Everything from before the crash seemed ghostly now, faded shadows of a life he used to lead Crash Land: Day 30

Finn gleaned from the television news coverage that Sean Bayliss was still in an induced coma. Charlotte the stewardess had returned home from hospital. She was said to have suffered severe shock. The presenter named her as Charlotte Woodside. Finn looked around the room for his rucksack, spotted it on the floor in the corner.

He heaved out of his seat and over to it, pulled out his notebook, a pencil and the Mackay Brown novel. He sat back down with a sigh and opened the notebook.

He went to a clean page and tried to write “Charlotte Woodside” but the splint on his knuckle made it impossible to lean his hand on the paper, so his fingers hovered over the page like a nervous insect.

He wrote slowly, a wobbly scrawl that he could only just make out. He went through the same process writing down “Sean Bayliss”. He had to keep a note of their names.

He flicked back through the notebook, looking at the sketches he’d done at Brodgar and Skara Brae. Further back in the notebook were detailed drawings of some of the jewellery pieces he’d been working on for the degree show.

Delicate

Brooches and bracelets – delicate stuff with stones reflecting the colour palette of the islands, simple silver settings, slight nods towards runic text in the curve of the shapes, a hint of the past in what were supposed to be modern pieces.

He thought about the stuff he’d been making back in Dundee. He’d been on course for graduating well, had a lot of things nearly finished for the end-of-year show, but what now?

At least six weeks for his hand to heal, that’s what the doc said. And that was just to get the splint off, then there would be stiffness in the knuckle, across the fingers, maybe physio, scar tissue under the surface.

He thought about the way he used his jewellery instruments. There was no chance he’d be able to finish what he’d started making in time. And that was just the physical side of it. At the moment, he couldn’t even imagine having the will to complete the work.

Everything from before the crash seemed ghostly now, faded grey shadows of a life he used to lead. In comparison, everything since that night seemed too bright and vivid. Colours saturated his mind’s eye when he thought about Maddie.

Life was too loud now, too real to be thinking about going back to who he was and what he did before.

He closed the notebook and looked at the Mackay Brown book. Maddie had touched it at the airport lounge. It had been through the plane crash with him, and he felt like that had sullied it, destroyed its purity somehow.

A simple story about a dreamer kid who preferred stories to real life. He wished he were more like Thorfinn in the book, conjuring up fictional worlds to escape into.

By the end of the book, though, his namesake had given up writing stories and was content to just live, to exist in the world and be a part of humanity, linking what went before with what was to come.

Finn tried to imagine himself settling down with Amy, with Maddie, with some unknown woman, faceless in his imagination, formless in his mind.

There was nothing on the news yet about Kevin Pierce. It would be unbearable when the police released that information. Imagine how the hunt for Maddie would escalate once they knew her husband had been murdered.

Tragedy

Finn rubbed his eyes and felt exhaustion sweep over him. All this chewing things over wasn’t going to change anything. He had to act. But that presupposed he knew what to do.

The television was now showing a different glossy woman standing outside St Magnus Cathedral in the centre of Kirkwall. It looked bitterly cold.

A few members of the public were there too, lined up for soundbites. The presenter spoke to the first person, a stocky, middle-aged woman Finn didn’t recognise.

“Grace,” Ingrid said. “She should know better.” Finn couldn’t focus enough to listen to Grace. The usual platitudes about tragedy, no doubt, inane stuff that filled airtime on news channels these days.

Glossy Presenter moved on to the next soundbite then the next, then walked to the doorway of the kirk and let the camera look inside. Dozens of people were milling about and holding candles, and the woman mentioned a vigil.

She said it would go on through the night until tomorrow’s memorial service for the seven dead. Finn listened closely but she didn’t say the names of the deceased. He turned to Ingrid, who was sitting with her knitting on her lap, staring at her hands.

“They’re having a memorial service?” he said. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “You can’t go, Finn.”

“Why not?”

Ingrid raised her eyebrows at the television. Glossy Presenter had stepped back outside and was wrapping up her report, gliding away from the old stonework and furrowed brows inside.

“You know why not,” Ingrid said. “The world’s media will be there.”

“So?”

“You’re not naïve, don’t pretend to be. They’ll crucify you.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He thought of Maddie at the visitor centre. He imagined he could still taste her on his tongue.

Strange

“They blame you,” Ingrid said. “There will be relatives there.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Finn sat upright. “If I don’t, it looks like I don’t care and that’s worse.”

“Do you care?” Ingrid said. That stopped him in his tracks. “What?”

“You’ve been acting very strange.” Finn laughed. “I was in a plane crash, Gran.”

“I just don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind for this.”

“What frame of mind should I be in?” Finn said. Ingrid picked up her knitting. “You have a meeting with Janet at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Finn rubbed at his forehead. “Who the hell is Janet?” Ingrid began the click-clack of her needles. “The counsellor. She spoke to you in hospital.” “I’m not going to that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“Janet spoke to me,” Ingrid said. “I trust her. She said you definitely need help. I’ll take you to the appointment.”

It wasn’t a question.

More tomorrow.