Chapter Thirty-Six
Amhuinnsuidhe Castle was to be found precisely in the middle of nowhere. Miles along a single-track road whose dips and curves and swerves and hollows made speed impossible. Past occasional croft houses clinging to hillsides in splendid isolation. An incongruously sited all-weather tennis court set just below the road, within sight of nothing at all. A tiny primary school perched on a bend of the road offering pupils an unrestricted view of island wilderness.
The castle itself came out of the blue. Through stone gates, and hidden beyond a bank of unlikely rhododendrons, it appeared around a bend in the road as if out of nowhere. Scottish baronial in style, with turrets and gables and steeply canted slate roofs, it looked out beyond a crenellated wall with black-painted cannons to the comparative shelter of a sea loch and an almost completely enclosed bay.
Through an archway beyond the castle, the road continued on for several miles to the tiny settlement of Hushinish, where it ended in drifts of silver sand and a handful of crofts. And, of course, the Atlantic ocean.
Lee Blunt and his party had taken it for two nights. Niamh, against her better judgement, drove down to Harris after spending a difficult afternoon at the Macfarlane croft. Family and neighbours had gathered there to eat the cold meats and sandwiches and cakes that Mrs Macfarlane had prepared. The men sipped at single malts with an unusual lack of relish, making them last until they could take their leave without presenting the appearance of undue haste. No one wanted to linger.
Niamh’s own parents, and Uilleam, had disappeared immediately after the funeral. But Seonag was there with her family. She and Niamh did not speak, and barely exchanged glances. Donald sat her down in the porch, with condensation forming on all the windows, and tried to dissuade her from going to Harris for Lee Blunt’s party. She should go home, he said, and lock herself in. Or better yet, stay overnight here. There was a spare bed, still, in the old croft down the hill that they used now as offices.
His odd insistence was making her increasingly uneasy, and she used the excuse of helping Mrs Macfarlane with the dishes as a means of escaping him.
Only after most of the visitors had gone, did she herself finally leave, the pale concern on Donald’s face staying with her as she turned south on to the bridge at the foot of the hill, setting a course for Harris and Amhuinnsuidhe.
The drive, turning right at Tarsaval, past the old whaling station, was the stuff of nightmares. The storm had bled almost all light from the sky. Wind buffeted the high side of her Jeep, driving rain on to a windscreen that her wipers, even at double speed, had trouble clearing. She guessed, more than drove, the length of that road, and several times thought of turning back. Until suddenly, rounding the bend beyond the gateposts, the lights of the castle shone out in the darkness.
Niamh was not sure whether to feel relieved or depressed. A party was the last thing she felt like, and yet Lee had made it seem as if refusal would give offence. He and everyone else had, after all, flown up to the island at great expense to be there for Ruairidh’s funeral. And where else was she going to go? Back to Taigh ’an Fiosaich, and the pain of all the memories that lay waiting for her there? Power to the house was always erratic, but in a storm like this she could expect to spend most of the night in darkness. And with the memory of the attempt to kill her the previous evening still in the forefront of her mind, a night spent in the dark, miles from the nearest neighbour, seemed less than appealing.
There were several cars drawn in on the gravel around the front of the castle, and as soon as she stepped from her Jeep she heard, above the wind, the sound of loud music pounding from somewhere deep inside the building. She heard, too, whoops and shrieks of laughter tumbling down the stairs as she went through the entrance lobby. Past furled flags leaning up against the wall, the Stars and Stripes, a Union Jack. A stag’s head. A sculpture of dolphins leaping from water.
The polished wooden staircase curved around a half-landing, red flock wallpaper lurid in the light that spilled down from the first floor. The ground floor, by contrast, simmered in semi-darkness. The only light Niamh could see was along a corridor, beyond those rooms where fishermen gathered before and after sorties, and the boot room where they hung their wet waterproofs. She wondered where all the staff were. This was not the kind of clientele they would be used to.
As she climbed the stairs, she heard someone playing a piano. A mad, drunken ragtime, only faintly and incongruously discernible above the monotonously hypnotic voice of a rapper that rose above an endlessly repeating electronic refrain. Through an open doorway along a panelled hall she saw people with cues moving like shadows around a snooker table.
At the top of the stairs, beautiful people lay about on the sofas and armchairs of a TV room off to the right, the volume on a BBC-24 news bulletin turned up to an absurd level that almost hurt the ears. To the left an honour bar had been mercilessly assaulted. Bottles stood open next to a broken glass, spilled spirits stripping varnish from antique furniture. In a vast lounge, with two enormous fireplaces, a solitary figure played the grand piano. A beautifully tall, shaven-headed black model, chiffon gown barely concealing her bony ebony curves, emerged from the dining room. She had a bottle in one hand, and in the other a glass filled with some vividly coloured green drink. ‘There you are, darling,’ she said, as if they were old friends, and thrust the glass into Niamh’s hand. ‘Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.’
Niamh looked at the drink. There were slices of orange and lime floating in it along with the ice. ‘What is it?’ She sniffed and took a sip. It was both sweet and sour.
‘St Patrick’s Day Punch.’
Niamh almost laughed. ‘It’s not St Patrick’s Day.’
‘No, darling it’s the six-month anniversary.’ And she threw her head back and laughed as if she had said something uproariously funny. ‘You’ll love it! Green apple pucker and lemon-lime soda. It’s Lee’s favourite. Ever since he discovered a little Irish somewhere in his ancestry.’
‘I’ve got a long drive ahead of me. I shouldn’t drink.’
The model laughed again. ‘Darling, do you think I keep a figure like this by drinking alcohol? Lee’s been looking for you everywhere.’
Niamh took a long pull at the glass and welcomed the chill sweetness of this unexpectedly non-alcoholic punch. It had an odd flavour.
The model put her arm around Niamh’s shoulders, steering her into a sitting room at the front of the castle from which most of the noise was coming. The sound of music struck her like something physical. This was an elegant salon, hung with large oil paintings and a crystal chandelier. Bodies sprawled in various stages of undress across antique furniture, and Niamh felt as if she had wandered accidentally into the tableau of some Hieronymus Bosch representation of hell. The air was thick with smoke that hung in subdued lighting, acrid and heady.
Jacob Steiner emerged from the smoke, his habitual cigar in one hand, his favourite whisky soda in the other. From the flush of his cheeks, Niamh figured that it wasn’t his first. ‘Jees, honey,’ he said. ‘Where you been? Lee’s been getting all agitated, thinking you stood him up.’
‘I had to go back to Ruairidh’s parents’ house after the funeral. I came as soon as I could.’
‘You got some catching up to do, then, girl,’ he said. And as she took a sip of her drink he nudged it up with his own glass and she nearly choked on it. ‘Another glass for our widow,’ he shouted out. And she was shocked. Both to hear herself called a widow, when she had never even considered that that’s what she was, and at Jacob Steiner’s insensitivity in addressing her like that.
Someone took the empty glass from her hand and thrust another into it.