Women of the Dunes Page 30

  Alice came over and gave her a hug. “You look done in, Libby. Go to bed soon.”

  “I will.”

  Another hug, a smile, and Alice was gone.

  And so the kitchen fell silent, empty now of drama, and Libby sat nursing her mug, savouring the stillness and the quiet, and tried to block out the horror. Somewhere in this divided house a man lay ill, his days numbered, while upstairs his brother sat with his sons waiting for the oblivion of sleep to overtake them, and for the healing to begin. That closed look in Donald’s eyes as the fishing boat raced for the shore would, she feared, take some time to penetrate.

  And somewhere there was Laila, her mad bid for vengeance foiled by so slight a margin. The image of her in the kayak, paddle raised, was impossible to blot out. Where would the coastguard take her, Libby wondered, and how would she explain what had happened? She must know that she had been seen from the boat, and her intentions understood. And the boys, instead of drowning, could now bear witness. Perhaps the lifeboat men had called the police.

  Rodri appeared in the doorway and he stood there looking across at her, his face haggard. He had aged a decade this night.

  Libby rose. “What can I get for you?” she said.

  “Nothing, Libby. Only this.” He opened his arms, half appeal, half invitation, and she went to him. He held her for a long time and she felt the tension in him. Then he drew back. “Angus said you were brilliant. Couldn’t have managed without you.”

  “He would have.”

  “But you were there. And you brought them back. I told Hector.”

  “How is he?”

  “Asleep.” He released her.

  “Alice says you should eat something.”

  “Did she? I’ve another idea.” He led her into the library and pulled cushions from the chairs, piling them on the hearth rug beside the fire, gesturing to Libby to sit, and she did, watched the flames making patterns on the old oak panels. He settled down beside her, a bottle and two glasses in his hand. “But he’s glad to be here.”

  He filled the glasses.

  “Does he know—?”

  He shook his head. “Only that there was an accident and that all’s well now.” He handed her a glass. “The rest’ll keep.”

  She took it from him, and the fiery spirit drove the last of the cold from her. “When did you learn what was happening?”

  “I picked up Alice’s messages when I got back here with Hector in the ambulance, and went with the others out onto the headland. It was all I could do.” He took a long breath, and was silent for a while, his face grim as if reliving the agony of waiting. She knew enough of him to imagine what being unable to act had cost him. Then: “I’ll have to tell him in the morning, though.” The coals moved in the hearth and a blue flame leapt at the coat of arms on the fireback, then died.

  “David was asking about him, said he was glad his father was coming.”

  Rodri turned his head sharply to look at her, his expression lightening. “He said that? That’s good, very good—” Then the phone rang and he got to his feet, the glass still in his hand.

  He spoke into the receiver, listened, and then grew still. “I see,” he said, and listened again. “No, I understand . . . Aye, there’s more. Much more. No, no, of course. . . . In the morning. Aye, tell Fergus. . . . Aye, aye, everyone’s fine. . . . And thanks, Jimmie. You too.” He put the phone down.

  “So perhaps there’s a God after all!” he said, in a very different tone, and went for the whisky bottle, raising his glass to the flames: “To Laila. May she burn in hell,” and she saw that dagger glint in his eye as he tossed back the drink before slopping more into his glass as if all the fury in him were suddenly unleashed. “One minute she was there, they said, paddling hard away from them, and next she was gone. Empty kayak. They scoured the seas for two hours and then gave up.” He took another swig, and the flicker of the flames shadowed his face. “Do you know what David told Maddy? He said Laila went for him first, eliminating the strongest, good tactic. Quite out of the blue she smacked him on the head with her paddle, but not hard enough. David’s a smart lad and rolled, and when he came up again, he saw her flipping Charlie over, and his brain switched right on to what was happening. He went to help him, but by then she’d tipped Donald up. David reached Charlie in the water, got him to hang on, and then managed to get between Donald and Laila, fending her off until Donald could swim round to him.”

  Ice re-entered her soul and she felt herself begin shaking again, remembering what she had seen. “They were both in the water when we came up to them, hanging on to the back of David’s kayak, and he was holding her off with his paddle.”

  He swore. “And for how much longer, I wonder! She’d tried to persuade them life jackets were for wimps, David said, but I’d put the fear of God in them about wearing them, so they did. Otherwise they’d all be dead now.” He drained his glass, and reached down for the bottle again.

  “Don’t,” Libby said, getting her hand on it first and holding on.

  He closed his fingers over hers and gave her a dark look. “But I intend to get very drunk tonight.”

  “And if the boys wake, and need you?” That seemed to steady him. “It’s over, Rodri.”

  He seemed to sway where he stood, staring back at her. “It is, isn’t it?” he said, in an odd disbelieving tone. “All of it. Over—” Then he took the bottle from her, poured himself half a glass, and cocked an eye at her. “Alright?”

  She nodded, and they sat in silence, shoulders touching, and stared into the fire, and the silence lengthened. “She’d already got rid of one child of mine, you know,” he said in a queer twisted voice, and she turned to him. “Hector told me. I never knew.

  “She must have been pregnant when I first brought her here, though I’d no idea. I think she saw me as a safe bet, and maybe it was a way of hanging on to me. Once here, though, she saw that Hector offered a much better deal, and was still available. Wounded, bed-bound, drugged up—and at her mercy. I’d gone out to the North Sea rigs to get some money so we could get married, leaving her here, where she proceeded to wreak havoc.” He gave a short, dry laugh. “When I came back, Maddy had vanished, Angus was off looking for her, and Laila had got Hector on the hook. She disappeared briefly, apparently unable to face me, but I expect that was when she got the business seen to. By then it was rather late in the day and there were complications. It only came out later, much later, when they were having fertility investigations and the doctors suspected that she’d been pregnant, and damaged by a termination. She tried to tell Hector it happened years ago, before she met me, but she let something slip, and finally admitted it.” He stopped and stared again into the fire. “All these years he’d assumed it was him who was infertile, after his injury. They had a massive row, but somehow patched things up, and kept going.”

  He stopped again but didn’t seem to expect a response, so she stayed silent. Then: “The lifeboat men couldn’t understand how she’d disappeared under the waves so fast. She’d not worn a life jacket, and I reckon her ‘baby’ got waterlogged and pulled her down. Talk about irony.”

  “They think it was suicide?”

  “She was paddling hard away from them, they said. And they asked just now if there was something more they should know.” He reached for his drink again. “And there’s plenty. Anyway, they’ve told the police, so they’ll all be piling round here in the morning. And before then, I shall have to tell Hector.”

  They stayed there until the fire died down, just sitting, not talking, and Libby sensed him working it all through, a heady mix of relief and exhausted emotion. And the horrors of what might have been. It would take a while, but maybe the coils would begin to unwind and his load would lighten, and life would look different. And, given time, there would be a different Rodri to get to know. . . .

  Abruptly he rose and pulled her to her feet, taking both her hands. “Will you sleep with me tonight, Liberty Snow?”

  The question came fro
m nowhere.

  “No. Go to bed.”

  “You won’t?” he said, smiling, and pulled her to him.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” His face was close to hers.

  A hundred reasons. She grabbed on to one. “What if the boys wake and come in to you?”

  “What if they do?” He looked back at her with an odd twisted smile. And there, at the back of his eyes, somewhere deep, she saw the same bruised look she had seen in his son’s eyes, the same need. “I’d like you close tonight, Libby,” he said. “The rest is for another time. But for tonight, it’d be a kindness.”

  She reached up and touched his face. “For kindness, then,” she replied.

  In the morning she woke to find him gone, and she lay there a moment and watched the sun slanting through the window to make watery patterns on the bedroom wall, and smiled. Thank God there was sunshine, for this day would need it— Last night Rodri had fallen asleep almost at once, having first curled her body into the contours of his own and then wrapped his arms around her, consuming the warmth of her—an animal craving comfort—and she had lain there, feeling the pulse of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin against hers. “Thank God you’re here,” he said as he buried his face in her hair. “You smell good, Liberty Snow.”

  And she had laughed, glad too that she was.

  She had waited until his breathing became regular, then gently extracted herself from his hold. He had stirred, grunted sleepily, then rolled over and gone straight back to sleep, and she too, with her back against his, had slept.

  For kindness, she had said, and for the rest, time would tell. But better now that she left him space to cope. Downstairs she found the kitchen empty, but the kettle was steaming gently on the corner of the Aga and so she made tea. Was Rodri with Hector? She drank it quickly, keen now to slip away and get back to the camp. She had no place here where death and deadly intentions stalked the rooms and passages.

  So she slipped out of the back door, down the dark rhododendron tunnel, out through the garden gate, and to the campsite. It was still early and no one was up yet, so she slowed her pace and breathed in the astringent air of early morning, and looked beyond the headland to the deep swells of the sea. And there Rodri had stood, his arm tracing a curve in the sky as he signalled back to her. How far offshore had they been? A mile, less probably—the distance over water, just like the distance over time, was deceptive.

  She heard voices and waking sounds behind her and turned back to the camp to see tent flaps being turned back and the students emerging. They greeted her with a certain reserve, wide-eyed and uncertain, and she heard whispering amongst them.

  “You feeling better?” Callum asked.

  “Much better.” But they would have to be told, and it was best done straightaway. She summoned them to gather around and listen: “In all the upset yesterday with the boys and the kayaks, I’m sorry to say that Lady Sturrock was lost, presumed to have drowned.” That brought gasps and then a shocked silence, followed by a wave of urgent whispering. “So there’ll be police coming and going, and I’ll need to go back up there and give a statement. Sir Hector Sturrock also arrived yesterday. He’s very ill, and this accident will have been a further blow. So we need to keep as low a profile as we can and then start packing stuff away ready to leave tomorrow.”

  “That’s terrible!” she heard one of them say as they split off into small groups. “Such a lovely lady.”

  “Her poor husband!”

  She turned away, but Callum followed. “God. That’s awful. I thought the lifeboat went after her.”

  “They did, but she’d gone under. No life jacket.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  She switched subjects, hoping he would leave it there. “How did Mel get on with the bones?”

  “I’ll show you.” He led her to the caravan, which he unlocked and entered, sliding along one side to make space, and Libby saw where the bones from the box had been laid out.

  “Most of the skeleton is there, just a few phalanges missing, and I think it’s a male, mature adult, teeth good. But there are multiple blade injuries, perimortem by the look of them. And there’s this.” He turned the skull so that Libby could see the cranium. A great cut mark cleaved the back of the skull, not splitting it entirely but enough for the victim’s brains to have spilled out with the blow.

  Pádraig stole back along the edge of the trees, keeping low, until he reached a point where he could watch. And he saw Odrhan walk towards the men who had come from the ship.

  He crept closer but could not hear what was being said. Slowly he edged into the dunes and lay there, flattened into the sand, and looked through the grasses, and listened.

  “Do you know who I am?” The large grizzled-haired man seemed to be their leader.

  “You have the look of your brother,” Odrhan replied.

  The man grunted, and one of the men gestured towards a low mound where Odrhan had told Pádraig that Harald was buried. “And where is Ulla?”

  “She is dead.”

  The man nodded, apparently unmoved. “And the child?”

  Pádraig dropped his head in sudden fear, but he heard Odrhan’s response. “The child died also.”

  The grey-beard threw back his head. “That is not what I have been told! I hear of a red-haired child who lives on a headland with a man who was once a holy man but who is revered no longer.”

  “You have been misinformed. I live alone.”

  “That child is my son!” the man roared, and Pádraig froze.

  “The child died, I tell you.”

  “You lie!”

  “He is in God’s hands.”

  “Search the dwelling,” the man commanded, and two of his followers ran along the beach to the headland. Pádraig wriggled deeper into the sand so that only his head remained clear.

  All day the men tried to make Odrhan tell them where to find him, and Pádraig watched, shaking in horror and grief, sobbing silently. Times many he thought to rise and reveal himself to make them stop, but instinct told him that it would not save Odrhan. In a fury, the grey-beard hacked into the burial mound and then pulled out a round object which he thrust into Odrhan’s face, screaming abuse at him. And Pádraig saw that it was a man’s head. Then he dropped it and smashed it with a stone. Above them the gulls screamed in outrage.

  Odrhan was on his knees now, held upright by a man on either side, and the bearded giant turned back to him, his sword gripped in two hands above his head.

  “Tell me!” he roared.

  And Pádraig saw Odrhan drop his head, and he knew that he was praying, and he was praying still when the sword descended.

  And as Libby ran her finger along the gash, the legend suddenly had immediacy, the murder of Odrhan was laid bare before her, not in romance but in all the horror of reality.

  “. . . a blade injury like that,” Callum was saying, “was either from an axe or sword wielded by a tall man or because the victim was kneeling.”

  The caravan door opened and Rodri stepped inside. “They said you were in here,” he began, and then his eye fell on the skull in her hands. “Oh God. Another one.”

  “It’s from the box on the headland,” Libby replied, and turned it so that he could see the back of it. He took it from her and, like her, drew his finger slowly along the edge of the wound, and reached the same conclusion.

  “Odrhan?” he said, surveying their faces.

  “I think so,” said Libby.

  He stared into the empty eyes a moment, then he handed it to Callum. “Poor bugger. Will he get no peace?” Then: “I’ve got to drag Libby away again, I’m afraid, the police are up at the house. Have you told them here what happened?” Libby nodded, and Rodri cut short Callum’s expressions of sympathy. “Thanks. Good of you.” Then: “If you’re ready.”

  “Where’s Declan?” he asked as they crossed the campsite.

  “Gone home.”

  Rodri looked at her. “
Good. Then I don’t have to drive him off as well.”

  “As well as who?”

  He gave her an echo of his old unruly smile. “I fired way over their heads, you know, just as a deterrent. Seemed to do the trick as they didn’t come back. But I’d still like to know how your man knew about it.” Then, while she was absorbing that, he stopped and put out his hand to a passing student. “It was you, wasn’t it? You asked about a bonfire on the beach.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Right. Then I’ve a job for you. When you’ve done your work, you and your mates gather every bit of driftwood you can find and then go into the storeroom next to the dairy and grab a couple of the pallets from there, bring them down and break them up, and build the biggest bloody bonfire you can on the beach directly in front of the house. Don’t light it, not until I tell you. Got that? I want it big enough that my brother can see it from the window, big enough so that they’ll see the flames in Newfoundland. OK?”

  “Okaaay . . .” The lad looked astonished, as well he might, and hurried away.

  So much for a low profile. “That’s going to seem very odd,” said Libby, as they set off up the path.

  “Is it? They can think of it as a wake. A local custom. And about last night—”

  “It’s alright—”

  “I thought so too. Or at least, it will be, next time. You were very kind, Libby, lovely in fact. That’s all I wanted to say. More later.” He opened the garden gate and swept her through. Then he halted under an arch of spent rhododendron flowers. “You looked just right there, I thought, in my bed. I wanted to wake you to tell you so.”

  She laughed in answer to his smile. “Perhaps you should have.”

  “I considered it, but one thing would have led to another, don’t you think?” The wind stirred the branches and she saw that the bruised look in his eyes had faded.