I'll Keep You Safe

Chapter Thirteen

The sense of returning home had never been so bittersweet. As the 58-seater Saab 2000 banked beneath the cloud that lay low across the island, Niamh saw the old peat cuttings that scarred the moor, and the settlements that clung to the north side of Broad Bay — Tong and Back. Then as it banked again, the view south across the causeway at Sandwick to the Beasts of Holm. After twenty-four sleepless hours since collecting the box from the undertaker at Père Lachaise, the relief at being back was very nearly overwhelming. But only a part of her had returned from Paris, and she knew she would never feel complete again.

Donald had accompanied her on the journey, but apart from transactional exchanges had kept his own counsel. He sat beside her now in morose silence, his big hands folded together in his lap. She glanced at him and wondered what he was thinking. What he really felt. If he blamed her. As she was sure his parents would. And yet, since his arrival in Paris, he had offered her nothing but comfort. In his own quiet way. Someone less like Ruairidh would be hard to imagine, but she had been grateful for his company.

The airport was less busy on a Sunday. Not too long ago there had been no Sunday flights. Or ferries. She would have had to wait to bring Ruairidh home on the Monday morning, along with the Sunday papers.

The familiar blast of soft Hebridean air greeted her as she stepped down on to the runway, the smell of the sea never too far away. A glance across the airfield revealed a windsock at full stretch, inflated by the strong breeze that blew straight in off the moor from the west. Beyond reflections on tall windows that overlooked the apron, she saw pale anxious faces peering out from inside the terminal.

In the arrivals hall, curious eyes watched from a respectful distance as Niamh’s mother held her in a tearful embrace. There would not be, she knew, a single soul on the island who was not aware of what had happened in Paris. She knew, too, that her mother’s tears were for her, and not for Ruairidh. Oddly, her own eyes remained stubbornly dry.

Donald and her father shook hands awkwardly. Then as Niamh and her mother drew apart Donald said, ‘Do you need a hand with...’ His voice tailed off, and he found himself unable to finish the sentence.

Niamh shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it’s okay, Donald. Thank you so much for everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through this without you.’ He blushed with embarrassment and shuffled uneasily. ‘I’ll come and see your folks tomorrow to discuss...’ It was Niamh’s turn to find it hard to finish. She searched for a concluding word. ‘Everything.’

He nodded, leaning past them to retrieve his overnight bag from the carousel. ‘Mrs Murray. Mr Murray.’ He presented them an uncomfortable smile, then headed off towards the exit where a friend was waiting to take him to Balanish.

Niamh’s mother said, ‘What’s happened about the...’ Another sentence that was less than easy to finish. She composed herself. ‘About Ruairidh.’

Right on cue the brown cardboard box with its shipping straps slipped through the plastic flaps from the loading bay beyond, and Mrs Murray followed her daughter’s eyes. Her gasp was involuntary, and her hand flew to her mouth. Whatever she felt about Ruairidh, nothing had prepared her for the sight of that box. And Niamh remembered the first time that Ruairidh had come into her life.