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Cyrus
It’s a simple plan. One question. One answer. We’re going to find Sean Murdoch and ask him if anyone else survived the sinking. If he lies or tells the truth, Evie will know.
I have left a note for Florence, slipping it under her door, telling her that we are going back to St Claire for a one-stop visit and I don’t want her risking her career by tagging along. She’s done enough for us.
As we near the Fiat, I study the surrounding streets, peering into the shadows and doorways, half expecting to see Angus Radford waiting for us. I know he can’t have found us here, not yet, but memories of Arben keep haunting me.
We drive out of Aberdeen, heading north along the A90. New streaks of the day are arriving, lines of orange light that run across the sky, illuminating the clouds on the horizon. The roads are quiet at this hour, but I continuously check the mirrors, looking for vehicles that might be following.
Next to me, I can feel Evie grow tense as the miles disappear.
‘One question. One answer,’ I say, reassuring her.
Forty minutes later, we enter St Claire. The Waterfront Inn is closed. The kitchen door is locked. I knock and wait. Evie is nervously shuffling from foot to foot, hiding under her hoodie.
Isla Collie opens the door a crack.
‘Is Sean here?’ I ask.
‘You have to leave,’ she whispers, pleading with her eyes.
‘We have to see Sean,’ says Evie, showing her face.
‘Go, please,’ she whispers.
An unseen voice from inside. ‘Who is it?’
‘The postman,’ she replies.
‘At this hour?’ says the voice.
‘It’s a package.’
‘Ah don’t think so,’ says the voice. ‘Invite them in.’
It’s an order, not a request.
Isla opens the door. We step into the darkened bar. Only a few lights are glowing, illuminating the bottles of spirits behind the bar and the chrome of the beer taps. The place looks deserted, until I see a lone figure, nursing a drink in the corner near the jukebox. An open crisp packet is on the table. Smoke curls from a cigarette in an ashtray.
Angus Radford clears his throat. ‘Company. At last.’
27
Evie
I should be frightened, but I feel a strange sense of calm, as if the worst has already happened. Perhaps I have been afraid so often and for so long that I’ve become inoculated against fear, and nothing has the power to make my heart race or my palms sweat or my throat close.
Angus Radford kicks a chair across the floor, telling Cyrus to sit. Then he pats the stool next to him and motions to me. I don’t move. A sawn-off shotgun is resting across his lap. He drops his right hand to the trigger. I shuffle nearer, fixated on the weapon. I remember what a bullet did to Finn Radford.
When I reach the stool, Angus leans closer and he sniffs my hair. I snap with my teeth. He pulls away. Laughing.
‘I didnae recognise you at first,’ he says. ‘What do they call yer now?’
‘Evie.’
‘You were just a scrap of a thing. Your sister was the looker. You missed out.’
‘Her name was Agnesa,’ I say angrily.
