The Monster's Wife(63)

She was just about to give up on the thing when she heard the rasp of metal grinding metal. She tried the handle. The door didn’t open. She attempted to turn it in the other direction, unable to remember which way it went. This time the handle seemed to push back at her. It wouldn’t move. She pressed her ear to the door and, on the other side, heard breathing.





55


With a decanter of whisky tucked inside her shawl, Oona stole past the kirk, looking to one side then the other like a ne’er-do-well. She couldn’t hear anyone, but she had the feeling that the herringbone rows of dead folk tucked into the ground judged what she did. Thieving from the big house, creeping out while Granny slept had made her feel she had become her own mistress at last. She was bad and bold. May would be proud. Her parents, though, must watch from under their mossy stones and count themselves blessed they’d never lived to see such a daughter grow tall.

Drawing her shawl tighter, she skidded over the tumble of fat stones that led to the red rock beach. Cormick’s shack crouched in the middle distance, no smoke or light in it. He’d be mad as a beaten dog and curse when he saw her, supposing he was even there. She caught herself hoping he would be in his boat or passed out somewhere, so that she wouldn’t have to be brave, but then she glimpsed a slight, dark girl sitting on a boulder, chewing her hair and humming. May. Her sad eyes said find me.

Through the bone-yard of boats, the thought of that girl kept her upright and moving forward. However insane he might be underneath his charm, Victor was right about one thing: Cormick had done wrong or at the very least seen wrong done. Perhaps he’d seen enough to help her find what had happened to May. The one thing she knew about him was that he loved whisky, so she’d stolen a crystal decanter from the sideboard in the music room, right from under Victor’s nose.

The waves beat the beach in time with her off-kilter heart. It was as if her feelings were driving saltwater needles into the rocks’ grazed knees. Their fury buffeted her along the sliver of red, through the midden’s crunch of shells to the shack door. She stood facing the grey curtain, shivering at the thought of what lay beyond before riving the sodden door aside and walking into the darkness.

Cormick sat at his small table by the remains of a fire. His lap was draped with a tangle of net. He looked up nervously when Oona came in, then his eyes flitted back to the hemp in his hands.

“I’m busy.” It sounded as if a chunk of herring was caught in his throat.

The roomed smelled sourer than before, felt colder, as if Death had come calling of late.

“I brought something for you.” Oona took the decanter from under her shawl. “To say sorry for the other day.” She went to the table and placed it there. A splash of whisky spilled past the crystal lip and dribbled over her fingers.

His haunted eyes were on her hand now. He never looked at her, just sat there, licking his lips. She could see the fish knife glinting in his lap, the cords of tension in his sinewy hands as he gripped the broken net. She took a step back, wiping her hand on her shawl. The scent of whisky drenched the room, replacing sour air with heady sweetness. Cormick’s hand closed round the decanter. He dragged it towards him like a fisherman reeling in a pike. When it was near enough, he grabbed its throat and pressed the crystal mouth against his mouth, not swallowing, just letting the drink drip down.

Oona felt for the windowsill behind her. She rested on it, poised to run if he came too close with the knife again. “That day I came here, you said May had run off, but Stuart found her stocking hidden in your creel.”

Not seeming to hear her, he kept the bottle pressed to his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank.

Anger jabbed Oona forward. “Cormick, you were the last to see her, weren’t you?”

He banged the decanter down on the table and dragged his sleeve over his mouth. His eyes were wet, his cheeks flushed. “I’ll sing you a merry tune,” he thumped the table, “about a wee lass in a boat.”

“I don’t want a song. I just want—“

“May!” Cormick lurched up and reeled across the room to her until they were nose to nose and she could see nothing but his cheek veins, smell nothing but his whisky reek. “Everyone wants May, don’t them? Rotten-gut husband, aw-e-aw doctor, poor, wee, meddling you!” He grabbed her shoulders. “I’m sick of folk coming here spying.” He shook her. “Sick, d’you hear?”

She wanted to go somewhere quiet and clean and lie down. She pulled herself away from him and slumped back onto the windowsill. “I only want to find her and no-one…” Her heart tapped out of time against her ribs. She pressed her hand to it. It was growing bigger and soon it would fill the whole space inside and choke her. She closed her eyes and gulped down a mouthful of bile. It would be bad to fall down here.

“You look pale, girl. Are you sickly?” His voice was different when he said it, almost kind.

She kept her eyes closed. “I’m dying.”

It was strange to hear the words out loud. She almost laughed because they sounded so stupid. To be alive one moment, and then… Cormick said nothing. For a while she was alone in the darkness of her own head, listening to the waves crash down, feeling her heart slow. She’d been so afraid of everything and now she knew there was no reason to be. It would all be over soon. She heard him cross the room and pick up the bottle again. She was probably the only one in his list who had sunk so low as to bribe him. A thought struck her and her eyes flew open.