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‘Are you Mrs Murdoch?’
‘Aye, close enough. I’m Isla Collie.’
‘Any relation to Maureen?’
‘She’s my auntie.’
‘Sean helped a friend of mine two nights ago. He walked her back to our guest house. I wanted to thank him.’
‘How did Evie pull up?’
‘Hungover. Embarrassed. She says she’s never drinking again.’
Isla smiles. ‘Ah’ve heard that before. I might have said it myself once or twice.’
I don’t move. The silence drags out. ‘I’ll pass on your thanks to Sean,’ she adds.
‘I’d rather do it personally.’
‘Like I said – he’s sleeping.’
‘He used to be a fisherman?’
‘Aye.’
‘Twelve years ago, he skippered a trawler called Neetha Dawn. It rescued the survivors of the Arianna II.’
‘My brother was among them,’ says Isla. ‘And my cousins.’
‘The Neetha Dawn picked up another survivor – a nine-year-old girl.’
A different emotion enters her eyes. She reaches for her phone, which is resting on the counter near the knives. She makes a call. Cups the mouthpiece.
‘There’s a guy here asking about the Arianna.’
She nods quietly, acknowledging an unseen voice. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’
I hear footsteps on the ceiling above our heads and the creaking of weight on the stairs. Moments later, a man appears in the doorway. Half asleep, with pillow creases on his right cheek, he’s shirtless, wearing blue sweatpants that sag at the crotch. A short wooden truncheon is hanging from a strap around his right wrist.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asks.
‘Cyrus Haven. I wanted to talk about the Arianna. You picked up the survivors.’
‘Ancient history. Get out of mah pub.’
‘How did you know that Evie came from Nottingham?’
‘She told me.’
‘No.’
Murdoch takes a step towards me. He flicks his wrist and the truncheon swings into the palm of his hand with a slap.
‘Fuck off! And take the runt of the litter with you.’
Moments later, I’m outside, moving away, hearing his voice call after me.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Don’t walk. Run.’
