She nodded, and he headed towards the kitchen. She saw only the most fleeting shadow flit through her line of sight as Ruairidh rounded the breakfast bar, his back towards her. She screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Ruairidh!’
He spun around as Seonag flew at him, knife in hand, and felt the blade sink into the soft flesh of his neck. He saw her face, distorted by madness, streaked with the blood that matted her hair all down the right side of her head. And he grabbed her knife hand, swinging it out and away from his body, forcing it down. It was her own momentum that propelled her on to it, and he felt the blade slice through soft tissue before hitting a rib that deflected it upwards and into her heart. She fell, a dead weight, at his feet.
Niamh was across the room in several strides, stepping over Seonag’s body to retrieve the torch and shine it on Ruairidh’s wound. She saw blood oozing through his fingers, where he pressed his hand against it.
‘Don’t know how bad it is,’ he whispered. ‘Guess she missed the artery.’ He paused and managed a pale smile. ‘I’m going to be in trouble, amn’t I?’
And suddenly the lights came on. Blinding them. They stood blinking in surprise and shock, and Niamh realized in that moment, however much she had to forgive him, however insanely stupid he had been, she still loved him. Still loved that little boy who’d rescued her from the bog up on the Pentland Road all those years before.
Chapter Forty
It would be some time, they were told, before they would be allowed to return to the house at Taigh ’an Fiosaich, but Niamh had the sense that no matter how it might clean up, the stain of blood and death would always haunt their home.
They signed into the Royal Hotel under the curious eye of the receptionist, who couldn’t take her eyes off the bandaging on Ruairidh’s neck. There couldn’t be anyone in Stornoway who did not know by now what had happened out on the moor south of Skigersta in last night’s storm. Or at least some version of it.
They had both spent most of the day being interrogated separately and giving statements at the police station in Church Street. Senior officers from the mainland were apparently on their way. Niamh and Ruairidh had been warned not to leave the island.
George Gunn, it seemed, had never made it back to Stornoway the previous evening, detained at Uig until late by a tragic accidental death on the cliffs at Mangersta, and staying there overnight. It was only on his return in the morning that he had picked up Braque’s message and watched the video.
Lee Blunt’s car had been found in a ditch near Hushinish, Blunt himself unconscious but alive.
Once in their room, they drew the curtains and sat in disconsolate silence. Who knew how long it might take to get over something like this, if ever. It was some time before Niamh finally got to her feet to search her bag for the slim parcel in its brown paper wrapping that she had intended to give to Ruairidh in Paris. She held it out to him and he looked up in surprise.
‘What’s this?’
‘Maybe the only bright spot anywhere on our horizon,’ she said.
He frowned, then took it and tore away the wrapping. He looked up in consternation. ‘A compendium of Scots Gaelic Christian names and their history?’ It was the tiniest booklet.
She said, ‘I was afraid, after she pushed me into the sea, that I might lose it. But they scanned me at the hospital this afternoon while you were still with the police.’
His eyes opened wide. ‘But I thought...’
She nodded. ‘I know. Me, too.’
He stood up. ‘You really are?’
‘Yes.’ And she felt his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her tight in a way she had thought he never would again. And it felt like life had given them a second chance.
Acknowledgments
My grateful thanks for their help in my researches for this book to: Margaret Ann Macleod, Brand Development Director, Harris Tweed Hebrides, for her knowledge of weaving, and her insights into growing up on the Isle of Lewis in the Eighties and Nineties; Brian Wilson, Chairman, Harris Tweed Hebrides, for allowing me access to the mill; Mark Hogarth, Creative Director, Harris Tweed Hebrides, for his introduction to Première Vision in Paris; Iain Finlay Macleod, Breanish Tweed, for his insights into building a successful weaving enterprise; Annie Macdonald, Carloway Mill, for rescuing the mill and allowing me access to it; Simon Scott, Factor, Grimersta Lodge, and his team for taking me round the lodge and explaining the workings of the estate; Anna Murray and Donna Morrison, for their observations and anecdotes on island life; Derek Murray, for his tales of gate-stealing, and who took me out across the moor on a foul day to introduce me to the delights of Cuishader, Bilascleiter and Taigh ’an Fiosaich, which became such important locations in the book; the entire team at Comunn Eachdraidh Nis (Ness Historical Society) for their help and friendship, and access to historical and geographical information about Ness; Alasdair Macrae, funeral director, Stornoway, for his invaluable insights into island funeral customs; Derek Macleod, weaver, Carloway, for taking the risk of letting me try out his loom; George Murray, retired police officer, for advice on island policing; Dr Steve Campman, Medical Examiner, San Diego, California, USA, for his advice on forensics and pathology; Tatiana Lebedev, Russian fashion designer, for allowing me access to her Paris workshop and boutique; and a special word for Professor Joe Cummins, emeritus in genetics at the University of Western Ontario, Canada, who provided scientific advice on many of my books over the last twenty years. It was Joe who inspired me to write Coffin Road in defence of the bees. Sadly Joe passed away last year. RIP.
Peter May January 2018