Chapter 2

Chapter Two

‘ W atch out, Bannerman!’ The shout cut through the howling wind and thrashing waves, reaching Connor just in time. He jerked back as a heavy coil of wire rope swung past, missing him by inches. Heart racing, he shot a grateful nod to Dougie, who’d warned him, and steadied himself against the steel frame. As a rigger foreman, he should be more careful.

The North Sea was unforgiving. A constant reminder of the peril they all faced on this oil platform a hundred miles east of the Scottish shore. Connor wiped the salt spray from his face, the taste of the sea was bitter on his lips. He had been out here for three weeks. The endless expanse of water and sky his only companions, save for the crew. It was hard, a life of isolation and danger. But it was a life he knew well.

The life he deserved.

He turned back to the task, securing the equipment. One lapse in concentration could mean disaster out here. That was why the job paid so handsomely. Even without the Bannerman family bakery he had accumulated a well-stuffed financial cushion. Was about all he had. There was no one to share it with. Which was just as well.

If I kick the bucket out here, they’d probably take my silver and shove it up Alistair’s arse.

Like their parents had when they’d taken the money from Connor’s savings account – the one his late grandparents had set up for him – and bought Alistair a car for his eighteenth birthday. Officially, so that the fucking arsehole could travel between the two bakeries for business. Officially, as a loan.

Aye, right.

Connor had never seen a penny back.

As far as their affections were concerned, his parents only ever had one child – awesome Alistair. Connor had spent a lifetime in the shadow of his older brother. Hating his guts was as natural as breathing.

‘Oi, Bannerman. Daydreaming will get you killed,’ Dougie called out, snapping him back to reality. ‘You know that!’

Connor gave a half-smile, shaking off the memories.

‘Keep your heid where it needs to be. Got a storm coming in,’ Dougie warned, pointing to the darkening sky.

Connor nodded, gaze lingering on the horizon.

How did I end up here?

He knew. Course he did. He’d taken the gig the day after his marriage had officially ended. He and Marta had only been married for a year and a half. They weren’t happy by any stretch of the imagination. Despite the best of intentions. But that it took her only four months after their finalised divorce to ride his brother’s cock still stung. Even eight years later.

Stupid ego.

Connor shouldn’t have married her. That was on him. Yes, she’d seemed keen and nice. Easy on the eyes, too. They’d got along, hadn’t fought or bickered. She’d been good company. Wasn’t enough for a lifelong marriage, he knew that now. But for once, he’d wanted to have something of his own. A normal, acceptable life. Ticking the box. Making his parents happy. Hadn’t worked out.

Surprise .

And then Alistair simply had to swoop in and take it all, hadn’t he? He could’ve had his pick of women. He was a good-looking bastard, in a sleek and sleazy kind of way. Marta was just the cherry on top of his cake.

Fuck that. It’s long over.

Connor bit the inside of his cheek. This heap of metal in the sea was his place now. He hadn’t known what to do with himself, other than to leave. So when his pal Dougie told him about a job on an FPSO going from Nigeria to Norway to Shetland, Connor had taken it in a heartbeat. Hadn’t mattered that he had no offshore experience, only the occasional summer gig with his aunt Sylvia’s former scaffolding company. He had lied. Most of them had. Nobody asked thorough questions. They couldn’t be too picky. Men and women willing to risk their personal and physical lives for energy corporations weren’t easy to come by. Not even in Scotland.

So here he still was. This job was a far cry from Connor’s existence as Bannerman Bakery’s bookkeeper. God, why had he even tried to please his father? Pathetic.

This job here was hard on the body and not easy on the mind. But it was a hell of a lot better than being the unwanted appendage. It was also a good way to make bank. To never see Alistair’s stupid face again. And to disappear.

Just like she’d done all those years ago.

Her .

Why was it in moments like this that his thoughts drifted to the first girl he’d ever loved? To her flaming red hair and baby-blue eyes. To that sharp tongue and wit. The first and only woman who’d made his blood boil and his heart melt. Kirsty’s cheeky laugh flashed in his mind, warming him against the cold.

Maybe it was the brush with death, or part of being thirty-two and a nostalgic prick.

With a deep breath, Connor turned away from the rolling waves. In the unforgiving world of the oil rig, there was no room for regret. The sea was a harsh mistress. It was also a sanctuary from the past he wasn’t willing to face.

Yet, as the first drops of rain began to fall, he felt the pull of home, of unfinished business, and of roads not taken. What if…that night had taken a different turn? What if he hadn’t said those things? Not done what he had?

He wondered if Kirsty ever thought of him.

Once or twice.

Don’t be daft, man. She can’t even remember your name. And even if she could, she certainly wouldn’t want to.

Later in his berth, as the metallic groans of the rig melded with the howling wind, Connor wrestled with sleep. His bed was as narrow as a coffin, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the weight of his thoughts. As part of the core crew, he had his own room. It was wee, but at least he didn’t have to hear the muffled smacking of a hand frantically stroking a dick in another bunk bed. The guys and gals who worked here were bound by isolation, hard toil, and the unspoken understanding that every person had their own way of coping with the isolation and monotony. This field was a bit of a shitehole, but it was their home. Half the time, anyway.

Connor closed his eyes tighter. For a second, a small part of him wished he had someone to miss. To be missed by. To masturbate to. Inside, he felt as vast, grey, and empty as the skies above the Scotia Oil Field. Was this what his next thirty years would look like?

At least tomorrow night, he’d sleep in a proper king-size bed with a top-class mattress again. His back was doing him in. Fucking rugby years ruined my body. He ground his teeth until sleep had mercy and knocked him out.

The choppers were two days late for the changeovers. Hadn’t been able to land because of the wind. Same old. Connor shouldered his duffel bag, ready to leave the rig with eleven others. Dougie clapped him on the back. ‘Off to the homeland, eh?’

‘Stop greetin’. Just three weeks, then you’ll see me again, darlin’.’ Connor adjusted the strap of his bag. The rotor began to whirl, time to board. He patted Dougie on the shoulder. ‘Keep her standing till I get back, aye?’

‘Nae promises, Bannerman,’ Dougie shouted over the growing roar, a grin spreading across his face.

The blades beat a rhythmic pulse as Connor stared down at the tossing North Sea, a tapestry of whitecaps and deep blues. He braced himself for the return. Not that anything was waiting for him. Except a fridge full of carefully curated pale ale, an equally consciously chosen nice couch, and a fine seventy-five-inch TV in an otherwise minimalist flat.

Three weeks in Cairnhaven might not seem long. But in a place laden with memories, time could sometimes stretch and twist. Some people still hadn’t forgiven him. And Connor couldn’t be arsed to explain it again and again.

People think what they want anyway.

After the usual stop and changeover in Shetland, the minuscule plane landed at its destination, and he stepped onto the Aberdeen airfield. The soft chill different from the sea’s gusts. He pulled his pilot jacket tighter.

It’s supposed to be summer, for fuck’s sake.

Connor grabbed his bag and made his way to the taxis. He wasn’t in the mood for an hour-long train ride. All he wanted was a beer and his bed.

The thirty-minute drive to Cairnhaven was a blur, the landscape passing by. Snaking along the edge of the rugged coastline, the road was a ribbon of tarmac bordered by grass and a tumble of rocks. In the distance, the outline of the ruined medieval castle cut sharply into the sky.

Connor’s brother and ex-wife were shacking up in the other direction, up in Aberdeen, expanding the ‘Bannerman Bakery’ franchise along the Scottish east coast. It had only made sense for Connor to move down this side. Back to the small town they’d grown up in.

Truth was, he’d had no idea where else to go. And the least he could do was pony up some taxes in the place where his family fired forty folks – a debacle he’d been complicit in by name and felt responsible for. Even though he’d been against it. But what had his opinion mattered to Alistair?

Fuck all, that’s how much.

This corner of the world was where he had his roots, as rotten as they were.

To the side of the road just outside Cairnhaven, there was a cemetery with orderly lined crumbly tombstones. A reminder of the Cairnhaveners who’d called this place home. At least four generations of Bannermans among them.

Then the first familiar row of houses and cottages came into view, with roofs of red and grey like smudged pastels against the blue sky.

Home.

He could do with a decent bag of fish and chips before sinking into his couch. Connor asked the driver to let him out in the car park next to the harbour. He stopped by Fergusson’s chippy and sat on a bench for a moment, taking it in. He did that sometimes. It took a moment adjusting to being land-bound again.

Cairnhaven’s bay looked like a serrated bite taken out of the coastline. The harbour’s arms, shaped like the crooked elbows of an old dockworker, extended into the water. Tiny fishing boats with their peeling paint bobbed on the surface with quiet resignation. The narrow houses along the harbour’s edge nestled together in huddles of stone and whimsy that once passed for architecture. They leaned into each other like old pals sharing a joke at the expense of modern building regulations. Cairnhaven was crumbling around the edges, but it was pretty.

From the corner of his eye he could see it, up the road a bit, toward the square. The light blue front of the Seaview Café. The Munro’s tiny family business. It, too, looked a lot older, a bit worn, rather empty. How many hours he’d spent there as a teenager. With his few friends. With her.

A lifetime ago.

Up to now, he’d avoided this place. Too many memories.

Should I get one of Liz’s famous pies? Been a while.

But he wasn’t ready for chit-chat with her mother. He’d evaded her parents and the café for a reason. Connor wasn’t prepared to hear how blissfully happy and successful Kirsty was down in London. None of his business. And she’d probably turned into a posh cow anyway.