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‘That’s always fun,’ she says, pointing me towards a cluster of desks with computer terminals. ‘Most of the resources are available online. You should try National Records of Scotland and work backwards.’
‘How do I get started?’
‘What’s your uncle’s name?’
‘Angus Radford. He’s thirty-eight. And he comes from around here.’
She types the details into the computer and the screen refreshes.
‘This could be him.’ She reads from the screen. ‘Angus Fraser Radford. Father William Fraser Radford. Mother Maureen Elizabeth Collie. He was born at the Community Hospital here in St Claire.’ She opens a new page. ‘He has siblings. Two brothers, Finn and Cameron.’ The librarian rolls back her chair. ‘Now you have their names and ages, you should be able to keep going.’
‘What about newspaper files?’ I ask.
‘We don’t keep hard copies or microfilm on site. For that you’ll need to visit the National Library of Scotland. They have a reading room in Edinburgh.’
I won’t be doing that.
‘Are there books about local shipwrecks and boating accidents?’ I ask.
‘Is your uncle a fisherman?’
‘He was on a boat that sank twelve years ago. He didn’t drown, or anything.’
She looks relieved. ‘You could try our local history section. St Claire has been a fishing and whaling port for centuries.’
She shows me to the right aisle but is summoned to the reception desk, where a coffin dodger in a wheelchair is stuck in the turnstile. ‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says, bustling across the library in her sensible shoes, all spit and polish and discipline.
I look along the titles: Hidden Aberdeenshire, Forgotten Aberdeenshire, Aberdeenshire Remembered. I pick one of them up and begin turning the pages, reading the first paragraph of each chapter, but mostly looking at the pictures. The old ones are in black and white, showing fishermen posing in front of boats or unloading boxes of fish.
My phone is buzzing. I put AirPods in my ears.
‘Where are you?’ asks Cyrus, sounding concerned.
‘At the library doing some research,’ I say, wanting him to be impressed. ‘Angus Radford was born in St Claire and he has two brothers, Finn and Cameron. I know the names of their parents and where they were born and their occupations.’
‘Cameron is dead,’ says Cyrus. ‘He was on the trawler that sank.’
I’m annoyed that he knows this already. The librarian is walking towards me, carrying a book. I put Cyrus on hold.
‘I found this,’ she says excitedly. ‘It was self-published by a local historian.’
I look at the cover. LIFEBOAT LEGENDS: A century of maritime rescues in Scotland.
She opens it at a marked page. There is a photograph of a coastguard helicopter on a landing pad. The crew is posing under the stationary blades, dressed in orange overalls and yellow helmets.
The caption reads: Three crew rescued in trawler tragedy. One deceased.
Further down the page is a picture of the Arianna II, a fat-bellied boat that looks more like a tugboat than a trawler. The librarian leaves me with the book. I take Cyrus off hold. ‘I found a story about the Arianna II,’ I whisper, turning the page.
Suddenly, the light dims and my gaze narrows and the only thing that exists is a single image showing a young man with tangled hair and blue-green eyes, who is grinning at the camera. My mind slips and I’m no longer aware of the library or Cyrus or his voice in my ears. Instead, I hear the throbbing of an engine and I smell the diesel and vomit. A hatch opens. Bright light blasts my senses. A figure is silhouetted against the square of brightness. A ghost. An illusion. A ripple across time.
Cyrus is saying my name, yelling it over and over, trying to get my attention.
My dry lips peel open. ‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘One of them.’
