Ch14: Stolen May 21st part 2

I walk over to the west side of the island and sit by the edge of the cliffs. The sun is about to come up and the entire horizon is streaky with blood-red clouds. Then the first hint of a bright yellow orb moves into view. New light, new day… new hope? I feel raw. Getting down what happened is cathartic. I’m not done my tale yet, but I’m nearly there and it feels good to be free of the events. Putting them on paper has somehow released me from the grip of memories, just a little. Enough that maybe I can start to heal.

When I get back to the cottage the clock on the mantel says it’s just after five. I haven’t slept yet, but the light is confusing me, and I’m wide awake although my brain is fuzzy. My mind is still in the post office, cradling Chris as his last breath warms my face. I’m deaf to my own screams. Oblivious to the man punching the teen that murdered my man. Ignoring the need to move Chris away from the door as the ambulance finally gets here, too late to make a difference to his life and mine.

I’m not sure how I get home. But it’s almost like I blink, and there I am, not at the little flat with Chris, but at the kitchen table with Dad at my side and Mum fussing over the kettle. She says I need sweet tea. I just want to close my eyes and rewind a few hours.

Dad wets a tea towel and tries to clean my hands. I shake him off. It’s all I have left of Chris, the only proof he was ever part of my life. Then I remember the life inside of me.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. Sobs wrack my body and I collapse into Dad’s arms.

He’s making shushing sounds and rubbing my back, and I can feel his eyes on my mother. “Pregnant?” he asks finally, once I’ve quietened a little.

Chris is dead and that’s what he wants to talk about? I almost get up and leave. Being in the little flat by myself would be better than having Dad get all judgemental on me.

“Oh Jesus,” he says and puts a hand through what’s left of his hair. He leaves a streak of Chris’s blood on his forehead.

Mum puts the tea on the table in front of me. “Drink it up while it’s hot. It’ll make you feel better.”

I don’t think anything will make me feel better. There’s a hollowness in my belly, like I’ve been emptied out. Gutted like a new born lamb at the slaughter. Tears come again and I’m sobbing into my tea. Dad relents and his arms are around me again.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it work,” he says in my ear. “We’ll do right by Chris.”

It takes his death to get acceptance from Dad. If I didn’t feel so dead inside I might slap him.

Mum sits on the other side of me and puts her arms around me as well. Together we sit, the three of us, four if you count the little one on board, me wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon embrace.

My eyes are finally catching up on my need to sleep. The time has gone six now, looks like mid-morning outside if the light is anything to go by. I need sleep, and there’s nothing and no one to stop me sleeping the day away. I put the notebook away and crawl under the covers.

Sleep takes me quickly and a few hours slip by in a dark dreamless state.

I wake in the afternoon feeling a little more alive. I throw coal in the aga’s furnace. The embers are dying down and I breathe a sigh of relief when the fuel catches. With the turbine out, the aga is all I have. It’ll be cold soup from tins if I let the fire go out.

The cottage feels empty, and tiny as it is, I feel like I’m rattling around inside the four walls. The outside is even worse, seeming so big it’s ripe to swallow me whole. Thinking about Chris, writing down the reality of what happened makes the world go sharp on me, and all I want is another person to smooth the edges for me. I need a hug.

I go to the end of the pier, wrapped in my red coat against the wind, and watch as a fishing boat goes by. It’s too far away to see any detail. I doubt they even know I’m there, but I wave anyway. Maybe they’ve got the binoculars trained on me, and I’ll see the boat turn and come my way. They’ll pick me up and give me a lift to Lerwick where I can search for Ian and get the human contact I now need.

The boat slips by and I try not to cry at its passing.

I should have insisted on having a form of communication. What kind of an idiot was I letting myself get stranded on an island with no way of calling for help? Counting the days, I realise I’ve still got more than a week until Ian comes back.

“Stupid,” I mutter. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Waves crest and crash on the shingle. The tide’s coming in, but it’s still pretty far out. I’ve not eaten today, and if I don’t soon I’m going to get lightheaded. Before heading back to the cottage I trail my fingertips in the water. For a moment I entertain the idea of swimming across to Mainland. Five miles isn’t that far. I swam that distance for a charity when I was sixteen. The water is so cold it’s making my fingers hurt. There’s a big difference between swimming in a nice warm inside pool and making an attempt at an open body of water.

Before going for food, I walk around to the south end of the island and stare at the turbine. Stupid thing, didn’t it know not to break down on me? I spot an access hatch and try to prise it off. Maybe I can spot something obvious, something even I can fix. But I need a screwdriver to get the panel off, and all I have is me, still in my pyjamas, with my raincoat and boots thrown on.

The birds squawk as they zip by overhead. They’re taunting me with their freedom. I grab a handful of shingle and throw it at a couple of seagulls that swoop too close.

“Bugger off!” I shout. Stupid birds. All free and where they want to be. I stomp back off to the cottage and furiously wind up the radio. I put it on, cranking the volume up and get some food heating on the aga. I don’t want to hear my thoughts any more. I don’t want to be able to hear my solitude. Eight days until Ian comes to rescue me. I try to tell myself that eight days isn’t that much.

Eating some lamb stew helps, and with a full belly I open all the windows in the cottage. The sky is clear, the sun out, and the breeze has dropped. I finally dress and sit on the doorstep clutching a mug of tea. Another boat is going by, looking tiny and half swallowed by the sea. Eight days. Yes, I can cope with that. I close my eyes and try to merge with the wonderful smells and sounds of Vanir.