A DOCTOR CAME OVER on the first ferry of the morning and tended to Ray’s wounds, which were neither superficial nor life threatening. The prognosis was better than the pain led him to believe. The doctor, out in the hallway, gave Mrs. Campbell the tongue-lashing of her long and nosy life. “Is this how you treat your guests on Jura?” she asked. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Ray restrained his laughter, but only because it hurt so goddamn much. The bickering was interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs whistling. His next visitor was Mrs. Bennett, who had very thoughtfully brought him some expensive supplies from The Stores. “How are you feeling, Mr. Welter?”
“Like hell.”
“Well that’th to be expected — you have been thot. I’ve brought you thome thingth.” The box she carried contained bandages, ointment, cotton balls, medical tape. Everything he would require to keep the gunshot clean. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to talk to you about your planth for Barnhill.”
“My plans for Barnhill?”
“Yeth. Our letting agenthy hath a young couple in London who ith quite eager to athume the leathe on the houthe.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“Oh heaventh no, Mr. Welter. We had jutht thought that you would be leaving, given your condition. They are offering to pay conthiderably more each month than yourself, tho I’m confident we could work out a mutually beneficial arrangement. There are many other beautiful and more convenient hometh available should you with to thtay on Jura.”
“I’ll give it some thought, Mrs. Bennett. Thank you for the bandageth … I mean, bandages.”
He got out of bed. Every step hurt. The envelopes and pewter flask weighted down his pants. He had forgotten about that. In the movies, a man’s flask was supposed to deflect the bullet and save him from this kind of agony. Reality was infinitely more subtle, and more painful.
Still in his bloody clothes, he made it downstairs with Mrs. Bennett’s help and without running into Mrs. Campbell.
“Pleathe think about what I’ve thaid, Mr. Welter.”
“I will, thank you. I’ll drop by for some boots as soon as I’m feeling better.”
Ray sat on the porch of the hotel, unsure of his next move, until Farkas pulled up. He looked like he hadn’t slept. There were sticks and twigs in his hair and beard, mud on his nose. “As I understand it,” he said, “you’re lucky to be alive.”
“What’s so lucky about attempted homicide?”
“There is the attempted part.”
“Pitcairn tried to kill me,” Ray said. He had to bend over to climb into the car and pain filled his lungs. “He should be in jail.”
“He says it was an accident. And if he did go to jail, who would look after Molly? You?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That you and I both know that no one here — and I mean no one — will take the word of a stranger over Gavin’s, even though we know you’re right.”
The surface of the road jostled the tiny car, sending pain squirting through his entire system until it settled into one all-encompassing ache that stretched from his groin to his teeth. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“A lot of things bother me, Ray. But that is simply how it is here.”
“We’re talking about attempted murder.”
“You have to let it go, as there are bigger and more important issues at stake.”
“More important than my death?”
“I’ve come to a bit of an insight, if you will. Gavin believes he’s the only one who understands how to maintain our traditional ways, but he may be trying to preserve something that never existed. The best bottle of malt ever produced is worthless if it stays in the bottle. And I’ve spent too many years trying to be accepted as something I already am. I know what you’ve done for Molly, and I want to help. I told her I would smuggle her off the island and help her get to Chicago.”
“Really? What if Pitcairn finds out?”
“In that event, he will most certainly have another attempted homicide under his belt. And even if he lacks the wisdom to understand as much, having Molly get an education is what’s best for her and what’s best for this island in the long run. The big picture here is the only picture worth attending to. I’m a historian, I’ll have you remember. That girl doesn’t belong here right now any more than you do. You’re not cut out for life on Jura — this isn’t exactly a theme park.”
“So I’ve learned,” he said. “What about you — do you belong here?”
“Aye, of course I do, even if not everybody appreciates that fact just yet. And if it’s my lot to be treated as an outsider on the only home I’ve ever known, so be it. And speaking of home — Mrs. Bennett tells me that a young couple keeps ringing up from London hoping to hire Barnhill.”
“She told me the same thing just now. It sounds like she wants to get rid of me.”
“No, we hate Londoners as much as Americans, but it does sound like they’d be willing to take over the lease. They’re apparently very keen on it. You might even make a profit on the deal.”
“Is that what you think this is about — making a profit?”
“Not really, that’s just something one says to Americans. She also sent along some wellies. They’re in the back. You can pay her whenever it’s convenient. Here we are.”
Farkas stopped at the end of the road. Ray climbed out and leaned on the open door to collect his strength for the walk ahead of him. “I appreciate your advice, Farkas. You’re right. Maybe it is time to go home.”
“I brought you a little get-well gift,” he said. He reached into a bag on the seat behind him and produced a bottle. The handwritten label said 1984.
“1984?” he asked.
“That’s when it was distilled. It’s an extremely rare whisky. I put a small batch aside because of that year’s significance to our merry little island. May it treat you well.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, slàinte?”
“Slàinte, Farkas.”
“You get yourself better now. I’ll stop by in a few days, see how you’re holding up.”
The little car puttered away, back toward Ardlussa and Craighouse. Ray fingered the shape of the bandages under his clothes, the strips of cotton and medical tape holding his insides inside. It hurt so much. If he opened the bottle and drank a gulp, would whisky trickle out his wound and further stain his sweater? For the first time in months, years maybe, he had no desire for a drink.
The hike homeward took forever and each step hurt more than the previous. He clutched the bottle of scotch and his new boots — they looked comfy and dry, but he couldn’t bend over to put them on. The sky blazed in a spectrum of blues and watched over its own reflection in the sound. By the time he arrived at the crest and Barnhill came into view, it had ceased to be George Orwell’s house and had become his own. He had never felt more up to the challenge of being himself.
He was tempted to take a long nap, but lying down and getting up again would be way too painful. He made it to the kitchen for a glass of water and found a sunny spot in the sitting room to read his mail. With some reluctance he opened the strangely shaped envelope made of green paper reminiscent of the papyrus an intern once brought him from Egypt. The return address was printed with soy ink in a curling font designed to appear earthy and earnest and it came from an organization called the Ethos Co-Op of Chicago, Illinois. Before he opened it he knew that it contained a job offer from Bud.
He had not, however, expected the check made out in his name for $50,000.
Bud’s letter began “Dear Raytard” and detailed how his former friend had been so inspired by Ray’s bold decision to move to Scotland that he had arrived at an epiphany concerning the inherent evil of the business model at Logos. Bud had quit his job and opened his own agency, one organized around the principles of ethical responsibility and environmental awareness. Ethos Co-Op dedicated itself to working for progressive companies that focused on issues of local and global sustainability. He wanted Ray to sign on as executive vice president.