The Chessmen

CHAPTER NINE

The sound of the wind outside barely disturbed the silence in Whistler’s crofthouse.

Fin said, ‘Your dad’s great-grandfather saved my grandfather’s life in the Iolaire disaster.’

Anna frowned.

‘It was a ship bringing island men home at the end of the First World War. It sank on a stormy night just outside Stornoway harbour and two hundred and five men lost their lives.’

‘Jesus.’ Her voice was reduced to a whisper.

‘Your dad figured that saving a life makes you responsible for it, and that the responsibility passes down the generations.’

Her smile verged on the incredulous. ‘So he took on responsibility for you and your life?’

‘He did. And saved it, too, not that long after.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Another time.’

‘Who says there’ll be another time?’

‘Maybe there won’t.’ Fin paused. ‘What are you doing here, Anna?’

And now it was her turn to avoid his eye. She looked away towards the remains of the long-spent peat fire.

‘Did you come to see your dad?’

‘No!’ Her denial was fierce and immediate. ‘I only come when I know he’s out.’

‘Why?’

She turned eyes like hot coals back on him. And he could see the conflict in her face. Why should she tell him? She had her own reasons. Personal ones. It was none of his damned business. And yet he had answered her questions, and told her personal things that had caused him pain. ‘I spent the first half of my life in this house. With my mum and my dad. I have. . I have happy memories. Sometimes, if I just sit here and close my eyes, I’m back there again. Just for a moment. But that can be enough, you know. When life’s shit.’ She sucked on the rings in her lower lip. ‘I loved my mum. I miss her.’

‘And your dad?’

‘What about him?’

‘Do you love him, too?’

‘You must be joking. He’s a pure fucking embarrassment. I hate him!’

‘Which is just another way of saying you love him.’

Her face screwed up in disbelief. ‘Crap!’

‘Is it? If you feel so strongly about him that you claim to hate him, it’s almost certainly only because you love him and hate to admit it.’

Scorn was etched into every crease in her face. ‘Bull. Shit.’ When he said nothing he saw her certainty wavering, and she fought to recover her resolution. ‘Like you’d have told your parents at my age that you loved them.’

Fin said, ‘My parents were killed in a car crash when I was very young. I’d have given anything in the world to be able to tell them I loved them.’

She turned wide appraising eyes in his direction. For the second time in the short period that they had been talking, he had told her things about himself at obvious personal cost. Perhaps she was wondering why. Perhaps she was thinking that talking about your inner feelings was easier with a stranger. No embarrassment in it. No judgements made. ‘I’d rather be with my dad than with Kenny.’ She took a moment to digest this admission herself. ‘Nothing against Kenny. He’s a good guy, and my mum loved him I think.’ She paused. ‘But he’s not my dad.’ She sighed deeply and shook her head in frustration. ‘If only he wasn’t such a total fucking shit-head!’

If a vehicle had drawn up outside, then neither of them had been aware of it, so they were both startled by the knock on the door, and the appearance silhouetted in the frame of it of a young woman in her thirties.

She was not unattractive, with shoulder-length blonde hair, blown and tangled by the wind. She wore pressed black trousers and a white blouse beneath an open grey anorak, and held a leather briefcase in her hand. Fin stood up.

‘Mr Macaskill?’ She blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, or the lack of it.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name’s Margaret Stewart.’ She stepped in and leaned forward to shake his hand, and appeared a little nervous, eyes darting away towards Anna and back again. ‘I’m from the social work department in Stornoway. I’m compiling a background report for the Sheriff. Macaskill versus Maclean for the custody of young Anna Macaskill.’

Fin raised an eyebrow and turned his head towards Anna. ‘You’ve not met, then?’

Margaret frowned. ‘You’re Anna?’

‘Is there someone else here?’ Anna’s truculence had returned.

The social worker seemed confused. ‘I thought you and your father didn’t get on.’

‘Who told you that?’ Fin said sharply.

Now she was embarrassed. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Well why don’t you ask the girl herself? Presumably you’ll be interviewing her anyway.’ Both he and Margaret turned their heads towards Anna, whose defiant facade was suddenly less impregnable. She stuck out her lower jaw and glared at them both. Fin caught her eye and raised his eyebrow an eighth of an inch. But still she hesitated, until the silence became almost embarrassing.

Then finally she blurted, ‘I fucking love my dad. Okay? Why else would I be here?’

In the ensuing silence, with only the sound of the wind whistling around outside the house, the social worker appeared entirely discomposed. It was clearly not what she had been expecting. She recovered a little of her composure and looked at Fin. ‘Perhaps, Mr Macaskill, we could make an appointment for a private interview?’

Fin said, ‘I’m sure John Angus would be happy to meet with you, Mrs Stewart. But you’ll have to ask him.’

Her face flushed red with embarrassment. ‘Oh. I thought. .’ She paused. ‘You’re not Mr Macaskill?’

Fin smiled. ‘Let’s start over, shall we?’ He offered her his hand once more, and she took it uncertainly. ‘My name’s Fin Macleod. Ex-CID, Lothian and Borders police. Now head of security here on the estate. I live in Ness, and I’m one of John Angus Macaskill’s oldest friends. So if you’re looking for a character reference, I’ll be more than happy to give you one.’