4 Evie

4

Cyrus has left me a note: Gone for a run. Won't be long. Stay out of trouble. He put twenty quid in the envelope, which I don't need, but I take it anyway because technically I'm helping him and he gets paid to do stuff like this.

Something topples in the next room. I think he must be back. Opening the internal door, I find a girl going through the pockets of his jacket. She has dyed pink streaks in her hair and one side of her head is shaved, revealing her left ear, which is like an island dotted with silver studs.

‘What are you doing?' I ask.

She jumps, startled, withdrawing her hand from the jacket pocket.

‘H-h-housekeeping,' she stammers through the braces on her teeth. ‘I was just hanging this up.' She hooks the jacket onto a hanger.

She's lying.

‘Where's your cleaning trolley?'

‘In the corridor.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Molly.'

‘Your real name?'

She frowns, less certain than before. ‘Addie Murdoch.'

‘Shouldn't you be in school?'

‘Ah'm on holidays.' She looks at the door, as though wanting to escape. ‘Ah didnae take anything. I'm not a thief.'

‘Clearly you are.'

A fake tremor enters her voice. ‘Don't tell Maureen. She'll murder me.'

‘Who's Maureen?'

‘She's like my grandma.' Addie presses her hands together. ‘Ah won't do it again. Ah promise. Please.'

Another lie, but this one makes me smile because I've been there and done that – been caught red-handed and begged for forgiveness. Addie frowns, unsure of my reaction. There is a general skewness about her: her eyes not quite level, her mouth drooping on one side, even her shoulders look crooked.

‘How old are you?'

‘Fourteen.'

‘Really?'

‘Almost thirteen.'

‘Don't come into these rooms again, OK?'

‘What about making up the beds?'

‘Not today.'

After she's gone, I dress in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and I put on my sunglasses, even though it's a cloudy day. I leave through the side door, avoiding the breakfast room, which is crowded with families and at least one crying baby.

Walking towards the harbour, I pass shuttered shops, and those just opening. A team of builders are putting up scaffolding in front of a house. One of them whistles at me and yells, ‘Cheer up, love, it probably won't happen.'

Fuckwit!

Head down, hood up, hands in my pockets, I pass a solicitor's office with a window sign advertising ‘criminal defences'. Next comes a dog groomer, a bakery, a tobacconist and a pharmacy. None of it looks familiar. Cyrus thinks I might have been here before, but he must be wrong.

At a café on Queen Street, the waitress tries to upsell me a ‘bacon butty', which sounds like a skin condition. She has to explain what it is. Why not just call it a bacon sandwich? I choose a muffin and a hot chocolate and take a seat outside. The street is slowly waking up as more shops begin to open.

On the far side of the road, I notice a signpost pointing out local services, including the public library. It gives me an idea. Brushing crumbs off my lap, I cross the street and turn the corner, arriving at a red stone building with a blue-painted door. The foyer has mosaic tiles on the floor and a strange doorman – a life-sized polar bear wearing a kilt with a tartan beret.

‘That's Paul R. Bear,' says the librarian, a pretty woman in flared trousers and a white blouse. ‘The kids love him.'

I think he looks creepy, but let it go.

‘How can I help you, pet?' she asks.

‘I'm researching my uncle's family tree.'

‘That's always fun,' she says, pointing me towards a cluster of desks with computer terminals. ‘Most of the resources are available online. You should try National Records of Scotland and work backwards.'

‘How do I get started?'

‘What's your uncle's name?'

‘Angus Radford. He's thirty-eight. And he comes from around here.'

She types the details into the computer and the screen refreshes.

‘This could be him.' She reads from the screen. ‘Angus Fraser Radford. Father William Fraser Radford. Mother Maureen Elizabeth Collie. He was born at the Community Hospital here in St Claire.' She opens a new page. ‘He has siblings. Two brothers, Finn and Cameron.' The librarian rolls back her chair. ‘Now you have their names and ages, you should be able to keep going.'

‘What about newspaper files?' I ask.

‘We don't keep hard copies or microfilm on site. For that you'll need to visit the National Library of Scotland. They have a reading room in Edinburgh.'

I won't be doing that.

‘Are there books about local shipwrecks and boating accidents?' I ask.

‘Is your uncle a fisherman?'

‘He was on a boat that sank twelve years ago. He didn't drown, or anything.'

She looks relieved. ‘You could try our local history section. St Claire has been a fishing and whaling port for centuries.'

She shows me to the right aisle but is summoned to the reception desk, where a coffin dodger in a wheelchair is stuck in the turnstile. ‘Let me know how you get on,' she says, bustling across the library in her sensible shoes, all spit and polish and discipline.

I look along the titles: Hidden Aberdeenshire, Forgotten Aberdeenshire, Aberdeenshire Remembered. I pick one of them up and begin turning the pages, reading the first paragraph of each chapter, but mostly looking at the pictures. The old ones are in black and white, showing fishermen posing in front of boats or unloading boxes of fish.

My phone is buzzing. I put AirPods in my ears.

‘Where are you?' asks Cyrus, sounding concerned.

‘At the library doing some research,' I say, wanting him to be impressed. ‘Angus Radford was born in St Claire and he has two brothers, Finn and Cameron. I know the names of their parents and where they were born and their occupations.'

‘Cameron is dead,' says Cyrus. ‘He was on the trawler that sank.'

I'm annoyed that he knows this already. The librarian is walking towards me, carrying a book. I put Cyrus on hold.

‘I found this,' she says excitedly. ‘It was self-published by a local historian.'

I look at the cover. LIFEBOAT LEGENDS: A century of maritime rescues in Scotland.

She opens it at a marked page. There is a photograph of a coastguard helicopter on a landing pad. The crew is posing under the stationary blades, dressed in orange overalls and yellow helmets.

The caption reads: Three crew rescued in trawler tragedy. One deceased.

Further down the page is a picture of the Arianna II, a fat-bellied boat that looks more like a tugboat than a trawler. The librarian leaves me with the book. I take Cyrus off hold. ‘I found a story about the Arianna II,' I whisper, turning the page.

Suddenly, the light dims and my gaze narrows and the only thing that exists is a single image showing a young man with tangled hair and blue-green eyes, who is grinning at the camera. My mind slips and I'm no longer aware of the library or Cyrus or his voice in my ears. Instead, I hear the throbbing of an engine and I smell the diesel and vomit. A hatch opens. Bright light blasts my senses. A figure is silhouetted against the square of brightness. A ghost. An illusion. A ripple across time.

Cyrus is saying my name, yelling it over and over, trying to get my attention.

My dry lips peel open. ‘It's him.'

‘Who?'

‘One of them.'