Faultlines
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The moment she set foot on the Inch she felt something was wrong.
She tied the three-seater RIB to a mooring post on the jetty and turned. The island looked the same, black sand shimmering in the low summer light, the sun’s rays bouncing down the Forth and hitting the island in a low-slung blaze. Beyond the beach hardened lava flows billowed down from the volcanic vents that dominated the island. Scraps of moss and sea grass cut green through the black and grey of the rocky terrain – over the years they’d brought life to the newborn land and clung on.
It was too quiet, Surtsey realised, that was the problem. Where were the gulls and crows? Scientists had been coming to the island since it emerged in a giant plume of volcanic ash 25 years ago. The birds knew that humans meant possible food and usually greeted their arrival with a flurry of squawks and shrieks. But she was alone, just the low ruffle of waves on the beach, the hollow thud of her rigid-hull boat bobbing against the jetty.
And where was Tom’s boat? He didn’t always moor at the jetty, sometimes he landed round the coast, paranoid about them being seen together even out here in the middle of the firth. But that was such a hassle and he’d been relaxed about it recently, so Surtsey was surprised not to see it tied up.
She did a slow three-sixty, the salty bite of the sea air in her nose, and wondered what she was missing. Inchkeith to the northwest, its lighthouse and derelict battlements silhouetted against the setting sun. Behind it Burntisland and the three bridges, a mess of struts and cables, supports and towers. Round to Granton and Leith harbour, the beaches of Portobello and Joppa hidden by the island’s peaks from this side. It was deliberate that they met on the north side, in case of prying eyes with strong binoculars. Surtsey looked up at the twin volcanic peaks, brooding in the dusk. She had been up those slopes, explored every scrap of the Inch over many visits since she began her studies. So lucky to be a volcanologist and have this on her doorstep, the best laboratory in the world with Edinburgh University leading research.
She looked to the east, the flat expanse of East Lothian. She got a flutter of unease at the missing Cockenzie power station chimneys. They’d been a landmark of her childhood in Joppa, and their recent demolition left a flicker of longing in her heart. Further east was Berwick Law then open sea, tankers drifting out there, wash glittering in the light. Where was he? She checked her phone. No new message, just the text from earlier:
Fancy a picnic tonight? Usual time and place. Tx
About the author
Doug Johnstone is an author, journalist and musician based in Edinburgh. His previous novel, The Jump, was a finalist for the Mcilvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Novel of the Year. Faultlines is published by Orenda on 22 May, price £8.99