The Sound of Whales (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

T
he morning sun streamed through the window and bathed Fraser's face as he lay in bed. It felt warm and inviting, calling him outside, seeking his company. But he was stuck indoors, grounded for the morning, having offered no reasonable explanation for his late return the previous evening. He couldn't talk of caves and strangers, dared not even mention the whales. He had considered faking a romance with the American girl but wasn't keen to even pretend. Dunny had escaped the grounding, had been judged an unwilling accomplice in some secretive shenanigan.

Typical.

Fraser was not to leave the confines of his house unless it was burning down. He thought about making toast for breakfast and leaving it under the grill.

Something else was calling him to the forbidden outdoors. He was desperate to find Ben McCaig and tell him of his late-night encounter with orcas. He had witnessed a pod of killer whales swimming just offshore and that seemed even more unbelievable than a shipwrecked sailor.

Fraser dragged himself from under his duvet and looked out of the window, down towards the harbour. It made no difference that he was grounded; Ben was gone. The
Moby Dick
had sailed some time in the early morning. It had been gone when Fraser first looked, just after his mother had woken him to say that she and his brother were catching the early ferry to Skye to buy Dunny's school uniform. They would be away all morning but Fraser was not to leave the house if he valued his life.

He turned from the window and noticed something lying on his pillow. It was a shell. Dunny! It was annoying enough that Dunny came into his room when he wasn't there. Now his brother was coming into his room when he
was
.

It was a razor shell, long and thin and shiny white with speckles of blue. Inside, like a pearl, was a small lump of dull glass. As Fraser picked up the shell the glass tried to sparkle in the sunlight. He took the shell to Dunny's room and tossed it through the door.

He returned to his room and lay back on his bed, in no rush for breakfast, or a wash, or clothes. He pictured the orcas again, the sleek black of their bodies hidden in the darkness of the ocean, the white parts shining in the moonlight, their high fins silhouetted against the horizon, circling slowly, his brother smiling at the water's edge, like lord of the whales
 . . .

A loud knock on the front door woke him from his doze. The sun still streamed through the window but it had moved across the bed, no longer on his face, the world spinning on its axis. The knock came again and he hauled himself to his feet and pulled on a pair of jeans and the same T-shirt he had worn yesterday. As he was going downstairs there was a third knock, an anxious, something-is-wrong knock. He hoped it was Ben, hoped the scientist had somehow heard about the orcas and wanted to know more.

Fraser pulled open the door and saw Hayley Risso. Her face was white and her bottom lip trembled.

‘Come quickly,' she said.

‘I'm grounded.'

‘Put on your shoes on and come quickly!'

‘I'm not supposed to leave the house.'

‘You have to come.'

‘But what if I'm caught?'

‘When this gets out, all that won't matter.'

‘When what gets out?'

‘Just come.'

Hayley moved back down the path, heading towards the harbour. She didn't look behind her, confident, it seemed, he would follow. Fraser had to walk fast to catch up.

‘Where's your mum?' he asked breathlessly.

‘Gone to that big island, can't remember its name.'

‘Skye?'

‘Yeah, that's it.'

‘Why she's gone there?'

‘No idea. She said she would be back on the afternoon ferry.'

Past the harbour, Hayley jumped down on to the beach and headed in the direction of the cliffs. Fraser wondered how many times he had walked this piece of sand in the last couple of days, wondered if he was walking in his own footprints.

The ocean was still and blue, the sand sparkled, but ahead lay a large, dark object.

‘Oh, God,' Fraser said, his heart sinking. ‘Another whale.'

Not an orca, he prayed. Another pilot whale, a dolphin, a baby sperm whale, even. Just not one of the orcas from the night before. They had been too special, too magical, to now be washed ashore, dead and decaying.

He moved towards it slowly, searching for a fin or a tail fluke, heard Hayley behind him say, ‘No, Fraser.'

He stood above it now, frowned slightly as his brain slowly made sense of what his eyes already knew.

That wasn't a fin, that was an arm. That was no tail fluke, that was a leg.

Fraser staggered back, fell on to the sand and tried to push himself backwards, clawing hopelessly at the beach that slid through his fingers.

It was a body, a human body. Just lying there on the beach of Skulavaig, on a warm July morning, with the ocean calm and not a soul to be seen.

‘Is it
 . . . 
is it Jonah?' Hayley asked, as if the sand was clogging her throat.

Fraser stood and stared, didn't know what else to do when a corpse lay in front of him. Was this the man he was talking to only yesterday? It didn't seem real, it couldn't be real, but there he –
it
– lay, partially buried, face down on the sand, twisted slightly, legs apart, arms by the sides. It had the size and frame of a man, naked except for a pair of cotton underpants. The skin was wrinkled, as if newly emerged from a hot bath, grains of sand in the folds. And it was black.

‘Is it Jonah?' Hayley asked again in a quiet voice.

Fraser stepped closer. ‘I don't know.' He couldn't see the face, nothing else looked familiar, but there was nothing familiar about a dead man. He had never seen one before, had attended only one funeral, his grandfather's, and the coffin had been securely sealed.

‘What happened?' he asked. ‘Did he try to swim for the mainland?'

He took another step closer, crouched down beside the body. Sand flies buzzed about his face and he was surprised there was no smell. That was the ocean's doing. Ben McCaig had told him once that the ocean washed everything clean. He pushed the revulsion back down and examined the corpse. It lay twisted with the stomach partly exposed. There was a dark stain on the sand beneath. The skin here was lighter and, peering closer, he saw that there was a wide tear across the abdomen. He was looking inside the man.

‘Come here and look at this,' he said. ‘There's a wound.'

‘No, thank you,' Hayley said with a hint of panic. ‘We better go. We better tell someone.'

She was right.

‘Mr Wallace.'

‘Who's that?'

‘The harbour master. He'll know what to do.'

As Fraser straightened up he saw something glint in the sun. It lay close to the body, mostly buried in the sand. He reached down and pulled out a knife.

He recognized it instantly: the wooden handle, the flat, sharp blade. He checked anyway and there on the handle were the carved letters
BM
. It was Ben McCaig's whale-gutting knife.

‘What's this doing here?' he said.

Hayley moved a step closer. ‘What is it?'

‘It's
 . . . 
Ben's knife.'

‘Where was it?'

‘In the sand here.'

On the blade of the knife there was a dark glaze that could only be blood. On the dead man was a wound, a large gash across the abdomen. He had watched enough
CSI
to connect the two.

Hayley voiced a half-formed question. ‘Do you think he
 . . . 
?'

‘No. Absolutely not.' But he was holding Ben's knife. ‘We can't tell anyone,' he said.

‘But we have to.'

‘We can't. They'll blame Ben. It's his knife.'

‘But if he's done something
 . . .
'

‘No. He wouldn't. He guts whales, not people.'

‘That knife could be a murder weapon.'

Fraser knew as much. He held the knife gingerly where the blade met the handle, but he had to give Ben the opportunity to explain.

‘Let me talk to Ben first. Then we'll hand over the knife.'

‘And what if he takes it from you and stabs you?'

‘That won't happen.'

They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Perhaps the tan was fading but suddenly she seemed pale – a girl far from home and unsure of herself.

‘What's to stop me reporting everything?'

‘Nothing. Except I'm asking you not to.'

‘And what about meeting Jonah last night?'

‘I wouldn't mention anything about that. If last night we're with Jonah and the next morning he's lying dead on this beach, we'll spend the next week answering questions in a police station.'

Fraser took a last look at the body, half-buried, face down in the sand. It was unreal, not what happened in Skulavaig on quiet Saturday mornings. Not on this beach, his beach. Not in this life, his life. And suddenly he felt the crushing frustration of an adventure that was over before it had really begun. No more caves and castaways. A dead body brought all that to an end. As he moved back down the beach he carefully slipped the knife inside his belt and pulled his shirt over the top.

CHAPTER 10

H
ayley followed Fraser back towards the harbour, not a word passing between them all the way. She wished she'd stayed in the cottage and not made her discovery, wished she'd told anyone but Fraser Dunbar, who made serious things even more serious. She wished she was back home in the heat of Austin, sitting on the bleachers watching the senior boys at football practice, or strolling down the mall with her friends, her old friends, Kayla and Megan and Abbie, spending imaginary dollars on dates and dances and proms yet to come.

The wishes gushed out of her now, as if someone had shaken a soda and popped the top. She wished her dad had not left home to be with another woman, wished her mom was less concerned with the displaced people of the world and more concerned with a displaced daughter, wished she was trusted enough and smart enough and old enough to live her own life, do her own thing, on her own terms.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Fraser's whisper, as if Mr Wallace had listening devices hidden all over the harbour: ‘I'll stay here. You go on. Don't mention me.'

‘You're coming too.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm grounded, remember. I'm not supposed to be here.'

‘That doesn't matter now.'

‘It will to my father. Besides, I have this.' Fraser tapped his waist where the knife was hidden.

‘We should give that to the harbour master.'

‘Not yet. You just go on, it will be fine.'

Hayley scowled at the boy but she wanted this particular episode in her Nin nightmare to be over, wanted to forget that there was a dead man close by. This was not her responsibility. ‘Where am I going?'

‘Over there, in the Fisherman's Mission. The harbour master's office is up the stairs.'

‘What will I tell him?'

‘Just say you think there's a body on the beach. Point him in the right direction but don't linger.'

Hayley had no intention of lingering. She was quite literally about to shake the sand from her shoes. She left Fraser crouched behind the wall and pulled herself on top of the jetty. She walked quickly to the building with the sign saying ‘Fisherman's Mission', wondered what mission a fisherman might have except to catch a lot of fish.

She pushed open the door and crept inside. The room was full of empty chairs, with a pool table in the middle, a large-screen television and dartboard fixed to opposite walls, and a smell of beer in the air. She slowly climbed the stairs, past photos of old boats, each wooden step creaking a warning that she was coming. When she reached the upper level there was another door with a nameplate bearing the inscription
Mr Wallace, Harbour Master
. Hayley knocked lightly on the door and entered. Compared to the dark staircase, this room was bright, sunlight pouring through a large window that looked out on the harbour.

The harbour master turned to face Hayley as she entered. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck and he wore some kind of dark blue uniform.

‘Miss Risso,' he said. ‘What troubles you to come all the way up my creaky stairs?'

‘There's a body on the beach,' Hayley blurted.

Mr Wallace moved his head to the side as if he had misheard. ‘What kind of body?'

‘A dead body.'

‘A whale?'

‘No, not a whale.' Hayley took a breath. ‘The body of a person. On the beach.'

His eyebrows dropped in disbelief. ‘Are you sure, lass?'

‘Yes, I'm sure. There's a man lying dead on the beach.'

‘You're certain it's a man?'

‘Yes!' Hayley said, exasperated.

‘And you're certain he's dead?'

‘Of course I'm certain. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't certain. The man is lying face down, half-buried, not moving, with a large hole in his stomach. I'm certain he is dead.'

Mr Wallace's eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as if he feared the dead body was a close relative. He removed his binoculars and moved to his desk, flattening the crease on a large book that was already open.

‘Where is this body?'

‘Five minutes walk beyond the harbour wall, heading towards the cliffs.'

Mr Wallace made notes in the book. ‘Can you describe the man?'

‘There's not much to tell. He's black, he's not wearing any clothes, only underwear. That's about it.'

‘A black man.' Mr Wallace nodded in interest, then shook his head as if troubled. He scribbled some more in his book. ‘And has anyone else seen this body?'

‘No,' she said, a little too forcibly. ‘No, only me.' She didn't want to be connected with Fraser Dunbar. The dead body was
Fraser's
friend, the hidden knife was
Fraser's
doing. She wanted no part of any of it.

Mr Wallace wrote a few lines more and then rose slowly from behind his desk.

‘You know, it's not uncommon. We get bodies washed ashore; I've seen a few in my time. Inexperienced crewmen from tankers, fishing boats lost when a storm hits unexpectedly, Sunday sailors getting into difficulties in the currents of the Minch. Aye, it happens. If this is a black man, as you say, then it's probably a poor lad from a tanker who was lost overboard during that big storm.' Mr Wallace stood silent for a moment, as if honouring the dead. ‘Nothing was reported, though.'

‘What now?' Hayley asked, anxious to be gone before the harbour master probed further or shared more stories of the drowned.

‘I'll inform the appropriate authorities. Someone should be here shortly to take a look. They will send a police boat from Portree.'

‘Aren't you going?'

‘I cannae leave my window, lass. It's the living that concern me.'

Hayley looked through the window at the empty harbour and the equally empty stretch of water beyond. There didn't seem much importance to Mr Wallace's watching.

‘Well, I thought you should know. I have to go now.'

‘You should probably come back later, guide whoever comes to examine the poor soul.'

‘I don't think so. The body is hard to miss. And I've seen enough.'

If Mr Wallace was about to argue the point, he thought better of it. ‘Aye, fair enough. You did the right thing coming to me.'

Hayley turned to go. ‘He seemed a nice man,' she said.

‘How could you know that?'

She inwardly slapped herself across the back of the head. An almost fatal error. She was a better liar than this. ‘I mean he was probably a nice man. I hope he was a nice man.'

The harbour master gave Hayley a sad smile. ‘Aye, well, the ocean claims the nice and the nasty. You take care, lass. Remember you're on an island. Never take your eyes off the sea or the sky.'

Hayley nodded and retreated from the room, wondered if she had been given a warning or the weather forecast. She returned to the jetty and found Fraser sitting on the beach on the far side of the wall. He was throwing pebbles at an old rotting post that protruded from the sand and missing every time.

‘It's done. What now?'

Fraser shrugged. ‘You best get home.'

The girl gave a snort. Home was Texas and Texas was a long way away. ‘Fine. What are you planning to do?'

‘I'm staying here until Ben returns.'

‘Fine. That's fine. If he murders you, I'll let someone know.'

‘Good. Mr Wallace will do.'

Hayley stood there and Fraser sat on the sand, neither looking at the other, the only sound the breaking surf and distant gulls. She wanted to leave but something held her back, a reluctance to abandon the boy to knife-wielding biologists.

‘He seemed nice,' she said again.

‘The harbour master?'

‘No. Jonah.'

Fraser sighed. ‘Aye.' He picked up a few more pebbles and carried on throwing them at the wooden post. ‘Tonight's the ceilidh,' he said.

‘The what?'

‘The ceilidh,
kay-ley
, rhymes with Hayley. Hayley at the ceilidh.'

He gave a weak smile but Hayley offered nothing in return.

‘My mom mentioned it. Some kind of dancing.'

‘That's right. Scottish dancing, the Gay Gordons and the like.'

‘Who is Gay Gordon?'

‘There
is
no Gordon. And no one is gay. It's the Gay Gordons.'

‘Gordon's not gay?'

‘It's a dance.'

She was confused and not in the slightest bit interested. There would be no dancing from her on the island of Nin.

‘I'll see you,' Fraser said.

It was her cue to leave and she was glad; it removed any responsibility towards dead Africans and sad Scottish boys. ‘Yeah. See you.' She picked up a stone and threw it at the post, hit it first time with a whack.