A good man has died and all you can do is spout your spiritual nonsense

Surtsey squinted at the television. Bastian was in his forties, the same generation as her mum. Louise had faced some of the brunt of those early protests, paint splattered across office windows, the department boat filled with fish guts at the lock up. For a while, Bastian had popped up in another guise, a figurehead for the anti-fracking movement. The government had placed a moratorium on fracking across Scotland but hadn’t banned it outright.

Plenty of companies still ran research and testing voyages in the Forth, hoping one day they’d be able to beat the government and swoop in, start making money.

To his credit, Bastian had marshalled public support against them. No one wanted toxic sludge and poisoned water supplies on their doorsteps. But the oil companies were still out there collecting data and running feasibility studies.

Then there was the added complication of the Inch. There’s no way any company would be allowed to drill for shale anywhere near a Unesco site. And since Scotland already had earthquakes from the new fault line, it seemed insane to compound that with the possibility of more seismic disturbance from fracking.

With fracking on the backburner, the Inch was clearly back on the agenda for Bastian. He was a charismatic figure, slim, grey beard, sparkling eyes. He was articulate, even if what he said was rubbish.

Unfortunate

Maybe that’s how he’d managed to keep his band of followers for so long. And this was perfect for them – an unfortunate occurrence on the Inch played into their hands, gave them a new lease of life.

Or maybe it was more than that, maybe Hal was right, and they had something to do with it. Hiding in plain sight, protesting angrily. Surtsey thought about the text message on her phone. She dropped the remote control and strode out the pub towards the beach.

The dry sand sucked at her trainers as she picked up speed. “Sur, wait.” Halima’s voice, some way behind.

She didn’t look back, kept focused on her target. She noticed over to her right that the BBC outside broadcast van was parked at the bottom of Bellfield Street, across three disabled parking spaces.

The reporter from earlier was chatting to her cameraman and a guy wearing headphones and carrying a boom mic. They were clearly off air at the moment, maybe working on what she would say next time they were live.

Ahead of Surtsey the small gang of protesters were chilling too, as if they only put on a show for the camera. The homemade banner was dropped, scuffing the sand, and a young woman with dreadlocks and a long flowing skirt was congratulating Bastian, her body language deferent and submissive.

“Hey,” Surtsey said, loud enough for Bastian and the others to turn around.

Bastian smiled at her like a benevolent teacher, a smile that made Surtsey angry. She reached them and stopped.

“I saw you on the news,” she said.

Bastian nodded. The calmness of his movements infuriated Surtsey.

“Indeed,” he said.

“How dare you,” Surtsey said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Surtsey waved an arm around, taking in the sea, the beach and the Inch.

“Capitalising on a man’s death,” she said.

“I see,” Bastian said, angling his head.

“You should be ashamed.”

“Thule has spoken.” This was the young woman, making that dumb shape with her hands, like a Hindu blessing or something.

Concerned

Surtsey shook her head. “A good man has died, and all you can do is spout your spiritual nonsense. What about his wife and children? His friends?”

Bastian put on a concerned face. “I take it you were one such friend?”

Surtsey didn’t know what to say. Halima and Brendan had caught up with her, she felt a hand on her back, but they didn’t speak.

Surtsey thought about Tom’s phone, the message. “Do you recognise me?” she said.

Bastian examined her closely, then shook his head. “Should I?”

“Did you text me last night?”

Halima touched Surtsey’s arm. “Sur, come on.” Bastian frowned. “How could I text you, I don’t know you.”

“Thule has spoken,” the hippie woman said again. “Shut up,” Halima said. “What a moron.” “How do we know you’re not involved in this?” Surtsey said to Bastian.

He looked thoughtful. “We are involved. We are the keepers of New Thule, its protectors. Anything happens on the island, we are involved.”

“I mean, maybe you killed Tom.”

Bastian laughed. “You clearly don’t understand. We are peaceful people.”

“Tom’s death seems pretty handy for you,” Surtsey said. Bastian raised his hands upwards. “It is divine intervention.”

Surtsey stepped forward and slapped him in the face, and he made no move to evade her hand, almost leaning in to it.

“Sur, come on,” Brenda said. “This isn’t achieving anything.” She went to hit him again but Brendan held her arm and pulled her away.

Surtsey stared at Bastian. “I’m going to get the police on to you.”

She looked round the small group, bunch of sheep. “All of you.”

Bastian smiled.

“Sorry for your loss,” he said.

Dreaded

Surtsey tried to compose herself as she stood outside her mum’s bedroom at St Columba’s, but the wine and adrenaline were making her twitchy.

Memories of being drunk and stoned as a teenager came to her, that dreaded moment before going back into the house, having to act sober for a few minutes before you could escape to your bedroom.

She knocked and waited. Important to be respectful, treat Mum like a normal person.

A few seconds of silence.

“Come in.” Wheezy and breathless.

Louise was lying on the bed, a thin crocheted blanket covered in sunflowers spread over her legs. It was a blanket Surtsey’s gran had made long ago, a skill that had failed to be passed down the generations.

Surtsey wondered if all that vanishing know-how would eventually make them revert back to apes, banging on rocks and scared of fire.

“Hey, Mum, how are you?”

“I’m dying.”

“Mum.”

The lack of energy in Surtsey’s voice made Louise frown. “That’s not the punch line.”

Surtsey sighed. “There isn’t a punch line.”

She nodded at the television in the corner of the room, switched off. Might as well get on with it.

“Have you seen the news today, Mum? We found a dead body on the Inch.”

“What?”

More tomorrow.

Fault Lines, by Doug Johnstone, is published by Orenda Books and costs £8.99.