ‘Isn’t that weird? Apart from crashing out for an hour at hospital, we’ve been awake for two days, walked and run for umpteen miles, been through hell, and still I can’t sleep.’

‘I’m the same,’ said Adam, feeling enormously tired all of a sudden, as if his legs would buckle. He eased himself down into a chair facing the sofa and stared at Molly. They couldn’t go back now, was all he kept thinking, they couldn’t ever go back. Why did it all have to happen to them?

‘How was your police interview?’ asked Molly.

‘A nightmare.’

She finally turned to look at him. ‘You stuck to the story though, yeah?’

‘Of course. But I think he knew we’d been there.’

‘Same with me. But they don’t know anything, not unless we tell them. They only suspect.’

They both drank, then Adam spoke.

‘They said forensics were on their way.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do you think they’ll find?’

‘No idea,’ said Molly, her eyes seeming to clear. ‘The still was presumably pretty much demolished in the fire.’

‘What about our tracks around it? And up at the loch?’

Molly shook her head. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘How far do you think they’ll look?’

Molly didn’t speak, just shrugged.

Adam swallowed uncomfortably. ‘My clothes are lying on the floor in that farmhouse.’

Molly looked at him then pressed her fingers at her temples and scrunched her eyes shut. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘I know. What should we do?’

‘Is there anything identifying you?’

Adam shook his head. ‘Remember, Joe made us empty our pockets, so I had nothing on me. My DNA will be all over the clothes, though.’

Molly sat thinking for a moment, the corners of her mouth turned down. ‘We just have to hope forensics don’t get as far as the farmhouse, and that no one reports the break-in for a while.’

‘Is that it?’

‘We can’t do anything about it just now, the whole area will be crawling with police.’

‘Yeah, I know, but …’

‘It didn’t look as if anyone was living there for the winter. With any luck the break-in won’t be discovered till spring. In a few days, once this has all died down, I’ll go out there and get your clothes.’

‘Really?’

Molly looked away. ‘Sure.’

They sat in silence for a while.

‘Think they’ll find Luke?’ Adam said eventually.

‘Hopefully not for a while.’

‘So we just have to sit tight.’

‘Looks like it.’

They both drank again.

‘It’s unbearable,’ said Adam.

‘I know,’ said Molly, draining her glass and holding it out empty. ‘But we just have to bear it, don’t we?’

Adam struggled out of his chair, refilled both their glasses then slumped back down. He gazed at Molly. She’d hardly made eye contact since he’d come in. It broke his heart.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘OK.’

‘I mean after …’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘At least you got your revenge.’

Molly glared at him, locking eyes for the first time. ‘You think that helps?’

‘No, of course not, I didn’t mean …’

‘It’s not a matter of revenge.’

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Then what did you mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ He felt tears well up in his eyes. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, I just …’

He could feel Molly looking at him as he started to cry, his eyes stinging with tears, his breath halting. After a while he recovered himself, wiped his eyes with his sleeves, took a hit of whisky.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Don’t be,’ said Molly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you.’

There was a long silence, just the low chatter of the couple on television, who were now in a bedroom, handcuffed together.

‘So what now?’ Adam said after a while.

Molly sipped and shrugged. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘You’re not seriously thinking of going in, are you?’

‘What else am I going to do?’

‘Surely they’d understand you’re in no fit state.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Molly. ‘Better than sitting around here.’

Molly looked at him, and he spotted a glimmer of the kindness in her eyes that he’d first noticed, the affection she had for him before all this insanity.

‘What about you?’ she said.

‘I’m supposed to stay on the island until the police get back in touch. Roddy presumably won’t be out of hospital for a while. Then there’s Ethan.’

He fell silent. Was he supposed to deal with Ethan’s body? Shit, what about Debs, he hadn’t even called her. Was that his responsibility? He couldn’t face speaking to her. It would’ve been bad enough with a simple crash, but everything else, all the secrets and stupid lies they had to maintain, it was all just impossible. Everything was completely fucked up. How were they supposed to survive all this shit?

He felt a wave of immense fatigue sweep over him. He downed his whisky and rubbed at his face. He was stinking, he hadn’t showered in days. He noticed Molly was scrubbed clean, her hair still slightly damp.

‘Think I need to have a wash, get some rest maybe,’ he said, creaking out of the chair.

‘OK,’ said Molly, looking up at him.

Adam looked her in the eye. ‘Can I come back later?’

Molly held his gaze for a moment then looked away. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I don’t think it’ll do any good for us to see each other.’

‘What do you mean?’

Adam stared at her, his heart thumping. Serenity now.

Molly looked at him and he struggled to swallow.

‘I don’t think we should keep in touch.’

‘What, ever?’

Molly finished her drink and put her glass down. ‘We’ll just remind each other of it all.’

Adam gulped heavily. ‘So what?’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t want to be reminded of it. Any of it.’

‘But …’ Adam realised he didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t bear it. It was all so fucking fucked up. ‘So this is it?’

Molly looked at him kindly. ‘Sorry, Adam, I just think it’s for the best.’

‘But I want to see you again.’

Molly smiled thinly. ‘Maybe you will, if there’s a court case.’

‘God, don’t say that.’

Molly rubbed her chin. ‘Let’s just try and forget any of this ever happened, OK?’

Adam knew that was impossible, and he knew Molly knew it too. He looked her in the eyes for a long time until eventually she turned away to watch the television. He kept staring at her in silence, not knowing what to do or say. Eventually he just sighed and turned to leave, his body exhausted beyond words and his mind buzzing with miserable nightmares.