A young woman unfolded herself from the driver’s seat like a waking insect

Awhile after his mum had died, when he was already together with Amy, Finn had begun taking some prescription opiates he found at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Just to smooth the edge off the sadness to begin with. But he soon got used to life with no edges and kept taking them. His doctor was a dowdy middle-aged woman who’d known Sally. She had two teenage sons of her own and was overflowing with empathy, so Finn played little orphan boy for all he was worth, got repeat prescriptions without any hassle.

Before long he was smothering himself in the fog of it, to the point where it affected his life, his ability to communicate. It turned out that life with no edges wasn’t much of a life at all, but Finn didn’t care enough to change by himself.

Amy stepped in and sorted it. Nothing dramatic, no big intervention, just a quiet word, a promise of help, careful monitoring, a gradual reduction in the amount he was taking over weeks until he was free of it and able to go to the shops and come back with the correct groceries. That was his girlfriend, quiet and efficient, good and decent, honest and caring. He tried to remind himself of that.

Refreshing

“It’s nothing like before,” Finn said. “Just helps with the pain.”

“Where are you? Sounds windy.” “Brodgar.”

“Remember last time?”

Finn smiled. “It’s not exactly the weather for that.” They’d come up here in the summer, stayed with Ingrid for a week, did all the tourist stuff that Finn knew back-to-front from childhood visits. It was refreshing seeing it all through Amy’s eyes, discovering the spirit of the place all over again.

They drove out here at night, midsummer sky still light, and lay down in the heather inside the stone circle, looking at the stars. They made love in the middle of the circle, joking about it afterwards, giving themselves up to ancient spirits. Only five months ago, but it felt like forever.

“What are you doing there?” Amy said. “Getting wet.”

“Apart from that.”

“Clearing my head.”

Amy coughed and Finn sensed a change of gear. “I’m coming to see you.”

“There’s no need, I’m fine.”

“That’s not the point,” Amy said. “I want to be there for you.”

“There’s nothing you can do here.” “There’s no point trying to talk me out of it,” Amy said. “What am I going to do here, sit and twiddle my thumbs? What if you’re not allowed off the island before Christmas? I’m coming tomorrow.” “Amy, there’s no point.” His voice was feeble. “It’s already sorted,” Amy said. “They’ve opened the airport so I’m flying up. I couldn’t get on today’s flight. The girl on the phone said half the world’s media is on it. Even more reason for me to be there.”

“Amy, I need to get out of here, the weather’s closing in.”

“I love you, babe.”

“Love you, too.”

Finn put his phone away and wiped the wetness from his face. He pictured Amy lying naked underneath him in the middle of the circle. He felt ashamed. He placed his forehead against the standing stone, communing with the gods, then turned towards the car. As he walked, he scanned the sky for oystercatchers but they’d flown east, escaping the incoming storm.

Severe

He parked at the visitor centre and got out. He’d outrun the weather for now and the sky over the firth was grey but dry, the clouds just a high smear. The wind was still a force, it would drag the rain this way soon enough.

Before he reached the front door he heard the sound of a car engine. He turned and saw a blue Ford pull up next to Ingrid’s car. A young woman unfolded herself from the driver’s seat like a waking insect.

She was six foot tall and gangly, big eyes and a sharp nose framed by a severe black bob. She was dressed like a kid playing office dress-up – mismatched jacket and skirt, huge canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. Finn thought of Maddie inside with the holdall.

“Mr Sullivan?” the woman said.

She saw the face Finn made. “I know, you don’t want to talk to me, blah blah blah. I get it. I’ve already had a run-in with your lovely grandmother so I know the Sullivan script off pat.”

“Then you know I have nothing to say.”

Finn couldn’t work out what to do with his body. He’d been reaching for the door handle when she arrived. Now he shifted away from the house, aware of who was inside.

He wanted to lead the reporter away from the building, but that would seem weird. He should get back in the car and go to Ingrid’s, but then the reporter would wonder why he’d come here.“You have a story whether you like it or not,” she said. “You are the story, you and this missing woman. You’re at the centre of a media storm.”

Finn looked around at the view beyond the cliff. “I thought the centre of a storm was supposed to be calm.”

“You know what I mean. Hey, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Freya Magnusson, reporter with the Orcadian.”

She rifled through her bag and produced a card, handed it to him. He looked at it but didn’t take it. “Go on,” Freya said. “It might come in handy.”

“I doubt it.”

“Roach material, if nothing else.” She raised her eyebrows as if sharing a joke and prodded the card at him. He took it and put it in his pocket. “You’re in quite a situation,” she said.

Eyewitness

Finn wondered how much she knew. “Am I?” Freya tilted her head. “It’s not every day we have a plane crash in Orkney with multiple deaths. This is the biggest thing that’s happened here since someone spotted the longships on the horizon 1,200 years ago. And I’m here to report on it.”

So she didn”t know about Kevin yet. “Go away,” Finn said. He had his back to the building and imagined curtains twitching.

“I could go away,” Freya said. “I already have an eyewitness account of the crash. Spoke to Charlotte the stewardess this morning. She had a lot to say about the behaviour of some of the passengers, if you know what I mean.”

A gust of wind made them both steady themselves. Freya nodded at the door. “Maybe we could discuss it inside?”

“No.”

“Why are you here, anyway? It’s not open this time of year.”

“We look after the place while the owners are away. Just keeping an eye on it.”

“So we can’t go into the warm, non-windy building to talk?”

“No.”

More on Monday.

Crash Land is published by Faber, paperback priced £7.99. dougjohnstone.co.uk