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 amp;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 amp;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.’