The Monster's Wife(48)

Hunched beside him, Effie sobbed wretchedly.

Dod’s big face grew dark. His jowls trembled. “It may be time to leave the matter in God’s hands. We may have to let her—” His voice broke.

Effie reached up and grabbed his hand. “No!” She cried, “No! My girl...” She clung to him.

Oona stared at her lap, clutching at some last shred of hope, some golden speck that kept her from the abyss.

Stuart’s voice began again, sly as a snake’s. “I catch your meaning, Dod, and I respect you for all that you say, but I do not think you are apprised of everything. The truth is, this woman here,” he jabbed his finger in Oona’s direction, “knows more than she will tell us. She knows that the doctor up at the big house has sinned—”

“Liar!” Oona stood.

Granny grabbed her wrist and pulled her down again, hissing, “Be silent.”

“You’ve been playing the Devil up at that house, bringing the wrath of God upon us, the Plagues of Egypt, killing our chickens and pigs while we sleep. Witchcraft, I call it. Evil.” Stuart started towards her, but found himself fenced into the pew by a row of knees.

The Minister dashed off his spectacles. “Master Flett. This is the Lord’s house and you will—”

Stuart thumped the pew with his Bible, “Cormick saw you, the pair of you, rowing out in his boat like Devils in the dark, and now May’s gone and the very same boat drifted back with a hole in the hull. Did you put it there, Oona?”

“Did you?” Oona wrenched herself from Granny’s grip and stood, her whole body trembling at the words. She felt Granny’s hand on her wrist. This time she paid it no mind. “Did you do her an injury, Stuart, out of jealousy? Is that why you’re mending the Elver’s hull, to hide what you’ve done?”

All eyes turned to her. The Minister’s spectacles hung midway between his face and his book. Oona met his gaze, hoping he knew she was sorry. He’d been a father to her since her own ran off.

Stuart’s face darkened. “Make her leave.”

The Minister put his spectacles back on. His hands shook on the Bible, but his voice was calm. “What, and cast her out, and everyone? There are but thirty of us in Quoy, Master Flett. If we cast out all the sinners, I’ll be preaching to the sheep. Now sit.”

Stuart stayed and spoke his piece, albeit in a quieter voice and with just a tinge of contempt. “Our island went to hell when that man came here. This place was an Eden. The serpent crept in and everything rotted and died: my fish, my livestock, my wedding day. I say we’ve been idle too long and let evil flourish under our eyes. The time has come to put that Devil down.”





41


Oona followed Stuart and Andrew down the hill watching Stuart’s arms swing briskly back and forth. A white cloud in front of him made it look as if steam was coming from his ears. Anyone watching probably thought she looked that way too.

After his impromptu sermon, he’d bolted from the kirk, though at least he didn’t have half the village following him with torches to burn down the big house. Not yet anyway. They’d sat stunned at his words and the kirk had been silent except for Effie’s loud sobs.

It wouldn’t be long until they listened to him, though. Whether he really believed his own story or was acting this way to conceal his misdeeds was impossible to know. She must stop him regardless.

She followed the pair over to the next bay, down along the finger of land on which the Smokehouse sat. Perhaps they were headed there to blow the cobwebs away. Anything was better than going to the big house.

She crossed the burn, scowling at the bright sun and the swallows skimming buttercups in the long grass. She’d lived here her whole life and now she felt like an outsider. She would die as Granny said with people talking and shaking their heads, relieved to see her go, while men like Stuart and Andrew would live out their three score and ten surrounded by fat grandchildren.

She followed them through small bogs and over cowpats, down into deep ruts gouged by the plough, cursing her life and everything in it. By the time she reached the Smokehouse, it seemed the pair were inside and a buzz of low voices flowed from the half open door. She couldn’t see through it, but she imagined Andrew would be sitting close by Stuart, topping up his beer and listening. She picked a clover flower from the damp grass between her feet and plucked the petals off.

Footsteps scuffed the dirt behind her. She turned to see Stuart climbing the road from the beach. His fists were clenched. He came towards her fast, walked by without seeming to see her, and knocked the Smokehouse door open with his elbow. It slammed behind him.

From inside, she heard a thump like a fist on wood, more voices, louder this time. She still could not hear what they said. She stood and went to the door, her skin tingling. As quietly as she could, she pressed her ear to the door, heard scraps.

“D’you reckon it’s true?”

“When I get hold of him –”

“Don’t be daft. Wait!”

Chairs scraped. Another thump. A crack. Her hand moved to the door. She shouldn’t go in. A cry. It sounded like Andrew. She threw the door open and stepped inside. The place was dark and stank of ale and smoke. There were beer jugs stained with dottle. A half-gutted halibut drooled fish blood down the table leg. Behind that, two men reeled around the small space. Drunks dancing. They knocked into Dougie Flett who spilled ale down his shirt.