FIFTY-SEVEN

Harry struggled to his feet and sat down on the starboard bench. He looked across at Ailsa, who was sitting on the other side of the boat. The gun was still in her hands. Between them Frank lay sprawled across the deck like some great black fish they had just landed, blood oozing from beneath him and lapping first towards Ailsa, then towards Harry, with the pitch of the vessel.

'What did you… attack him with?' Harry asked numbly.

'A safety flare,' Ailsa replied, pointing to a scorched red and yellow metal tube lying in the stern. 'I found it in a locker under the wheel. It was… the obvious place to look and… the only thing I could think of.'

'Thank God you knew how to set it off.'

'Thank growing up on a small island for that and all the messing about in boats that goes with it.' She glanced down at the gun. 'Do you know… how to unload this?'

'The magazine's in the handle, I think. There'll be a catch somewhere to release it. Barry might—' Harry broke off, bemused by Chipchase's absence — and the fact that it had not yet occurred to him to question it. 'Where is Barry?'

'He knocked himself out on the lintel of the cabin doorway.'

'He did what?'

'I'm sorry. We should… see how he is. But… I think he's all right.'

Harry hurried into the wheelhouse and down into the cabin. Chipchase was slumped on the floor, with his back against one of the table legs and his feet spread out before him. He was blinking like a man hoping his vision would soon clear and rubbing a nasty-looking wound on his forehead that was already forming a lump with a livid bruise purpling around it.

'He was so worried about you he forgot to stoop,' Ailsa called from the deck. 'He's going to have quite a headache.'

'Barry?' Harry crouched beside his friend and grasped him by the shoulders. 'Barry?'

'There you are, Harry.' Chipchase opened his eyes wide, which seemed to bring his vision into focus. 'What's… going on?'

'Don't worry. We've, er, dealt with Frank and Mark.'

'You have?'

'Terminally.'

'Bloody hell.'

'Not pretty. That's a fact.'

'So…'

'Everything's OK.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Well… didn't I tell you it would be?' Chipchase grinned. 'With me in charge.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Chipchase did not ask for any details of what had occurred during his brief period of unconsciousness. His lack of curiosity might have worried Harry had he not been so grateful for it. He had no wish to relive the events any time soon. Nor, clearly, had Ailsa. The shock of what had happened and the almost greater shock of surviving it had reduced their range of thought and action to the needs of the moment.

Chipchase turned out to be no more familiar with the design of a Browning pistol than Harry was. In the event, it was Harry who removed the ammunition, rendering the weapon safe. He also found a tarpaulin folded away under one of the benches, which he draped over Frank's body. Mark's was a dark shape in the water, drifting slowly in towards the shore of Haskurlay. There was no way they could retrieve it. Someone else would have to do that. The police, presumably.

The launch had a VHF radio, which they could have used to summon help there and then. But Ailsa was confident she could handle the controls and favoured heading for Castlebay to raise the alarm. 'If we radio from here, they'll tell us to stay put,' she reasoned. 'I don't want to sit out here waiting for them. Do you?'

Harry did not. And Chipchase expressed no preference, much of his initial chirpiness on regaining consciousness having deserted him. Ailsa washed his wound as best she could and dressed it with a bandage she found in the first-aid kit. Barry decided a cigarette would aid his recovery and sat out on deck smoking it as they accelerated away from Haskurlay, towing the inflatable behind them.

Harry watched the island recede slowly into the distance, doubting he would ever set foot there now. Ailsa did not look back. She stayed at the wheel, gaze fixed on the northern horizon. Harry wondered if she too had seen her last of the island. It was easy to believe she might never want to return.

But the future was as difficult to predict as the past was to fence off. The one was always infecting the other. And the past that had lured them to Haskurlay was not finished with them yet.

—«»—«»—«»—

'The police will find out who hired Frank,' Harry said to Ailsa, standing beside her in the cockpit as the launch sped towards Barra.

'I don't care if they do or not,' she said, so quietly he had to strain to hear her above the roar of the engine. 'I only ever wanted to know the truth about how Father and Andrew died. Well, we know now, don't we?'

'We do, Ailsa, yes. But I'm not sure the powers that be will want the public to learn what Operation Clean Sheet was all about. They'll organize some kind of cover-up.'

'Let them. I don't care about that either. I have a husband and children I love. The kids have no idea what's been happening. I want to go back to my life with them. I want to bury Murdo next to his mother and father and brother and then…' She looked away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. 'I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop crying.'

'Don't worry about it. What were you going to say? “And then…”?'

'Oh.' Ailsa sighed. 'I was going to say: forget all this.'

'That won't be easy.'

'No. But it may be possible. In time.'

'The police will ask a lot of questions.'

'I'm sure they will.'

'I'll make it very clear you had no choice about shooting Frank. It was kill or be killed.'

'Just tell them everything, Harry.' She smiled grimly at him. 'That's all we can do.'

'Yes. I suppose it is.'

'I'm all right. Really. Go and talk to Barry. I… can't say any more. Not just now.'

Harry nodded. 'Fair enough.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Chipchase was bending over the side of the vessel, spitting out the last of a mouthful of vomit, when Harry reached him. He was white-faced, breathing fast but shallowly. What with that and the bandage round his head, through which blood was still seeping, he looked far from well.

'Maybe you should go below, Barry,' Harry suggested. 'You didn't seem to feel seasick down in the cabin.'

'I didn't… did I?' Chipchase swivelled round on the bench to face Harry. 'You… could be right.'

'Want a hand?'

'No, no. I can still… walk down a flight of steps, y'know.' Chipchase struggled to his feet. 'I'm not a… bloody inva—' He winced and bowed his head. 'Jesus. That—'

He fell like a toppling tree. Fortunately, Harry was in his path of descent. He caught Chipchase and lowered him gently the last few feet to the deck, kneeling with him as he went.

'Barry? Are you all right?' There was no answer. Harry repeated the question. But still there was no answer.