Finn realised he would be asked as long as he lived. He’d survived a fatal plane crash. It would define him for the rest of his life

Ingrid had got the first ferry in the morning and driven down through the country. They held each other and cried until it seemed a ridiculous thing to keep doing, like they were imitating themselves being sad, falsifying their emotions. Cups of tea went cold on the low table in front of them as Finn flicked through some of his mum’s drawings. She’d been skilful with a pencil, the reason she’d gone to art college in the first place. She’d never done enough with her degree.

Having Finn so young she had to get on and make money, didn’t have time to be unemployed. But she didn’t blame Finn for that, and never accepted help from Ingrid. Finn couldn’t understand either of those things.

He blamed his own existence for Sally not becoming a proper artist, and he blamed her for not letting her own mother help her out in difficult circumstances.

But Sally had always maintained she didn’t have to work as an artist to be an artist. She was happy doodling away, sketching him as he played Mario Kart or mucking about at the bandstand on Magdalen Green.

Distance

He flicked the pages of her sketchbook, unable to take it in. Ingrid was next to him, the touch of her hand on his arm only highlighting the distance between them.

How could Finn ever understand what it was like for Ingrid? Losing her own daughter yet having to keep herself together for her grandson. He tried to think about that whenever he felt like wallowing in self-pity, but the grief swamped him all the same.

Now his stomach lurched as he remembered the plane last night, nosediving through the fog, the glance he shared with Oil Guy as they strapped themselves in, the look on Charlotte’s face.

He pictured the punch-up, flirting with Maddie, seeing her walk into the airport at the start.

His phone rang. It was in the pocket of his jeans but he couldn’t get his hand in with the splint. He tried to reach round with his other hand but his rib growled in pain.

“Let me,” Ingrid said, pulling it out and handing it to him. Amy.

“My God, Finn, are you all right?” He remembered talking to her on the plane.

Had his phone done something to the electronics, was that why they crashed? No, that was crazy, he’d used it at the start of the flight, before everything else. “Are you there?”

It seemed obscene that she was talking in Dundee and he could hear her.

He imagined radio waves racing up through the fog and cloud, zinging above the earth, bouncing off the satellite and back down to the exact place he was now, trying to hold on.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I was so worried. It’s all over the news, your flight. Are you OK? Where are you?”

She had that flat Dundonian accent, same as him, the vowels smudged together like you didn’t want to open your mouth too wide. The opposite of Orcadian with its rolling Rs, tone shifts and dancing rhythm.

“I’m in hospital,” he said. “Ingrid’s here. I’m OK. Broken rib and hand, that’s all.”

“They said on the news seven people are dead?” “Yeah.”

“How did it happen?”

Finn realised he would be asked that as long as he lived. He’d survived a fatal plane crash. It would define him for the rest of his life.

Survivors

He was inside a big story. Do you remember the plane that crashed in Orkney before Christmas that time? This guy is one of the survivors.

Wow, what was it like, how did it happen, did you see anyone die, were you scared, I bet you were scared.

“I can’t remember too well,” Finn said. “I have concussion, they’re keeping me in.”

“I’ll come and see you.”

Finn shook his head. “There’s no point. I’ll be out tomorrow, I’ll come home then.”

He tried to imagine stepping on board a plane. “I should be there,” Amy said.

“By the time you get here I could be back in Dundee. There probably won’t be any flights for a while, I’ll get the ferry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He tried to picture Amy in their flat. He supposed it was their home, the two of them, but it didn’t feel like that.

It was where he grew up and there were too many memories of Sally everywhere, her ghost haunting every room, every dinner plate, every air freshener, every stick of furniture.

He wondered what it was like for Amy, stepping into the home of her boyfriend and his dead mother. How can you compete with that?

But she never mentioned it, never complained or suggested they move. She never pushed him to get rid of any of Sally’s stuff.

He imagined her now, phone to her ear, pacing around the tight kitchen like she always did on a call, running her fingers along the worktop, absentmindedly swiping crumbs to the floor.

He tried to remember how they got together in the first place. Their relationship seemed like a dream somehow, like he’d never fully been present in it.

They met in the Art Bar, a basement dive just along from his flat, one of the first nights Finn went out after his mum’s funeral, two months after.

Some course-mates cajoled him into it. One of them was performing at an open mic.

Too easy

Amy was at the next table with a girl who was also doing a turn on the tiny stage. She seemed grown-up compared to his student mates, though she was the same age as him.

It was easy, he didn’t have to try too hard. He just mentioned his dead mum and off they went together. Within three months she’d moved in and they were shopping for new cutlery and going for Sunday morning walks around Balgay Hill. It was almost too easy.

“If you’re sure,” Amy said down the line. “Trust me.”

There was a knock, then the door opened. It was the police officer from earlier, Linklater, with another cop, middle-aged, pot-bellied, saggy jowls like a bloodhound.

Linklater gave Finn a look. Ingrid introduced herself with a firm handshake.

“I have to go,” Finn said. “The police are here.”

More tomorrow.