The Visitors (2 page)

Leaving the island.

Bancree was small. Barely twenty square miles of long, thin rock, ten or so long and two or so across, stretching out into the ocean. Little mountains bumped along the spine of the island like a pod of orcas, but even Ben Sèimh fell some way short of being a Munro. Our traditional industries were fishing, whisky and peat. Only the whisky had survived. Scores of islanders worked for Clachnabhan Malt, up in Tighna. Without the distillery, Bancree would be deserted. There was nothing on the island that wasn’t already dying. Half the houses were for sale. The island population numbered only a few hundred, and that dripped away, year on year. Now Richard was leaving, too. I’d known him all my life, and he was leaving before me.

A slice of me despised him for it.

‘Who’s that?’ he said, squinting in the sun.

I followed his gaze. On the far side of the bay, a grubby white van slowed to a crawl as it passed through Grogport. I could just make out the logo of a mainland hire company. It paused outside each house, looking for something, and passed out the other side, heading up the hill towards the northern end of the island. Then it stopped, lurched backwards, and reversed with a piping sound that floated across the bay. The van turned along the track on the far headland, bumping down towards the decrepit jetty that served only Dog Rock.

‘No way,’ said Richard. ‘No way. Do you think someone’s moving in?’

The hire van stopped at the end of the track, lurching with the handbrake. Richard started rolling another cigarette. We were both fascinated. Dog Cottage had been uninhabited as
long as I’d been alive. No one ever moved to Bancree, let alone the tiny islet.

On the far side of Still Bay, a man climbed out of the driver’s side. He walked around the van and into view. He was middle-aged and dark-haired, wearing dark trousers and a pale T-shirt, but the opposite headland was too far to distinguish any more than that. He arched his back and reached his arms up overhead. Mid-stretch, he saw us. Richard waved enthusiastically, the cigarette hanging crooked from a corner of his mouth. A sour puff of smoke passed across my face. The man gave a curt wave and turned away. On the near side of the van, a girl climbed down and stood beside the driver. She looked a lot younger than him. She looked about my age. All I could see at that distance was that she had dark hair, tied into a bunch behind her head.

‘Must be his daughter,’ suggested Richard.

‘Maybe.’

‘Someone for you to talk to.’

When you’ve gone, I thought.

‘I don’t even know her,’ I said, and tore a blade of grass from the headland.

‘Well, yes. But this is Bancree,’ said Richard. ‘It won’t take long, will it?’

She wore shorts and a blue hoodie, hands plunged deep into the pockets. She kicked at the ground. The man walked to the back of the van and opened the doors. He studied the contents, then started to tug and haul on something. He called to her for help, his voice muzzled by the distance between the headlands. The girl joined him, and after a few moments of wrestling, they dragged out an inflatable dinghy, bright yellow against the grass. A foot pump followed, and the man started to inflate the boat with ceaseless, monotonous movement. All the while, he looked across the bay at Dog Rock,
sitting squat between Bancree and the sea. I glanced across, too, but the ocean offered only wave upon wave upon wave. The girl carried bags and boxes from the van, wading through the grass and stacking them on the beach.

‘I can’t quite believe it,’ crowed Richard, ‘that someone’s actually moving into that old place. What kind of idiot would do that?’

As if he’d heard us from across the bay, the man looked up. For a heartbeat, he stared, and then he returned to work. Despite the sun, I felt a cold twist in my neck.

‘It’s a bit weird,’ I murmured.

‘Isn’t it odd that someone’s moving in now, of all times? It’s like they know about the disappearances, and they’ve come to fill the gaps.’

‘There aren’t any disappearances,’ I said.

‘Yeah? Tell that to Doug MacLeod and Billy Wright.’

‘Wheesht. They can take care of themselves.’

Richard snorted. ‘Dougie couldn’t care for a cardboard box.’

He played with the matches, trying again to light them on his nail. This time, I let him.

From our perch on the headland, Dog Cottage seemed little better than a wreck. It was still standing, but the walls were compounded as though carrying a great weight, and the door was peeled almost bare. The islet was bounded by a blackened rocky shore, and foxgloves and ferocious weeds sprouted everywhere. Stunted walls of gorse had grown dense since the islet was last inhabited. The scrub was studded yellow with flowers and sculpted the same shape by the Atlantic breezes.

The couple carried the inflatable dinghy down to the shore of Still Bay. He attached an outboard motor, then backed the boat into the surf. The girl began to pass him
boxes. When the load was full, she kicked off her shoes and waded in to push out the boat, then hopped up onto the prow. He jerked an arm at the outboard motor, twice, three times, and it coughed into life, farting little blasts of purple smoke, sounding like a wasp against a window. It took them a couple of minutes to reach the pontoon on Dog Rock, their inflatable nodding into shallow waves. The girl stepped out gingerly, hauling herself up on a pole and testing the weight of the boards. As she tethered the dinghy, the man started offloading boxes onto the crooked wood. She took them to solid ground. When they’d finished, they returned to Bancree, immediately packing another round of bags and boxes into the boat.

‘It’s like everything they own is in that van,’ said Richard.

‘If they’re moving in, it will be.’

‘I wonder where they’ve come from.’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. First people to move in since …’

We both paused, thinking. A lot of houses went on sale in Bancree, but there weren’t that many bought.

‘Do you think they’re English? Or foreign? Another holiday cottage,’ said Richard, ‘just what the island needs. She must be about our age. Your age, anyway. She might go to school. Could be in your year. You’ll find out soon enough.’

Like I’d have a choice. The island grapevine would be pounding with the news.

‘Well, I guess I’ll have to let you know,’ I said.

I felt bad about sounding catty, but Richard didn’t notice. He rolled another cigarette. This time, it looked like the real thing. I traced pictures in the grass with my fingertip while he smoked. Sometimes he pushed at my shoe or ankle, but I ignored him. The strangers finished their second run in the boat.

‘We should go around and help.’

‘Your call,’ he smirked. ‘They’re your new neighbours. Not mine.’

Leaning back, he took a deep drag of the cigarette. And then, brow furrowed, Richard tried to blow a smoke ring.

Like a fresh sheet on a bed, realisation settled on me. Watching him flick and fumble with the matches, I suddenly understood that he was trying on a character. A new persona. Right in front of me, testing it on an audience. He hadn’t even waited to leave. I wondered how long he’d been planning the new him. Testing new looks in the mirror, testing faces, clothes. Deciding to become a smoker. Learning how to smoke.

I felt nauseous to think of how long I’d missed this truth, even when it stared me in the face. Everything churned and curdled. Everything turned sour.

I was a dress rehearsal.

‘It’s nice,’ said Richard, watching Dog Rock, watching them carry their boxes, ‘to be out here with you. To spend this time together. Before I go. Really nice.’

‘Is it? Is it really nice?’

He wouldn’t meet my eye. He was supposed to be my boyfriend, but I was no longer certain what that meant. We’d known each other all our lives, and had been pretty much a couple for the last two, but he’d become a stranger in the time it took to roll and smoke a cigarette.

Low and fierce, the sun started its retreat into the west. Afternoon shadows crawled out behind us, even as we looked into the sea. Whatever I had with Richard suddenly felt very juvenile. Our relationship sloughed off one skin, and evolved into something new. Once, I’d thought it might be love, but now it felt little better than convenience. We were the only kids on this side of the island, and we’d been bundled together since we were babies. I felt pangs of sluicing sadness.
Our parents had declared us childhood sweethearts, and so we were. What choice did we have? There was no one else. It was the easy option.

He was nice. I liked him a lot. He was leaving without me. I couldn’t stand to be near him. I stood up and brushed down my legs, sweeping off the crumbs of grass and sand.

‘You’re going?’ he said, surprised.

‘Aye. I’m off home.’

‘Oh,’ he said, turning puppy dog. ‘I was going to watch the sunset over the island. It’ll be my last one for a while, Flo.’

‘Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be watching the sun set every night.’

‘You’ll come and see me?’

‘We’ve had this conversation a hundred times,’ I snapped.

He looked at me, confused.

‘OK then,’ I told him. ‘Sure, of course. Whatever you want.’

He wanted the audience. Standing over him, I’d a sudden urge to slap at him, to lash out. He wasn’t sad at all, and it made me boil. He’d brought me out here for a glimpse of his new character. A sneak preview. Not Richard from the island, but Richard who lives in Bristol. Richard who smokes. He was casual, easy, flippant. He was leaving, and I’d be stuck here, trapped on an island that could fit inside a snow globe.

He stood up and came to kiss me. I let him, but didn’t kiss back, feeling his hands around my shoulders, his lips pushing against mine. His cigarette breath was acrid on my upper lip. Richard moved his head to one side and pecked my cheek instead.

‘Look, it’ll be OK. You know that, right?’

‘Aye, well. Call me when you’re settled. If you like.’

‘If I can get through,’ he said, wounded.

‘If you want to,’ I corrected, and turned away, his fingers tugging mine as I let go of his hand. I waded through the deep
beach grass and back onto the road. The sun burned hot on one side, the other cool in shadow. I could feel him watching me, but I wouldn’t boost his ego by turning for another look. I felt too raw.

‘Flo,’ he called, ‘wait.’

With each step, my left shoe squeaked on the road. Only a few hundred metres to Grogport, and I felt him watching like a weight. A wee stone bridge spanned the creek at the near edge of the village, right beside my house. That bridge meant home and respite. I kept my head down, and forced myself to count the potholes against left shoe squeaks. Locked into myself, and with my gaze fixed on the road, I didn’t see the new girl until I’d walked straight into her.

She stood in the centre of the bridge, gazing at the trees beyond the village. She hadn’t seen me coming. At the last moment I spotted her feet and jerked my head up, but momentum carried me right into her. She bounced off me, staggering, and I threw out a hand to catch her arm.

‘Sorry!’ I gasped.

‘OK, I’m OK.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, letting go her arm, ‘I wasn’t looking.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, rubbing her side, ‘I’m fine.’

‘Well,’ I hesitated, ‘hello, anyway. I’m Flora. I live … well. I live right here.’

I pointed at our croft. It stood directly beside us. I felt suddenly ridiculous. The new girl gestured across the bay to Dog Rock.

‘That’s my new house. I’ve just moved here with my dad.’

It was weird. She couldn’t look me in the face. She was short and skinny and pale. She had dark, wavy hair. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, and she stood half-on to me. She was quite pretty, but there was something strange about her.

‘So …’ I said, ‘where are you from?’

When she frowned, her whole face crumpled.

‘All over, really. We only left Islay yesterday.’

‘Far enough, I suppose. Welcome to the bright lights of Bancree.’

The half-smile played again, and for an instant, she looked up and right at me. Her face was astonishing. Her cheekbones and jaw were well defined and sinuous. Her mouth was full, but pursed and nervous. She had large, peaty eyes, the iris dark enough to blend into the pupil. The whiteness of her skin made the contrast with her eyes all the more unnerving. Just as quickly, she dropped her gaze back to the road. A horn blast cut through the afternoon. By the jetty, the man stood beside the cabin of the van, waving at the girl.

‘Better go. See you later.’

‘Aye,’ I said, ‘see you.’

She turned and jogged to the jetty. Her dad grabbed her roughly by the arm and steered her towards the inflatable dinghy. I watched them pack another load into it before turning back to my house.

The porch was still. Motes of dust hung in sunlight, fostering silence. I kicked off my sneakers and pulled the front door closed. It was that strange summer hour between late afternoon and early evening, and no one was home. I traipsed through the little living room, kicking Jamie’s toys under the table, already feeling calmer. In the kitchen, I made a cup of tea and sat at the window, looking out onto Still Bay. We kept binoculars on the sill, and I combed the waves, hoping for otters or dolphins, or perhaps the seal I’d spotted that afternoon. The dune grass was alive with finches, and a heron stalked the shallows, but there was nothing extraordinary. I focused again, looking this time at Dog Rock. Boxes stood in stacks beside the pontoon. I frowned. They were all office storage boxes, the cardboard buckled with use. Some of them spilled paper. There were dozens of them. Who moves house with stationery?

I swung the binos to the headland where I’d sat with Richard, peering along the low line where the land fell into the sea. He’d gone. So much for watching a final sunset.

I simmered in sadness and frustration, furious with Richard for leaving, for changing. I liked him. I did. I’d miss him because he’d always been there. But I didn’t need him. It was clear that Richard had pretty much finished with me. Or maybe I’d been the one to do the finishing. Didn’t matter. Either way, it was finished.