Finn looked out to sea at the shimmering waves then lay down, rib aching, and pulled until he was inside and the silence shrouded him

They passed the turn for Tankerness then over the hill and the airport was gone. Finn closed his eyes and pictured Maddie playing with her gin and tonic at the bar, eyes flicking up, licking lime juice from her finger. He took a breath that stung his left lung, then coughed, pain slicing through his chest. He lifted his hand away from his mouth and there was a light spray of pink blood across the palm.

He got a tissue and wiped it away, checking to make sure Ingrid hadn’t noticed.

“Did you see the counsellor?” she said, eyes on the road. “Yeah.”

“Janet’s a good woman, she knows her job. She’s not had her troubles to seek.”

They trundled in silence past Groatsetter and Veltigar, bleak brown fields on either side, sheep grazing where they could. Ingrid turned right at the Bay of Suckquoy, towards St Mary’s.

Finn felt Ingrid’s hand on his leg. A couple of reassuring squeezes, then she lifted it to change gear. She glanced at him.

“Let’s just get you home. Everything will be fine.”

Amazed

They pulled up outside Ingrid’s cottage. As the engine cut, the whoop of the wind took over and the car rocked.

Finn eased himself out, holding on to the door in case it caught in a gust.

Ingrid looked at him over the roof of the car. He smiled and turned to gaze over the firth. He was always amazed by the view from here.

High on this southern headland, they could see for miles over the Pentland Firth to Muckle Skerry, its lighthouse a thin needle against the horizon, then west to Stroma and the Scottish mainland, a muscled shoulder of land peeking through successive squalls of rain blowing across the country towards Scandinavia.

“Come on in,” Ingrid said. “I’ll get the kettle on.” Finn shook his head. “I need some air, I think I’ll walk along to see the old guys.”

Ingrid frowned at him, her hair whipping in the wind. “You need rest.”

Finn rubbed at his scalp. “I need to clear my head.” He walked round and touched her arm. “It’s fine.” He kissed her cheek and zipped his coat up as he headed back along the road.

“Don’t get blown off a cliff,” Ingrid said.

He raised his good hand and walked away. “The old guys” was a joke between the two of them, how they referred to the Neolithic skeletons along the road in the Tomb of the Eagles.

About half a mile, hang a right at the visitor centre then north along the headland and you got to the ancient site, a burial cairn from 5,000 years ago, full of dead bodies and the eagle bones that gave the place its name.

It was found by old Eddie Lewis on his farm years ago after a storm, the wind ripping away topsoil to expose the structure.

The Lewises still ran the place as a tourist attraction, one of the few on the island not tied up by Historic Scotland.

Lewis deserved credit for looking after it. Everyone on the islands knew stories of farmers who’d found similar remains on their land but had kicked the mud back in place to avoid the disruption a historical find would bring.

Orkney felt like it must’ve been seething with life back then, at a time when the Egyptians were building pyramids and the Greeks were marching into Persia.

And here, on this little rock halfway to the Arctic, communities were living and thriving without drawing attention to themselves. Finn loved that.

Breathtaking

The Tomb of the Eagles was closed to the public over the winter, except by appointment. The Lewises used tourist money to take themselves off to a timeshare in Lanzarote for three months, leaving Ingrid to arrange the occasional tour.

Orkney wasn’t a winter destination and tourists rarely made it to the furthest tip of the islands, preferring to canter around the more accessible Ring of Brodgar, Maes Howe and Skara Brae.

So Finn and Ingrid had the place to themselves for the most part. Sometimes, when the weather closed in and the waves battered the shore beneath Ingrid’s cottage, it felt like they were the only people on earth.

Other times, when the clouds lifted, the expanse of sea and sky was breathtaking. A couple of farmhouses further back from the coast were the only other signs of civilisation for miles, their sheep shuffling to the fence at feeding time. Finn loved the isolation, the solitude.

He was almost there now, smears of leftover snow in the dark crannies of the field. The way the headland looped round, the sea was on his right now, nothing for hundreds of miles until Norway. Finn imagined Vikings ploughing through icy waves, preparing to land.

He reached the tomb. Nothing much to look at from this side, just a grassy hillock until you turned the corner and saw the stone wall and small square opening.

He pulled the rope out of the hole, bringing the low trolley with it. This was part of the appeal for tourists, the ramshackle spirit of the experience. They had to lie on the thing and pull the rope to get in.

Finn looked out to sea at the shimmering waves then lay down, his rib aching, and pulled until he was inside and the silence shrouded him.

Mocking

It was larger than looked possible from the outside, a Stone Age Tardis. The roof was three metres high, light streaming in through plastic-covered holes. The dirt was packed down, millennia of visitors trampling the space, countless steps in and out.

He’d been coming here for as long as he could remember, a space to think.

To his left was a row of five skulls. They’d been found in a heap with others, which were now down at the visitor centre along with the eagle bones. But the Lewises had decided to leave some here in situ for the tourists, like a deathly chorus line.

Finn liked to imagine them commenting sarcastically on tourists after they left, bitching and gossiping. Right now he felt they were mocking him, toothy grins laughing at his situation.

He’d cheated death, but what about the others on the plane with families and friends grieving for them?

He sat on the ground and closed his eyes, listened to the wind. The muffled sound of it made him feel like he was in a cocoon.

More tomorrow.