Coffin Road

Chapter two

I have no idea how long I have slept. Consciousness returns from a dark, dreamless sleep, bringing with it the physical pain of a still traumatised body, and the recollection that I recall nothing. Of myself, or what happened to me in the hours before I was washed ashore on Tràigh Losgaintir.

But I am startled, too. Heart pounding, aware that the sun has slipped beyond the hills and sunk somewhere in the west, sprinkling pink dusk, like dust, on the dying day. Something has wakened me. A sound. Bran has raised his head from his slumbers, sniffing the air, but doesn’t seem alarmed.

A voice from the boot room calls out my name. ‘Neal?’ A woman’s voice. And she is not alone. I hear a man, too, as they shut the outside door behind them. I am on my feet in an instant, my empty whisky glass rolling away across the floor. Bran pulls himself up and looks at me quizzically.

Even before my visitors can open the door into the kitchen, I am out into the hall and turning towards the bedroom. ‘Neal, are you home?’ They are in the kitchen now, and I search through the clothes on the bedroom chair to find a pair of jeans, hopping from one leg to the other as I pull them on, falling back on the bed to drag the waistband over my thighs and button them shut.

‘Be right with you.’ I drag a T-shirt over my head. No time to find socks or shoes. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I hurry from the bedroom, face pale beneath my tan, hair a mess of curls.

They are standing in the sitting room when I come through. People, clearly, who know me. And yet I detect in myself not a flicker of familiarity in either of them.

They are both younger than me. Late twenties, perhaps early thirties. His blond hair is cut short at the sides, left longer on top and gelled back from a narrow forehead. He is goodlooking, a man conscious of his image, a tightly trimmed beard that is longer than designer stubble dressing a lean face with almond-shaped green eyes. He wears what I am certain is a designer-labelled hoodie, and immaculate jeans above pristine white Adidas trainers that look as if they are just out of the box. With his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket, he has a certain slouch, but you can tell from his shoulders and narrow hips that he is well built. He grins at me, a wide, open, infectious grin, and nods through the hall towards the bedroom. ‘Christ, have you got a woman through there? Hope we didn’t disturb anything.’ His accent is very different from mine. North of England, but refined. Middle class. My guess would be public rather than grammar school.

‘Sorry.’ I run a hand self-consciously back through my hair. ‘I fell asleep.’ My own voice sounds quite coarse by comparison. Scottish, but not island. Central belt perhaps.

She laughs. ‘Well, that’s nice. Invites us for drinks then buggers off for an early night.’ Her accent is similar to his, but broader. A soft voice, with a slight catch in it. Almost hoarse. Seductive. She is six inches shorter than him, but still quite tall. Five six, perhaps, or seven. Short, boyish, auburn hair frames an almost elfin face. Deep brown eyes enhanced by a reddish brown eyeshadow. Wide lips a slash of red. She is slim, a wellworn leather bomber jacket hanging on square shoulders over a white T-shirt and fashionably baggy jeans. ‘When we didn’t see the car out front, we thought maybe you weren’t here.’

So I have a car, but no idea where it is. And I am suddenly overcome by an urge to tell them everything. Which is almost nothing. Just that I was washed up on the beach and haven’t a clue who I am. These people know me. They could tell me so much. But I am scared to give shape or form to that black cloud of anxiety that hangs over me. Of events beyond memory. Things simply wiped from my mind that I fear I might never even wish to acknowledge. And all I say is, ‘I forgot.’

‘That’s just what Sally said. “Bet he’s forgotten.”’ And he does a very good imitation of her accent.

‘So where is the car?’ Sally says.

And I find myself panicking. ‘Pranged it.’

‘Aw, shit.’ She bends down to ruffle Bran’s head, and he pushes his face up into her hand. ‘What happened? Is that how you cut your head?’

My hand goes instinctively to my hairline, where the blood I had seen earlier has dried now to a scab. But I don’t want to go any further down this road. ‘Oh, it wasn’t anything very much. I’ll get the car back tomorrow.’

He says, ‘How did you get home?’

My mind is racing. You can’t just tell one lie, and I’m very quickly learning that I am not a good liar. ‘The garage gave me a lift back.’

Sally says, ‘All the way from Tarbert? Christ, that was good of them. You should have called. Jon would have come and got you.’

Jon unzips his hoodie and allows himself to fall back into the other settee, legs spread, an arm extended along the top of the cushions. ‘More to the point, where’s that drink you promised us?’ And I am seriously grateful for the change of subject.

Sally slips out of her jacket and throws it over the back of the settee, before dropping down beside Jon, who lets his arm slide around her shoulder. It is clear to me that not only are they regular visitors, at ease in my house, but they are a couple comfortable with each other. ‘Yeah, come on, Neal, we’re dying of thirst here.’

‘Sure,’ I say, happy to escape into the kitchen. ‘What would you like?’

‘Just the usual,’ she calls through.

I feel panic rising again. I should know what they drink. How can I explain that I don’t? I search the cupboards once more, this time looking for drink, but I can’t find so much as a can of beer. Then I open the fridge, and there is a bottle of vodka, two-thirds full, in the door. Somehow I just know that vodka is not my tipple. I scan the shelves for tonic. Nothing. ‘I think I’m out of tonic,’ I call back, hoping I’ve got this right.

I hear her sigh. ‘Men! Do I have to do everything myself?’

And she slips through the archway into the kitchen, eyes alight and full of mischief. She puts a conspiratorial finger to her lips and, before I can even react, she reaches arms up around my neck to pull me towards her, mouth open, finding mine and forcing her tongue past my lips and teeth. Something in the scent and touch of her is arousingly familiar, and beyond that first moment of shock I find myself reacting. Hands sliding down her back and pulling her towards me, pressing myself against her. And then we break apart and I am both breathless and startled. She says loudly, ‘Did you check the larder?’

I look around. I have not the least idea where the larder is. ‘No.’

She tuts, taking my hand and pulling me through to the boot room. ‘Let’s see.’ I glance guiltily over my shoulder to make sure that Jon can’t see us. Somehow I have been drawn into a conspiracy of deceit that must have been familiar to me only yesterday, and no doubt long before that. But now, in my ignorance of it, I find its sudden intimacy exciting, almost intoxicating.

To the left of the washing machine, she opens a floor-to ceiling cupboard to reveal shelves stacked with tins and packet food, bottles and condiments. She stoops to the bottom shelf and lifts a six-pack of tonic in its plastic wrap. ‘Honestly, Neal, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She grins and reaches up to kiss me lightly on the lips, then hurries back through to the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix these. You go through and pour yourself a whisky and keep Jon company.’

I go through to pick up my glass from where it has rolled under the coffee table and set it beside the bottle. I don’t really want another drink. I need to keep my head clear.

Jon smirks. ‘Been at it before we got here, I see. That why you were sleeping?’

I force a smile. ‘No. I just had the one. And it was a while ago.’ I stand up and walk to the French windows and nod towards the far shore. ‘The man in that caravan over there was watching me through binoculars.’

Jon breathes scorn through pursed lips. ‘Buford? He’s a weird one, that. Apparently residents at Seilebost have been at the council to try and get him evicted. But it’s common grazing or something, and he’s claiming travellers’ rights.’ Sally comes in and hands him a glass, and sits down beside him. ‘He must be mad parking his caravan there. He has it guyed and pegged all the way round to stop it blowing away. Must be like living in a bloody wind tunnel.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Sally chinks glasses with him and cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘Not joining us?’

Jon grins now. ‘Think he’s had enough already.’ Then, ‘I guess you didn’t make it out to the Flannans yesterday. It was a real stinker. Start of the equinoctials, the locals say.’

I cannot imagine why I might have wanted to go out to the Flannan Isles, but it seems safer to agree that I didn’t. ‘No, I never made it.’

‘Thought not.’

Sally takes a sip of her vodka tonic and I hear ice clinking in her glass and notice there is a slice of lemon in it. She really does know her way around my kitchen.

Jon says, ‘So how’s the book going?’

Every sentence uttered feels like a trap set to catch me out. ‘Book?’ I frown innocently, or at least hope I do.

Sally chides him. ‘You should know better than ask a writer a question like that.’

Jon laughs and says, ‘What, has inspiration vanished like those lighthouse keepers you’re writing about? Last time we spoke, you said you were almost finished.’

I try to avoid further traps. ‘I expect to wrap it up sometime this month.’ And suddenly I realise that I don’t even know what month it is. I glance around the room and see a Jolomo calendar hanging on the wall. A vividly coloured painting of cottages standing above an outcrop of rocks, and boats at anchor in a stormy bay. Below it, the month of September is laid out in thirty squares.

Sally won’t meet my eye. ‘I suppose that means you’ll be leaving soon.’

I nod, half-feigning regret. ‘I suppose it does.’

It feels like an eternity before they go. We sit and talk. Or, at least, Jon talks and I listen, trying hard not to get involved in a conversation that I can’t find my way out of. Concentration is difficult. In spite of sleeping earlier I am exhausted. My body feels battered. And I am aware of Sally watching me. Silent, appraising, as if she can read my mind, or the lack of it.

While he seems oblivious, Sally must sense my impatience to be rid of them, for it is she who stands, finally, and says they should go. ‘Neal’s tired,’ she tells him. ‘We can do this another time.’

Jon drains his glass and rises to his feet. ‘Maybe that bump in your car was a bit more than you’re letting on, eh?’

I just smile and follow them through the house to the door. ‘Sorry to be such bad company,’ I say, and from the doorstep I look around for their car. But there is no vehicle in sight.

Sally kisses me lightly on the cheek and Jon shakes my hand. ‘Get yourself a decent night’s sleep,’ he says. ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’ Evidently it has not gone unnoticed that I am not myself. I almost smile inwardly. How could I be, when I have no idea who I am?

I stand on the step, the wind tugging my hair, and watch as they walk up to the road and turn left. Above them on the far side of the single-track, a house stands overlooking mine, and the beach beyond. For the first time, I cast eyes over the exterior of my own place. A traditional design, but it can be no more than a year or two old. Well insulated, double glazed, warm and comfortable inside, offering the protection of modern engineering from the elements of this harsh environment. How did I end up here? Have I always lived on my own?

For a moment I am distracted by Bran racing among the dunes, barking and chasing rabbits, and when I look back I see Jon and Sally going up the drive of a house near the top of the hill. I realise they are neighbours. Sally turns and waves before they go inside. The house has a two-storey glass porch in the design of a gable end, built out from the front of it. I can only imagine how spectacular the views must be from the inside, though given that Jon and Sally are neighbours, and friends, I must have seen them often enough.

There is only a handful of houses strung out along the road as it curves up over the hill beneath a brooding sky and failing light. A rising horizon unbroken by a single tree, and delineated by drystone walls. Away to the west, beyond the beach and a sea that seems to glow with some inner light, the mountains of Taransay rise against the setting sun, the sky clearing beyond them in a freshening wind from the south-west.

I shout on Bran and he comes racing back.

Once inside, I hear him lapping water from his bowl in the boot room as I go into the kitchen and turn on the lights.

So I am writing a book.

I cross to the bookshelf and lift the booklet on the mystery of the Flannan Isles and sit down to flip it open. In it I read that the largest of the seven islands, Eilean Mòr, which is Gaelic for Big Island, rises 288 feet above sea level and was chosen at the end of the nineteenth century as the site for a lighthouse that would guide passing vessels safely around Cape Wrath and onward to the Pentland Firth. The island is less than 39 acres in size, and the lighthouse they built there is 74 feet high. Lit for the first time on 7 December 1899, it flashed twice high. Lit for the first time on 7 December 1899, it flashed twice candlepower beam 24 nautical miles out to sea.

It was almost exactly a year later, on 15 December 1900, that the captain of the steamer Archtor, headed for Leith on the east coast of Scotland, reported by wireless that the light was out. But whoever took that message at the headquarters of Cosmopolitan Line Steamers failed to report it to the Northern Lighthouse Board, and it wasn’t until the 26th of the month that relief keepers, delayed by bad weather, were finally landed on the island to discover that keepers James Ducat, Thomas Marshall and Donald McArthur had vanished without trace.

As I read, I find myself being drawn into the mystery. Printed in full is a colourful poem written about the event twenty years after it, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. In it he imagines that the relief keepers, on landing, were watched by three huge birds that flew from the rock, startled by their arrival, to plunge into the sea. And when the men entered the lighthouse, the smell of limewash and tar that greeted them was as ‘familiar as our daily breath’, but reeked now of death. They found an untouched meal of meat and cheese and bread on the table, and an overturned chair on the floor. The men’s bunks had not been slept in, and there was no trace of them anywhere on the island.

This fanciful version of events is contradicted in the booklet I am reading by extracts from the actual account given by assistant keeper Joseph Moore, who was the first man to enter the lighthouse after the arrival of the relief vessel Hesperus. Making no mention of a meal on the table or an overturned chair, he wrote:

There are, it seems, two landing stages on the island. One on the east side and one on the west. Whilst everything was normal on the east side, at the west landing a box holding ropes and tackle had gone, the railings were buckled, a 20-hundredweight block of stone dislodged, and a lifebuoy ripped from its fastenings — all 110 feet above sea level. Below, ropes lay strewn over the rocks, and the only conclusion that investigators could come to was that a freak wave had broken over the cliffs and carried the men away.

The one inconsistency in this theory, according to my booklet, was the fact that regulations stated that one of the keepers should remain always within the lighthouse. And while the boots and oilskins of two of the keepers were gone, the waterproof coat worn by the third, Donald McArthur, still hung from its peg in the hall. So if he had broken regulations and gone out at all, he had done so in his shirtsleeves. No one could explain why.

I close the booklet and run my hand over my face, aware for the first time of the bristles that cover my cheeks and chin. How long, I wonder, since I last shaved? But I am more focused on the mystery of the vanishing keepers, and wonder what I have written about them. Quite a lot, I imagine, since apparently I am close to finishing.

I shift seats to sit in front of my laptop and waken it from sleep, to be greeted, as before, by an almost empty screen. This time I search it more thoroughly. I open my browser to comb through its history. But there is none. It has been set to private browsing. Both the cookie and download folders are empty. A glance at the top of the screen tells me I am connected to the internet. And even as I look, I become aware of just how familiar I am with this laptop and its software. Computers are not some technology foreign to me. I know my way around. I check Recent Items, and find it, too, empty, apart from the mailer and browser that I have opened only in these last hours. And I realise that I must have been covering my tracks. Whatever use to which I was putting my computer, I did not want someone else knowing. All of which is very frustrating, when I am trying to learn what I clearly went to great lengths to prevent anyone else from finding out.

I breathe frustration through my teeth and am just about to shut down when I notice a folder sitting innocently between Downloads and Music. It is labelled, simply, Flannans. I doubleclick and it opens to reveal a long list of files. Chapter One, Chapter Two... all the way through to Chapter Twenty. Again I double-click, this time on Chapter One, which triggers the opening of my Pages word-processing software. The document opens. There are headers and footers and a chapter heading, but not a single word of text. I look at it, startled by its emptiness, before opening Chapter Two. Exactly the same. With an increasing sense of disorientation, I open every single document, and find every one of them empty.

Now I sit back and gaze at my blank screen, feeling more and more bewildered. Whatever I might have told Jon and Sally, or anyone else, I am not writing a book about the Flannan Isles mystery. I am a fraud.

I can feel the sense of frustration building inside me, bubbling up like molten lava to erupt as an explosion of anger. My chair falls to the floor as I stand up suddenly, just as in Wilfrid Wilson Gibson’s poem. There must be, in this house, something that will reveal to me more about who I am. There has to be! I live here, after all. I’m not a ghost. I must leave traces.

And I spend the next half hour going through every drawer and every cupboard, pulling stuff out of them in a frenzy, searching for something, anything, I don’t know what. I pull every book from the shelves of the bookcase, shaking each in turn by the spine, in case there should be something concealed among their pages. By the time I head for the bedroom, the floor is littered with debris, the detritus of my desperation.

But I stop in the doorway, my attention caught by a map lying on the coffee table, next to the bottle of whisky. An Ordnance Survey map, all neatly folded up within its shiny, cracked covers. I step over to the table and lift it up. A South Harris Explorer Map. It is well thumbed and torn along some of its folds. It is large and unwieldy as I open it up to reveal the myriad contour lines that delineate the shape and form of this lower half of the Isle of Harris. A landscape pitted by countless lochs, ragged scraps of water reflecting stormy skies. Red denotes the A859 main road, such as it is, with minor roads in broken black lines and yellow. Tràigh Losgaintir, where I washed up only hours ago, is a vast triangle of yellow. I find the cemetery, and my house next to it. Then my eye is drawn to a thick line of luminous orange, tracking part of a broken line from the south end of the beach, that heads almost straight up and over the hills towards a cluster of lochs on the east coast. It is a line I must have drawn on the map myself, with a marker pen. But not recently. It is quite faded, and I wonder how long I must have been here for the ink to lose its colour.

Holding it under the light, and squinting to read tiny print, I see that the track my marker pen follows is called Bealach Eòrabhat. Gaelic. But I have no idea what it means. I cannot imagine why I might have marked this track in orange, but if nothing else it gives me somewhere else to look. A starting point tomorrow. For there is nothing I can do about it now, in the dark.

I drop the map, still open, on the table and go through to the bedroom to continue my search. Here there is nothing but clean clothes and laundry. The spare bedroom at the other end of the hall is in use, it seems, as a dressing room. There are more clothes. A suitcase on top of the wardrobe, but it is empty. Only when I turn to go back out do I see the shoulder bag hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A canvas satchel. I grab it and sit on the bed to open it. Finally, something personal. My fingers are shaking as I undo the clasps and delve inside to find a blank notebook and a wallet. To my intense disappointment, verging almost on anger, I find only money in the wallet. Notes and some coins. No credit or business cards, no family photographs. Nothing. I throw the damn thing at the wall and drop my face into my hands, fingers curling into brittle claws to drag at my skin. And my voice rips through the silence of the house as I raise my head to the heavens. ‘For God’s sake! Who the hell am I?’

Of course, no one replies, and I am left sitting here in the desperate silence, bereft. Perhaps I am a ghost after all. Perhaps I died somewhere out there at sea. Yesterday was a stinker, according to Jon. And I had cancelled my trip out to the Flannan Isles. Or so I said. But what if I had gone? How did I get there, and what was the purpose of my visit? Certainly not to research a book. But something happened. I know it, I feel it. Something dreadful. Maybe I drowned. Maybe it was just my body that washed ashore on the beach. And it was only my spirit that rose from the sand to haunt this place. Perhaps that’s why I can find no trace of myself.

I clench my fists and dig fingernails into my palms and know from the pain I feel that I am no ghost. I look up as Bran lopes along the hall to stand in the doorway and look at me. ‘Tell me, Bran,’ I say to him. ‘Tell me who I am. What am I doing here?’ And he cocks his head to one side, ears lifted. He knows that it is him I am speaking to, and maybe he detects the question in my voice. But he has no answers for me.

Emotionally and physically spent, I rise stiffly and he follows me along to the bedroom. I do not even have the energy to go through and turn out the lights in the kitchen. Instead, I slip out of my jeans and T-shirt and flop on to the bed. If I could, I would weep. But there are no tears in my eyes, just a dry, burning sensation. My mouth is parched. I should drink water. I should eat. But I am too tired. I lie on my back, reflected light spilling from the hall into the darkness of the bedroom, and close my eyes, only vaguely aware of Bran jumping up on to the bed and curling up at my feet.