There was a knock at the front door. They exchanged a look

Finn looked around the kitchen. He’d sat here a hundred times before but it felt different, off kilter somehow. “She wouldn’t be proud of me,” he said, thinking of his mother, Sally. Ingrid looked up. “What do you mean?” “All this. The plane. The dead folk.” Ingrid looked at him. “Finn, she loved you, she would’ve supported you no matter what. Just like I will.”

“That’s not good enough,” Finn said. “There shouldn’t need to be any ‘no matter what’. That means I’ve messed up.”

“You just need some help. We all need help sometimes.”

Finn noticed something on the floor behind Ingrid. His rucksack, the one that he had yesterday on the plane. He went round and picked it up. “How did you get this?”

“It was in your bedside cabinet at the hospital.” Finn unzipped it at the table. The George Mackay Brown book at the top, a few of the pages bent over. He flicked through it. “You still have that,” Ingrid said. “Of course.”

“Sally loved it.”

Good life

Finn imagined his mum touching the cover, turning the pages, sighing at the end. “Why did she name me after him?” Ingrid shrugged. “It’s a nice Orcadian name. And he’s a lovely character.”

“But he doesn’t get what he wants in the end, to be a poet.”

“He lives a good life,” Ingrid said. “That’s enough.” Finn dropped the book on the table and lifted his sketchbook out the bag. He remembered Maddie holding it, flicking, staring, smiling.

The drawings all seemed to come from another time, drawn by a different hand, someone else entirely. He landed on some sketches of the gravestones at St Peter’s, not plans for jewellery, just something for himself.

He took a tin of pencils from the bag and chose one then turned to a blank page. He tried to hold the pencil but the metal splint wouldn’t let his outer fingers bend to support his thumb and index finger. He had no control. It was precarious and unsteady.

He tried to draw a simple symmetrical shape, four loops on two sides like a butterfly, but the lines wobbled and the splint dragged along the page, smudging the whole thing and tearing at the paper. He closed his eyes and tapped the pencil against his forehead then dropped it on to the table and closed the notebook.

He opened his eyes to see Ingrid skinning up, pulling strands of grass apart and spreading them along a single Rizla, followed by a sprinkle of Golden Virginia. She smoked a bit of weed on and off, a child of the Sixties. She licked along the gum and rolled it, no roach.

“Give me a draw,” Finn said. She lit it and sucked in. “You sure?” Finn didn’t usually smoke Ingrid’s stuff but he wanted to now. He nodded, lifting his hand. “Painkilling properties.”

Ingrid passed it to him and exhaled. He took a draw and handed it back, felt the rush to his head. He put his hand out and felt the grain of wood on the table.

There was a knock at the front door. They exchanged a look. Ingrid cupped the joint in the palm of her hand and peered out of the window.

“It’s that young policewoman.”

She carefully stubbed the joint out in an ashtray and lifted both into a high cupboard. She ushered Finn out of the kitchen and closed the door.

Secrets

She blinked a couple of times then opened the front door. “It’s yourself.” Linklater looked tired. Finn wondered if she’d had much sleep.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs Sullivan,” Linklater said. “But I need to speak to Finn again. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Ingrid held the door open and Linklater stepped into the hallway. “Go through.” Ingrid indicated the living room as she closed the door, Finn leading the way.

They stood in the middle of the room, Linklater waiting to be asked to sit. Finn loved this room as a kid, Ingrid’s bookshelves brimming with secrets, the same with her racks of 1960s and 70s rock albums. It never occurred to him that it was unusual having a gran into that stuff.

“What’s this about?” Ingrid said. “You spoke to the lad at the hospital.” Linklater scratched at her neck. “I’m afraid the situation has changed, we’re now involved in a murder investigation.”

“You mean the people on the plane?” Finn said. Linklater shook her head. “I need you to confirm your whereabouts for all of yesterday, Finn, leading up to Kirkwall Airport at 7pm.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. “Why?” “He was here with me,” Ingrid said, moving into the room. “That’s right,” Finn said. Linklater looked from one to the other. “All day?” Finn nodded. “Did anyone else see you here?”

“No one came by,” Ingrid said. “But you can take my word for it that he didn’t leave the cottage until I took him to the airport. What’s this about?”

“After getting no response at Mrs Pierce’s house, we obtained a warrant and gained entry,” Linklater said. “Kevin Pierce was dead inside, stabbed in the chest multiple times.”

Finn stood outside the visitor centre but didn’t take the key out of his pocket. He rubbed at the skin under his eyes as if wiping something away, then stared at the door. It was once a tree and before that part of the earth and air, regenerated atoms.

One day in the future it would be something else entirely, the molecules making up part of a worm or a bird or some animal that hadn’t evolved yet. Finn leaned forward until his forehead was touching the door. He closed his eyes and breathed, the wind a constant force against his body.

Suspicions

Linklater had quizzed him some more about his movements, his reason for being on the island, his relationship to Maddie. He’d told her he had no relationship with her. He thought about that now.

He hadn’t given her up. He thought about that too. After Linklater left, Ingrid pushed him for information as well, echoing the cop.

Kevin Pierce. He wanted to know all about Kevin Pierce. What kind of man he was, what kind of husband.

Finn had waited for two hours after Linklater left. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself leaving the house, didn’t want to arouse Ingrid’s suspicions. And, anyway, he needed time to think it all through.

He was tied to Maddie now. Ever since he saw her at airport security he’d been drawn into her orbit, had become tangled up in her. He touched his lips with his tongue and imagined that he could still taste her from their kiss earlier.

He could still give her up. Depending on how she was in a few moments’ time, maybe he would. He’d be in trouble for lying and helping her, but maybe he had to untether himself from her if she was sinking and dragging him under.

More tomorrow.