The Last Refuge (3 page)

It didn’t take long to memorize the town: the western harbour at the door of my hotel, where the row of painted houses overlooked the marina with its melee of white yachts and fishing boats; past the white-walled cathedral on the hill, master of all it surveyed; on through the alleyways that fringed Tinganes; past the Cafe Natur with its alluring lights and alcohol, up hills, past shops and hotels and waterfalls. I just walked; my collar up and my head down, bothering no one.

Other days, I climbed high into the hills around the town, and finding no discernible place where the clouds stopped or started, got wet just standing still, despite it not seeming to be raining. I hiked across high moorland and came across an unfinished cathedral which, much like these rain-drenched islands, was badly in need of a roof.

My marches across the hills were accompanied only by the cry of kittiwakes or the screech of fulmars. High-pitched squealing versions of Wagner or Sousa, marking time and territory. Nothing else. All thoughts of anything before Torshavn were banished from my mind.

It took nearly two weeks of walking before I let memories sneak past my guard. I was high on the moorland above the Hotel Foroyar when my mind drifted on the breeze, back to a time and place when I had chosen wrong over right and let violence consume me, control me, define me. And as I thought of it, a little bit more of me died inside, just as it did every time the memory came. I closed the window in my head that it had flown in through, and locked it tight.

I think I became conscious of the movement through the air just moments later, and seconds before I heard the loud, aggressive ‘tek-tek’ croak just inches from my ear. Instinctively, I ducked. Something brushed against my head and wheeled away. Seconds later, I heard another cry behind me and the air fluttered and hummed. I ducked again and stumbled to the grass as a wide shadow hurtled past.

Getting warily to my feet, I saw a pair of large birds circling way above me. One moved to the left and the other the right. As my eyes tried to follow the movement of both, one was suddenly gone and I knew nothing till it swooped, barrelling straight at me. In the few seconds before I ducked again, I saw that the thing had a wingspan of four or five feet and a ferocious stare in its dark eyes. Its massive brown barrel chest, hooked bill and sharp claws backed up its vicious intent. The other bird followed immediately, its talons dropped to make contact with me, its beak screaming. Just in time, I threw an arm up and fended off the attack.

I’d read enough to know these were great skuas; creatures with a nasty reputation as thugs of the air, attacking other birds in mid-flight and robbing them of their catch, even killing them. They were known to attack ewes and lambs and were extremely territorial. One attacked again, reaching the height of its swing-turn and dive-bombing me, claws outstretched. I managed to sidestep it, but its mate was soon in my face, tearing at my protective arm.

They came again. And again. Screeching, clawing, snapping. Doing everything they could to drive me back down the hill.

My dad kept and bred pigeons where we grew up in Whiteinch. He raced them some, but they never flew fast enough or far enough to win much in the way of rosettes or cups. I was allowed to feed them after school and got to know every one of them by their markings and their cry. The one thing you couldn’t tell was whether the bird was a cock or a hen. Until they had chicks to look after. When that happened, the hens would try to take the tip of your fingers off or fly at your face. That was when you had to watch out.

I realized the skuas were attacking because they had a nest somewhere on the flat ground where I was walking. They were protecting their own.

These birds had a duty of care; an instinct to guard those in their trust, whatever the cost. No dereliction of duty for them. They would attack and they would defend. They were the ones in the right and I was in the wrong.

I knew how simple it would be to grab one of these birds as they flew at me. Grab it by a wing or a leg until I could get purchase on its neck. It would be easy to keep its beak at bay as I wrapped my fingers round its scrawny throat, feeling feathers between my fingers, knowing that all that lay below them was soft tissue and fragile bones. My hands would be too strong for that slim neck, my fingers all too capable of gripping, twisting and snapping until life was choked out of it.

My violence would be too much for what little the skuas could offer in return. I could wring the neck of one of them and then the other. But the memory of violence and guilt was what stopped me from doing it. There was still a price to be paid for what I’d done back then, and I couldn’t bring myself to hurt those birds for simply trying to protect their young.

Instead, I stood, arms spread wide in supplication, and let them come at me.

My eyes darting left and right, I saw brown shadows flash on the edge of my vision. I kept my eyes open as long as I dared, then clamped them shut as the shadows were almost on me.

The first bird was in or near my face and I recoiled as I felt a rush of air, then the bones of its wings and the softness of its feathers on my skin; the scratch of its claws sharp against my cheek. Its aggressive squawk rang from ear to ear and the earthy, honeyed smell of it filled my nostrils.

My instinct was still to duck or fend it off – or more basic, to kill it. I stood still and fought that urge rather than the bird. The skua revelled in the freedom I gave it and thrashed at me. Then suddenly, breath was thrown out of me and my senses somersaulted.

I felt a huge weight crash into the back of my neck and, stunned, I pitched forward and collapsed onto the ground. My eyes, which had been screwed shut, now saw only blackness sprinkled with stars. Vision blurred and head spinning, I managed to clamber awkwardly back onto my knees but was drunk with disorientation. Next to me in the dirt and as dazed as I was, lay the second skua.

The bird had probably expected me to duck when it launched its attack on me and, not being ready for my sacrificial stance, had crashed into me from behind with its full force. Its senses didn’t seemed to have survived the collision any better than mine had, and it flapped pathetically as it tried to right itself.

But the sound of thunder was on me again as the bird’s mate returned to the fray with a vengeance, plunging down on me, talons and bill scratching, filling the air with as much menace as it could muster.

It pushed itself off me, arcing away and turning for another assault. The injured bird had joined it in the air again and I couldn’t distinguish one angry shadow from the other as they raced down upon me like avenging angels. My arms spread wide as they came, awaiting judgement. It came in the form of a beating of reproachful wings and a brutish peck at my cheek that drew blood.

It was enough. I wanted the punishment I was due, but the physical pain of it forced me into a humbled retreat. When the birds attacked again, I finally ducked away and raised my arms as much in surrender as in protection. I turned and headed back down the hill, the skuas screeching high above me, their braying triumphalism a warning to me to return to my own kind. Whoever
they
were.

Chapter 4

I am deep in the dream. I know that I can’t be awake, that it can’t be real, because Liam Dornan is there. Alive. Yet I have sunk so far into this bottomless nightmare that I can’t climb out of it. Aware of its unreality, I have no choice but to let it play out.

Liam is sitting in the middle of the room, his desk surrounded by the rest of the class, all talking. They are all ignoring me as if I’m not there. Perhaps I’m not, not really. Liam is talking louder and more excitedly than any of them. Pointing and shouting, swearing, winding other kids up, embarrassing the weaker ones, showing off in front of the girls.

I don’t want them to make all this noise. It will mean trouble and I don’t want that. I’m asking them to be quiet but they can’t hear a word because I’m not there. I shout. Then louder. They just keep laughing. I can feel the rage, the frustration, building in me. I’m screaming at them now. Stop. We need to get on with our work. Liam Dornan, this is your doing. Stop them. Now. He doesn’t. They don’t.

I must be there, though, because he is staring back at me, defiantly, mockingly. I can’t do anything to him and he knows it. The smirk. The sneer. That insolent grin. He is laughing louder and longer.

I pick up books and throw them. At Liam. At all of them. Every book in the classroom. Every book in the school is suddenly violently launched at them. They are hit by an avalanche of words but still they stand there, laughing and joking, impervious to everything that I throw at them. Especially Liam. He absorbs it, grows stronger on it, feeding on the frustration and knowing it makes him the winner. I tip up desks and overturn chairs. I turn the room upside down and yet when I look back, every kid is back in their own chair, all laughing.

Liam Dornan is at the heart of it, the eye of the vortex. I don’t know how he’s doing it but he’s putting all that furniture, all those desks and chairs, back in place when I’m not looking. I’m getting even angrier, can feel it growing. I know Liam Dornan shouldn’t be alive, can’t be alive.

I go up to him, march to his desk, unseen by all. Except Liam. He looks at me, then throws his head back and laughs. My ears are pounding with the noise. It’s all I can hear, shutting out everything else.

But then I look closer. Liam is bleeding. How could I not have seen it before? There is blood running down his cheek. It’s from a knife wound just below his left eye. There’s another, on his right side, a slash from ear to lip. Then one running down the right side of his nose, slicing through the top of his lip, blood pouring from it. There are a dozen cuts, two dozen, three. His shirt is drenched in red; sticky and wet and the smell of it overpowers me. Liam doesn’t seem to notice though. He just sits there and laughs, giggling uproariously. His face is all red now; every inch, apart from the white of his teeth, soaked in blood.

I stagger back and Liam sniggers, mocking my reaction. I shout but he still can’t hear me. I give in and turn my back on him and walk away.

I can still hear him but he isn’t laughing now. He’s screaming. I look down. There’s blood all over my hands.

Chapter 5

There is only so much fresh air any man can take, and eventually, aided and abetted by the rain, it wore me down and forced me to take refuge in Cafe Natur. The warm orange glow behind the bar’s dark wooden facade had been calling to me night after night, whispering sirens that I could ignore no longer.

The sirens didn’t lie. Inside, Cafe Natur was everything that outside wasn’t. The bare wooden floors and panelled walls rang with the understated hum of people in good spirits. Everything inside was stripped back and basic. Despite my reluctance to mix, it felt strangely good to be in a crowd again.

A large old clock with a yellowed face dominated the wall next to the bar. All the walls were lined with black-and-white photographs and paintings of old Torshavn. Fishermen by the port, men in overalls, washerwomen, boats, the British Army parading through town. I recognized the locations, and not much seemed to have changed except the fashions.

Timber supports ran from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room. Given that there was only a handful of trees in the entire Faroe Islands, Cafe Natur was using up more than its fair share of them.

The shelves behind the bar were in contrast to the rest of the pub. Chic purple backlighting with bottles of expensive vodkas, sambucas and other liqueurs. There was a signed Chelsea football in a glass case, sitting next to a bottle of Tullamore Dew.

I counted eleven taps for draught beer and gave a silent prayer of thanks. The brands seemed to be local, from breweries called Foroya Bjor and Okkara, with names like Gull, Black Sheep, Porter, Klassic, Rinkusteinur.

From behind the bar, a young guy with tousled brown hair and a Nirvana T-shirt smiled and asked what I’d like. ‘
Bjor, takk
,’ I answered in my best attempt at Faroese. It was all I knew and, usefully,
takk
could double as both please and thank you. It would get me by for now.

The guy poured a Klassic and in a generous nod towards my attempt at his language asked me if I wanted anything else. Or at least that’s what I guessed he’d said. When I floundered, he asked me again in perfect English.

His name was Oli and we shared the first proper conversation that I’d had since I arrived in Torshavn. The interaction began reluctantly on my part, knowing that barmen, like taxi drivers, hairdressers and journalists, were trained in the art of finding out about people while giving away very little of themselves. The inequity of the deal didn’t appeal to me.

‘So where are you from?’

‘Scotland.’

‘Yeah. Which part? The Highlands?’

‘No. Glasgow.’

‘Oh right. Rangers or Celtic?’

I groaned. ‘Partick Thistle.’

Oli looked confused. ‘Is that a real team? Or is it just something you say when you don’t want to say who you really support?’

He was a smart kid. ‘Both.’

‘Okay . . . So how long are you staying in Torshavn?’

This was a question whose answer would only trigger more questions. However, given that I intended to stay in the Faroes, it couldn’t be avoided forever. I hedged.

‘I’m not sure. I’m planning to stay for a while. Get a job if I can.’

Oli gave me the same look of surprise I’d received from the receptionist on my first night at the hotel. And the same reply: ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘Okay. How are you finding it here?’

‘Wet.’

Oli laughed. ‘Yeah. It rains three hundred days a year in the Faroes.’

‘That all? I thought it would be more.’

‘It only feels like more. You have good weather in Scotland? I don’t think so.’

I shook my head. ‘Not good weather, no. Just less weather.’

He grinned. ‘You get used to it pretty quickly. What else are you going to do? We use cars as raincoats and we stay at home if it gets too stormy. It’s not a problem. It’s natural.’